Monday, December 15th, 2003

Motoring down old '94, not yet 11:00 A.M. yesterday, the Sunday they announced that Saddam was finally cornered in a hole in the ground outside of Tikret, I was sipping a bit of one of those horribly flavored hot chocolate drinks – French Velvet or Irish Crème or whatever. I drink them because it feels so good when I stop. Besides, I've had enough coffee for the morning, and one feels a certain obligation to buy something after using the store/gas station's bathroom facility for some time. All the repetition of the details of getting the most evil person on the face of the earth for seven hours or so got us down the road a good piece yesterday morning – we didn't didn't actually get into the Subaru and point it eastward until almost 6:00 A.M. Much was made for most of Sunday about the cowardice of Saddam – he didn't even go for his weapon. Of course, he was surrounded by about 600 crack troops, tanks, helicopters, and heavy artillery – but he and the two guys with him didn't put up any resistance. He got a free shave and a physical – supposedly, he's in great shape for a guy hanging around six-foot holes in the ground for the last few months. Maybe he was cooperating because he was looking for a bath and a decent meal, although you would think that $750,000 in cash -- $100 U.S. bills – could have gotten him whatever he needed. Perhaps the weest bit of weather coming to the western Minnesota, for the wind was from the south and 'twas a bit gloomy and overcast – but that's Minnesota, and that's why all of those cars are lined up at the border towns, waiting to get into paradise. 'Twas a beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuitful day we missed most of in Dakota yesterday, a grander one today, although things are pretty comfortable here at the Hermanson-Albers Manor where Mortimer and Oliver the cats reign – they pull all the shots around that place, kola.

Shortly after noon yesterday, Eastern Time, President Bush got on the air to warn folks that it's not over 'till it's over – and that the violence will continue in spite of the capture of Saddam – might even escalate the weest in anger and revenge.

Thanks to my spouse's insistence on keeping on task – that is, keeping on trucking down the road – and her general no-lolly-gagging approach to driving, we made it down here to Madison where tis a cool crisp morning, this 15th day of December, aye, the ides of December, where 'tis gorgeous in Dakota – but all right here. 'Tis a quiet morning – those who must be obeyed – or, more appropriately, those who don't care whether anyone obeys them or not as long as they are left to do their thing – the rulers of this mansion, Mortimer and Oliver, and even sound asleep. Ain't not a creature stirring, especially a mouse (how could he possibly dare?) There was some pinochle playing going on last night – I didn't indulge, but my spouse did play a bit of five-card cut-throat with Albert & Bobbi and their friends Nate & Molly, who came over for a excellent lasagna prepared by the dear daughter-in-law – unfortunately for me, I could tolerate but a taste – but it looked grand and all reports were of a great taste sensation. Don't know who won the games – I retired with a few pages of Isaacson's biography of Benjamin Franklin – but I do know that I heard my bid twice what he could hope to fulfill on occasion – ah, the eternal triumph of hope over reason for some card players, be it draw pinochle or draw poker!

News of he capture of Saddam Hussein has brought great joy to Dakota, especially to the Kurdish community in Fargo, where there were celebrations last night in beauuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota. About one hundred turned out for a dance at at the neighboring town of Moorhead, Minnesota. But the dance ended at a reasonable hour – and 'tis be quiet across middle America. Even Mortimer and Oliver, the cats who are in charge of his place are resting, watching the morning news now that the household is up and at it. Great huge homemade chocolate chip cookies for breakfast – we were offered more conventional cereal or hams and eggs – but we've been going for Bobbi's cookies. Today's useless information under the category, Why the hell do I need to know that anyway? 'Twas on this day in in 1986 that a famous singer/actor signed a deal for $17 million to promote Dole pineapple – 'twas Kenny Rogers. We're not having any pineapple this morning. Fact 'tis, haven't had an pineapple in a good long while – perhaps in a bite of a fruit cake somewhere along the line. Back in the Haycyon Days in Hannover Township, in the Garden of the Universe in Oliver County, there came from time to time to Hanover Store exotic fruit in the whole – fresh, not canned. Hence, there would be pineapple with the tops and the spiny skin and whole coconuts that we could crack and pretend that we liked drinking the "milk." Mostly around Christmas – that's when the fruit came (apples we knew most of the time, oranges were the most precious of commodities – and all the bins of nuts and bulk candy. Most have been pretty expensive – for we didn’t get a lot of it at home when dad took the cream check over to the store to get groceries. But 'twas a magical time – the time when chocolate might appear in regular cookies.
​
Tis about time to leave this glorious household with its wonderful hospitality – on to Zion to get ready for five days of a bit of prodding, poking, and infusion of the state that maybe will have me dreaming of even more Christmas's to come. All goes well, we'll be back here in Saturday night – and Gretchen will be here as well. Take care of yourselves, kola – and do look out for each other

Ev Albers

Sunday, December 14, 2003

December 14 – the day Nostradamus entered the middle world in 1503 – and lived to write very vague prophesies that continue to fascinate folk who want to believe that the future can indeed be predicted. 'Twict you and me, I think not, but I'm less cynical of such stuff than I was some fifteen months past, before learning of the presence of the insidious invader. By the mid 1550s, he had finished a slew of quatrains purportedly telling what would be coming down far into the centuries to come. In his own time, he was considered a genius by some and a servant of the devil himself by others. He lived on to 1566 and died of gout and heart problems – that his adherents said he predicted, along with the great London fire of 1666, the French Revolution, the discovery of penicillin, and some say the rise of Hitler. Somewhere at this very moment, someone is probably reading Nostradamus, who was a physician who had a reputation of being able to successfully treat bubonic plague. The whole business of determining tomorrow is most disturbing – there are compelling moments in everyone's life – and powerful stories in every family – about premonitions that came true, especially the coming of death. There are those who say Nostradamus foretold the events of September 11, 2001, as prelude to even worse, worldwide war. Here's one take making the rounds, especially from military men participating in patriotic lists on the Internet:

"In the year of the new century and nine months (Sept 2001)
From the sky will come a great King of Terror... [kamakaze airliners)
The sky will burn at forty-five degrees (N.Lat of NYC)
Fire approaches the great new city (kamakaze airliners)
In the city of York there will be a great collapse,
2 twin brothers torn apart by the chaos while the fortress fall (WTC buildings implode and collapse)
The great leader (USA) will succumb.
The third big war will begin when the big city is burning"

Nostrdamus (dated 1644).

There's a few problems with this one – first, he was gone from the middle world in 1566. In fact, the entire thing is a hoax – although there are bits and pieces from various quatrains. Small chance, methinks, that Nostradamus saw anything like New York City in his visions – not in the wildest dreams of a moon-struck brain.

Ah well – there are worse things to mull at the beginning of the Halcyon Days – the weeks before and after he winter solstice – I wrote about them last year, I think (check out December 14, 2002) – must have been feeling pretty good that day – resigned to what would be – and never in my wildest dreams did I expect to be here a year later – 'tis enough to have me scurrying for answers beyond the totally rational I've relied on for so long. More than anything else, 'tis the love and concern you kola have been sending my way that keeps me alive and well enough to greet this glorious beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota – my spouse and I will be in exile for a week, but with the perks of seeing our children.

'Twas on this day in 1799 that the most revered man in America in his time and during most of the time since since finally completed his passage in the middle world – he was not allowed to go gentle into that good night, largely because of attending physicians. Here's what happened to the "Father of Our Country," according to Charles Panati who writes in his Panati's Extraordinary Endings of Practically Everything and Everybody,

Begin Panati
Final Days. Washington's agonizing death illustrates the horrifying ineptness of medicine in the early nineteenth century.

True, he was never really healthy, and was, with valid gripe, a hypochondriac. Tuberculosis had hollowed his chest, smallpox cratered his complexion, and a full set of ill-fitting dentures of hippopotamus ivory distorted his bite causing chronic dyspepsia. In addition he endured a tumor hacked without anesthesia from his left hip and suffered recurring bouts of malaria fever and chills. But worse was to come at the hands of this doctors.

Two days before his death, the sixty-seven-year-old former president, two years out of office, went horseback riding at his Mount Vernon estate in a blustery winter snow. The next day he suffered laryngitis and called his doctors. They copiously bled him four times, then smeared his raw, inflamed throat with a poultice of dried antharide beetles, or Spanish flies, to induce "curative" blisters. To sooth the fire, they concocted a gargle of molasses, vinegar, and butter, which nearly choked the life out of Washington.

To "cleanse" his system, he was given the toxic laxative calomel (which had killed Napoleon) and this induced dehydrating diarrhea. When his breathing became labored, one physician, Elisha Dick, proposed cutting into the windpipe for a tracheostomy, a new and unproved operation that was vetoed by Washington's other doctors. Instead, to shock his lungs to fuller inhalation, they applied blistering mustard poultices to his chest. This was the nineteenth-century equivalent of keeping a patient alive by "extraordinary means."

In the ebbing afternoon of his last day [a Saturday in 1799, two days after a full moon night], Washington said graciously to his physicians: "I thank you for your attention. You'd better not take any more trouble about me, but let me go off quietly. I cannot last long." He lasted until 10:00 that night. His final words were funeral instructions, and they reveal Washington's well-known fear of premature burial [which happened a good deal in his time]: "Have me decently buried, but do not let my body be put into a vault in less than two days after I am dead. . . . Tis well."

Today bio-historians claim that George Washington died of an acute streptococcal infection of the larynx, which caused painful swelling on the interior of the windpipe, resulting in suffocation. A tracheostomy might have prolonged his life. Before his burial on December 18 at Mount Vernon, with full Masonic rites, a lock of the president's hair was cut and given to his wife.
End Panati Quote

The cure was often much worse than the disease back a couple of hundred years ago, and 'tis a huge question in 2003 – how much pain is worth the gain in prolonging life – how good does the quality of life have to be for those patients kept alive by "extraordinary means" today? We have means to let the medical community and our loved ones know in advance – with medical directives, living wills, etc. – marvelous tools to prevent too much medical attention too long. Slowly, it's becoming recognized as one of the most important individual rights -–deciding how much should be done to keep one alive. Used to be that those decisions were made by a clergyman and the doctor in a quiet session at the hospital – the patient and her/his family had little to say about it.

I feel a lot better than George did 204 years ago – although I can imagine the discomfort of those damned hippopotamus choppers – I don't have opposing molars meself, and I've lost that durned false front tooth again, so there's this disturbing gap that I expose when I smile too broadly. Chewing sufficiently with one's incisors is no small task. But we have no real appreciation for the kind of aches and pains folks suffered without thinking much about it back in "the good old days" before aspirin and Tylenol, etc. As Panati pointed out, George may have been a hypochondriac, but he had good reason to be.

George is often most remembered these days by those Americans concerned about our security – because Washington wrote a vision of invasion of America that keeps resurfacing in some of those same places that concoct new quatrains for Nostradamus. George was feeling less than perky during the winter of 1777 at Valley Forge – his troops were hungry, shoeless, and morale was low – and the Continental Congress hadn't appropriated money for the suffering army. Says one who was there, Anthony Sherman,

Begin Sherman quote
You doubtless heard the story of Washington's going to the thicket to pray. Well, it is not only true, but he used often to pray in secret for aid and comfort from God, the interposition of whose Divine Providence brought us safely through the darkest days of tribulation.

