Wild West Magazine's Official Blog

Desperadoes

2009-12-31T15:12:00.005-06:00

John Wilkes Booth, at an early age, once declared to a friend, "Fame! I must have fame!" Young Booth added that to achieve that fame, he would be willing to do anything, even tear down the Colossus of Rhodes. Booth, of course, went on to gain glory immortal, first as a matinee idol of the first rank (crowds of smitten women would tear the clothes from the dashing actor, ala Elvis), later as the first presidential assassin in our history. Booth slew Lincoln primarily from motives patriotic, but not far behind this altruistic goal lurked that "F" word--Fame!

In the past, as now, fame and fortune generally go hand in hand, as do failure and infamy. With my quota of "F" words now used up, let me say that the rules have seemingly changed. Recently, there has been a spate of shameless attempts to gain the former but which have resulted in the latter.

How about that Denver balloon fraud (oops, there's that "F" word again). Who among us was not horrified as we watched in real time those vids of that event? The thought of that little kid up there made us sick. And who among us did not want to do some serious woodsheding of those irresponsible parents when we found out the truth? If this is all found to be true in court, then it was an atrocious, rotten, reckless, clumsy, cruel, and criminal attempt to garner fame; but fairly symptomatic of any culture which sets so high a premium on fame and so little on substance.

Not all attempts to gain fame are so radical as killing a president or staging your child's near death. How about the rage for "Fast-Eating" contests. Have you ever stuffed yourself on the holidays or after a trip to Huge Hal's "Eat-Til-You-Burst" Buffet? Well, imagine that feeling magnified times ten. Of all the attempts to gain fame--bunji jumping, rocketing the Grand Canyon on a motorcycle, etc--an eating contest must rank as the most desperate, disgusting and deadly, IMO. An exploding stomach or vomiting on camera is the type of fame most of us can do without. Imagine a hot pepper eating contest!

TV has created a culture that compels many of our weaker-minded brethren and sistern to try and live up to its ridiculous standards. In a single night of toob watching we see hundreds of filthy rich people living it up--cars, travel, sex, freedom from bills and wage slavedom. Like monkeys we see the pictures but many of us don't truly comprehend. We see the rich and famous and many of us try to become rich and famous NOW--forget the hard work and/or crawling sycophancy most go through to get what they got. Some of us don't see that. We see the bling and the vavavoom. We are living like pigs in trailer courts, shopping at Wal-Marts, driving junk heaps, tempted by drugs and booze. No wonder many of us want what celebrities have . . . and we want it now! Instant fame is one way to get it . . . or so we think.

This & That

2009-12-29T23:35:00.006-06:00

I remember some really rotten press a while back for a small Indian tribe in Washington state. Seems a few eager beavers jumped in their boat one day and went hunting gray whales with a .50-caliber machine gun. As per the treaty stips, the tribe can hunt these endangered whales as a "cultural" thing, just like the good old days. But as always, a few zealots can crash a fun time. Harpoons, okay. Machine guns, torpedoes and depth charges are no-nos. If we ever did return to a "Buffalo Commons" on the High Plains, as some--myself, included--would love to see, I'd be dead set against any sort of similar deal with the former plains tribes. Hunting buffalo with helicopter gun ships, using land mines to bag elk, night vision goggles to stalk antelope, just don't seem cricket to me.

Speaking of the Buffalo Commons: Not only are all of my heroes cinematic cowboys, but all my heroes are cinematic cowboys who roam the prairie. Randolph Scott in Western Union, Gary Cooper in The Plainsman, Errol Flynn in They Died With Their Boots On, Joel McCrea in Buffalo Bill (right) and Union Pacific. Every one of these men is either scouting the High Plains or riding roughshod the Platte or Smoky Breaks. There is no doubt in my mind that watching these movies as a wide-eyed kid shaped my attitudes toward that wonderfully overlooked void on the map known as the Great Plains.

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 Santa Fe, or between Fargo and Great Falls, or between Moose Jaw and Calgary, or between Mud Rut and Jack Squat, 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 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.

