Thursday, April 3rd, 2003

Wind from the south, temperature perfect, the finest of April 3 days in Dakota, the best of the heartland of America. Oh, what a beauuuuuuutiful morning. I'm sitting here in the finest of fettle, sans fever, chill or nagging pain - but I look like an aging Alfalfa from The Little Rascals, missing a front tooth - mine was not organic - 'twas built on a couple of wires stuck into the jaw, and it has been fixed several times over the past few months by my gifted and most patient dentist, Dr. Kevin Gilchrist. My fettle, my mettle 'tis fine, but perhaps not such that cries for an implant or other solution at the moment - so perhaps I'll go about for a few weeks with a charming hole. There are far worse things, kola, as you and I both know.

The best of events that happened on this day was the birth of my big brother, Donald James Albers, born on this day 1936. No man has ever been blessed with a finer sibling. Happy Birthday, Brother Jim! Live long and prosper!.

Quite a day for great crime and war events in history this 3 April -- 'tis the day poor Jesse James was murdered, shot in the back by that "dirty yaller coward that shot Mr. Howard" as the old song goes. 'Twas Robert Ford who shot Jesse, who was living under the alias "Mr. Howard" in 1882. "Now Jesse had a wife, who mourned for his life, three children, they were brave; but that dirty yaller coward who shot Mr. Howard, has laid poor Jesse in his grave." Jesse got it on the day the capital of the Confederacy, Richmond, fell in 1865, the day in 30 A.D. tradition says that Jesus Christ was betrayed by Judas Iscariot. Bruno Hauptmann was executed on this day in 1936 for the kidnapping and murder of the Lindbergh baby - a miscarriage of justice, some insist. Sixty years later, in 1996, federal authorities finally caught up with Theodore J Kacynski, the suspected "Unabomber," after seventeen years. On the same day in 1996, Ron Brown, U.S. secretary of commerce, went down in the plane with thirty-six others in the former war-torn Yugoslavia - the Air Force plane accidentally crashed into a mountain in Croatia. During World War II, April 3 was the day in 1942 that the Japanese began the campaign in Bataan in the Philippines that would result in the surrender of the greatest number of American military ever, and during the Vietnam War fifty years later, in 1972, President Nixon ordered hundreds of B-52s to bomb the hell out of North Vietnam in response to their offensive. Lots of folks have died on this day - including among the most exquisite of great vocalists, jazz singer and pianist Sarah Vaughan, a heavy smoker who succumbed to lung cancer at age sixty-six.

Among the birthday boys today are Washington Irving (1783) of Rip van Winkle fame; Marlon Brando who turns 79 - he shares the exact birthdate with Doris Day, who's 79 herself; and Wayne Newton (1942), who is six days younger than I am. Maybe Wayne will get Marlon and Doris together and sing them "Happy Birthday" after the weest bit of "Danke Schön."

This morning I'll toast with my herbal green tea laced with echinacea my brother Jim on his sixty-seventh birthday, the memory of Sarah Vaughan, "Sassy," and she was a sassy lassie indeed. I'm also toasting, along with you dear kola, Edward Everett Hale, who was born in 1822 - he lived long and prospered before he left the middle world at age 87. Once asked, "Do you pray for senators?" Hale answered, "No, I look at the senators and pray for the country." Dr. Hale was a Unitarian - and those of the Unitarian persuasion are nothing but a bunch of humanists, most of whom are not ashamed to admit it. Fine folk. Another observer of American culture born on this day in 1916, the columnist Herb Caen who delighted millions with his wit before he reluctantly moved on from this life of laughter and love in 1997, once quipped, "The trouble with born-again Christians is that they are an even bigger pain the second time around." Hale was a hearty fellow who promoted taking care of each other in all ways - he pushed the idea of Chautauqua Circles and Lend-a-Hand Club. He's best-know, perhaps, for his short story, "The Man Without a Country," which I first read when I was in the fifth grade back in Hannover Township, Oliver County. Many considered Hale's tale true - but 'tis a work of fiction. Ah, kola, many a lad has weeped over the fate of poor Philip Nolan, the wretch who damned his country in a weak moment and lived a life of misery for his sin! Hale's classic became the tool for teaching patriotism and Americanism during those dark days of the Cold War back in the early 50s out in Hannover Township, where we might have run from a Unitarian as we would from the devil himself had one shown up in our area - but we didn't hear about Hale's Unitarianism when we read his story, which remains in print - it probably will be read and studied somewhere in America this very day.

Today, April 3, 2003, the United States is in the fifteenth day of a "war" with Iraq - our military women and men reach Baghdad today. There's trouble aplenty in the middle world this morning, kola - lots of folks are died - and there's that new possible pandemic virus out of Asia, and our government is spending billions we don't have, and every state struggles to find financial resources for basic service, and we're not in all that great a shape with our own budgets, and who knows what the hell's going to happen, anyway?

Edward Everett Hale was cheerful fellow who always offered advice about not worrying - for example, he said, "Never bear more than one kind of trouble at a time. Some people bear three - all they have had, all they have now, and all they expect to have." He preached and lived the basic notion of "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine . . . let it shine . . . let it shine . . . let it shine."

But to my morning tea - and the morning Bismarck Tribune with news that we're going to try to fund education in the state with the weest bit more money - enough so that schools would have to pay teachers at least $21,000 next year and $22,500 the year after - but, BUT, it would depend on raising an addition $10 million in tobacco taxes. North Dakotans will have to keep on smoking themselves to death to keep the schools open. Even with the raise, many of those young teachers are going to have a tough time, because they'll have more loans to pay back - tuition is going to increase ten times any piddlin' raise. None of the big problems, like funding education, have been decided yet in the North Dakota Legislature - but the Senate did vote to allow school boards in the state to display the motto, "In God We Trust." And raising the speed limit on the Interstate from 70 to 75 miles per hour has been revived in the Senate in North Dakota the day after they decided to leave it at 70. Part of the argument centers on the desirability of having the law be in tune with what citizens believe to be right, on having laws that are enforced instead of being winked at. Curious. Yesterday that same Senate left alone a law prohibiting cohabitation in the hope that it would not be enforced but would stand as beacon of the state's commitment to morality and "family values." Don't know what Edward Everett Hale would have to say about all of this - nor does anyone know whether the "In God We Trust" signs in schools will be signed by the Governor, and if 'tis, challenged. Certainly, 'tis in tune with the signs in many of the bars and taverns in North Dakota, where folks not only drink but smoke heavily enough to sustain funding for education - "In God We Trust - all others pay cash!"

