Memorial Day, 2025

“So long as they speak your name, you shall never die.”   

We will again observe Memorial Day on the 26th of May, a day to commemorate and honor the men and women of the U.S. military who died while serving their country. Ceremonies will be held in communities with active military groups, speeches will be given, a three-shot rifle volley signifying duty, honor, and sacrifice will resound with a sharp crack of salute, and the notes of a somber bugler playing “Taps” will echo among their graves. 

When did the observance begin? The origins of Memorial Day are open to debate, but we know parts of the country began recognizing the day back in 1868. It wasn’t officially adopted as a federal holiday until 1971. As a young boy it was common for me to hear the day called Decoration Day. Once in awhile it is still referred to that way.

Depending on the source, numbers of U.S. service members killed while in service varies. Approximations of those numbers include 58,000 in Vietnam, 36,000 in Korea, 420,000 in WWII, and 53,000 in WWI. In addition other smaller wars have claimed their victims, too. If we consider the Civil War, 620,000 died in that conflict.

I have not served in the military and cannot pretend to know anything about battlefield conditions. For the most part veterans do not speak comfortably about it. The sights, sounds, and smells of war still haunt the memories they’d just as soon forget. I have to leave it to the histories, news reports, diaries, memoirs, and on-site videos to inform me. Some movies might give us glimpses of the horrors.

The book written for Sheldon’s 125th anniversary celebration contains lengthy diary writings. The earliest war covered features the “Civil War Diary of Frank Mougey.” His account tells of their bad living conditions plus punishing discipline handed to them by a “mean officer.” In one place he makes brief mention of “Skirmishing pretty hard. Our loss was about 250 kild and 60 wounded.”

“Cliff Black’s War Memories” holds little back in describing his experience. He said, “Here was the end of rail travel; bridges were blown up, very little remains of what was once a highway, rails and roadbed blown up, shell holes galore, barbed wire entanglements, blown up tanks, destroyed planes, could this be real.” After a battle, Black observed, “Death and destruction had tramped through ruthlessly, leaving in their wake the muddy clay trenches, strewn with tangled barbed wire, mangled bodies of our buddies and those of the enemy…”

Records of my grandfather’s service in WWI gave us his regiment and division. From there it was easy to search for and find where he served. It was at the bloody battle of Meuse-Argonne in France. An excellent book telling of that battle, To Conquer Hell by Edward Lengel, outlined his participation very well. Some skimpy notes he penciled in his small Bible mentioned that on one drive toward enemy lines, his unit succeeded in reaching their goal but had to retreat. The regiments on either side of his had not kept pace thereby exposing their flanks. That day he scrawled, “We lost half our men.” Lengel’s book attests to Grandpa’s account.

Ernie Pyle’s reporting as a WWII war correspondent from the front lines served to inform the country back home of hard truths. He stayed with the soldiers, ate the same food, wore the same clothes, slept in the same foxholes, and took a bullet in his head while peering over the edge of one. By the time of his death, Ernie's trusted columns appeared in 400 daily and 300 weekly newspapers.

One of Pyle’s frequently mentioned columns described the death of a respected officer in Italy he titled “The Death of Captain Waskow.” After a battle on a mountain, he told of how, “Dead men had been coming down from the mountain all evening, lashed onto the backs of mules.” After a time someone recognized the captain and reverently honored him as he lay there.

David Halberstam wrote of his times embedded with men and women on the front lines. What he saw and experienced in Vietnam caused him to question the official reports from Washington that told the public how great things were going for the U. S. military. He wrote that leaders in Washington  implemented policies that defied common sense and went against the advice of seasoned Department of State employees who knew and understood Vietnam.

All of the past wars and sufferings brings us to Memorial Day commemorations. This day does not always receive the degree of attention it deserves but one option exists, we can offer a moment of silence at 3 p.m. for the National Moment of Remembrance. Its intent is to remember and honor those who have died in service to the United States. Established by President William Clinton in 2000, it is an act of national unity to remember the sacrifices of fallen service members.

  

Dr. Hendrickson

  While searching through my files, a rather lengthy clipping from the Enderlin Independent 25 years ago came to light that I could never have found if I had been looking for it. Dated August 23, 2000, the headline simply stated “Dr. Hendrickson.” Its author, Jack Schwandt, apparently knew the doctor quite well and wrote of him in this article with a positive light.