Scripting the West

2009-12-22T11:22:00.006-06:00

I've mentioned in the past that, more than cinematography, headliners, casting, costumes, or direction, scripts are what make great Westerns great. Here are two tastes of what I mean. The first is from the classic, Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid.

Scene: Butch and Sundance are contemplating their next move. Times are hard. Bank and train robbing in Wyoming ain't what it used to be. The boys need to look elsewhere.

Sundance: What's your idea this time?

Butch: Bolivia

Sundance: What's Bolivia?

Butch: Bolivia. That's a country, stupid. In Central or South America, one or the other.

Sundance: Why don't we just go to Mexico instead?

Butch: 'Cause all they got in Mexico is sweat and there's too much of that here. Look, if we'd been in business during the California Gold Rush, where would we have gone? California . . . right?

Sundance: Right.

Butch: So when I say Bolivia, you just think California. You wouldn't believe what they're finding in the ground down there. They're just fallin' into it. Silver mines, gold mines, tin mines, payrolls so heavy we'd strain ourselves stealin' 'em.

Sundance: You just keep thinkin', Butch. That's what you're good at.

Butch: Boy, I got vision, and the rest of the world wears bifocals.

My all-time favorite movie is Tombstone. For me, all the components for a fabulous film feast come together in this one. Early on, the movie's most compelling character, Doc Holliday (below), is introduced.

Scene: Saloon. Early morning. Quiet. Tension galore. Undefined menace in the air. In the all-night poker contest about to be concluded, Ed Bailey and friends have been taken to the cleaners by Doc Holliday.

Ed Bailey: (moves money forward) That's it, Holliday. Are you in or out?

Doc Holliday: Five hundred. Must be a peach of a hand. (to Kate, who brings him his 57th drink of the night) Oh, thank you, darlin'. Kate! You're not wearing a bustle. How lewd.

Ed: Come on, Holliday, you in or out, goddammit?

Doc: Why, Ed Bailey, you look like you're just about ready to burst.

Ed: Come on! Come on, show!

Doc: Well, I suppose I'm deranged, but I guess I'll just have to call. Cover your ears, darlin'. . . (shows hand) Isn't that a daisy?

Ed: Why, you son-of-a-bitch!

Bystander: Damn, Bailey, just settle down!

Ed: Shut up! (to Doc) Take your money and get out, 'cause I'm tired of listenin' to your mouth.

Doc: Why, Ed Bailey, are we cross (taps his pistol butt)?

Ed: Them guns don't scare me 'cause without them guns you ain't nothin' but a skinny lunger.

Doc: Ed, what an ugly thing to say. I abhor ugliness. Does this mean we're not friends anymore? You know, Ed, if I thought you weren't my friend, I just don't think I could bear it (places his pistols on the table). There. Now we can be friends again.

(Ed jumps Doc but soon discovers that the card-slick has more up his sleeve than aces. A dagger puts Ed out of his misery)

But Wait! There's More! part 2

2009-12-16T13:48:00.012-06:00

Last week we blazed new trails by offering an in-depth, super scientific look at info-mania, info-mercials, info-scams and the worthless info-junk being info-hustled on TV. If you doubt that this stuff is info-useless, then go to any yard sale or snoop in any garage, basement or out-of-the-way closet in America or Canada and you will clearly see the effectiveness of these dust-gathering products.

The Typical Cast on an Info-hustle include:

The Hucksters: A Boss Hoss, one Shill, the Claque.

The Targets: Us, we, me, you--fat, broke, depressed insomniacs who believe in UFOs and Unicorns.

Boss Hoss: Most of these fast-talking crooks look like they have done a stretch somewhere in the past and/or will do a stretch somewhere in the future. Years ago, these slicksters worked carnivals, medicine shows and back street shell games; they wore silk shirts, checkered vests, spats and sported those little thin mustaches and long sideburns. Now (depending on the product) they are either nearly naked or clad in a chef's costume. Unfortunately for us, these sharks are very good at their trade. I've noticed that Brits, Aussies and others who don't speak good English are popular (i guess that to we Yanks and Canooks, they, or at least their toney accents, seem more credible and honest). These smooth scammers could hustle the habit off a nun.

