Saturday, January 10th, 2004

Aye, 'tis a decent enough day – after a long night far from the site of the moon, tied as I was to an IV unit mounted on my bed, the other end in my port in my chest slowly, very slowly, pumping a transfusion of blood, Type A positive, into my low red count/low hemoglobin stream – I was at the facility until damn near midnight – the emergency room here in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Bismarck where the nurses and all those involved in helping keep people are alive are absolutely marvelous, where the food is lousy, and where they still insist upon these damn snapped hospital gowns that tie on the back and chill you to the bone – no long johns, sweat shirt, nor lots of warm blankets – they have these thin units that couldn't make it as a heavy sheet. And, of course, 'tis necessary to keep such places cool for the expensive machines. Nice as folks are, one wishes to spend no more time than necessary at the ER. 'Twas a quiet night – little of the ER hustle and bustle, codes and running around one would expect. A rather laid-back, most friendly place – even though no one quite understands how one might be the weest bit cold with nothing on top but that damned open gown. There I sat with that thin piece of cotton on top – and my shorts, long johns, flannel-lined jeans, socks, and slipper socks – hell, I didn't need a blanket across my ankles and feet – damn it all, I wanted something between me and the cooled air – ah well. Perhaps I've bought some extra energy. We might get a weest bit of flurries, but 'twill be foggy – but, get this, kola – could soar above freezing today! Perhaps a couple of units of blood will give me a shot of energy – although I was doing quite fine until I got the call to go get ready to get ready to get ready to get blood – there were at least three get readys -- to get a couple of blood units.

Who am I to complain? Shame on me – the luckiest fellow still walking around in the middle world --– 'twas a year ago that my spouse and I were on our way to Zion, Illinois, and the possibility of keeping the insidious invader, Big C of the pancreas, at bay. We had stopped at the tropical restaurant in northern Alexandria to nosh with my darlin' daughter and a friend – that's Minnesota, where 'twas warm enough a year past that ice houses were falling into the lakes. No way did I think it possible that I would be here this year January 10 – I've been given months of life with miraculous drugs that brings me back from simply succumbing to a common cold with an aggressive chemotherapy that checks the invader – and stops damn near everything else as well, eventually – for 'tis cumulative. No, I have no reason to complain.

Kind of has me thinking about Jim Croce – now there was a great, compelling voice crooning of the stuff dreams and nightmares are made of – born on this day in 1943, he left far too soon in an airplane crash in 1973, about nine months into his fifty-first year of sojourn in the middle world. Remember that wondrous mustache and one of his signature songs – "Bad Leroy Brown" – now there's a great earworm for the day marking a third of the way through this first month of 2004 --

Well the South side of Chicago
Is the baddest part of town
And if you go down there you better just beware
Of a man named Leroy Brown

Now Leroy's more than trouble
You see, he stand about six foot four
All those down-town ladies call him treetop lover
All the men just call him Sir
{Refrain}
And he's bad, bad Leroy Brown
Baddest man in the whole damn town
Badder than old King Kong
And meaner than a junkyard dog

Now Leroy, he's a gambler
And he likes his fancy clothes
And he likes to wave his diamond rings
Under everybody's nose

He's got a custom Continental
He's got an El Dorado, too
He's got a .32 gun in his pocket for fun
He got a razor in his shoe

{Refrain}
Well, Friday 'bout a week ago
Leroy shootin' dice
And at the edge of the bar sat a girl name Doris
And, oh that girl looked nice

Well, he cast his eyes upon her
And the trouble soon began
And Leroy Brown learned a lesson 'bout a-messin' With the wife of a jealous man

{Refrain}

Well, those two men took to fightin'
And when they pulled them from the floor
Leroy looked like a jigsaw puzzle
With a couple of pieces gone

{Refrain twice}

Yeah, he was badder than old King Kong
And meaner than a junkyard dog

But enough of such – his best song, methinks, was "Time in a Bottle"

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day
'Til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you

If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I'd save every day
Like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory
Of how they were answered by you

Now there's a love song, kola – we'ed all save time in the bottle – I wouldn't be as concerned about spending a long evening into the night at an ER if I had enough time in a bottle – time to spend with my daughter – her time home went so soon – and now darlin' Gretchen tried to beat the snow goin' on back to the University of Nebraska-Lincoln after working at home with the help of my lovin' spouse on an index for the online edition of the University Press's online edition of Gary Moulton's Journals of the Journey of Lewis and Clark. Time enough write New Year's greetings to friends I've yet to get to – time enough to get those books and jackets done that just need the weest bit more tweaking before they go to press – time – that precious time, the most valuable commodity in the middle world. All ritual and religion inform the notion that only here – in that place from whence we humans came or to whence we go – that time is so important. For each of us, time ends here.

Time was most important back in 1960, the year I was a senior at Center High School. Ah, but there were glorious winter days and moonlit nights – there are times that I think that the moon has shrunk the weest in the last forty-five years or so – 'twas big back then, kola, big. I weighed more then than I do now, so 'tisn't that I was a smaller person looking at the same-size pie in the sky. 'Twas a much simpler time – and in all ways much more complicated. We needed a bigger moon, believe me. So much is better in terms of getting music without interruptions – Marty Robbins, the "White Sports Coat and a Pink Carnation" guy who had a huge hit in 1960 – "El Paso" – caused considerable trouble. What the hell you really don't need to know, anyway? bit for this day in history is that the song was good enough that he could break the rules – it was five minutes and 19 seconds long – that was a long, long song when most were two minutes – that made it possible to follow what still is a pretty rigid routine for the few radio stations who can find enough ads: a two-minute song, three minutes of commercials, a promo for a minute, and then another two-minute song – give about ten minutes for news, weather and sports every hour – that left fifty minutes – that mean only eight or nine songs an hour. Now five minute songs would wreak hell – if you tried for eight an hour, you would only have ten minutes left for promos and commercials – but they did play "El Paso."

I used to know all the words to an old ballad Robbins made famous – "The Strawberry Roan" – last night, sitting around at the ER, I was amazed to find that I still know them – but that's just one version of that great song – the roan was the Bad Leroy Brown of the horse world –

Out in the horse corral, standing alone,
Is an old caballo, a strawberry roan,
Little pin ears that touch at the tip,
A big 44 brand upon his left hip.
He was spavined all round, and he had pigeon toes,
Little pig eyes, and a big roman nose,
U-necked and old, with a long lower jaw,
You could tell at a glance he's a regular outlaw.

There's an old saying – something about it being better to ride an ass than I horse that throws you. The Strawberry Roan makes an ass out of the fellow that tries him, of course – he concludes after being bucked off that "I know there are ponies that I cannot ride; there's some of them left, they haven't all died." Well, Marty, you changed things – here's to you.

And here's to Robinson Jeffers, the American poet born on this day in 1887 who wrote,

It is easy to know the beauty of inhuman things, sea, storm, and
    mountain; it is their soul and their meaning.
Humanity has its lesser beauty, impure and painful; we have
    to harden our hearts to bear it . . .

Jeffers completed his middle-earth journey in 1962, but his spirit lives on, as this great site demonstrates. Jeffers had little hope for finding happiness in humanity without first paying respect to the middle world itself – he looked outward beyond not only himself but his fellow humans for possible truth. Married to a most liberated woman, Una, he said found that,

Begin Jeffers Quote
Another theme that has much engaged my verses is the expression of a religious feeling, that perhaps must be called pantheism, though I hate to type it with a name. It is the feeling . . . I will say the certitude . . . that the world, the universe, is one being, a single organism, one great life that includes all life and all things; and is so beautiful that it must be loved and reverenced; and in moments of mystical vision we identify ourselves with it. This is, in a way, the exact opposite of Oriental pantheism. The Hindu mystic finds God in his own soul, and all the outer world is illusion. To this other way of feeling, the outer world is real and divine; one’s own soul might be called an illusion, it is so slight and so transitory.
End Jeffers Quote

Part of what I most revere about the beauuuuuuuuuuuty of this place, this center of the universe, this Dakota is the palpable, insistent reality of the place – the moon may seem smaller than it was when I was in my twenties, but it still is large enough at times that one feels one could reach out and touch it – and there's no mistaking that one is in anything but a very real place of earth, wind, water, and the fire of the sun that lights the moon and makes our passage here possible. The Lakota would understand everything that Jeffers speaks of.