One day, I remember it well, when the chilly winds whistled through the leafless trees, though the sky was cloudless and the sun shown brightly, he remained in his quarters nearly all the afternoon alone. When he came out, I noticed that his face was a shade paler than usual. There seemed to be something on his mind of more than ordinary importance. Returning just after dusk, he dispatched an orderly to the quarters who was presently in attendance. After a preliminary conversation of about an hour, Washington, gazing upon his companion with that strange look of dignity which he alone commanded, related the event that occurred that day.
End Sherman quote

Here's what George wrote on that cold winter day in 1777

Begin Washington's Vision
This afternoon, as I was sitting at this table engaged in preparing a dispatch, something seemed to disturb me. Looking up, I beheld standing opposite me a singularly beautiful female. So astonished was I, for I had given strict orders not to be disturbed, that it was some moments before I found language to inquire the cause of her presence. A second, a third and even a fourth time did I repeat my question, but received no answer from my mysterious visitor except a slight raising of her eyes.

By this time I felt strange sensations spreading through me. I would have risen but the riveted gaze of the being before me rendered volition impossible. I assayed once more to address her, but my tongue had become useless, as though it had become paralyzed.

A new influence, mysterious, potent, irresistible, took possession of me. All I could do was to gaze steadily, vacantly at my unknown visitor. Gradually the surrounding atmosphere seemed as if it had become filled with sensations, and luminous. Everything about me seemed to rarify, the mysterious visitor herself becoming more airy and yet more distinct to my sight than before. I now began to feel as one dying, or rather to experience the sensations which I have sometimes imagined accompany dissolution. I did not think, I did not reason, I did not move; all were alike impossible. I was only conscious of gazing fixedly, vacantly at my Companion.

Presently I heard a voice saying, "Son of the Republic, look and learn," while at the same time my visitor extended her arm eastwardly. I now beheld a heavy white vapor at some distance rising fold upon fold. This gradually dissipated, and I looked upon a strange scene. Before me lay spread out in one vast plain all the countries of the world-Europe, Asia, Africa and America. I saw rolling and tossing between Europe and America the billows of the Atlantic, and between Asia and America lay the Pacific.

"Son of the Republic," said the same mysterious voice as before, "look and learn." At that moment I beheld a dark, shadowy being, like an angel, standing, or rather floating in midair; between Europe and America. Dipping water out of the ocean in the hollow of each hand, he sprinkled some upon America with his right hand, while with his left hand he cast some on Europe. Immediately a cloud raised from these countries, and joined in mid-ocean. For a while it remained stationary, and then moved slowly westward, until it enveloped America in its murky folds. Sharp flashes of lightning gleamed through it at intervals, and I heard the smothered groans and cries of the American people.

A second time the angel dipped water from the ocean, and sprinkled it out as before. The dark cloud was then drawn back to the ocean, in whose heaving billows it sank from view. A third time I heard the mysterious voice saying, "Son of the Republic, look and learn," I cast my eyes upon America and beheld villages and towns and cities springing up one after another until the whole land from the Atlantic to the Pacific was dotted with them.

Again, I heard the mysterious voice say, "Son of the Republic, the end of the century cometh, look and learn." At this the dark shadowy angel turned his face southward, and from Africa I saw an ill-omened spectre approach our land. It flitted slowly over every town and city of the latter. The inhabitants presently set themselves in battle array against each other. As I continued looking I saw a bright angel, on whose brow rested a crown of light, on which was traced the word "Union," bearing the American flag which he placed between the divided nation, and said, "Remember ye are brethren." Instantly, the inhabitants, casting from them their weapons became friends once more, and united around the National Standard.

"And again I heard the mysterious voice saying, "Son of the Republic, look and learn." At this the dark, shadowy angel placed a trumpet to his mouth, and blew three distinct blasts; and taking water from the ocean, he sprinkled it upon Europe, Asia and Africa. Then my eyes beheld a fearful scene: from each of these countries arose thick, black clouds that were soon joined into one. Throughout this mass there gleamed a dark red light by which I saw hordes of armed men, who, moving with the cloud, marched by land and sailed by sea to America. Our country was enveloped in this volume of cloud, and 1 saw these vast armies devastate the whole country and burn the villages, towns and cities that I beheld springing up. As my ears listened to the thundering of the cannon, clashing of swords, and the shouts and cries of millions in mortal combat, I heard again the mysterious voice saying, "Son of the Republic, look and learn." When the voice had ceased, the dark shadowy angel placed his trumpet once more to his mouth, and blew a long and fearful blast.

Instantly a light as of a thousand suns shone down from above me, and pierced and broke into fragments the dark cloud which enveloped America. At the same moment the angel upon whose head still shone the word "Union," end who bore our national flag in one hand and a sword in the other, descended from the heavens attended by legions of white spirits. These immediately joined the inhabitants of America, who I perceived were well nigh overcome, but who immediately taking courage again, closed up their broken ranks and renewed the battle.

Again, amid the fearful noise. of the conflict, I heard the mysterious voice saying, "Son of the Republic, look and learn." As the voice ceased, the shadowy angel for the last time dipped water from the ocean and sprinkled it upon America. Instantly the dark cloud rolled back, together with the armies it had brought, leaving the inhabitants of the land victorious!

Then once more I beheld the villages, towns and cities springing up where I had seen them before, while the bright angel, planting the azure standard he had brought in the midst of them, cried with a loud voice: "While the stars remain, and the heavens send down dew upon the earth, so long shall the Union last." And taking from his brow the crown on which blazoned the word "Union," he placed it upon the National Standard while the people, kneeling down, said, "Amen."

The scene instantly began to fade and dissolve, and I at last saw nothing but the rising, curling vapor I at first beheld. This also disappearing, I found myself once more gazing upon the mysterious visitor, who, in the same voice I had heard before, said, "Son of the Republic, what you have seen is thus interpreted: Three great perils will come upon the Republic. The most fearful is the third, but in this greatest conflict the whole world united shall not prevail against her. Let every child of the Republic learn to live for his God, his land and the Union." With these words the vision vanished, and I started from my seat and felt that I had seen a vision wherein had been shown to me the birth, progress, and destiny of the United States.
End George Washington's Vision

Those who have memorized and teach Washington's vision say that the big one is coming -–the invasion of the United States. I say hogwash – what Washington wrote in extremis was meant to drum up support from reluctant countrymen to throw out the British. And perhaps George had been dipping too deeply into the last chapter of the Bible – too much Revelations at the wrong time will do that to you. Not too many folk are agonizing today over the prospect of the invasion of America, but those who are take it all very seriously – they have stockpiled guns and weapons, food and supplies, and are ready. They are a lot scarier than Washington's meanderings that bad winter in Valley Forge --

Ah, but 'tis time this glorious morn in Dakota to pack up and get ready to head east with my lovin' spouse – long day's journey to Madison, Wisconsin – but perhaps we'll hear part of the Viking's game, so I can revile them – or the Packers, so I can cheer them on. I have this vision of the Vikings losing and the Packers winning. Then they'll be tied. Who knows what visions may come whilst napping in the passenger seat of the Subaru – I do know this – I'm mightily grateful for and humbled by your lovin' concern and kind attention, kola – be well, take care of yourselves, and take care of each other.

Ev Albers

Saturday, December 13th, 2003

Early Saturday morn – quite early, as a matter of fact, because I was most early to bed last eve – around 6:00 P.M. – my lovin' spouse considers my practice of Ben Franklin's dictum of "Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise" just the weest bit too early on both ends – but once once starts down that path, 'tis hard to break. Besides, it gives me the gold hours before rosy-fingered dawn appears to do some reading – currently Isaacson's masterful biography of Franklin, some writing, and a bit of reflection. My breakfast this early morn, a beauuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota – it just keeps getting better – my modest repast to keep body and soul together and the wolves of hunger howling at the door louder than the thousands gathered at Dakota's borders trying to enter paradise – my breakfast a few minutes past was the last of some Dakota ring baloney – that red stuff from a famous Dakota meat processor that lists only "meat and meat byproducts" in the ingredients. There were just a few inches of the two-inch diameter stuff I microwaved, sliced in half, and had on some great, soft, Vienna bread. That was followed with about a quarter of the last Mil Jenkinson fruit cake – I had arisen around 10:00 P.M. and consumed another quarter of the half I had been hoarding. Wash it all down with a bit of Welch's Strawberry Breeze, and you have yourself a breakfast.

For the record, last night I tried the wurst sent by Rachel Retterath to Mil Jenkinson's house the day before Thanksgiving – Federal Express, no less, from Wishek to Dickinosn, North Dakota – via Nashville, Tennessee, of course. My lovin' spouse cooked up the stick given to me by Mil's son Clay, my old buddy and pal, who started the whole thing by bragging on Richardton sausage, which is no longer made, although one of the daughters of Born the Richardton Sausage Maker still sells the spices here in Mandan. Rachel, you're right – 'tis pretty fine stuff – although I can tell that it's made of much finer ingredients than my byproduct baloney – but 'twas delicious with the tastiest and thinnest of crepes made by my lovin' spouse for supper last night. Rachel sent the stuff from a LaMoure locker and others from Wishek.

So far, I've not suffered the usual consequences of consuming sausage and such, but 'tis early – and whatever comes, 'twill be have been worthwhile after all – 'tis J. Alfred Prufrock who opines in his T.S. Eliot-conceived Love Song

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worthwhile,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball,
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say, "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all," --
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
     Should say, "That is not what I meant, at all."
     "That is not it, at all."

Well, what is it? There's that great German saying, "Alles hat ein Ende, nur die Wurst hat zwei," – "Everything has an ending, only the sausage has two." To understand the importance of the sausage in German culture, one need only consider another German proverb, which translates something like "It's do or die" or "It's now or never" – the Germans say, "Es geht um die Wurst." – Literally, that means "it goes around the sausage." That's an Elvis tune, isn't it, "It's Now or Never?" –

It's now or never,
come hold me tight
Kiss me my darling,
be mine tonight
Tomorrow will be too late,
it's now or never
My love won't wait.

When I first saw you
with your smile so tender
My heart was captured,
my soul surrendered
I'd spend a lifetime
waiting for the right time
Now that your near
the time is here at last.

It's now or never,
come hold me tight
Kiss me my darling,
be mine tonight
Tomorrow will be too late,
it's now or never
My love won't wait.

Just like a willow,
we would cry an ocean
If we lost true love
and sweet devotion
Your lips excite me,
let your arms invite me
For who knows when
we'll meet again this way

It's now or never,
come hold me tight
Kiss me my darling,
be mine tonight
Tomorrow will be too late,
it's now or never
My love won't wait.

Think I'd better get up and get me a nausea pill – no, it isn't the idea of Elvis singing "Es geht um die Wurst" instead of "It's now or never" –

It goes around the sausage,
Come hold me tight . . . .

Probably that bread that's making me the weest bit nauseous – it couldn't be the wurst! I wonder what the German translation of the Elvis song is . . .

He didn't write the music, of course – he stole it, as all great song writers have – from the most famous of Italian arias – "O Solo Mio." Now, my friend Jim Fuglie, who once complained that some of the country-western lyrics I awoke with and wrote about gave him a bad case of earworm (can't get the song out of you mind), try sing "It goes around the sausage" to the tune of "O Solo Mio" – better yet, do it auf deutsch – "Es geht um die Wurst."

