Tuesday, January 20th, 2004

'Tis the weest bit nippy here near the shores of Lake Michigan just across the border from Wisconsin - Zion, Illinois where I go in today to try to continue to keep the insidious invader of Big C at bay. Just had my Prosure (super supplemental drink) for the day, a bit of Cranapple juice to toast all of you, and ready to prepare myself for a few needles, probes, specimen containers, and perhaps more. I'm happy to be here for not the happiest of reasons today - yesterday, after a fine morning, I did my high temp, chills and shakes routine a couple of times - so perhaps 'twill get at least a reason for it and possible remedies - at least for the short term.

We're all short-termers, of course - with passages here in the middle world so unpredictable in terms of time - but always not quite long enough for most of us - and we're all looking for an extension on our short-term leases on life under the best possible conditions. Among the best I can think of is to have that degree of tranquillity in body and soul that will allow me to write and work right up until the lease is up. I get help securing both here at Zion, where that bastion of hope and help for such as I - told by others to just go home and prepare to die - the Cancer Treatment Center of America here, the Midwestern Regional Medical Center. They been doing it for a full year - I first came here in January 2002 - with expectations of perhaps gaining a few months --of course, I want to be the exception to reasonable expectations - I want more, I have things to do.

This one, for this day back in 1952, perhaps falls into the category Why in the hell do I need to know that for anyway? Well, it is rather interesting. Patricia McCormick became the first professional bullfighter when she appeared in bout with two bulls in Ciudad Juarez, just across the border from San Diego. I have no idea what happened to Patricia, but I assume she fought more. In 1958, Elvis Presley got his draft notice - and in 1964, the very first Beatles album -- Meet the Beatles went on sale - by mid-February, the Beatles' album was number one - and Elvis was finishing up basic training.

On this day in 1930, the guy who will be eligible for full social security next January when he turns sixty-five, Buzz Alderin, was born. Buzz was an Edward Alderin, Jr. - but we all called him Buzz, and the buzz name of the year was his, for on July 16, 1969, he was part of the the first manned space flight to the moon, and he walked on its surface. Buzz is apparently doing all right these days - he had quite a bout with depression and alcoholism after his return - after all, when you've been to the moon, what's next? I'd like to know what he thinks of the revival of manned space travel to the moon and beyond - getting to Mars, for example. Unless there is technology out there that no one is telling us about, a human landing on Mars is damned near impossible - contrary to the rather optimistic pronouncement of George W. Bush, who says we're going. I really don't know enough to give anything more than an informed reader's opinion - but there are those who know Mars, who call Mars a friend, and who would dearly love to get there - but they all say that Mars ain't no little trip to the moon and back, baby. Sure hope they go to the bathroom before they leave --

That's a version, by the by, of the best advice Britain's King George V had for a reporter wanting to know what he had to pass on to his subjects and to the world (doubt that such was the occasion for his casual remark, but makes a great story) - King George, who died on this day in 1936 (he was born in 1865), said, "Always go to the bathroom when you have the chance." Another Englishman born who completed his passage in the middle world on this day - John Ruskin, who had journeyed here from 1819 until January 20, 1900, was chary of the results of the industrial revolution and the mechanization of the production of goods - Ruskin bemoaned, "There is hardly anything in the world that some man cannot make a little worse and sell a little cheaper." He was right - still right. Few and far in between are the exceptions of something made better and offered for less - but notable exceptions.

For example, 'tis mechanization that makes it possible to print books in Canada for around half of what it costs in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota, and just a fraction of what thousands of copies of full-color, gorgeously-printed books cost to print in the People's Republic of China. In both instances, the product is highly superior - and in the case of China, their cost of raw materials is much, much higher. Canada uses a far less labor-intensive process - one printer does the work of three or four in Dakota - but, China, I suspect, can afford to use many more technicians who are along the production line making sure everything goes all right.

Many have proclaimed that the days of the word printed on paper are numbered, that it will be replaced with electronic media. Poppycock! With every explosion in the use of electronic media, the number of books printed each year goes up - we will always, methinks, wish to have a permanent book in our hands, one that falls on our face when we drift off reading at night (or falls on our lower chest, demanding on the degree of near-sightedness and the vanity of the reader). I appreciate mightily the ability to search classical texts and books for a phrase I'm trying to find - I can't read a book on my computer, though. I'll listen to one on audio - but no reading a complete book on computer for me. I design and set up books on my computer - but I've not really read even those books on the screen - I make a mock-up and read the printed version before sending it off to the printer.

My current passion is Annie Proulix - and I'm loving Accordion Crimes -- it will be my companion this morning as I wait to see the doctor and find out whether I'm going to be doing another round of chemo this visit - if I do, 'twill begin this afternoon, I think, on this day of momentous happenings around the world - and I'm not talking about the State of the Union message by President Bush tonight or the win in Iowa by John Kerry announced this morning - I'm talking about such as Jimmy Dean no longer speaking for the sausage that carries his name (Jimmy Dean sausage is owned by Sara Lee - go figure); as the man in Indian who hid diamonds in a haystack and now is following his cow around to see in hopes of retrieving them when she "gets a chance to go to the bathroom"; and of the chimp at the Los Angeles Zoo who took a vacation - he went berserk, climbed the wall, and roamed where he would - and then voluntarily came home about an hour later; or of the flamingo found in a rustic shack with a wood stove in Siberia by railroad workers - there's no report about whether or not the lost flamingo started a fire - but I think the shack was being occupied by the railroad workers and they had the fire going.

Well, the fire's goin' here - heaters working overtime here at the fabulous Hawthorne - and 'tis dry heat - but that's not a problem for long, for I must hie meself to prepare for the day. Hope you find a shack with a fire goin' if your cold, kola - do take care of yourselves - and, of course, look out for each other. the reason we're here.

Ev Albers

Monday, January 19th, 2004

Monday morning at the fabulous Hermanson/Albers apartment they sublet from Mortimer and Ollie the cats, who are most quiet this early A.M. 'Tis nearly 1:00, an hour past midnight, and yet they sleep - so, so far, I'm staying out of trouble sitting here in the living room of this find accommodation on the eastern side of Madison, Wisconsin, where we arrived yesterday afternoon. I watched some of the ho-hum football playoffs (ah, but had Green Bay found a way to get to Philadelphia - where Carolina beat them badly yesterday) - all east coast Super Bowl, none of the good ole boys I know playing - ho-hum. Just can't get excited over such - now'll I'll have to wait for the opening of baseball season, which is but three months and a bit a way - in the meantime, hope that the Twins front office finds a way to put together a great pitching staff - that apparently will include the old/young guy Rick Helling, who does, in fact, hail from Dakota. 'Twas balmy as could be when we left Bismarck Saturday afternoon, but the wind got cooler and the temperature dropped as we went east - and say the thousands, nay, perhaps tens of thousands of vehicles lined up to get into balmy Dakota to sample a foretaste of paradise.

'Twas the same early yesterday morning, when we stopped at Leslie's niece Tanya's place - Tanya and her husband Colin Strathman have the most beautiful of young humans, a baby girl named Anna Louise, who is absolutely gorgeous - she's beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful, even more than the day in Dakota, where the colored radar map on the Weather channel site has my home in the weest purple for cool - hell, it's 1:00 A.M. and 4 degrees above zero! What more could one possibly ask? Anyway, as we traveled east over the Mississippi and on through Wisconsin, we saw the streams of vehicles with banners and placards - "Dakota Bound" and "Had Enough of Freezing my Ass Off in Connecticut - Going to Dakota, Heaven on Earth." I just don't know if we're adequately prepared for such in-migration - of course we'll find a way. We're neighborly, after all.

For many, this is a holiday - and a completely American one at that, sans strings to religious observations and unencumbered with the stuff that divides instead of brings us together - we wish. As sorry as many of the chapters in the treatment by the majority whites in this country of African Americans over the years are - and as cheerfully optimistic is the prospect of Martin Luther King's Dream speech becoming reality, the change to be "free at last, free at last" - we've the weest bit to go in terms of not judging our neighbors by the color or their skin or the way they shape their vowels - and some still consider the national observance in the name of Martin Luther King, Jr. an outrage, a tribute to a profligate, womanizing, trouble-making fellow who didn't know his place and didn't properly respect his superiors. Those who so whine and complain in barely-masked racial prejudice actually believe they are Dr. King's superior in morality and "doing what's right for the country." Fact is, we still have some of these folks out in Hannover Township and no few elsewhere in Oliver County and beyond in greater Dakota. Shame on us, and shame on all those who call themselves Americans who object to a day set aside to honor not such a single man who was that voice crying in the wilderness that eventually we all heard and responded to with the best of our humanity, but to reflect upon the worst we can be as we strive to be better.

'Twould appear from the beginning of reflection on who we are, how we got here, and to whence we should be going - the earliest humanities writings - there's pretty strong evidence that we humans have a strong need to identify ourselves in distinction from and superior to other humans - or, at least to something! In short, we've always found it difficult to feel good about ourselves unless we can look at some of our neighbors and shake our head in disgust or pity. I'm convinced, by such thinkers as Carl Jung, that this dark side is part of all of us and must be dealt with - 'tis a matter of finding way to let this "shadow" out without hurting others and dehumanizing ourselves in the process. That's one of the reasons we have professional sports and why we encourage and sustain rivalries - in a way, being a passionate Red Sox fan who loathes the Yankees keeps one out of far greater mischief. To a degree, political wrangling and the kind of political dissent and attempts to make distinctions between the philosophies of politicians is a harmless project of the shadow as well - despite Thomas Jefferson's sentiment that we should always show good humor and politeness. Fact is, there's something refreshingly honest about those fist-fights in the legislative sessions that occasionally break out in place like Taiwan - it's been a long time since there was a little fisticuffs in the Congress or Senate of the United States. Trouble comes when we move beyond the taunting - and that's as far as many "uncivilized" (I would read, "fully civilized") isolated tribes we learned about when New Guinea was first explored, for example - the opposing parties would stand in front of each other and trade insults and shake their weapons for an hour or so and then go home. Trouble comes when we decide the world would be a better place without the "enemy" on whom we've projected our shadow, or that steps must be taken to restrict her/his freedom and expression.

