Saturday, August 23rd, 2003

​​Here on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan just south of the Wisconsin line in Illinois, 'tis a day of a sliver-mooned predawn cool morn, calm, already a most beauuuuuutiful one in its own way though will not win a head-to-head contest with the beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota, to whence I return tomorrow. My loving spouse made it home to Bismarck last night from Lincoln where she helped establish our daughter in a new apartment - I already have a note from Molly Fisher, formerly of the Nebraska Humanities Council, mother of my young friend Fred, who is the husband of Susan and the father of a young fellow in whom I am very, very well pleased, Elias Alexander Everett Fisher - whom I'm told, by my wife and daughter, is extraordinarily intelligent, handsome beyond belief, yet quite modest. Molly and her husband Jerry have adopted our Gretchen as their new Lincoln daughter - ah, having such fine kola make this sojourn in the middle world so much more pleasant! I must greet this day with sweats, methinks - 'twas the weest cool last night. I've fortified myself with the piece of chocolate cream pie I squirreled away, I've had a couple of jolts of mango orange, so I'm ready for four more hours in the infusion chair. At the moment I'm sitting around having a cup of the best coffee in the building, the stuff on the third floor lounge, just down the hall from the infusion stalls. So eager was I to get on with all of this, I hastened to post a couple of sentences of my journal today and rushed over here - an hour early. On my drive over in the sporty deep blue Ford Mustang with the Florida plates I was singing that old parody "Mary Margaret Truman" at the top of my lungs - I think I've posted those lyrics before here - 'tis, of course, sung to the tune of "The Missouri Waltz," and 'tis a pity if you have never did a twirl on the dance floor to that one. The parody was big on the University of North Dakota campus back in 1960 when I started my loooooooong undergraduate career. My friend Jean Waldera says that the tune was in vogue when she was at Stevens College - goes like this:

Mary Margaret Truman was the daughter of the Prez
She lived in the White House with her ugly mother Bess
Now there' no use denying, she was self-relying
A member of I Felt a Thigh
Back in 1950 when old Harry lost his shoe
Mary Margret Truman didn't know quite just what to do
She went back to Missouri to work in a brewery
So let's drink beer
To Mary Margaret
Swinging on the outhouse door
Without her nightie
Swinging on the outhouse door
Who does your laundry?
Swinging on the outhouse door
The Fargo Foundry

Swinging on the outhouse door

So, this morning, checking through curious events that happened on the 23 day of August, I learn that on this very day, when I was a wee lad of five grubbing around in the sand piled alongside our farmhouse in the Garden of the Universe in Hannover Township, Oliver County (the sand was for banking and keeping tarpaper in place against the building in an effort to keep it warm in the winter and the weest bit cooler in the summer), on this very day in 1947, when my loving spouse was about three months old ('tis not acceptable to refer directly to the age of one's spouse in a journal), on this day that my father was doubtlessly off threshing with the Rabe crew and my mother was fretting about when that huge outfit would be traveling down our road, on this day, Mary Margaret Truman made her debut as a professional singer, performing for 15,000 people at the Hollywood Bowl. The critics didn't much like her - and her father took considerable umbrage with the critics. A couple of years later, she was still singing, and the critics were still less than kind. Margaret was daddy's little girl, and he didn't take kindly to those didn't share his enthusiasm for her art. Washington Post critic Paul Hume wrote in December 1950,

"Miss Truman is a unique American phenomenon with a pleasant voice of little size and fair quality … (she) cannot sing very well … is flat a good deal of the time-more last night than at any time we have heard her in past years … has not improved in the years we have heardh er … (and) still cannot sing with anything approaching professional finish."

The president replied,

THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON
Dec. 6, 1950

Mr. Hume:

I've just read your lousy review of Margaret's concert. I've come to the conclusion that you are an "eight ulcer man on four ulcer pay."

It seems to me that you are a frustrated old man who wishes he could have been successful.

When you write such poppy-cock as was in the back section of the paper you work for it shows conclusively that you're off the beam and at least four of your ulcers are at work.

Some day I hope to meet you. When that happens you'll need a new nose, a lot of beefsteak for black eyes, and perhaps a supporter below!

Pegler, a gutter snipe, is a gentleman alongside you. I hope you'll accept that statement as a worse insult than a reflection on your ancestry.

H.S.T.

That'll teach a critic to mess with daddy's little girl (Margaret was almost 26 at the time). This is also the day back in 1858 that a play premiered in the National Theater in Washington, D.C. - a play through which I trounced the boards of the Sosondowah outdoor theater behind then Dickinson State College (now university) back in 1965, must have have been. The play was the melodrama Ten Nights in a Barroom, and I apparently played the depths of drunkenness convincingly enough to worry my mother mightily when she came to see the play. There's probably much more to be said for Margaret's singing than for the artistic worth of Ten Nights -- which is being performed several places this very summer, I'm sure. 'Tis temperance with a vengeance - the title and most of the content comes from a very popular novel by T.S. Arthur (1854), and the novel was made into an early silent film and later into sound versions, which one can still obtain on VHS. It was also translated into a very popular Yiddish version. Aye, the cost of that damnable rum - I doubt we converted many from their flirtation with disaster by exposing the perils of imbibing something other than grape juice, strawberry breeze, or that new wild raspberry - usually, after the play out under the stars, no few of the crowd repaired to the local taverns to contemplate their good fortune in not sinking as low as old Joe Morgan, I think the character's name 'twas. That's where the entire cast and crew from Sosondowah would go - and what glorious nights they were - at least as far as I remember.

A fellow who could always remember the lyrics - even under the influence of considerable libations far stronger than the Welch's juices, was Tex Williams, the country-western singer of "Smoke, Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette" fame - Tex was born on this day in 1917 and somehow managed to continue his sojourn in the middle world through 1985, making it more than three-score years and ten and a couple more besides. He was a good-looking cowboy type who did the western swing stuff - his real name was Sollie Paul Williams. Tex Williams should not be confused with Tex Ritter, who sang the "Smoke, Smoke, Smoke that Cigarette" song and many more, including his hit "High Noon" and "Rye Whiskey" -

"Rye Whiskey, Rye Whiskey, Rye Whiskey I cry,
If I don't get Rye Whiskey, I think I will die.

Tex Ritter once appeared on the stage of May Hall on the campus of Dickinson State during an interesting controversy - the Spanish instructor, Al Tomayo, had started a rodeo club (it since has become most successful) and wanted Grand Ole Opry singers for fund-raisers. The Chairman of the English Department - and a pop culturalist of some renown, Irving Deer, wanted the college to have none of such low-brow nonsense. I wonder if this event will make it into the new history of Dickinson State - it certainly was one of the most entertaining. Tex might have had the weest bit of rye whiskey before he took the stage, but he made it through his set - no problem -- much to the thunderous applause of a packed house and the considerable chagrin of Dr. Deer, I fear. Tex was a most interesting fellow - about the time he showed up at Dickinson, he was president of the Country Music Hall of Fame. Born in 1906, he decided to run for the Senate from Tennessee in 1970 - if Arnold can run in California and Jesse Ventura become governor in Minnesota, why not Tex in Tennessee?

Speaking of governors of California, the current fellow doesn't quite have the let-my-critics-go-to-hell attitude of former Governor Pete Wilson, who was born on this day in 1933 - Governor Pete turns seventy today, and he's not among the hundreds running. While he was governor, he once said, "They can kiss my rear end, if they can leap that high." What I've never been sure about was the why Pete's ass was so high in the sky - must have missed something. Our serious salute, a swig in toast to one who should be remembered goes today to poet William Ernest Henley, born on this day in 1849. Henley completed his passage before his fifty-fourth birthday in 1903. We all learned "Invictus" in grade school - a curious selection, I always thought - for the official list of poems the state of North Dakota thought its young people should know - you know it well - if not, find it online here. --

Out of night that covers me,
    Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
    
For my unconquerable soul.