This was the very day, December 13, which fell on a Friday in 1974, that President Gerald Ford invited ex-Battle George Harrison to the White House for lunch. Inflation was rampant back twenty-nine years ago – remember 30 percent interest? President Ford gave George Harrison exactly what he always wanted – a WIN button ("Whip Inflation Now"). George gave Jerry an OM button – you know, the Buddist mantra using the Hindu word for creation – vocalized on the intake of breath. I don't know if George demonstrated for Jerry. George Harrison wrote some great music – I don't know if Jerry Ford ever even tried. Back in the early 70s, he released "My Sweet Lord," one of the truly great combinations of melody and manta – and it hit the top of the charts. Later, the Cliftons successfully sued Harrison for plagiarism because of similarity to their 1964 "She's So Fine." Never did figure that one out. I think his greatest contribution was financing and seeing through to completion the movie Life of Brian by his friends in the Monty Python troupe – 'tis an outrageous movie with the title character based on Jesus. But back to "My Sweet Lord":

Hm, my lord (hallelujah)
My, my, my lord (hare krishna)
My sweet lord (hare krishna)
My sweet lord (krishna krishna)
My lord (hare hare)
Hm, hm (Gurur Brahma)
Hm, hm (Gurur Vishnu)
Hm, hm (Gurur Devo)
Hm, hm (Maheshwara)
My sweet lord (Gurur Sakshaat)
My sweet lord (Parabrahma)
My, my, my lord (Tasmayi Shree)
My, my, my, my lord (Guruve Namah)
My sweet lord (Hare Rama)

Ah, how soon we forget the old days of searching for spirituality! Wonder if George managed to get President Ford to do a little mantra or two.

I think I'll trying the weest bit of OMMMMMMMMING today – if I can remember the lotus position. Or maybe 'twill be a bit of flamenco guitar with the great Carlos Montoya, born on this day in 1903 – he damned near made it to ninety, leaving the middle world in March 1993. Used to listen to a good deal of Montoya in the 70s.

Today we inaugurate a new feature – that probably won't last or be sustained, but one can only try – 'tis the What the hell do I need to know that for, anyway? bit of information about this day in history – and today's headline is, "Baseball Refuses to Allow Spitball" from December 13, 1949. The American League had outlawed the pitch in 1920 and refused to reinstate it twenty-nine years later. A lot of moist baseballs have been served up in the last fifty-four years – but the spitball is still illegal.

To rest the weest, and then to work – tomorrow the Subaru piloted by my lovin' spouse heads eastward – departure long before rosy-fingered dawn appears – take care of yourselves, kola – and do look out for each other. If you happen to be invited to lunch with GW at the White House, bring along an OM button and teach him a mantra or two – or maybe he would prefer to join you in a chorus of "Es geht um die Wurst" – if anyone should know about "now or never," it's President George W. Bush.

Ev Albers

Friday, December 12th, 2003

Simply couldn't be any better in Dakota, where 'tis so beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful that we'll have to send our crack state troopers to the Montana, Minnesota, and South Dakota borders to keep the hordes away thousands, hundreds of thousands, if this tropical weather continues, for brisk fresh air coupled with our hearty hospitality could double our population of some 645,000 folks or so within weeks if we're not careful.

Flash! Announcement! Yesterday afternoon at 2:22 P.M. C.T. Anna Louise Strathman entered the middle world - my grand-niece, who joins second cousin Tyler Youngeberg as the second member of the next generation of the Kubik Clan spawned by Dorothy and Alfons. Anna Louise is the daughter of Leslie's niece Tanya Kubik Strathman and her husband Colin. She began her journey in St. Paul, Minnesota, weighing six pounds, fifteen ounces and ready to take on the family waiting for her, including her grandmother Mary, brother Hans, the Strathman grandparents - and so many more who will trek across town or across country to see her. Congratulations Tanya and Colin, and welcome Anna Louise! Somewhere in another place even more beauuuuuuuuuuuuutiful than Dakota is today, Anna Louise's grandfather Joe, who left the middle world in his young fifties after a bout with an insidious invader a year ago in April, is beaming with his boyish grin - I'll bet on it - and with him is Anna's great-grandpa Alfons saying "Such a pretty girl, such a pretty girl!"

Time rushes by so quickly ! I've been converting both ND Humanities Council and Great Plains Chautauqua Society videotapes as well as family videos as I find time of late - the latest is the 1980 Christmas when my son Albert was three years, nine months and his sister Gretchen just over three months old. I'm of course just the weest bit biased, but they were indeed gorgeous children with such a love for life and learning that neither simply went to bed and went to sleep. My lovin' spouse and I gave up - we let them run and have fun until they dropped in their tracks, and then we put them to bed.

The two entertained each other from the beginning - and us, as she did her mother back on a warm April day more than twenty-two years past. Her brother helped her mightily her first Christmas, twenty-three years ago in 1980 - by opening her gifts and by making sure she knew how to use the toys she received.

Sometimes pensive, often quite exuberant, Albert did a lot of talking - I have hours of video of his explaining his philosophy as early as his third and fourth year. He also taught his sister a strange game that my lovin' spouse and I have never figured out - it was called "Meknow," I think (that's a phonetic spelling) - and it involved the two of them standing by the kitchen sink looking at each other saying and repeating, "Meknow" for a bit before running and screaming to another room and then coming back for another round. I have no idea what the purpose or pleasure of the game was - perhaps the fact that it so perplexed their parents was sufficient. We'll get to see our children soon at the home of my son Albert Otto Hermanson-Albers and his wife Bobbi in Madison - Gretchen will be there after I finish the next round of chemo beginning December 16 - so we'll all be together sometime around the 20th - including Mortimer and Oliver, the Hermanson-Albers cats who rule the Madison Manor. Gretchen will be coming on back to Bismarck for a while before returning early from her break in studies in history at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln so she can begin a new job as an assistant to the editor-in-chief of the University of Nebraska Press - Gretchen will have major responsibilities in the review and possible acquisition of native American materials for the press.

​Here's son Albert with some of his tools back in 1981 - he has graduated to much more sophisticated equipment - mainly his computer from whence he generates his music and the one at his office where he make a living. As I think of new grand-niece Anna Louise today, I'm reminded how precious each moment of this journey in the middle world is - and how much 'tis to be savored. This coming April 9, 2004, my darlin' daughter will be twenty-four - how well I remember her first birthday with the Tweety Bird cake - and her indomitable smile - she and her brother continue to make my passage in the middle world a delight every day -- their very existence makes me want to stick around as long as I possibly can.

Makes the prospect of getting into the passenger seat of the Subaru Forester on Sunday and heading east a much happier one than 'twould be were our children not at the other end of the trail.Moreover, Gretchen, Albert and Bobbi have gladdened the hearts of their parents mightily by getting flu shots - and neither of our children take kindly to having needles stuck in them.

This past week, I heard from two dear friends who have been keeping company for some time - my old pal Jim Fuglie whom I knew back in the 60s at Dickinson State and Lillian Crook, the currently librarian at Dickinson State who, like Jim, hails from the heart of the heart of beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota down in the southwestern corner. If you frequent my meanderings, you will recall that Lillian is one of the world's great pie makers - reason enough to use all of your charm - and Jim Fuglie has considerable - to woo and win Ms. Crook - who has agreed to marry Jim Fuglie! There's much more - I've don't recall meeting two folk more suited for each other - and they've seeing each other for some time, long enough to recognize the little quirks that oft times irks the most accommodating of people in a relationship - but they treat each other with such love and respect that the whole world marvels. They intend to find a farmstead somewhere in Stark County to set up their new household - I wish you well, Lillian and Jim. We'll all want to know the date and place, of course, so that we can descend upon you like the hordes huddled at Dakota's borders waiting to get into paradise.

What Lillian and Jim do for each other - and do for all of us both by their generous friendship and by the example of their relationship, is what happens in my favorite song by Frank Sinatra (actually, his name was Francis Albert Sinatra), who was born on this day in 1915 - he died in 1998 -- how I love "You Make Me Feel So Young" - so here's to Jim & Lillian, to baby Anna Louise and her lovin' parents Tanya and Colin, to my lovin' children Albert, Bobbi (I claim you even though your own parents may object, dear daughter-in-law), and darlin' Gretchen - and especially to my lovin' spouse - who has the Subaru ready to go - and keeps everything in order - may your day be as beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful as 'tis in glorious Dakota, and may you be taking the best possible care of yourselves so that you can do an even better job of looking after each other - try humming this one, today, Jim Fuglie - 'tis a grand earworm if ever 'twere one:

You make me feel so young
You make me feel like spring has sprung
Every time I see you grin
I'm such a happy individual

The moment that you speak
I want to go and play hide-and-seek
I want to go and bounce the moon
Just like a toy balloon

You and I, are just like a couple of tots
Running across the meadow
Picking up lots of forget-me-nots

You make me feel so young
You make me feel there are songs to be sung
Bells to be rung, and a wonderful fling to be flung

And even when I'm old and gray
I'm gonna feel the way I do today
'cause you make me feel so young

Fact, I'm gonna go find Frank singing that song and get it along to Jim & Lillian as an engagement gift.

Ev Albers

Thursday, December 11th, 2003

Aye, kola, aye, indeed - 'tis the loveliest of days in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota today - snow to the south, storms to the east, but here the sidewalks and streets are clear, the air is crisp, there's a lovin'-spouse-provided coconut cream pie in fridge, and I just finished reading one great novel, which I recommend most highly - 'tis That Old Ace in the Hole by Annie Proulx, published last year by Scribner's. 'Tis the story of the Texas/Oklahoma panhandle - and, as she always does, Proulx found out damned near everything there is to know about folks down that way before she started writing about Bob Dollar and his effort to buy up land for hog factories - and winds up a convert to the ways and means of those hell-bent on finding water and keeping the land and the people from suffering the outrage of those damned hog factories. There are unforgettable characters - we expect as much from Proulx - ones that exist in the imagination but would be very difficult to cast were a movie to be made - but if one is that's at all faithful to the book, 'twill be a real piss-cutter - there's the master Dutch windmill mechanic, the ranch where all the cowpokes are brothers in a monastery - and there's Ace Crouch, who, in the end - but I'm not gonna spoil one of the great stories I've read in a good while -- there's Bob Dollar's weird friend Rich Orlando, who winds up in prison but comes out a wealthy man - and comes to visit Bob in the panhandle - Orlando was once a really obese fellow, but he worked out in prison and came out looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger (Proulx certainly doesn't say that - I did) - and he comes out with money. He tells Bob