The greatness of Martin Luther King, Jr., includes of course his great rhetorical skill summarized so eloquently yesterday in Jane Ahlin's column in the Fargo Forum, but there's so much more - and, finally, quite simple: Martin Luther King, Jr. dedicated his life, his spirit, his heart, and his soul to an insistence that all human beings are worthy of the respect and dignity we would be accorded -- and, AND he managed to focus his enormous energy at accomplishing the securing of the respect and dignity for all people, regardless of color or sex. He was successful where some who went before were not because he was inclusive rather than focused just on African Americans - for example, Frederick Douglass in the mid-nineteenth century had a whole lot of women less than happy with him because he championed voting rights for male blacks and left behind half the population - in a mistaken, methinks, acceptance that equality for all would be asking too much.

I don't know how many videotapes of King's speech I'm brought back from trips to Washington over the years - or how many of those great posters. I know my darlin' daughter still has hers, and I think there must be dozens floating around the greater community somewhere - that's good. Fact is, the poster with the entire speech should be prominently displayed in every public place in the nation today - especially college and university cafeterias and snack bars. 'Tis one of the five greatest summaries of what is essential for the human spirit to thrive in the English language that has ever been delivered to a responding audience, live, with passion and the immediate promise that it was going to make a difference, all right: yes, it was going to and has made a difference.

We don't formally observe Martin Luther King, Jr. Day in North Dakota - 'tis not a state holiday, although schools are out, and we don't attempt to deliver the mail while the rest of the country waits until tomorrow - and at coffee klatches and general gossip in Dakota today, there's gonna be far too much of wondering why the holiday exists - something of protest out of ignorance instead of genuine prejudice, I'd guess - although all prejudice exists because available knowledge is ignored or shunned. Some folks are still upset, of course, by the outrage of a black American minister named Martin Luther King -- he who never pretended to subscribe to Lutheranism in any form, let alone the kind of toe-the-dot-on-the-eye-and-crossed-t of scripture, preferably Luther's translation, practiced by those who stand with the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod out in Hannover Township. The holiday problem is complicated because we have too many - I don't remember if we finally dropped "Good Friday" - don't think so. Only those who voted against its formal adoption can tell us for sure, but 'tis hard not to suspect reasons other than keeping state offices open while most of the rest of the nation observes Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. We really don't want to deal with establishing a North Dakota Civil Rights Commission, either.

I ran across the perfect summary of what humans at their best should be about as they live and work with each other in a social compact and as residents of a shared globe. Ironically, it comes from the pen of slave-holding Thomas Jefferson - who would have had to agree with everything Martin Luther King, Jr. said in that famous "I Have a Dream" speech and then wrestled with how he could avoid such as King stirring up problems - for Thomas Jefferson, finally, did not believe that what we have wrought since his time would ever be possible - black and white Americans living together in general harmony, with African Americans being recognized as Jefferson said he would all to a degree he never thought possible. In short, Thomas Jefferson believed that our sins against Africans were too great, our subjection of them so inhuman, that we would never be able to live together without violence that would essentially destroy one or the other. He was wrong - but he was right when he said,

Begin Jefferson Quote "God... has formed us moral agents . . . that we may promote the happiness of those with whom He has placed us in society, by acting honestly towards all, benevolently to those who fall within our way, respecting sacredly their rights, bodily and mental, and cherishing especially their freedom of conscience, as we value our own." --Thomas Jefferson to Miles King, 1814
End Jefferson Quote

No monument to a black American of the kind that so predominates our nation's capital in the way the Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials do exists, of course. It is entirely possible that, on the very day Thomas Jefferson was writing to Miles King, one of his overseers was finding it necessary to punish one of Jefferson's slaves - human beings who still part of his "property" on the day he died in 1824 on the Fourth of July - Jefferson's favorite holiday. A generation after Jefferson's death - and Jefferson believed that each generation should remake the country to suit the needs of the living - twenty-eight years after Jefferson died, Douglass still had to conclude (speech given in 1854):

Begin Douglass excerpt
At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argument, is needed. Oh! had I the ability, and could I reach the nation's ear, I would today pour out a fiery stream of biting ridicule, blasting reproach, withering sarcasm, and stern rebuke. For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. The feeling of the nation must be quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the nation must be exposed; and its crimes against God and man must be denounced.

What to the American slave is your Fourth of July? I answer, a day that reveals to him more than all other days of the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mock; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are to him mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy - a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation of the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of these United States at this very hour.
End Douglass Quote

I read with interest Jane Ahlin's note in her Fargo Forum column yesterday suggesting that Martin Luther King, Jr. perhaps changed his speech on his feet and responded to a request from Mahalia Jackson to "Tell us your dream." What a gift this woman has been to the human race! I wrote the second day of this journal which I began back on September 20, 2002 (see 9/21/02) about a great gift given to me by my old friend Ed Sahstrom almost forty years ago - 'twas an album of the Mahalia Jackson singing live at the Newport Jazz Festival - I highlighted "His Eye is on the Sparrow" back what will be sixteen months ago - aye, and I of such little faith, didn't in my wildest dreams think that I would be here enjoying time with my son and his wife and my lovin' spouse on January 19, 2004! I think it was on that album that Mahalia also sang the song with which we closed each day at St. Peter's Lutheran School out in Hannover back in the first term of President Ike (we all liked Ike) Eisenhower - I'll track down Mahalia singing this one, for 'tis going on my CD of sixteen songs I would take to a desert island - given this new lease on life - or perhaps pack so it's ready - (later instead of sooner) - to go with me beyond this middle world. 'Tis still with me:

"Evening Prayer"

If I have wounded any soul today
If I have caused one foot to go astray
If I have walked in my own willful way
Dear Lord, forgive.

If I have uttered idle words of vain
If I have turned aside from want or pain
Lest I myself shall suffer through the strain
Dear Lord, forgive.

Forgive the sins I have confessed to Thee
Forgive the secret sins I do not see
O guide me, love me and my keeper be
Dear Lord, my prayer.

If I have wounded any soul today
If I have caused one foot to go astray
If I have walked in my own willful way
Dear Lord, forgive.

Another cut will, of course, be Richard Kiley singing "The Impossible Dreams." I'm eager to hear yours - instead of forcing you to choose one CD as I so foolishly did - construct a CD of sixteen cuts - I'll get it set up on the webboard later this week and let all of you know when it's ready.

I'm borrowing sense if not phrases from OMF, Thomas Matthew McGrath, on this day of reflection. If I've come to understand but one important principle about peaceful coexistence with loved ones and then with the world of humans beyond, 'tis this: one wounds another's soul at the expense of scabbing her/his own, and once even part of one's soul is scabbed over, the possibilities of treating others as something less than human increase. Is there redemption, can scabs be removed? Yes - and that's the work of the infinite grace of love and friendship - the kind you, my dear kola, have extended to me.

I suppose we should make nodding acknowledgement to the memory of a couple of humans who thought deeply about this subject - Robert E. Lee (1807) and Edgar Allen Poe (1809) - the later once said, "I have great faith in fools - self confidence, my friends call it." Such is my faith, at times --but, as the great spiritual leader of Japan, Dogen, born on this day in 1200, "Do not think that you will necessarily be aware of your own enlightenment."

Do take care of yourselves, look to those scabs on your soul as I try to tackle what's become layers on mine - and bring a bit of laughter and love to all those you meet as you seek to look out for each other.

Ev Albers

Sunday, January 18th, 2004

​Sunday, in Roseville, near St. Paul, at the fabulous eight-star hostel for weary travelers, the famous Kubik/Meyers Manor, home of Joy Meyers and her partner, my brother-in-law, Don Kubik. We formally dined on prime rib, mashed potatoes, carrots and asparagus along with fresh rolls upon our arrival at about 7:00 or so last night - with good stories, laughter, and a good bit of love - Joy, Don, Joy's son Mark, Leslie and I had a good time. Then, of course, I had to go to bed - I awoke this morn to find my friend Don still in the recliner, snoozing whilst the history channel continues its morning offerings. 'Tis Sunday morn, after all - in fact, Don can damn well snooze pretty anywhere he wants - he won't get any complaint from me. When I rose this morning, the best of coffee just had to be turned on, there's a blueberry pie with quite a delicate crust awaiting my attention, and it's warm and wonderful in this grand manor. Aye, life is grand, kola - life is grand. Nothing like a bit of blueberry pie to start the day on the right track - and since I was most modest in my partaking of the feast last night - I'm in fine fettle - especially because my friend Joy found me a fruitcake with tons of the stuff most folks hate in it - a bit of which both preceded and followed her wondrous meal. Aye, there's nothing like a bit of fruitcake in the evening after a long drive - it restoreth the body and quickens the very soul, kola. I recommend it highly. I'm not so sure that fruitcake wasn't brought to us by visitors from another galaxy, 'tis such a grand concoction.

Today, of course, is the very one in 1644 that the Pilgrims in the American colonies reported a UFO - the very first recorded instance of the phenomenon in America. What you really don't need to know about, anyway is that colonists saw their first polar bear on this day in 1733. Polar bears wouldn't be much at home had they visited Dakota yesterday - 'twas a glorious day when we left beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Bismarck about 12:30 P.M. - took me that long to get enough work done so my lovin' spouse could ferry me eastward to this bastion of grace and hospitality, to say nothing of good humor and good will. As we traveled through Fergus Falls, there was clear skies and a snow squall - from whence it came, I know not. Today's ear worm (a song that keeps on cycling ever gentle, sometimes not so gentle, on in your mind's ear) is "Jeepers, Creepers" - recorded on this day by Louis Armstrong and his orchestra - "Jeepers, creepers, where'd you get those peepers? Jeepers, creepers, where'd you get those eyes?" sang Satchmo. Then there's the weest bit of "Gosh, oh golly" - so there must be a jolly there as well. Tell you the truth, I'm feeling pretty jolly today - we'll be traveling on to my sonny boy's palace - the place Albert Otto & Bobbi are allowed - grudgingly at times - to share with Morty & Ollie, the cats who rule the grand apartment they pay handsome rent for in west Madison, Wisconsin.

Four years after he recorded "Jeepers, Creepers," Satchmo joined the ilk of Lionel Hampton, Benny Goodman, and Artie Shaw in the first-ever jazz concert at Carnegie Hall in New York. What a night that must have been! I'm sure they sounded the weest bit better than many of the acts on The Original Amateur Hour, which debuted on television for what would be a twenty-two year run somewhere on the telly - the first shows were hosted by Ted Mack, of course - and he introduced such future stars as Pat Boone and Teresa Brewer - neither of whom could come close to Satchmo in his worst form (in my humble opinion, of course). I can't remember the last time I listened to Pat Boone sing an entire song. Now there's a bit of good fortune for ye, kola.