I have a special affinity for Dr. Hendrickson because, after all, it was his skilled hands that brought me, a 10 pounder, into the world on a February day in 1942. In the old days, life was simpler and my mother was staying at the Opheim home awaiting my birth that cold month. He came to assist when the time seemed right.

The passage of time has dimmed the historical context that made the doctor an important person in the community. Many might say, “I’ve heard of him, something to do with baseball, I think.” Yes, he stood as an early patron who promoted the game locally and spent much time and treasure in support of the sport. That he was respected for his work in the community became displayed a year after his death in 1948 when they formally adopted the park’s name as Hendrickson Field.

An early success of the baseball program came in 1930 when the American Legion team participated in a national baseball tournament at Colorado Springs. The Schwandt article told of the way Enderlin advanced through the games until they met and lost to Long Beach, California in the finals. The local team amassed an admirable record that year - 30 wins and just that one loss. Dr. Hendrickson had accompanied the team. Upon returning on the Soo Line they found a crowd gathered at the depot to welcome the team, but Dr. Hendrickson couldn’t stay to celebrate; he was summoned to deliver a baby.

The following quote comes directly from the article.  “Between seasons, he did enjoy talking baseball, one of his few concessions to small talk. But when summer came, it was time to play ball. On game days, he could be seen beforehand dragging the dirt infield with a large field rake attached to the trailer hitch of his Chevrolet. The baseball field itself was a gift: he had bought the land and then given it to the city. He also mowed the grass and supervised all the related activities — ticket sales, soda pop, and umpires — that went with a game. And he was always at the games, in the dugout and keeping score, except when he was called away by medical emergencies.”

Both the Enderlin Jubilee book and the Enderlin Centennial book praise the baseball program and give credit to the doctor for his part.  In 1966 Perry Sandell, a former coach, was quoted thus, “I believe the first year of any kind of organized team was in 1928. Doc picked up a few lopsided baseballs, some cracked bats and we actually played a few games. Dungarees were the uniforms of the day.”

With a lack of funding for the program, Sandell said, “Doc became quite proficient at driving small nails and putting screws in the handle without cracking the wood, which was quite a trick.”

And as teams kept getting better and gaining more community attention, he added, “It became more expedient for young married females to plan their families so that no birth would occur on a Sunday afternoon from May 20th to Sept 1.”

Several pages in the 1991 centennial book written by Carole Tosseth give history of the baseball program. He wrote, “The real success story started with the Junior Legion program and ‘Doc’ Hendrickson, long-time local doctor, whose dedication, time and money all helped to build the program in Enderlin.”

With Doctor Hendrickson’s death in 1948, Tosseth said, “another baseball enthusiast was waiting in the wings, ready to utilize the reserves of local talent available. He was the late Pete Redmond, first manager of the Enderlin Indies, who were destined to become the first team to win three state titles. With the support of local fans and businessmen, the grandstands were rebuilt, lighting installed and the newly renovated field dedicated to the memory of Dr. Hendrickson on August 4, 1949.”

State baseball historian Terry Bohn attests to the success of the program in his book Lots More Fun That Way. He quoted an anonymous source as saying, “Enderlin boys have practically cut their teeth chewing on a baseball bat.” He said the Indies success due to a “core group of very good players who stayed together for many years.” He dropped names to prove his point: Janz, Wallace, Redmond, Utke, Peterson, Foss, Larson, Graalum and others.

Hendrickson was only 60 when he died in 1948. Schwandt reminisced about how finances always showed a deficit. “But every year there was an ‘anonymous contribution’ to the post (Arthur B. Marschke Post of the American Legion) that exactly matched the deficit. Everyone knew who the anonymous donor was, yet his privacy was respected.”

During Doc’s funeral, the town businesses showed respect by closing, the American flag flew at half mast on the pole next to city hall, and that building filled “beyond capacity.” The words of  one-time coach Sandell will conclude this article. “I do know that literally hundreds of kids from Enderlin and the vicinity owe a great deal to the opportunities Doc made available to them. At

the same time, I think he would have been the first to admit that baseball and the boys playing it made it possible for him to go on year after year in what would have been a pretty drab life.”

But on second thought maybe my own quote should conclude. “I was in pretty good hands when he delivered me that cold, wintry day of February, 1942.” 

