Sunday, March 28th, 2004

Words of Today
"I'm just tickled plum silly to be here, as pleased as punch."
Aye, what a beautiful day 'tis here in Madison with my son, Albert, his lovin' spouse, Bobbi, and my spouse here in Madison, Wisconsin – how I wish darlin' daughter Gretchen were here, but we just talked at length on the phone. Kola, I'm the luckiest of men who have ever lived with those lovin' kids and long-suffering spouse. 'Tis sunny, reasonably warm, and I'm feeling particularly fit, all things considered. I've already had a piece of great birthday cake – chocolate on cherries in a marvelous variation of a Black Forest done by my dear daughter-in-law Bobbi. A lazy morning – deliciously so. Even the powers that be – those who must be obeyed, Mortimer and Oliver the cats, who are in fighting trim these days – they sit around and supervise cooking and all else that passes beneath their purview. A bit of egg, the weest little bit of sausage, a little caramel roll – aye, a grand breakfast that, for me, rivals the kind of pig-out the Irish expect every day – and tourists are served as a matter of course. After watching the Irish eat back in the fall of 2000 on a trip to visit our darlin' daughter at Galway, I'm still wondering how they managed to eat more than that morning meal. One of those meals are probably sustaining me more than three and one-half years later.

Most remarkable happening this day – resting up after the long trip from a very fruitful and stimulating meeting of the North Dakota Humanities Council in Grand Forks to this bastion of a bit more laid-back attitude ('tis the cats, methinks) – the oldest of those who rule this roost, Mortimer, curled on my lap in genuine affection – usually he scorns me. He's giving me special treatment today, as are my dearest son and daughter-in-law and my spouse, for I've made to age sixty-two – at least a year beyond the time that I'm supposed to be ambulatory and reasonably alive here in this middle world. That's why I've quoted – more of less – the ever-enthusiastic Hubert Humphrey on this fine day – who wouldn't be "tickled plum silly" and "pleased as punch." So I'm gonna play this day for all it's worth – rather shamelessly, I fear – ain't gonna move unless I feel like, gonna drift off to a nap whenever I wish, read if I feel like it – what I won't do is indulge in any corn on the cob or spicy wurst as I did a week or so ago to great discomfort. But you can bet that I'm gonna have another wee slice of that wondrous Bobbi Hermanson-Albers-concocted cake, scratch Morty between the ears, write my daughter e-mail, and let my family here know how much I love them.

'Tis almost inconceivable that my dear children – Gretchen and Albert – are so absolutely sweet and dear – and how easy it has become for all of us to express how much we love each other. I truly don't deserve it, I know – for there's so much more I could have done for them – and learning how to accept such unconditional love has been one of the great lessons of this past year. Family becomes all-important – along with friends, and then meaningful work.

Would that we could all be with my spouse's family as they prepare to say good-bye to Leslie's Mom, Dorothy, tomorrow in Dickinson – and how wonderfully loving they have all been about insisting that I – and my sustaining force, Leslie – keep the appointment at the Cancer Treatment Center of America tomorrow at Zion – and her brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces, have all let me know. Gonna stay alive to return with our entire family to Dickinson later this year for a visit – and Leslie did have a chance to say good-bye about a week before her Mom finally succumbed to years of the ravages of that savage insidious invader, Alzheimer's. Tomorrow, I'll post a modest tribute that my nephew Jay Bleth will read for me and my family at that funeral tomorrow morning.

Among the treats I'm indulging in today is reading a reprint of the magnificent Wendell Berry's 1983 A Place on Earth -- some of the earliest stories of those fabled folk of Berry's town that is more real, peopled by more intensely alive folk – than a real place – Port William. Aye, what a treat it is. He "tickles me plum silly." And I'm "as pleased as punch" (not really sure what that means) with your incredible love, friendship, and support, my dear kola. I hope that this day is as beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful wherever you are as 'tis here – and I know it must be in glorious Dakota this fine day. Do take care of yourselves – and do look out for each other – if you treat others as you do me, kola, there may never be strife and war again in the history of humankind.

Ev Albers

Friday, March 26th, 2004

Words for Today
"The best things and best people rise out of their separateness; I'm against a homogenized society because I want the cream to rise."

​So said Robert Frost, American poet born on this day in 1874, a major poetic voice by the turn of the twentieth century, he lived on to 1963. I was reminded of his hard-won wisdom this glorious beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota as I was privileged to once again watch the people charged with public humanities in North Dakota in action -- those volunteers who serve on the North Dakota Humanities Council which I have tried to serve for more than thirty years. We had tough decisions – a stiff competition for the five fellowships we award each year for research leading to public presentation; there were nineteen excellent applicants. There were requests for more double would we could judiciously award to public projects asking for matching support – from the Dakota Datebook which runs several times a day on North Dakota Public Radio with three-minute features about people and events from our past to ambitious seminars on the Lewis and Clark Expedition. One of the things that makes my life so precious is coming together with these friends – and there have been nearly two hundred who have served on the governing board of the nonprofit humanities council over the last thirty years. They make our periodic meetings the greatest of days to be alive: I salute them all. All come to subscribe to Frost's philosophy – let us disagree – with civility and good humor, grace and an earnest search for compromise. They have been the very best of kola – that special friend we all treasure, and they continue to teach me the nature of grace, for they have supported me personally far in excess of anything I deserve. Most important is their unyielding commitment to the mission of bringing the humanities to as many North Dakotans as possible and their allegiance to the notion that the humanities belong to all citizens in a social compact, not just a privileged few. Thank you, dear kola, thank you.

Aye, 'tis a grand day – a day to be reminded just how fortunate I am, how much I owe to so many. We North Dakotans are generally folks of considerable independence, people that prize their individuality. In a Frostian sense, we are highly civilized – 'tis Frost who said, "A civilized society is one which tolerates eccentricity to the point of doubtful sanity." No few of those who most enjoy the programs the Humanities Council supports are eccentric – almost crazy in the sanest way – and civil and polite to a fault.

If you want a flavor of North Dakota heritage and culture, I urge you to visit the the online scripts and the sound files -- check it out here. You'll find everything from the origin of lutefisk – considered by the crazier of Dakotans a delicacy (under March 17) to the stories of such the Strasburg Superstar Mylo Hatzenbuhler, the creation of professional musician Clyde Bauman and biographies of native sons and daughters of the ilk of Louis L'Amour and Lawrence Welk. There have been, in the short three months of programs, offered excellent glimpses into the great civilization that thrived here in Dakota long before Lewis and Clark arrived at the center of that great social compact, the Indian village tribes of the Upper Missouri, including the Mandan – for example, the feature on the difficulty of getting the Mandan chief Sheheke home from Washington, D.C. – he went back with Lewis and Clark to visit the nation's capital with wife. 'Tis a grand achievement for a very modest budget – here's a sample from the one on Mylo Hatzenbuhler:

Ladies and Gentlemen... Mylo Hatzenbuhler!
Yesterday was the 10-year anniversary of the debut of “I’m Big-Time Now!” a CD by Mylo Hatzenbuhler – who is known to his followers as the “Strasburg Superstar.”

Mylo is a “fourth-generation fictional farm-boy who lives with his fictional wife and family on a farm – as he puts it, “eight miles east of Strasburg and a half.” Mylo and his wife, Emma, are the creations of Clyde Bauman, a professional musician and entertainer from Bismarck.

Mylo Hatzenbuhler was born on a hot day in August to Alma and Reinie Hatzenbuhler, the second of five children. He says that he grew up just a normal, humble farm kid until that fateful day: “The news came over the school loudspeaker,” Mylo says, “that Elvis Parsley had died. I was only 15 at the time, but I remember like it was yesterday; I turned to my 5th-grade teacher and said, ‘The world needs me.’”

Since that day, Mylo has, as he puts it, “gone on to extinguish myself in the musical world.” He has successfully juggled farming, his rock star career and his marriage to Emma Schwartzenbauer-Hatzenbuhler. So far, the couple has appeared in 17 states and performs throughout the year, except during calving season, when the cows need Emma’s womanly touch.