What is worth noting is something that happened in the White House on this day in 1968. I remember hearing about it in a 'umble cottage my friend Charles Follette and I shared as graduate students at Colorado State University in Ft. Collins. 'Twas tumultuous times - I recall Norman Mailer leading a peace march that spring, I think (Charles will set me straight, because that boy kept journals) down the streets of Ft. Collins - to jeers and threats of violence from many of the good citizens of that university town. 'Twas the spring that we were in the big house - where dwelt our patron professor, Robert Allen, III, and his nephew - when the phone rang - I answered: 'twas Hubert Humphrey himself calling to drum up support - "I'd be tickled pink if you could send us a few dollars," said Hubert. But, I digress. 'Twas on this day thirty-six years past that Lady Bird Johnson entertained Eartha Kitt and others at a luncheon to discuss urban crime and what in the hell should be done about it, anyway. Kitt told Lady Bird that the problem was one of youth rebelling against her husband's war in Vietnam - that they were not only screaming, "Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today"; they also were robbing and mugging, looting and raping in protest to a war against people of color - Mrs. Johnson was not amused, if I recall.

Which reminds me - someone wrote a note the other day wondering whether or not Thomas Jefferson actually wrote or said, "Dissent is the highest form of patriotism." I don't know, but he certainly is credited with the quote on hundreds of web sites. Social historian Howard Zinn says he can find no such phrase in the writings of Jefferson - nor could I after several hours of searching through his letters and literary works - nearly all of which are on the Internet and searchable to boot. Contrary to his reputation as a supporter of violent revolution, Jefferson avoided confrontation whenever possible - and he did not cotton to public dissent with the government during his presidency. In fact, he did write in 1809, "While the principles of our Constitution give just latitude to inquiry, every citizen faithful to it will deem embodied expressions of discontent and open outrages of law and patriotism as dishonorable as they are injurious." Jefferson would not have approved of Eartha Kitt causes such a stir at Lady Bird's luncheon in 1968. 'Tis infinitely curious, methinks, to ponder what Jefferson would have to say about our invasion of Iraq - and the strong possibility that he may not have dismissed it out of hand. Of course, the third president took quite a different tack when he was commenting on other politicians than he did in response to criticism of his own policies. Ah, but what a talent for what John Adams called "felicity of expression" - what a wordsmith TJ was.

Today is also the anniversary - the fifty-fourth - of an incredible act of unselfishness by one of the great baseball players of all time; on this very day, Bob Feller told the Cleveland Indians to cut his salary from $65,000 to $45,000 because he won but one game more than he lost - his record was 15-14. Feller may well be the only professional athlete to ask for a pay cut - ever. Today, batboys and batgirls are probably paid more (I have no idea whether they are paid or not) - but I do know that, even given fifty-four years of considerable inflation during many a decade, there are players who make more in less than a week than Feller did the entire year.

Today, actor Kevin Costner - whom I tolerated in Open Range because of the great work of my favorite actor, Robert Duvall - celebrates the last birthday of his 40s - he's headed for the Big 50 next year. Personally, methinks he likes himself the weest bit too much - but I'll say no more, lest my kola suspect a bit of jealousy - not so, kola, not so. I'll even take a sip of the fine grape juice served up at the Meyers/Kubik manor in toast to him - but down a huge swig to honor the life and work of Peter Roget (born 1779, lived more than eighty years), the guy who did the famous thesaurus - one or more versions of which have probably been in continuous print for more than 200 years. What most folks don't know is that Pete was a genius - he also invited the slide rule. What a guy!

Two hundred and one years ago this very day, our mutual friend Thomas Jefferson send a secret message to Congress requesting $2,500 to send an expedition to the newly-purchased Louisiana - all the way to the Pacific. Thus was set in motion the grandest of American adventures, one celebrated mightily by Dakotans - for 'twas in our place that the Corps of Discovery spent many a day and night - including the long winter of 1804-1805, when whiskey froze and the men were frost-bit in their toes and other extremities - and learned what they desperately needed to know about where they were headed from those living in the center of civilization in a thriving trading/agricultural series of villages that was the metropolis of the new land west of the Missouri - had been for a century or more. Without the help of the Mandan and Hidatsa, Lewis and Clark would have never made it to the Pacific and back -- or made it through the winter, for that matter. The year before, they were miserable at Camp Wood outside of the tiny town (in comparison to the Mandan/Hidatsa villages) of St. Louis - a bunch of young men bored and restless. The year after, at Ft. Clatsop near the Pacific Ocean, they were even more miserable in the wet and rainy climate - their happiest time was that which they spent with the finest of hosts - Mandan/Hidatsa hospitality rivals the generosity of the Meyers/Kubik manor.

'Tis time, my friends, for a bit of breakfast and preparation for continuation of our journey east and south - eventual destination, Zion and another round of help in keeping the insidious invader, the Big C, at bay for the weest bit more. Take care of yourselves, kola - and look out for each other - as Jefferson so often insisted, treat your neighbors - around the world - as you would have them afford you respect for your dignity and your way of life.

Ev Albers

Saturday, January 17th, 2004

One more intense morning of work this Saturday A.M., and my lovin' spouse will escort me out of town, out of beauuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota where the heat wave is such that folks are thinking of hitting the beaches and going out for a few rounds of golf – temperatures are likely to soar to 40 degrees – almost ten degrees above freezing. Almost too marvelous to leave, this paradise. All is quiet at 1001 Arthur Drive, here within a bit of a jog to the Missouri River – probably too much of a walk for me, but I'm working up to it. We're Zion bound, of course – with a stop at the Kubik Manor in Roseville – that great suburb of St. Paul where we'll see Leslie's brother Don and his partner Joy Meyers and delight in unsurpassed hospitality – I must be about the business of finishing a couple of reports to the state of Council fellows with the help of the indefatigable Jerry Tweton, senior consultant to the Council tomorrow morn, and then, away we go!

My little war with the insidious invader goes quite well of late – just in time to begin more treatment on Tuesday morning, January 20 – so will have time and energy to write a bit and finish some projects enroute and during a Sunday-Monday stay with our dear son and his darlin' spouse – Albert Otto and Bobbi Hermanson-Albers. Life is good, kola – I'm taking solid food and tasty nourishment and the recurring Battle of the Bowels see-saws, but I'm gonna win the current one – my weapons to prevent ass destruction via diarrhea (now who writes about such private matters in a public journal?) – so to speak – are the trio of Lomotil (Lonox), Imodium, and Kaopectate. Now, I'm reading reports that anti-diarrhea medications can cause dementia – hell, I came into this middle world nuttier than a fruitcake, so I really don't need to deteriorate any further. I suppose I have mentioned this more than once, but truly, extreme departures from a reasonable evacuation schedule is most disturbing to this all-too-Germanic son of Herman – one of life's greatest blessings is not to worry about such as diarrhea and constipation and the associated discomfort – nay, sometimes pain. As I noted a year ago near the end of the first round of chemo treatment at the Midwestern Regional Medical Center, that marvelous Cancer Treatment Center of America at Zion, another problem – not for me, but for those around me, especially my lovin' spouse -- and that's a particularly disagreeable form of flatulence. That a reasonably rational, mature (in years if not in actually moving beyond adolescence) man should be preoccupied with such is a bit disturbing – that I'm describing it for the world suggests a simple lack of good taste. I know it, but I simply cannot help myself. Genug -- "enough" – sufficient for a month or so is such scatological meanderings.

My nomination for the greatest farewell speech given by an outgoing president is Dwight David (Ike, whom we all liked a lot out in Hannover Township) Eisenhower, who on this day, January 16, in 1961 prayed without praying and warned against the rise of that which surely controls United States foreign policy and this country's approach to problem solving. Ike warned against what he called the "military-industrial complex," the partnership between the professional military and those private corporations who produce the weapons of war and the command the production of the natural resources necessary to make keep the machines of war in motion, such as oil – as well as the design and construction of such marvelous innovations as nuclear reactors and defensive manufacture of chemical and biological weapons. Ah, Ike, as 'twas said in true Dan Quayleian/Yogi Berraian "Huh???" fashion of another president, "Were Ike alive today, he would be rolling around in his grave." He would very much approve of the breakdown of the Soviet Union – but be totally aghast, methinks, at how we went to war in Iraq and what we will spend in limited resources to rebuild what we destroyed. Ike's prayer did not invoke Jesus Christ, refer to a specific religion, or particularize a deity in any way. He simply said, "We pray that people of all faiths, all races, all nations . . . will come to live together in a peace guaranteed by the binding force of mutual respect and love."

Ah, kola, what a simple, profound hope for his country Ike offered! What a contrast with those some forty years later who call upon God to help them defeat their enemies, to help America in war and destruction.

'Tis the birthday of a great American who simply was too busy – and perhaps too wise – to ever aspire to the presidency of the United State – Benjamin Franklin, born on this day in 1706. He shares a birthdate – the day, not the year – with a motley crew, indeed – Russian playwright Anton Chekov (1860), Russian acting mavin Stanislavski (1863), gangster and killer Al Capone (1899), actor Rock Hudson (1925) former Chicago Cubs manager and recent New York Yankees assistant manager Don Zimmer (1931), and former heavyweight boxing champion Muhammad Ali (1942). Then there's Betty White (1922) – who celebrates her eighty-second birthday today – and Eartha Kitt (1927) – she's seventy-six. Makes one wonder – what stars aligned near the Ides of April all those different years to bring about the conception of such luminaries and ne'er-do-wells? What a curious group of fellow travelers in the middle world – who often uttered statements as inane as other wisdom they offered was profound – for example, Don Zimmer once observed of his Cubs' record of 4-4 at one time, "It just as easily could have gone the other way." Or Muhammad Ali's assessment of his work: "It's just a job. Grass grows, birds fly, waves pound the sand. I just beat people up."