RANDOM THOUGHTS - May 21, 2025

 Time flows like a river, in one direction only … “I read history. When others deny the past, I am annoyed.” Charles Bowden … Dust clouds raised in the recent 90 degree heat and high winds caused concern … Like a faucet, our days run hot and cold … Memorial Day nears. The least we can do is remember with one minute of silence at 3 p.m. … Why does quackgrass come to mind, difficult to control or eradicate … I grew up in the shade of tall cottonwoods … I’d like to have known Chuck Haga sooner, the recently deceased Grand Forks newsman … We might drive to the Welk Homestead celebration, June 1 … Below, an advertisement page from a 1925 Ransom County plat book.

A Passel of Books

It was a good weekend for rummaging through books.  I always wait for book sales to occur once or twice a year, but afterward I have to squeeze my existing collection together a bit more or start tossing some out. My shopping started in Moorhead when the public library sponsored their spring sale in a crowded basement room. I have always had good luck finding some choice titles there. In the afternoon it was over to our church for a huge rummage sale where a few racks of books sold. Finally, Churches United in conjunction with Ferguson Books laid out a large array of books at another location.

We won’t bore readers here by listing many of the titles purchased, but a few might be of general interest. I grabbed the small volume titled Hiroshima right off when I spotted it. The author John Hersey details survivors’ experiences after the U.S. bombing of Hiroshima in 1945. I had a version before, but somehow it slipped away. Like many other books I’ve held in my hands, I didn’t take it seriously at the time. Lately, after hearing how well critics think Hersey tells the story, I looked for another copy.

A tattered paperback book begged to be picked up and glanced through. The pages in Nothing to Do But Stay tumbled open to a passage about wild horses rubbing up against a schoolhouse in severe winter weather. Because of deep snow and bitter cold, some of the kids stayed in the schoolhouse so they wouldn’t miss attending. A frightening noise woke them in the night and they became concerned one wall would cave in on them. They had heard a small herd of wild ponies finding shelter on the lea side of the building. In general, the book tells the story of a Norwegian lady who came to North Dakota, homesteaded by herself for a few years, and then married and raised a large family.

That story caught my eye because of an experience remembered in my wife’s family. Horses used to rub against their sod house walls, too, and they’d always fear for the glass windows breaking. Mary’s grandma heard noises and horse whinnying in the night and tried to wake her husband. He did not take it seriously enough to check but only continued sleeping. The next morning their neighbor came and told them their barn had burned down in the night. Horses trapped inside had cried to be freed from the barn.

A prize find was David Halberstam’s The Best and the Brightest. He’s a great writer and historian, and this book was always on my wish list. A couple of his titles were in my collection - The Fifties and The Coldest Winter: America and the Korean War. Halberstam never liked being fooled by anyone, and when it came to the Vietnam War he came into conflict with the story being told us. He traveled with the soldiers, saw the real stories, and his written reports infuriated military and government officials in Washington who tried to whitewash the war.

Halberstam also wrote sport stories. He authored The Teammates: A Portrait of a Friendship so I bought it at the Churches United sale without any forethought. Here is the first line in the book. “Ted was dying, and the idea for the final trip, driving down to Florida to see him one last time, was Dominic’s.” Ted in this case was the baseball great Ted Williams and Dominic was Dom DiMaggio. For some background a few players on the Boston Red Sox team in the 1940s had formed a tight bond of friendship that lasted into their old age. Now because Ted was ailing, it prompted them to drive together to Ted’s home. That foursome was Ted Williams, Dom (brother of Joe) DiMaggio, Bobby Doerr, and Johnny Pesky. 

One of Williams’s qualities the group cherished was his caring about and generosity towards his friends. They felt strongly about wishing him well this one last time. Of course, this was the Ted known for his exceptional batting ability as a hitter and achieving a .406 batting average in 1941. In addition he earned honors with batting titles, most valuable player, triple crowns, all-star games, and membership in the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1966.

The friends had all grown old like Ted had, and it took them three days to drive down to Ted’s home. Upon arriving they were shocked: Ted had dropped to 130 pounds, but he became stronger by the minute when he realized who had come. It is a good story filled with lots of baseball stories. For one dollar, I got a pretty good deal. 

