Odds & Nods

It's a savage, dragon eat dragon world out there if you own a Chinese restaurant. The oldest such establishment here in Topeka (1950s-something) recently closed. That's one down and forty or fifty to go. But I look for more such Oriental eateries to hang up their chop stix soon for competition is keen and keener still here in the Capital City. Deb and I "dined" last night at a Mongolian restaurant. I use the term dined loosely for honestly, my chow hall in the military had more atmosphere than this place. We stood in line with the hungry horde waiting to get in, we stood in line as the chefs whacked, chopped and flipped our grub before our eyes, we scurried to our table with our plates, and, as the rock music above set the frenzied pace, we bolted down our food faster than any starved hound cleaned his dog dish. But it was fun. We had debated on going to an Indian restaurant. And I had thought I might be more in the mood for Thai food than Mongolian. Of course, if all else failed, we could have slipped into a nearby Japanese place where Koreans would serve us. Chinese food? Never gave it a thought. As it turned out, all went just famously and both Deb and I were satisfied with our brief, frenetic tour of Mongolian cuisine. Since it was pouring sheets of rain I, gentlemanly-like, ran through a flooded parking lot filled with cars to fetch our own Japanese car that I might spare darling Deb a dreadful drenching. On our way home, we passed the "Magic Wok." There were three or four cars parked there. The Chinese monopoly is over. It's a dragon eat dragon world out there.

Sent in a short script last week for a documentary film. The producer liked it and I am assuming, since he is sending it on, it has been accepted. Good. Also have a proposal out there for a much longer film script on another subject. The producer is reading it. Great. Maybe a change of scenery is what I need. Must say, I am a bit burned out on book writing. Have been doing it now for nigh on twenty years and the fire in the belly is growing mighty dim and cold. For years folks have encouraged me to write fiction. They say I would be good at it. But these well-meaning people just don't get it. I love history. It's in my genes. Me mangling documentary scripts is another way to write w/o leaving the world of history. If the opportunity avails, believe I'll go for it. More later.

______________________________________________________________

Jest of the Day

History With A Future

The two sides stood staring at one another in the middle of the dusty street. No one moved. No one spoke.

On one side of the line were several companies of Free-State militia, many looking snappy in their new uniforms. Some nervously fingered their deadly Sharp's rifles, the repeating killing machines just arrived from the East. Above these men floated a banner: Our Lives for Our Rights.

On the other side of the line were even more men. These were federal troopers. Above them waved the Red, White and Blue, sporting thirty-one stars. To their rear, two field pieces, with cannon matches lit, stood ready to sweep the street in deadly support.

The stakes were high. On the one hand, a free-soil legislature sat inside a small stone building a few steps beyond. The militiamen had taken an oath to protect this assembly. On the other hand, the federal forces now arrayed on Kansas Avenue had orders from a pro-Southern president to scatter this illegal gathering, peacefully if possible, violently if necessary. A duly elected pro-slavery government already existed in Lecompton, only a score of miles away.

The day was hellishly hot. As the clock neared noon, the temperature in Topeka stood at one hundred degrees. With few trees, even fewer buildings, there were few points of refuge. Even along nearby Shunganunga Creek, the shade afforded small solace for the dozen or so men sweltering with old John Brown. Brown and his gang were waiting and praying for the "ball to open."

Adding fuel to the already fierce flame was the date itself. Eighty years before, another band of stalwarts had defied the government and stood up for their rights as free men. Now, on this particular July 4th, 1856, in far away Kansas, the onset of the Second American Revolution seemed but a heartbeat away.

"We come not to celebrate our independence," argued an angry Free-Stater, "but to win it."

Everything seemed in place. The revolution was set to begin. One of the most notable events in American history was about to commence. As the two sides stood staring at one another, with stress and anger mounting and sweat streaming down their faces, it seemed the pressure of a hundred fingers on a hundred triggers would be too much and the silence would soon be shattered.

But then, Edwin Sumner (right) swung from his saddle and dismounted. With a mix of boldness and bluff, the old colonel, known as "Bull," simply stomped into the Free-State capitol, scattered the delegates with a few booming words, then strode back outside. There, he announced to the militiamen that there was no longer a government to protect--they were dismissed. And that was it. After some grousing and grumbling, the Free-Staters dutifully dispersed to their homes and violence was, for the moment, at least, averted.