January 10 is the day for nations trying valiantly to get along without killing each other's citizens – 'twas on this day in 1920 that the League of Nations, U.S. President Woodrow Wilson's dream – came into being; on this day in 1946, the United Nations met for the first time in London. While the second effort has worked better than the first, we're still struggling mightily, kola; struggling mightily. Fact is, not a single day has passed since the UN first met that just a few or hundreds, yea, thousands, have died in violence every rotation of the earth around the sun – killed by someone who believes in the superiority of his/her nation or religion. Every day. Part of it is choosing what people think necessary to life worth living, as that great American spokesman most Americans today would dismiss as a dangerous atheistic radical, Thomas Paine expressed in his Common Sense, published on this day in 1776.

Two overwhelming questions demand the best "common sense" we can muster, kola – both as fellow citizens of our social compact in the United States and as fellow travelers here in the middle world with a nagging sense that we do indeed have an obligation to each other: How much of our liberty to say and do what we like without infringing on others' rights to the same "liberty" are we willing to forego in the interest of greater safety for ourselves and for those we love? How far dare can we go to protect what we consider to protect basic human values – that is, when do we kill people in the name of God or national interests? These aren't gonna go away this year – nor is the insidious invaders of all ilk likely to completely disappear – but perhaps we can avert major violence and keep not only ourselves safe but extend our comfort to neighbors throughout the world. Such is what we're here for kola – taking care of ourselves so we can do a better job of looking out for each other. Sometimes it takes a transfusion or the gift of life, blood itself, to keep us alive enough to help transform our social compacts into something better than we found it when we were born into it or joined up. . . .

Ev Albers

Friday, January 9th, 2004

Yo, ho, kola – 'tis in the earliest morning hours of this fine, beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota where 'tis time to man the border once more to try to control the masses coming to paradise – we welcome all, but we would like an orderly influx of new folk to our crisp tropical place – the temperatures are gonna climb into the 20s today, and 'twon't dip below 10 degrees above or so – ah, but 'tis a grand day ahead, indeed, indeed. 'Twas less than tropical on this day back in 1877 – the day of the big one – the reeeeeeeealy big blizzard that wiped out TR (aka Theodore Roosevelt – he hated being called "Teddy" – preferring even the nickname "Teedy") and his cattle operation out in the western Dakota in the gorgeous Badlands – which proved bad indeed. 'Twas the worst day in the worst winter in the West – about a foot and half of snow fell – an inch an hour for sixteen hours straight. The ranchers had been lulled by unseasonably warm winters for several years, and they had stopped putting out winter feed for their stock, forcing them to fend for themselves as the great American bison did so well. Even the bison had trouble that winter. It looked like it was gonna be another mild one in the autumn of 1886 – 'twas a dry hot summer – and most of the grass had burned away before the winter came early and stayed, with lots of snow often and heavy. A great winter, one every Dakotan's soul longs for – but not that great for cattle, who had to struggle through drifts in a weakened condition to try to find the weest bit of grass – and then one of those warm Chinook winds swept down, thawing the top layer of snow – and now there was trouble, because it turned cold again and quickly froze – and the cattle weren't able to hoove through and get to the grass – they died by the tens of thousands, probably millions. Out in Montana, they invaded every settlement looking for anything – tree saplings – anything to eat. Montana lost some 362,000, about half of the cattle in the entire territory. Oh, she was the Great Die Up, as the Montanans came to call that winter and this day 117 years ago in particular. Hundreds of ranchers went bankrupt, and TR lost his modest inheritance – enough money gone with the blizzard of 1887 that he had to work every day for the rest of his life to make a living. From that day on, most folks who were reasonably lucid knew that open range and unlimited grazing was not to be on the northern Great Plains – not unless you wanted to try to make a living harvesting cattle bones the next summer after a seasonably snowy and crisp day with a bit of wind – or sell tickets for the great cow invasion of your local town – there might be folks willing to come and sit around and wait for a Chinook followed by a freeze and blizzard just to say they saw hundreds of cattle come to town to eat tree saplings. Tell you this, kola – you gotta know the territory, you gotta know the territory.

In the past week or so, I was also reminded that you have approach stories of famous folk like TR with a proper degree of skepticism. For all of his many faults, chief among them a racism that reflected the worst of what we were at the turn of the century in terms of Americans of what he called "Anglo-Saxon" descent looking down very long noses at all people who weren't, especially African Americans and American Indians, Theodore Roosevelt was a great president, methinks. He had the uncanny ability to offer totally contradictory views as truth within the same paragraph as he spoke forcefully to rapt audiences – even if he were his only silent listener to his thinking. We humans have a marvelous penchant for making up history out of whole cloth, suiting up a story and making a total fabrication the beau of the ball. Take, for example, an old urban legend that has been around for a long time – and is currently being widely circulated in the wake of a new wave of flag-flying, patriotism and totally admirable respect for those wearing the United States uniforms during a war not all wanted. I was reminded of it when I read a most insightful column by my friend Jane Ahlin from Fargo, who makes nearly a weekly habit of writing great Sunday columns – I trust she doesn't mind my sharing with you what she said – because it's not yet been posted at the Fargo Forum web site, even though it ran on January 4 – hell, I'm going for it, especially because she kindly invokes my name:

Begin Ahlin Column
Life on the Banks
In the middle of 2003, (a year now mere fodder for historians), a quotation came to my attention circuitously. My friend, Everett (Ev) Albers, Executive Director of the North Dakota Humanities Council, who has kept an on-line journal since being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer more than a year ago, had received the book The World According to Mister Rogers as a gift, and in his journal, he noted that Mister Rogers had quoted the following words of the philosopher Will Durant:
"Civilization is a stream with banks. The stream is sometimes filled with blood from people killing, stealing, shouting, and doing things historians usually record-while, on the banks, unnoticed, people build homes, make love, raise children, sing songs, write poetry, whittle statues. The story of civilization is the story of what happens on the banks."

In the time since Ev put that in his journal, I've re-visited the quotation many times. And I've read a bit about Will Durant who died in 1981 at the age of 95. The quotation is from the epic 11-volume work he authored along with his wife Ariel called, The Story of Civilization . (Their own love story also was epic, lasting almost seventy years before they died within two weeks of one another.) But his remark was underscored by his understanding of civilization, an understanding we need to reconnect with in this year 2004 if we expect the world to gain in decency-not to regress.

Will Durant's underlying premise was that civilization is reinvented by every generation. No generation can do the work of the generation that follows; each generation must do its part to accept the best of civilization as taught to it and then pass it on, improved, if possible. To do so requires devotion to education which for Durant meant "that we have chosen the best as our associates both in spirit and the flesh; that we have learned to add courtesy to culture, wisdom to knowledge, and forgiveness to understanding."

In other words, most of us affect the future of civilization by the way we deal with one another "unnoticed" and "on the banks." Mister Rogers summed it up by saying, "There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person." Fred Rogers lived with that thought in mind, and evidently, when he gave talks, he asked members of the audience to sit in silence for ten seconds thinking about the people who had helped them become who they were. He even did it to the audience of mucky-mucks when he received a lifetime achievement award at the 1998 Emmys. (And how could they refuse his request? After all, he was the man who always told them, "I like you just the way you are.")

But there aren't many people who could get away with that. What Mister Rogers understood was that there was a difference between making-nice and being nice. It wasn't cotton candy stuff. He believed in self-discipline and honesty. But most of all he believed that good people learn early in life they are loved and they can be loving to others. Or as Ev puts it to his journal readers whom he calls "kola" (the Lakota word for friend), that we "look out" for one another.

There is so much about the world that is terrible. And while it is important that we don't simply accept disease, poverty, war, natural disaster, pollution and hatred as inevitable, we also must treat one another to the goodness all around: health, wealth, peaceful places, natural wonders, blue skies (sweet air) and love. Civilization is not our right; rather, it is our responsibility. The new year really begins by shaking off regrets of the old and starting anew to invent the civil world we desire. As we do we honor those who did their best-the folks heralded in "the stream" and the not-so-noticed "on the banks"-those who left our "middle world," as Ev calls it, in 2003. For me that includes "ten seconds of silence" for wonderful Mister Rogers and for Jeanne Madson Landa whose great good spirit touched me and for Sam Neis whose "Neis-isms" will stand my son well for the rest of his life.

Life is good "on the banks." Happy New Year.

End Ahlin Column

The urban legend that has resurfaced and finds it way across the country in thousands of emails is this one:
On another note, there was this wimpy little man (who just passed away) on PBS, gentle and quiet. Mr. Rogers is another one of those you would least suspect of being anything but what he now portrays to our youth. But Mr. Rogers was a U.S. Navy Seal, combat proven in Vietnam with over twenty-five confirmed kills to his name. He wore a long sleeve sweater to cover the many tattoo's on his forearm and biceps. A master in small arms and hand-to-hand combat, able to disarm or kill in a heartbeat. He hid that away and won our hearts with his quiet wit and charm.