Rich Orlando tells Bob Dollar (250-251)
      "In the clink I played the stock market through my dad. Tech stocks and we sold when everything was high dollar, just before the crash. Lucky. Then, in there, a bunch of us used to do silly things and we made this weird CD that we sold through my dad on the Internet. It's done good. Every fraternity has to have one of these."
      "What, singing fraternity songs?"
      The colossus [Bob's name for the new Rich Orlando] brayed. "No. It's called Live Fart Rock Hits from Prison and that's what it is. In prison you discover some surprising things about your body, and some us noticed a variance in fart pitch. And we had one guy was a real star. Nothing he couldn't do - basso produndo to coloratura, whistles and quavers, tremolo. The Louis Armstrong of the asshole. It was simple after that. I just recorded samples - I had this little Casio digital sampler that looks like a wristwatch -- and when I got out I spliced them together. People love it. We got 'Jailhouse Rock' and 'Freebird' on there, but 'Stairway to Heaven' plays for eight minutes and it's dynamite. A lot of studio work, but worth it. It wasn't like we all got together in the Tabernacle Fart Choir --technology made it happen. And I had a couple of hits after that, not farting, but the same mode."
      Bob did not want to know the nature of the subsequent successes. He could imagine a series of grunts and slobbers and wet smackings rendered as tunes and the delight such renditions would cause in fraternal circles.
      "What about the computer scene? I thought that was what you wanted to do."
      "Ah, hell, I don't got the savvy for it. All the good times was back in the seventies with Cap'n Crunch and the Phone Phreaks. It's all different now. It's no good since the crash. Now I'm focused on CD's"
      I suppose there'd be a market for these with the Elks and the VFW too?" said Bob. "Firemen and oil rig workers and National Guard guys? How about the military?"
      "Man! What a great idea. I hadn't even thought about those guys. Bob, tell you what, how about you sign on with me - be our sales manager. I got a partner down in Austin - my old cellmate, Smoko - but there's room for you. You got good ideas. We want a get into Dolby five-point-one mixes of fart stuff that can be played on DVD home systems - with video. We can really clean up. But getting the cash together for the console - hell, it's real expensive." He looked critically at the mud-stained, dusty Saturn [Bob's rather crummy car]. "You could buy yourself a Lexus or whatever. What do you say?"
End Rich Orlando Conversation with Bob Dollar, pages 250-251 of Annie Proulx's That Old Ace in the Hole

Well, Bob decides to persevere with trying to buy land for hog factories - takes a good while longer for him to see the light - and his future isn't in peddling fart DVD's, either. Now, were what was once going to make me rich and famous - and as wealthy as Rich Orlando - was my magnum opus, a compendium of art, literature, music, anthropology and other humanities and arts about flatulence and farting - but just as I was getting it all put together, a great book came out -- Who Cut the Cheese? A Cultural History of the Fart -- a book published in 1999 - introduced by one Jim Dawson. Then, last year there was the publication of The Zen of Farting by Reepah Gud Wan, Carl Japikse (Editor). The list goes on and on - but I may try for some sort of new angle and get that damn book out yet. Some say 'tis juvenile - but there's the novel Joel's Journal and Fact-Filled Fart Book by Donald Wetzel that was originally published in 1983, there's a 1994 edition that's sold over three million copies - 'tis the story of what the blurb provided by the publishers for Amazon says are "the trials and tribulations of 11 year Joel Mann in his attempt to prove to his father that he is capable of writing a book, that happens to be about flatulence. On his way to becoming a local outcast, young Joel learns about life, friendship, hypocrisy, and heartbreak as he collects more than 100 funny specimens to include in the Fact-Filled Fart Book. Alphabetized, Joel's poignant observations." I don't have this one - maybe Santa Claus will be nice and bring it.

Today is the one-year anniversary of the day my lovin' spouse and I sat in this tiny room at the great medical factory, Mayo, in Rochester, Minnesota (you can read the entry for the day after I found out by choosing 12/12/02 from the date selection above if you want to read it). After waiting long, long beyond the appointed time - and after six weeks of radiation/constant chemo and a month to let the insidious invader grow - we sat and waited in anticipation that the tumor might have shrunk enough to be removed. Once we finally got in the little cubicle where reigned Mistress of Doom and Gloom and Utter Misery herself, one nurse practitioning Michelle by name, who sat primly shod in her granny shoes - we were told, "No way." The surgeon and his assistant who looked at the tests were sympathetic and kind - then they left us to Michelle, whom I would befoul with the worst chemo flatulence that has ever escaped my body - but she's not worth a fart. It's been a year, and it's time to forget her and the ways of Mayo. Thou art not worth the effort to fart on thee, Michelle. But I do wonder - how many people have you so gloomily, gleefully, sent home to die as best they can in the last year? I'm still around, Michelle -Happy Holidays from me and my lovin' spouse. I forgive you your assholery. And with that, I forget that you ever existed. That goes for the oncologist you work for as well - the fellow who first demanded that I stay at Rochester for the six weeks of treatment because there would be no place in Bismarck that could do it - there is, of course - and the physicians were trained in the Mayo protocol. But this fellow said, "How should I know Bismarck from Billings or Missoula, Montana? Who knows what kind of medicine is practiced out there?"

'Tis a quiet morning here in beauuuuuuuutiful Bismarck - in a couple of days, Leslie will ferry me to that bastion of hope and good humor, laughter and good will - the Cancer Treatment Center of America at the Midwestern Regional Medical Center in Zion, Illinois - no one suffers more than my lovin' spouse from those little problems I have brought on by the gastrointestinal upsets caused by the insidious invader of my pancreas and the treatment to keep it at bay. But even that part of me is quiet this morning - I'm reminded of one of the great flatulence metaphors ever penned - 'twas written by William Price Fox in his short story, "Eugene Herman Talmadge and Sears, Roebuck and Company" - at least, I think that's the title. It's a short story in his collection Southern Fried -- and 'tis about the elder Georgia politician, not his son who became the famous U.S. Senator. Fox describes a typical campaign grassroots meeting - the crowd would be entertained by a guy playing the harmonica and the guitar - a one-man band. Before Talmadge took the stage or stump or whatever was handy to lead up to his trinity of reminding the crowd who was on their side - just after the entertainment and before Talmadge began speaking, Fox says, "It was quiet, you could hear a grasshopper fart." Now that's quiet.

I suppose you want to know the three that Talmadge said the folks who would be voting could depend on - but that would take all the fun out of your finding out for yourselves.

A happy eighty-fifth birthday to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, who survived terminally diagnosed cancer in the 1950s and wrote about it in his novel Cancer Ward. He's still railing against injustice and stupidity. I'm thinking today of his incredible optimism -- "A man is happy so long as he chooses to be happy and nothing can stop him," he once said. While we're at toasting fine folk, I down a big swig to the memory of "Big Mama" Thornton, the great blues singer who completed her passage here in the middle world in 1984 - she was born on this day in 1926, so she didn't live to see her fifty-eighth birthday - but she sure could wail - she did "Hound Dog" long before Elvis came around and made the song so famous. I ran across a scathing indictment of Elvis's use of African American music -- it's called "He wasn't my king", written by Helen Kolawole on Thursday August 15, 2002, for The Guardian of swinging old England. Kolawole says at the beginning, "For black people, Elvis, more than any other performer, epitomizes the theft of their music and dance . . ." In her diatribe, she writes

Kolawole on Elvis & Big Momma Thornton
But the reality is, black music never stays underground. White people always seek it out, dilute it and eventually claim it as their own. From Pat Boone's Tutti Frutti to current boyband sensations N Sync and Blue. This is fine, but be honest about it.

Putting Parsons's vision into practice, let's imagine that instead of Elvis mania, Big Momma Thornton - author of Hound Dog - reigns supreme with her ode to no-good men. Big Momma's cultural conquest gives birth to a radical white teen culture and a complete and lasting overhaul of America's putrid racial politics. White teens frighten their parents silly with their extreme bids not to become Elvis's pale imitation of the black performers he witnessed, but the very image of Big Momma. Sounds outlandish? Any more audacious than stubbornly maintaining that this talented - but more importantly white - man deserves to be king of a genre created by black people?

Whether we remember him as an obese, drug-addled misogynist or a hip-swinging rebel, let's call him what he is - the all-conquering great white hope - and demand the entertainment industry never again makes such a deceitful claim.
End Kolawole on Elvis and Big Momma Thornton

And today, kola, is the eighty-first birthday of American writer Grace Paley, who visited North Dakota and read at Minot State University about one hundred miles north of Bismarck a few years ago. Paley once said, "Rosiness is not a worse windowpane than gloomy gray when viewing the world." Right on, Sister Grace. Happy Birthday to you.

And to you, kola - the best of days to you wherever you are, even if you are marooned far from the fair weather of beauuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota. Do take care of yourselves - and look out for each other. That's why we here, really - to take care of each other. Given a choice - give folks home instead of gloom

Ev Albers

Wednesday, December 10th, 2003

Aye, life is good this early A.M., just past the 1:00 mark, a quiet time here near the eastern shore of the Missouri in beauuuuuuuuutiful Dakota this crisp day -- the weest bit cooler than yesterday, but no snow in sight -- that's been to the south of us, the the west, and to the east -- not here, yet, in balmy Dakota. 'Twill come when we want it in just the right amount, methinks. That's the way things are supposed to be here in Dakota.

My son, Albert -- now Albert Hermanson-Albers because he married a Hermanson girl from down in the Boyd-Dawson area of Minnesota, down the southeast -- is responsible for a record label is he's promoting as an advocation - he has gainful employment with a computer company that has contracts dealing with tracking health care disbursements and state costs with the state of Wisconsin. Who knows, his avocation my become his great work. Albert graduated a few years ago from the the University of Minnesota at Moorhead, just across from Fargo, where Dakota begins (as in the movie Fargo, which Fargo is nothing like, but I think that folks still dress up like the characters in the movie and head downtown for a screening every year or so. This is how Albert appears in finery - from his wedding a few years ago. My son does not like to dress up in tuxedos - he's a downhome guy who prefers pretty casual attire - as do I. I will always think of him in part as the precocious toddler - the little guy looking for batteries to run some device or another.

But - to Albert's web site. I asked young, energetic Hermanson-Albers to answer a few questions for my readers (most of his friends call him "Al," we don't - and he doesn't like for his parents to do so - not because he doesn't like the nickname but because we've always called him by his full name). I asked Albert to respond to few questions about his endeavor, which he has gracious done: Here follows my interview with the creator, owner, and major contributor to BedroomBrains:

How did you come up with this hair-brained idea in the first place- Do you suffer from any brain damage, or are you just naturally a brainy sort of guy?
The idea for starting my own record label was born out of frustration due to my gradual realization that besides the people I forced, nobody was going to listen to my music (let alone buy it). This isn't because my music was particularly bad or anything, it's just that there was no way for people to be exposed to it.
I used to think that the only way to penetrate into this market would be to get signed - with a record label. The problem with that is, there's 1000s of other artists with the same idea, and most of the record labels for my kind of music are rather small and have limited resources.
My kind of music (we'll just call it experimental- for lack of an all-encompassing term) is not a multi-billion dollar industry. But there is a niche market. And that niche market operates much differently from that of the traditional popular music market. It's actually quite a bit like the jazz market: a small percentage of the artists (the really well known ones) are in the chain stores, and the rest can only be found by going to independent record stores, mail-order distributors, or the directly to the labels themselves. And more and more, this is being done via the Internet.
So that's why I started my own net label. It allows me to release my own material (and other people's too), and sell it directly to the customer via my web site.

What is the finest example of the kind of music you have in mind?
Edgar Varese's Poeme Electronique comes to mind as one of the great early examples of experimental music. It's a tape piece from the late 1950s consisting of lots of bizarre sounds and textures that are in constant flux.
Another example of a pioneering experimenter in music is Jimi Hendrix. His approach to playing the guitar, the amazing sounds and shapes that he could create, set popular and rock music off in a new direction.