But, what if . . . what if someone had fired a gun during the standoff?

Given the situation, given the heat and stress and high stakes involved, that a bullet was not fired must remain one of the great miracles of history. And yet, had a shot been fired the course of events, not only in Kansas, but around the world, might have been radically altered.
Had someone squeezed off a round that day, in anger or by accident, almost certainly a bloody fight would have erupted. Although the soldiers would have soon taken control of the situation, it is also equally certain that the violence would have spread rapidly throughout the territory, with free-soilers waging a guerrilla war against the federal and territorial authorities. With the nation already splitting over the Kansas question, it is not a great leap to assume that the fighting might have easily infected other portions of the nation, particularly along the Mason-Dixon fault line. From that point on, a chain-reaction would have set in and little or nothing could have stopped it. From that point on, the nation would effectively be engaged in civil war. Unlike the actual scenario which played out several years later, however, in this case roles would have been reversed--the rebels would have been Northerners and the Union would have been in the South.

Since industrial might and manpower would have still rested overwhelmingly with the North, the military outcome, especially after early recognition by Europe, would have been the same. . . only sooner. Simply put, the rebels in the North would have won and won easily within a year or so. But the political map would look vastly different today.

Glad simply to be free of one another, the new line separating the two nations would have been roughly the old Mason-Dixon line, with frequent border disputes that would continue for decades. To the west, the map would be almost unrecognizable.

For economic and cultural reasons, the Old Northwest wanted no part of either the Confederate States of the North or the United States of the South. After declaring its independence shortly before hostilities ceased, the loose amalgam of the states (called the United States of Columbia) would thereupon endure several years of financial struggle as Northern railroads and the Mississippi River tried to pull the new nation apart. Eventually, delegates from these Great Lakes states met in Chicago and agreed to join the Canadian Union. Not only would agriculture benefit by the St. Lawrence gateway to Europe, but the Mother country, Great Britain, would ensure that predatory neighbors kept their distance.

Further west, the geopolitical map more resembles that of a carved turkey and to describe the entire situation there would require more space than is available. Three interesting features that should be noted, however, are 1) the reforming of the Republic of Texas. With Arkansas, Louisiana, and the Indian Territory joining the Republic for safety, the warsome Texans quickly invaded Mexico and in less than two months they had occupied the entire country. Today, everything south of the Rio Grande is known as New Texas. 2) The West Coast. Now known as Pacifica, the old states of California, Oregon and Washington are protectorates under the Empire of Japan. 3) Kansas. Let it be said that of all changes to the map, only Kansas is recognizable. Land locked, shunned by its neighbors for the disaster it brought upon everyone, with little to offer and little to buy, the future of what would have been known as the "Sunflower State," is bleak, bleak indeed.

And all because some weak idiot on Kansas Avenue in Topeka couldn't take the heat on July 4, 1856!

And so, to you who are happy with the way things actually did turn out on that day long ago, perhaps a monument, with the name of every man who stood on Kansas Avenue, July 4, 1856, is in order: "To Those Who Didn't Lose Their Cool . . . We Thank You!"

_____________________________________________________________

Photo of the Day



Hillbilly Home Alarm System

Summer Serious

And now we Kansans have entered Summer Serious. How do I know this? Well, when I take my daily bike ride at 11 AM, I am now drenched in sweat after only a few blocks. When I return from same the rolling wave hardly slows for the rest of the day. I am cooked from the inside out.

There are three parts to Kansas summers:

#1 Summer Serene: This segment, stretching from May 1-June 15, is really the cruelest of the summer sections because it is so beguiling. During this period some people actually like living in Kansas; strangers who pass through comment on what a wonderful place Kansas is--"so nice and green"--and what beautiful weather we get. Yes, the grass is still green during the early part of this period, there is still water in the creeks, fluffy clouds, birds, all the normal stuff one thinks of when they think of Oregon or heaven. But lo! Hell approacheth. . . .

#2 Summer Serious--June 16--July 31. If one has any business to do out-of-doors, they best wrap it up by noon for this period will burn you a new orifice should you tarry beyond that. Homeless people start frying their filched eggs on the pavement during this period; they start baking their caught pigeons without a fire too (they just stick the bird in a metal mail box for an hour and its cooked to a T). Grass is brown, flowers are a memory; road rage, normally confined to large urban areas of the East and West Coasts, now becomes all the rage in Kansas and the slightest insult on our city streets can get a malefactor killed dead, dead, dead by some mental whose brain has boiled to paste by the heat and meth. Wife- and husband-beatings shoot through the roof. The nights are noisy from gunfire.