This one is completely the stuff of Urban Legend - The facts do not bear it out. (The same rumor has also been falsely applied to folk singer, John Denver." Rogers was never in the military - let alone a Navy Seal. And, he was born in 1928, so he would've been the oldest sniper in Viet Nam. It's no surprise that this bit of folklore resurfaced in the days following Fred Rogers' death in 2003. . . .

You can click the link above to read about a legend (totally untrue) that Captain Kangaroo was a war hero along with Lee Marvin (who fight as a Marine at Iwo Jima) during a bloody campaign in on the famous island. The worst stories about Rogers have to do with continuing rumors that he was a child molester sentenced to do community service by producing a children's show.
​
Fred Rogers began his television career as a result of his being convicted of child molestation; one condition of his sentence was that he fulfill a community service obligation by performing a television show for children on a local public station. This circumstance explains the lack of children on his program and the presence of adult characters with suggestive names, such as Mr. McFeely.

What totally contemptible gossip! Oh, and by the way, Mr. Rogers did not "flip the bird" to his final audience of children in 2000 – that photograph circulating with Mr. Rogers with an extended middle finger is a composite --

What does this penchant for fabricating a past for those we should simply admire for their remarkable passage in the middle world say about us? Well, for one thing, we're projecting our Jungian shadow, of course – the stories are likely begun by someone who entertains such a past in unwanted day dreams – and fears that he may be what in spirit if not in fact what he projects on someone like Fred Rogers. 'Tis also a sign of troubled times – which, of course, is all the time, I suppose – but such stories resurface in the uncertainty of our commitment to trying to police the world, something TR began doing after he failed as a cattleman in Dakota – and became a politician.

That we're capable of great inhumanity can be demonstrated by what happened on this day, January 9, over the last few hundred years alone: 1570 -- Ivan the Terrible kills a couple hundred residents of Novgorod; 1941 – 6,000 Jews killed in a program in Bucharest, Romania; 1980 – 63 are beheaded in Saudia Arabia. The list could go on and on.

We would, indeed, be far better were we to spend more time on the Durantian "bank" and as little as possible in the "stream" – and a good way to begin is to get that warm and fuzzy feeling no chill or shake, no insidious invasion of the Big C can possibly cool – and that's remembering as friend Jane Ahlin did those who make a big difference in one's life by reaching out with generosity and unwarranted grace to us – those teachers, friends – kola like you. I salute you all this fine day in garden of universe – paradise only to the extent that we are the best of neighbors to each other. Aye, 'tis the ilk of you, my kola, who make it a truly beauuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota and anywhere you happen to find yourselves. To all of you I say take care of yourselves and please look out for each other and reach out to someone new today--

Ev Albers

Thursday, January 8th, 2004

​Ah, the heat wave continues – temperatures will soar to the teens later today – ain't gonna go down below zero – and Friday 'twill sizzle in the 20s – heat wave. Ah, what a glorious, beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful night. The moonrise last night low in the northeastern sky – full (or nearly so) with a couple of clouds – as 'twas a sight to make one begin to understand the weest bit of McGrath had in mind when he said "We cannot see them, but even behind the mountain, the moon has friends." Our gift to the millennia often spoke of feeling in particular fine fettle and in tune with the universe with a version of having "the moon in his pocket. Could be a truly remarkable day in history – January 8, 1925. There was an all-women Supreme Court appointed in Texas! I investigated the weest – turns out was for a very limited time for a very special reason. Turns out the Governor had to turn to women in desperation, because every member of the Court and every male attorney was a member of the organization, Woodmen of World, a fraternal organization which was involved determining whether the trustees of the Woodmen were entitled to two tracts of land in El Paso. So Governor Pat Neff finally appointed an all-woman special court for the sole purpose of considering the case – after some nine months of seeking alternatives. After hearing arguments, the three women attorneys finally gave their decision late in May, 1925 – the Woodmen trustees prevailed. That's it – they were done. Not until 1982 did a Governor appoint another women to the Supreme Court of Texas – not until the 1950s were women in Texas allowed to serve on juries (I have to do some more checking on this one) – but later in 1925, a woman was elected Governor – Ma (Miriam A.) Ferguson. She had been first lady during the time her husband, James, served in the 1910s – he was impeached in his second term and didn't get on the ballot in 1924 – so she went for it, and she won. They really weren't treated equally in legal matters until reforms in 1967.

Of course, January 8 cannot pass without noting the birth of Elvis – 1935. He would be a young sixty-nine had he not died in 1977. 'Twas Elvis who said, "Rhythm is something you either have or don't have, but when you have it, you have it all over." He was talking about more than being able to waltz or polka, I'd guess. A salute – strawberry breeze this fine A.M. – to the memory of Elvis – and a bigger gulp in honor of today's birthday boy, Stephen Hawking, born just a couple of months and a few weeks earlier than I on this day in 1942. Now here is a fellow who has found a way to live and be productive – and to give those of us who can never hope to understand the universe the way he does at least a hint of from whence the universe came to be and what may or may not happen. He's a genius, of course. He's featured at one of my favorite Internet sites, 'tis at age-of-the-sage.org His goal – so simply stated, so impossible for all but a few to even contemplate: "My goal is simple. It is complete understanding of the universe, why it is as it is and why it exists at all." If anyone can come close, this remarkable fellow – a family man with three children and grandchildren arriving – will do it.

What you really don't need to know or remember is that this is the day fourteen years ago that President George Herbert Walker Bush threw up in the lap of the Japanese Prime Minister at an official state dinner. 'Twas captured on videotape, of course. What is worth remembering is that this is the day -- in 1975 -- that a woman finally became the governor of state without having her husband precede her, as Ma Ferguson's did in Texas fifty years earlier – Ella Grasso took office in progressive Connecticut. Aye, 'tis a day of great events – there's the Battle of New Orleans won by one who is a strong contender for the most effective racist president of the Unites States ever – he did get the American Indian out of the East. The battle took place two years after the end of the war, but the combatants didn't know that the war had ended two weeks before – so, in the last time the United States and the British would ever engage each other in war, Andrew Jackson won, big time, big time. Pride was enormous. Durn – know I have that classic song by Johnny Horton running through my mind – earworm alert, here comes "The Battle of New Orleans" --

In 1814 we took a little trip
Along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississipi
We took a little bacon and we took a little beans
And we caught the bloody British in the town of New Orleans

We fired our guns and the British kept a'comin'
There wasn't nigh as many as there was a while ago
We fired once more and they began to runnin'
On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico

We looked down the river and we seed the British come
And there must have been a hundred of 'em beatin' on the drum
They stepped so high and they made their bugles ring
We stood behind our cotton bales and didn't say a thing

CHORUS

Old Hickory said we could take 'em by surprise
If we didn't fire our muskets till we looked 'em in the eyes
We held our fire till we seed their faces well
Then we opened up our squirrel guns and gave 'em ..Well....we...

CHORUS

Yeah they ran through the briars and they ran through the brambles
And they ran through the bushes where a rabbit couldn't go
They ran so fast that the hounds couldn't catch 'em
On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico

We fired our cannon till the barrel melted down
So we grabbed an alligator and we fought another round
We filled his head with cannonballs 'n' powdered his behind
And when we touched the powder off, the gator lost his mind

CHORUS
SPOKEN TAG
Hut, hut, three, four
Sound off, three, four
Hut, hut, three, four
Sound off, three, four
Hut, hut, three, four

This was a big song folks – number 21 in the all-time hits of 1955-59, number 1 for a week back in 1959 – but that week wasn't January. Nearly one hundred years before, on January 8, 1853, the first equestrian statute in our nation's capital was unveiled – 'twas of Old Hickory on his horse – and 'tis there today in LaFayette Park, just across from the White House. There's more than two hundred books written about the seventh president – including many about his famous Indian "wars" between 1814 and 1819. Scholars agree that Jackson simply thought that the Indians were absurd and that they had to go – he caused tens of thousands of the most "civilized" people to ever exist on the continent to be removed from east of the Mississippi to what became Oklahoma Territory. Says one of his biographers, Bettina Drew,. “This removal policy changed the color of the face of the nation. More than any one other individual, Jackson banished Native Americans from our visual realm, our culture and our gene pool, and this should be recognized as his legacy.”