Curiosity drives my reading habits and I practice what I preach about the necessity of reading history books. Sales like these give me an opportunity to do it very economically. Wouldn’t you know it. I just learned of another sale on May 17 at the West Fargo library.

 

Cash Gifts

The University of North Dakota remembers my past attendance there by sending alumni news. They certainly don’t do this because of any of my achievements, but in a real sense to encourage my estate to remember them with a cash gift upon my demise. If I give it would be a very small gift. Alumni directors like the rich alumni who can fork over big amounts. But still, I enjoy reading news of the university and hope to keep informed for many more years.

One of their recent communications appeared to awaken a memory of one man’s gift. My attendance in the early 1960s saw a million dollar gift come to UND for the purpose of building a library. Given by an international investor named Chester Fritz, it has become a beautiful building. Chester Fritz and I had only one thing in common: we did not graduate from this university. But a million dollars, at the time I thought it astronomical. Of course, today we think in terms of billions, even trillions.

Orphaned, he went to live with his aunt at Lidgerwood where it was said he became a voracious reader. The aunt apparently had some connection to the president at UND and through her guiding, he attended there for about two years.

We visited the library a couple of years ago. They have a large collection of comprehensive work called the Bygdebok which outlines Norwegian ancestry. Mary was deep into research of some topics and wanted to look at them. At that time we saw first hand how well-appointed the library had become.

Fritz did not end his philanthropy work with the library. The Chester Fritz Auditorium on the UND campus, commonly known as “The Fritz,” received another million dollar gift from him in 1965. It’s capacity of 2,384 people is the place where many events are held, including concerts, recitals, commencement ceremonies, lectures, and conferences. 

We have attended two events at “The Fritz,” the first a Garrison Keillor performance. We have seen Keillor three times, once here and twice in Bismarck. We enjoy his brand of person to person communication very much. He excelled in this auditorium with its comfortable seating and first rate sound system.

The second time we attended we heard the author Peter Matthiessen read and discuss his work. Family members who sat with me didn’t have knowledge of his work and I had only a passing acquaintance with it. From that time I have gone on to read his his great work. When I started writing this piece I opened my copy of The Snow Leopard and began reading from it again.

The book describes a journey with a biologist into the high country of Nepal to study Himalayan blue sheep, and if lucky, glimpse a rare snow leopard. While traveling, Matthiessen also takes the reader deep into his inner thoughts. Like so much good literature it portrays not so much the reaching of their goal as it is the value gained from taking the journey. I wished I would have known that before attending his reading at “The Fritz.”

The University of North Dakota became the beneficiary of another significant gift to build “The Ralph.” Ralph Engelstad attended UND, played hockey, and went on to a successful business career. He gave $104 million for the building of a hockey arena. It wasn’t all roses, though. This was at the time when school nicknames came under examination, especially those using Native American connotation. The powers that be deemed “The Sioux” nickname had to go. Englestad took exception to that decision and threatened to withdraw his funding if that went through.

The power of the NCAA came into play by stating offensive nicknames would not be permitted. Engelstad’s competitive spirit would not completely relent and he made sure the Fighting Sioux logo appeared in many places including a large granite logo in the main concourse. I haven’t been in the building yet and should take a day trip up there to visit both “The Ralph” and “The Fritz.”

A recent announcement appeared that fits well with the topic of giving and is worthy to repeat. “In an extraordinary act of generosity, Minnesota Vikings Head Coach Kevin O’Connell has donated his entire $1.8 million performance bonus and a recent endorsement contract to charities focused on homelessness and community support.” 

Some other big money people are passing their wealth around. Celebrated for her extraordinary generosity in the wake of her divorce from Amazon founder Jeff Bezos, is McKenzie Scott. After their 2019 divorce, Ms. Scott signed the Giving Pledge and as such has given away the majority of her wealth to charitable causes.

Bill Gates and Warren Buffett launched something they called the Giving Pledge in 2010 which was a campaign to convince the world’s wealthiest to give away at least half their fortunes before their deaths. In addition to themselves others joined in. A man named Charles Feeney who made his fortune by launching Duty Free Shoppers and to date has given $8 billion of it to charities and plans to die broke. Warren Buffett has given away almost $57 billion and Bill Gates and his ex-wife have chipped in $43 billion.