#3 Summer Surrender-- August 1-September 15. No one goes out after 10 AM or before 10 PM during this lovely period. If one does not have an A/C, one dies. Simple. That's how we weed out our old folks, I suppose. Some seniors get their electricity "accidentally" cut for a day. Horrified relatives discover the ancient loved one the next day baked through and through like a roast turkey. Life expectancy of an animal or a kid left in a car in a Wal-Mart parking lot during the daylight hours of Summer Surrender is about 2 minutes, 34 seconds, give or take a second or two; and that's with the windows down. Life grinds to a halt here in Kansas as surely as if a blizzard and ten feet drifts had hit; in truth, homes are sealed about as effectively to keep the heat out during this period as they are sealed to keep the cold out in January. It is death, swift and sure, to bike, jog, walk, laugh, or blink, at any time during this period. Only poor mopes with no money remain in Kansas during this last phase of summer; all the rest wisely bail out for the mountains. Even the ten million illegals here pick this time to return home to the Mexican deserts for a visit where it is vastly cooler.

Hell . . . It's not the heat, it's the humidity.

______________________________________________________________

TV Westerns

Bronco was a very popular TV program that was rated in the top ten during its four year run (1958-62). One of the reasons was Ty Hardin (right), the good-looking guy who played the lead, "Bronco Layne." Many film cowboys of that period looked good but Hardin was the real deal. Ty was a Texan, an ex-college football player, an ex-military pilot, and a real buckaroo. Many of the stunts in Bronco were performed by Hardin himself. After a pretty rotten childhood--military school, jail, etc.--Hardin was "discovered" and, with some help from--who else?--John Wayne, he was on his way. For his film career, the young man took the nickname his grandmother had given him--"Ty," for Texas Typhoon--and Hardin, for the Western gunfighter. Changing his name makes perfect sense since he was born: Orison Whipple Hungerford, Jr. Later in his career, Ty rejected several film offers because the scripts contained unnecessary foul language, exploitive sex, or gruesome violence. A man with strong Christian values, he chose to put the film industry behind him and joined the ministry. At age 77, Ty Hardin is still kickin' and living life in great health.

Listen: http://www.whirligig-tv.co.uk/tv/children/westerns/bronco.wav

______________________________________________________________

Remember?

Travel 3

When our first voyage was finally over and we docked in Rotterdam, Holland, it was with a sense of sadness that we disembarked. After ten days at sea and thirty or so meals at our table, we seven had become more than mere friends-–we were a family. Our final parting was painful and we all promised to write. And we did for a while. But as memories faded so too did the letters. This has been the script with every ship I have been on save one. In that instance, I spent more time in the bars with a group of like-minded louts than at the dinner table and thus, I hardly knew my table mates.

Generally, when I travel abroad it is not so much to visit as observe. Although I've seen the Eiffel Tower, the Coliseum, the Casbah (above), the Parthenon, the Blue Mosque, and other great landmarks, I prefer to study local life forms. After drinking my fill the first week, I followed old drunks the second week as they wobbled and weaved through the Oktoberfest hordes in Munich (several nights of that will cure any one of imbibing to stupidity). I've pondered Moroccan waiters during Ramadan as they fed us foreign devils while they themselves starved from sunup to sundown (vultures on a limb is the best description I can draw). I've watched sanitation workers in Zurich (one man, one machine, no mess), eyed for nights on end some really old and ugly Paris prostitutes in action (or inaction) and some of the Quasimodos they had as clients. I've hitchhiked and driven on the German autobahns so I could find out what racing at Indianapolis was really like.

While living in Greece, I also had a chance to study gypsies. Some of the first encounters came when they appeared at our door seeking handouts. Although these people always wanted more, if Maurine gave them a little bread they generally left satisfied. If we had nothing to give or were unwilling to part with what we had, our guests would stand staring at us through the kitchen window. As a rule, one seldom sees a gypsy man unless he is lolling around their camp. They apparently shade the day away in tents while forcing the women and children out on their plundering expeditions.