One would do well to read a bit of Franklin at least once a month or so, methinks – what a life-affirming, freedom-loving, tolerant attitude he brought to his passage here in the middle world. For example, he spent a good deal of money – and he did not throw around money carelessly – helping build churches of different denominations in his beloved Philadelphia – he given arranged for the construction of a house of worship for all those who belonged to a group too small to have their own. Utterly convinced that the future of the country depended mightily upon recognition of religious differences and respect for plurality, Franklin practiced what Ike prayed on this day in 1961. A couple of years ago (1999), Kerry S. Walters wrote a book titled Bejamin Franklin and His Gods. After looking at everything, the author concluded that he appeared to hold all the contradictory religious views people continue to believe he held -- from orthodox Christianity to Deism, from a polytheist to what Walters calls a "perspective theist," something of a Hindu who doesn't necessary find God in all of creation – a Hindu who isn't a pantheist. While Walters offers some interesting ideas, Franklin is much more understandable than most orthodox Christians would like – he was, for the most part, a Deist – a believer (like Jefferson) in a God who created the middle world and humans and has left them to work things out without direct intervention. Franklin had great problems with the admirable Jesus of Nazareth's divinity – but he did seem to accept the notion of a world beyond this middle one and an afterlife where virtue will be rewarded and vice punished – although he never spoke of specifics. I'm sitting here in the overwhelmingly Christian community of Bismarck where too many folks consider it their moral responsibility to keep the Ten Commandments on granite monuments in public parks and places, where a majority of citizens would welcome the opportunity to open the day in public schools with a prayer that calls upon Jesus Christ, and where few would subscribe to Franklin's reasoned yet hopeful personal religious views and his insistence that religion remain a private matter and never be introduced into the affairs of civil government. In a letter to Ezra Stiles, 9 March 1790 , Franklin wrote,

Begin Franklin Letter
I believe in one God, creator of the universe. That he governs it by his Providence. That he ought to be worshiped. That the most acceptable service we render to him is doing good to his other children. That the soul of man is immortal, and will be treated with justice in another life respecting its conduct in this. These I take to be the fundamental principles of all sound religion, and I regard them as you do in whatever sect I meet with them.

As to Jesus of Nazareth, my opinion of whom you particularly desire, I think the system of morals, and his religion, as he left them to us, the best the world ever saw, or is likely to see; but I apprehend it has received various corrupting changes, and I have, with most of the present dissenters in England some doubts as to his divinity; tho' it is a question I do not dogmatize upon, having never studied it, and think it needless to busy myself with it now, when I expect soon an opportunity of knowing the truth with less trouble. I see no harm, however, in its being believed, if that belief has the good consequence, as it probably has, of making his doctrines more respected and better observed; especially as I do not perceive that the Supreme takes it amiss, by distinguishing the unbelievers in his government of the world with any particular marks of his displeasure.

I shall only add, respecting myself, that, having experienced the goodness of that being in conducting me prosperously thro' a long life, I have no doubt of its continuance in the next, though without the smallest conceit of meriting such goodness. My sentiments on this head you will see in the copy of an old letter enclosed, which I wrote in answer to one from a zealous religionist, whom I had relieved in a paralytic case by electricity, and who, being afraid I should grow proud upon it, sent me his serious though rather impertinent caution.

P.S.... I confide that you will not expose me to criticism and censure by publishing any part of this communication to you. I have ever let others enjoy their religious sentiments, without reflecting on them for those that appeared to me unsupportable and even absurd. All sects here, and we have a great variety, have experienced my good will in assisting them with subscriptions for building their new places of worship; and as I have never opposed any of their doctrines, I hope to go out of the world in peace with them all.
End Franklin Letter

We Americans have never been very good at respecting others' religious views – I'm trying to imagine a Jerry Falwell, Pat Robinson – or even a Jimmy Carter writing a letter like Franklin's. Nor do we have much respect for national sovereignty if it gets in the way of our insatiable need for the natural resources of this middle world. 'Twas on this day in 1893, for example, that Sanford Ballard Dole and a group of sugar producers in the Kingdom of Hawaii overthrew Queen Liliuokalani – with the help of 300 U.S. Marines – 'twas nothing personal, but Dole wanted the island to grow sugar and pineapple, and he didn't want to bother with a government that might not totally support his policies. Dole and the Republicans tried to simply "annex" the island – but most Democrats in Congress opposed the action after they learned that the native Hawaiians weren't at all interested. Dole had his way – and eventually the need for the strategic base of Pearl Harbor during the Spanish-American War brought general support for annexation – which the United States did whether the Hawaiians wanted it or not.

Today is also the birthday of the all-American John Jacob Astor – the man who epitomizes the American Dream – wealth at any cost to the environment or to most of those who travel in the middle world. Born in 1763, Astor, the son of a German butcher, arrived in New York with a bunch of flutes he hoped to sell (and did). He died in 1848 with an estate worth about $20 million – America's richest man up to that time. Unlike Andrew Carnegie, Astor didn't give away much – he left it to his family. The Astors of 2004 in the United States are but a fraction of 1 percent of the population – and they control some 90 percent of the wealth of the richest country that has existed in the middle world – but in no social compact, at any time, has the distance between the have and have-nots been greater.

True wealth, of course, cannot be measured by property or money in the bank alone. Moreover, the miserly and too-frugal are anything but wealthy – as Franklin said, "Wealth is not his that has it, but his that enjoys it."

True wealth is finding that peace that comes from being the best possible neighbor to all of our fellow travelers – unless we can begin to appreciate the ideas and views of others, we are but impoverished beggars. As Franklin put it, "A man wrapped up in himself makes a very small bundle." We, my kola, are big packages, indeed, who take care of ourselves and our spiritual needs by reaching out to others – looking out for each other. More than money in the bank, a warm house and fine food, we need music, books, and new ideas – then we have come "home," for as Franklin said, " A house is not a home unless it contains food and fire for the mind as well as the body." Take care, kola – take special care of yourselves, especially your souls, lest they be scabbed by religious intolerance or greed for more than we need or could possibly ever use of the limited resources of our middle world.

Ev Albers

Friday, January 16th, 2004

Yup, gonna be a nice day. That's the Dakota laconic way of saying it's already a beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota and promises to get better – yesterday was almost like a return to the best of our great autumns or a hint of a great warm, but not to dry, spring to come. A productive day until late afternoon for me – worked on a publication for the first upcoming fellowship programs at the Heritage Center here in Bismarck – 'twill be on Sunday, February 1 and will feature someone who has devoted no small part of her professional career to studying the North Dakota Indian societies and government policy toward American Indians during the transition phase to reservations. This program will be about a particular boarding school for Indian children ran by the Episcopalian Church just across the North Dakota border at Wakpala on the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation (the reservation is in both states at our south-central, South Dakota's north-central border). The mission, of course, was to "civilize" the American Indian – and to save her/his soul in the process, I suppose. There was a heavy emphasis on "industrial" skills – read common labor for the most part.

Anyway, by late afternoon, about 3:30 P.M., I ran out of gas, so to speak (not literally, I fear) and had to come home and cocoon in three or four blankets in order to get beyond the shakes and shivers. My dear friends at that bastion of hope for those of us struggling with insidious invaders of the Big C variety tell me to attack a sometimes result of the chemotherapy – far too many trips to the bathroom for evacuation – with everything I can find – not just Imodium, but Lomotil as well – and a bit of Kaopectate for good measure. I had been just taking Lomotil – but my lovin' spouse -- who keeps track of all things, someway, somehow, when I'm in chemo fog after treatment, the usual time one is given all of these instructions – found the sheet detailing these instructions. Of course, if the situation becomes enough of a nuisance, the trade-off is some rather heavy napping – checking out from time even as one sits at one's desk. So the trick will be getting through this day – so far, very good – at the top of my desk-top publishing game with help from my friend Jerry Tweton and his wife Paula – and my spouse, Leslie – and the two fellows whose reports to the state I'll be putting out before the sun sets today.

Enough of what I'm beginning to think of as the "Butt Bidness" – with all its buts. In order to not complicate our journey tomorrow, I'll load up and nap the day away as Leslie takes the wheel and argues with a Rush Limbaugh repeat on our way to Madison, Wisconsin, where my son lives enroute to Zion and more chemo – don't know if we'll do it in a single day this time – depends upon how much gets done with my work on one of the Humanities Council's signature events, the annual presentations by the Larry Remele Memorial Fellows and whether I need a bit of time on Saturday morning for wrap-up.

Yesterday was, of course, Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday – but it's celebrated as a national holiday on Monday – not in Dakota, where we continue to flaunt the unfairness of officially recognizing both Christmas and Good Friday as holidays. As I wrote a year past (see 1/16/03 by selecting above), this is a day to commemorate the strongest element of our social compact, the singular principle that has allowed all of us from us different ethnic traditions and holding such contradictory religious beliefs to live together in reasonable harmony. This is, indeed, officially, Religious Freedom Day in the United States, this January 16 – for it was on this day 218 years ago that the state of Virginia adopted Thomas Jefferson's Statute for Religious Freedom, arguably the contribution he made to his country that most pleased him (he wanted three listed on his tombstone, including the Statute for Religious Freedom, the Declaration of Independence, and the founding of the University of Virginia.

It saddens me deeply that so many well-meaning women and men of deep religious faith find Jefferson's great outline of what there should not be a closer relationship between religious practice and government policy and activity in our pluralistic country – for their very objections on some nebulous ground that we are a Christian nation who needs "God" on our side begs for the kind of establishment of official religion that is bound to compromise the rights of others, especially freedom of conscience. There's every good reason to embrace Jefferson's principles and no compelling arguments against them, be we Southern Baptists, Moslem, Buddhist, Catholic, Lutheran – whatever. If you have time (if you don't, take time), read Jefferson's words carefully – (this well may be the most important words ever posted on this web site):

Virginia Statute for Religious Freedom
by Thomas Jefferson
Whereas Almighty God hath created the mind free; that all attempts to influence it by temporal punishments or burthens, or by civil incapacitations, tend only to beget habits of hypocrisy and meanness, and are a departure from the plan of the Holy author of our religion, who being Lord both of body and mind, yet chose not to propagate it by coercions on either, as it was in his Almighty power to do; that the impious presumption of legislators and rulers, civil as well as ecclesiastical, who being themselves but fallible and uninspired men, have assumed dominion over the faith of others, setting up their own opinions and modes of thinking as the only true and infallible, and as such endeavouring to impose them on others, hath established and maintained false religions over the greatest part of the world, and through all time; that to compel a man to furnish contributions of money for the propagation of opinions which he disbelieves, is sinful and tyrannical; that even the forcing him to support this or that teacher of his own religious persuasion, is depriving him of the comfortable liberty of giving his contributions to the particular pastor, whose morals he would make his pattern, and whose powers he feels most persuasive to righteousness, and is withdrawing from the ministry those temporary rewards, which proceeding from an approbation of their personal conduct, are an additional incitement to earnest and unremitting labours for the instruction of mankind; that our civil rights have no dependence on our religious opinions, any more than our opinions in physics or geometry; that therefore the proscribing any citizen as unworthy the public confidence by laying upon him an incapacity of being called to offices of trust and emolument, unless he profess or renounce this or that religious opinion, is depriving him injuriously of those privileges and advantages to which in common with his fellow-citizens he has a natural right; that it tends only to corrupt the principles of that religion it is meant to encourage, by bribing with a monopoly of worldly honours and emoluments, those who will externally profess and conform to it; that though indeed these are criminal who do not withstand such temptation, yet neither are those innocent who lay the bait in their way; that to suffer the civil magistrate to intrude his powers into the field of opinion, and to restrain the profession or propagation of principles on supposition of their ill tendency, is a dangerous fallacy, which at once destroys all religious liberty, because he being of course judge of that tendency will make his opinions the rule of judgment, and approve or condemn the sentiments of others only as they shall square with or differ from his own; that it is time enough for the rightful purposes of civil government, for its officers to interfere when principles break out into overt acts against peace and good order; and finally, that truth is great and will prevail if left to herself, that she is the proper and sufficient antagonist to error, and has nothing to fear from the conflict, unless by human interposition disarmed of her natural weapons, free argument and debate, errors ceasing to be dangerous when it is permitted freely to contradict them:
Be it enacted by the General Assembly, That no man shall be compelled to frequent or support any religious worship, place, or ministry whatsoever, nor shall be enforced, restrained, molested, or burthened in his body or goods, nor shall otherwise suffer on account of his religious opinions or belief; but that all men shall be free to profess, and by argument to maintain, their opinion in matters of religion, and that the same shall in no wise diminish enlarge, or affect their civil capacities.