Are there any traditional composers who are predecessors of the kind of music BedroomBrain exemplifies?
In the early 1900s there were a group of weirdoes calling themselves Futurists. Luigi Russolo wrote a manifesto, The Art of Noises, concerning the Futurist's musical aesthetic. Basically, the Futurists wanted sounds and noises to be on equal par with traditional notes and instruments. Other than the weird noises however, their music was essentially classical in structure.
Thirty years or so later, John Cage started a similar movement in music, this time with structure and rhythm. One of his arguments was that music shouldn't have to be composed with any sort of preconceived set of rules or structure. Whether they know it or not, Cage's ideas had a big impact on how people think of and perceive music.
Of course, since then there have been many composers and artists who have had an impact on experimental music (and popular music too for that matter), but in my mind, the Futurists and Cage are really the big two pioneers. So that's kind of where BedroomBrain is coming from. All we are really interested in is music that is original: not directly derived from someone else's music, but music that incorporates elements of greatly diverse influences in order to create something new. Experimental is maybe not the best term for it because much of it can be recognized as having its roots in an established musical genre (dance, hip-hop, rock, punk, etc...), but the artists that we promote have taken their root genre and somehow fucked with it (as it were) in a really interesting and exiting way.

What activities are suitable to engage in with music sanctioned by BedroomBrain in the background - Or must one do nothing but listen to the music?
Anything but going to sleep.

How will BedroomBrain music change the character and personality of those who listen to enough of it?
The music of BedroomBrain is for your brain, meant to induce altered states of lucid awareness and introspection. Like a psychotropic substance, its effects will vary on an individual basis. Some people (especially Republicans) will become frightened and possibly throw themselves out of a window. Others will find inner peace and harmony as wondrous new doors of perception are opened in their mind.

What kind of sausage is preferred by those who listen to music of ilk invited by BedroomBrain?
Any sausage at all is a good sausage.

Well, my son, in whom I'm extremely well-pleased, you're right about that - it's all in the sausage, as the Germans say. What could be worse than life without wurst? As a matter of fact, I had a bit old-fashioned ring bologna, heated, on some fresh bread for a late-night supper and early breakfast - if late breakfast/early lunch is brunch, could late supper early breakfast be suppast, maybe?

Must be about the time of then Nobel Prizes, by the bye -'tis on this day that the famous inventor of dynamite, Bernard Nobel, died in 1896 - and the prizes started in 1901. Firmly believing that inherited wealth corrupted those who got the money simply by being born in the right family, Nobel once said that "it merely serves to dull a man's senses." That's something one doesn't want, especially if one is playing around with dynamite. This year's Peace Prize goes to Shirin Ebadi, the Iranian lawyer and peace activist with a special interest in the rights of children. She founded and leads the activities of the Association for Children's Rights in Iran. She works quietly and most effectively for a new treatment of the most restrictive and dehumanizing interpretation of Islam. The kind of thing Ebadi takes on in her home country are absolutely astonishing to western observers, removed as we are from the ills of slavery, second-class citizenship for women, and exploitation of children during the heyday of American capitalism around the turn of the century. In one paper, Ebadi speaks of a farther being able to kick a child almost to death and then kill him/her with a rifle if he expects the child is the offspring of an illegitimate relationship between his wife and a lover. Nothing happens to fathers who kill their children in certain Iranian societies.

'Twas a year ago exactly that my spouse and I pulled into Rochester, Minnesota, to go to Mayo after six long weeks of aggressive chemo/radiation followed by a month of wait and see - we returned - our dear children were with us - to find out if the insidious invader could be removed by surgery. We saw the surgeon - twill be a year ago tomorrow - who was most kind and empathetic - a kind, kind man. But no oncologist - guess guys with tumors the Mayo regimen can't shrink don't rate seeing the doctor their bill says they paid handsomely to consult with. A young, very earnest, nurse practitioner dripping and oozing death did an interminable exit scene with my lovin' spouse and me - I'll never forget you - you're the worst of those who deal with terminal cancer patients. You more or less told me to hurry up with Christmas and go home to die. Well, I didn't, Michelle - and a big "nah, nah, han, poopo" on to you and your heartless ways. There's justice - cosmic justice. Sometimes it takes a long time to come around. I'm here, and not feeling all that poorly - I could be a lot better had I not received what is almost certainly now considered antiquated treatment for the size and location of the pancreatic tumor settled in my guts - the radiation more of less froze it in place, precluding significant more shrinking by chemo had I gone to a more progressive facility like the Cancer Treatment Center of America in the first place.

This day, 365 days ago, a year past, was one of high hope that the mighty Mayo would come through. No way. 'Twas also the day I heard Jimmy Carter give his Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech - 'twas wonderful. No one listens to former president Carter - he who works so indefatigably for peace and social justice. In his speech, Carter warned

Excerpt from Carter December 10, 2002 Speech
It is clear that global challenges must be met with an emphasis on peace, in harmony with others, with strong alliances and international consensus. Imperfect as it may be, there is no doubt that this can best be done through the United Nations, which Ralph Bunche described here in this same forum as exhibiting a -fortunate flexibility- not merely to preserve peace but also to make change, even radical change, without violence.
End Excerpt from Carter Speech

He went on to say: "To suggest that war can prevent war is a base play on words and a despicable form of warmongering. The objective of any who sincerely believe in peace clearly must be to exhaust every honorable recourse in the effort to save the peace. The world has had ample evidence that war begets only conditions that beget further war."

More recently, Carter works tirelessly for the Geneva Accords, the Peace Plan that is going nowhere with most of the Palestinian factions or with the Israeli government. The vitriolic response to President Carter's endorsement of the Geneva Accord comes from all directions and bespeaks a kind of total cynicism about the nature of human relations - and the bottom line offered by the cynics is that either Israel finds a way to accommodate the huge numbers of Palestinians in spite of some of the factions unyieldingly clinging to a conviction that Israel has no place in the Middle East or, the superior military power, Israel, does what it must to protect its citizens - human right and human dignity be damned. It will come to one or the other - barring divine intervention that someone convinces the militant Palestinians to change their ways - more like, Israel will find a way to do in the more immediate threats - but it would solve the problem, for every suicide bomber killed by the Israelis breeds ten more.

Back in classical times, the heyday of Athenian democracy, there was small island of Melos that caught mighty Athens' attention. One fine day, the Athenians destroyed the island and its people - in spite of protestations about why - and cries about the injustice of it all. The incident is recorded - the Athenian answer to the folks on Melos was, "we're wiping you from the face of the earth because we can." Athens had no intention of peaceful coexistence with a group of people they didn't know that well - hell, they might be potential allies of the Spartans.

There's no guessing about how many of the Palestinians crowded into the tiny Gaza Strip are potential suicide bombers - and how many are quiet, working people who desperately want to get on with life, to tend their neglected fields, and, yes, to see their generation-old Israeli friends again.

There ought to be a way - as my friend from over Fargo way wrote me yesterday -- to bring this mess directly into the very personal lives of two of those uncategorically responsible for more young peoples' deaths than most in the Middle East because of their unyielding insistence on doing things their way and their unswerving allegiance to their causes - so put Yasser Arafat and Ariel Sharon in a guard soccer ball field and let them have at each other with weapons that can produce a huge amount of pain but aren't like to kill the person on whom they're used. Somehow forced to fight themselves instead of sending someone else, the peace process might move ahead.

I'll get some Julia Becker's fruitcake for them to share when they lay down their arms - along with a CD or two of my son's music.

Be well, kola - take care of yourselves and look out for each other - make peace with those you have difference without killing them if you can help it, and make sure that you are letting your leaders to do the same.

Ev Albers

Tuesday, December 9th, 2003

Aye, we must begin the day with a fruitcake follow-up - the hardwarming story of the great Julia Becker fruitcake which auctioned for $600 for a benefit that in was held in Selfridge in part for her grandson did indeed make the Bismarck Tribune's web site, but the editors didn't include Julia recipe. I think that the world ought to know - after all, improving the taste, texture, and appearance of fruitcake is something that may directly benefit millions upon millions. I sure my old pal Lauren Donovan, the Hazen-based Tribune reporter who broke this important story, won't mind, so here goes. Now here's a recipe with specific directions:

Begin Julia Becker Fruitcke Recipe
First, read through entire recipe. These are the ingredients needed. Make no substitutions. All measurements are level. Assemble all ingredients and let stand at room temperature one hour.

3 pages (8 ounces each) or 1 page package (1 pound) and 1 package (8 ounces) imported pitted dates
1 pound candied pineapple (half green, half yellow), plus some green for decoration
1 pound whole candied cherries, plus some for decoration
2 cups unsifted all-purpose flour
2 teaspons double-acting baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
4 large eggs
1 cup sugar
2 pounds (8 cups) pecan halves, pous some for decoration (walnuts may be substituted here)
Light corn syrup

TO MAKE CAKE
1. Use two 9x3 1/4 inch loose bottomed tube pans two 9 x 5 x3 inch loaf pans; or use of of each. With pastry brush, grease pans well with softened butter or margarin. Set pan on piece of brown paper and trace around edge and inside of tube. Then cut out tracking and fit in pan. Cut a strip the right length and width and fit around side of pan. For loaf pan, cut bottom and all side sections separately.

2. Turn over, set a 275 degrees. If oven has no control, use a portable oven thermometer and keep correct temperature by controlling heat.

3. Using shears dipped occasionally in cold water, cut dates in half crosswise. Cut I pound pineapple in course pieces. Pt fruits in large bowl with 1 pound cherries.

4. Spoon flour lightly into measuring cup for dry ingredients and fill heaping full. Do not shake down or pack with spoon. Level off with metal spatula. Put in sifter with baking powder and salt and sift onto fruits.

5. Mix fruits with dry ingredients well with fingers, separating pieces fruit so that all are well coated with dry ingredients.

6. With electric mixer or rotry beater, beat eggs until frothy.

7. Gradually bet in sugar. Add to fruit misture and mix well with large spoon.

8. Add 2 pounds nuts and mix with hands until nuts are evenly distributed and coated with batter.

9. Pack into pans, pressing down with palms of hands. If necessary, rearrange pieces of fruit and nuts to fill any empty space.