As for the gypsy females, no one could mistake them for Greeks. Some Greek women (those few not in mourning, that is) wear bright clothing; but nothing like the colorful, gaudy gypsy. Also, to see a young gypsy woman walking on the road is pure pleasure. When they aren't quarreling with one another or sifting through trash cans or lashing a kid for something, the ladies really set a pace. With a long, rapid stride and arms swinging gracefully, a gypsy woman would leave her short-legged Greek sister in the dust. Their children often trot to stay up.

Second to pilfering, begging is the main occupation of gypsies. One might imagine that after centuries of practice, these people would have become pretty adept in that line of work. But such is not the case. With a swaddled infant in her arms, a gypsy woman when begging will normally assume the most pained and exaggerated expression imaginable--not even close to looking sincere. If one can envision a woman with her foot caught in a bear trap, then one will have a pretty good idea of what a gypsy's face looks like when begging. Maurine once saw two women in the Kalamata market hustling at different times with the same baby. Although infants naturally tug hardest on a client's heart strings, if none are handy almost any child under twenty will do. While in Patras once, my son, Clipper, and I stared in disbelief as a gypsy woman carried an eight- or nine-year-old child who was almost as big as she. The large, squirming kid was obviously miserable and wanted down but the woman struggled to hold him and beg at the same time. I have seen other women pounding the pavement in winter, begging in shirt sleeves, while thirty or forty yards behind another is carrying their coats. Apparently a lot of Greeks fall for such corn, else the gypsies would have switched to a new scam long ago.

One morning I pedaled my bike ten miles to Messina to spend a day observing gypsies. They had their big camp along both banks of the Pamisos River, about a mile from town. Except for a few blue and green pickup trucks, the scene might have been 1876 and the Little Bighorn. Breakfast was long over when I came by and only a few threads of smoke were trailing up from cold camp fires. Several squatting women were about, doing hand wash or beating canvass at the river's edge. Wildly colored rugs and clothes were draped on bushes to dry. Horses and mules grazed quietly nearby; a dog stretched in the sun. But other than this, the camp was dead. The bulk of the women and children were in Messina. Poor Messina.

When I reached the town a short time later, I found gypsies swarming everywhere--begging, stealing, rattling locked doors and gates, trying to resell the junk they had just begged or stolen. Some of the green grocers gave handouts, I noticed, probably on the premise that it is better to give and seem magnanimous rather than be stolen from and appear stupid. Gangs of gypsy children also made their presence felt. These kids are hard to describe since other than being completely filthy, there is nothing else uniform about them. Little boys might have their knotty heads shaved right down to the bone or they might sport dirty long curls. And they might don anything from one-legged pants to an old suit coat worn over swimming trunks. I even saw one nine- or ten-year-old boy in a dress. The pathetic little girls all look like they have just climbed out of a chimney.

The life of a gypsy kid, free and wild, is the life all children fight to gain, but without success. They loaf at café tables and steal food when no one is looking; they play with matches and smoke; they twist the arms and pound and torture someone smaller; they race down streets like a knot of squabbling sparrows zeroing in on crumbs in a gutter. A little boy who can't keep his pants up and his bottom shows–-who cares? Most go barefoot, even in winter.

When I left town around noon, the gypsies too were calling it a day and heading back to camp with their plunder. As I pedaled back along the highway, the scene looked like a column of ants returning to the hole. I saw one child with a sack of potatoes on his back as big as he. I suppose that such booty greatly pleased his grim sire and stayed the flogging arm for a sun or two.

On another occasion, Maurine and I drifted over an abandoned gypsy camp at dusk. A hand or two of scattered, soggy playing cards, a discarded "blanket" heavy enough to crush a shot-put, folds of clear plastic, one brown shoe, unbent kindling, orange peals, paper. And, of course, human excrement, which I managed to trod upon. Going by the camp on the drizzly night before and seeing the bonfires through the dripping olive trees, it occurred to me why Greece or any other country would tolerate as they do thieves proud and bold in their midst. It is much like the national parks of America, to use an analogy. Sprung from the caves as we are, we want to embrace that which was best of savagery. Though the parks are beautiful unto themselves, they also remind us of our wildness and origin which we at times long to return to. The same is true when viewing the gypsies. The campfires, the tents, the nomadic existence from land to land-–to see true freedom at work is a shot in the arm and a wonderful thing to ponder. Certainly gypsies are a different species of Homo sapiens–-the grimy little urchins and their almost extraterrestrial parents. What happened in the great long ago to set these people apart from the rest?