Mylo says they are both 100% German from Russia. In Mylo’s own words, he says, “In the spring of 1910, my great-grandparents came to this country on a boat, went to the Statue of Liberty and got made natural, then got on another boat and sailed up the Mississippi River to St. Louis, where they bought a covered wagon and went north with the other Germans in the group. They went as far as they could,” Mylo continues, “and when the weather turned that fall, that’s where they stopped and stayed. They turned the wagon upside-down and heaped dirt up around it for insulation (because fiberglass doesn't grow in North Dakota), cut a hole in the floor for the stovepipe, and that was their home their first winter in North Dakota.”

Mylo met Emma at a concert he was giving in Hot Springs, South Dakota.

It was love at first sight, and, as Mylo puts it, “I knew she was the one for me. Now we've been married for twenty years – ten for me, ten for her.”

Of Hatzenbuhler’s daughter, Mylo says, “We named her Beulah, because I gave a concert in Beulah the night she was born. It was good timing, because the night before, I was in Zap.”

Mylo has a very busy schedule, saying, “I'm so busy that wherever I go, someone wants me somewhere else.” At his last event, he said, “The promoters must be anxious to see how I did, because they said they can’t wait for me to get done.”

Now, in celebration of Mylo’s debut 10 years ago, here’s another selection from his CD.

For Mylo’s upcoming performances, go to www.farmboy.com.

There's a marvelous unpretentiousness about Dakotans – our greatest strength, methinks. 'Tis also the finest of places to come visit – I urge you all to get here as soon as possible. In fact, there's been a bit of pause in the enormous pressure of those seeking Frostian civilization storming our borders – so if you're just the weest bit crazy, consider making your visit sooner instead of later.

Do hope you are taking the best possible care of yourselves – and looking out for your neighbors, especially the eccentrics among us.

Ev Albers

Thursday, March 25th, 2004

Words for Today
"Who will tell whether one happy moment of love or the joy of breathing or walking on a bright morning and smelling the fresh air, is not worth all the suffering and effort which life implies."
'Tis a gloriously sunny morning with just the weest bit of fog and haze this morning in Grand Forks on the Minnesota border up in northern beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota. Temperatures soared to seventy above in Bismarck as my lovin' spouse drove us here to hear the great North Dakota writer Louise Erdrich last night at the 35th Annual Writers' Conference last night - we here for the spring meeting of the great folks I work for, the North Dakota Humanities Council. 'Twas a busy morning yesterday, and I was bereft of my connection to the Internet at home - the Monet folks who offered wireless Internet in Bismarck, Grand Forks, Fargo, Sioux Falls, SD, and Eau Claire, WI went broke - how dare they! So I was not able to write in my journal yesterday - or didn't find the time. Then, early this morning, I found that the server in my office had been attacked by unknown invaders - so it automatically shuts down service.

As I write this morning on Thursday, March 25, 2004, one of my dearest friends, my lovin' spouse's mother Dorothy Kubik, lies dying in earnest in a Dickinson nursing home - she has lived with only a hook-up to oxygen since last Saturday - and dear sister-in-law Janet says that she is comfortable enough - she doesn't seem to suffering. Would that we could be there - even though Dorothy hasn't been with us for a good long while - she's been in the last states of Alzheimer's, and 'tis now at the point where she does not swallow food and will forget breath.

Her day of peace - should it come today or tomorrow -- is, in many ways, a day of happiness, a day of release from imprisonment within herself - and I imagine that all those loved ones who went before well may be helping her right now as she begins the final hours of her passage here in the middle world - including her beloved Alfons, for whom she cared for during his own long years with Alzheimer's. Our words for today belong to Erich Fromm, born in 1900 a couple of days ago, on March 23 - he lived on to 1980. Dorothy lived, breathed, and enjoyed each day for its simple joys each day of her eighty-four years , even those she spent not remembering exactly who she was - she embraced life and its smallest gifts with a sheer joy and an unselfish urge to share whatever she had. In fact, I'll always remember Dorothy as the most giving, unselfish person I've ever met. She raised six children - clothing her three girls from her sewing machine - canning, freezing, and cooking up a storm. Her pride in the accomplishments of her children and grandchildren was immense - and always offered with wonderment that all turned out so well.

'Twill be two years past this April that her youngest son, brother Joe, left us at such a tender age - I don't think that she ever knew he left this middle world - his indomitable spirit awaits hers - what a marvelous surprise! So, although my heart is heavy - for I love Dorothy deeply, as I do her children, especially my loving spouse, 'twill also be lightened knowing that she will be free at last.

'Tis a good day to enjoy the fresh air, my kola - 'tis spring - and 'tis time to embrace life even as we recognize our mortality. Do take care of yourselves - and look out for each other, dear kola - as Dorothy Goth Kubik did just as long as she was able.

Tuesday, March 23rd, 2004

Words for Today
"Give me liberty or give me death."
Twas in quite a different context that Patrick Henry delivered his famous oration back on this very day in 1775. He wanted to overthrow the British. All day this gloriously beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful one in Dakota I've been begging for liberty from a general funkiness - nausea, chills, and unseemly malaise for such a fine spring day - brought on by myself, methinks, because in mistaken belief that the general absence of major revolt from my digestive tract I could tackle a bit of sausage and corn on the cob. My lovin' spouse was gone, you see - visiting her dying mother over in Dickinson, where she, one of the great souls who have ever passed through this middle world - wrestles with the last stages of Alzheimer's - no longer able to eat. In a "What the hell moment" of temporary insanity, I downed a German wurst followed by a couple of ears of corn, which I lavishly buttered. 'Twas almost as though I was saying, well, you old battered pancreas with the collapsed bile ducts, see what you can do with this!"

Plenty - They said they would show me, and they did - most restless night I've had in a good long while - and one of a good while, as well. Mein Gott, I found myself dividing into different beings and coming back together again badly - and the there was this machinery at hand to help the process along. All the while, however, I carried this discomfort - coming close to pain - at the enter of my being - until I would awake and spend minutes reorienting to a glorious Dakota night and managing to allow escape of that which bloated and, probably, precluded my reintegration. I've decided, kola, to make the best of my mistake - all but the part of with dealing with the fact that he would never have happened had my lovin' spouse been there - she would have found a way to talk me out of it, even though I would have probably been less than kind for here kindness. The best is to lock myself here in my office until the thunder and lightning of what the sausage and corn created along with my gasps for twelve hours passes - I'll listen for a new melody, that's what I'll do.

Today, getting some things accomplished at my desk, I await satori, that moment when the omnipresence of my body and my consciousness of it allows me a hum a song in total immersion, entertain a phantom of delight in a daydream, or take a quick nap without insistent badgering spiritual creditors. In the meantime, no more sausage or corn on the cob for the weest.

No jewel of profundity lurks the consumption of sausage and corn on the cob - I know that now.

Ev Albers

Monday, March 22nd, 2004

"Words for Today
"The Lord has just blessed him. I mean, he could make terrible mistakes and comes out of it. It doesn't make any difference what he does, good or bad, God picks him up because he's a man of prayer and God's blessing him. I think Bush is going to win in a walk."
So said millionaire televangelist Pat Robertson on the 700 Club of the Christian Broadcasting Network recently - along with his conviction that President George W. Bush would be reelected to the presidency in a walk. Worth some 140 million dollars, the man who turns seventy-four this very day owns the Ice Capades, diamond mines, and has money in banks everywhere. Yet he's on television daily begging for money from widows on fixed income and those who cannot afford health insurance. Old Pat doesn't miss a bet - he's in on all the latest crazes with another money-making scam, ready to tap the true believers for every cent they have. The man has no conscience, as far as I can tell - and he's aligned himself with the Republican Party whom he continues to influence far beyond anything that is either seemly - that may, indeed, be unconstitutional. He's absolutely shameless, and age has brought him more craftiness in his effort to recreate our social compact in his image. There's still many a North Dakotan who sends along $417 a month as members of the 700 Club Founder's Club. Membership in the 700 club continues at $20/month - but you can be sure that you'll get a reminder if the check doesn't arrive on time. Pat will happily sell you his age-defying protein pancake, he'll give you complete information about preventing Alzheimer's, and he'll help you get out of debt (a plan that includes giving to the 700 Club).