There are days, kola, that I think, "Shame on us for keeping that statute of a man of such ilk in such a prominent place in Washington!" – But if one starts down the road of addressing the enormous mistakes of the past, there's no end in sight. But tell you this, I have no time to try to find a way to redeem those who consider another human less than civilized simply because they have the wrong skin color – or profess the wrong religion, or, as McGrath says, have the wrong "shape to their vowels." If there is cosmic justice, these great infractions of the best we humans can be 'twill be addressed in the world beyond this middle one.

This is the day, kola, that perhaps the greatest leader of the greatest nation to inhabit the Dakotas and Montana, the Lakota of the Great Sioux Nation, fought his last battle. Crazy Horse protected as best he could the women and children of his camp in a raging blizzard while rapid fire from guns on wagons of the U.S. Army commanded by General Miles hailed bullets into their tipis on the Tongue River in what would become Montana – reduced to fighting with bows and arrows, cold and hungry, Crazy Horse managed to hold out until May of 1877 when he led about 1,100 of his band into the Red Cloud Agency near Fort Robinson in Nebraska – and five months later he was killed in what was purported to be resisting arrest.

'Twill be the weest bit of cleansing snow today – no blizzard – just a dusting to refresh the most invigorating, healthiest place here in the middle world – Dakota. Ah, but 'twill be a grand day, indeed, indeed. And a beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful one – especially if I know that you are taking care of yourselves and looking out for each other.

Ev Albers

Wednesday, January 7th, 2004

What a glorious day we anticipate in here in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota, where the temperature already hovers above 0 degrees and the promised heat wave slowly increases in intensity. There was the weest lull in the onslaught of those clambering to join those who call home the spot that goddesses and gods smile upon - the garden of the universe. Full moon hung high in the western sky over the Missouri River as I looked out this morning and caught a life-sustaining gulp of our healing air when I picked up the morning Bismarck Tribune. Ah, but 'tis grand to alive, 'tis grand, 'tis grand. I gave up about a half-pint of blood for cultures at the ER yesterday - and then worked at the office for a bit before coming home to work from here. My counts are up a bit, chest is clear, and there seems no imminent reason that I'll be leaving the middle world sooner instead of just a bit late later - and 'twas chilly, but didn't have full-blown chills and shakes as I did Sunday last - aye, 'tis grand to be alive. I'm taking nourishment (some hot Malt O Meal) and enjoying a cup of java - and recalling that was a year ago I wrote in praise of Dr. Atam Mehdiratta, the Bismarck physician who did an ERCP (Endoscopic Retrograde Cholangiopancreatography) and replaced the plastic stent in my bile duct with steel as I prepared to head to Zion, Illinois, for the first time - to find out if there was anyway I might live for more than a month of so. What a wonderful man - nothing but encouragement and hope from him. Actually, I'm approaching outliving the effectiveness of the stent, which I was told would last a year - neither Dr. Medhiratta nor I thought that such would be a problem. The stent is permanent, but there are now ways to put sleeves inside them, which I may have done in a month --yo, I'm still rompin' and astompin' as the Shel Silverstein song, "The Ballad of the Three Legged Man" goes (see entry for 1/7/03) - and enjoying a couple of more days with my darlin' daughter, who has my lovin' spouse hard at work helping her refine the index to Gary Moulton's The Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition, that thirteen-volume set. As the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and the University of Nebraska Press prepare to put the journals on the Internet, Gretchen is providing the alternative spellings employed by the journal writers - there are six or seven for some times (Lewis and Clark (especially Clark) were notoriously bad spellers - but consistent in attempts at phonetic renditions that have proved most useful as keys to possible pronunciation). What a dynamic duo, me wife and daughter - aye, and they gladden my heart mightily and keep me humble - and help me keep the nagging presence of the insidious invader in perspective.

Received the kindest of notes from kola Tom Rowse from up in the northwestern corner of the state. Lovin' spouse of one of the great Council members for whom I work, Jan Rowse, Tom joined us this weekend past as an evaluator and commentator of the current Larry Remele Memorial Fellows - up to five scholars chosen by the Council each year to conduct research leading to a series of public programs as well as printed results of their research on a broad range of humanities topics. Jan and Tom made it to Bismarck and back home to their farmstead in spite of challenging road conditions - now, that's dedication to the humanities!

This is the birthday (1891) of Zora Neale Hurston, who completed her passage in the middle world in 1960 a few weeks past her sixty-ninth birthday. She died in poverty in Florida, where she was born. Shame on all of us. Now, many of her books are back in print - dozens. She's been called the very best by such as Alice Walker. She was one hell of a dame, kola. A 1928 graduate of Barnard College, Hurston never apologized for being who she was - and never felt uncomfortable in her own skin - she said, for example, " am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes." She didn't have time to moan and groan about how much she wished things could be different: "I do not weep at the world -- I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife." In short, anticipating the finer things in life - and she said, "I want a busy life, a just mind and a timely death." She's among the best that ever picked up a pen - Doris Grumbach writing for the Saturday Review was right: "Their Eyes Were Watching God belongs in the same category with that of William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Ernest Hemingway -- of enduring American literature. One of the finest of all time." There's a great new biography (2002) of her by Valerie Boyd -- Wrapped in Rainbows: The Life of Zora Neale Hurston -- and all her major works are in print. Hurston grew up in the all-Black town of Eatonville, Florida, an incorporated African American community where folks took great pride in the their race and heritage. She carried that feeling good about herself through the toughest of times - what a wonderful, glorious spirit and mind. As she said so eloquently, "Those that don't got it, can't show it. Those that got it, can't hide it."

Don't know Why in the hell you need to know this, but 'twas on this very day back in 1968 that postage required to mail a first-class letter rose a penny - up to a whopping six cents - ah, the good old days. But just because no one really cares, we remember the birthday of President Millard S. Fillmore (1800-1874, president beginning 1850) -- you can read all about him at the official White House site.

Kola, let's toast poor, too-much-maligned Millard - and remember Zora Neale Hurston - and do take care of yourselves and then look out for your neighbors --

Ev Albers

Tuesday, January 6th, 2004

Even as I greet you on this beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota day, the temperature soars – 'twill rise to zero this evening and head close to the freezing mark by the weekend – heat wave acomin'! January 6 'tis a special one for immortal kola – last year I wrote at some length about Kahlil Gibran and Alan Watts – you can check out my high praise for two who changed my life when I was a younger fellow, and still speak as an old friend when I reread them some thirty to thirty-five years later. Just pull up 1/06/03 above. 'Tis also the birthday of Carl Sandburg, who completed his passage here in the middle world in the summer of 1967 after more than eighty-eight years of traveling and story telling with verse and prose – in this Chicago poem, Sandburg talks about "The Government":

GOVERNMENTTHE Government--I heard about the Government and
     I went out to find it. I said I would look closely at
     it when I saw it.
Then I saw a policeman dragging a drunken man to
     the callaboose. It was the Government in action.
I saw a ward alderman slip into an office one morning
     and talk with a judge. Later in the day the judge
     dismissed a case against a pickpocket who was a
     live ward worker for the alderman. Again I saw
     this was the Government, doing things.
I saw militiamen level their rifles at a crowd of
     workingmen who were trying to get other workingmen
     to stay away from a shop where there was a strike
     on. Government in action.
Everywhere I saw that Government is a thing made of
     men, that Government has blood and bones, it is
     many mouths whispering into many ears, sending
     telegrams, aiming rifles, writing orders, saying
     "yes" and "no."
Government dies as the men who form it die and are laid
     away in their graves and the new Government that
     comes after is human, made of heartbeats of blood,
     ambitions, lusts, and money running through it all,
     money paid and money taken, and money covered
     up and spoken of with hushed voices.
A Government is just as secret and mysterious and sensitive
     as any human sinner carrying a load of germs,
     traditions and corpuscles handed down from
     fathers and mothers away back.

In his early thirties, Sandburg worked for the Wisconsin Social Democratic Party and worked for the first Socialist Mayor of Milwaukee for two years as his secretary. You can learn more about Carl Sandburg and read as many of his Chicago poems as you wish by going here. Another gifted artist who was born on this day – who shares with Sandburg humble beginnings and a love of the common people, is Earl Scruggs, the great Blue Grass banjo player who turns the big 80, eighty, today. He's going strong – still very much around – just this past October he performed at the big Oklahoma International Bluegrass Festival. here's a great illustrated biography of the three-fingered-banjo-picking Scruggs. And it's the birthday of Tom Mix, who completed his passage in the middle world in 1940 at age sixty – what a run he had – the highest paid film star of his time – he and his horse Tony signed with Fox Films for $20,000 a week in the 1920s. A klutz and no cowboy, he had others do his stunts – and there was story that he accidentally shot himself – turned out that it was his wife who shot him, as he confessed some years later. She accused him of spousal abuse – he more or less said, "what do you call shooting me?" The fans didn't care – they loved Mom Mix.