My observations while traveling are not limited to humanites. I've watched dogs on the sandy beaches of southern Portugal dig for clams (one dog digs and another barks encouragement); I've observed the proud little dachshunds as they trip along the river promenade in Salzburg (if ever a race of dogs raises a civilization, my money is on these intelligent little creatures); I've written about the "rock apes" of Gibraltar (they love pulling down the bikini bras of buxom young women who try to feed them peanuts); I've studied cats in Switzerland (cunning and cruel, cats are the same everywhere). Like the "manure bugs" of Nebraska, I'm also fascinated by insects (see "The Savages Below," 1.21.07, "Small Ball," 11.20.06, etc.).

______________________________________________________________










Pentagon: Then (2001) and Now

Travel 2

I won't go into the details about life aboard a ship. Most people have read a little or a lot of such things and the doings on the Stefan Batory were no different. I will mention, however, that point upon which all else pivots aboard every ship I've ever was on: The dinner table.

When one books passage they are assigned a table. Unless a person asks to be moved, this is where you will dine morning, noon and night. I've sat at tables with as many as fifteen people and as few as five. On this my first voyage, there were seven, including Maurine and myself. There was Hanni, a shy Swiss lass returning home from her job in Toronto where she was a cancer researcher. Hanni was tall, slim, had a slight limp, and spoke perfect English. There was Hilda, a German lady who lived in New York City. At our first meal, Hilda sat at the end by herself and said not a word. Finally, I asked her a question and from that moment on she never stopped talking. Hilda had a 1940's hairdo, was fifty-five or sixty ("middle-aged," she stressed), and was a real world traveler who had sailed the high seas many times. Hilda was also one taco short of a combination plate. She was in the habit of interjecting the most contrary thoughts into a conversation. For instance, we might be discussing whether the dealers in the casino were cheating or how long the garbage strike in New York City would last and with wide, serious eyes she would jump in, "But you know, zee food on zee Mikal Lemmonkoff ezz much better zan here. . . . Russian sheeps are much better. An zee waiters? Ha, ha, ha. Zeez here are amateurs."

Lastly, there was a family of Yugoslavians–-father, mother and teenage son. Although the young man spoke a smattering of English, his ma and pa knew nary a noun. Hence, though the son tried to translate, his parents "spoke" with signs. The father was a sober, brick-hard man with large hands that looked like iron; obviously, he did some sort of serious manual labor back in the Balkans. Though he was having a fine old time, he smiled only rarely. I have never seen anyone enjoy coffee more than this fellow. Like some people seem to be having orgasms when they eat good chocolate, so too this man with each sip of java. Holding up seven to ten fingers to signify how many cups he drank each day, he then held up only two fingers-–"No go sleep." The mother was a plump, smiling woman who always looked a little embarrassed while slurping her soup.

Our waiter was a tall, handsome--if somewhat unctuous--fellow named Pogado. Although he treated me like the important person that I wasn't, his eye was mostly on Maurine; rather, his eye was mostly down Maurine's blouse. Pogado also had a drinking problem and something or other was always on his breath. One night when there was a little more on his breath than normal, he was showing our table a dance step when the ice cream he was holding (mine) plopped on the floor.

"I zink he's ttrunk," whispered Hilda in my ear. "On Russian sheep he would be fired in zee hour!"

Whenever Pogado, who also knew very little English, served Maurine or poured her coffee, he always purred "Yezzzz, pleeeeze." For Hanni and me it was the same but the word lost just a dab of its sweetness. For Hilda, the "please" was minus all sugar and for the Jugoslavs, the beseechment was gone entirely. "Yez," he said curtly, as if compelled to perform a distasteful task.

Although they were good people and we enjoyed them greatly, the Jugoslavs were very gruff with Pogado. Not once did I hear them say "please" or "thanks" in any language and when ordering their meals they would simply point to the menu and grunt "dat" or "dis." When the soup and first courses arrived, the family would dive headfirst into the food, leaving the rest of us to watch. Sometimes their faces were mere inches from the platter.

"Pogado!" ordered the father as he pointed to his empty coffee cup.

"Yez," obeyed the waiter with arched eyebrow.