Take care, kola - "Lend-a-Hand," and let your little light shine, let it shine, let it shine. Let it shine like my brother Jim has for sixty-seven years.

Ev Albers

Wednesday, April 2nd, 2003

"Just the facts, ma'am, just the facts," Jack Webb was Joe Friday was wont to say in Dragnet. Jack was born on this day in 1920 – he died on New Year's Eve in 1982. Born a dozen years before Jack, and that's a fact, ma'am, Buddy Ebsen, aka Uncle Jed from The Beverly Hillbillies, is still going strong – Buddy turns 95, and he's still alive in 2003. You can find out all about Buddy at his official website. A dancing actor, Buddy could've been a contender for a legacy as a member of the cast of The Wizard of Oz -- he was the first scarecrow; then he traded roles with Ray Bolger, the tin woodman, but the makeup for the tin woodman made him sick, so he had to quit. And that's a fact, or so Buddy says. I don't know what he's been up to since 1998 when he made his last television appearances – perhaps he's not up to song and dance on his ninety-fifth birthday – but he's alive at ninety-five, and that's a fact.

I'm alive at sixty-one years and five days, and I do feel like the weest bit of song and dance this beauuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota, kola – where there's at least the chance of the weest bit of snow, perfect early April weather in this best of all possible places. 'Tis grand enough here on the east bank of the Missouri – 'tis even grander to the west and north, up in Hannover Township, Oliver County, where I was born and raised and over on in the badlands a hundred miles and some further west – I intentionally live here just on the edge of paradise – if I lived over in the western part of the state, I might just sit around feeling so good about where I was that I wouldn't get anything else done. I wasn't spending much time in Hannover Township during Buddy's heyday as Uncle Jed in The Beverly Hillbillies (1962-1971) – I was in Dickinson, one hundred miles due west of Bismarck, for most of the years, and in many ways, they were the halcyon days. I don't remember ever sitting down to watch an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies -- I'm sure it may have happened a time or two, but I didn't live in place with a television for most of those years, with the exception of 68-69, when I was marooned far from the best of Dakota in Devils Lake, far further east than I've ever felt comfortable going to bed for more than a night or two. I don't recall whether or not I could start my car on April 2, 1969, in Devils Lake – but I don't think I did it in March. Will say this, Devils Lake had a glorious winter – my vehicle was buried in the street for most of it. I do remember that the literati were most outraged with The Beverly Hillbillies, one of the most popular and certainly among the most criticized television series of the 60s. The basic theme, of course, was that being born and raised close to nature, far from the sins of the city, like Jack Webb's LA and Hollywood, made for a more sensible human being. Hence, the hillbillies like Uncle Jed with their cornpone wisdom always triumph over the more technically advanced society of the city. All efforts of the representative of sinful city, the banker, to entice the Clampetts into the world of getting and spending are either foiled or result in chaotic mayhem. Young Jethro, eager to adapt to and seize the best of the strange new world so far from Hooterville, is often restrained by Granny – as he was late in the series in an episode in which he decides to become a guru. In short, the world beyond the static values of Hooterville (folks from there still believed that Elizabeth I was Queen of England) has nothing to offer the Clampetts – for whom life is one big party with a drop or two of Granny's white lightnin', a continuous search for basic domestic bliss – ala Granny's quest for a mate for herself and Elly May. All in all, the series was poppycock, of course.

What wasn't poppycock was Sir Alec Guinness' portrayal of the mad Colonel in Bridge on the River Kwai, a great movie made in 1957. Born illegitimate on this day in 1914, Guinness lived long and prospered – starring in stunning supporting roles in such as Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars, before finally living this middle world in 2000 at age eighty-six. I just watched Sir Alec the other night as King Feisal in the 1962 Lawrence of Arabia -- a film the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Secretary of Defense Don Rumsfeld, and especially VP Dick Cheney and Prez George W. should have studied and discussed before going to war with Iraq. If you don't remember the film, haven't seen it for a while, or never watched it – I strongly urge you to have a look – as our OMF (Our Mutual Friend) said, we're a people who forget our history about every fifteen minutes.

'Tis time, kola, for my morning in-the-recliner-before-the-fire-with-tea time with The Bismarck Tribune. The biennial North Dakota Legislature turned down a bill yesterday that would have repealed the law prohibiting cohabitation. Those who spoke most vehemently in favor of keeping the law say they don't want it enforced – they simply want to send a strong moral message. Sending moral messages is far easier, of course, than finding the revenue for education and basic services. The North Dakota Senate voted 26-21 to keep the law, going along with Senator John Andrist of Crosby who said, "I think we need to set the standards for what we think is right and wrong. Whether it's enforced or not is secondary." If enforced, the law could get a few folks 30 days in jail and/or a $1,000 fine. Perhaps we should crack down on some those sinful seniors – some in their eighties and early nineties – unmarried men and woman who are living together to cut down on expenses. Senator Andrist, in all due respect, a society that sustains laws it has no intention of enforcing in the hope that the existence of that we expect law enforcers to ignore will somehow make its citizens more moral is in deep poppycock. It usually means that that society's lawmakers can't find a way to meet the essential common needs of its citizens, so it turns to interfering with the private lives of common folk in an incredibly pretentious and self-satisfied conviction that they know better than the folks they were elected to serve what is right for them. Reminds me of the time the great Lakota Chief Gall went to agent James McLaughlin on the Standing Rock Reservation more than a hundred years ago. Late in life, Gall fell in love with a woman who happened to be married to someone else. Gall asked McLaughlin for advice – and was told that it would be immoral for the two of them to seek happiness. Said Gall, "I have promised to go the white man's way and I stand by my word. But I might not have promised if I thought my heart would sing again at the coming of a woman. I will pay the price of being as white men are."