Shills: My guess is that all of these folks are Boss Hoss wannabees doing their apprenticeship. Most will never make the grade for it does take a bit of brains, a lot of charisma and a ton of shameless lying to shake us down, but the shills give it their all. For food blender or oven ads these individuals do little more than lick their lips on cue for nano-second camera close-ups. Always starved, of course, by the time the lip-lickers are offered something tasty by the Boss Hoss they are shivering in orgiastic food need. Even before the morsel hits the lips, the shill is euphoric on its tastes, textures, juiciness, etc. Male or female, the only requirement of the food shill seems an ability to drop their jaw in amazement a minimum of ten times a minute at the performance of the product. Again, lots of quick (one second or less) camera shots of their always amazed mugs, lots of licking lips, dropping jaws, sparkling eyes, and beaming smiles.

For other products, say a Super Atomic Suction Home Cleaning System (vacuum cleaner) or a Buck Rogers Magic Diet Belt (batteries not included), the shillistas do little more than drop jaws in amazement and feed the boss inane questions/comments, like "It's that easy?".... "This is like magic!"...."Everyone needs this!" and "How did we ever live without it?"

I think the most egregious panderer in the shill category is "Joe" (left, in blue) with the Nu-Wave Thermonuclear 21st Century Magic Oven. This guy is always ecstatic over the virtues of the oven. The food is always "the best I have ever tasted" "Ooooooo, oh my God . . . Mmmmmm, I can't believe it!" "This is so good I need to tell all my friends!" even though he has hardly got it past his lips yet; as he chews the tasty morsel, the jaw bone works in an exaggerated manner; his ample torso shivers in spasmodic delight. This chap is just a walking, talking chunk of hard sell. Joe's shtick is so over the edge that I sense he would sell his mother, wife and daughters into slavery if the price was right. Pound for pound, he is the lunker bass of all shills.

The Claque: Bought audiences. These people are either Grade B or Grade C actors working for coffee and doughnuts or they are hapless shareholders who sense they too have been smoked and the louder they cheer, applaud and stamp their feet the quicker they will get their lost investments back. On one info-mercial the claque applauds on average about once every ten seconds. "But wait, there's more...We're going to throw in an extra knife" (thunderous applause). "The Magic Bullet chops and blends everything, even old shoe leather!" (thunderous applause) "No more dieting, no more fat! With the Magic Belt you'll never miss another meal again!" (outrageous, insane applause)

My favorite claque are those who marvel at the Magic Bullet. This cozy crew contains all elements of society: A disheveled old hag with a smoke dangling from her lips (left): She represents the lazy, seedy side in us all. She just wants a cheap product that is effortless to operate, never has to be cleaned and something that lets her smoke, drink and watch her daytime TV in peace. Then there is "Berman"--a lazy, baldo fatso who adds skepticism to the mix. Berman is sullen and moody; he constantly crooks a doubting eyebrow at the claims of the Magic Bullet. But Berman also crumbles at the touch the very instant he tastes the results. Berman sets the record for "doubter who is won over quickest." There are also two sets of clueless yuppie types who, between sex and parties, have no time for serious cooking and they just want a product that will do everything for them and which will allow them more time for sex and parties. With knowing looks and nods, they are won over to the Magic Bullet long before we are.

In another con, this time for the Magic Bullet Express (just a typical blender), "Granny" along with a rock-faced "Aunt Something" have replaced the skeptic Berman. The Theory is: If we can convince these nettlesome, nagging old bags and Berman the Bozo, then we're sure we can satisfy you hicks in Dirtville, Iowa.