I don't think you really want to remember this -- this is the day a decade ago that Nancy Kerrigan was assaulted for four men – they whacked the U.S. Ice Figure Skating Competition contender on the right knee with a blunt instrument. Behind the attack was Tonya Harding – her ex-husband was among the attackers. The year before, on this day 1993 during a big blizzard in Nevada, travelers Jim and Jennifer Stolpa found themselves stranded with their six-month-old son Clayton. Jim had to walk forty-eight miles for help – he froze his toes, as did his wife Jennifer – and they lost their toes but survived. Jennifer still complains that she has to wear tennis shoes – she can't wear heels or sandals without toes – and Jim says, "We really miss our toes."

Yo, Stopas – as Jennifer said, "It kind of sucks." But it could be worse – you're as lucky as I am to be around to enjoy this beauuuuuuuuutiful day – one that will take me to the emergency room for some blood cultures to determine if I have the weest infection. I had a great night of rest sans any chills or shakes – so I'm hopin' that all will be negative and I don't have to be hospitalized for that intravenous antibiotic stuff – I don't much care for hospitals – for one thing, they're a great place to pick up whatever virus or contagious disease is available, and there are plenty out there. Take care of yourselves, kola -–hope you're prepared for changes in the weather as we Dakotans get ready for the upcoming heat wave – and that you are looking out for each other in the spirit of Carl Sandburg.

Ev Albers

Monday, January 5th, 2004

Aye, 'tis just the weest bit nippy here in crisp and clean Dakota this Monday P.M., and I've been loafing and inviting my soul ala Whitman - mostly because I've a little bout of very low energy and chills and shakes yesterday - I didn't even turn on my computer, so cocooned I was in multi-layers of clothes and plenty of blankets - and considerable snoozing. My white count is down around 1.2 - so I must avoid folks with any sneeze - and, in particular my own germs. Lots of hand washing. I also have to spend part of this glorious, beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day trying to get some blood cultures done in the emergency room in case I have the weest kind of infection of unknown ilk. Some days it's hard work staying alive, kola - but no chills or fever at the moment - and I'm at the office where I've been able to get a few things done. 'Tis good to busy and productive - the best of medicines, methinks.

Second best awaiting me at our humble domicile on Arthur Drive - for when I'm in fine enough fettle to deal with the best of treats - is a gooseberry jam from Ireland sent to me by my good friend Jim Lund down in San Antonio way. Jim made me a gooseberry pie last summer - ah, but 'twas grand. Now the anticipation of unsealing that jar of gooseberry jam and smelling it keeps me charged - but so it is with no small part of pleasure here in the middle world. And even in the middle of most disconcerting shakes and chills there was great pleasure yesterday in watching the Packer-Seahawk game - in fact, I became excited enough at the end of the game that somehow the chills went away for a while - it ended, of course, in overtime with Green Bay in a play that was nearly miraculous once more intercepted a pass by young Matt Hasselbeck, who played a near flawless game and looked like he was having fun. In fact, both teams looked like they were having a good time before the record-breaking crowd of 71,547 at Lambeau Field - and to watch Brett Favre act like a teenager winning his first game is a sheer delight. Green Bay running back Ahman Green had fun - as did Shaun Alexander of the Seahawks who had three touchdowns. In fact, the teams played equally well on both offense and defense - and I thought that perhaps the great goddess of Serendip had finally done all she could for Green Bay, who found themselves playing the Seahawks only because the Vikings found a way to lose against all odds a week ago. The guy who intercepted the Hasselbeck pass, certainly had a good time - he said, "I was just praying that he would throw the ball because I was going to gamble on that play." In short, Al Harris had to make up his mind before the ball was thrown to do what he did - and the guy with greatest dreadlocks in the NFL streaked 52 yards to the end zone where he was tackled by teammates - and then did victory lap to slap the hands of some the fans. It's the first-ever defensive touchdown to win in overtime in the history of the NFL - you gotta love it, kola, even if you are a loyal Seahawk fan, for the Seahawks should apologize for nuttin' - I'm beginning to believe with Brett Favre that there are supernatural forces from beyond the middle world at play with the Green Packers. Aye, what a game 'twill be next week - Favre vs. the Philadelphia Eagles and Donovan McNabb, the great quarterback who has been consistently outstanding in spite of Rush Limbaugh dismissing him as an overrated, media-hyped athlete, someone who got a lot of attention because he's African American. I'd say that McNabb has amply demonstrated that Limbaugh knows nothing about football - just as he knows diddly squat about anything, for that matter. I anticipate seeing that game - and anticipating a great game Sunday next brings me enormous pleasure.

Today I offer my heartiest toast and birthday salute to that great actor, Robert Duvall - who once said in all modesty, "I'm better than Olivier." Duvall is a mere lad of seventy-three today - and he's going strong. I anticipated his last couple of movies with enormous pleasure - and Open Range and Second Hand Lions - both films exceeded my highest expectations. I have to get some energy - and need more time - so that I can see some of the Duvall films I've yet to view - such as the 2002 A Shot at Glory about Scottish soccer coach and his 2003 Assassination Tango, in which he plays a hitman sent to Argentina who takes up with a beautiful tango dancer when the general he is sent to kill delays his return. Things to do, kola! Can't be bogged down by the insidious invader or low white counts and little infections - but I must go off to the emergency room anyway to check things out.

Do take care of yourselves, good friends - and look out for each other. Even if you don't care for football, consider watching the Packers and Eagles next Sunday - 'twill be late afternoon on FOX. Ah, the anticipation - Duvall movies, gooseberry jam, and a great football game.

Ev Albers

Saturday, January 3rd, 2004

'Tis a beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful, glorious day in Dakota – cool enough to discourage grasshoppers, mosquitoes, and germs of various ilk. 'Twas a balmy 10 below zero, but no wind – aye, and 'tis a great day to be alive. I'm at the Heritage Center this morn with my Council members and the Larry Remele Memorial Fellows for a day of humanities presentations, good fellowship, and enough good food and drink to sustain us and keep the wolves of starvation howling at the door. 'Tis the time of the year for seasonable weather, and we're gonna have some in the next week or so – may have five days during which the temperature doesn't rise above 0 – I have all available long johns ready. 'Tain't the outside temperature that gives me the chills and shakes – this morning I could go abroad without buttoning my coat – in fact, I was warm enough on this sunny, sunny day in beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota.

'Tis the weekend of early January birthday girl Jean Waldera, dearest of friends – she and cohort Jerry Waldera taught at Dickinson State for several decades before retiring at a tender age to their cabin on Lake Melissa over in Minnesota. Leslie and I and out children Albert and Gretchen tried to spend at least a week at that glorious retreat from the "world too much with us." I've spent a week with my family there setting a book – and many another simply enjoying sleeping on that porch and watching the sun rise and set over one the few truly wondrous places outside of western Dakota. My friend Jerry helped teach our children to fish, regaled us with tales of Geneseo, that Polish-American community where he grew up in southeastern North Dakota, and treated our kids as his own grandchildren. We spend many a fine, fine moment with Jerry and Jean's three sons.

A woman of indomitable spirit, enormous creativity, and a generosity unmatched that she extended to her theatre and speech students and to all of her friends at Dickinson and has sustained in her most active retirement. The Walderas are down at Lake Havesu in Arizona for a few months – where Jerry can fish without dragging out an ice house, play cards from time to time with buddies, and enjoy life with his lovin' spouse – Jean. Mistress of trivia, lover of music, and the greatest of souls, I salute dear friend Jean with a huge gulp of grape juice.

Jean was there, along with my dear friend and senior consultant to the Council, Jerry Tweton, when I was hired by a Humanities Council back in 1973 – going on thirty-one years ago. She played a major role in my getting the greatest job any Dakotan ever had. She was one of the first Chautauquans – and the finest of humanities presenters. Happy birthday, Jean!

Busy day – great day. I can't tell you, my dear kola, how wonderful it feels to be alive here enjoying the humanities with old friends in January 2004 – tell you what, makes me want to do all I can to be here in the finest fettle I can muster for another round in 2005. Trust you are having a great day, as I know my friends Jean and Jerry are – and that you are taking care of yourselves and looking out for each.