10. Decorate tops with rows of whole red candied cherries, thin slices of green pineapple and nut halves. 11. Bake tube cakes about 1 1/4 hours; loaf cakes 1 1/2 hours. (Tops of cakes should look dry but will not be brown. If there is any doubt, lave cakes in oven a few minutes longer since a little extra baking does no harm.) 12. When tube cakes are done, let stand in pans on cake racks about 5 minutes. Then run spatula around edge, lift cake out of pan sides and carefully eel of paper around sides. Cool on cake racks, then invert on serving plate. Remove pan bottom and peel off paper. Turn cake right side up, brush with corn syrup and cool completely. Let cakes in loaf pans stand in pans on cake racks about 30 minutes before inverting on cutting board or tray. Peel off paper, turn right side up and brush with corn syrup.
End Julia Becker's Fruitcake Recipe

Now there's instructions that are instructions! I, of course, still have one of the two great fruitcakes made by Mil Jenkinson in my refrigerator - hoarding it for hard times, especially those no-pie days. Actually, one in my condition, with the prospect of more cumulative chemotherapy beginning exactly a week from today in the ongoing battle to keep the insidious invader at bay and the subsequent appetite loss and dependence upon Ensure or Boost, I'm choosing meals for memory as much as taste and sustenance. Fact of the matter is, I don't know how much of what I eat is digested - or how very much of it can be, given the rapidity with which the food passes through in what seems to be greater quantity than what is taken in - but enough of this rather delicate subject. Perhaps a better summary is to say that gaining weight even one is consuming considerable meals ain't a like prospect, and one does not want to find oneself too far from that oh-so-necessary facility at any time. But, 'tis so grand to be alive and well enough to function on this beauuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful, crisp, full-mooned morn that no small matters shall daunt me - and big ones, for that matter. What matters is a bit of music and laughter today - and my lovin' spouse found the perfect music at the Pride of Dakota showcase of fine Dakota-made products (well, there may be a few items less than fine) at the Bismarck Civic Center where she bought from musician and actress Debi Rogers of Mandan a fantastic new CD she made with Sue Bicknell - 'tis called Faerie Harp, and, as the Irish are ever wont to say, "aye, and 'tis grand, 'tis grand. December 9 must not pass, of course, without at least a nodding acknowledgement of one of the masters of English letters - the great John Milton, born on this day in 1608, he continued his passage in the middle world through November 8, 1674. Hell, I'm so fired up with faerie music and the full moon that I'm swigging a bit of O'Doul's to John Milton this early A.M. - long before the morning paper gets here. Here's a gateway to the poetry other than the big stuff - ala Paradise Lost. Milton's "Sonnet XII: I did but Prompt the Age to Quit their Clogs" is a response to critics of his call for freer divorce laws - the reference to "clogs" is not to the shoes worn by clog dancers but to a heavy piece of wood tied to the leg to keep people from escaping. I offer the poem only as a great example of wit, fidelity to form, and great put-down of folks who dared to disagree with what Milton considered the most reasonable of opinions:

I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
  By the known rules of ancient liberty,
  When straight a barbarous noise environs me
  Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs:
As when those hinds that were transform'd to frogs
Rail'd at Latona's twin-born progeny
  Which after held the sun and moon in fee.
  But this is got by casting pearl to hogs,
That bawl of freedom in their senseless mood,
  And still revolt when truth would set them free.
  Licence they mean when they cry liberty;
For who loves that, must first be wise and good.
  But from that mark how far they rove we see,
  For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood.

There's been plenty of blood lost in the last sixteen years in the Middle East - and even more before - but this day in 1987 marks the beginning of what the Palestinians call Intifada, the Arabic word for "throwing off." The Gaza Strip - and he East Bank -- controlled by Israel since their victory in the 1967 war - had been steadily settled by Israelis for the two decades leading up to the escalation in violence and terrorism by the Palestinian community in 1987 - by December of that year, about 2,200 armed Israeli settlers controlled some 40 percent of the Gaza Strip - while over 650,000 Palestinians - about the population of the entire state of North Dakota with its more than 74,000 square miles - crowded into the tiny 60 percent remaining of the Gaza Strip, making it among the most densely populated places on the globe. Sixteen years later, there's still Palestinian violence - and Israeli retaliation and continued settlement - after all the efforts of those in the area and in the world to bring peace. Nobel Peace Prize-winner Yitshak Rabin was assassinated the year following the hope raised by the joint prize to Rabin, Shimon Peres, and Yasser Arafat in 1994. Arafat had promised in 1988 to recognize Israel's right to exist and called off the Intifada in 1988. Rabin was killed by a Jewish extremist, not a Palestinian, but Arabat lied - and continued the terrorism. As my friend Jean Waldera says, there ought to be a way to strip him of the Peace Prize in a highly-publicized international ceremony.

Not much is going to happen in terms of the United States and current administration forcing any kind of settlement for the next year - 2004, after all, is the presidential election, and no one wants to be saddled with peace efforts in the Middle East that won't work - besides, we have our hands full with Iraq. The United Nations will have no more influence on Israel and its effort to bring to the World Court the question of the legitimacy of the wall built in the occupied territory to prevent terrorists from entering Israel and the suicide bombers from wrecking their havoc. Israel will do as it wishes, as did the United States in Iraq. There are no easy answers - after all, there are at least eleven factions saying they represent the Palestinians, including the PLO. And the Israeli position is that as long as one of those factions continues to sponsor terrorism and denies the right of Israel to exit in the Middle East, there can be no peace - or cease fire, for that matter. The wall, the fence, is not going away this year or next - and the violence will continue.

There is cosmic justice, but sometimes it takes millennia or longer. Justice came sooner instead of later in the small town of Flandreau, South Dakota, where South Dakota Congressman and former governor William Janklow announced his resignation from Congress shortly after being convicted of manslaughter in the death of a motocyclist he killed as he speed through a stop sign as he habitually for decades. Janklow was genuinely surprised that a South Dakota jury would convict him - he thought his ploy of pleading a diabetic reaction would work - it didn't - although there are plenty of folk who say the poor man - like Nixon - has suffered enough with the public disgrace and that he should serve no time - it's not likely, however, that current South Dakota governor Mike Rounds will pardon Janklow for at least a year while possible appeals go on and the court still has jurisdiction.

No startling news from near the east bank of the Missouri River this beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota - in the morning paper, least. Disturbing news, of course - for example, the hardliners, pro-Kremlin folk in the Russian parliament are pushing out the liberals and all those who would build a western-style democracy firmly grounded in capitalism - 'tain't working in Russia. Makes one wonder why we're so optimisitc about it happening in Iraq - especially by next year before the fall presidential election so most of the troops can come home.

Perhaps best to leave the last word today to that great American humorist, Joel Chandler Harris, born on this day in 1848 - he lived to 1908. The creator of Uncle Remus once said, "Watch out when you're getting all you want. Fattening hogs ain't in luck." Trust you're taking care of yourselves today, kola - and that you're looking out for each other. Here's wishing you just enough of the good things in life - not too much, just enough.

Ev Albers

Monday, December 8th, 2003

Aye, 'tis a grand enough day in Dakota, beauuuuuuuuuuutiful, as a matter of fact. Of course, I have the weest bit of a real problem - I'll have to spend the day avoiding all those Minnesota Viking fans - the Vikings, the team I love to hate - trounced the visiting Seahawks at the Metrodome yesterday -- trounced 'em, had 'em for lunch - 'twas not the sort of thing would choose to watch, so I didn't, much of the time. So Green Bay remains a game behind the loathsome Vikings by just managing to get a grip on themselves and win at home against Chicago. Other than that, December 7, 2003, was a grand day indeed.

Got a great note from my sister Fayette Harrison, a.k.a. Faye, and Fayeser - one of those e-mail cards for St. Nicholas that are often rather entertaining. She found one quite appropriate for the space cadet I've always been and am becoming once more, for I do have the tendency to be the weest bit of a dilettante and a fearless attempter at fixing things electronic - sometimes with results folks might not consider successful, especially my lovin' - and, in this case, longsufferin' - spouse Leslie. At a Christmas past when I was in college over at Dickinson State, I received one of those dubious great honors that are given in the hope that you and your family will buy lots of very overpriced books - 'twas Who's Who Among College Students or some such, something given to perhaps only two or three million seniors that year. Anyway, I didn't buy the book of $29.95 in 1967 dollars - an enormous amount of money - and I didn't say anything about it, but a news release did go to the Center Republican, the news organ of Oliver County where lies the Garden of the Universe in Hannover Township. So my mother's younger brother, my Uncle Kenny, concocted from an old crank-up telephone a totally worthless gadget with light bulbs and wires and bright paints and gave it to me as a gift entitled "A What's It for a Who's It." Don't really know what happened to that thing - but I don't think it's found its way to the Smithsonian yet - may not even exist anymore here in the world - may have been transformed into a Platonic ideal prototype.

Well, anyway, thanks for the clever card Fayeser. Today marks the twenty-fifth year since one of the great women of the twentieth century - hell, one of the great humans of the century - completed her passage in the middle world. Golda Meir died on this day in 1978. Born a couple of years before the turn of the century in Kiev, Russia - her name was Golda Mabovitz - she came to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with her family in 1906. She and her husband went to the middle east to settle in Palestine in 1921 - he (Morris Myerson) died in 1951. In 1956 Golda changed her name to the Hebrew Meir, which means "to burn bright." She did indeed, rising to prominence in the Zionist organizations and finding herself Prime Minister of the State of Israel that she helped create in 1969 - she served until 1974, ousted because of the great disappointment with unpreparedness for the Yom Kippur War of 1973 in Israel. You can learn more about Golda Meir here. Much of her story is untold - her work as foreign minister before becoming prime minister that resulted in agricultural exchanges and mutual help between Israel and African states. And she knew how to raise money - she came back to the United States in 1948 and went back to Israel a short time later with $50 million dollars. She also served as the first Israeli Ambassador to the Soviet Union.

Meir took no pride in the Israeli victories in war - she hated war and violence. She said, "It is true we have won all our wars, but we have paid for them. We don't want victories anymore." And, she said, "We do not rejoice in victories. We rejoice when a new kind of cotton is grown and when strawberries bloom in Israel." And what a great sense of humor: ""Let me tell you something that we Israelis have against Moses. He took us 40 years through the desert in order to bring us to the one spot in the Middle East that has no oil!" May you still be laughing, wherever you are, Golda Meir!

I offer another salute and a big swig of juice to another woman who very much had a mind of her own and used it, thank you very much. 'Twas on this day, December 8, 1941, that President Franklin D. Roosevelt went to the Capitol to ask Congress to vote for war with Japan. The support was overwhelming - in fact, there was a single vote against war. The vote was cast by Montana Representative Jeanette Rankin, who has returned to Congress only the year before after being voted out following her refusal to vote for World War I in 1917. A life-long pacifist who really cared less what people thought of our unyielding objection to war, Congresswoman Rankin believed that the Japanese attack was provoked by Roosevelt so he could go to war against Germany. She said to her colleagues as she cast her nay vote, "As a woman, I cannot go to war and I refuse to send anyone else." Many Americans were less than pleased with Rankin - they called her such names as Jeannette Rankin. She never gave up - in fact, she led a protest against the Vietnam War in 1968 when she was eighty-seven years old. Born in 1880, she was the first American woman elected to Congress (1916). She lived on to 1973. You can learn more about her by clicking here. Jeannette (her name is spelled with both one n and two) Rankin was, until recently, but one of six women in Statuary Hall in the Capitol Building in Washington - now some state are replacing one of the two each state is permitted with a woman, and North Dakota recently sent Sacagawea with her son Jean Baptiste Charbonneau on her back to the hall.