'Tis the poem that ends

It matters not how strait the gate,
    How charged with punishments the scroll,
    I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

God, how I loved to recite that poem with conviction back in my 20s - about the time I was staggering the Sosondowah State doing Ten Nights in a Barroom. It ain't true, kola - Henley's poem just ain't necessarily so, methinks. He does have one that I rank among the great death songs of the English language - something that's of mild interest to me, even though I have no intention of shuffling along out of this middle world anytime soon - hell, I seem to be on something of hold, awaiting the chemo to do in the invader and leave enough of the rest of me intact to get on for a while - temperature down to 93.8, blood pressure just about 80, slow pulse - hell, I'm hibernating, or something! Anyway, dear kola, consider this one, which 'tis not bad at all - in fact, I would haunt anyone who invoked it in my memory down the line what I hope is at least a year or so . . .

I.M.: Margaritae Sorori

A LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies;
And from the west,
Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers as in content,
There falls on the old, gray city
An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.

The smoke ascends in a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
Shine, and are changed. In the valley,
Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,
Closing his benediction,
Sinks, and the darkening air
Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--
Night with her train of stars
And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing!
My task accomplished and the long day done,
My wages taken, and in my heart
Some late lark singing,
Let me be gathered to the quiet west,
The sundown splendid and serene,
Death.

But this fine August day is one of life - and laughter and song, even if 'tis the weest off-tune ala Margaret Truman - a great day to look after yourselves and take care of each other kola. And you, my beloved Twins -- you should have won that one last night fellows -- can't afford to lose that old focus -- but you fought valiantly. You need to win the one tonight -- perhaps you might consider not getting yourself in a hole this time before climbing out. You can still do it fellows.

Ev Albers

Friday, August 22nd, 2003

A fine, cool morning here on western shore of Lake Michigan just south of Milwaukee in the town of Zion, Illinois. Not quite as beauuuuuuuutiful as I know it must be in glorious Dakota, but nice enough to celebrate life at its best and simply being alive - something that the folks here at a Cancer Treatment of America are doing a great job helping me do in what I've been told are less than the best odds - so far, so good. I'll be going back to the infusion chair in a couple of hours. I've done a long while abed; rosy-fingered dawn found me in something like a fourteenth hour of slumber - must be the magical Zophran, et. al., that urges such slumber. Whilst I slept my beloved Twins won - they're hanging in a half-game behind the new central division leaders, the Chicago White Sox who won last night as well. Three more games this week with the Royals - ah, boys, if you could sweep this one, you could concentrate on the White Sox, and maybe - just maybe - repeat as Division Champions. You can do it fellows!

My good friends, the O'Kellys who now live down the road toward Chicago, sent me a reminder that 'twas 523 days ago on Bosworth Field in the last big battle of the War of the Roses that Richard III died - the last English king to end his sojourn in the middle world on the battle field. Richard III has less than a great reputation - due, in no small part, to Shakespeare's less-than-kind characterization of him as a deformed murderer. It ain't necessarily so, and The Great Debate about who he was and what he was like continues to rage. To be sure, Henry Tudor did all he could to sully his predecessor's reputation upon coming to power. There's a great site reflecting a movement to give Richard III a fairer shake -- here's the Richard III Society - American Branch.. Here you can rearrange Henry Tudor's face if you're of a mind to take revenge on the fellow who did in poor Richard. Here's a big salute to my friend Bernard O'Kelly and his lovely wife Marcia - formerly of the University of North Dakota where both are sorely missed - he from the College of Arts and Sciences and the English Department and she from the School of Law. I must replenish my supply of grape juice - but I have enough this morning for a healthy swig in memory of John Lee Hooker, that great blues singer whom you may remember seeing in the film The Blues Brothers, one of my top five films of all time. Born in 1917, John Lee Hooker hung on until June 21, 2001 - almost eighty-four years here in the middle world! He came up with the great Vietnam protest song, "I Don't Want to Go to Vietnam" among his many greats. 'Tis also the birthday of Ray Bradbury, who celebrates his eighty-third birthday today - his Fahrenheit 451 was made into a pretty good movie as well. He's one of the best at imagining the best and the worst of the world tomorrow should be continue down the road we've built -- Fahrenheit 451 is a great anti-Utopian novel about the consequences of giving up too much individual freedom in a society's quest for security, a possibility very much part of what we Americans face in the first years of the twenty-first century as we combat terrorism. Ray Bradbury gets a swig in salute this morning as well. And Stormin' Norman Schwartzkopf celebrates his sixty-ninth birthday - perhaps still wondering about whether or he should have been turned loose to do more in Iraq in that first war more than a dozen years past. 'Tis the birthday of one of my favorite baseball players - the sixty-fourth of Carl Yastrzemski, the great Yas who spent his entire career with the Boston Red Sox - almost as remarkable as his stunning performance at the plate. Yas shares a birthday with a guy who was a great player and is a fine teacher of the game, Paul Molitor, who started with Milwaukee and eventually came to the Twins. Paul is a mere forty-seven - hell, he might come back! He's the only player who hit five for five in a World Series game, and he stole 24 bases as a designated hitter. Now there was - and is - a fellow with focus, focus, FOCUS!

We old farts remember another guy with focus, Jack Armstrong, the All-Ameican boy whose fifteen minute program went to thirty minutes on the radio on this day in 1947. I've sure been taking Jack's advice - getting plenty of sleep, and I've been doing it with the window open and the air conditioner off - although I've been the weest shy on very much exercise. Jack, you remember, was the greatest fan and friend of soap and water and the biggest foe of germs, the kind that makes one weak and sickly. I confess I'm not particularly partial to Jack's big bowl of Wheaties, even though it probably took care of all problems not covered with sleep, fresh air, exercise and soap and water.

Today's a big anniversary down under - 'twas 233 years ago that Captain Cook "discovered" Australia and claimed it for the British Crown. That's old news in Australia, of course, where it's already tomorrow.

Hope your today is one you'll remember with great pleasure tomorrow, kola - and I hope that your taking care of yourselves and looking out for each other as best you can - in fact, that's our job here in the middle world, so I urge myself and you to focus, focus, FOCUS on our kola and their welfare.

Ev Albers

Thursday, August 21st, 2003

A cool day here on the shores of Lake Michigan where I'm in exile from far more beauuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota - but, then, no place in the universe can come come close to the beauty of that Garden of the Universe. Long day yesterday at the MRTC, the Midwestern Regional Treatment Center, a Cancer Treatment Center of America. Time dragged on in the old infusion chair - and 'tis cool in that unit - sweat shirt and blankets time. 'Twill have to conjure visions of 110° in the shade back in Dakota to bring at least the notion of warmth to the unit.

Special kudos and a big gulp of grape juice today to my friend Fred Fisher, former tentmaster of the Great Plains Chautauqua Society, Inc. who now lives with his family Susan and Elias in his hometown of Lincoln - Fred took time last night to help my darling daughter and my spouse move stuff into Gretchen's apartment. Thank you, Fred! Fred's family is as fine as he is - his mother Molly and father Jerry have passed a great deal of encouragement and hope my way - truly loving folk who go out of their way to help others.

Kola - 'tis past the shank of the morning (6:30 A.M.) and I just found out that my beloved Twins won last night - Torii Hunter made it home after a short pop-up was caught, and the Twins won 4-3! The White Sox and Royals are even, and the Twins but one-half game behind - the destiny of the boys is in their hands, for they play both teams often for the rest of this month and next - in fact, a four-game series with KC begins tonight at the Metrodome. Time for some serious focus, fellows, focus, focus, FOCUS. You can do.