Ev Albers

Friday, January 2nd, 2004

Livin' the "Life of Riley" on this fine, beauuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota, where 'twill soar to the 20s with the weest bit of the white stuff and a little wind - the stuff that helps keep the worst of the curse of germs out there away - although we'll all get plenty when we go out and about. 'Twas on this day the William Bendix began his run as the father in the famous sitcom in 1953 - he was Chester A. Riley, who lived with wife Peg, daughter Babs, and son Junior and found life generally really great. When things did go awry, Riley was wont to say, "What a revolting development this is!" Ah, how easily we were amused back in 1953, in the golden years, the halcyon days.

I notice that in the morning Bismarck Tribune that the Mummers Parade in Philadelphia I wrote about yesterday is alive and well - this year there was a Martha Stewart and a Saddam Husseim shackled in chains. And in Boston and elsewhere (don't know if they did it up in Beldon, that bastion of Finnish-American culture in North Dakota), the hardy either jumped into very cold water or actually cut a hole in ice and jumped in - as they did at Lake Minnetonka in Minneapolis - something of the New Year's tradition for some. There's also a reference to banjo bands playing "Oh Dem Golden Slippers" in the Mummers Parade in Philadelphia. Every day, kola, I learn something really interesting as well as a good deal that leaves me scratching my head and asking Why in the hell did I need to know that for anyway? The stuff about the Mummers isn't in that category. "Oh Dem Golden Slippers":

Oh, my golden slippers am laid away, Kase I don't 'spect to wear 'em till my weddin' day,
And my long-tail'd coat, dat I loved so well, I will wear up in de chariot in de morn;
And my long white robe dat I bought last June, I'm 'gwine to git changed Kase it fits too soon,
And de ole grey hoss dat I used to drive, I will hitch him to de chariot in de morn.
Oh, dem golden slippers! Oh, dem golden slippers!
Golden slippers I'm gwine to wear, because dey look so neat;
Oh, dem golden slippers! Oh, dem golden slippers!
Golden slippers Ise gwine to wear, To walk de golden street.

I don't want to walk any golden street too soon - and if I get the gist of what composer James A. Bland meant (he wrote the tune in as a spoof and parody around 1800), I'm gonna try to forestall wearing a white robe as well. I intend to be around to quote myself in this journal around January 1, 2005 - maybe my lovin' spouse and I will find a way to get to the Mummers Parade in Philadelphia.

This is the day thirty years ago that the singing cowboy died - Tex Ritter completed his journey in the middle world on this day in 1974. He once graced the stage in the Dorothy Stickney Auditorium in May Hall on the campus of what was, in 1965, Dickinson State College - it has since become a university. 'Twasn't New Year's, but ole Tex had had a few gulps of what 'twasn't grape juice - but he did his classic songs proud in spite of his slight inebriation, including that great narrative written by T. Texas Tyler, who always ended it, "And friends, this story is true. I know . . . I was that soldier." - hokey as hell, but it always brought a little tear to the eye of the those who love to wallow in bathos - I'm one - here's "The Deck of Cards":

During the North African Campaign, a bunch of soldier boys had been on a long hike. They arrived in a little town called Casino. The next morning being Sunday, several of the boys went to church. A sergeant commanded the boys in church.

After the Chaplain read the prayer, the text was taken up next. Those of the boys that had a prayer book took them out. One boy had only a deck of cards, and he spread them out. The sergeant saw the cards and said, "Soldier, put away those cards." After the service was over, the soldier was taken prisoner and brought before the Provost Marshal.

The Marshal said, "Sergeant, why have you brought this man here?"

"For playing cards in church, Sir," was the response.

The Marshal asked the soldier, "And what have you to say for yourself, son?"

"Much, Sir," replied the soldier.

The Marshal stated, "I hope so, for if not I will punish you more than any man was ever punished."

The soldier said, "Sir, I have been on the march for about six months. I have neither bible nor a prayer book, but I hope to satisfy you, sir, with the purity of my intentions." And with that, the boy started his story ...

"You see, sir, when I look at the Ace, it reminds me that there is but one God.
And the deuce reminds me that the bible is divided into two parts: the Old and the New Testaments.
When I see the trey, I think of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
And when I see the four, I think of the four evangelists who preached the Gospel: there was Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
And when I see the five, it reminds me of the five wise virgins who trimmed their lamps; there were ten of them: five were wise and were saved, five were foolish and were shut out.
When I see the six, it reminds me that in six days God made this heaven and earth.
And when I see the seven, it reminds me that on the seventh day, God rested from his great work.
And when I see the eight, I think of the eight righteous persons that God saved when he destroyed the earth: there was Noah, his wife, their sons and their wives.
And when I see the nine, I think of the lepers our savior cleansed, and that nine of the ten didn't even thank him.
When I see the ten, I think of the ten commandments that God handed down to Moses on a tablet of stone.
When I see the King, it reminds me that there is but one King of Heaven, God Almighty.
And when I see the Queen, I think of the blessed Virgin Mary who is the Queen of Heaven.
And the Jack or Knave is the Devil.

When I count the number of spots in a deck of cards, I find 365, the number of days in a year.
There are 52 cards, the number of weeks in a year.
There are four suits, the number of weeks in a month.
There are twelve picture cards, the number of months in a year.
There are thirteen tricks, the number of weeks in a quarter.

So you see, Sir, my deck of cards serves me as a bible, an almanac and a prayer book."

Tex was the father of John Ritter, the sitcom star of our times who died in 2003 of heart problems at the tender age of fifty-four - best know, perhaps, for his leading role in "Three's Company" - I think I saw one of those episodes once. John's pappy Tex, born in 1905 on an east Texas farm, went to college at the University of Texas as a pre-law student. He joined the Glee Club, and his interest in country music soon had him on the radio. He went to New York, and he was soon giving lectures recitals on country music to students in colleges and universities as well as continuing his performances and singing on the radio. In 1936, he followed Gene Autry to Hollywood, where he had plenty of roles. He wound up in Nashville where he played a leading role in establishing the Hall of Fame in 1965. He even ran for the United States Senate in 1970 - 'twas one of the few of his endeavors that wasn't a smashing economic (if not artistic, in the minds of some) success. He appeared in some eighty-five films, and there's still more than a dozen albums out either featuring Tex or including him as among the best of country music or movie and television shows, etc. After all, he did sing the title song for the movie High Noon. Among his other greats is "Rye Whiskey" and his rendition of the classic "Jealous Heart." You gotta love "Rye Whiskey":

Jack o' Diamonds, Jack o' Diamonds and I know you of old
You've robbed my poor pockets of silver and gold
It's a whiskey, you villain, you've been my downfall
You've kicked me, you've cuffed me, but I love you for all
It's a whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If I don't get rye whiskey, well, I think I will die

I'll eat when I'm hungry, I'll drink when I'm dry
If the hard times don't kill me, I'll lay down and die
I'll tune up my fiddle and I 'll rosin my bow
I'll make myself welcome, wherever I go

Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die
Beefsteak when I'm hungry red liquor when I'm dry
Greenbacks when I'm hard up and religion when I die

They say I drink whiskey, my money's my own
All them that don't like me, can leave me alone
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die

Sometimes I drink whiskey, sometimes I drink rum
Sometimes I drink brandy, at other times none
But if I get boozey, my whiskey's my own
And them that don't like me, can leave me alone

Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die

If the ocean was whiskey and I was a duck
I'd dive to the bottom to get one sweet suck
But the ocean ain't whiskey and I ain't a duck
So we'll round up the cattle and then we'll get drunk

Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If the whiskey don't kill me, I'll live till I die
My foot's in my stirrup, my bridle's in my hand
I'm leaving sweet Lillie, the fairest in the land
Her parents don't like me, they say I'm too poor
They say I'm unworthy to enter her door
It's a whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If I don't get rye whiskey, well, I think I will die

Sweet milk when I'm hungry, rye whiskey when I'm dry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die

I'll buy my own whiskey, I'll make my own stew
If I get drunk, madam, it's nothing to you
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die
I'll drink my own whiskey, I'll drink my own wine
Some ten thousand bottles I've killed in my time

I've no wife to quarrel, no babies to bawl
The best way of living is no wife at all

Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey I cry
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die

Way up on Clinch Mountain I wander alone
I'm as drunk as the devil, oh, let me alone
You may boast of your knowledge an' brag of your sense
'Twill all be forgotten a hundred years hence
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, you're no friend to me
You killed my poor daddy, God damn you, try me

There is indeed the weest bit of wisdom in

You may boast of your knowledge an' brag of your sense
'Twill all be forgotten a hundred years hence

Lots of folks would say that this little bit of information is a perfect candidate for Why in the hell did I need to know that for anyway? for today - the father of Tex Ritter, James, middle name was Everett. Don't know if he was a drinking man or not. 'Tis worth knowing, however, that Ritter wrote a white horse in the movies - White Flash.