Today, kola, I lift my cup of tea and toast the twenty-one senators who voted to do away with the anti-cohabitation law, toast the memory of Sir Alec Guinness, and toast you, my kola, who sustain me and make life not only worth living but worth holding on to at all costs. Be well, take care of each other, and take care of yourselves. Hope it might be just as beautiful in your place as 'tis here – and I truly hope that you can jeer with me the poppycock perpetuated by twenty-six otherwise most reasonable men and women, those from Dakota who bought the idea that trucking with the personal lives of citizens who are doing nothing to harm the general welfare of the community is a good idea. 'Tis poppycock, indeed – and if you don't know the Dutch origin of the word, look it up, as OMF Tom McGrath was quick to tell his students. Soon, the legislators will leave Bismarck for a couple of years. I'm reminded of the poem, "Legislators of Darkness" by OMF:

For over the capitol!
The senators grope homeward.
Larkspur, tree toads
Continue their legislation.

Think about it kola, think about it

Ev Albers

Tuesday, April 1st, 2003

​And the top of a gorgeous morning to ye on this first day of the year - oops, that's the way it used to be back before 1582 when folks changed the calendar from the Julian to the Gregorian to make up for all those centuries of not having leap years - some say we call April 1 "April Fool's Day" because of the fools who forgot to change calendars -- making what used to be April 1, January 1. In case anyone was wondering, that's also why Aries is first in the astrological charts, etc. - but if you skip a quarter-day every millennium or so, you might find yourself with a calendar that doesn't reflect nature the way it used to. Lots of things aren't the way they used to be - lots of folks think things aren't the way they're supposed to be as well. Not that long ago, people believed what news reporters told them. Back in 1957, a clever fellow from BBC convinced thousands of Brits that the spring spaghetti crop in Italy was a good one that year - and he showed his viewers spaghetti being picked in strands, by the pound, from trees. They bought it. My favorite April Fool's joke was played by George Plimpton in Sports Illustrated in 1985, when he wrote about the twenty-eight-year-old aspiring monk, Sidd Finch, who was with the New York Mets in training camp. Plimpton wrote that Finch's fastball was clocked at 168 miles per hour - something he picked up while learning to play the French horn. Kola, you have to love this one!

My devoted and loving spouse, Leslie, the kindest and gentlest of souls, gets me every damned year ---she either has me rushing for the door to attend to something I forgot or enjoying for the shortest moment unexpected good news - and it's so different every year that I always fall for it - but I'm pretty gullible. The one's I like best are the domestic disasters that really didn't happen - toilet backups and such - it's such a relief, so to speak, not to have to deal with a plumbing emergency. You would think I'd learn, but Leslie is the master of timing and tuning in to exactly the right moment to let one of her April Fool's jokes loose - in the early years of our marriage, I tried to reciprocate, but 'tis not my talent - I've never pulled one off.

We here in Bismarck, the most beauuuuuuuuuutiful of capital cities in world, of course, do not celebrate the birthday of the man for whom we named our capital - some say 'twas to lure German immigrants to Dakota, where 'tis indeed a beauuuuuuuuuuutiful day. Otto von Bismarck was born on April 1 in 1815 - he lived a long life of engineering society and dealing with the world ala realpolitik, dying late in July in 1898. Old Otto once cautioned, "Never believe in anything until it has been officially denied." I might do well to take that advice on April Fool's Day - and not believe a word my wife says until she denies that it's a joke - but she'd find a way around that. A few critics of the current Bush administration say they we all would do well to take what we hear from government officials from a Bismarckian perspective - but we tend, as a nation, to be more like the Brits of 1957 watching the spaghetti crop being harvested than we do toward Bismarckian skepticism. 'Twas Agnes Repplier, one of the great American essayists who is so often quoted but so seldom read, even though her books remain in print, who said, "People who cannot recognize a palpable absurdity are very much in the way of civilization." There are more than a few such around, and more than one live within the Beltway of our nation's capital. Agnes, born in 1858, lived on into her nineties - she died in 1950. She never married - don't know if she considered the institution absurd, but preferred to be a caregiver to her older sister Mary and her brother, Louis, who was partially paralyzed. Reporters continued to trek to her apartment in Philadelphia as she celebrated her birthdays in her eighties and nineties - she never lost her devastating wit and fresh view on politics. She didn't read until she taught herself at the age of ten - before that, she memorized poetry taught to her by her mother viva voce -- she had a phenomenal memory. With Agnes, as with my dear wife Leslie's April Fool jokes, timing and capturing the pause of speech is everything - something she doubtlessly learned from her close acquaintance with the oral literary tradition her mother introduced to her with all those lengthy poems. Ms. Repplier once observed, "We cannot really love anybody with whom we never laugh." Imagine a pause before the last word of her sentence. She also said, "What monstrous absurdities and paradoxes have resisted whole batteries of serious arguments, and then crumbled swiftly into dust before the ringing death-knell of a laugh!" Agnes wrote, lived, laughed, loved and cared for others in tune with civilizations far older than our own - those of the ilk of Athens in its golden years when such as war was the topic of comedy - ridiculed, along with those who brought war to pass - in the most public of gatherings, the theatre. There's nothing like Aristophanes' Lysistrata in America in 2003 - nothing like the women of Athens refusing their men loving while they continue to war, none of Aristophane's jibes at the absurdity of what war brings. Athens of the 5th century B.C. had nothing like 24/7 live coverage of war the way we do - from dozens of sources - and there's not a single moment of humor or laugher during those twenty-four hours, seven days a week in 2003. On the other hand, we have nothing like the basic honesty of the Athenians who left a paper trail of their smug self-confidence that they alone were civilized - there's that letter to the folks from a small culture that had never bothered anyone - they asked, "Why are you going to kill us and destroy our civilization - we have never done anything to harm you in any way and have no way of doing so in the future?" Athens answers, "Because we're stronger than you." In short, "nothing personal, but we're going to kill you and wipe out your culture simply because we can." One must be cautious when invoking Athenian culture as superior to our own.