Pat Robertson has never recanted a single one of his outrageous statements on everything from feminism to the role of Christianity in the founding of this country. Millions believe this consummate liar when he looks into the camera and says, " The founding document of the United States of America acknowledges the Lordship of Jesus Christ because we are a Christian nation." Nothing could be less true - the founding generation had the deepest of distrust of Christianity and consciously built a wall between church and state. At Pat's elaborate web site, you'll find answers to questions where he exposes himself as a bigot beyond redemption -- go here, if you have the stomach for it. For example, Pat's staff puts up the question from a listener

Here's a sample from the 700 Club Web Site
A LISTENER ASKED, About five years ago, I came out to the rest of the world as a lesbian. I am in a committed relationship with another woman. I don't understand why you say that homosexuality is wrong. Isn't my happiness the most important thing? Isn't that what God wants? I think that is what matters, not telling people what is right and wrong.

PAT ROBERTSON'S ANSWER:

I didn't write the Bible. I really didn't. The Bible was written under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit by wonderful men like the Apostle Paul, like Moses, people like that, very highly respected people, and right down the line, they said that homosexuality is an abomination to God. The Apostle Paul said that nobody who is a homosexual is going to get into heaven. That doesn't mean you have a tendency. It didn't say nobody with homosexual tendencies is going to miss getting into heaven.

People who are practicing homosexuals or lesbians, this is an unnatural relationship. There is no way in a "committed lesbian relationship" that you are going to conceive a baby. If two lesbians conceive a baby without the help of something else, I will admit on this program that I am wrong. But they haven't done it so far; nor have two homosexuals. It is unnatural.

Now, you say 'Doesn't God want me to be happy?' Well, this may be happiness for you now, but what is going to happen is when you die, you are going to hell (see 1 Corinthians 6:9-10). I don't want to overstate it, but that is what the Bible says: You shall not enter the kingdom of heaven, you shall not go to spend an eternity with God, and you will spend an eternity away from Him. God loves you, but He says that you cannot do something He says is an abomination and is wrong. It is just that simple. He made sex to be enjoyed, but he made it in the confines of marriage between heterosexual people, partially for the propagation of the race and the nurture and the admonition of the young. That's what it is there for.

God is not there to make us happy. Sure it is a misconception. God is there to show us what is right. What He says to do will make us happy. If we follow His principles about finance, about sex, about marriage, about love, about commitment, about all the other good things that He says, if we keep His commandments, we will be happy. It will bring us happiness. But happiness is never going to come if we do something that is sinful because He will not give you the witness of the Holy Spirit in your heart that you are doing something right. You won't have it. You won't know the overwhelming joy. The Apostle Peter talked about 'joy unspeakable and full of glory' (1 Peter 1:8). That comes about through fulfilling the plan of God and having the power of the Holy Spirit moving in your life and knowing when you die that you are going to heaven.
End excerpt from 700 Club Web Site

On this day in history, back in 1972, remarkably enough, the Senate passed the Equal Rights Amendment by a vote of 84-4. The vote would have banned all discrimination against women. The bill was not ratified - in the decades following, folks of the ilk of Pat Robertson launched an all-out campaign against the very notion that women and men should be treated exactly the same in this country. There were fear mongers circulating warnings that women would be drafted and raped in war, that the amendment would destroy families. After all, hadn't St. Paul himself pointed that women were to be subject to the will and power of their husbands? The very notion was unChristian. Said our friend, the master of hype, the fear-mongering war hawk Pat Robertson,

Feminism is a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians.

Perhaps the easiest way to minimize the influence of such self-righteous, self-serving opportunists who latch on to people's thirst for spiritual values is to simply allow the ilk of Pat Robertson to say as much as possible as often as possible - for much of what he offers is so outrageous that not even the true believer can swallow some of it.

"The mission of the Christian Coalition is simple," says Pat Robertson. It is "to mobilize Christians -- one precinct at a time, one community at a time -- until once again we are the head and not the tail, and at the top rather than the bottom of our political system." Robertson predicts that "the Christian Coalition will be the most powerful political force in America by the end of this decade." And, "We have enough votes to run this country...and when the people say, 'We've had enough,' we're going to take over!"

It is interesting, that termites don't build things, and the great builders of our nation almost to a man have been Christians, because Christians have the desire to build something. He is motivated by love of man and God, so he builds. The people who have come into (our) institutions (today) are primarily termites. They are into destroying institutions that have been built by Christians, whether it is universities, governments, our own traditions, that we have. .  .  . The termites are in charge now, and that is not the way it ought to be, and the time has arrived for a godly fumigation.

[on teaching children planned parenthood] It is teaching kids to fornicate, teaching people to have adultery, every kind of bestiality, homosexuality, lesbianism-everything that the Bible condemns.

[on the role of people who may hold beliefs other than Christianity of Judaism in government] If anybody understood what Hindus really believe, there would be no doubt that they have no business administering government policies in a country that favors freedom and equality. . . . Can you imagine having the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini as defense minister, or Mahatma Gandhi as minister of health, education, and welfare? The Hindu and Buddhist idea of karma and the Muslim idea of kismet, or fate condemn the poor and the disabled to their suffering. . . . It's the will of Allah. These beliefs are nothing but abject fatalism, and they would devastate the social gains this nation has made if they were ever put into practice.

​Pat Robertson remains a major force in our society - and is taken quite seriously by the current administration. I feel deeply sad for the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Dakotans who turn into that broadcast of hate and intolerance under the guise of Christian love. Pat's not alone in preying upon the most lonely and vulnerable among Americans - it's done by a host of ministers and priests every single day throughout the country. 'Tis far too beautiful a day to give Pat much more than our disdain - and our thanks to whatever gods and goddesses may be that his fervent prayers that millions die so Americans can be safe go unanswered. I don't mean to wish less than the best for all fellow travelers here in the middle world, but I do hope another year will bring Pat Robertson to some sort of realization that his legacy will be one of encouraging folks to miss a meal or two in order to support his hatred. I trust that you, my kola, are taking care of yourselves - if you're sending Pat Robertson money, reconsider - and reconsider all those who demand that you kill folks for their own good and hate those who disagree with you.

Ev Albers

Sunday, March 21st, 2004

Words for Today
"There's nothing remarkable about it. All one has to do is hit the right keys at the right time and the instrument plays itself."
So said today's birthday boy, Johannes Sebastian Bach, born on this day in 1685 in Germany. Better known and respected as a musician (organ and harpsichord) in his time, not too many people really liked him or his music while he made his passage here in the middle world. The parishioners of the church where he played organ complained rather mightily that they had problems singing the hymns because Bach was always playing variations on the melody - just couldn't leave well enough alone. These were tough Lutherans, of course - Bach traced his ancestry back to his great-grandfather Viet Bach who was a Lutheran miller. Viet played his cittern while the mill was grinding away. Bach was always fuguing around - no one could compose a better fugue than a Bach. He was also, apparently, a good father and husband - he fathered twenty, ten of whom lived to become adults. Some might say that bringing twenty people into the world you couldn't feed was less than responsible - but this was the early eighteenth century. He left his wife Anna Magdalena when he completed his passage in the middle world on July 28, 1750. She was given a pauper's funeral when she died in 1760. It was would take decades - more than fifty years -- for his music to take off - by then, none of his family realized any money from his remarkable achievements.