A guy born today who had no time to drink was Isaac Asimov, born in the Soviet Union on this day in 1920. He came to the United States in 1923 and became a citizen in 1928. Asimov worked ten hours a day, seven days a week - he tried to write at least 4,000 words a day - he typed 90 words a minute. He took to computer word processors just as soon as they came out. Before his death in 1992, he turned out some 500 books on everything from Shakespeare and the Bible to some of the greatest science fiction ever written. He also had a degree in biochemistry and taught for a time - he was made a full professor - but he didn't have time to teach full time. Perhaps he's as well known for his inspiringly messy office - I used to have a poster of him in it - and his absolute refusal to fly under any circumstances. He spent nearly his entire life in New York - writing, writing, writing.

'Twas on this day back thirty years ago as well, the day Tex Ritter died, January 2, 2004, that President Richard Nixon signed the bill that lowered the speed limit on all highways to 55 - to save energy in the face of an embargo by Arab oil-producing nations. The embargo was lifted in March 1974, but the 55 law stayed in effect until 1987. Maybe 1 or 2 percent of folks on the Interstates in Dakota obeyed that law - the only law broken as often in Dakota was probably prohibition among the German-American folk in the state. They drank beer, not rye whiskey. North Dakotans now drive 75 miles per hour on the Interstates - legally - and they drink neither rye whiskey nor beer while they're doing it - we all hope. The legislature raised the speed limit from 70 to 75 a year ago, and the law went into effect in July.

'Tis time, kola, this glorious, beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota, for me to do another count of my many blessings and get to work - to work, to enjoy this wondrously crisp day. Tonight we begin a long weekend of reports from the North Dakota Humanities Council Larry Remele Fellows - a few great folk who both do rigorous research and then are able to share their scholarship with folks of all ages throughout the state.

My wish for you this great day to be alive is that you are taking care of yourselves - and looking out for each other, of course - sit down and knock out a few thousand words of wisdom if you're of a mind to - 'tis an amazing world of technology we live in - I want to stay around to see what happens with it. I think the word processor is certainly among the very best - so did Isaac, who actually appeared in print ads for some of the early models in the early 80s - this one is from January 1983. But remember, kola, there's no cup of kindness in computers, which are only as intelligent as those sitting behind them.

You may boast of your knowledge an' brag of your sense
'Twill all be forgotten a hundred years hence

Maybe. Maybe not.
Ev Albers

Thursday, January 1st, 2003

​What a grand, beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful morn 'tis here in Dakota these early hours of the first day of 2004. 'Twill be some sun today, methinks. The temperature here where the West begins will soar about 20 degrees above today, with just the weest bit of wind. Yesterday A.M., as my lovin' spouse ferried me to my workplace around 8:30, two huge sun dogs guard a pale sun just rounded above the horizon in the southeast. The Mandan Indians who have lived in these parts for centuries told Lewis and Clark that the sun dogs were little fires made to keep the life-giving sun warm on invigorating days. The sun won't need the fires today. Tomorrow the weather will change – there's the promise of a bit of pristine white snow to cover and snirt stirred up over the last couple of days by folks scurrying around hither and yon -- getting and spending at the post-Christmas sales, returning gifts, getting ready for New Year's bash. I was abed by 7:00 P.M. and asleep by 7:30 last night, and I awoke at 3:00 A.M. to find the world not much different from the one I was consciously observing seven or eight hours before. 'There's been some tweaking of some of the rules for participating in the social compact around the world, new laws intended to make our common journey here in the middle world a bit more comfortable in 2004. In China, you will not have to watch any hemorrhoid or female napkin ads during dinner time – they're banned at certain hours. In Maine, it's no smoking in bars and taverns as of today. And down in Florida somewhere, eighty-year olds who want to drive themselves around town will have to get their eyes checked to get a license. There's supposed to be some changes in what will be allowed in the purity of the hamburger we buy at the grocery store and those we consume from one of the franchised joints – no more skull or spine parts – and perhaps even an end to feeding cows the ground-up leftovers of slaughtered cattle. In Illinois, troopers who stop motorists will have to record their racial identity today. Seems to me that they'll find themselves asking more often than not and that will be as embarrassing as appearing to be using racial profiling as an element in their decision to stop motorists in the first place.

Very quiet morning here in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota. There may be a few folks suffering mild discomfort because of the weest bit of overindulgence in alcohol, but that will quickly pass. Nothing special going on today in the capital city – restaurants will be busy, malls will be full of shoppers, our eighteen or so movie theaters will have afternoon patrons – and there's be college football on television. What we won't have is grand tradition we should have continued, the New Year's custom of mummer marching, which had been going on for more than one hundred years in America when Philadelphia revived the Year's Mummer Parade in 1876 to honor the nation's upcoming 100th birthday. It was raucous Swedish immigrants who started it all with their celebrations on New Year's Day in colonial times – and the British colonists joined them with their "mumming" of St. George and the Dragon. Groups of a handful to twenty people would go around with blackened faces, reciting doggerel, mumming a bit, and getting little cakes and ale. Often, they would have weapons along that they would discharge into the air. There were many attempts to suppress this expression of the Jungian shadow (see yesterday's journal entry), but folks kept at it, and it grew. Officials in Philadelphia stopped trying to get them to stop in 1850 – and the custom grew until there were many groups who banded together to march as they did in 1876. By 1901, Philadelphia was formally sponsoring the parade of some forty-two different fraternal organizations.

Back in 1790, George Washington opened up his house to all on New Year's Day – a tradition that some presidents continued. Thomas Jefferson opened the president's house in the new capital of the nation in Washington City to the public in 1801 (the White House wasn't officially named that until Theodore Roosevelt used the popular term on his stationery some hundred years later. TR also hosted folks at the White House – in 1907 he welcomed most any and all and shook the hands of 8,150 – a record. According his biographer, Morris, he shook the germy hand of every aide, usher, and policeman in sight. Then, says Morris, he went upstairs where he scrubbed himself for some time in private.

President Bush ain't gonna be pressing flesh much today – he's down at his ranch at Crawford, and he'll be doing some quail hunting with his pappy, former President Bush. The White House, as a matter of fact, is closed to visitors today. New Year's Day was one of two President Thomas Jefferson observed and deemed worthy of taking time off to observe – the other, of course, was the Fourth of July. New Year's was changed from March to January 1 by the Romans back around 153 B.C.E., but the world power continued to tinker with the date until the mighty Julius Caesar himself set the official day at January 1 – which doesn't make any sense in some ways, because nature begins anew with the spring equinox – the Babylonians had observed New Year's around the end of March. When Caesar set the date officially, the calendar was totally out of whack with the solar system – so Caesar simply decreed in 46 B.C.E. that the old year would continue of 445 to synchronize things. Now, of course, we have leap years every four years and leap seconds each year (the latter has not been necessary for the last five years) so we don't get into that mess again. Well, there was the business of the Gregorian calendar and the reform necessary to synchronize once more, but that's another story. New Year's was big in the Soviet Union – it became a substitute for Christmas, so, instead of St. Nick, Grandfather Frost came around with toys. The center of the Soviet government was indeed open to the public unlike the White House today – which is locked tight and heavily guarded. During the heyday of the Soviet Union, the Kremlin was heavily decorated – so many wanted to see it that tens of thousands of tickets – as many as 50,000 – were sold in advance of the event.

In jolly old England, children still go around the neighborhood singing and getting treats – from coins to little mince pies or apples and perhaps some sweets – but the singing must be done before the clock strikes high noon – if they're still singing then, they're deemed fools. There are worst things than finding oneself a fool on New Year's Day for singing past noon – if fact, I plan to do it, myself – but not outside my house or perhaps my office.