And though we well know that this assembly elected by the people for the ordinary purposes of legislation only, have no power to restrain the acts of succeeding assemblies, constituted with powers equal to our own, and that therefore to declare this act to be irrevocable would be of no effect in law; yet we are free to declare, and do declare, that the rights hereby asserted are of the natural rights of mankind, and that if any act shall be hereafter passed to repeal the present, or to narrow its operation, such act shall be an infringement of natural right.

End Jefferson's "Statute for Religious Freedom"

The document, introduced by Jefferson protégé James Madison, became the basis of the United State Bill Rights amendments to the Constitution, especially the First Amendment, and the guiding principle of our efforts to prevent what Jefferson so eloquently, with great felicity of expression, said were " the impious presumption of legislators and rulers, civil as well as ecclesiastical, who being themselves but fallible and uninspired men, have assumed dominion over the faith of others, setting up their own opinions and modes of thinking as the only true and infallible, and as such endeavouring to impose them on others. . . ."

But, surely this isn't happening in the United States several years into the twenty-first century, is it? It most certainly is, to our impending doom as a free and open society of the kind of toleration necessary to any semblance of domestic tranquility. As Jefferson points out in the preamble, the United States government compromises my freedom of religious with every cent it offers a specific religious group from the common treasury, for one thing – and that, kola, as a few inspired and completely alert Supreme Court justices have insisted upon – includes everything from school vouchers for parents to send their children to parochial schools to a federal grant to a student to study for the ministry of a particular denomination – in fact, I'm not at all sure that Jefferson, certainly – and those of us who guard our religious freedom as our most precious right – shouldn't be very concerned about guaranteed federal loans for students to attend religious institutions of higher learning.

Closing up government and officially recognizing Good Friday as a public holiday is an especially grievous departure from the hard-won principle of toleration and and separation outlined by Jefferson in the Statute -- in effect, it demands general public awareness of and acceptance that Jesus of Nazareth left the middle world and then came back three days later – no long flesh and blood, but he came back. Whether you or I, kola, believe this, is our own business. The outrage is that the state says, in effect, we think that you should believe this.

Had I but world enough and time, I might consider running for a local office – say park district – with an agenda that included removal of all such as the Ten Commandments from all public places and the placement of that great paragraph from the Statute proper:
No man [human being or citizen] shall be compelled to frequent or support any religious worship, place, or ministry whatsoever, nor shall be enforced, restrained, molested, or burthened in his body or goods, nor shall otherwise suffer on account of his religious opinions or belief; but that all men shall be free to profess, and by argument to maintain, their opinion in matters of religion, and that the same shall in no wise diminish enlarge, or affect their civil capacities.
Thomas Jefferson, Virginia Statute of Religious Freedom, 1786

What does this mean? What it says. Take a tenth of a cent of my tax dollar and give it to someone to propagate a particular religious view, and you have violated my most precious – and Jefferson argues in the last clause – most essentially natural right. Of course, this is not politically popular in 2004 – nor is subscription to the basic premise of religious freedom. Our presidents pray – and make nearly a pharisaical production of making sure the nation knows that they are praying to the right God at public prayer breakfasts. In order to be elected president of the United States in 2004, it would appear necessary to get into the Jesus Bidness in a big way – to have a chance in the South, candidates are almost obliged to offer some sort of version of the Apostle's Creed as part of their qualifications for office, especially the part that goes, "and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord: Who was conceived of the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into hell. The third day He arose again from the dead. He ascended into heaven and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty, whence He shall come to judge the living and the dead."

Our social compact cannot last if we continue to demand that our presidents and presidential candidates wear their religion on their sleeves and conduct civil affairs and make civil decisions because of religious convictions in conflict with those of other citizens. We may well evolve into a different society – and 'twas Jefferson, after all, who insisted that "The earth belongs to the living" and that we should revise our Constitution every twenty years or so. It is entirely possible that we will find ourselves writing Christianity and a version of the "Apostle's Creed" into the U.S. Constitution – or peck away at individual freedom by insisting that the covenants of marriage as recognized by Christianity become the law of the land by way of Constitutional amendment, etc., etc., etc.

The humanities scholar always asks, "Why are we so bent on what would to a rational mind like Jefferson and Madison's appear a recipe for disaster?" First, people of enormous good will and the best of intentions believe that those who do not accept the principles of their religion are doomed to eternal damnation – they are really trying, some of them, to keep the rest of us from having to burn in hell forever and ever. Second, 'tis all-too-human, this unlimited thirst for power, for being able to not only tell others what to do but how to think. We are, in general, talkers, not listeners; we are, in fact, people of faith instead of reason, for the most part.

And we're a folk with an enormous capacity for betting on the pie in the sky rather than a modest slice in the fridge. We're a "tomorrow" people – "things get better, by and by" – "when the work gets done nest Fall" or when it rains this Spring or when the import bans on United States beef are lifted or when they find a miraculous cure of pancreatic cancer or when the Iraqis bring in all their weapons and the whole country accepts Jesus Christ as their personal Savior overnight – let's throw in Al Qaida while we're at it. And if all of this doesn't work – well, there's that great Rapture for many citizens with deep religious convictions.

The ludicrous – and not-all-that-humorous – implication of departing from the Jeffersonian principles on this January 16, Religious Freedom Day 2004, is the Reverend Pat Robinson announces that God told him he wanted George W. Bush to be reelected president and that it would happen – with the unmistakable corollary that Republicans were mostly Christian and Democrats much more wishy-washy in their religious conviction.

As Garrison Keillor once more reminds us this year in his Writer's Almanac, today is the birthday of Robert Service, who entered the middle world in England on this day in 1874. He's best know for his poems "The Cremation of Sam McGee" and the "Shooting of Dan McGraw" – long, long poems that some folks out in Oliver County (but not in Hannover Township, I don't think) memorized on our tropical winter nights to keep their minds off the heat. I do know that my brother-in-law Jim Harrison's Aunt Nona Young could do the entire poems with great vigor and enthusiasm, but she was from South Dakota. Jim's aunt hailed from western South Dakota – that's where he came from as well – Anyway, I last heard Jim's aunt, who was getting on in years back then (she has since left the middle world – I don't know if she was cremated or not) at a Christmas about a decade ago, regale us with the complete works. 'Twas wonderful. Not too many folk know Service's "Ballad of a Bohemian. I like the prelude – 'tis what I do, probably worse some of Service's verse:

Begin "Prelude" selection for Service's "Ballad of a Bohemian"
So come, good men who toil and tire,
Who smoke and sip the kindly cup,
Ring round about the tavern fire
Ere yet you drink your liquor up;
And hear my simple songs of earth,
Of youth and truth and living things;
Of poverty and proper mirth,
Of rags and rich imaginings;
Of cock-a-hoop, blue-heavened days,
Of hearts elate and eager breath,
Of wonder, worship, pity, praise,
Of sorrow, sacrifice and death;
Of lusting, laughter, passion, pain,
Of lights that lure and dreams that thrall . . .
And if a golden word I gain,
Oh, kindly folks, God save you all!
And if you shake your heads in blame . . .
Good friends, God love you all the same.
End Service Quote

'Twas on this day in 1581, speaking of "God love you all the same," that the English Parliament said – "Unless you're Catholic." There were laws passed against Catholics 423 years ago today. Did you really need to know the following (No, what the hell do I need to know that for, anyway?) – 'twas on this day that it truly was tropical in Queensland, Australia at a town called Cloncurry – 'twas the year of North Dakota statehood (although Dakota was still a territory in January), 1889, that the temperature at Cloncurry climbed to 128 degrees Fahrenheit. That's the weest bit warm.

Sufficient unto the day are the meanderings I've subjected you to, kola. Do take care of yourselves – begin by looking for those motes in your eye (something I have to do everyday) instead of worrying too much about your neighbors, but do worry about your neighbors general welfare. Be kind enough to respect each other's ideas and convictions, and don't be too quick to invoke God on your side against your fellow citizens.