Back in the early 1970s, Switched-on Bach, the composer played on the synthesizers, were all the rage - the music is still around, and 'tis grand, kola, 'tis grand - fact is, there's a Switched-on Bach 2000 that's incredible in surround sound. Bach would have loved it, methinks. If you don't dig "Toccata and Fugue in D Minor," you have a hole in your soul, kola - 'tis tantamount to not liking "God Bless America," recorded on this day by Kate Smith in 1939. Today is also New Year's Day in Persian culture - celebrated in Afghanistan, Iran, and Iraq. And 'tis the birthday of my lovin' spouse Leslie's and my friend Ginny, aka Virginia Tisdale Adamski Miller, who now hails from the St. Paul area over in Minnesota. Longtime friend of Leslie, Ginny has become mine as well - few days past that she doesn't send along a bit of cheer to help me on my passage through the less-than-great days. Here's a big gulp of grape juice in honor of your birthday, Ginny. Live as long as you wish, may you find joy and laughter this day - all the days of your life - and may you continue to rant at political chicanery and social injustice wherever your find it. Here' a poem from Rumi, the great Persian poet of the early fourteenth century, in your honor - and in celebration of Persian New Year's:

Where Everything is Music

Don't worry about saving these songs!
And if one of our instruments breaks,
it doesn't matter.

We have fallen into the place
Where everything is music.

The strumming and the flute notes
rise into the atmosphere,
and even if the whole world's harp
should burn up, there will still be
hidden instruments playing.

So the candle flickers and goes out,
We have a piece of flint, and a spark.

The signing art is sea foam.
The grace movements come from a pearl
somewhere on the ocean floor,

Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge
of driftwllk long the beach, wanting!

They derive
From a slow and powerful root
That we can't see.

Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest
and let the spirits fly in and out.

Fact is, not having the instruments at hand cannot stop the music, and there's a bit of Bach in all of us - just a matter of pressing the right keys at the right time. 'Twill go round and round in our head of if we're not actually humming a few bars and strumming something - but I'm all for joining the choir and doing something like Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Mind's Desiring" together with fellow travelers in the middle worlds - hell, do it if even they aren't all Lutherans.

What a grand afternoon yesterday after at Moorhead - not too many fold showed up for the first annual Book Fair - think we sold a total of four books - but I met good friends and visited - good kola Jane Ahlin dropped over - she and her lovin' spouse Tom had just returned from Ellendale down the South Dakota border, north of Aberdeen, to celebrate Jane's parents sixtieth wedding anniversary - her father and mother are both eighty-four and in pretty reasonable fettle. Jane writes a delightful column for the Fargo Forum and teaches English over at Moorhead - she and her physician husband live over in Fargo. A half-hour visiting with Jane Ahlin can uplift a fellow for hours - she has the most infectious laugh and among the most insightful conclusions about the outrageous self-serving nature of politicians she less than admires --- and, a truly wicked but most instructive . In both speech and the written word, Jane often soars to the best of satire, which leaves the reader squirming the outrageousness of what humans are doing to other humans in apparent good conscious.

Just before we we leaving, friend Maureen Kelly Jonason, wife of my old friend Marty Jonason from over in Dickinson, teacher at Concordia College, and recent Ph.D. from the University of North Dakota came by to say hello -- Maureen worked at West Acres a few years back, and she coordinated a pretty successful residency of the Great Plains Chautauqua Society there. She's currently helping Dawn Morgan of the Spirit Room in Fargo in mounting another tribute to OMF Thomas Matthew McGrath on May 1 of this year -- working toward ongoing recognition of Dakota's greatest gift to the millennia. Hope I'll be in find enough fettle to help Dawn and Maureen out a bit with such a grand endeavor. Earlier in the afternoon yesterday, a handsome fellow came up to introduced himself to me - mein Gott! 'twas Gary Ganser, my first college roommate. 'Twas back in the fall of 1960 that we found ourselves together in the corner room on the first floor of East Hall on the campus of the University of North Dakota. He hailed from Bismarck. Our room - a tiny cubbyhole, was next to the stairs, the phone booth, and across from what everyone referred to the "crapper" in some sort of Australian affection. The room was a hell-hole - drunken students crashing through our front door with toilet seats over their head in the middle of the night, screaming calls from the telephone booth, and constant traffic - one could hear every conversation in that three-story warehouse of freshmen male bodies assigned small areas behind card-board thin walls and doors. We were several blocks east of the library and classrooms - past the stadium and the open areas before the Student Union. No one was sure what went on behind the walls of the stadium towers, the ends where there were a few rooms - they were turned over to the hockey players, Canadians, mostly, we didn't follow the same rules everyone else did. They were special - as much, perhaps, because of their lifestyle, for they had learned the ways of the professional athlete at tender ages when they played junior hockey. They were also special because they were integral to UND's claim to national fame as a first-rank collegiate hockey team. But I digress.

Gary and I enjoyed each other - in spite of our quirks - Gary, I remember, had something like forty pairs of shoes, which consumed a good deal of space in his part of our small area - and I was truly grateful that Gary had wheels, so I got home once in a while. We both found a way out of East Hall - I remember I had to go all the way to President Starcher to convince him that the place was not conducive to any sort of mental balance - after spending a half-hour trying to get me to stay and try to change things, I left. Gary told me yesterday that he left for the ATO fraternity - where conditions made those of East Hall seem like a fully staffed four-star hotel. I went to the Gamma Delta House, an old fraternity bought by the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod, where I met the Reverend Elmer Yohr and spent a long semester playing bridge at every possible moment. But Gary and I remembered some of those great characters we met - a young African American Kossuth Thomas of Mississippi, who would play and sing Fats Domino in the basement of East Hall for us - Kossuth left the middle world at a very early age. He and his Jamaican roommate, a huge man with that peculiarly cultivated English accent of the Caribbean - they open more windows on the rest of the world and into the rich heritage of folks neither Gary nor I had ever met or thought much about - in some ways, meeting Gary and those few sane folk at East Hall who were sober or sane enough to talk with was among the most valuable parts of my first year of college.

As I told my friend and mentor Jerry Tweton yesterday - Jerry's responsible for the series The Way It Was: The North Dakota Frontier Experience, the six books based on Dakotans' stories gathered in the 1930s among the area's first settlers. He graciously allowed me to have a role in the press we established, The Grass Roots Press - and next week, the series will be completed with the publication of The Townspeople -- we were in Fargo to talk about the book and the series. Both of us were initiated into the world of serious history - Jerry kept with it, I flirted with medicine and gradually drifted to literature - we both took our first class in history from the late, great Robert Wilkins. Jerry's a bit more than decade older than I - but Professor Wilkins hadn't changed in those ten years. On the first day of class, Wilkins connected each young North Dakotan to place - he had researched the newspapers of our hometowns and counties and told us a bit of what happened of significance to the place we grew up. He encouraged us to do the same - as often as we could - and began introducing us to research on the very first day of class. Wilkins know most everything about history, it seems to me from the perspective of some forty-four years later - and he fully expected his students to learn everything he knew and more. I'll never forget the first test he hand back - 'twas the lowest grade I had every received in my life, a 67 - barely a C. I was absolutely despondent. Dr. Wilkins came around the room, leaned over my desk with his hand on my shoulder, and said in something of a cultivated English accent, "Mr. Albers, Mr. Albers, take heart! That's the highest grade I've given on this test in three years!" In some ways, my A- in Robert Wilkins' history class is the greatest achievement of my academic career. Ah, what memories are evoked by seeing old friends - thank you, Gary, for stopping by - I hope to see you soon. Who knows how many layers of fogs hiding the moments we experienced forty-some years past. Heady times - most of which I missed - too much bridge (haven't played seriously since), too many repetitions of Mozart's "Eine Kleine Nacht Musik" playing while hand after hand of bridge was dissected - I wish that Gary and I had spent some more time, that I would have sought out and learned more from Kossuth Thomas, and that I would have spent a few more hours with Robert Wilkins - although later, after I became the servant of the North Dakota Humanities Council in the early 1970s - I was privileged to get to know both Robert and his wife Wynona in our work in public humanities in the state. Here's a big swig of Strawberry Breeze in their memory.

I've lolly-gagged this morning - arose early, meandered around the Internet, and began my journal - then succumbed to a great weariness which took me back to bed for a few hours - rest from a wondrously beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day yesterday, rest to enjoy that which remains in this grand one in Dakota. My lovin' spouse and I did return from Fargo in time to drop in at Meriwether's to wish our friends Lillian and Jim congratulations on their love and their joining their forces in quest of life worth living - 'twas most uplifting to see two so radiantly happy.