Some of the other info-categories I won't get into are:

Tele-evangelists: Saving souls is obviously way down on the agenda list of these scoundrels with their slick suits and fancy doos. Clearly, all these men and women want is cold hard cash NOW to keep the salvation machine fed. I'm sure there are more honest faces behind bars than these cons.

Male Enhancement--In a sex crazed society small wonder that these come-ons are gaining in popularity. Now, there is even female enhancement. Does anyone else find these public pubic ads nasty and disgusting? Same with ads for yeast infection, condoms, hemorrhoids, and feminine napkins?

Music-mercials: I must admit, I watch these things over and over--"Best of Country Gold," "Best of 70's Gold," "Best of Blue Grass Mood Music," "Best of Rap Waltzes," etc.

Here's a few Info-Buzz Words and Phrases that are used again and again:

"Don't wait...Order Now!" (Which Really Means: "Don't think...Act now! If you think, or if you had a thinker to think with at 3 in the morning, you would never buy a hunk of junk like this in a million years."

"Not sold in stores." (WRM: "Of course it's not sold in stores. Without our hustle, hype and big British jugs, no store could ever move this worthless stuff in the light of day."

"Hurry!!! Supplies Are Limited! (WRM: "No they're not. As long as there are enough suckers out there like you we will make this junk for another thousand years.")

"Time is limited...We can't do this all day!" (WRM: "Yes, we can....We can shake you suckers down all day if you keep the greenbacks coming."

"But Wait! There's More!" (WRM: "No there isn't. It's the same amount of petty stuff but like the witch who led Hansel and Gretl into the oven by scattering cake crumbs on the ground, we keep leading you mopes to the telephone to order, one bite at a time.")

"System." Everything hustled is a "system." It is never a cooking pot; it is the "Nu-Wave Infrared Invection Thermo System." It is never just knives being hawked, it is "Chef Tony's Kitchen Culinary System." It is never just a girdle to hold your fat butt in, but the "Kemara New Bottom Shaper System." "Magic Food-Saver System" (zip-lock bag). "System" sounds so much more modern and polished and suggests you are getting much, much more than you really are. None of this stuff is a "system," of course. NASA is a system; the Federal Reserve is a system; the National Park Service is a system. The "Contour Core Sculpting System" is a Flash Gordon belly belt with a battery inside, not a "system."

Letters from unhappy campers:

the magic bulit is peice of junk. I payed good money and it never worked. I hpe who ever made this crap dies. Bob of Birmingham

I bought the Nu-Wave oven-pro on sale before Easter to cook a fresh 8lb turkey breast. Tried it on a few steaks (double the cooking time), some sausage links (double the cooking time), and finally the 8lb turkey breast (should take 1 hour). After FIVE hours of cooking, the temperature never went over 150 degrees. Gave up, put it in regular oven for 30 minutes to get it to 170 degrees. Returning product today. The informercial is deceptive advertising! The oven would cycle on and off but never got anywhere near the claimed 350 degrees on high setting. My thermometer is accurate. Like trying to cook a turkey with a hair dryer! Marsha of Milwaukee

I bought this and it opparantly did not work. nothing but junk!~!!!!! Carl of Omaha

Operantly the people with negative comments can't spell. Maybe they can't read either and therfore can't use this thing. Ed of Illinois

Ed, you mean "apparently" you *** idiot? James of Providence

Yeah, talk *** about people's spelling NOW moron. Robert of Oregon

Well i don't think it's your place to judge Ed. Please be nice you idiot! Shawna of Sarasota

I only used the NuWave Oven a couple of times. This was two years ago. I saw the ad on tv and fell for the product. The rack broke almost immediately; it was replaced without charge and I did not send the defective one back. The dome cracked. I contacted the company via email. It took months for them to respond. They finally called me but by that time, it was too late. The company said they would replace but had already discarded it; I could see the hand writing on the wall. . . .nothing but future problems. The unit was also heavy, cumbersome and took up lots of counter space. It ended up in my trash can. Roger of Texas

Fleecing God's Sleepless Sheep, or "But Wait . . . There's More!"

