Anniversaries

We’ve encountered a rough patch this winter here in the north country, but true North Dakotans are hardy.  John Steinbeck hit the nail on the head when he said, “What good is the warmth of summer without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”

Old friends of our family recently celebrated sixty years of marriage.  A pleasant break in the weather gave us a good reason to venture away from the home fire and drive out to their party and extend our personal warm wishes.  Another sixty-year anniversary also occurred: the plane crash that took the lives of Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, and Richie Valens.  With a twist of fate Robert Velline’s talent then came to light when he and his group appeared as a replacement.  It resulted in the birth of Bobby Vee and The Shadows. 

We’ll spare all the details since it’s well-known that the Holly’s plane crashed on its way to a concert in Moorhead.  Lesser known are some facts of who died in the crash.  They’d been traveling on cold winter roads in a leaky, uncomfortable bus, and when Holly chartered a small plane to get there faster, some juggling of seats occurred among the larger group.  The Big Bopper complained of suffering from flu and talked Waylon Jennings into giving up his seat on the plane for him.  As men like to do, Buddy Holly threw some locker-room talk at Waylon Jennings before they took off saying, “I hope your ol’ bus freezes up.”  Waylon responded, “I hope your ol’ plane crashes.”  When his unfortunate comment came true, it left him riddled with guilt for the rest of his life.

Bobby Vee became successful as a teen-idol, made many hit records, and sang his songs around the world.  Early on he even came to my hometown of Sheldon once and performed in the old city hall.  It’s hard to imagine his band performing there, but maybe the fact that our high school’s nickname of the Shadows caught their attention.  I felt a bit of embarrassment when not many attended.  A few years ago when the city fathers demolished the old hall, I imagined the ghosts from so many basketball games, class plays, and dances like this hovering overhead after escaping through the open roof.

Sixty years ago, meaning the late 50s and early 60s, represented an important time in the lives of me and my friends.  We recently ordered breakfast in a Denny’s cafe, and on the wall a large picture of a ’57 Ford caught my attention.  Those were the days when car designs caught everyone’s attention.  A quick check online for restored ’57 Chevrolets shows just how popular they remain because it takes a fat wallet to buy a nice one.

Other music besides Bobby Vee’s sounded good to us.  Remember “Sleepwalk” by Santo and Johnny, “The Twist” by Chubby Checker, and while I didn’t know my wife at the time, I now sing her song in the shower, “Hello Mary Lou” by Ricky Nelson.  Sock hops provided an attractive form entertainment, although I don’t remember anyone shedding their shoes to dance.  I remember one dancer, however, who liked to kick his shoe off so that it sailed straight up to the ceiling.  Movies… who doesn’t remember “The Magnificent Seven” where Mexican peasants hire seven gunfighters to help defend their homes.  “Ben-Hur”  and “A Hundred and One Dalmations” filled the theaters.

Memory-trips can be fun, although much about the sixties wasn’t.  The Vietnam War, civil rights protests, the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, the Cuban missile crisis, and other events dominated the news and occupied our thoughts.  Some of us escaped by reading best-sellers like Hawaii, Goldfinger, or Catch 22.

Thanks to the happy couple for being married sixty years because their celebration opened the door to a large room full of memories.  There are words to a song that go like this: “Yesterday is history.  Tomorrow is a mystery.  And I know that only this moment is mine.”  But darn it, I like history.  The past causes the present and so on into the future.

Nancy McClure: We Say Goodbye (for now)

Readers who have followed some of these stories featuring Nancy McClure might wonder “what’s up with that.”  The main reason is that I’ve found her to be an interesting real-life character who lived in the Sandhills near my hometown of Sheldon.  Furthermore I once drove a truck on the ground where she lived when I helped friends chop corn for silage and got to know something about that little spot called Pigeon Point.

One time I laid a ruler down on a map to join these two places and discovered the line coincided with the old rutted wagon road that angled through our meadow.  As our proverbial crow always flies, the distance would have been only seven or eight miles.  Old timers told Dad this was the road settlers used.  Nancy never traveled on that road because Sheldon did not yet exist when she lived in the area, but the point is my curiosity about the early settlers had been awakened and began growing.  Dusty papers, archived newspapers, interviews of early settlers, publications of the first historians all started yielding an almost forgotten story in which I found and imagined Nancy’s presence.