'Tis a day to be grateful to be alive - I'm sustained with a couple of great Leslie apple crepes and an egg, a Prosure, and enough of the pills to be able to sit and read and then work a bit without constant interruption on this quiet spring afternoon here on Arthur Drive. Maybe I'll even find out what March Madness and the Final Four is all about this year - tomorrow, more comprehensive blood tests - hoping for levels high enough to have me in the greatest shape for another go-around at Zion's Cancer Treatment Center of America a week from Monday. Hoping for weeks sans chills, too much fatigue, or plugged bile duct stents - 'tis spring, and there's work to be one. For one thing, someone has to watch those migratory ducks and geese head north. Be well, my dear kola, all you who make may life worth living - and take care of yourselves - hope 'tis a bright and sunny wherever you are as 'tis here - hope your day is fantastic, Ginny Tisdale --

Ev Albers

Saturday, March 20th, 2004

Words for Today
"Deep within us - no matter who we are - there lives a feeling of wanting to be lovable, of wanting to be the kind of persons that others like to be with. And the greatest thing we can do is to let people know that they are loved and capable of loving."
The words belong to Fred Rogers, born on this day in 1928 - he completed his passage about three weeks shy of his seventy-five birthday a year ago February 27, in 2003. My friend in Seattle, sent me a copy of The World According to Mr. Rogers: Important Things to Remember a few months back - 'tis a treasure of observations about those things that really make a difference in our passage here in the middle world. Rogers' birthday falls on the vernal equinox, the first day of spring, which came to Arthur Drive this morning at eleven minutes before 1:00 A.M. (CST). Almost always, spring comes on March 20.

Whether or not 'this Spring in the sense of much warmer weather and trees budding and the world beginning anew is not always true - we've had some mighty blizzards on March 20 in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota, where 'twill continue to be windy and cool - with temperatures rising above freezing - for the coming week. But 'tis the vernal equinox - day when the Great Sphinx of Egypt looks directly at the rising sun, day when nights and days are equal, day when the sun beats down directly on the equator. On this day, dear friends Lillian Crook and Jim Fuglie, who have found spring in their love for each other, are marrying at the Knife River Indian Villages upriver the weest from Bismarck --the villages are just up the Knife River from its confluence with the Missouri, the place where Lewis and Clark wintered in 1804-1805. Later this year, Lillian and Jim will celebrate with friends their union at a summer solstice event out in the gorgeous Dakota badlands both love so much. Lillian is the librarian at Dickinson State University and a member of the North Dakota Humanities Council. Jim is retiring young from an advertising firm - after a career of newspaper reporting, working for the Democratic Party, and directing the business of attracting tourists to the state as the director of tourism for the state of North Dakota. Lillian and Jim found each other a bit later in life - and 'tis wondrous to behold how much their union gives them happiness and allows them to share even more of themselves and their happiness with the rest of the world. I'm reminded of a song I wrote for my lovin' spouse back when we met some thirty years past:

This song has waited for ten thousand years and maybe more,
Wandering in the winter moonlight,
wandering in the cold starlight
Waiting for the time and place
The moment when I'd see your face
And love would come for us again
Spring would come for us again
And I would sing this song of love again for you
I would sing for you.

My spouse and I salute you this grand day, Lillian and Jim - and Lillian's delightful twin teenagers, Rachel and Chelsea. Live long and happily, find the perfect place to settle down in western North Dakota. May your days be filled with laughter and love, music and harmony.

Last night while checking the news (actually, I was interested in the basketball scores), I happened about CNN News' Wolf Blitzer (love that name) interviewing mogul Donald Trump. Asked about his philosophy of life, Trump replied with something like, "Life is time you spend waiting to die. The key to happiness is enjoying life every minute. If you don't enjoy what you're doing or don't enjoy your work, all the money in the world is meaningless. Enjoy." While it may indeed be a bit easier to enjoy life with a few million dollars in the bank, it doesn't always happen that way. Today is the birthday (1823) of the man who made a good piece of change by writing about the American West. Called the "dime millionaire," Ned Buntline "discovered" Buffalo Bill Cody (and gave him the nickname "Buffalo Bill," although Cody denied it) and wrote a dime novel about him in his unwavering quest to make as much money as possible - his goal in life. The book by the Easterner Buntline, born in Connecticut and working out of New York at the time he went to San Francisco on a trip, was called The Scout of the Plains. Following its publication and terrific sales, Bunline turned it into a play in 1872, which he produced in Chicago - he even convinced Cody to act in it. Buffalo Bill was a bad actor, but his presence and name brought in hordes of people, and both made a good deal of money. Many of Cody's exploits in the book were made up out of whole cloth - but the public didn't mind Bunline's exaggerations. He and Buffalo Bill parted ways, but the fame created by Bunline made it possible for Cody to mount his successful Wild West Shows. The writer of some 400 novels and countless short stores died at age sixty-three in Connecticut. A shameless womanizer (he married seven times) who nearly died by hanging when the angry townspeople of a place where he killed the jealous husband of a woman he tried to seduce, Bunline was saved by friends who cut him down from an awning in the town square before he strangled to death and got him out of town in 1846. There's no evidence that Bunline reformed. Nor was he ever happy with what he wrote. He said, "I found that to make a living I must write 'trash' for the masses, for he who endeavors to write for the critical few, and do his genius justice, will go hungry if he has no other means of support." All things considered, Buntline was probably less than a happy fellow - in spite of his fame and success at making money. The Donald Trump would conclude that he pretty much wasted his life.

What Ned Buntline didn't have was any kind of committed relationship with a good woman - almost always a condition that leaves a man less than happy. Lillian and Jim are happy in no small part because they like dancing in the kitchen - a rubric used by Therese Yeaton, who sent along the Mr. Rogers' book, used for his favorite music that she passed along to the webboard where my kola come to share music and ideas. Jim says the best dancing in the kitchen music is Dakota's own Chuck Suchy's "Dancin' in the Kitchen" from the Mandan farmer's album, Different Line of Time. Lillian lists the Suchy album as one of her top five favorite CDs as well. Now that's harmony, kola.

Don't think that my lovin' spouse and I will get back from Fargo in time to wander on down to Meriwether's, a restaurant down on the Missouri a mile or so from here. Lillian and Jim will be gathered with friends to listen to Chuck's son Ben Suchy perform - but we'll be there in spirit. We're going to Fargo, two hundred miles down the Interstate to the east, to join my friend Jerry Tweton to read a few selections from our completed The Way It Was series - the sixth and final volume is coming out next week. The books are collections of the stories of the original homesteaders to North Dakota who were interviewed as part of a grand federal project in the 1930s - 5,000 homesteaders who came as early as the 1870s were interviewed in North Dakota. We plan to box the six books and market them as a set as well as individual titles - The Sod-Busters, Norwegian Homesteads, The Cowboys & Ranchers, German from Russia Settlers, Native People and the new book, The Townspeople. 'Tis grand to see a project through to completion, something I was not sure I would live to see last year on the vernal equinox. 'Tis the love and friendship of friends and family that are more responsible than anything else for my being here, and I'm mightily grateful, kola. I leave the last word today to Fred Rogers: "If you could only sense how important your are to the lives of those you meet: how important you can be to the people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person." Here's hoping you can leave the best of yourselves with every person you meet today, kola - that's the best way to take care of yourselves - looking out for each other.