2009-12-08T20:22:00.010-06:00

I have a TV in my bedroom. When I can't sleep I flip the stupid thing on. Except for the weather channel and two local access stations, at 2-5 AM every channel is airing an infomercial. If you think that this a sure guarantee to either 1) put you back to sleep or 2) assure suicide, think again. Gold is where you find it.

On one channel a rotund "Chef Tony" (above) is hawking his Magic Kitchen Knives. These incredible blades, which no self-respecting cook should be without, cut, peal, slice, dice, mince, chop, whiz, whack, whomp, whoop, and wheeze any and all vegetables, fruits, poultry, fish, meats, and cans. Cans? Yep! Ever wanted to slice through a bunch of pop cans? Well now you can. Ever had the urge to cut clean through a large iron safe? Well now you can! And what about that old Sherman Tank out back you've always dreamed of sawing in half? Well, now you can do that too with Chef Tony's miracle blades, and all this, assures Chef Tony, without ever losing the edge on a single knife. Truly, these are indeed "Magic" knives.

On another channel some bedraggled Brit and a big-boobed blond--Mick and Mimi (left)--are hustling the "Magic Bullet." Judging by the "OOooo's" and "AHHhhh's" of the bought audience, Jesus walking on water was no more a miracle than what this tiny food blender can do in "One...Two...Three" easy touches. Have an emergency? Need a seven-course meal for a hundred hungry lumberjacks who just happen to drop by? Need all this food in five minutes or less? Well, for three easy payments of $39.95 all your problems are solved.

On yet another channel, the "Magic Hair Club" pitchman promises to grow a mop of manly mane on anything, be it a bowling ball, a concrete block or even your own thick skull. You know the drill: Scowling, angry baldos in the "Before" photos; smiling hairy heroes in the "Afters."

Switching to the next channel, dozens of sleek body builders are milling around a phony gym hustling the "Magic Belt." Looking like something Buck Rogers might strap on before he zips off to the Planet Zar-Kon, this marvelous break-through in lard control promises to subtract the fat faster than you can add it. Just cinch the belt around your girth, turn on the Magic Thermo Techno Radar-Decombobulator, and you're all set. It's as easy as that! Now, no need to ever miss another meal because of all that time lost on those pesky exercise machines. With the new Magic Belt you can get right back to gorging the moment you bolt on the belt. But Wait! There's More! With the handy carrying case included in the offer, you can take your Magic Belt with you where ever you go--to the Dairy Queen, to the Fudge Factory, to Large Larry's Eat-Til-You-Bust Buffet. Fat has finally met its match. But hurry . . . Supplies are limited!

Still not asleep, I switch the channel and behold the Futurama Magic Multi-Vac Home Cleaning System being demonstrated by a huckster and his shill. Pretty quick, I too am convinced and wonder if I should not call in my order for this bargain. After all, where else can one find a light, easy to operate vacuum cleaner that will pluck up all those bothersome ball bearings, nails and rusty railroad spikes laying around on my carpet, just as the demonstrators are showing?

Another channel and surprise! another marvel. The "Ab Circle Magic Pro System" is perhaps the most curious-looking exercise/torture device I have ever seen. Dozens of humanoids, with perfect bods, are waving their butts in the air, back and forth, as they not only demonstrate this modern miracle, but give us a glimpse of what we all will look like in a day or two of sweat-free fun (from the big smiles frozen on their faces these folks are obviously having a great time dying by degrees).

Beyond doubt, the most shameless hustle of them all is "Jeff's Short Cut." What exactly is "Jeff's Short Cut"? Well, that is never made quite clear but the point is: You need it . . . and you need it FAST! Seems "Jeff" has a magic book filled with magic secrets that guarantee instant wealth without working. That's right . . . WITHOUT WORKING! Got no money? No problem. Got no credit? No problem. Got no education? No problem. Got no intelligence? Nooooooooo problem. With Jeff's short cut to instant wealth, you don't need any of these trivial things. All you need is Jeff's book and a strong desire to spend lots of money.