Ev Albers

Thursday, January 15th, 2004

Aye, kola, and 'tis the ides of January, a day we Dakotans living in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful surroundings count as among the last of the great days to enjoy the crisp, cool air and quiet, the peace that passeth all understanding helped just the weest with a great slice of apple pie, warmed up a bit, and topped with a good bit of ice cream. This was preceded evening last with a spread of as indeterminate origin as the name it hold – this was a wee can of Spam spread, which certainly shares the heavy salt content of the original we had all ways when I was growing up out in Hannover Township, including slicing and frying a egg between two slices of Spam. 'Twas always an uptown, boughten, therefore better-tasting, alternative to kniep – and if you've not heard of this German standard meat dish of sorts or did not grow up eating it, you may the weest bit of difficulty simply ordering it up and having a passel – for one thing, not many make it anymore. I still don't know how to spell that the word for sweet meals and general other parts and the whistle of the butchered animals – 'twas pronounced KA nip and I write kniep simply because I don’t know any better. Must be some friend out there who can straighten me out. Fried crunchy, nearly burned in lard and butter, by whatever name, Kniep was a true delight – sort of a corn beef hash without known ingredients. Yes, I'll know I'll pay with perhaps a major battle of the bowels, but I sure could go for some of that stuff with my mother's unbrownable butter-scorched whites of the eggs without hardening the seething liquid yolks and a couple of pieces of just slightly burned homemake break layered with butter and heaped with homemade Juneberry preserves, washed down with coffee strong enough to eat three-year-old tar off a construction worker's boots. Now, that's a breakfast. At best for me this fine morn in beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota 'twill be a bit of Malt of Meal with a banana, perhaps a piece of toast with a little cheese atop. and an orange. Then, I hope to be off to work to finish important tasks before heading eastward once more by Saturday noon with the prospect of another round of chemo with a stop at my beloved son and wife's place, the Albers-Hermanson Manor in west Madison, Wisconsin– and then five days in what my good friend Jim Lund from down in San Antonio way (but a true Northerner at heart) urges me to call the staying-alive chair). Staying alive – interesting challenge, some days – and 'tis often the most elemental that most preoccupies me, believe me kola. I know that some of you have been there, but there is nothing quite as disconcerting as having to take enough medication to stop the departure of bodily wastes and whatever good stuff left along with it beneath the skin – to take enough pills of the ilk of Lomotil, one becomes nearly a zombie who concentrates with enormous difficult, if one can stay awake until it wears off. As soon as I hit that miraculous basin of comfort at Zion -- if I'm continuing to deal with these pretty crummy goings-on, I'll ask if there may not be an alternative – sans just stopping eating, altogether and trying to live on fluids – not necessarily the answer, either. Sorry – hardly a topic for such a grand and glorious day of brisk weather. Have a look at our backyard this crisp day kola --untouched except for perhaps the passing of a rabbit. 'Tis so quiet some early mornings that I can hear the rabbits awake and pass a little gas before they begin their day – true fact, kola. As I look over such sights, I think about the music of my childhood, spruced up and made vibrant by versions I've heard since then and a few I've tried myself. Today's earworm is "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" – my father Albert's favorite song that I wanted to do as southern gospel version at his funeral, but we couldn't find anyone out at St. Peter's who could cut or cotton to the music. The song itself was discovered scribbled by a man lying very ill in a cottage at Port Hope, Canada. Some decades later, he was found drowned in a flume – 'twas never determined if it were an accident or suicide. His hymn lived on even though he wasn't credited for writing it for almost thrity years – and the good folks of Port Hope raised a monument to the memory of a man who came as an Irish immigrant and penned one of the most immortal stanza in popular Christian music:

What a friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer!
Oh, what peace we often forfeit,
Oh, what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry
Everything to God in prayer.

What has been done with Joseph Scriven of County Down's tune over the years has been quite remarkable –- today's version, the first of many I think, come from one done by Woody Allen and his Bunk House Project, a group of remarkable jazz musicians – I would have played this one full blast at the father's funeral had I known then that it existed. One of these days I'll be together an album just for myself of all the versions --- so incredibly haunting, with a full bass bottom that has one almost believes that one can project all one's problems on someone else. Aye 'tis indeed a grand song. Jerry Tweton and I did well at the National Anthem at the gathering of the large group of folks of Devils Lake for the Home Front grand opening – we're a pair of singing fools – well, fools, at least. I'm sure we could do mighty justice to other versions of "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" as well.

I do love the tune – and I'm pretty keen on the sentiment, kola, -- the whole notion that we have a supernatural friend who takes care of all of our problems – someone who will be there for us no matter how bad things get. In a sense (in fact, this isn't bad theology) – we have that comfort in each of us and we release it by reaching out to each other. We need each other kola, for we remind each other how lonely 'tis without a friend. If 'tis Jesus, and, if, indeed, he's listening – all that much better. The greatest commandment of all, of course, is attributed to Jesus of Nazareth – love thy neighbor as thyself. So many have sung the song about that Jesus being their greatest personal friend – Andy Griffith, Cristy Lane, Ernest Tubb, George Jones, Englebert Humperdink, Charles Daniels Band, - there are over 608 recordings with the song on it. Must be a few repetitions, but there's God's plenty praising the friendship of Jesus – Tennessee Ernie Ford, and there's Oh Que Amigo Nos Es Cristo (What A Friend We Have In Jesus) from the album Jubilosos Te Adoramos by Daniel Castro. The great Jordinaires did it. You can get it on Karoake for a great Christian Tyme Party (when you're doing the weest praying as well, I guess 'tis called "Tyme" instead of plain old time). There's Burl Ives and Ella Fitzgerald, Bing Crosby, Jim Nabors (surprise, surprise, surprise!), and the Cherokee National Children's Choir. The great Al Green did it, Slim Whitman (what didn't he do?), Yakkety Sax Boot Randolf, Pat Boone (of course), Jim Cullum Jazz Band, Dolly Parton, Aretha Franklin, Willie Nelson (and what a fine job – he's the one I'd hire for the revival to sing it after Woody Allen's Bunk Project played it), Lorreta Lynn, Tom Netherton (singer on Lawrence Welk Show for a while – still seen every Saturday night in Dakota and Canada on Prairie Pubic Television), Mahalia Jackson (YES!), Glen Campbell (he needed a friend, recently), the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir (and you thought the only one was the Mormon one out of Salt Lake City), the Preservation Jazz Hall Band (they've come out to the Badlands of Dakota because of the musicians married a Dakota girl), Barbara Mandrell, the Osbourne Brothers, Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, Doc and Merle Watson, the Louis Cottrell Trio, T. Texas Tyler, the Mississippi Mass Choir (now, there's a sound!), Craig Duncan and the Smoky Mountain Band, Kazuhiro Inaba, Leotyne Price, the Hightower Brothers, the Heaven Sake's Kids, and Big Joe Turner with Count Bassie. Here's the other verses of that hymn by Scriven --

Have we trials and temptations?
Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged--
Take it to the Lord in prayer.
Can we find a friend so faithful
Who will all our sorrows share?
Jesus knows our every weakness--
Take it to the Lord in prayer.

Blessed Savior,
Thou hast promised
Thou wilt all our burdens bear
May we ever, Lord, be bringing
all to Thee in earnest prayer.
Soon in glory bright unclouded
there will be no need for prayer
Rapture, praise and endless worship
will be our sweet portion there.

Are we weak and heavy laden,
Cumbered with a load of care?
Precious Saviour, still our refuge--
Take it to the Lord in prayer.
Do thy friends despise, forsake thee?
Take it to the Lord in prayer;
In His arms He'll take and shield thee--
Thou wilt find a solace there.

Solace – what a wondrous word. It connotes more than comfort – it satisfies – and it allows redemption in spite of every weakness – it fact, it can even cater to a weakness.

My dear son, Albert Otto Hermanson Albers, unlike his deeply spiritual sister who simply refused to go through the doctrinal rigidity of the catechism class and the pastor who would have no truck with genuine questions in the ELC, a church much more open to questions than we ever dared ask in the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod – my dear son put up with it – the stuff he called the "Jesus Bidness." Methinks we should not have forced him to go to the nonsense, so removed from the essential Jesus. His sister gave us no choice. Of course, 'tis a "bidness" indeed – for rarely, except from the depths of despair, is his name mentioned outside the context of money and supporting His work here on earth – the Jesus bidness is big bidness. That's why I love the Robert Duvall movie The Apostle so much – it's the Jesus bidness on a more elemental, almost communal level. And that's why I love Flannery O'Conner and her great short stories, especially Wise Blood.

Given all the great renditions and arrangements of "What a Friend We Have in Jesus," 'tis a real pity that the Lutherans got such a crummy arrangements. It truly needs to be jazzed up. The fellow who wrote the words was born to very prosperous folk in Dublin, Ireland in 1819, and he attended Trinity College. He left for America because of a falling out with his family over his affiliation with some serious Jesus folk, the Plymouth Brethern – that, and the fact that his fiancee died the night before their wedding day. He was the weest bit discouraged. He didn't intend to publish the hymn he wrote – he scratched it out one night in despair on his bed because his mother was dying and he couldn't get back to Ireland to be with her. The hymn was eventually set to music by Charles Converse, who wrote many more serious tunes – but remains most famous for this rather sedate setting of "What a Friend We Have in Jesus."

Nothing sedate -- or sitting around on their heels just a wishin' for solace from someplace else for the folks worried about the economic impact of mad cow disease in Kansas -- down in Wichita tomorrow -- you can still get there -- they'll be grilling up all the hamburger you can eat and giving it away free for a couple of hours -- the hosts expect to serve up enough for 750 folks. Here's a great one for you this glorious, beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota where the temperature's gonna soar to 32 degrees for certain and all those refugees from the wind-chilled northeast will be clogging our airports once more. Durn, I hate it when that happens -- cause sometimes those extra jets fly right over our house, disturbing our considerable tranquility out there in that yard. But, here's just a little What the hell did I need to know that for, anyway? item for this fine Thursday, the Ides of January. Jerry Baker, who is an animal specialist down at the University of Georgia, has discovered that he can measure the "crankiness" of cows, especially calves -- by the amount of needless haste they make the franticness of their movement. He was trying to follow up on a study done at the University of Colorado where they found that cattle that took life the weest bit easier were less cranky -- and thus they gained weight faster. Well, Jerry Baker has taken this monumental study further and has tentatively concluded that crankier cattle have tougher meat. So if you're going down to Wichita, Kansas, for the free burgers, you might ask whether or not the cows used were mild-mannered or cranky. Been so long that I've had a burger -- or that the notion of one appealed to me (yah, I know, how can I think of kniep and dismiss burgers) that I didn't know you can buy a burger without the bun at Burger King now -- guess you eat it by holding it between the paper wrapping -- hard to fathom.

Some thirty-four years ago I went on my first Dr. Atkins' Diet -- 'twas called a water diet at the time, and it demanded drinking at least eight glasses of water and no carbs for a couple of weeks and then slowly introduce them -- lost sixty pounds in six weeks -- but those old fat cells were there just waiting to get filled up again. I did it several times since then -- now I'm having one hell of time keeping a pound on a frame that weighs less than my best attempt at dieting -- go figure. My current diet -- the insidious invader of my pancreas and whatever mischief 'tis making with my bile duct is the most effective I can imagine -- there's always a side benefit to the worst of circumstances, kola.