Today's a fine day to say "Aloha" - that wonderful Hawaiian word that means hello and goodbye - and also means love and grace and compassion and most good things human beings are capable of being. It's nice, in some ways, to have a word reserved for all the good stuff so you can bring it out whenever you forget the one you wanted to use. 'Twas on this day in 1959 that citizens of the Hawaiian Islands approved becoming part of the United States. I was there once, some three years after statehood in 1962. Folks are truly friendly - and remarkably hospitable. I was with a large group of Peace Corps volunteers in Hilo on the big island - the people of Hilo treated us like long-lost family members. I spent a wonderful Thanksgiving Day with a Japanese-American family. We were invited into the schools to hone our teaching skills - and learned first-hand the methods of a gifted Australian mathematics teacher who was having fourth-graders doing calculus - he began by breaking down the dependence on base 10 math. Come to think on it, I was never cold while I was in the islands - but it was the weest wet, especially in the "winter" - when it rained on the western side of Hawaii, it's as though someone continuously poured water on you. I also recall getting a small cut on my foot while walking on coral - that cut didn't heal for the six weeks I was in Hawaii, but it cleared up within days of my return to Dakota.

Today's the birth of one-time football great quarterback, Jim McMahon (1959), who led the Chicago Bears to a magical season some years ago. McMahon was a great quarterback, but a lousy ambassador and less than sensitive when it came to how the rest of the world lives. He once said (speaking of people in Europe), "The people don't take baths and they don't speak English. No golf courses, no room service. Who needs it?" I suspect Europe shrugged its shoulders and said, "Who cares what you think, McMahon?" McMahon gets no swig of grape juice.

Count Basie does (he was born on this day in 1904 (died April 26, 1984). We can't enjoy his music live anymore - but go to most any place where the jazz and serious blues and played, and you will hear a Basie chart - he was a genius. Here's to the Count!

And here's to you, kola - may your day have laughter and love and a full measure of beauty - take care of yourselves and look out for each other.

Ev Albers

Wednesday, August 20th, 2003

​​'Tis a fine enough morning here on the shores of Lake Michigan in Zion where I'll go for another round of the staying-alive chemo infusion at the Midwestern Regional Medical Center, one of those marvelous Cancer Treatment Centers of America. 'Tis a wonderful town for patients at the Center - Toula here at the LaVilla has a new building with little apartments that she makes available for less than $50/day, the same they charge for their room. I have a refrigerator for my grape juice, a coffee maker - and a great bed where I spent some ten hours wrestling with some problem I awoke and couldn't remember. I went on a little grocery run late yesterday afternoon to get some bread, juice, jam and cheese - and a dozen of what I thought were ordinary chicken wings. Not so - I'm still recovering from inhaling a couple of them before I realized that these are buffalo wings with much more oomph than we put in them in Dakota - and I really don't do buffalo wings anymore, anyway. Error! Perhaps that's the problem I was trying to solve by sublimating it into some sort of mental conundrum - after all, most problems for folks of my ilk and Germanic heritage and tradition can be localized in the lower intestinal tract.

Wife and daughter are well on their way south to Lincoln, Nebraska - they'll probably awake in some reasonably clean, well-lighted place in Sioux City, Iowa this morning - but 'twill be nothing like Toula's sqeaky-clean new digs on the north side of Zion. We are all in exile from beauuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota, where 'twill be the weest bit cooler with a touch of rain whilst my spouse and I are gone, I hope --lest dear Leslie is driven to water with a vengeance on her return - for our "lawn" is looking quite "natural" once more - as brown as the natural prairie on the Missouri Breaks. I perhaps have mentioned on occasion here in this journal that I favor allowing nature to provide what water a lawn gets - and, in the best of circumstances, the stuff nature would be watering on lawns would be native prairie grasses instead of the wimpy Kentucky tame blue stuff that struggles in the yards around far too many houses in Dakota.

My first gulp of the fruit of the grape vine this A.M. in toast to a great soul who has completed his passage in the middle world is to Gentleman Jim Reeves, one of my favorite five singers of all times. James Travis Reeves was born on this day in 1923 in Galloway, Texas; he left us far too early on the last day of July in 1964 in a plane crash near Nashville, Tennessee. I love Jim Reeve's deep, natural, relaxed voice - he gave us such hits as "He'll Have to Go" and "Four Walls." In addition to many number one hits, he had many number twos - including the great "Welcome to My World":

Welcome to my world,
Won't you come on in
Miracles, I guess
Still happen now and then
Step into my heart
Leave your cares behind
Welcome to my world
Built with you in mind

Knock and the door shall be open
Seek and you will find
Ask and you'll be given
The key to this heart of mine

I'll be waiting there
With my arms unfurled
Waiting just for you
Welcome to my world
Welcome to my world

Aye, you were a great one, Jim Reeves! If you don't know him, kola, or want to know more, check out this site approved by the Reeves family. Long after Jim and Patsy Cline died in separate plane crashes, they did a duet through the miracle of electronic engineering -- they had both sung "Have You Ever Been Lonely," so they were matched for a duet in a 1980 recording. Just this summer, a new CD was cut - a never-before-released concert Reeves did with the Nashville Symphony Orchestra, "The Unforgettable Jim Reeves - Live." He sings some familiar hits - and does a wondrous version of "Danny Boy." I'm gonna have to order up this one, methinks.

Today is also the birthday of one of the most beloved "poets" of the plains, Edgar Guest - of "It takes a heap of livin' to make a house a home" fame. Don't know which one these lines come from, but, for all their downhomeness, I kinda like 'em:

Somebody scoffed, "Oh, you'll never to that --
At least no one ever has done it";
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew, he'd begun it.

With a lift of his chin, and a bit of a grin
Without any doubting or "quit it,"
He started to sing, as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.

The Twins did it last night - getting the weest bit of revenge in their game with the Cleveland Indians in their home place by beating them 8-2 and drawing within a game and 1/2 of the Royals - the surging Chicago White Sox are but a game behind the Royals - methinks the Sox, so beloved by my friend Ed Sahlstrom of Dickinson - will be the team the Twins will have to beat in the Central Division. Boys, you'll have to "start to sing and tackle the thing - that thing that can't be done and do it."

This place of hope here at Zion where nearly everyone meets at the Cancer Treatment Center has a laugh or or a grin - the happiest folks you'll see in one place of most anywhere, and most are either the condemned patients or members of the family - folks of my ilk who was given a death sentence eight months ago by that august bastion of the "final" word in medical treatment, Mayo of Rochester, Minnesota. I'll never forget going to Rochester where one is herded around like some kind of laboratory research rat - scared, depressed, worried - and spending the first hours of our visit talking to the nurse assistant of the physician who specialized in pancreatic cancer who was interested only in my participating in her boss's research - signing waivers and agreeing to give them blood until I died. I'll certainly never the final day at Rochester some three months later, after waiting in a limbo without a word of encouragement for a month - once more, a nurse-assistant, not a physician interviewed me and my wife - in fact, the oncologist didn't even pop in to say hello. This young woman of grim visage who wore granny boots told me to go home and die - after months of treatment and hoping without a word. Here at the Cancer Treatment Center of America, you begin with hope and a true conviction that no one is doomed as long as they are breathing - and the positive attitude and aggressive treatment has given years to hundreds condemned to death by places like Mayo. Staff and patients and their families are friends here at Zion - they call you and check up on you - they are genuinely concerned, and not once have they made me feel like a laboratory rat - they haven't even handed me a single questionnaire for a "study" in the eight months I've been coming here for a week a month. Here' s a huge swig of grape juice and a big sip of coffee to all my friends here - and an unashamed "Shame on you" to all who rob their fellow humans of all hope while overcharging them for medical services that do no good - like the cold technicians of Mayo.