My membership in the group known as the Western Writers of America gave me impetus to move along with research.  But it’s also to get in the face somewhat of fellow members who disregard the history of our area and emphasize such characters as Buffalo Bill, Jesse James, Billy the Kid, and many more.  Our resident characters just never rose to their idealized heights full of stretched truth and inaccuracy.  

There is no reason not to call Pigeon Point a gateway to the West, another reason for concentrated study.  And it was a gateway until Fargo took its place with the construction of the Northern Pacific Railroad.  Already by 1854 steamboat traffic had reached St. Paul on the Mississippi River.  To the west stood St. Cloud, then Fort Abercrombie, and onward to Fort Ransom and the wide open spaces of the West.  

The gold and silver strike in Montana in 1864 began drawing people.  A. H. Laughlin, one of the early pioneers who spoke of the area’s history, presented a themed paper to the Sheldon Old Settlers Picnic in 1907 that he titled “Footprints of Ransom County Pioneers.”  He stretched things a bit when he said General Sibley marched through here with 10,000 troops in 1863.  Instead we know it was closer to 2,000 troops.  And he probably overstated when said overland routes in Ransom County carried “hundreds of thousands of northwestern pioneer empire builders.”  Large numbers of hopeful miners and settlers did pass through, however.

Nancy was in residence at the beginning of the westward march.  Things didn’t always go so good for her.  We can gossip a little about her about her domestic life, she had a problem husband who liked the bottle and probably had a wandering eye.  One time she remarked that he was a handsome man, but if he had been neglecting Nancy, he shouldn’t have because another man stepped in.  Charles Huggan came  hunting and trapping along the Sheyenne River, soon became sweet on Nancy, and a love affair blossomed.  When her husband Dave Faribault became aware of the romance, he threatened Huggan with his long hunting knife, a threat that only caused the couple to be more discreet.

How to solve the problem?  Well, Huggan procured whisky from somewhere, and when some bullwhackers stayed overnight, he made it available.  Available, that is, if they’d promise to make sure Faribault drank plenty.  When he woke from a drunken stupor, he couldn’t find Nancy.  The lovebirds had run away and never came back.  They settled in Flandreau, South Dakota where they lived the rest of their lives.  No further information could be found regarding Faribault.

The area where Nancy lived is now called the Pigeon Point Preserve which consists of 571 acres, purchased and controlled by the Nature Conservancy.  In addition to any historical significance it possesses, at least fifteen rare plants grow there.  A visitor to the site can find depressions in the ground where buildings once stood.  Pictures do not exist, but sources indicate the presence of several buildings standing there one time.  In fact, three of us visited the site a couple of years ago to walk the ground where we noted the remaining cellar depressions.

Nancy will take a break now while we give voice to other early residents who have made their presence known.  She will return.

Notes from the Road: Last Thoughts

Whenever I travel to another part of the country I can’t help noticing how much our society is homogenized.  If the last thing you remember seeing at home is a McDonald’s, the first thing you spot might be a McDonald’s in another city 1,500 miles away.  Penney’s, Kohl’s, K-Mart, Home Depot, what have you, they’ve all spread their tendrils into fertile shopping ground.  Yes, there are unfamiliar stores unique to each town, but “big box” chainstores make their presence known everywhere.  I’ve often wondered what it would’ve been like to travel 100 years ago when the businesses were all independently owned.

The scale of the King Ranch operation in Texas places an overload on the imagination.  They tell us it totals about 825,000 acres.  Wanting to make some sense of that figure, I thought the acreage in a township might help me understand its size.  Given that a 36 section township equals 23,040 acres, some simple division told me the ranch’s area would cover almost 36 townships.  Ransom County has 24 townships which means the King Ranch would cover it with another half county left over.