According to Jeff--an average-looking schmuck--he came up with his magic Idea one day while living like a mole in his sister's basement. Of course Jeff was dead broke and despondent and his prayers to mammon were going no where. Suddenly, a beam of light burst through the ceiling and showered Jeff in its amazing revelation. And now, out of the goodness of his heart, Jeff roams TV Land and, like John the Baptist of old, he spreads his message of instant wealth. A pair of really ditsy blonds--one a Brit, natch--both with a full rack of big bombs, remind those of us with zero imagination: Just think what YOU could do with all the money that you make from Jeff's short cuts? You could pay your bills! You could own cars! You can take trips! You could have sex with us (not said, but implied)! Then, from around a pool crawling with beautiful people lounging and drinking their day away, up step the testimonialistas (left and right). None of these people led normal lives. No one had a home. No one had a job. No one could pass a drug test. Before Jeff's Short Cut transformed their miserable lives from dumpster divers to instant millionaires, all were lost souls sleeping on cardboard down by the river.

"With Jeff's Short Cut I made $7,000 the first day," says one smiling short-cutter.

"I earned $300,000 in my first week," offers another loser-turned-winner without blinking.

"In my first month," grins another former shop-lifter, "I bought Fort Knox."

The blond bombers are giddy at all this, but not surprised. Of course, not once is it revealed just how any of these folks acquired all that magic jack. Nor is it explained why so many bazillionaires would voluntarily show up to do a cheesy infomercial like this at four in the morning. But, by sending Jeff only $39.95, anyone can get the facts for themselves and race down the road to fabulous wealth. Note: There may indeed be a short cut in Jeff's future but this scam is so patently over the edge that Jeff's quick trip may be straight up the river to the state pen.

On the next station, and the next, and the next, more Magic Ovens, Magic Ninja Blenders and other Magic Attic Fillers are being hustled for Not $1,000...not $500....not even $200. But yours for three easy payments of $39.95. And so on. See a thread here? No, not the big bombs on the babes or even the Brits--I mean the Magic, stupid! Everything is "Magic." Now, if you believe in alien abductions, Elvis sightings and that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone, then chances are you also believe in magic. If so, then what are you waiting for? But Hurry! . . . Supplies are limited!!

(continued "But Wait! There's More! Part 2")

Notes From the Graveyard

2009-11-21T09:37:00.004-06:00

As I sit and catch my breath, sweat boiling down, I rest my eyes for the hundredth time on the sun-splashed Smoky Valley to the south. Harvest is done; now is the time of the tumbleweed out here in the West. On a windy day you'll see them bowling across a bare field or country road as if they were late for an important business appointment. At night, I wonder how many startled drivers have been scared so badly when one of these buffalo-sized bushes suddenly bolt in front of them that they crash and are killed. I wager more die in the West from tumbleweeds in the headlights than deer.

Along the fences, the tumbling weeds are halted when they impale themselves on the barbed wire. Some of the skeletal brown things look like crowns of thorns, crucified on the wire. Others are bunched together thick like a herd of buffalo huddled against a blizzard. Funny, but this most "Western" of American symbols is not even indigenous to the land. When America was moving west, we imported burlap from Russia. Tumbleweed seeds hitched a ride and the rest is history.

I was sitting here at the Antonino Cemetery last Saturday on the sunny side of the crucifixion statue. All was typically quiet and serene. Suddenly, there were several gunshots nearby. Then I heard a large number of vehicles stopping near the cemetery. This had never happened before so I assumed a funeral was in progress. When I looked up from behind the monument, I was surprised to see six or so white pickups parked on the highway and 12-15 men piling out, all dressed in orange hunting vests. Then it occurred that it was pheasant season. Almost from the moment the men and dogs hit the deck and fanned out over the field opposite, the gun fire commenced. The racket sounded like a pretty decent battle, in fact.