Today back in 1804, 199 years ago, was a sad day for the Corps of Discovery, the Lewis and Clark Expedition. The Corps was on their way up the Missouri - around Sioux City, Iowa, on this day when Sergeant Charles Floyd died of a ruptured appendix - the only man among those who went to the Pacific and back who died during the Expedition. There was nothing to be done for Floyd's condition at the turn of the nineteenth century - he would have died in the finest hospitals of his era - the Mayos of 1804, if you will. There's a large obelisk on the trail today honoring the memory of Charles Floyd, who died with dignity and what the captains said was "a good deal of composure." Here's a gulp of the grape stuff to the memory of Sergeant Floyd. And to President Benjamin Harrison, born on this day in 1833, whose greatest achievement well may have been signing the bill that brought North Dakota into the union, along with South Dakota, Wyoming and Montana in 1889. Harrison died in 1901. And to you, dear kola - wherever you are. May you have Guestian gusto for life - laughter and love on this beauuuuutiful August day as you take care of yourselves and look out for each other.

Ev Albers

Tuesday, August 19th, 2003

​Aye, 'tis a beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful, weest bit cooler-than-yesterday, warm and alas-still-dry-in-Bismarck day in Dakota, from whence I travel today to the place of miracles, the Midwestern Regional Medical Center in Zion, Illinois for more of the stuff that's been keeping me alive – a series of five days of chemo infusion beginning tomorrow on the shores of Lake Michigan in the northeastern corner of Illinois. I'll be in exile, and I'll miss my spouse and daughter, who are traveling today toward Lincoln, Nebraska, where Gretchen begins graduate school later this week at the University of Nebraska. Up until the wee hours of this morning putting the finishing touches on a paper on the influence of Christian missionaries on the social structure and harmony of Mandan/Hidatsa at Fort Berthold at the turn of the twentieth century, Gretchen has already returned to the owlish evening ways of the scholar. Her work pleases me mightily, and 'twill, I warrant, please many before she's finished. My first toast of this fine, beauuuuuuuuuutiful morn is to Gretchen – fare thee well, my daughter.

Today's the birthday of William Jefferson Clinton (1946), president of the United States from 1993 to 2001 and husband of best-selling memoirist Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton of New York. President Clinton and Senator Clinton continue to command considerable attention and a polarized extreme assessment – folks tend to either love 'em or dislike 'em rather intensely. Articulate, charming, and beloved around the world (perhaps more than at home), the Clintons command attention, something that President Clinton relished more than any other president. He said on leaving office, "I like the job. That's what I'll miss the most. . . . I'm not sure anybody ever liked this as much as I've liked it ."

Here's a swig of grape juice to Bill Clinton on this fine August day – may you find a way to get the attention you crave while doing something the world needs done in terms of folks taking care of each other. Today is also the birthday of Odgen Nash (1902), the whimsical rhymer who died in 1971, but not before he gave us some of the most humorous verse in the English language. Take, for example, his "Everybody Tells Me Everything,"

I find it very difficult to enthuse
Over the current news.
Just when you think that at least the outlook is so black that it can grow no blacker, it worsens,
And that is why I do not like the news, because there has never been an era when so many things were going so right for so many of the wrong persons.

Nash wrote a poem, "Reflection on a Wicked World" that probably tickles Bill Clinton, who, I'll wager, knows it --

Purity
Is Obscurity.

Kola, I hope things go right for you today, that 'tis as beautiful wherever you are as 'tis in Dakota, and that your life is anything but obscure – unless, of course, you want it to be – as you find laughter and love, take care of yourselves, and look out for each other.

Ev Albers

Monday, August 18th, 2003

Among the happiest days in this Albers clan's history, 18 August is the day two years past, in 2001, our son Albert Otto married Bobbi Hermanson and the two became the Hermanson-Albers of Madison, Wisconsin. Aye, 'twas a warm day on the Lewis and Clark Riverboat here in Bismarck the day Albert & Bobbi wed – a grand time. On this much warmer day here in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota, we're about the business of packing up our darling daughter Gretchen who has been home for a month working at the State Historical Society of North Dakota and an occasional evening on the Riverboat on which her brother was married for her trip to her new home in Lincoln, Nebraska, where she will begin graduate school in history at the University of Nebraska. I'll be at a local clinic this morning getting blood tests to see if my white count is high enough to take off for Zion tomorrow morning for another round of chemo – busy times, but no better time to reflect on how our children have infinitely enriched our lives. In all ways, Bobbi is the perfect woman for our son and a loving daughter to Leslie and me and sister to our Gretchen. I just want my son Albert to know that teaming up with Bobbi was the best decision he ever made in his life . . . may this their anniversary be filled with laughter and love – and maybe the weest bite of your favorite food. My biggest swig of strawberry breeze and another of grape juice and a sip of coffee in salute to the Hermanson-Albers.

You may have felt a little glow of someone speaking warmly of you yesterday, Bobbi and Albert – Gretchen and I were visiting with my mother, Hulda, about you and our pride in your accomplishments, as were Leslie, Gretchen, and your godparents Rose Marie and Warren Henke at a modest repast last evening at a Mexican restaurant to whence we repaired after we took in the movie Open Range -- well, Rose Marie didn't go to the movie, but the rest of us did – one needed a passel of beans after a western of such classical epic theme and proportion – and an appropriate beverage (mine was O'Doul's) to celebrate Kevin Costner and Annette Bening's characters finding true love at long last in a whirlwind courtship during the most trying of times that finds Costner and Robert Duvall killing a whole bunch of really bad folk, eventually with the help of the community. Costner's Charley Waite is a nice guy like you, Albert, who falls in love so completely with the doctor's sister, Sweet Sue, that he picks out a Princess Anne china tea set for her and leaves a note instructing the livery stable owner to buy it for her just in case he's killed in the big gun fight with the rapacious, murdering Irish rancher who tries to do in the freegrazing Charley Waite and his ten-year trail companion and mentor, Boss Spearman, absolutely perfectly portrayed by the great Robert Duvall. Like the mysterious E.F., the prophet in The Apostle, Boss Spearman has a real name that he just as soon folks didn't know about – he does tell Charley as the two get ready to kill the totally evil rancher and his hired guns and ranch hands, including the Marshall of Harmonville and some town henchmen – all "owned" by the rancher — who had been tied up and drugged by the Boss and Charley and locked in the jail.

Charley and Boss Spearman are the weest bit upset about the Irish rancher, Denton Baxter, killing their friend and severely wounding their adopted young protégé, Buttons, who lies recovering in the town doctor's place under the care of his sister Sue – so they go to a part of town where no innocent folks will get hurt after the Boss buys a couple of expensive Swiss chocolate bars and some Cuban cigars to pass the time before the killing starts.

All ends well for the good guys and most poorly for those who dared to challenge the independence of the Boss and Charley, except for Mose, the big gentle soul who is killed by the rancher's henchmen, and the affectionate dog Tig, who dies out on the range with Moss while Boss and Charley are working over some of the bad guys. It's a long (two hours, ten minutes) movie with lots of rolled-'em-myself smoke breaks for Boss Spearman, but a pretty good one. Just goes to show you what can happen to a man with a troubled past – Charley Waite (who also has a real name he doesn't want folks to know) – when confronted with the need to act after someone kills his friend and his dog – you probably wind up finding your soul mate and yourself, and you learn the true first name of the guy with whom you spent a decade on the trail.