There remains, nonetheless, universal human standards to measure a civilization and the health of social compacts - nations, if you will. Any society where laugher is absent is in less than sterling health - be it Iraq or the United States. For when laughter goes, love quickly departs as well, and life becomes a living hell. Good reasons, my dear kola, to take care of yourselves today, enjoy a laugh with those you love, and take care of each other by helping them laugh at themselves. As for me, I'm for the weest bit of tea this morning as I prepare to be on guard for what my spouse will try to fool me - on the other hand, to hell with it - life's too damned short. I'm going to have a spot of chamomile tea laced with a half-dozen drops of essence of echinacea, sit down in the great recliner before the fire (don't need it this morning), and read the morning paper - I always turn to the comics first. For what it's worth, I think that Doonesbury is the closest we come to the wit of Aristophanes, but all we're getting currently are "Flashbacks" -

Can't tell you how great 'tis to be alive, turning the calendar to a new month, in our home here in the most beauuuuuuuuutiful of places, Bismarck, on the east bank of the mighty (well, that's the weest exaggeration, for 'tis tamed) Missouri. Kola, I wish you the impossible: that you feel even better than I and awoke this morning to a day even more beautiful that 'tis here --

Ev Albers

Monday, March 31st, 2003

​And the evening and the morning were the fourth day – here at one of Bismarck's two great health facilities, St. Alexius – where I just finished my 2:00 A.M. infusion of antibiotics. All is quiet on 4SW (fourth-floor southwest) of St. A's. I can look out a huge window to the heart of the city and wait to see a vehicle in motion. We prefer things quiet here in Dakota where the last day of March in 2003 'twill be absolutely beauuuuuuuuuuuutiful – the extra "u's" give you a notion of just how fine a day can promise to be -–temperatures in the 60s. I'm a low-level temp/blood pressure kind of guy this early A.M. – 96.7 and 90/50 registers – I feel like a bear awakening from hibernation, and like a fat-ass kodiak awakening lean and hungry, I'm thinking a good deal about food.

I've pretty well sustained myself here with fast downing of Boosts (supplemental drinks) at breakfast, lunch, and dinner with juice – and lumping down oatmeal – itself more than lumpy and less than hot. One would think that a first-class medical facility – which St. A's is in all ways save one – would pay the weest bit more attention to food, especially on weekends. It's fine and dandy to make sure one has the major food groups in proper proportion, et. al., but if you choose the easiest way to deliver some calories up to the fourth floor, you probably will make folks like me less than happy. So, here I am on Saturday and Sunday, coming out of a trough during which I couldn't keep water down. My appetite was returning, and I eagerly looked forward to seeing what was beneath the purple plate cover. The dinners on weekends here in this extraordinarily fine medical facility where one is treated so well in every other way are, in a couple of words, poppycockly dreadful.

"Poppycock" is great word we Americans worried very early from the Dutch – an attempt to say and spell the Dutch phrase, "soft shit." On Friday nights they bring up a tatter-tot hotdish that has a notorious reputation through the upper Midwest – and it's served every Saturday night – has been for years, according to some of the great RN's who have heard the gasps of those who raised the plate covers to discover the huge mass of stinking fatty beef and crushed tatter-tots – obviously something that was mixed many hours ago and barely warmed by a minimal staff before delivery up to the fourth floor – along with some carrots, made inedible by the presence of that lump of poppycock. Sunday night brings beans contaminated by the Vulcan stithy, the stench of the foulest of concoctions, a macoroni-hamburger hot dish that must bring on memories of the worst nausea we oncology patients have ever experienced. There's a weekend food problem at this place – I would urge the world to let St. A's know that their cost-saving measure of serving poppycock on Saturday and Sunday nights – meals that can languish in huge pans and be served by a skeleton staff – is unintended cruel and unusual punishment. Worst of all, there's no warning to us first-timers -–for some strange reason, they don't let you know what you're going to get to eat in advance at this place – well, perhaps the reason's obvious – there must be long-termers or repeaters who find themselves here for a second time on weekends, and the absence of a menu or advance warning gives them some hope that the poppycock won't be served on weekend nights.

I confess, I may be the weest bit harsh – for I have been dreaming – wild, shivering, colored and textured dreams – of eating lobster drenched in drawn butter. I dream of those bits of sweet lobster separating into those luscious strands, slippery with hot sweet-cream butter, sliding across my tongue and pleasuring from the time it passes the lips until it reaches the stomach. I must stop this, kola – or I'll get carried away once more.

Let us say a Happy Birthday to Al Gore, Jr., who turns the big 55 today – there's plenty of life ahead, Al – and today's the first day of the rest of yours and ours, so have a good one! 'Tis the 67th birthday of one of America's great poets, Marge Piercy – featured today on Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac. 'Tis also the birthday of Richard Paul Kiley, born on this day in 1922, he died a few weeks before his 77th birthday in 1999. I saw Kiley three times in the Broadway production of Man of La Mancha in – must have been 1967 – in Denver – kola, how I loved that musical and Kiley's performance!

Let us toast Kiley and Marge Piercy, Al Gore and old Rene Descartes – born in 1596 – old Cogito ergo sum "I think, therefore I am" or "I am thinking, therefore I exist." I'll buy that. Descartes was described as a less-than-attractive, cold, selfish guy – a little guy with a big head, projecting brow, and most prominent nose. The poor guy never married, and his single progeny, an illegitimate daughter, died young. We're still reading him more than four hundred years after his birth.

And a most happy birthday to John Fowles, the English writer who gave us The French Lieutenant's Woman, born on this day in 1922. Fowles enjoys a well-deserved worldwide following -- check out a great web site here. Fowles is a humanist and a humanities scholar – a prominent member of the British Humanist Society, he believes that humans should enjoy life without the restrains of superstitious religion. Whatever you think of his basic approach to the possibility of life after death, you almost have to agree that he writes exquisitely and lives with laugher and an embracing love of humankind that we would do well to emulate. 'Tis Fowles who wrote, "Men love war because it allows them to look serious. Because it is the one thing that stops women from laughing at them."