As we drove around the ranch, I remembered the time a few years ago when we crossed a bridge twenty-four miles long over Lake Pontchartrain headed towards New Orleans.  There in the middle of it, one could look around and  not see any land on the horizon, just water.  I thought of it because in the middle of one of the ranch’s huge black fields, I couldn’t see anything else on the horizon except dirt.  “Don’t you have problems with wind erosion?” I asked one of farm managers.  “Yes, but if it blows, we just go out there with a tiller and dig up a little moisture.  That usually stops it.”

We North Dakotans took special notice of all the ship traffic in Corpus Christi Bay, the fifth largest port in the United States.  A big attraction for many of us was the decommissioned World War II aircraft carrier named the USS Lexington that rests permanently there as a museum.  I thought its flight deck was large, but as new ones go, it probably measures considerably less.  Inside the ship, so-called stairs didn’t seem much different than ladders.  It got the nickname of "The Blue Ghost" because Tokyo Rose, the Japanese propagandist kept broadcasting claims that the Lexington had been destroyed. But it always returned to the battle zones so the Japanese began calling it a ghost ship.

The Texas State Aquarium stands within easy walking distance of the Lexington and it was at the manta ray exhibit that I experienced one of them sucking my fingers.  After the attendant informed us with facts about the creature, she brought out a bucket of minnows and invited us to feed the manta rays.  After thinking about that for a bit, I manned up enough to accept the task.  I reached in and held up the wriggling fish whereupon a bird swooped in, snatched it, and perched to eat it a few feet away.  I successfully guarded the second minnow and lowered it into the pool whereupon a gentle, velvety mouth sucked the minnow away from my fingers.  I thought of teaching little calves to drink out of a bucket.

In the neighborhood where the tall silvery SpaceX rocket pointed to the sky, we encountered Border Patrol agents who checked us out.  It was an area where illegal aliens crossed the Rio Grande quite easily so a brawny contingent of flak-jacketed, pistol-wearing agents made us stop.  While crossing the border coming from Mexico, U. S. agents really gave us an inspection and even x-rayed the bus.  It was reported some bus drivers had been bought off by the drug cartels and were willing to transport drugs for them.  After about an hour delay, we finally drove on.

Brownsville hosts a branch of the University of Texas.  While driving through its campus, our bus guide related a recent time when the school went into lock-down.  Bullets were flying and landing on the campus from a gunfight just across the border.

We could end here with more anecdotes about such things as how the Fort Worth Stockyards no longer serves as a cattle market, but instead has become a market for tourists.  Remember the song with the line, “Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas with Waylon and Willie and the boys.”  Luckenbach has a population of three people.  We couldn’t enter LBJ’s ranch in Texas hill country because of the government shutdown.  Waco makes a big deal of Chip and Joanna’s contributions from their popular tv show Fixer-Upper.  We learned that northerners spending the winter in Texas are not snowbirds but winter Texans.  Tulsa, OK admits to loving the money brought by the oil industry and loves to show the magnificent buildings that it has built.  

I’ve filled my space and could go on with many stories, but Nancy McClure wants to speak again about her life in the sandhills near Sheldon, and then we’re off to new topics.

Notes from the Road, No. 2

The advantages of seeing the country with our favorite travel company suit me just fine.  The Farmers Union bus has taken my wife and me to many places we wouldn’t have driven to ourselves.  On this trip alone we have crossed over the border into Mexico, saw the SpaceX rocket, toured the King Ranch, mourned in the Oklahoma City bomb site, traveled through history on an aircraft carrier, visited Luckenbach, ate fresh fish and barbecue, visited the Texas Ranger museum, plus more.

As we roll along, corny jokes bring a few laughs.  For an example, there is the one about our old friend Ole being stopped by a highway patrolman who with Lena took a liking to each other and she ran off with him.  Time passes and Ole spots the patrolman coming after him again with his lights and siren going.  Ole took off trying to outrun him but it was no use.  When stopped the officer asked why he tried to outrun him.  Ole answered, “I was afraid you were bringing Lena back.”

And then there was this one.  If you want to find out who loves you more, your wife or your dog, put them both in the car trunk for awhile and see who comes out kissing you.