August 18 is the birthday (1774) of Meriwether Lewis, Thomas Jefferson's young protégé who wisely chose his friend William Clark to share his command in the trip to Pacific Ocean and back that started 200 years ago the end of the month in Pittsburgh. On this day back in 1803, Lewis was probably fuming over yet another delay by the boat builder who was crafting the keelboat Lewis would take down the Ohio to the Missouri – the builder drank something other than grape juice, and the keel boat was weeks behind schedule. Lewis was less than a happy fellow, many days – today, were he around and of a mind to seek medical help for his problem, he would be put on some sort of medication for his depression. After his successful expedition to the Pacific and back 1803-1806, Lewis became the Governor – a bad one – of Louisiana Territory. By his thirty-fifth birthday in 1809, Lewis still had not worked on his journals after three years of promises, and he had some problems with vouchers he had filed with the government. Lewis died, almost certainly by his own hand, in October 1809 on the Natchez Trace in Tennessee on his way back to Washington to clear up his problems. Lewis's most loyal companion, a big Newfoundland dog named Seaman who accompanied him from the beginning of the Expedition on August 31, 1803 in Pittsburgh, was with him at the end – and according to legend, died grieving on Lewis's grave. I've told Seaman's story in a book I titled The Saga of Seaman: The Story of the Dog Who Went with Lewis & Clark -- both in verse (of sorts) and in a long essay. For the most part, Meriwether Lewis didn't lose his temper out on the Expedition – one exception was on the return from the Pacific when Chinooks stole his dog on April 11, 1806: ". . . three of this same tribe of villains the Wah-clel-lars, stole my dog this evening, and took him towards their village; I was shortly afterwards informed of this transaction by an indian who spoke the Clatsop language, and sent three men in pursuit of the theives with orders if they made the least resistence or difficulty in surrendering the dog to fire on them; they overtook those fellows or reather came within sight of them at the distance of about 20 miles; the indians discoverying the party in pursuit of them left the dog and fled." Lewis was ready to jeopardize the entire Expedition by killing Indians for taking his best friend.

Charley Waite's dog Tig was no Seaman to him – in fact, Charley says in the movie Open Range that the dog was more Mose's (the big fellow who is killed) than his. But, like Lewis, he gets mightily upset with those who do his dog harm.

But I digress, this fine, beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota, where, alas, as 'tis in Minnesota as reported by my good friend Jim Lund -- among other things one of the great pie-makers alive in the middle world – the end of gooseberry season. I've reserved one piece of the gooseberry pie sent by Lund via courier last weekend for consumption later today – here's a swig in salute to Jim & Shirley this morning. And here's a modest sip in tribute to the Minnesota Twins, who lost the third game of their series with the Royals yesterday afternoon, but did win two of the three big time and remain but three games back – have a great day off fellows – but prepare to redeem yourselves in the two games with Cleveland for your miserable series with them in Minneapolis this past week. Another gulp for the masterful Robert Duvall, and three big swigs and a sip of coffee once more for the beautiful Bobbi and my son Albert on their second anniversary – and to you, kola. I trust you are taking care of yourselves and looking out for each other on this glorious day where 'twill be warm enough for me to go about without a sweat shirt. May it be as beauuuuuuutiful wherever you are as 'tis here, and may your day be filled with laughter and love – and no need whatsoever for the kind of anger that got Charley Waite and Boss Spearman so upset in Open Range.

Ev Albers

Sunday, August 17th, 2003

Ah, but 'twill be as beauuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota as ever dawned this Sunday morn, my kola. Of course, 'twill be the weest warm for the taste of some – I love it, for I can go outside in short sleeves when 'tis in the 90s – but I'll wear a sweat shirt for one of my most-occasional forays to the movies this afternoon, for they keep it too cool for me in those grand palaces of escape from this time and place – I'm gonna go she Robert Duvall in "Open Range," right after I watch the Twins win another at Kansas City where they trounced the Division leaders 14-5 yesterday afternoon, a game I listened to on the radio. I admit I went the weest overboard in my psychic support sent telepathically from here on the eastern bank of the mighty Missouri – I might have ticked the Royals off a bit by urging such all-out effort, but the boys needed to know that they can win at will if they have enough heart. You've gotta have heart, fellows. And you'll need all you can muster this afternoon in the critical third game – so focus, fellows, focus, focus, FOCUS!

I received a kind note from kola Therese who abides over in Seattle, where she bolsters the fortunes of the Mariners and also helps me in my efforts with the Twins except when they are playing the Mariners or affecting their future. She was concerned that the Mariners might become the weest lackadaisical in September – she'll need to help them do the focus business. We agree that Robert Duvall is one of the great actors of our age – we both like The Apostle, which I rank in the top five of all movies I've ever seen. I watched most of it with my son, Albert, last month at his place in Madison, Wisconsin. I was amazed to learn that he had never seen it – 'tis truly a great film about personal redemption and a portrait of most personal passion for elemental Christianity within the familiar peculiarly American penchant for evangelical zeal. Duvall wrote and directed – and financed with $5 million of his own money – the film The Apostle. He based his interpretation of a Southern evangelist in part on a real black preacher -- "The best preacher I ever met," says Duvall, "was a 96 year-old black man from a little church in Hamilton, Virginia. He seemed to me more spiritual than the Dalai Lama or Mahatma Gandhi. This guy was great. He had a great cadence of preaching, a great honesty." Duvall invited a Jewish film-director friend and his Catholic wife to hear him preach. "It was terrific," Duvall recounts. "The director told me a year and a half later that he could never get the preacher entirely out of his mind. He was that impressive."

We staid Missouri-Synod Lutherans sure didn't hear the kind of preaching or enjoy the happy music of The Apostle when I was growing up out in Hannover Township in Oliver County – and I daresay, LCMS folks still don't. Probably the only thing that could bring an LCMS parishioner to her/his feet and out into the aisle would be a most-urgent bladder or perhaps colon blow – otherwise, one got up and sat down only at the appointed times. There is, of course, considerable comfort in liturgical routine and a tie with all saints who have ever struggled here in the middle world in the liturgy that has been around before Luther simply appropriated most of it from the mass some 500 years ago. But there's also the sheer rote and mind-numbing sameness that contributes to a somnambulant, near-zombie passage through a typical LCMS service that the apostle E.F. simply would not have permitted. For one thing, the idea of someone actually testifying during a service would have been judged totally sacrilegious by the elders I knew out in Hannover Township. And any preacher who said something that one could actually remember a half-hour later would be totally suspect. Now, we didn't officially subscribe to Calvinistic predestination out at St. Peter's Lutheran in Hannover Township, but most folks who came were pretty convinced that they were going to heaven and the rest of the world was destined for some other place – and they expected all sermons to be some variation on this theme. Curiously, many parishioners and even a couple of the clergy who found their way to the pulpit of St. Peter's considered Billy Graham a great man of God, but they would not have condoned anything like an altar call during the services – we German Lutherans of the LCMS brand expected quiet conversions – none of this getting "saved" or "born again" during a public spectacle.