And the evening and the morning were the fourth day – a special thanks this A.M. to my friend and brother-in-law (not necessarily mutually exclusive relationships) Jim Harrison, hubby of my sister Faye – they live up in the heart of the heart of Oliver County, Center, North Dakota. Jim most kindly pointed out last night that my posting of yesterday – since corrected – gave the impression that Frankie Laine sang "High Noon" for the soundtrack of the film. He didn't, of course – 'twas Tex Ritter, who is a whole 'nother story – thank you, Jim, and thank you for reading my meanderings – and thank you kola all for the warm wishes and love that floats my way from your beauuuuutiful place to mine in Dakota. Take care of yourselves, look out for each other, and may your day find happiness the equivalent of sucking on butter-drenched lobster (you have to stop thinking about it, Everett – go order up some juice and take a nap)

Ev Albers

Sunday, March 30th, 2003

​Greetings, salutations, and the best of whatever life has brought to the most fortunate to you, kola, on this 30th day of March, 2003. I look forward to another beauuuuutiful day here in Dakota and hope the day breaks as gorgeous as 'tis here wherever you are. I'm here in downtown Bismarck looking out on our modest evening lights - a car hasn't passed the busiest of intersections for about twenty minutes at 3:00 in the morning - we take our downtime seriously here in Dakota. I would rather be a couple of miles from here at my home, but I'll spend at least another day getting infused with antibiotics and enjoying the hospitality of the RNs and Aides on the fourth floor southwest of St. Alexius, fighting a little bug one is wont to pick up when white counts dip down in the 100s instead of being 10,000 or so - but won't be long 'till I'm free once more.

Today is the birthdate of a singer whose voice has haunted me from childhood - ever since I heard a great voice sing "Do Not Forsake Me, O My Darling" from High Noon (no, not Tex Ritter, who sang it for the movie) and first heard "Mule Train." Yo, kola, you guessed - it's Frankie Laine -- and kola, he's celebrating this day ninety years after his birth. Albums of his hits are currently being distributed under labels in forty-three countries, including Enland, where his 1953 rendition of "I Believe" topped the charts for eighteen weeks, a record that not even the Beatles could top. After quadruple bypass surgery in the late 80s and a second bypass surgery in 1990, Frankie wrote his autobiography, That Lucky Old Sun. He remarried about four years ago - he lost his wife, Nan, of forty-three years in 1993 - you can read all about his remarkable life and career at his terrific web site, where you will also find samples of his great hits (sorry, kola, but I can't upload any to you here from my laptop).

Frankie Laine - his last great CD was recorded when he was 85 -- It Ain't Over 'Till It's Over -- his theme was "One man's twilight is another man's dawn." There are some 84 different CDs currently available - how's that for a guy who turns 90 today! Happy Birthday, Frankie - I'm with you -- "It Ain't Over 'Till It's Over.

Back in 1953 when Frankie's "I Believe" topped the charts in England for those incredible eighteen weeks, the hits songs here in "I Love Ike" America included Perry Como's "Don't Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes," Nat King Cole's "Pretend," and Hank Williams' "Kaw-Liga," a less-than-culturally- sensitive song about the wooden Indian "who fell in love with the Indian maid, over at the antique store":
Kaw-liga was a wooden Indian standing by the door.
He fell in love with an Indian maiden over in the antique store.
Kaw-liga just stood there and never let it show,
So she could never answer "yes" or "no."

CHORUS:
Poor ol' Kaw-liga, he never got a kiss.
Poor ol' Kaw-liga, he don't know what he missed.
Is it any wonder that his face is red?
Kaw-liga, that poor ol' wooden head.

He always wore his Sunday feathers and held a tomahawk.
The maiden wore her beads and braids and hoped some day he'd talk.
Kaw-liga, too stubborn to ever show a sign,
Because his heart was made of knotty pine.

Kaw-liga was a lonely Indian, never went nowhere.
His heart was set on the Indian maid with the coal black hair.
Kaw-liga just stood there and never let it show,
So she could never answer "yes" or "no."

And then one day a wealthy customer bought the Indian maid,
And took her, oh, so far away, but ol' Kaw-liga stayed.
Kaw-liga just stands there as lonely as can be,
And wishes he was still an old pine tree.

Don't know why that song sticks in my mind - some would say it's downright racist and best forgotten - but the message is as clear today as 'twas back in 1953 shortly after I turned eleven years old - "It Ain't Good Not Being Able to Say What's On Your Mind."

Ah, dear kola, I hope this day doesn't find you with a "heart of wood," unable to speak of your love for those you would care for and be cared for in return. 'Tis the most important thing in life - as the hapless Vincent van Gogh said so well. Vincent was born on this day 150 years ago. In 1987, his painting Sunflowers fetched $39.85 million. Vincent had a rough time making it as an artist, and he wasn't sure that painting was the most artistic thing. He said, "The more I think about it, the more I realize there is nothing more artistic than to love others."

You were right, Vincent. I hope you find yourselves nodding in agreement this fine day, kola - a good day to tell those you care for that you love them and to treat yourselves to some great music - go find some Frankie Laine, or at least toast his 90th birthday - I'm going to do so as soon as they bring in my Boost and juice, kola - and I'll toast each of you as well.

Ev Albers

Saturday, March 29th, 2003

​Ah, a good day to you kola from beauuuuuutiful Dakota, where it is indeed a beautiful day. Well, there are a few clouds and a bit of wind, but it's blowing in hot air and a glorious week to come. I received a note about that great radio voice from Chicago from good friend, kola, Esther Mackintosh who lives out in the D.C. area where she serves all of us state humanities councils and the nation as one of the great advocates for the notion that history, philosophy, literature and the other humanities belong to all of the people of the United States as a member of the staff of the Federation of State Humanities Councils. Esther says that she heard Everett Mitchell declare everyday "a beauuutiful day in Chicago," and adding, "I hope it's even a more beautiful day wherever you are." Kola, the share that wish for you - even though we both know 'tis not possible for it to be a grander day in any other place but one, Dakota. It's amazing how many folks remember hearing Mitchell's voice and that phrase which echoes down over more than sixty years. Filmmaker John Hanson, who made the documentary Northern Lights along with his friend Rob Nielsson, remembers Mitchell's voice as well. John lives up in Bayfield, Wisconsin, where 'tis almost as glorious as Dakota on some days - as it was yesterday and the day before when snow piled a foot or two deep. Now that's fitting end-of-March weather! John recalled imitating Everett Mitchell for Studs Terkel - and drawing a hearty laugh - at a bar during the Chicago film festival.