The richest part of a trip isn’t always the destination or the jokes, it’s the people we encounter along the way.  Often times a step-on guide accompanies us for a day, and this day a lady named Evelyn came aboard to show us the city of Corpus Christi.  One of the stops she took us to was the World War II aircraft carrier, the USS Lexington, which is permanently anchored there.  After we had roamed around it some, Evelyn came over to Mary and me and struck up a conversation.  I hadn’t noticed any accent in her speech, but we soon discovered she was born and raised in Germany.  Maybe  the surroundings of this warship brought horrid memories back to her, but something prompted her to start telling us a story of survival in World War II.  Whatever the motivation, it was fascinating.

She and her family had been bombed by U.S. airplanes near Munich in February of 1945.  At least she thought it was February, saying “I remember it was cold.” She was something like seven or eight years of age, but it doesn’t matter, she was an impressionable young girl who remembers death and destruction.  Their house never exploded but they stood watching a house across the street burn to the ground.  Later they discovered an unexploded bomb that had come through their roof and lodged in their attic.

Her father found a cart on which they loaded some necessary baggage and and began walking and pulling it into the countryside where they found some people they knew to take them in.  There was no food except for a few vegetables, and they went around the countryside begging for an egg or a bit of bread.  Unfortunately some wanted to sic their dogs on them and make them go away.

When the war ended, she saw U. S. soldiers marching in, but then they left and Russian soldiers marched in to take their place.  She lived there in what became known as East Germany under Russian rule and grew to hate it.  Before the wall was built barring flight to the western sector, they looked for a way to escape past armed patrols.  They found a man willing to guide them to safety, but here she remembered more heartache.  As the small group formed he refused to take one young mother with them because the baby’s cries would give them away.  The image burns strongly in Evelyn’s memory of the mother crying and sitting by a tree as she clutched her baby tightly to her on a pillow.

After they walked stealthily through a wooded area, their leader said, “Get down!”  Searchlights had been turned on and were scanning the area.  She didn’t tell us how they evaded them, but they did make it into West Berlin.  

Evelyn married an American soldier when she was 22 years old and we now know she made it to this country.  She still has relatives living in what was East Germany, but since they bought into the Soviet line and still celebrate Russian holidays, she has cut her ties with them.  I related to her story, probably because she reminded me some of my German grandmother’s story, even her laughter.  I think I’ll always remember Evelyn and her story.

Notes from the Road

I can’t remember who said it, but it strikes a note with me - “It is better to see something once than to hear about it a thousand times.”  Getting on the road fulfills a lot of yearning.  It will always be a nagging concern that I will go to my grave wishing I would have seen and done more, but we keep chipping away at it.  To date I’ve visited 49 states, several Canadian provinces, and four foreign countries.

On this trip we are traveling a route we have traveled before, but there’s nothing wrong with seeing something twice.  The North Dakota Farmers Union travel department furnishes our favorite transportation for trips of this nature and we now ride with them again on their Southern Texas Tour.  Jeff the driver and his guide Jerry have made themselves informed about the areas we pass through and over the bus intercom give a running commentary as we roll along.  For instance, a statue in honor of Sergeant York stands high upon a hill near Council Bluffs, Iowa which commemorates the only man who died while on Lewis and Clark’s expedition.  Look out the window and he can be seen looking over the river valley.

We were reminded of a terrible airplane crash at Sioux City when an airliner lost most of its controls, but the pilot and co-pilot succeeded in steering it somewhat. About one-third of the passengers perished, but the fact two-thirds survived was deemed somewhat of a miracle.  There, near the river we were told where to look out the window at the memorial erected in their honor.

Check out all the oil wells pumping right within the city limits of Oklahoma City and express jealousy over $1.77 per gallon gas prices.  Ride into the heart of the city and visit the bomb site of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building.  A person would possess a dead soul to not feel sadness and ponder “Man’s inhumanity to Man.”

The Fort Worth Stockyards might not do as much for the cattle market as they once did, but they’ve remade themselves into a tourist destination with shops, restaurants, and museums.  In one of the cafes I ate the best brisket sandwich I’ve ever eaten, and afterward a visit to a museum proved interesting where the exhibits were given over to history of the cattle industry in the area.  Imagine prototypical cattle prod with a large square battery taped to a wooden cane, wired to the metal spike on the end, used as an electric stimulant to move cattle along a chute.  They had one.  They also had an electric light bulb that has burned steadily for the last 110 years.  They had one of those, too.