On a hot, dry day like this one promises to be, a visitor among those sweating and sweltering together in the church out in Hannover Township in the 1950s might be the weest troubled by the odor of the humanity indoors on a 90°+ day and puzzled by the rhythmic drone coming from the loft – unless he/she turned and saw the male bachelors up there dozing behind the teenage young fellows in front, some of whom who were not totally awake themselves. Now, we did sing with considerable gusto – at least we did if we knew the hymn, and no minister got by with sneaking in more than one unfamiliar tune once in a great while – the elders would have a little talk with him if he tried. And once a month – later every other Sunday – we shuffled up to the altar for communion – if we had "announced" our intentions to the pastor the night before and assured him, if he had any qualms, that we were truly repentant for any outstanding transgressions lest we go up and partake of the body and blood of Jesus Christ himself "in, with, and under" the bread and the wine – the communion wafers and the Mogen David wine in a common cup – so if one person had a bad cold out in Hannover Township, all those who communed were likely to get it as well. There were no altar calls, and no trespassing beyond the communion rail by anyone but the called and ordained – and male minister of God – during divine services – except there was indeed condemnation from the pulpit by a church elder if a member of the congregation had sinned and steadfastly refused to repent. But for the most part, Sunday services were just what folks expected – a boring hour necessary to get right with God for the week before a classical Sunday noon dinner of late springer frying chickens and an afternoon baseball game, half of the time games played a half-mile west of St. Peter's in the pasture corner where Hannover Township's field of dreams was laid out. By this time of the year, mid-August, the outfield was never green – 'twas brown prairie grass with pesky hay needles that went right through your woolen uniform if you dived for a ball. In the 1950s, every other Sunday afternoon in the summer was about the only time anyone other than a saved LCMSyonder spent more time than it took to pass through the six-mile square Hannover Township – out on the baseball field within shouting distance of the church. There might be Methodists from Center or God-only-knew-what-they-believed "River Rats" from Hensler over on the west bank of the Missouri River playing ball in Hannover Township, rubbing elbows with the saved. Sometimes, fans even intermingled and had a beer together. We certainly wouldn't have gone out of our way to welcome them to church back in the 1950s – even though we considered ourselves about the business of saving souls, few of us really believed that there was change for anyone not born into the LCMS – we wouldn't have thrown them out. But they would not have permitted then – or now – to join believers at the communion rail. But we did indeed commune at the ball park – and there's where ecumenicalism began and ended in Hannover Township in the 1950s. Those were wonderful afternoons – ones I watched rather than played almost all of the time, for I was a dreadfully bad baseball player from my youth into the early 1960s -–I had no focus whatsoever and rarely threw the ball within six feet of my target – bad habits for a first baseman. Those afternoons were so terrific because 'twas a couple of hours away from the drudgery of most work on the farm – and most work in the 1950s was mind-numbing drudgery, no fun at all. Moreover, those magical afternoons were a time when we didn't think all that much about who was going to heaven and who would probably go to hell – from the first "Play ball!" until the final out in the ninth, Hannover Townshippers were able to forget that they were the only ones saved for eternity in the county – and that was a blessing, indeed.

I hope your day is blessed by your finding yourself in a place as beauuuuuuuuuutiful as Dakota, perhaps being stirred by a messenger as powerful as the apostle E.F., and finding time to enjoy the weest bit of refuge from the fray at a ballgame – be it only in spirit. Do take care of yourselves, kola – and look out for each other, be thy neighbor LCMS or not.

Ev Albers

Saturday, August 16th, 2003

Another warm, dry day in beauuuuuuuutiful Dakota where the sun will shine brightly in a few hours. 'Twas a cool evening with the weest bit of a breeze, dipping down the 70s, a grand night for sleeping. 'Twas on this day back twenty-six years past that Elvis died, yet another less-than-happy happening that summer of our great RV adventure. I had talked my loving spouse into renting an RV, installing our three-month-old son Albert Otto's crib behind us, and taking off to follow the Chautauquans who performed that year in chocolate brown and orange small tent - 16 by 20. That was the summer that Jerry Tweton presented Theodore Roosevelt in an all-white suit in places like Mott whose motto back then - may still be today - "Mott's the spot to stop and shop." There are those less kindly inclined to the hospitality of this community down southeast of Dickinson who declare that "Mott's the spot that God forgot" - totally without justification. Fine resilient folk down that way on the Cannonball River, which flooded during those wetter years, causing some havoc since the river ran through the town. Mott's also in Dakota tornado and hail alley, getting more than anyone deserves of both. Back in those days, Chautauqua spent but a couple of days in a town, doing two programs a night often, and moving on. We moved on around southwestern North Dakota and eventually found our way up to Dickinson where Leslie's parents Alfons and Dorothy lived. We left our infant son with grandma and grandpa and took the RV to the drive-in theater - and I drove through the entrance with a low roof to protect ticket-buyers in inclement weather - knocked off the top of the rented RV. We had been miserably wet in Mott, and our son was a bit cranky - he was known to Jerry Tweton as "Otto Rundkopf," Otto Roundhead, because of perfectly round face. Jerry and I had stayed up too late imbibing some alternative to grape juice and talking while my long-suffering wife tried to sleep in the bed above us as we sat in the seat of the RV - she was not inclined to be more than kind, with good reason, that one wet night. 'Twas a trip that was forgiven but I doubt that 'twill e'er be forgot - with good reason. Somewhere I have a photograph of Jerry dressed in this great white suit sitting beneath an umbrella next to that little tent in the rain at Mott - I'll have to try to find that, along with one of dozens of photographs of his little friend Otto Roundkopf, my son Albert Otto - now Hermanson-Albers - in whom I am very well pleased indeed. If I find them, I'll scan 'em and post 'em. I don't think anyone came to the program that night in Mott - too wet for the folks of that Cannonball community - or perhaps the Mottonians (they couldn't be Mottians, could they?) couldn't find the spot on the river bank where the tent was pitched, or perhaps they just forgot. I don't think that Mott was the spot where we learned that Elvis had died - to tell you the truth, I'm not sure where I was twenty-six years ago on this day. Anyway, here's a big swig of strawberry breeze, a sip of coffee, and another big swig, this time of grape juice, to Elvis, who starred in that classic movie 1969 movie The Trouble with Girls, in which he plays the manager of a traveling Chautauqua troupe named Walter Hale. Subtitled And How to Get Into It (that is, of course, getting into trouble with girls), Hale gets into a lot of trouble in a small Midwestern town in the 1920s in this movie that featured Vincent Price, Dabney Coleman, Marilyn Mason, John Carradine, and Sheree North as well. Elvis sings such numbers as "Clean Up Your Own Backyard" and a stirring rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." I used to have a VHS copy of the movie - can't find it. Have to get one for our current Chautauquans, including the indomitable D. Jerome (Jerry) Tweton, who presented John Jacob Astor this year at the Lewis & Clark Interpretive Center for hundreds - not in a white suit, but in a very fashionable black with a great white scarf. Here's swigs and sips, all this morning's potations to Jerry Tweton, the first of the modern Chautauquans.

My beloved, oft wayward of late, Minnesota Twins get the weest sip in salute by way of encouragement following their 9-2 victory last night in Kansas City - I expect more of the same this afternoon, fellows. We'll see if you have the stuff sufficient to get back into the race for the Central Division Championship - at a minimum, you need to win the two series with Kansas City over the next ten days and never again show up as haplessly lackadaisical as you did at Metrodome against the Indians. Boys, you're going to have to go some to regain the respect of your fans - nine or ten consecutive victories should do it. I'll be focussing a bit of telepathic encouragement your way this p.m., boys. Don't disappoint us.

There's a damned fine poet who was born on this day back in 1920 in Germany - Charles Bukowski - who was often disappointed with a good deal of life. He had less than a happy childhood - in fact, his father beat the living tar out of him, once attacking him with a two-by-four at their Los Angeles home where the family moved when Charles was two. His father was having a hard time making it as a milkman and took out his frustrations on his son who thought did less than a great job of mowing the lawn. Bukowski is featured on today's Writer's Almanac by Garrison Keillor. Keillor also features Bukowski -- who wrote some strange and wonderful fiction as well before he left the middle world after more than seventy-three years of getting on with things - in his book Good Poems -- four times. I like Bukowski's "poetry readings" from that collection:

poetry readings have to be some of the saddest
damned things ever,
the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,
week after week, month after month, year
after year,
getting old together,
reading on to tiny gatherings,
still hoping their genius will be
discovered,
making tapes together, discs together,
sweating for applause
they read basically to and for
each other,
they can't find a New York publisher
or one
within miles,
but they read on and on
in the poetry holes of America,
never daunted,
never considering the possibility that
their talent might be
thin, almost invisible,
they read on and on
before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,
their wives, their friends, the other poets
and the handful of idiots who have wandered
in
from nowhere.