There's some bad news on the economic front here in Bismarck -- the gas war, which saw prices for a couple of months below wholesale, is over. We're back at $1.59. Now, kola, here is another curious aspect of human nature -- some folks find great solace in saving two or three cents filling up at the pump -- even if they have to drive ten or twenty miles in to find the lower price -- and do research for an hour or two -- and perhaps make some phone calls. There are times when frugality can be pretty expensive. Not a whole lot else going on this fine day, kola -- I've avoided my considerable work too long already this A.M. -- time for one more listen of Woody Allen playing "What a Friend we Have in Jesus," and then to avoiding those bad breakfasts so I'm in good enough shape to do something about the Great Commandment -- "Look Out for Each Other as You Would Take Care of Yourself."

Ev Albers

Wednesday, January 14th, 2004

'Tis the day after my great childhood mentor and best older friend (parents don't count) died out at the edge of Hannover Township just west a few miles from the village of Hannover. I was headed for my majority – I would be twenty-one years old in couple months and a few days, and I knew little beyond what I learned from my parents and their example of hard work, doing without luxuries as much as possible, and being happy that one had enough to eat and a warm place to sleep– along the with importance of laughter and fun and much less reliance on the omnipresence of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod and the rather onerous doctrines that disturbed me much more than it did my parents. The man who died yesterday forty-one years past was my father's oldest brother, Otto, father of my good friends and, like his father, my mentor in many matters, his youngest son Norm, five years my senior.

When I got the word that my Uncle Otto had been so untimely and cruelly ripped long before he was able to share with all us, nephews, grandchildren, and his own children all that he knew by way of an extraordinary power of observation and a gifted mind, I was heartbroken. Uncle Otto was, in many ways, along with a few teachers, my window on a world beyond Hannover Township. Among my earliest memories of a day with Uncle Otto is the one he brought over a new pair of bib overalls for me and we two, alone, went to the Championship Rodeo in Dickinson, a long eighty-some miles away – the first long trip away from Hannover. We saw the best in bronc riders and ropers – including the immortal Jim Tescher and the hero of the day, Casey Tibbs from South Dakota.

My uncle Otto put books in my hands, ideas about cooperative farming operations and enterprises, political notions heavily laced with his unswerving populism. He got me one of the few great jobs in Oliver County for young men – first measuring wheat acreage for compliance with Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service rules for subsidy and later working in the office. He taught me how to play pinochle. He treated me as a peer and as a nephew at the same time – and he gave me a sense of self-worth and can-do that I think of often. He died so young – in his early 50s, this patron of the Albers clan, the oldest of six men and four women (all the boys were born first in the Albers family). 'Twas on a Sunday – I came back from Dickinson where I was going to school after three attempts to screw my head on straight – first, pre-med at the University of North Dakota, then a seminary/teacher-training college of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod at St. Paul, and Peace Corps training in Hawaii. Now I was simply going to school, working in a bowling establishment, that cold cruel January day Uncle Otto left the middle world. Suddenly, I began thinking about what I wanted to do with my life. 'Twould be many a slip and side trip along the way – but this was the start. The day of the funeral several days later we played pinochle deep into the night at my our place in Hannover – uncles and cousins ('twas before women's liberation).

He died attempting to fix a washing machine – died, in no small part, with frustration over something he couldn't fix or repair, for he was a man of enormous self-sufficiency who either took care of the problem himself or knew just the right person to do it. He was no saint in any traditional sense – but, then, most saints I've read about have been mighty sinners and most human as well. Uncle Otto cussed – and cursed – not because he wanted to as much as because he was driven by those forces who would upset the balance of the way he thought things ought to be – plenty of time for work, but work was not all – there needed to be time for nephews and nieces and then his own grandchildren, whom he was just beginning to enjoy immensely when he left so suddenly.

Yesterday, on our trip back from Devils Lake where we had attended a great program on the Home Front in World War II, I was talking with my cousin Norm, Otto's son, who is sixty-six or so, about his father. How is it that he came by his general inquisitiveness, his quest for knowledge, his sense of obligation to family and neighbors? His father, my grandfather, was an alcoholic, as were half of my uncles and all of my aunts, I'd guess. Otto led the way in protecting his father and making sure his mother was taken care of – whatever condition they were in, all those who had the drinking problem in my family – and all were treated with dignity and respect and the expectation that they could rise above the demons that consumed them. For most of those in Hannover Township and the area around in Oliver County, cooperation came of necessity, not of conviction or general good will – during the time of labor-intensive farming submarginal land with short seasons and just enough rainfall to get by – if that – helping each other during the rush times was essential. But Uncle Otto made a habit of it because he considered it a much greater, more elemental necessity – 'twas the only way to reasonable happiness here in the middle world. God, how I loved that sausage-making, advice-giving, new-overalls-bringing uncle of mine. Here's to your memory, Uncle Otto. May whatever world you travel in now not have a single damned washing machine that needs to be fixed on a cold January Sunday.

Yesterday's email brought a great new poem from an old friend who gave me permission to share it with you. 'Tis from David Martinson of NDSU where he teaches English – poet and good friend of OMF Thomas Matthew McGrath, Dave wrote a poem entitled "Neverending" for the Solstice just past:

Ravens skree Dakota snow.
Some screech. Some tease
Rose hips out of the belly
Of rabbit road-kill

They go about their business
Chewing husks of light.
Scattered chaff
Illuminates the solstice.
Ravens live in tether.
Why are we alone?
Sometimes a bachelor bird
Attends a mated pair

In gristle's joy together.

David Martinson
Spirit Room
2003


Alone, perhaps, only by stubborn choice – and then, in the company of others as seemingly lonely as we, we humans struggle along brushing shoulders with each other here in the middle world without taking time to learn from each other – unless 'tis to stave off starvation by joining in a meal of road kill with fellow ravens. "You out there, so secret," said OMF Thomas Matthew McMcgrath, "what makes you think you are alone?" We aren't, and that's the point – that's the first lesson Uncle Otto taught me – there's a whole lot of people in the world who don't go to St. Peter's Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod on Sunday morning. This is the birthday of perhaps the greatest of my childhood heroes from books, the great Albert Schweitzer whom I read about when I was eight years old. Born in 1875, he lived about nine months past his ninetieth birthday – 'twas he who said that which would probably please my son Albert Otto Hermanson-Albers mightily – Schweitzer, the missionary, doctor, theologian, world-class organist, and man who took his responsibility to all his neighbors most seriously, once said, "There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats." I'm not at all sure about the latter. 'Tis also the birthday – Happy sixty-fourth, Julian Bond! – of the civil rights worker and charming politician who insisted that the world treat African Americans as human beings. Early in the years of the North Dakota Humanities program, in the early 1970s, Julian Bond came to Dickinson State to give a talk – there in the front row was the rabid female spokeperson for the local John Birch Society questioninghis Americanism. She withered under a single smiling stare from Julian Bond, who once said of George Wallace, whom many North Dakotans, I'm ashamed to say, voted for for president in the 1960s – Bond said of him, "I don't think you'll have to worry that this mental midget, this hillbilly from Alabama, is anywhere near becoming the nominee of the Democratic Party." Wallace garnered far more support than was comfortable.

'Tis a beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful, brisk day in Dakota this January 13, 2004, kola – a bit of wind, but reasonable temperatures – and a great day to be alive. 'Twas a year past that I wrote with such gratitude for the Schweitzerian place of hope and of cats, including the remarkable story of my darlin' daughter's Tigger and his trek (see January 14, 2003 by selecting from above), along with this quote from the great Albert Schweitzer: "You must give some time to your fellow men. Even if it's a little thing, do something for others - something for which you get no pay but the privilege of doing it.” Don't know about you, kola – but far too many days pass when I don't take Albert's advice. I'm going to try to today – along with taking good enough care of myself so I can help others – and I trust you are doing the same. Here's what you really don't need to know or remember for this day – 'tis the wedding anniversary of Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio, who were wed on this day in 1953 – it lasted all of nine months, but he spend a small fortune having red roses delivered to her crypt two or three times a week after she died in 1962 – tell you the truth, I really don't think that Marilyn gave a rip whether those roses came to her crypt or not – but who knows?

Ev Albers

Tuesday, January 13th, 2004

Oh 'tis a beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in the neighborhood, which for the Albers here in Dakota includes the Devils Lake area and the Spirit Nation of Dakota, Yanktonai/Yankton Sioux. We came up to this fine, quite watery place night with our friends Norm & Idell Albers to take in the third opening of a touring exhibit of posters from the Homefront during World War II put together by the Smithsonian Institution's Museum of Main Street project and magnificently augmented and interpreted by local host communities with help from the indefatigable and innovative senior consultant of the North fDakota Humanities Council, Jerry Tweton. Last night uptown across the street from the excellently-preserved Old Post Office where the exhibit itself with lots of originals from the State Historical Society of North Dakota as well as artifacts, magazines from the era, photographs, medals, and other a memorabilia, we had a full program of music by the High School Jazz Band playing such as "In the Mood" and "Tuxedo Junction" from the era and a great humanities talk by Dr. Danbom, historian from North Dakota State University at Fargo, on the great changes from to North Dakota agriculture and the state's society in general during those four or five tumultuous years. Aye, 'twas a fine, fine evening.

'Twas wonderful to spend some time with my old, great friend and the greatest of friends of public humanities, Jerry Tweton, who has a bed and breakfast operation down the road at Fessenden - he and his lovely wife Paula operate the Beiseker Mansion - the grandest such facility in the United States. Awakening to having coffee without qualms - even though what once an occasional battle is now an ongoing daily war - the War I have with the insidious invader and the aggressive chemo treatment I'll be resuming in a week or so over how much I'm allow to retain of what I manage to eat and how much, how often, under what conditions, 'twill return to nature. I'm winning today's Battle of the Bowels, so to speak - always a bright note when I prepare to travel, and a bit of information you really do not need to know that! I reminded of a year past vividly this morn (see 1/13/03 by selecting above) because it was the day I was given a new lease on life by the wonderful folk at the Midwestern Regional Medical Center, that Cancer Treatment Center of America at Zion, Illinois, which my lovin' spouse and I found with the help of our daughter-in-law's mother, Judy Clausen. Judy, I owe you one! I was hospitalized and given shots of two kinds - I really didn't know the cost of the treatment in terms of some considerable discomfort, but 'tis keeping me alive, keeping me alive - and, contrary to what some may say from time to time - quite reasonable active in mind, if not in a body that has dwindled from some 210 pounds (alas I was probably twenty pounds heavier than that before the invasion) a year ago to about 155 this morning - but I'm holding my own.