San Antonio brought a new stop with its history and attractions.  SAS shoes are a popular shoe and here is where they are made - San Antonio Shoes.  We toured their factory and can attest to their claim of being handmade.  Their production line runs efficiently while turning out a variety of products.  Mostly women workers, they turn out a good product.  We saw a rack of rejections from which our guide pulled one off for us to look at.  None of us could find anything wrong, but the inspector wasn’t happy with the eyelets.  The company pays well, and consequently, their staff stays loyal to the firm.

Still to come in San Antonio are The Alamo, old mission churches, and who knows what?  After that we hit the highway again headed southward for many more days, so there will be plenty to talk about.

Nancy McClure: Misery and Death

Chapter 6

We knew prairie fires were common, but the occupants of the fort all came from different parts of the country and for the most part knew nothing of them.  One of them who knew said, “You wouldn’t be able to outrun one of those devils. With the wind a-pushin’ it, it can run faster than a horse.”  After the booming cannon alerted them, the outlying crews made it safely to the fort.  Horses and draft animals were tied in their stalls to prevent them from bolting in panic, but the cattle circled and bawled in the middle of the parade ground.  If they decided to run, little could stop them from jumping the moat and stampeding into open country.

The hungry fire crept nearer, and the men waited, awed by the sight of its nourishing itself on anything that would burn.  The whole width of the horizon was giving itself to the flames.  The wind ripped words from the mouths of the men, but no talk was necessary to express their awe at the sight of the fire and the birds and animals fleeing in the face of this hell.  All kinds of wildlife, coyotes, turkeys, prairie chickens, deer, even a bear, emerged from the fire, some with their fur aflame, only to die and start new fires where they fell.

The wind kept shifting, first a bit to the left, then to the right, seeming to aim straight at them one minute, then veering off to miss them the next.  Twisting flames eddied and spiraled above the advancing fire, then spilled forward to kindle little fires which in turn became engulfed as the wall overtook them.

Even though the flames had raced past the fort, there was little cause for rejoicing, because we could see it had burnt all the stacked hay and wood.  Everyone was exhausted from fighting the blaze and breathing in all the smoke, and it seemed all they could do was cough and rub their eyes.  The water barrels stood empty from men soaking their blankets in them to flail at the flames.  No one could wash their eyes and quench their thirst until a fresh supply had been brought up.  The heat generated by the mass of flames was almost unbearable.  And, the wind kept blowing.

The Metis camp below the hill suffered a great deal, as I quickly found out.  Through the dirt and soot that clouded the air, a procession of them came struggling to the fort, obviously in great need of help.  The hospital for the sick and injured personnel at the fort had not yet been completed, so Dr. Knickerbocker had ordered hospital tents be erected.  They soon filled with Metis burn victims.  The wind kept blowing, even stronger it seemed, and flattened those tents as if a giant hand slapped a mosquito.  

The doctor had not yet had time to begin seeing the victims who now found themselves floundering around in misery beneath the canvas and tent poles that fell across their burnt flesh.  Muffled sounds of agony came from beneath that shroud, and soldiers tried rescuing them while struggling with the whipping, rippling canvas.

I kept wondering about my two little friends - Lucie and Cecile.  Before the smoke got thick enough to block visibility, I saw them riding in their pony cart and exploring the prairie a short distance away from their camp.  None of us had much warning about the fire, and then when it came roaring over the top of the hill, nobody had time to make any preparations.  With so much trouble here at the fort, I didn’t learn their fate until later.  

The girls weren’t with the group who came to the fort seeking help, so I kept hoping everything was all right, that maybe they were busying themselves and helping around their camp.  Unfortunately,  I learned what happened from one of their elders and can only tell it as I remember it from him.  Because of the angle of their downhill flight, the fire had not overtaken them when they began whipping their pony to run to the safety of the spring.  It was a cruel time, though, and what looked like a safe escape turned to failure when one of their wheels struck a rock, broke, and overturned the cart.