I am ashamed for them,
I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,
I am ashamed for their lisping egos,
their lack of guts.

if these are our creators,
please, please give me something else;

a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,
a prelim boy in a four rounder,
a jock guiding his horse through along the
rail,
a bartender on last call,
a waitress pouring me a coffee,
a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,
a dog munching a dry bone,
an elephant's fart in a circus tent,
a 6 p.m. freeway crash,
the mailman telling a dirty joke

anything
anything
but
these.

Bukowski was an iconoclast of the first rank who held out for protests of the most elemental type - "Sometimes," he said, "you just have to pee in the sink." That wouldn't set well, methinks, with today's birthday gal, Kathie Lee Gifford, who turns fifty today. Ho-hum. I don't know what Kathie Lee is up to these days, nor do I particularly care. I do know that birthday boy James Taylor of "Fire and Rain" fame will be playing tonight at Maryland Heights, Missouri - J.T. turns fifty this day in 2003. Tomorrow night he's gonna be in Kansas City - if I had a private jet, I'd whisk down to see him after taking in the Twins game with the Royals in the afternoon. That's not to be, but 'twill have a grand p.m. anyway, including a movie with my lovin' spouse and daughter, Open Range with perhaps my favorite actor, Robert Duvall. Squeezing that in - after the Twins game, I hope - along with a great piece of pie somewhere, someway (had some peach pie last night at Idell & Norm's after a pinochle session) and time with my darling daughter 'twill make it a most memorable Sunday, indeed. But I digress from my tribute to J.T. - the favorite singer of my late brother-in-law and friend Joe Kubik, who especially liked "Fire and Rain," which my daughter sings sometimes in a dreadful but entertaining high-pitched squeaky voice --

I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again

Won't you look down upon me, Jesus
You've got to help me make a stand
You've just got to see me through another day
My body's aching and my time is at hand
And I won't make it any other way

A final toast today, kola - to the memory of Joe Kubik who made the very most of every day and found a way through many a difficult day - and to another fellow who embraced life with great gusto, Babe Ruth, who completed his middle earth passage on this day in 1948 at the age of fifty-three and a few months. Curious - I remember well hearing the news of the Babe's demise on the radio when I was six years old back in Hannover Township in Oliver County, but for the life of me, I can't remember where I was the day Elvis died on this day in 1977. If you want to experience some of the world of Babe Ruth on the Internet, check out this great website. Folks loved the Babe - after his death on this day, his body lay in state at the entrance to Yankee Stadium for two days, and more than 100,000 people came to pay their respect. George Herman Ruth, Jr. offered great advice on a wide range of topics - including his famous "Never let the fear of striking out get in your way." Some Twins players, especially those who strike out with their bats on their shoulders, could take this advice literally. 'Tis good stuff for guys of my ilk - I must be about this great Saturday's opportunities - trust you are doing the same, kola - taking care of yourselves and looking out for each other. Don't worry too much about swinging and missing once in a while - as the Babe said, "Every strike brings me closer to my next home run."

Ev Albers

Friday, August 15th, 2003

Aye, 'tis a warm one these days around the ides of August in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota in 2003 – warm, and weest bit dry. I once disliked hot weather intensely – now I drive around in a vintage Volkswagen Golf with the windows rolled up – and no air conditioning – in 100°+ heat with no problem – and sleep soundly with the windows open in 80°+ at night beneath blankets. I've become cold-blooded – and less-than-insulated. 'Tis the most remarkable of changes I've experienced with the invader – this loss of weight without really trying and a high toleration for warm weather. 'Tis a tough way to change one's metabolism, pancreatic cancer – but it's most effective; I can eat anything I wish without any possibility of gaining weight. The problem, of course, is not wishing to eat many things, especially beef – I haven't been able to be in the same room with a Big Mac for many months, for example. On the other hand, I've had several slices of both a Jim Lund gooseberry pie ala mode, plain, and with cheese in a single morning – followed by a slice of Idell Albers sour cream raisin for good measure. Pie requires a lot less energy to digest and metabolize than does complex proteins – eating a steak – if I could get beyond the smell – would wear me out for the day. Curious.

Mid-August is the time harvest was foremost, getting earnest, focussed attention back in the Garden of the Universe in Hannover Township in Oliver County when I was a lad – still is in that place peopled with many who are direct descendants of those who first homesteaded the land in the 1880s. The farm I grew up on, for example, was homesteaded by my father's aunt and her husband, Doris and Dietrich Bargman. It lay about a mile northeast of the my paternal great-grandfather's homestead of the 1880s – and about a mile southwest of my maternal grandfather's homestead of a few years later. Our farm is now owned by my first cousin, my mother's nephew Randy Henke. A good deal of the land in Hannover Township around the Hannover Cemetery where many of the original homesteaders rest for eternity has been in the same families for some 120 years. It could tell some tales – legendary stories, no few about food and famous eaters – trenchermen, in fact.

A trencherman now means "a hearty eater" – a nice way of talking about a glutton. In Hannover Township, there was the legendary Louis Kitzman, who ran the machine for one of the big threshing rigs. During harvest, there were a minimum of five meals a day prepared for 20-30 men in the threshing crew by the farm woman with what help she could muster. Breakfast was as early as 4:30 – in the dark. There were eggs – and sausage and/or bacon and/or steak and plenty of fried potatoes and perhaps some kniep (I have no idea how to spell that low-German term for the ground "sweet meats" [read organs] of beef, fried crispy in lard and/or butter – it's pronounced ka NIP). There would indeed be pie for breakfast, along with sweet rolls and kuchen, homemade bread, oatmeal, etc. etc. etc. Then there was lunch – around 9:00-10:00 – often brought out to the rig – a huge meal with perhaps fifty or sixty sandwiches and more kuchen, etc. etc. – and then even a larger sit-down dinner at noon with plenty of meat – and bowls and bowls of mashed potatoes and homegrown vegetables and more pies – and an afternoon lunch again around 3:30-4:30 and then a big, big supper as late as 7:30 or 8:00. Trenchermen like Louis Kitzman caused a good deal of angst among the women cooking for his crews, because when something was passed to Louis, it usually didn't get any further – pass Louis a platter with two chickens on it, and Louis set it down and methodically began eating the two chickens. Louis was know to eat two whole pies at a dinner, as many as twenty sandwiches at lunch, and whole huge bowls of mashed potatoes – we're talking about four or five pounds of mashed potatoes in a single bowl, which he would attack as though he were eating a bowl of oatmeal. Louis was rotund, but not particularly obese – and rather indiscriminate when it came to what he would and would not eat – in fact, there's nothing that anyone remembers Louis turning down. He lived long – eventually he went to a nursing home up in Beulah, I think – and I cannot attest to the veracity of the rumors that he nearly caused a riot when he learned that the cooks expected him to be satisfied with a single tray of food – not even the weest appetizer for Louis – or that the facility nearly went bankrupt trying to satisfy his appetite – those are probably exaggerated.

Across the road from our farm lived Big Freddy Albers, who was also the weest rotund – he was either a first or second cousin once removed of my father, I think – all the Albers in central Dakota except for one guy and his descendants – John C. who came later – are related, the progeny of my great-grandfather, his brother, and a first cousin who came in the 1880s – three guys who spawned thousands. Big Freddy was not a trencherman of Louis Kitzman's rank, but he did take food seriously. His wife, Anna, was the mere wisp of a woman. Her dining room table was always set – dishes were washed and put back on the table, and the silverware was in glasses in the center of the table, ready whenever Big Freddy needed a lunch or a snack or a full-blown meal. Unlike Louis, Big Freddy didn't eat just anything – at least in quantities sufficient to satisfy his appetite. When he was invited out to dinner or supper, he always ate a full meal at home just before he left, a practice he called "having a clean bite at home."