I might qualify for a Guiness Book of Records (doubt it) for the quantity and depth of pruned, wrinkled skin - after all, my skin once covered a much larger mass. Sort of look like an accordion stretched wide open - speaking of accordions, a guy name Anthony Fass was actually awarded a patent for an accordion in the United States on this day in 1854 - the accordion had been around much longer, of course. I'm in the middle of reading Annie Proulx Accordion Crimes at the suggestion of my friend Ginny Tisdale Miller from over in the St. Paul - what a masterpiece! I had finished her last novel (That Old Ace Down in the Hole) and the Wyoming stories - and Ginny was right - this one is a true treasure. I love it - it traces accordion players as a vehicle of exploring the ethnic traditions and prejudices of many different American immigrants - I'm with the Germans in Iowa just after the local prosecutions of Germans during World War I - and how they changed with the overwhelming pressure of a capitalistic social compact run amuck once more.

This is the birthday (1832) of Horatio Alger, Jr., the man who more than anyone is responsible for the ridiculous (and 'tis ridiculous in 2004) notion that anyone can rise from abject poverty to become a multimillionaire with the right attitude and a good deal of hard work. Alger lived to the ripe old age of sixty-seven - and somewhere, someone is probably reading Ragged Dick at this very moment - the story of a young man who made it to the top through virtue. 'Tis especially difficult not to be the weest skeptical about the ability to rise to the top through absolute honesty. Sorry, kola, but for the most part, nice gals and guys usually finish the race for treasure here in the middle world in the back of the pack, not near the front.

We all know that we are at the front of the pack, those of us who take every opportunity to look after ourselves so that we can do far better at looking out for our neighbors. I have work to do in that direction that makes my war and daily battles pale in comparison - but with your help, dear kola, we'll do it. I just received an exquisite poem on the winter solstice from an old friend at Fargo, David Martinson - need to write to him to see if he'll give me permission to reprint it here - do take care, kola - of yourselves and of each other.

Ev Albers

Monday, January 12th, 2004

Oh, baby, got those Monday morning ate-just-whatever-I-wanted-yeserday-and-now-it's-time-to-pay blues on what is a fine day to be alive in Dakota, a fine day, indeed. 'Tis the wee hours of a morn that has not yet seen any nekkid snow-rollers on our street, streakers, and no noise. Those creatures who are stirring are quiet indeed - except for me, who slipped without his slipper-grippers and slide down the floor in haste to get to certain facility there. I did not awakened my lady, mistress of the Albers Manor on Arthur - at least she didn't arise to see what was the matter.

Don't know what was the matter last night in Philadelphia, where Green Bay and Brett Favre managed to lose in overtime - Brett threw one up for grabs - t'weren't nobody near that ball but those wingéd Flyers, who came down for an easy field goal. Brett didn't look like he was having all that much fun at then end, either - not like Payton Manning did in cleaning up with Kansas City. Suppose I'll have to cheer on one of these young guys - Payton of the Colts or McNabb of the Flyers - on getting the rest of the way this season. Aye, 'tis the weest bit of a tear in my coffee this morning for the end of the season for Green Bay.

Among the things we don't really need to remember about this day in history, our Why in the hell did I need to know that for, anyway? is that 'there was a great homefront sacrifice made on this very day by folks around the country - they started eating "Victory Sausages" instead of frankfurters - the former were the worst of meat cut with some soybean meal. That was 1943. There are puerile pundits who might say that such a concoction could lead to an impolite consequence, but I don't think anyone eating "Victory Sausages" had anything to do with songwriter Bob Dylan plaintively intoning "Blowing in the Wind" for the first time on this day in 1963, some two decades after the concoction was introduced. I don't know if it started with that sausage that really wasn't a sausage but just enough stuff from some part of a cow or pig to hold the grain together - if came from a cow, might give someone more than a little headache in these days of mad cow disease. On the twenty-second anniversary of the Office of Price Management soying up the frankfurter, Batman came to television - then, two years later - Joe Friday and Dragnet comes back after eight years.

What truly 'tis worth remembering are birthday boys Edmund Burke (1729 - the "if the tree falls in the forest and we didn't hear it, did it fall?" guy), Jack London (1876), Tex Ritter (1905), Ray Price (1926, great singing buddy of Willie Nelson), and Glenn Yarborough (1930) of the Limeliters fame. To tell you the truth - no, I'm not gonna - cause my momma taught me not to say anything about someone if you don't have anything nice to say about them, and all I can think of is "He was born in 1954 on this day" when it comes to Howard Sterne. Sterne says enough about himself without anyone having to say anything about him. I do think a good deal of Ray Price, who released a new album with his protégé Willie Nelson is past year. Helped along the way for the great Hank Williams, Sr., Price has done what he can for other singers - in spite of the weest bit of problems from time to time.

The Price/Nelson duet of the famous Bob Wills "Faded Love" reminds among my very favorite of the scores of interpretations that have been done. Price and Nelson were Texas neighbors - Price kept fighting roosters and Willie laying hens - when Willie discovered that a Price fighting cock had killed one of his hens, Willie shot one of the roosters and ate him. Know, this is elemental stuff, kola. The boys are still friends - Price currently has his own theater in Branson, Missouri. He's a good 'un, kola.

Time for me to pull myself together to meet the day - getting a little front tooth reinserted by my great friends, dentist Kevin Gilchrist and all his gang, including his assistant Mary. These folks never failed to have me leaving their office feeling a whole lost better than when I walked in - and that, my friends, is a great talent. We should all take as good a care of yourselves as our dentists would like and treat each other with the kind of loving attention once gets at the office of Kevin Gilchrist.

Ev Albers

Sunday, January 11th, 2004

Aye, 'tis a grand enough day here in beauuuuuuuutiful Dakota to be declared the finest of January days to be alive this 2004, here' where no a drop of snow besmirched the walk last night and where 'tis warm and balmy enough to entire some of those Floridians back home who had to let their water pipes drip last night in fear that their pipes would freeze – this, my kola, is the banana belt of the nation, the garden of the universe. A great place to be this A.M., great place.

'Twas on this very day back in 1770, a mere 234 years ago, that Benjamin Franklin, who was languishing with the ladies of London at the time, sent home to his friend John Bartram in Philadelphia a plant – and we've had rhubarb ever since. There's not many place one can go without running into rhubarb – so when you have your next slice of rhubarb pie, remember Ben. 'Twon't be having any rhubarb, but I hope to have another slice of Idell Albers' apple and maybe even a wedge of pumpkin later today. This is also the day – and the make of the automobile definitely falls into the category of What in the hell do I need to know that for, anyway? category of stuff – this is also the say that the first sedan car was introduced in 1913 – before, all else were at best convertibles with rather flimsy tops – not the standard touring car for traveling around in January 2004. Oh. Yah. The sedan was a Hudson.

January 11 must not pass without a salute to the memory of Alice Paul, one of the great women who refused to be a second-class citizens of American history. Ms. Paul was born on this day in 1885, established the National Women's Party in 1917, and completed her passage here in the middle world in 1977 after more than ninety-two years of a life filled with service and work for recognition of the rights of all – women as well as men. Hers is not the name that comes to mind when one brings up women's suffrage and the struggle for equality, but it should be – not to distract from the enormous contribution of women of the ilk of Elizabeth Cady Stanton or Susan B. Anthony. Alice Paul introduced the first equal rights amendment in the United States. As a young woman, she did settlement work in England, where she was thrice jailed for agitation for suffrage for women. After she came back home, she was jailed three times more for White House demonstrations and other militant efforts to gain recognition of woman as full human beings. She was was responsible, more than anyone else, for the successful passage in 1920 of the nineteenth amendment to the U.S. Constitution which recognized women as citizens. Turning her attention to a global effort, Paul founded the international World Party for Equal Rights in Geneva, home of the League of Nations, in 1938. She often said that many of the problems of the world could have been solved without bloodshed had women had a voice in making decisions – and she believed that World War II could have been avoided had women been represented in the Paris Peace Conference at the end of World War I. In her early 90s in the mid 1970s, Paul was still working tirelessly for passage of the Equal Rights Amendment. Alice, your indefatigable, indomitable spirit is an inspiration to all who try to change society to be more inclusive – you were one hell of a dame, Alice Paul!

Tell you who's a hell of dame – and in my Hannoverian vocabulary, that's among the greatest claims for fame for women I know – is my lovin' spouse, Leslie, who arose early this morning to continue work on refining the index to The Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition by Gary Moulton, published by the University of Nebraska Press – it involves finding all the alternative spellings of names – and entering them in preparation of putting the complete journals on the Internet. 'Tis a project of our darlin' daughter, Gretchen, who made it back to Lincoln last night – a single-day's drive. She must have some of her mother's dogged determination and focus on task at hand. This she accomplishes between all else she does – keeping the household together and keeping me alive in all ways. Here's a huge gulp of grape juice this morning to Leslie.

No man knows better than I that women are indeed naturally superior in all ways, all ways. Among other things, methinks, women are superior in knowing what matters and what doesn't – and what matters most is treating each other with the dignity and respect for ourselves. That's not easy.

Today's interesting for at least one most curious reason – 'twas the day back in 1953 that a whole lot of grief for a great many people might have been avoided had a fellow named J. Edgar Hoover decided to take a really job offer – six figures for heading up the International Boxing Commission. He decided against it and went to . . . well, you all know what he went on to do.

Things have improved in the weest – nay, more than that, in the sixty-some years we began in earnest to try to understand each other, especially white Americans learning how to accept their black neighbors as real human beings, in spite of the despicable raw prejudice of the ilk of J. Edgar Hoover. A week from tomorrow is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day – called by J. Edgar Hoover Martin Luther Coon. 'Twas in 1961 that there were race riots in Georgia, and in 1962 on this day, Mandala left South Africa for Ethiopia, Algeria, and finally England. We had a long way to go from the naked hatred in Georgia on this day in 1961, and we've journeyed together to make a bit of progress.

'Tis time to make a bit of progress in my battle with my body to keep it goin' – I'm having a Prosure and the stuff that helps me keep in long enough to get some nutrients out of it – gotta find a way to get back some of the muscle, at least, I've dropped – I'm weighing in at 155, and that's not my fighting weight.

Be well, kola – and take good care of yourselves. Let's make a special effort this next week to prove Alice Paul absolutely right about the right of all to equal treatment and to prove J. Edgar Hoover absolutely wrong about far too much of his easy dismissal of many of his fellow Americans.

Ev Albers