Rankin has been there for a good long while from the great state of Montana - where women are treated with considerable respect, as I can attest from first-hand experience. Some years ago, after a trip to Reno, Nevada, to see friend Clay Jenkinson and his family - we left a young daughter Gretchen to spend a few weeks with our friends - Leslie and I were traveling back - across the state of Montana on the Interstate. That's when Montana was giving out $5 fines on the spot for speeding within whatever limits authorities considered "safe." My lovin' spouse was driving - nothing unusual about that - and I was sleeping in the passenger seat which was reclined - my stocking feet were on the dash, my cowboy boots on the floor. I awoke to hear a tall trooper say to my wife, who had been stopped and had just rolled down the window - "Excuse me, ma'am!" Then to me - "You, get your boots on, grab your wallet, and get back to my car, NOW!" Bewildered, I complied. The Montana trooper wrote me the $5.00 ticket after putting my name and Driver's License number on it, took my $5.00 bill, and dismissed me with these words - "You tell your lovely wife I'm really sorry if I inconvenienced her in anyway - I won't be stopping her again." Obviously, the trooper either took one look at my lovin' spouse and decided she was no one to mess with - or that's how things are done in Montana.

Involved as we are now in the imbroglio in the aftermath of the "victory" in Iraq - and like Golda Meir, some are saying "Does America want such victories?" - some of Rankin's pithy conclusions about the way of men and war are especially appropriate: she said, for example, "You can no more win a war than win an earthquake." There are, of course, legitimate and persuasive arguments against the extreme position of Jeannette Rankin and qualms and questions about her philosophy - what would the world we like had we not gone to war in 1941? But you have to like a woman of the ilk of Jeannette Rankin - who said near the end of her passage in the middle world, "If I had my life to live over, I would do it all again, but this time I would be nastier."

I can't say "see you tomorrow, kola" on this fine day without recording what happened down in Selfridge, North Dakota, a couple of days ago - one of Julia Becker's famous fruitcakes was auctioned off for $600 - it goes to help two local men who were badly injured in October in accidents. There were other items that were auctioned off (in all, $23,000 was raised) - but Julia's contribution took the cake. One of the injured in Julia's grandson, a twenty-two-year old. Now, from everything I read, Julia Becker bakes one hell of a fine fruit cake - it's front-page news in today's Bismarck Tribune -- apparently, she doesn't use the candied peelings - something I do like - but, as I've often said in my life, I really like fruit cake, and there's no bad fruitcake - just ones that are better than others. Not only did Julia fruitcake bring in big bucks - she's the most generous of souls who gave the recipe to the Bismarck Tribune so it could be printed in full this morning - it's a long one - and Julia doesn't mess around in her instructions - she begins (you're not going to get the whole thing today - maybe tomorrow if the Tribune doesn't post it at their web site), "First, read through entire recipe. These the ingredients needed. Make no substitutions. All measurements are level. Assemble all ingredients and let stand at room temperature one hour." There follows the ingredients and eleven steps in making the fruitcake - must be a thing of beauty and joy forever, for sure.

I've been waiting for some answers to questions I posed to my son, Albert Hermanson-Albers, in whom I am well-pleased - he's established a web presence with a record label he calls BedroomBrain - music composed and performed from electronic equipment in one's home - I'll pass along his answers to some of my burning questions as soon as I get them - I know there are probably things you want to know as well. I must be about this day's challenges - my lovin' spouse reports again for jury duty - don't know if she'll be chosen. Be well, my kola; take care of yourselves and look out for each other.

Here's how generous I feel this morning - I've got time to be a bit nastier ala Jeannette Rankin about the things that matter - this morning, and this Monday, December 8, 2003, only, I offer congratulations and best wishes to all Viking fans out there - especially if any of you are big highway patrol troopers of the ilk that made me put on my boots in Montana.

Ev Albers

Sunday, December 7th, 2003

'Twas also a Sunday on December 7, 1941, that day that lives in infamy – Pearl Harbor. Near as I can figure, I didn't have a clue as to what was going on as a five-month- and three-week-old fetus in the womb of my mother Hulda the Garden of the Universe in Hannover Township in Oliver County. Sure don't remember anything about it. In fact, I was only vaguely aware that there had been a war when it was all over in August 1945 – I was but three years and about five months old. I remember nothing but a great deal of celebration. I do know some of the great songs of 1941 to 1945 – we were great ones for the old tunes well into the 1950s – that's when I learned the likes of the exotic "Maria Elena" and "There's Be Some Changes Made," along with Chattanooga Choo Choo," and "Let's Get Away from it All" from the year of infamy itself, 1941. Perhaps I knew them so well because I did hear them in the womb. Frank Sinatra and Dorothy Dandridge did it with Tommy Dorsey – along with the Modernaires – 'twas a grand hit, indeed. Ms. Dandridge was African American – a singer and actress of the kind then referred to as a "hottie." It means an "attractive woman" – I think, according to several slang dictionaries. One of the guys in American Pie does go out looking for a hottie." Of course, 'tis not be confused with "hootie," which was/is often used derogatorily in reference to blacks. Dorothy Dandridge was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen a picture of – in fact,

I do remember seeing her on the cover of Life back in 1954, when I was twelve years and almost nine months old. I didn't see the film she sang "Chattanooga Choo Choo" in – we did't get reruns of such as Sun Valley Serenade back in Hannover Township. In fact, we didn't have movies at all, except for the Ma and Pa Kettle or old Abbot and Costello 16mm flicks Mr. Kaelberer would show at the school on Halloween or the occasional movie put out by the headquarters of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod in St. Louis. There were moved in the all-purpose hall in Center, the county seat six miles and light years in cultural difference from us away – 'twas a place where there were dances, receptions, and sometimes they put up chairs and had a movie – the first movie I saw was unforgettable -- A Place in the Sun with Montgomery Clift, Shelly Winters, and – Elizabeth Taylor.

​The movie was made in 1951 – so I must have seen it in 52 or 53 at the tender age of ten or eleven – pretty heady, steamy stuff for a Missouri-Synod Lutheran boy. 'Twas based, sort of, on Theodore Dreiser's big novel of the 1920s, An American Tragedy. Dandridge had a tough time with her passage in the middle world in the early 1960s --- she made a very bad marriage, apparently, to a real bad ass fellow named Jack Dennison in June 1959 – and it was the beginning of the end which came with heavy drinking and an untreated fractured foot – according to those who wanted to protect her. In fact, she died in September 1965 of an overdose of Tofranil, an antidepressant. She threw out her abusive husband two years after they married, but it was too late – she was broke, bankrupt – and drinking enough daily to kill her. In keeping with her instructions, Dandridge was "cremated right away" with whatever she had on by way of clothing – she was found by her manager in the bathroom with nothing but a blue scarf.

Ah, Dorothy, how you could sing – and Frank, you did OK – the music was composed by Tommy Dorsey,

Let's take a boat to Bermuda
Let's take a plane to Saint Paul.
Let's take a kayak to Quincy or Nyack,
Let's get away from it all.

Let's take a trip in a trailer
No need to come back at all.
Let's take a powder to Boston for chowder,
Let's get away from it all.

We'll travel 'round from town to town,
We'll visit ev'ry state.
I'll repeat, I love you sweet!
In all the forty-eight.

Let's go again to Niag'ra
This time we'll look at the Fall.
Let's leave our hut, dear,
Get out of our rut, dear,
Let's get away from it all.

Don't know how long it took lyricists Matt Dennis and Tom Adair to come up with such as " Let's take a kayak to Quincy or Nyack," but those words used to crack me up when I heard them as a kid and young adolescent – of course, it never took much to entertain me out their in Hannover Township. Quincy is in Massachusetts, of course – The Chamber of Commerce brags that "The Village of Nyack is a residential community located on the west shore of the Hudson River in Rockland County, New York, just 25 miles north of New York City. Known for its antiques, fine restaurants, and multicultural community, it is a popular place to live for people seeking a small town environment with a cosmopolitan flavor." Never been there – or to Quincy, for that matter – but they're having some of that great snow and cold beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota has such a reputation for but rarely gets. Perhaps isn't the weekend to head out for Nyack in a kayak, and my lovin' spouse and I will be headed for St. Paul via car, not plane a weekend hence if all goes well – we'll pass through and get on down the road to my son Albert and his wife Bobbi's clean, well-lighted place completely controlled by their cats Ollie and Morty in eastern Madison, Wisconsin --

December 7 was also quite the day – although no rival for Pearl Harbor – in 1987, on a Monday, Mikhail Gorbachev and his wife Raisa came from the Soviet Union to Washington, D.C. for a summit with President Ronald Reagan. Gorbymania swept the nation – there were t-shirts, hats, coffee mugs – those nesting Russian wooden dolls – and Raisa charmed the American people with her sincerity and conviction that the arms race was at long last over – and it was! Why some war hawking Americans denounced both the visit and the subsequent treaty that led to disarmament big time, for once, we ordinary humans traveling on our journey in the middle world came out ahead, and some common sense prevailed – the treaty made possible by Reagan and Gorbachev was finally ratified some six months later. You have to toast guys like Gorby and Ronnie for such work – and I do this morning whilst a blizzard rages in the East and we enjoy the balmiest of days here in Dakota. Just went out and retrieved the morning paper – 'twill be a balmy 33 with a low but 18 on this day before the full moon – it hangs low in the eastern sky this morning over the Missouri River, within shouting distance of my house (well, one needs a pretty good set of lungs). What a grand day to be alive, kola! As usual, my lovin' spouse has gotten things in order for the holiday season – and I've been eyeing a couple of huge chocolate-covered caramel candies brought over by Rose Marie Henke – I think I'd best wait the weest – have a strawberry Ensure instead and attempt some breakfast later this morning before heading out to the office. Naturally, I find time to follow the NFL game between the Seattle Seahawks (GO HAWKS) and the odious – and probably odiferous as well by the time they get to the lockers at half-time, Minnesota Twins, the team I love to hate. Surely, Green Bay and Brett Favre will find a way to win over Chicago at Lambeau, and the Seahawks will trounce the loathsome Vikings – and we have a tie in the Central Division! Ah, but, wouldn't it be grand, as the Irish say, wouldn't it be grand! In fact, I'm so charged up about all of this that I may enlist the help of my faithful six-inch American bison, Charger himself, he who helped me pull my beloved Minnesota Twins to so many victories this last year.

Or perhaps I'll invoke the spirit of Lonesome George, the lone bull buffalo painted for my as gift by Lili Stewart of Dickinson – 'tis a huge grand canvas – how would you like that, Vikings – what if I sic Lonesome George on you, huh? And, what if the Broncos were able to beat the Kansas City Chiefs – now wouldn't that be grand, as well?

The day must not pass without a toast to the memory of the woman who wrote so truthfully and with such empathy about the immigrant experience on the Great Plains, Nebraska's great Willa Cather, born on this day in 1873, she came to Red Cloud, Nebraska, as a child. Among the ten best books of all time on my list is Cather's My Antonia, the book of 1918 paints a pretty bleak portrait of an industrial world gone amuck with getting and spending, but presents rural Nebraska and subsistence farming as a way people can retain their essential humanity. One of the reasons that I shall never forget the book is that Willa Cather was the subject of a grand Speakers Bureau line-up the North Dakota Humanities Council put together a dozen or more years ago. We tried to get the word out about the extraordinary public humanities programs we had available for having each of the humanities scholars give no more than fifteen-minute presentation to an audience of representatives from historical societies, libraries, and other potential host organizations. Among the speakers was some who knew so much about Cather that the scholar could find no way to approach the subject but chronologically. There was a slide show – at the end of five minutes, the scholar was still discussing Willa's grandparents, at the end of the allotted fifteen, Cather was finally born but not yet in Nebraska. We flicked the lights off and on and waved from the back to get the speaker's attention – to no avail. Finally, I had to go up on stage, take the scholar by the arm, and escort the speaker off the stage, who turned while leaving and continued, "And then, the family decided to move to Nebraska? Why Nebraska, you ask – the voice trailed off as we walked off the stage and actually out the front door of the auditorium before the speaker became aware of a problem. Now that's focus, kola!