Today is the eighty-seventh birthday of Eugene McCarthy, a published poet from Watkins, Minnesota, who ran for president of the United States in 1968. I was in graduate school at Colorado State University in Ft. Collins and was spending some time doing some teaching in Carpenter, Wyoming, the last gasp of Wyoming straight west of Cheyenne short of Scotts Bluff, Nebraska. Gene McCarthy was my hero, the only presidential candidate I have ever passionately and vocally campaigned for in every way I could. Kola Mike Hazard, the filmmaker from St. Paul who made the great documentary about OMF (Our Mutual Friend) Tom McGrath, has chronicled Clean Gene's life in a documentary he titles "I'm Sorry I Was Right" -- you can read more about Mike's great gift to America at The CIE site. As a young congressman from Minnesota, elected in 1949, Clean Gene, aka "The Needle," was the first member of Congress to stand up and speak out against one of the most loathsome of humans to ever serve in the U.S. Senate, the commie-hunting Joe McCarthy. McCarthy was elected to the Senate in 1958. In 1968, he was the strongest of voices against the war in Vietnam. What a mensch he was and is! How can you not love a man who could cut through perfidy, mendacity, and political posturing of the worst ilk the way Gene McCarthy did - long before Watergate, Gene said of Richard Nixon, "Nixon is the kind of guy who, if you were drowning twenty feet from shore, would throw you a fifteen-foot rope." Among his poems is one he entitled

COURAGE AFTER SIXTY
Now it is certain.
There is no magic stone.
No secret to be found.
One must go
With the mind's winnowed learning.
No more than the child's handhold
On the willows bending over the lake,
On the sumac roots at the cliff edge.
Ignorance is checked,
Betrayals scratched.
The coat has been hung on the peg,
The cigar laid on the table edge,
The cue chosen and chalked,
The balls set for the final break.
All cards drawn,
All bets called.
The dice, warm as blood in the hand,
Shaken for the last cast.
The glove has been thrown to the ground,
The last choice of weapons made.

A book for one thought.
A poem for one line.
A line for one word.

"Broken things are powerful."
Things about to break are stronger still.
The last shot from the brittle bow is truest.

Well, kola, I've yet to shoot my last arrow - I'm in this fine facility, St. Alexius, in beauuuuutiful Bismarck - and I'm climbing out of that nadir - temperature down to normal, no pain, awaiting a rise in white counts, hemoglobin, and platelets that will spring me from what is really a most comfortable place - after three units of someone's gift of blood, infusion of marvelous antibiotics, and great care by the heroines of our age, the RNs who serve with such dedication and good cheer, God Bless 'Em - I feeling mighty fine. I have this hope that a mighty blow has been dealt the invader - that there's life, laughter, and love after sixty-one. Happy Birthday, Gene - when I grow up, I want to be just like you.

I wish you all the best this day, kola - and remind you to take care of yourselves and of each other. Have a look at some of Gene's other poems at Mike Hazard's site. You can also order the video documentary from Mike at his site. Thank all of you for your birthday wishes and messages of cheer yesterday - there's nothing that fights the invader as effectively as kola reaching out to kola - and I'm the most blessed of sixty-one-year-olds alive this beauuuuuuuuutiful day in Dakota.

Ev Albers

Friday, March 28th, 2003

​​Well, kola, 'tis a beauuuuuutiful day in Dakota, as Everett Mitchell, that great radio voice out of Chicago was wont to say of his home town when I was carrying milk out on the farm in Hannover Township, Oliver County in the 40s and 50s. Mitchell qualified his statement from time to time – "Well, it's snowing, there was thunder and rain this morning, and the wind is blowing, but it's a beautiful day." It did in fact snow, rain, and thunder early this morning here in Bismarck – and the wind swirls it around the weest, but the sun will be breaking through in an hour or so, and 'twill be a gorgeous day as well.

I'm in one of Bismarck's fine health facility for a day or two – I went down the weest on Wednesday and Thursday – the last chemo treatment must be doing something, because the nadir – that downturn in blood levels and immunity, plummeted and my body temperature soared, and I didn't seem to have the energy for a couple of days to get out bed – and I couldn't eat or drink. So I was infused with fluids, platelets, a blood transfusion, broad-band antibiotics – and this morning, I'm fit as fiddle – ready for whatever this glorious day brings.

In fact, I'm quite happy to be alive today – which I wasn't at all, yesterday morning for the weest bit. I take the great changing weather of Dakota as an omen, this 28th day of March, the day I was born in the other great Bismarck health facility a block or two away from me. The snow came in earnest sixty-one years ago, as I've told you in my last post. I've decided that every time it snows on my birthday, I'm going to be around for another year – and because it rained and thundered, I'm not just going to be vegetating – I'm going to be working and writing and loving – in fact, I've decided that what I need is the weest bit more piss and vinegar in my life.

Today is also my big brother Jim and his wife Lucille's forty-fifth wedding anniversary. They were married in New Salem, the metropolis nineteen miles north of Hannover across the county line – the town is now world-famous for having the world's largest concrete, bullet-proof Holstein cow on the hill along I-94 between Bismarck and Dickinson. Back in 1958, when my brother came home on leave from the army to marry, there was a brouhaha about renting the city hall for a wedding dance during Lent --–something that was not done, unless it was St. Patrick's Day. I don't know how my brother got special dispensation – but we did indeed have a great dance – and it didn't snow that year, so everyone got home safely – although the trip from New Salem to Hannover in the 1948 Ford that I inherited from my brother took an hour and a half, I think – my father insisted on driving – and he had drunk and danced all night. My father was not a drinker, so he was not in the best of shape. We probably would have gotten home faster with a team and wagon – Dad crowded the shoulder and drove about five to ten miles an hour. The morning-chores were not particularly cheery, as I remember – I believe my father grunted in some disgust when Everett Mitchell came on radio and proclaimed a "beauuuuuuuuutiful day in Chicago." All's well that ends well – my brother and sister-in-law have co-existed in remarkable harmony of forty-five years!