The girls flew from their seats, and one of them struck her head to knock her unconscious.  The other’s leg twisted painfully, and she could not stand.  She screamed for her friend, “Wake up, we’ve got to run or we’ll burn!”  The flames licked at the unconscious girl and set her clothing ablaze and reached for the other girl who crawled towards the spring.  The old man sobbed as he said both of them died, as did eighteen others all told.

***

Nancy McClure must rest for a few weeks now since her representative will travel to Texas.  Instead “Notes from the Road” will appear.

Nancy McClure: Prairie Fire

Chapter 5

The living quarters for the scouts and their families stood outside and away from the fort at a short distance.  I was glad for not living in the middle of all the construction activity, mostly for the reason that the men showed little respect for women, their mouths being as filthy as their sweaty clothes.  Most of them were  “Galvanized Yankees,” otherwise known as Confederate prisoners who agreed to wear the blue uniforms for the promise of not being sent south to fight their former comrades.  As you might imagine, they were a sullen bunch that didn’t relish the thought of working for their old enemy, even though it did get them freedom away from the prisons.  I stayed away from them whenever I could.

I found some kindred souls, though, with whom I could spend time with.  A hunting band of Metis arrived and set up camp near the fort so they could trade with the sutler.  During the summer, they roamed around the prairie in search of meat and furs, and with the approach of winter, they’d head back north to their permanent homes.  We could hear them coming even before we saw them because of the terrible high-pitched screech made by the wheels on their two-wheeled carts. 

We could converse a little which let me befriend two young girls named Lucie and Cecile who liked to come and listen to the stories I told them.  If only I would have had some books with me because I know they would have enjoyed me reading to them.  Young as they were, they had chores and one was driving their  pony cart to the spring and carrying water back to the camp.  That poor skinny little pony didn’t look strong enough to pull anything, but they kept on coaxing him along each time.

The day started out like most days except that it was a bit windy, enough to ripple the canvas on the tents.  Both the haycrew and the woodchoppers had gone out that morning to work at their jobs while construction continued at the fort.  I’d heard the woodchoppers griping and wishing they could be cutting hay up on the prairie where the breeze kept the mosquitoes away, and the haycrew griping about wanting to be out of the sun and in the cool shade of the river bottom.  

Women in the Metis camp busied themselves at their cook fires, but I didn’t notice any men walking about yet.  I knew they’d traded the sutler out of some whisky the day before and were probably sleeping off the night’s swill.  Lucie and Cecile could be seen in the distance exploring the prairie in their pony cart.  

Maybe we should have sensed danger after seeing a long gray cloud hanging for a long while on the horizon.  It reminded me of a lazy old cat stretched out on a windowsill.  Gusts of wind grew stronger and the strong smell of smoke reached us.  One of the men working on top of a building could see farther and shouted out.  Major Crossman ordered a cannon fired to signal the work crews back to the fort.  Now we could see the fire coming right at us.  That cat on the windowsill was coming for us.

With the front of the flames in sight, I noticed wild animals running ahead of it.  I’ll never forget those coyotes running with their tongues hanging out, exhausted, lying down in front of the fire to rest until the flames started licking at their backsides again, then get up to run again until they could no more and gave themselves to the fire.  

Years later, someone gave me a yellowed clipping from the Cleveland (Ohio) Leader in which Major Crossman wrote about the event, “The fire rolled down on us with terrific rapidity, and was accompanied by immense banks of smoke.  I had thrown myself down on my face to save my eyes and get a breath when the recollection flashed upon me that six hundred pounds of powder were stored in the sutler’s.  By this time the whole camp would have been destroyed, but a sudden change in the wind drove the fire past the flank of the camp, jumped the plowed ground around the haystacks, devouring our six hundred tons of hay (our whole winter’s supply), struck the corner of the post, setting fire to a few outer buildings and the cords of wood, dashed up the side of the hill, and was off on the prairie, destroying the half-breed camp, burning men, women, children and animals, leaving us suffocated with smoke and cinders, and blinded with the ashes.”

After reading this old news article, I was reminded of so much about the fire which I will relate next week.