Ev Albers

Friday, March 19th, 2004

Words for Today
"The station house was no unfit object in such a scene, roofless and chair less, filthy and squalid, with a smoky fire in one corner and a table in the center of an impure floor, the walls open to every wind, and the interior full of dust. Of the employees, all loitered and sauntered about as cretins with the exception of the cripple who lay dying on the ground."
​Sir Richard Francis Burton, one of the true geniuses among all of those who have passed through this middle world, was born on this day in 1821. In the passage above, he described one of the station house's of the Pony Express during his travel in the American West. The England-born Burton traveled the world, wrote scores of books and translated some of the best of the literature of the Arab and Indian cultures into English, and enjoyed his life immensely, a passage that ended at age sixty-nine. Burton could speak some forty languages like a native. Expelled from Oxford University in 1821 for a minor offense, he went to India as an army officer and then on to the Middle East where he could assume the identity of a Muslim. He went to the source of the Nile in Africa. 'Twas Burton who gave us translations of The Thousand and One Nights and from the classic Hindu erotic classic, The Kama Sutra. A genius. What Burton left in terms of translations and delightfully descriptive travel books (which emphasize the spiritual journey more than the geographical exploration) is huge. It could be even more, but his wife Isabel, who burned all of his diaries and manuscripts as soon as he took his last breath and wrote an expurgated version of his colorful life which depicted him as a good Catholic, wonderful husband, and misunderstood adventurer and traveler. A sampling of Burton's wry observations about himself belie his wife's attempt to make him otherwise. Burton's philosophy was to listen to his instincts at all times. In The Kasidah, Burton writes:

Do what thy manhood bids thee do, from none
  but self expect applause;
He noblest lives and noblest dies who makes
  and keeps his self-made laws.

All other Life is living Death, a world where
  none but Phantoms dwell,
A breath, a wind, a sound, a voice, a tinkling
  of the camel bell.

Happy Birthday, Sir Richard - wherever you are. Your books continue to delight tens of thousands around the world. 'Tis a gloriously beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota, where there will be the weest bit of March wind whilst the temperatures soar to the fifties - heat wave! The bit of snowing clinging to the ground in shaded areas - like our yard here on Arthur Avenue in Bismarck - will not be able to withstand the onslaught of spring, which is just around the corner. This is the day, of course, that the swallows return to San Juan Capistrano in California. 'Tis rather grand to be able to depend on such things as the return of swallows and comets - eclipses from time to time - 'twas on this day in 721 B.C.E. that the first lunar eclipse was recorded in Babylon. And this is the first anniversary of the beginning of the short shooting war with Iraq - President Bush will be talking to the nation later this morning about why we invaded and what will happen after the occupation - and doubtlessly address the nation's conflict with international terrorism. 'Tis curious: Sir Richard Francis Burton wrote at considerable length about the Muslim assassins, a word of Arabic origin that the western world didn't know about until Burton told him - as he introduced them to other aspects of cultures other than our own. One of Burton's biographers, Edward Rice, author of Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton, wrote of Burton's description of one sect of Muslims:

The Isma'ilis had once been known as the Assassins, for they had developed special techniques for eliminating religious and political enemies, but assassination had probably not been practiced for several centuries.

A key tool in the growth of Isma'ilianism was the use of devotees, the fida'is, whose role it was to propagandize and convert and also to murder opponents as a final act of dedication. .  .  .   Many legends developed about their skill and secretiveness in attaining their goals, one being that they were given the best of all material lives, with fine foods and their pick of nubile young women, and were drugged on hashish - Indian hemp or cannabis. The Syrian Arabic term for these fida'is was hashshashin, hashish takers, and it was not long before the Crusaders, who faced them in the Levant, had turned the word into 'assassins', now common in many languages.

​Says a modern commentator on Rice's biography, "One of the failings of Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton is that Rice flips back and forth between current events (in the 19th century) and historical events without trying to put the information into a chronological context. So, it looks like the term 'assassin' was used during the Crusades and also in the 19th century to refer to modern Isma'ilis. There's a fascinating study of this group. It's entirely possible that the mythic Isma'ilis and their reputation for murder and mayhem were made up by those feared those they did not know much about - in much the same manner that some of us Americans at the turn of the twenty-first century have created an inhuman group of fanatics who kill mindlessly - Al Qaida. That both Isma'ilis and Al Qaida were (and are, in the case of the latter) responsible for murder and mayhem is true; whether either were motivated by drugs and the promise of sexual bliss is quite another. It's a mysterious tradition - with origin in the religious wars we know as the Crusades, perhaps beyond. But a contemporary scholar of comparative literature wrote in a review of the 1994 book The Assassin Legends: Myths of the Isma'ilis by Farhad Daftary, "The Assassin Legends represents the latest contribution to a more critical and contrapuntal scholarship on the Isma'ilis. It stands comfortably on the shelf as a generally persuasive critical foray into the history of East-West relations by its interrogation of a discourse of ignorance and fascination, awe and ideological enmity, through which a multi-culture made up of Muslims, Jews, and Christians imagined Isma'ilism." In short, we have a good way to go if we really wish to understand each other - especially those bent on our destruction. The obverse is true, of course - Al Qaida has no interest whatsoever in seeing Americans as anything but imperialistic, materialistic godless subhumans.

This is not a new story or recent development, of course - 'tis as old as the rise of consciousness and the earliest human experiences in thinking of themselves as separate from, different than, and superior to other groups of humans. We don't have many Sir Richard Francis Burtons bent on understanding other cultures - and willing to invest time and energy (and have the genius to be able to do so to good effect) in learning the language and experiencing firsthand those cultures so different from our own. 'Tis a pity.

But this is a glorious day, a great one to be alive. I must be about the business of doing what I can to help those public humanities organizations I serve help Dakotans better understand other minds in other times in places other than our own - be well, kola - take care of yourselves, and if you want to see for yourselves how one who traveled here in the middle world we share spent a lifetime learning about others, have a look at Sir Richard Francis Burton.

Ev Albers

Thursday, March 18th, 2004

Words for Today
"Ask not what your country can do for you . . . It can't do a thing, and it's unpatriotic to think that it should."
That's what Birthday Boy, Big Grover Cleveland said in his second inaugural address in March 1893 – he won the election over the incumbent Benjamin Harrison to a second term after being out of office for four years. Born on this day in 1837, President Cleveland simply did not believe that the social compact should in anyway involve sharing the costs of each other's well being, good health, or educational opportunity – or anything else, for that matter. He had his own problems, as I outlined in my journal entry last year on this date (see 3/18/03; select above). Cleveland married his ward, Francis Folsom in 1886 in the White House. He was forty-nine, she was twenty-one. Their child, Baby Ruth – in fact, the person for whom the Baby Ruth candy bar is named – was born between terms in 1891. Francis was the daughter of Cleveland's law partner, Oscar Folsom, whose estate Cleveland administered (he was never Francis' legal guardian). Cleveland was much taken with the young daughter of his deceased friend, and he requested permission from Mr. Folsom to correspond with here.

During the campaign of 1884, Republicans came up with an attack ditty and a charge that Cleveland had fathered a child out-of-wedlock. Cleveland accepted responsibility for fathering Oscar Folsom Cleveland, born in 1874 to Maria Helprin, a New Jersey widow who left her two children and moved to Buffalo to have a better life – she became a department manager in a department store, quite an achievement for a single woman. She kept company with several men, including Cleveland and his friend and law partner, Oscar Folsom (father of Cleveland's future wife). Cleveland accepted paternal responsibility because the other men were married – he thought he had less to lose than they – even though he was not at all certain he was the father of Oscar, who was later adopted by a prominent New York family and became a doctor. Cleveland tried to help Oscar's mother – who turned to drinking big time after Oscar Folsom's death. He paid her $500 to give up custody of the body and resettled her in New Rochelle, where she married. "Ma, Ma, where's my Pa?" was the chant in the presidential campaign of 1884 – with the cartoon of a wailing boy saying "I want my Pa." The Democrats answered with "Gone to the White House, ha, ha, ha!" Voters didn't seem to be all that concerned about Cleveland's private life -–besides, he freely admitted his possible responsibility – in fact, went beyond what the circumstances warranted.

Eight years later, in 1892, there wasn't much of a campaign, because when President Harrison's wife, Caroline, died in October 1892, both parties stopped campaigning out of respect. Don't think that would happen today.