I have no real sense of just how many calories an average Hannover Townshipper consumed during an August summer day with harvest in full swing – I'm guessing tens of thousands for many. It's one thing to consume at that level while doing hard physical labor four sixteen or eighteen hours – quite another to continue into the third generation of harvesting from the comfort of an air conditioned cab of a combine – or to continue into retirement. Most folks out in Hannover Township who aren't ill or blessed with unusual metabolism have more than ample body fat – insulation, if you will.

Food remains central to daily existence and the most important part of all social activity out in Oliver County to this day. When one went to someone's house for Sunday dinner (noonish) or for supper, one determined how much one ate – for the food was passed: one was responsible for what went on that huge empty plate, which was most often replenished two or three times. Then, after the table was cleared and there was visiting and card playing for a few hours, there was the obligatory lunch before one left – a hearty lunch of make-your-own sandwiches and kuchen and probably pie – no mere snack. In earlier times, when travel was done by horse and wagon or sleigh in the winter, visitors might stay most of the night, especially if there was music and dancing (no dancing among the devout Missouri-Synod Lutherans of Hannover Township, but plenty four to six miles away). Then there were three meals – the supper, a lunch, and a early breakfast before visitors left to get home to do chores.

The trencherman story I'll never forget comes not from Hannover Township but from the Black Hills of South Dakota by way of my old friend Charles Follette, whose father, like mine, was a dairyman. Charles' dad worked in the gold mine, and he knew a fellow who really took food seriously – in fact, he had a special lunch box forged – a small steel suitcase that could be padlocked. I may get a few details wrong – Charles will set me straight, I trust – but there did come one day that the fellow opened his lunch box wherein lay two dozen substantial hamburgers – quarter-pounders, at least. A guy who forgot his lunch approached the trencherman and asked for one of the cold burgers – and was turned away with the sincere regret, "I'm very sorry, but I barely packed enough for myself today."

Curious, indeed. The less I'm able to eat, the more I think about food – yea, dream about it. Speaking of dreams – 'twas a dream game, indeed, as reported by this morning's Bismarck Tribune, for Cleveland Indians young player Travis Hafner, who hails from the small town of Sykeston, North Dakota. Hafner hit for the cycle against the hapless, unfocussed Twins at the Metrodome yesterday afternoon – a single, a double, a triple, and a home run. 'Twas a nightmare game for my beloved Twins, the second loss and the loss of the series once more to Cleveland, a bunch of young guys with a great deal of spirit. Even the mostly amiable Twins manager Ron Gardenhire said that the 8-3 loss was "embarrassing. Embarrassing for our fans. We have guys with no clue. No clue what's going on out there." The boys are indeed lifeless and listless -- they look like bored veterans who could care less whether they get a hit or not. They ought to be ashamed of themselves – and if someone, in the words of Gardenhire, does start slapping his teammates up alongside the head and get their attention, the season will turn mightily sour. Boys, you had better get a grip on yourselves – or be prepared for mass desertion of your fans if you play like you did the last couple of games at Kansas City beginning tonight. If you don't give a . . . . why should your fans? We'll stick with you if you play, but we're not going to show up if all you do is show up. You don't get a salute this morning, fellows – no swig of grape or strawberry breeze for quitters of your ilk. Play ball or get off the team. We liked you better when you were young and eager like Travis Hafner, even though you lost a good deal back then – at least you came to play.

One of today's two birthday boys does get a big swallow – T.E. Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia (1888), that most extraordinary fellow who carried no extra weight and could focus his attention and energy like few who lived before or since his departure from the middle world in 1935. The movie of his life is in my all-time top-ten. His prose translation of Homer's Odyssey is the best I know. His devotion to learning was indeed legendary – howbeit the weest bit quirky at times – he would, for example, arrange things so that he could immediately resume reading after awakening from literally passing out while reading. 'Twas Lawrence who said, "All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible." I would be such a dangerous human, kola – and I wish the same for you. The fellow who gets no salute or swig of honor is Napoleon (1769) who lived on until 1821. Few caused as much misery for tens of thousands of his fellow humans as Napoleon Bonaparte, a little guy with big dreams of glory – always at the expense of someone else, more often than not, their very lives. 'Twas Napoleon who said, "When small men attempt great enterprises, they always end by reducing them to the level of their mediocrity." He did do as he said, kola.

Here's the toast of today – in fact, I'm going to have my morning pie with my strawberry breeze in a toast to Will Rogers who completed his passage in the middle world on this day in 1935, months short of his fifty-sixth birthday. He gave what I consider the finest advice of all time: "So live that you won't be ashamed to sell the family parrot to the town gossip." Hope today finds you in a place as beautiful as Dakota is today, unashamed of what your parrot might say, taking care of yourselves and looking out for each other, kola. And remember Roger's reminder: "We are all here for a spell, get all the good laughs you can."

Ev Albers

Thursday, August 14th, 2003

​'Twas in 1945 on this day that World War II ended when President Truman announced Japanese surrender – VJ Day. The birthday boy for this day was three years old back then – Dave Kubik, who hails from the St. Louis area now was out on the farm with his older brother Don and parents Al and Dorothy, along with baby sister Delores, who was about five months old. My spouse, Leslie, the younger sister of these three, didn't come along until a couple of years later – 1947, when the Kubik Clan moved to town in Dickinson from the farm twelve miles north out in Czech-settled area, east of New Hradec. Leslie's younger siblings are Janet Bleth and the late Joe Kubik. I'm less than five months older than Dave, who retired at a tender age a couple of years ago from McDonald Douglas where he worked as an engineer on the space program and other contracts. Years ago, we enjoyed running together when the Kubik Clan gathered for its annual summer reunion – beginning back over twenty-five years ago. We both have extensive collections of photographs – and I have videotape as well – of those grand events. A mild-mannered fellow with a passion for history, Dave is simply among the nicest guys I know – he proves conclusively that brother-in-law and friend are not necessarily mutually exclusive. He and his wife Sue have come up from St. Louis to visit us at Zion when I've gone there for my monthly treatment, and he calls Leslie at least every other day or so. Happy Birthday, Dave! Here's a swig of Strawberry Breeze followed by another of real coffee prepared for me this morning by my darling daughter Gretchen, who will soon be off to Lincoln to begin graduate school in history at the University of Nebraska – she's been home for a few weeks doing an internship at the State Historical Society– and it's been truly grand having her home.

Gretchen commiserates with me when the Twins lose, as they did in the fourteenth inning last night when Cleveland scored five without hitting a ball out of the infield. The boys had many chances – and Twins pitchers held the Indians to nothing for thirteen innings – then things fell apart. Kansas City won, so now the Twins are 3 and 1/2 behind the Royals. Boys, we can't let this happen again. I admit I wasn't there for the bitter end – I had to shut down the TV around the bottom of the 12th inning and didn't learn their fate until early this morning, so I have to accept partial responsibility for not lending telepathic support, the way I most often do. Just remember, world – the New York Mets were behind the Cubs nine and one-half games on this day in 1969, and they went on to win the World Series against the Baltimore Orioles. The catch phrase was, "You gotta believe." You do, boys, you do.

Today's also the birthday of Gary Larson (1950) who created Far Side -- my favorite cartoon series of all time. I'll not forget the one where an explorer sits at a rough wooden table with a nagging mother leaning over him – 'tis William Clark, and his mother says, "Lewis and Clark, Lewis and Clark, it's always Lewis and Clark." You won't find many Larson cartoons on the Internet – he wrote to all of those fans he knew were displaying them telling them that the next communication would be from a lawyer, because the cartoons were his "children" and he didn't want them out on unknown sites. What wondrous creations – remember the one with the cutline, "The Bluebird of Happiness long absent from his life, Ned is visited by the Chicken of Depression." Trust that such is not the case for you, this beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota, my kola. May it be as beautiful wherever you are as 'tis here, and may you take good care of yourselves and look out for each other.

And, Dave – your birthday really is on August 14 – we've checked the records here in Bismarck – lest you forget.

Ev Albers