The list is quite long and won’t be added to here. I think for the most part they don’t brag much about what they’ve done. Maybe some follow the teaching of the Bible’s Matthew 6:1 that tells us when we do good things, we shouldn’t do them in order to be praised.

RANDOM THOUGHTS - Friday, Apr 25, 2025

 

Sad news came this week upon hearing of the death of one of my classmates - all 12 years  …  The term “life is short” takes on added meaning now that I’ve grown old  …  The scars I have prove I’ve lived  …  Camping, where you spend a small fortune to live like a homeless person  …  Doing nothing is hard cuz you never know when you’re done  …  I’ve never eaten clams on the half shell  …  What do you give a man who has everything: penicillin  …  Today in 1990 Hubble Space Telescope was sent into orbit …  47 years ago Steve Martin hosted SNL and performed his hit “King Tut” …  Relish the journey, you might never reach the destination  …  Read history books  … The picture shows my hangout where I spend time each day  …  

All Is So Long Ago

“Evening Land,” a first-rate Swedish book of poetry contains a refrain that causes me to travel to other times in my memory with these lines, “With old eyes I look back. All is so long ago.” He talks about his life being spent far away, “In another world or as if in another world.” His imagination had taken him elsewhere in his earlier life, but now “all is soon over.”

I have a large collection of images that I’ve boxed and stored on a shelf in my memory. Every once in awhile I open the box and and look at them again. Some are small and light, others weigh heavy. They have accumulated over the years. I’m lucky because the box is large and continues to fill. Let me reach in and grab a few.

I’m standing in a hayfield reaching under a windrow of hay to hook my finger in the handle of a crock jug. Hot and thirsty, I hoist the jug high in the crook of my arm and drink long, cool swallows from it.

I’m a small boy and my grandpa has taken me fishing at Lake Teawaukon. He baits my hook and throws in the line while telling me, “Don’t take your eyes off that bobber!” I don’t for several long hours. Small perch pull it under and make it bob and bob. He takes me home at twilight just as a full moon rises. I look at it and see a bloat bobbing, bobbing, bobbing in the face of the moon, in my supper plate, in my dreams.

Goose bumps chill me when I lie in bed while a raging winter storm howls in the eaves. I’d imagine a woman was screaming inside the blizzard wind.

I’m in the barnyard. A bull eyes me from a distance in the pasture. His hooves kick up a dust cloud filled with hate for the man-child he spots. He charges. My fingers dig and claw into the wall of the barn, and I gain the rooftop just as he arrives snorting and bellowing.

We’re in the hayfield again. I’m a boy and always want to be where the men work. I’m given the simple job of cleaning out the spilled hay from underneath the stationary stacker. As it raises to offload its hay on the top of the stack, a main wooden beam breaks and hundreds of pounds crash to the ground just as I’ve stepped away.

With the arrival of spring I shed my long underwear and heavy overshoes to finally glory in the lightness I’m feeling. In the spring wind I watch fresh-washed clothes sailing and billowing with the wind.

Saturday night and we drive along the gravel road to Enderlin but we stop  at the railroad crossing by the Center Farm for a long train. It is being pulled by a steam engine blowing smoke and steam as it climbs the grade out of town. Sometimes another engine pushes from the rear helping it gain speed.

A long burlap bag hangs from a tall, shaky scaffold and waits there for me to toss in a twine-tied fleece and crawl in to pack it down. The bundles of wool accumulate, and the wool glistens lanolin-rich that soaks into my pant legs and softens the leather of my shoes.

What are my earliest memories from so long ago? There was a rooster that kept attacking me in the yard. With a long stick and one swing I removed that threat permanently. It ended poorly while finding eggs to gather and bring to my mother when one I’d placed in my pocket broke. Later leaving the farmyard and wandering down the gravel road, I entered a slough with tall reeds where my dog accompanied me.  His flagging tail alerted an uncle driving by whose curiosity caused him to stop. 

Unfortunately, some memories become stone and stay in the box. Maybe they will be dug out again in the future, but they are deeply bedded history that I can’t revive. Some of them deal with times I should have said something, but didn’t, and there are times when I should have kept my mouth shut.

The singer John Prime succumbed to Covid a few years ago but left us with one song called “I Remember Everything.” He writes, “I remember every tree. Every single blade of grass holds a special place for me.” Although we can’t take the words literally, they do hold meaning. With a little effort, we can remember much.