Today is the first anniversary of "Time's Nearly Up" for the ultimatum given to Saddam by the Bush administration – get out of Iraq, along with your family, and we'll think about not bombing the hell out of your country. 'Twas not a time for much of any dissent -– after all, we Americans have to stand together. Many are saying the same thing today. Last year I wrote,

For some, it may border on the unpatriotic to discuss such as who will benefit mightily from the almost-certain war with Iraq – which companies and individuals will not only expect but get "direct individual advantages" from the conflict and the enormously expensive rebuilding of the country. We know that bids have been already been prepared for various aspects of that project. We also know, if history informs what is likely to happen – a few large international companies will do very well indeed.

But one must be careful about raises such issues on the eve of war.

Once more, we live out a national myth – for all its critical importance to our living together in reasonable harmony, nonetheless one that leaves us dangerously exposed – for we are the lone warrior, the cowboy with the white hat, standing almost alone – with the exception of a side-kick or two – against evil incarnate. What is understandable but disturbing is the why in which we slide into our role in the myth when the moment comes – if polls are to believed, public support for intervention in Iraq unless Saddam leaves within a day or so climbs by the hour – strange and wonderful – more like a movie than reality – at 8:30 A.M. on the brink of the conflict, viewers around the world, including the Iraqis, are given a complete breakdown of the likely attack plan by a military expert --

What's to be done, kola? More than ever, we have to find whys to keep our sanity – to take care of ourselves so that we can look out for each other. Perhaps that begins, sometimes, with admitting the possibility that we can have qualms about what our country and its leaders are doing in our name without having to feel guilty that we are flirting with treason.

​If one who still has qualms listened to Vice President Cheney speak yesterday at the Reagan Library out in California, such a one might well conclude that she/he were endangering the health and safety – nay, the lives – of our fellow citizens. 'Twas Grover Cleveland, a Democrat, who said what Cheney and Bush have so often implied: "The ship of Democracy, which has weathered all storms, may sink through the mutiny of those aboard." Cleveland also said, "The United States is not a nation to which peace is a necessity." President Cleveland was far too honest – he would not survive as a politician today, methinks. For example, he believed that "Sensible and responsible women do not want to vote. The relative positions to be assumed by man and woman in the working out of our civilization were assigned long ago by a higher intelligence than ours." And he said, "He mocks the people who proposes that the government shall protect the rich and that they in turn will care for the laboring poor."

President Cleveland was not a particularly optimistic fellow – he didn't have much faith in relying on the best of human instincts to improve the social compact. He lived in a time, of course, when the first order of business in this country was looking out for Number One – the great American Dream was to amass wealth far in excess of what one needed – and too bad for those one had to use to get it.

There's a bit of the same attitude today – and the cynical are still wondering about who is making a good chunk of money from what is called "Operation Peace" in Iraq. 'Tis a gloriously beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day here in Dakota – with plenty of sunshine heading our way ("Zippity Do Dah, Zippity Day"). I'm actually thinking about breakfast this fine day – which is a good thing, methinks. And I'm mostly comfortable – the weest bit weak and a good deal slower to recover from the last round of chemo, but most grateful to be alive and some possible use to society for what I hope will be a good while longer. 'Tis a time of hope – and starting the world anew – for 'tis coming up spring. May it be spring and summer for our country before what should be a civil discourse about the future of our social compact during the last couple of months before the election. We can always hope that the present nonsense will surcease for the weest – 'tain't likely – but sometimes it happens. I do think that more Americans than ever before have become aware that partisan politics and anything approaching truth are nearly mutually exclusive. Be well, kola – and take care of yourselves and look out for each other.

Ev Albers

Wednesday, March 17th, 2004

Words for Today
"Of course the people don't want war. But after all, it's the leaders of the country who determine the policy, and it's always a simple matter to drag the people along whether it's a democracy, a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism, and exposing the country to greater danger."
So said Herman Goering in statement before the judges during the Nuremberg Trials. I quoted him a year ago in my journal entry from Zion – on a St. Patrick's Day when we were still wondering about just how much havoc it would be necessary to wreck in Iraq (see 3/17/03). I also quoted Senator Hiram Johnson of California (served from beginning of World War I to end of World War II) – Johnson said, "The first casualty of war is truth." And one of greatest minds who ever thought and wrote in the English language, Samuel Johnson, wrote in 1758, ". . . among the calamities of war may be jointly numbered the diminution of the love of truth, by the falsehoods which interest dictates and credulity encourages."

Whatever good we did in Iraq in terms of removing a despicable dictator who killed thousands – tens of thousands – of his own people, we did indeed, in retrospect, enter into a commitment of tens of billions of dollars and an ongoing presence, with no end in site – and little confidence that the Iraqis will become a democracy in a year or so. There will probably be no grand party in Baghdad today – they really don't care about St. Patrick's Day – the grand celebration in Ireland and throughout the world marking the departure from the middle world in the year 461 of the man who brought Christianity to the Emerald Isle, Bishop Patrick. The day was first celebrated in the New World on this day in New York in the Crown and Thistle Tavern – the year was 1756. Of this day, senior correspondent of the Chicago Tribune, Charles M. Madigan, wrote, "Patrick . . . one of the few saints whose feast day presents the opportunity to get determinedly whacked and make a fool of oneself all under the guise of acting Irish." We even do it in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota, where 'tis indeed a glorious day – yesterday began with snow and ended with a great thaw and spring in the air – today 'twill continue to thaw, even dwindling those piles made at the edges of parking lots during the long winter. There are not a lot of Irish folk in Dakota, which is dominated by the descendants of Norwegian and German homesteaders. Few Irish took to farming in Dakota – they preferred to live in town – except for such as the family of our gift to the millennia, the poet Thomas Matthew McGrath. But we celebrate St. Patrick's Day -- which falls during Lent. When I was growing up out in Hannover Township in Oliver County, the Center of the Universe, 'twas the single day that some folks wandered into town to down a few and even dance – there was not a single person of Irish descent in Hannover Township, as far as I know. March 17 was the only day during Lent that dances were permitted in most towns – my big brother Jim and his lovely spouse Lucille caused quite a scandal when they had a wedding and dance during Lent on March 28 – the city fathers of New Salem, nineteen miles south of Hannover, were not pleased about allowing such in the city hall back in 1958, when I was sixteen. But 'twas OK to dance on St. Patrick's Day, so ingrained was the holiday in American culture. Still is, of course – the river in downtown Chicago will turn green today, and there will be no few getting whacked throughout the nation. There will be marches in the cities, and more Americans than not – regardless of their ancestors' origins – will be wearing a bit of green. I did myself back in the early years of the 1970s when I taught at Dickinson State – in fact, I played piano most of the afternoon and into the night for Irish sing-a-longs at the Shamrock Bar in downtown Dickinson -- the watering hole for a few brave faculty members and students more than thirty years past. As far as I know, no person of Irish descent ever owned the Shamrock, and very few who imbibed and communed there could claim Irish in their blood – my lovin' spouse had an Irish-by-way-of-Canada grandmother, Bertha Hogan, so me own children are one-eight Irish – five-eighths German, and one-fourth Czech. There were many more folk from the Dickinson area of Czech descent than Irish at the Shamrock at any time of the day. A curious place, the Shamrock served the older, retired folk in the morning – they would waiting for the place to open at 8:00 A.M. Late in the afternoon, the business community would gather for an hour or so – and then it became a college bar. I played and sang – both rather badly – such as "When Irish Eyes are Smiling," "Sure, a Little Bit of Heaven Fell from out the Sky One Day" (or whatever that one's titled), and "The Wearin' of the Green" --

"O Paddy dear, and did ye hear the news that's goin' round?
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground!
No more Saint Patrick's Day we'll keep, his color can't be seen
For there's a cruel law ag'in the Wearin' o' the Green."
I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he said, "How's poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand?"
"She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
For they're hanging men and women there for the Wearin' o' the Green."

"So if the color we must wear be England's cruel red
Let it remind us of the blood that Irishmen have shed;
And pull the shamrock from your hat, and throw it on the sod
But never fear, 'twill take root there, though underfoot 'tis trod.
When laws can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow
And when the leaves in summer-time their color dare not show,
Then I will change the color too I wear in my caubeen;
But till that day, please God, I'll stick to the Wearin' o' the Green."