I suppose our "etiquette" eventually shamed the family into better manners. After a few days, they seemed more self-conscious and began watching us when we ordered. Previously, when their meat course was served, no sooner had it hit the plate than a fork was harpooning it and a knife was sawing off a hunk–-never mind the potatoes, vegetables and other superfluities; they would be dispatched as they arrived. The rest of the table waited for everything to be set down before beginning the meal. And thus, so now did the Jugoslavs. But from that time forth, there was an air of nervous tension surrounding the folks; looking for the waiter with the potatoes and vegetables; looking down at the meat; to the waiter; to the meat, and so on, as if the meat would take legs and run or another person would snatch it.

But "manners" ended where eating began. With the meal before them, shirt sleeves were rolled up, an instinctive arm encircled the plate and the feeding frenzy was on. Poor Hanni. She was light-complexioned and any embarrassment was instantly registered on her pretty cheeks. The spectacle at our table kept Hanni's cheeks glowing alternately from red to white to red again like some flashing neon sign. Even our drunken waiter once paused beside the table, looking askance at the food fury for a stunned moment or two. Each day, however, the frenzy grew a little less and eventually the encircling arm retreated until only a protective hand sufficed. All the same, the parents never did get the hang of eating soup with a spoon. As strangers became friends at the surrounding tables though, the slurping was all but drowned out by the chatter and laughter. Still, every so often there was a lull in the racket, as when an officer or a pretty girl walked down the aisle, and like a few seconds of sunshine peeking through week-long clouds, sure enough from our table would come "sloupppphhh."

"You zee?" Hilda nudged me as she surveyed our waiter who stood eyeing the Jugoslavs. "He is zee only one without his brass buttons!"

(continued tomorrow)

______________________________________________________________

Photo of the Day







No oil?
No gas?
Noooooo problem!

Travel 1

As I type, our good buddies, Andy Waskie and Carol Neumann, are sailing the high seas bound for the rocky coast of maritime Canada. Verily, this land-locked Kansas wretch doth envy them. I have very few addictions--don't gamble much, only drink in season, never do dope . . . anymore--but admittedly, travel is my Achilles heal, arm and leg.

I have mentioned in blogs past my phob of flying. Despite a stint in the U. S. Air Force, despite a virtual pilot's license, despite having spent literally months in the air, I HATE FLYING. And so. . . .

Since there are no highways or railroad tracks stretching from the New World to the Old, and since I prefer not to fly, that leaves only ships. I haven't seen any statistics on ocean travel versus air travel and I suppose if I did I would discover that a person is a million times more likely to perish from the former than the latter, but again, it is the quality of dying that I care about. I will happily take my chances with ice bergs, storms, old torpedoes, and even giant squids, as opposed to spending the last five minutes of my life screaming in terror as I fall from the sky.

I've crossed the Atlantic three times on ships. I've crossed the Baltic, Adriatic, Ionian, Irish, and North Seas dozens of times on ships. I've crossed the Straights of Gibraltar on ships. I've sailed for weeks on the Rhine and Danube. I'm never stressed when I step on board a ship, I sleep like a log at night, and when I disembark I never feel like I've just been dragged through an emotional knothole. While some of my worst travel experiences have come in the air, some of my best have been while sailing on ships. Like the first day of long trips, my first voyage is still my most memorable.

In 1976, my former wife, Maurine, and I attended the Montreal Olympics. After the games, we headed toward Maine but pulled up for a few days at Quebec City. One afternoon, while sitting high above the St. Lawrence, we saw a long, white Russian ocean liner passing below. The sleek and beautiful thing was gracefully following the river's current as it moved off toward the sea. We could see people standing on the rails looking up at us. We never forgot that sight and four years later we were the ones standing on the rails looking up at couples in Quebec City.

