This Old Dog

 

A favorite poet of mine, Ted Kooser from Nebraska, writes in a conversational, easy to understand manner that makes for enjoyable reading. Look him up on the internet and find a smattering of this past poet laureate’s work. He recently posted a poem titled “Valentine” containing a line that made me take especial notice. It’s about an old dog that is “looking for something slow he can chase.” Of course it’s about himself, a man in his upper 80s, a place in time that I am nearing.  Thankfully some of us old dogs with pens in paw still find time to learn and produce a few things.

Over 55 years ago I drove up the AlCan Highway in my Chevy Impala with the general intention of going to Alaska, and the specific reason of making my fortune there. The folly of that soon revealed itself.  I’d been watching John Wayne in the “North to Alaska” movie a few too many times. With winter approaching I made a hasty retreat to the lower 48. Rather than drive back I bought the ticket for me and my Impala to ride on a freight ship of the inland ferry system. 

The ship wore the name SS Wickersham on her bow, something meaningless to me at the time. I remember asking about him, only to be met with a shrug of shoulders or a dismissive reply about his being some kind of judge. About 10 years ago I started looking into this man’s history and came away with an interesting story connected to a North Dakotan who had been committing illegal deeds in Alaska.

Alexander Mackenzie had been a mover and a shaker in Dakota Territory politics and succeeded through underhanded tactics to get the capital moved from Yankton to Bismarck. Of course that’s all forgotten now because we achieved statehood and divided into two states each going their own way. In Alaska he’d successfully been fleecing miners out of their gold claims until the law caught up with him in the shape of Judge James Wickersham.

The story was one that I wrote a few articles about several years ago in the Independent and have no desire to revisit it. The point is that it awakened a desire to start digging deeper into state history where one name begged me to learn about him - General T.E.G. Ransom for whom the county is named.

Biographical sketches of Ransom proved to be quite scarce and it took some digging to find facts of the man our forefathers thought worthy of honoring for our county’s name.  His military superiors honored him by naming the fort for him. His presence in the midst of battles earned him respect. Wounded on four different occasions, the fourth one killed him, but not immediately, and he chose to stay in the battle. His last words preserved his spirit, “I am not afraid to die. I have met death too often to be afraid of it now.” Death occurred on October 29, 1864. The Office of Official Records of the Civil War recorded that General Grant wept upon hearing of his death.

Since the railroads stamped their strong mark here and elsewhere, I began looking into the early and local history of that. The railroad reached Sheldon in 1882. I had never given much thought   to the amount of wood that tracks required. Using an estimated mileage of 52 miles from Fargo to Lisbon a rather startling number of 195,000 ties were cut and laid. Old growth forests yielded mightily to furnish demand. Add other wood necessary for engine fuel, bridges, water tanks, freight and passenger cars, depots, and growth of towns along the tracks. Progress came at a cost.

My interest in local and county history grew as I uncovered more of it. The county had hosted a gold rush right after the railroad arrived. Exciting news of it spread quickly and widely and soon the railroad cars arrived filled with people wanting to get rich. In the end, gold fever cooled in the county after they realized the cost of processing the gold far exceeded its value.

The first deep research I did , however, dug into the use of horses in World War I. After gathering information and writing a narrative about the topic, I thought, what the heck, I’ll send this to the Independent. It happened that the editor pasted it across the front page with its headline, “Local Horses Bought for War.” Yes, the death of horses on the battlefields of Europe resulted in a shortage of replacements which forced them to send buyers here to the states to buy replacements. French buyers came to the county to purchase horses, paying $150 per head. One of the buyers scheduled a railroad car to ship horses from Enderlin. When loaded the train took them directly to Chicago where government agents took possession of them.

I loved doing the stories based in Owego township that centered on a spot called Pigeon Point. It had been established mainly as a way station for travelers between Fort Abercrombie and Fort Ransom. That distance too great for a day trip, an overnight stop developed. There resided a favorite character named Nancy McClure who will still get attention from me in the future because of her rich story.  

 The name Pigeon Point led to another search for curiosity’s sake. What about pigeons? I wondered. Old time accounts tells us that they would roost so thick in the trees that a person well armed with a broom could bat them down. The story goes they would be cooked up into tasty dishes after being salted down, placed in barrels, and shipped out east for sale to consumers.

Of late I keep preaching that people should read history, get a handle on where we’ve been, and maybe formulate an explanation  why we make the decisions we do. My journey into that history has uncovered a good deal of interesting material. When I add them up, I’ve published several hundred articles published here and in other publications. If no one else reads them, at least I’ve benefited. Now I think I’ll go off and find something slow to chase.