As I lay there the last couple of days, I contemplated catching up on my journal ala Lewis and Clark – just going back and pretending 'twas the 26 and 27. The 26th was a curiously other-worldly one – I daydreamed I was in exotic places, in two places at the same time, and not there at all. I leave it here . . . wherever I was, I'm back – with all faculties I need intact. I trust you are well, happy, and taking care of yourselves and of each other the way I'm being taken care of my spouse and friends here in Bismarck.

Ev Albers

Tuesday, March 25th, 2003

Yes, 'tis a beauuuuuuuuutiful day here in Dakota, even in the earliest moments of March 25, 2003. Back in 1937 on this day, Quaker Oats Company gave Babe Ruth $25,000 to use his name on advertising. Lot of money in the heart of the Great Depression –- but Quaker Oats sold many of those round boxes of the stuff of which oatmeal was served on hundreds of thousands of kitchen tables. I wonder how many of you, kola, remember that box with the picture of the Quaker holding a box of Quaker Oats with the picture of the Quaker holding the box – many a morning a peered into that illusion of infinity – thinking it would go on forever, and one could see hundreds of Quakers holding boxes of Quaker Oats that featured a picture of a Quaker holding a box of Quaker Oats – if only one had a powerful enough magnifying device. Eighteen years after Babe was paid the big bucks for endorsing Quaker Oats, in 1955, Custom agents in New York seized 520 copies of Allen Ginsberg's Howl, printed in England for publisher Lawrence Ferlinghetti. who celebrated his eighty-fourth birthday yesterday. A year later, Ferlinghetti's City Lights published the long poem, and Ferlinghetti was arrested, jailed, and bailed out by the American Civil Liberties Union. He was eventually found not guilty of publishing obscenity when nine literary experts testified that the poem was not obscene. 

Howl was quite the national sensation back in 1955-56. We didn't hear about Ginsberg – ever, to my knowledge – in Hannover Township in Oliver County back in 1955-56. In March 1956, I was far too busy memorizing Luther's Small Catechism for confirmation on Palm Sunday, which fell on 25th of March, to be at all concerned about Beat Poets – our poetry was of the ilk of Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha. Confirmation back in 1956 was a grueling affair – after two years of special confirmation classes with the pastor – in addition to the indoctrination we received as students at a Missouri-Synod parochial school – the class was lined up in gowns before the entire congregation and grilled for an hour or so – after which the 13- or 14-year-olds were blessed, given communion for the first time, and handed their own envelopes for making donations. Most of us young men wore our first suits at confirmation. The year before, in 1955 when the 520 copies of Howl were confiscated, I had spent several months in bed at home with rheumatic fever by the time Palm Sunday rolled around on April 3 – I didn't read much poetry – did read most of Zane Grey because someone in the area had all of his books – and I don't remember any of them, to tell the truth. I also watched television – brand new to our house in 1955. In fact, I watched it so much that I tried to win a contest held by KFYR, Meyer Broadcasting – counting every time the station's logo appeared on the screen during a particular week. It was the most tedious task I ever undertook – and it turned me off from watching television until the 1970s. Of course, I missed a couple – far better to look at the Quaker holding the box of Quaker Oats with the picture of the Quaker holding the box of Quaker Oats, methinks.

Today's poem is "Who Runs America?" by Allen Gingsberg, from 1974 --

Who Runs America?
Oil brown smog over Denver
Oil red dung colored smoke
level to level across the horizon
blue tainted sky above
Oil car smog gasoline
hazing red Denver's day
December bare trees
sticking up from housetop streets
Plane lands rumbling, planes rise over
radar wheels, black smoke
drifts from tailfins
Oil millions of cars speeding the cracked plains
Oil from Texas, Bahrein, Venezuela Mexico
Oil that turns General Motors
revs up Ford
lights up General Electric, oil that crackles
thru International Business Machine computers,
charges dynamos for ITT
sparks Western
Electric
runs thru Amer Telephone & Telegraph wires
Oil that flows thru Exxon New Jersey hoses,
rings in Mobil gas tank cranks, rumbles
Chrysler engines
shoots thru Texaco pipelines
blackens ocean from broken Gulf tankers
spills onto Santa Barbara beaches from
Standard of California derricks offshore.

You can read most of Ginsberg's poetry online, including Howl. I've always liked Is About (1996).

Hope you are well this glorious day, kola – and that you are taking care of each other, finding time for laughter and love – poetry and song – and helping out each other as best you can.

​Ev Albers

Monday, March 24th, 2003

​Ah, kola, a most gorgeous day in Dakota - I've been about the tedious work of changing Internet providers, which means reconfiguring servers - time-consuming and not a job for the witless wonder I can become on a day like today - badass nausea and general discomfort - 'tis a day I need the weest bit of "Amazing Grace".

Today is the 84th birthday of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, that remarkable Beat poet and City Lights Bookstore and publisher founder - the man who recently wrote to the nation in the wake of the action in Iraq:

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

SPEAK OUT

And America turns the attack on its Twin Towers
Into the beginning of the Third World War
The war with the Third World

And the terrorists in Washington
Are shipping out the young men
To the killing fields again

And no one speaks

And they are rousting out
All the ones with turbans
And they are flushing out
All the strange immigrants

And they are shipping all the young men
To the killing fields again

And no one speaks

And when they come to round up
All the great writers and poets and painters
The National Endowment of the Arts of Complacency
Will not speak

While all the young men
Will be killing all the young men
In the killing fields again

So now is the time for you to speak
All you lovers of liberty
All you lovers of the pursuit of happiness
All you lovers and sleepers
Deep in your private dream
Now is the time for you to speak
O silent majority
Before they come for you!