Aye, but 'tis a grand song! I fell in love with Irish folklore and music in graduate school when I took an intensive seminar on the poet and playwright, William Butler Yeats. When I came to Dickinson State, I taught a seminar on Yeats in emulation of the course I took at Colorado State. There's not a drop of Irish blood that courses through my veins – all German. Germans, by the way, don't limit themselves to the excesses of St. Patrick's Day to a single day – they go on for at least a week during Octoberfest. The Irish, of course, have their problems – and, to my mind, no few were brought by St. Patrick – but what a marvelously poetic folk who recognize the importance of the weest bit of music. So Happy St. Patrick's Day, kola – whatever your ancestry. I won't be getting whacked – or even have a sip of green beer (don't think that O'Doul's have such, but it's probably at a tavern somewhere, places I no longer frequent) – but I'll sing a bit of "Wearin' of the Green" as I go about my tasks this grand day. And a special St. Paddy's Day greeting to my good friend, mentor, and general fine fellow, Bernard O'Kelly, the former Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences at the University of North Dakota – he now lives with his delightful and lovely wife Marcia in the Chicago area. The good Dr. O'Kelly is my very favorite Irish-Canadian of all time. Here's a huge gulp of Welsh's Strawberry Breeze in your honor, Dr. O'Kelly.

This 17th day of March 2004 marks the sixteenth birthday of my youngest nephew, Ian Kubik – son of my spouse's brother Joe, who left the middle world far too young almost two years past after a battle with lymphoma, and Kris Bergerud who grew up around the nation, including Killdeer, the cowboy town that lies about twenty miles north of Dickinson. Ian has a most winsome way with the ladies – the photograph is from a prom he went to way up in Grenora, North Dakota, on the Canadian border last May. He has an Irish name – and red hair. He and his mom stopped the other day – he's stretched a couple of more inches since then – must be around 6' 3" or 6'4". An honor student (straight A's, of course), a voracious reader, and the kindest of teenagers to such as his Uncle Everett, Ian Kubik is one fine fellow. He and his cousin, Alex Bleth, who's almost two years older (son of Leslie's sister Janet), spent a good deal of time together as young fellows. I remember them on the Kubik Farm, operated by Ian's father, Joe, for several years before it was leased – trying very hard to stay out of trouble. Ian's an eclectic young man – he does track well, collects coins, and reads deeply into any subject that he becomes interested in. He was just a month past his fourteenth birthday when he arose at his Dad's memorial service and delivered a tribute to his father – few moments have touched me as deeply as that moment.

Here's Ian and cousin Alex at the Kubik farmstead back in the early 1990s – as their Grandpa Alfons would say, "Such good boys, such good boys." Enjoy your birthday, Ian – and no getting whacked, me boyo – not today, or ever. Besides, a fellow of your talent and imagination does not any stimulation – you generate enough on your own. Know that your old Uncle Everett loves you – thank you for all the kindnesses you have extended me. May you blessed with your father's intelligence and great humor, your grandpa Alfons' free-thinking ways, and your Mom's incredible sense of following through on all commitments – along with all the best of genes you carry from those who contributed to your makeup.

What I do not wish for you, Ian, is the life of the politician – unless you can somehow find a way to be a successful one without sacrificing the truth and responsibility to those politicians are supposed to serve – the kind of politician who might ask with singer and activist Holly Near, "Why do we kill people who are killing people to show that killing people is wrong?" Near, born in 1949 of parents from New York and North Dakota who lived in Ukiah, California, Near continues to be indefatigable in her search for social justice. In the great album, Edge (2000), Near sings "I Ain't Afraid"

I ain't afraid of your Yahweh
I ain't afraid of your Allah
I ain't afraid of your Jesus
I'm afraid of what you do in the name of your God

I ain't afraid of your churches
I ain't afraid of your temples
I ain't afraid of your praying
I'm afraid of what you do in the name of your God

Rise up to your higher power
Free up from fear, it will devour you
Watch out for the ego of the hour
The ones who say they know it
Are the ones who will impose it on you

CHORUS

Rise up, and see /find/ know/ hear a higher story
Free up from the gods of war and glory
Watch out for the threats of purgatory
The spirit of the wind won’t make a killing off of sin and satan

I ain't afraid of your Bible
I ain't afraid of your Torah
I ain't afraid of your Koran
Dont let the letter of the law
Obsure the spirit of the your love--it's killing us

CHORUS

Money
Culture
Choices
I’m afraid of what you do in the name of your God

Sunday
Spirt
Teachers
I’m afraid of what you do in the name of your God

Sabbath
Borders
Dances
I’m afraid of what you do in the name of your God double
Children
Music
Stories
I’m afraid of what you do in the name of your God

Rise up to your higher power
Free up
Rise up to your higher power
Free up
Let's try to be highly evolved
I aint afraid

There ain't nothing wrong with a bit of blarney – in fact, 'tis the ability to speak of nothing with some authority is a wonder to beyond, a talent much admired by the Irish in foreign leaders. But blarney and civic leadership do not always mix well, for soon politicians begin to lie so well that they themselves become confused about what is a lie and what is the truth. War encourages lying – and winning at all costs. 'Twas one of the greatest at talking blarney in the history of the world, Adolf Hitler, who rose to power in no small part because of his mesmerizing speaking ability – 'twas Hitler who said, "No one asks the victor whether or not he told the truth." Perhaps at no time in the history of our social compact will the truth be more obfuscated than it will be during the long seven and one-half months ahead, for we are in for the longest of campaigns for president. Charges and countercharges will fly, television will be clogged – and the winner is likely to be the one who tells the most outrageous lie long and often enough to be picked as the best choice by default. No few votes, finally, will be cast out of fear of change and threats to our social compact from terrorists, true believers bent on destroying us. The only answer to most seems to be war and violence.

My lovin' spouse came home from seeing the movie The Fog of War, based on interviews with Robert McNamara – and man in charge of the Vietnam War who had a change of heart. He's eighty-seven now, and he appeared about a month ago at Berkeley, the seat of so much of the protest against the war – including McNamara's son Craig, who came to the event with his wife and two children – Craig is a walnut farmer in Davis. The aging hippies came ready to take on the old hawk – and left generally pleased with the change in the old man. At one point in his speech, Robert McNamara challenged his audience with the rhetoric of a peacenik – "We human beings killed 160 million other human beings in the 20th century," he said. "Is that what we want in this century? I don't think so." McNamara said that he's now convinced that pre-emptive war and regime change is not way to meet the threats to our security from abroad – but, in fairness to those who find in absolutely necessary – most of our leaders at the turn of the twenty-first century – he didn't offer a recognizable alternative.

Those who advocate the role of world policeman for the United States say they have been vindicated for their going to war – and perhaps at least stretching the truth the weest – by what happened this week in Spain – the terrorist network that attacked on 9/11/01 struck in Spain, where the leaders supported our position in Iraq (although 90 percent of the population apparently did not) – al-Qaida changed the election – the organization must be stopped at all costs. Yet, Germany and France, who opposed our invasion and did not support it, is as much a target as Spain. Finding the truth in all of this is most difficult – in fact, many Americans fear the truth and rather would not deal with it – which is that we have to be prepared to make enormous sacrifices to our personal freedom and accept something of a Big Brother government if we are to be successful in meeting the very real threat. Among the questions behind the crisis is "How much are we willing to give up in order to feel secure?"

Heady question for St. Patrick's Day – which 'tis a grand day indeed to enjoy a bit of song and dance, laughter and the kind of fun we had at the old Shamrock some thirty years and some past. Those were heady times as well – a nation divided over Vietnam – and then the 1972 presidential campaign with Watergate and all the rest. We had high hopes that our society would dramatically change in the coming decades back around 1970 – and it has, for the better, in many ways. Alas, it does seem as though 'tis still politics as usual. Do take care of yourselves, kola – don't get whacked, and find a way to reach out to your neighbors.

Ev Albers