The S. S. Stefan Batory (right) was a little Polish passenger liner that had once been in the service of the Dutch merchant marine. As I discovered later when traveling on newer and more lavish ships, such as the Queen Elizabeth II, the little Batory was pure proletariat with few frills. But as we backed away from Montreal one overcast summer day and slid silently down the surprisingly clear St. Lawrence, Maurine and I would not have traded places with anyone on the planet. All our lives we had read about travel on rivers, of steamboats and Mark Twain, and our thrill at finally doing so was indescribable. Like ourselves, most of the other 600 excited passengers were also lining the rails as we glided down the river. As mile after mile passed, however, the passengers by twos and threes disappeared until eventually Maurine and I were almost the only ones still watching. Except for the low rumble of the ship's propeller shaft, it was so calm and peaceful that we could hear the "ha-lo's" from those fishing on the opposite shores. On the banks behind these people, almost every town, no matter how small, was seemingly crowned by an imposing cathedral. In the middle of this great, wide river were a number of small green islands. Strangely, on many of these spits of land were large herds of black and white dairy cows. Maurine knew something of animal husbandry and said they were young females quarantined from amorous bulls. Late in the day we watched as a flock of ducks followed our trailing black smoke back up the river toward the sunset and that evening, we stood by the rails as our ship passed under the cliffs of Quebec City (below). That first day on board the Batory may have been the most romantic hours of our lives.

The next morning when we went out, both Maurine and I were stunned to see nothing but fog and gray, angry water on every side. We were plunging into open sea. From a distance, the crest of the waves looked like snow capped mountains. Sea gulls, who seemingly never flapped a wing, were gliding among the valleys and tops of the waves like mountain eagles. Although the scene was not so extreme as those old films of "Victory at Sea" in which the ships disappear behind waves, still our little vessel was up and down like a roller coaster. In fact, the sensation was something akin to a ferris wheel and that lighter-than-air feeling coming down and double-gravity going up. As a consequence, the former fresh scent of flowers among the ships passageways was soon replaced by the revolting stench of vomit. At times, it seemed as if our little tub would capsize. I must admit that as I surveyed the scene all about us and saw nothing but ocean, I understood for the first time in my life what the pioneers on the Great Plains must have felt when they scanned the prairie on every side of their Conestogas and realized: "Hey, this is it! We're on our own."

(continued tomorrow)

_______________________________________________

Cartoon of the Day
















Five Heads Made of Stone

Badlands

Not only are all of my heroes cowboys, but all my heroes are cowboys who roam the badlands. Randolph Scott in Western Union, Gary Cooper in The Plainsman, Errol Flynn in They Died With Their Boots On, Joel McCrea in Buffalo Bill. Everyone of these men is scouting on the High Plains or riding the Platte or Smoky Breaks. There is no doubt in my mind that watching these movies as a kid shaped my attitudes toward that wonderfully overlooked void on the map once known as the Great American Desert.

Most folks from the East view that area which stretches between Kansas City and Denver, or between Omaha and Cheyenne, or between Oklahoma City and Albuquerque, as a necessary cross to bear in order to reach the mountains; as something to endure. Me? I see history. I see Cody atop his horse, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand as he sweeps the prairie from horizon to horizon; I see Randolph Scott thundering from the law through the Platte Breaks; I see Custer and Califerny Joe scouting the Powder; I see "Coop" and Calamity (right) trying to escape the Sioux to warn the cavalry. I see sage and yucca where corn and wheat now stand; buffalo, where cows graze.

Stretching from the badlands of the Dakotas and the Sand Hills of Nebraska, to the high and dry plains of Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, and New Mexico, I would like to see men and women of vision working to set this region aside for posterity as a history zone; a land that can be allowed to return as it once was that future generations may visit, may ponder, may learn, may love.

______________________________________________________________

Hi Guys,

I just got back from DC. Copied more than $1000.00 in documents on Indian raids, etc. Came back and learned that Upton and Sons will do my book proposal on Custer in 1867, and if I have it to them by the end of the summer it should be out next June. All that is good news.... I'm off to the Little Big Horn for 3 days and then immediately off to San Antonio for 8 days to do a workshop there (all paid for) on the Alamo. And Kelley is going with me.....

Jeff Broome (right)
Denver

TG: Lucky Dog. Looks like Deb and I are mostly buried in sand here for the duration of the much-dreaded coming inferno, aka summer in Kansas. Being a professor sounds tough.


Hey Tom,

I think I emailed a link to this guy's website before. I was surfing the LBHA (Little Bighorn Associates) message board and see that he and some buddies were at the Little Bighorn. They have some good pictures. I read your blog every week and enjoy it immensely. http://pie.midco.net/treasuredude/MontanaMayhem.html

Brandon Lipp
Macomb, Illinois

TG: Thanks, Brandon. Great photos. Wish I was there!

______________________________________________________________

Photo of the Day



















Near Ten Sleep, Wyoming