Ferlinghetti is a veteran, of course - as was OMF Tom McGrath. He recently took up painting as well as poetry. He writes marvelous essays, which are online by following the link above. In April of this year, he will received two distinguished awards: Authors Guild Award for Distinguished Service to the Literary Community on April 7 and the Robert Frost medal for "his lifelong contribution to American poetry" on April 29, when he will deliver the April 29th Robert Frost Memorial Lecture. Of course, there will be no few who pooh-pooh - and even dismiss Ferlinghetti as a peacenik protester. But a few hundred thousand are speaking out on glorious days like today - including some who thought it would all be over by now. Wall Street is speaking out by going down sharply with the news that this war might linger on and kill Americans as well as Iraqis.

Kola, I hope your day is a bright and sunny one - find some time to laugh and sing - in spite of all the stuff. And don't forget to pass a little "Amazing Grace" on to others.
​
Ev Albers

Sunday, March 23rd, 2003

Yes, of course, 'tis a great day in Dakota – continued warm, calm, and cozy here on the banks of the Missouri River at one of the few places you can actually see across it – the ole Missouri is pretty well dammed and backed up from Montana to St. Louis. Both the farmers and the fishermen are getting mighty itchy – especially now that the anglers have taken off the ice houses – but there's places to drop in the weest bit of bait and hope for the best year-round, as my big brother Jim does up in Pick City more days than not. If the old saw is true – the one that assures those of great faith that days and hours spent fishing don't count in one's allotted time here in the middle world, my brother Jim may live to be 120 or 150 or so – maybe be around to celebrate his oldest granddaughter Victoria's 100th birthday by going fishing or hunting – she loves it as much as he – and has been first in line since she was a tyke to go hunting with dad and granddad.

Today is the birthdate of Faisal I ibn Hussein ibn Ali – the first king of Iraq/Syria, born on this day in 1883. Faisal (often spelled Faysal) played a leading role in the establishment of Arab nationalism in the years after World War I – he was king from 1921 to 1933. He was promised many things by the French and British – both of whom let him know in no uncertain terms that they expected to really run things – it's only yesterday, kola, in historic terms, that the European countries fully expected that what was called "sphere of influence" meant running things for other people. Until the end of WWI, Iraq was part of the Ottoman Empire – under Turkish control. Back around 1920, Faysal had to go into exile from Damascus (his home country was Syria) because of the French, who were hell-bent to control Lebanon and Syria. Faysal became great pals with the British, who set him up in Iraq, and because of his considerable skill in diplomacy, especially telling the British what they wanted to hear, Faysal managed a series of treaties that resulted in the independence of Iraq in 1932.

Faysal was in Europe – in Switzerland, in 1933 when the Assyrians, a Christian group living around Mosul, demanded assurances that they would be allowed to continue their culture. They clashed with the Iraqi troops – several hundred Christian Assyrians were killed, and Faysal, in ill health, lost control of events, went back to Switzerland to get medical attention, and died. Succeeded by his young son (about 21 in 1933), King Ghazi, who managed many improvements in the infrastructure of the country and in the standard of living of Iraqis despite ongoing political intrigue.

Few Americans know – or care a fig – about the history of Iraq – and certainly only one or two of the reporters blabbing 24/7 on at least two channels know anything about the history of the people of Iraq – many different peoples, as it turns out. One might think that, instead of long reports from "embedded" reporters traveling with "coalition" forces (almost all American) or the "analysis" of retired military experts, including Stormin' Norman Schwartzkopf.

Among the most curious performances was the press conference yesterday at the Pentagon, headed by Assistant Secretary of Defense Victoria Clarke decked out in a coat of many colors – a suit of pink and gray over a green turtle neck with patches of the color separated by broad black bands – a coat that demanded attention – it was almost impossible to watch the event without thinking about the coat and why in the hell Ms. Clarke would wish to wear such – she was joined by a Major General from the Joint Chiefs of Staff to let the nation know how great things were going – without answering any questions, really. At one point, a reporter asked whether or not the "show" on Friday night, the "Shock and Awe," would be repeated. Give multi-colored-coated Clark credit – she jumped in and said that perhaps one should be careful about the words one uses to describe war, death, and destruction.

What is not surprising, but worthy of note, is the dramatic change in public opinion over the last couple of days – support for United States action in Iraq approaches 80 percent among American citizens. The historical precedent in overwhelmingly supports this phenomenon – it's been relied on by political leaders of citizenry with qualms of going to war as long as history has been recorded. It does raise big questions for the future – questions that have nagged us in the past in this country – especially during the presidencies of the Roosevelts, Theodore and Franklin Delano. In the last sixty years, we have invested enormous power in the presidency – power the likes of King Faysal I could never imagine. Given the most-human penchant for patriotism whenever one's country is engaged in a shooting war, no matter how much one might oppose the reasons for getting into the war in the first place, we might do well, indeed, to look closely at how easy it is for a single American public servant to get this country into a shooting war. The question is not narrowly political – the danger of a too-powerful president is the same for Democrats, Republicans, the Green Party, or whoever.

Big questions for a glorious day in Dakota, one that will probably find my brother, nephew, and likely my grand-niece fishing -– far from the 24/7, sans-commercial television coverage of CNN or MSNBC. God bless 'em. May this day find you taking care of yourselves by finding such solace – be it in the weest bit of music, poetry, contemplating your garden or maybe even working the soil – and may your search for that solace be a unspoken prayer that humankind might find a way eventually to take care of each other without resorting to guided ordinance costing hundreds of millions of dollars providing the kind of "show" we watched with the "Shock and Awe" attack of Friday night on the ancient city of Baghdad. I leave you today with an evocative poem by OMF (Our Mutual Friend) Tom McGrath, from Passages Toward the Dark:

A DISTANT REPUBLIC DEMANDS
More emphasis
On the economic needs of the moon!

Or, O senators of the sun,
No more nightlight.

Ev Albers