Hope you are focussing on taking care of yourselves and looking out for each other. We leave the last word today to Willa Cather, who once said, "Where there is great love there are always miracles." You have given me a miracle, dear friends – hope of Christmases to come and days filled with your unselfish generous spirit of lending me and my family support and good will. Thank you, dear kola

Ev Albers

Saturday, December 6th, 2003

Aye, and 'tis a grand and glorious day indeed - for 'tis St. Nicholas Day, and he's brought the most beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful of days to blessed Dakota. 'Twas the favorite holiday of my lovin' spouse when she grew up in the third generation Czech-American home in Dickinson where father Alfons took such joy in the holiday, and it because the best of days of my children and me as well as the years rolled by. "Saint Nicholas Day," according to H.J. Carol Thompson, "is the original version of what we know as Christmas or Yule Tide in the United States. Many families of Dutch, German or Eastern European heritage celebrate St. Nicholas Day on December 6. St. Nicholas, who lived in what we now call Turkey, was a leader of the early Christian Church and the patron saint of children. The Dutch call him Sinterklaas. They say he has a helper called 'Black Peter." Together they travel the country the night before St. Nicholas Day on horseback. Children put out their shoes, filled with hay and carrots for the horses. If the children have been good, they are rewarded with candy and presents the next morning. If they haven't behaved well, Black Peter leaves them a lump of coal." We didn't celebrate St. Nicholas Day back in Hannover Township in the Garden of the Universe in Oliver County, so having another day of Christmas was as real treat for me as well as for our children, Albert Otto and Gretchen. Probably, the Albers-Hermanson cats who rule the household of my son and his lovely wife, Bobbi, will get a special treat on this day.

I was most fondly reminded of the great St. Nicholas Days of the past when I saw the video we made back in 1979 of day long activities with our friends Warren and Rose Marie Henke and a young Clay Jenkinson who was staying with us off and on for a time. Albert Otto was three and just five days short of six more months, and darlin' daughter Gretchen was five months of growing in her mother's womb that glorious day in 1979. I'm in the process of converting videotape, especially the ones we made early, into DVD - because they are already beginning to fade a bit more each year. That Saint Nicholas of '79 featured two Christmas trees, one of them a flocked tree decorated with some forty little Kermit the frogs made by Rose Marie Henke - and a large Kermit for the top of the flocked tree.  There was a Kermit on St. Nicholas Day song composed and performed by yours truly, and a grand meal made by Clay Jenkinson, lasagna - followed by a dessert contest between Clay and Rose Marie Henke which I had to judge - twas chocolate pudding cake ala Jenkinson versus chocolate pie ala Henke --my young son Albert helped me of course - and we had to declare the contest a tie. Aye, 'twas such a grand day, methinks even Gretchen could recall from the womb itself. Her mother, always a beautiful woman, was never more lovely than she was that day, and the Henkes and Clay were in the finest of form.

There have been twenty and four Saint Nicholas Days since that one - and 'twould be grand, indeed, were we gathered today with our children, but we shall defer for a couple of weeks and see them when we return from yet another round in an attempt to contain the insidious invader a couple of weekends hence when we travel to Zion and then return, with a holiday stop at the Hermanson-Albers manor in Madison, Wisconsin.

I notice a couple of entries in the kola forum, the webboard you can join or visit by going here and checking in (Note: Link broken). Friends Clay Jenkinson and Jim Fuglie are continuing a discussion of the great sausages they have consumed and where they were and are to be found in Dakota. Perhaps it was my youth, inexperience with alternatives, especially any made by German-Russian Catholics in the eastern part of Oliver County or those to the north across the county line in Mercer County that I didn't know (they were the devil incarnate, you know), and a much stronger digestive constitution that make my uncle Otto's homemade blutwurst and his fry sausage the best in my memory. 'Twas a bit earlier than now - at least by early November - that we'd have a communal butchering day at Uncle Ottos, six miles west of Hannover, out near where there were some foreigners we in Hannover Township didn't know about. Busy, busy day, with plenty of bustle and bristle, incredible smells, and in the middle of it all, Uncle Otto stirring up the fresh cow blood for the best of blutwurst - checkered with white spots and minced meat, 'twas the best served sliced fresh as could be - later the same day was a start - and cooked to a deep rust in butter. A great breakfast meat. Uncle Otto's fry sausage came in mild (for the wimps among us) and spicy - the latter a pretty heavy garlic flavor. Later, it became the rage to cut the chopped meat of deer or antelope with some pork and declare it the best of sausage, but 'twasn't. Still ain't - there's no substitute for the good old Otto-spiced 60-40 or so blend of beef and pork --- maybe the weest bit more pork if one wanted it a bit juicier. In the early years, the casings were the washed-out intestines of the hogs, but later they were bought from the butcher - don't know if it was organic, but we swallowed it anyway, although we always took the casing ring off the blutwurst or summer sausage, which is the big fat roll most people are familiar with. Blutwurst was grand, but the very best was leberwurst - liver sausage - and I don't remember Uncle Otto making that. It was available from the big commercial outfit in our area, Cloverdale meats of Mandan, in big fat rolls - some five inches in diameter - and one could ask Art Albers at the Hannover Store to cut off as much as one wanted. A particular treat was liver sausage on lavishly buttered homemade bread for a late-night lunch as perhaps too many pinochle games.

When I was growing up, pinochle was played only by men, always for money - quarters. The women sat in the living room and visited, the men played pinochle - three was the ideal number, although the cut-throat version of playing with fifteen cards and a three-card "kitty" (a widow) could be adapted for four by having someone sit out every fourth hand - 'twas a quarter for every failed bid that wasn't played, two for those that were, and a dollar to the winner of the game who first reached a score of 1500 - plus the cost of the failed bids or "sets" of the other players. Until my lovin' spouse Leslie arrived in the Center of the Universe in the mid 1970s, the only woman who was reluctantly allowed to play was my Aunt Esther, Uncle Elmer's wife, who also openly drank and smoke, something other women didn't do. Within a few visits to the farm, Leslie had my mother and most of the other women playing pinochle - 'twas a great gift she bestowed upon the community, for when my father and others reached the time when they no longer milked cows and had a good deal more time on their hands, they were able to spend hundreds of afternoons playing cards with their wives. The game has undergone many transformations out in Hannover Township - 'tis now played as a community event on winter nights with all sorts of folks joining in poker-pinochle versions that is still most often every person for themselves but sometimes involves partners. The women of Hannover Township ought to erect a monument to my spouse for their liberation - although there may be a diehard or two old curmudgeon who rues the day women began to play - too often, they're simply better players.

The importance of the game cannot be underestimated - 'twas always far more than simple recreation. 'Twas played on days of weddings and funerals, for example - 'twas a way to sit down together in joy and in grief without the occasion seeming to be unnatural. 'Twas a ritual - I was introduced and trained as a young man by my Uncle Otto, who died far too young in his late 50s back in the early 1960s. The oldest of my father's siblings, Uncle Otto introduced to me rodeos - he once took me on a trip to Dickinson to see Casey Tibbs the world saddle bronc champion - he brought me new bib overalls, he got me my first real job when I was sixteen - measuring land for compliance with a government program which subsidized wheat farmers - he was the greatest of mentors and the finest of uncles - never judgmental, always helpful. His youngest son, Norman and his wife, Idell Huber Albers -- one of those neighboring foreigners from out west of Hannover who were German-Russian, but, thank God, of Missouri-Synod Lutheran persuasion, not Roman Catholic as those from the eastern part of the county were - are the best of friends with whom we play a variation of poker, auction pinochle that has brought us together in fellowship hundreds of times. Norm has a good bit of his father's butchering skill - although I've not tasted anything like Otto's blutwurst since he died. My son Albert (my father's name was Albert) has the middle name Otto - in fact, I wanted to name him Otto Herman Albers, but my wife considered it far too Germanic, and she wished to honor my father as well - after all, he was one of the first to reluctantly cave and permit women to join the sacred pinochle games. However, fate was kind; my son married a Hermanson girl from down in southeastern Minnesota and they decided to hyphenate their names, so my boy became Albert Otto Hermanson-Albers a few years back. Surely, Freya and all the Germanic goddesses shall bless him mightily.

Today's 'tis Happy Birthday to Ira (Israel) Gershwin, born this day in 1896 - he made it well past his eight-sixth birthday and gave us such great tunes as "Someone to Watch over Me," written in collaboration with his brother George. 'Tis something of the theme song of these pages, methinks - a wonderful reminder that what we need most as travelers here in the middle world - companionship and lovin' attention - we get by doing to others what we would have done for us. It's been sung by Elton John, Ella Fitzgerald, Rod Stewart Frank Sinatra - a host of others. :

here's a saying old says that love is blind,
Still we're often told, "Seek and ye shall find."
So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind.
Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet;
He's the big affair I cannot forget.
Only man I ever think of with regret.
I'd like to add his initials to my monogram.
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?

Chorus:
There's a somebody I'm longing to see,
I hope that he turns out to be
Someone who'll watch over me.
I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood.
I know I could always be good
To one who'll watch over me.
Although he may not be the man some girls think of as handsome.
To my heart he carries the key.
Won't you tell him please to put on some speed,
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone who'll watch over me.

'Twas on this day in 1922 - sixty-one years ago - that the Irish Free State was declared - although 'twould take until 1949 for Ireland to become the totally independent nation of Eire. The Free Staters won the Civil War with the Irish Republicans in the war that followed the declaration - and in spite of its continued ties to England a member of the Commonwealth, the rename Free State of Eire was able to remain neutral in World War II. Of course, the northern fifth of Ireland remained part of Great Britain, and the ongoing, absolutely senseless violence between the Catholics and the Protestants in North Ireland flared in the 1970s and killed more than 3,000 in the decades following. 'Tis perhaps the best example of folk with most everything in common and every reason to get along finding in Christianity enough reason to kill each other. Many have tried to bring sanity to the situation, which remains a touchy standoff.

My final toast, with the last of the strawberry breeze ala Welch's, although there's an untapped half-gallon of grape to get me through this glorious Saturday - 'tis to the memory of La Verendrye, the French explorer who died on this day in 1794 at the age of sixty-four up in Montreal, Canada, as he was planning another trip to find the northwest passage to the Pacific Ocean, the chief mission of the Lewis and Clark Expedition some sixty years later. La Verendrye was the first white believed to spend considerable time in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota - he came west and south to the Missouri River in 1738 where he found the urban center of the American West and a great center of trade, the Mandan villages and the extraordinarily hospitable people whom he described in considerable detail. His sons continued to try to find the waterway west after his death - it wasn't to be found, as Lewis and Clark "discovered." The only mistake La Verendrye made was to head back to the East instead of staying in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota - he may well have lived a longer and happier life - this place is the finest to make one's passage in the middle world - and there's still great sausage to be found. Be well, kola - find the right people to watch over you by watching over them, seek the peace that passes understanding instead of begging for it, and may all your pinochle games be the friendliest of feuds.

Ev Albers