Have to sing a bit of Hank Williams, Sr. today – remarkable how well I remember writing about Hank and my big brother Jim 365 days ago – and posting a couple of his tunes – you can check it out if you wish by going to 01/01/03 by choosing that date above. Hank died of a heart attack at the tender age of twenty-nine on this day back in 1953 – fifty-one years ago. He didn't write the song, "I was looking back to see if you were looking back to see; if I was looking back to see if you were looking back at me." In fact, contrary to what I thought this very morning, the song was even released until a year after his death, so he didn't sing it – not in this middle world, anyway. Memory is tricky. But so is the business of resolving on New Year's Day that things are gonna be different than they were yesterday and days, months, perhaps years before. Perhaps the easiest one to keep is one that can be taken care of immediately – that's the what the Babylonians did – and that's today's What the hell did I need to know that for, anyway? tidbit – some say that the custom of making New Year's Resolutions began with the Babylonian custom of returning borrowed farm implements on New Year's – but, then, remember, the Babylonians celebrated New Year's at the end of March when farmers were planting. Still and all, I suppose one could return the hoe or rake one borrowed last year from a neighbor today --

Happy New Year's, kola. Don't know if Governor Schwarzenegger is following the great Austrian custom today in Cahhhlifornnnnnnnnia, but 'tis a grand one, for the Austrians cook and consume a fatted suckling pig today – no beef for them. After all, the pig is good luck, and the world needs all the smiles the great goddess of Serendip can muster. The recipes begin, "clean the pig; make sure to remember to put a board in the mouth to keep it open." Why? Well, to put the apple in, course. Just in case you happen to have a suckling pig around and are still wondering what to serve for dinner, here's a complete recipe:

Roast Suckling Pig Recipe
Clean the pig well. Insert a piece of wood in its mouth to keep it open while roasting. You can use sage and onion dressing for an American taste but Austrian apple stuffing makes it authentic. Stuff the pig, truss and skewer it. Make four parallel incisions about four inches long on each side to the backbone. Place it on a rack, sprinkle it with salt and pepper, brush throughly with melted butter and dust with flour. Roast for 15 minutes at 480 degrees in oven or gas grill. Then reduce to 350 degrees. continue roasting allowing 30 minutes to the pound. If you wish to have the skin soft baste every 15 minutes with hot stock. If you want it crisp baste with melted butter. When the roast is ready remove to hot serving platter. Now remove wood from mouth and put an apple in it. Crown with a wreath of bay leaves. Be careful to wrap the ears and tail during the roasting process in buttered paper which you remove only the last half hour. Otherwise they easily burn.
End Suckling Pig Recipe

Gotta say this much – 'tis a way to avoid any chance of consuming any mad cow stuff – I'm for the crisp skin myself – but there ain't gonna be no roast suckling pig here today, no way, no how. 'Tis just as well. Time for a Boost and a gulp or two of Welch's grape juice – a trip to the office to start the year right with a bit of work on our grand weekend activities as the ND Humanities Council – hearing the first presentations by and getting to know the five Larry Remele Memorial Humanities Council Fellows on Friday night and all day Saturday. Don't be like Auntie Jill's nephew, who sought to find pleasure in misfortunes worse than his own. Instead, find a way to reach out in friendship and good will – even if you have to use the excuse of returning that snow shovel you borrowed ten years ago. And take care of yourselves as well,

Ev Albers

Wednesday, December 31st, 2003

'Tis the last day of 2003, a seasonably brisk and invigorating one in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota and on Arthur Drive, where I recline before the fire taking a bit of time to thank the great goddess of Serendip for my great fortune – darlin' daughter Gretchen is home for another ten days or so, there's plenty of Welch's juice in the refrigerator, the coffee tastes great this A.M., the local gas war continues, and my lovin' spouse has no problem getting around town and through the weest bit of snow on a few streets with our Subaru. I shall be here in the middle world to greet 2004 with a toast – not at midnight, for I'll be abed long before then – but I'll arise to what promises to be a bright and sunny day long before rosy-fingered dawn awakens and climbs over the horizon in the southeastern sky. Today I'll wear one of the great Christmas gifts that came my way – a "goober" hat from my darlin' daughter. 'Tis warm, has ear-flaps that snap up, and contrary to my lovin' spouse's opinion (she's hardly ever wrong, but I think perhaps she's mistaken about this one), I think it looks quite sporting.

I'm in such fine fettle this early A.M. that I feel like dancing – but 'tis the weest bit difficult in the wondrous (and quite sporty as well, methinks) foot supersocks I received for Christmas– there's a name for these sock-shoes, booties – 'tain't footwarmers, cause those are electric. Slipper socks, some are called – the pair I sport this A.M. have grippers on the bottom, so dancing on carpet would be mightily challenging. Think I'll put off trying till next year. Back a year ago this very day, I wrote about my take-off on the still-popular Christmas Cup of Tea by Tom Hegg – a most bathetic piece of tear-jerking sentimentality that has made the man more money than he knows what to do with.

My poem, written under the pseudonym Herman Helmut Druck and published by the modest house my wife and I set up last year, Northern Lights, ND Press check out the press here Alas, New Year's Tea with Auntie Jill has not done very well, kola. 

If you don't already know, you'll be most-relieved to learn that the earth's spin on its axis is holding steady – we won't have to add a "leap second" this year. In fact, this is the fifth straight year that the spin has been constant – there's always good cause for optimism. 'Twill be revelry tonight, I suppose – I'll not be going out and about among 'em. I highly doubt that much will change – except everything, as it always does, yet nothing, as it does as well. Heraclitus was right: "The more things change, the more they stay the same." Some of you, dear kola, know the great McGrath poem, "Jazz At the Intergalactic Nightclub." It's a grand poem in his collection Echoes Inside the Labyrinth. I think I posted it last December around the Winter Solstice – on 12/20/02. Here's the poem again:

The management is pleased to announce:
That as a result of the recent elections to the Universal
                                       Congress of Transmogrification,
There will be revelations . . . visions . . . charismatic hors-
                       d'heuvres . . . mana . . .divine grace . . .
Exactly at midnight;

And is further pleased to advise you
That every instant of time this bright dark long,
No matter what the time-belt of your home province,
Shall be that true and enduring midnight,
This eternal heaven in which we dream of hell.

Look at the clock, ladies and gentlemen:
It is three seconds until that ultimate midnight,
That Universal Prime, moment of Grace, final rent payment,
                                                             Revelation, Satori,
Three . . .
Two . . .
One . . .

There.
It has happened.

Now you may all go home.

Well, kola, I'm not gonna go home . . . gonna stay home once I get back from the office this afternoon. This is the day seventy-nine years ago that Edwin Hubble announced that were distant galaxies – how short the time 'tis that we travelers in the middle world have known just how little of the universe we who share planet earth know about! 'Tis also the day in 1954 that we heard the last broadcast of The Shadow -- after nearly a quarter-century of weekly programs that began, "Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of men? The shadow knows. . . ." We all now – cause our Jungian shadow will out, and those of us who suppress that darker side of our humanity do so at the risk of being really evil -- we would not hear of it, but there's more than a bit of Saddam Hussein in all of us. The trick is to let out the shadow in ways that do not hurt others. There's much to learn from Carl Jung on this subject -- you can get a fair summary at this site. At this site, you'll find definitions of "shadow possession," "shadow project," and "shadow integration." The basic premise is quite simple – we really don't want to deal with our darker side. Everything we don't like about ourselves in our finer moments we "project" onto someone else – or, in the case of a social compact – a nation or another collective group – we "project" what we most fear we can become onto a group of fellow travelers who are recognizably different from us in some way. Doesn't take an Edwin Hubble to realize that shadow projection is the order of most of our days and our common ways – be it religious intolerance, racial hatred, homophobia, partisan politics, and such preoccupations as our fascination with stars getting into trouble, especially if there's a hint of deviant behavior. Those among us who would do away with all vestiges of collective recognition of the shadow – the self-righteous who would ban Halloween customs or do away with public carnivals like Mardi Gras are courting disaster. Jung offered an explanation of the rise of Nazism in Germany – Germans ignored the shadow too long – in short, they were too self-righteously priggish, too bent on absolute order and conformity. One of the best articles I've found on dealing with the shadow as an individual striving to become a complete human being is "Shadow Dancing: Meeting Your Secret Self and Becoming Whole" by Robin Robertson.

Our greatest challenge as Americans, as members of a social compact made up of people who jealously guard their differences and their affiliations that make them feel superior to other citizens, is to find a way to come together in a way that doesn't compromise our remarkable freedom to express our ideas and offer exception to what is done by our government in the name of all us. Since 9/11/01, we've given up no small part of our individual rights because of a common fear of insidious invaders bent on destroying our society – just as we justify treating those we find "evil" with anything but the respect we expect. We take care of our souls – keep them from scabbing over – by taking another look at and perhaps learning to treat the worst of those on whom we project our shadow as humans.

Ev Albers