With the neighborhood now gone to hell, I got on my bike and left. I was surprised to see the majority of hunters sweeping the field like some military operation; several "sentries" lingered behind to nail any pheasant who might escape the trap. There was nothing "sporting" about any of this. The pheasants had less chance out there in that stubble field than if they had been caged in a coop. It looked like corporate hunting; or maybe custom harvesting is a better analogy, similar to several combines when they mow a wheat field. I passed a couple of the hunters; to me, they looked suspicious and menacing. I think this hunt had everything to do with killing every living thing in that field and nothing to do with "sport"; the feeling was less of men hunting than it was of a machine destroying. A few miles on, I spotted two men in a field hunting my way. Since I saw no dogs nor heard one gunshot in the five or so minutes it took me to pedal through the ear shed, I suppose the men were having no luck. And yet, judging from their friendly waves and smiles, my guess was that they were having a much better time than the "successful" corporate hunters.

A final note on pheasants: One of the most beautiful of all things, these "upland game birds" are also some of the dumbest fowl in all feathered creation. Their brain must be about the size of a sesame seed. I well remember how hard it was to avoid the poor things as they stood stupidly on the roads of central Illinois as I drove back home to Kansas twice a month in the 1960's. It was almost impossible to miss them. Point is: Not a very wary quarry to hunt.

A final note on this ever-so German burying ground: Two names, one stone, man and wife, never more.

Pfannenstiel (pr. Fannen-steel)

Scholastica
Dec. 29, 1896
Feb. 26, 1959

Fidelis
July 30, 1899
July 26, 1997

Ox Carts in the News

2009-11-16T14:36:00.007-06:00

When the Dark Age meets the Info Age, the Info Age will always screw it up. Below is an actual press release from an incident that occurred here in western Kansas last week.

Semi collides with wagon pulled by oxen

COLBY -- A semi collided with a cart pulled by two Scottish Highland oxen driven by an 86-year-old Gem man 7 miles northwest of Colby on Thursday. The driver, Lon E. Sowers, was taken to Citizen's Medical Center in Colby and later flown to another hospital after the collision at 5:01 p.m. on Thomas County Road 27, said Tod Hileman, public resource officer for Kansas Highway Patrol Troop D. Sowers' condition and location could not be confirmed. The oxen, which Sowers has driven in several area parades, apparently were not badly injured, Hileman said. He said one of the animals fell down but got back to its feet, and the team was walked back to Sowers' farm. He said a trooper checked on the animals later and found them eating. According to a highway patrol report, Sowers was driving his cart north on Road 27 when the semi driven by Terry M. Wendell, 62, Colby, attempted to pass on the left. Sowers began to turn the cart left as the semi attempted to pass, and they collided. Some details of this incident were incorrectly reported in Friday's Hays Daily News.

Since my computer will not allow me to read just exactly what it is that was not reported in Friday's Hays Daily News, I can only speculate. Here are probably some of the facts reported incorrectly:

1) The ox cart was NOT driven by Theodoric of York, as earlier reported, but instead by Lon of Gem, son of Logar of Gem.

2) Lon of Gem was NOT treated by the local medieval barber as reported in the Hays newspaper earlier, nor were several dozen leaches applied, nor was Lon of Gem wrapped in wolf wort and moss and dunked in cold pond water for half an hour; Lon was in fact purified by white hot pokers for several hours until the demons in his wounds were finally driven out.

3) Although the oxen were indeed, not injured, the cart, made of sticks and mud and carrying a load of peat from the local bog was a total loss--it was later burned by a village shaman to remove evil rhythms and spirits embedded in the wood which may have contributed to the accident; the fire was also used to heat up the pokers used on Lon of Gem.

Olive Oyl is Dead

Olive Oyl (right), the original anorexic, still can be heard on countless "Popeye" reruns but the voice itself passed to that great sound room in the sky long ago. Yes, that nagging, annoying voice we all learned to hate was finally shut up in 1988 when its owner, Marilyn Schreffler, died of liver cancer. Didn't we all love the cartoon but a thousand times didn't we also hope that this skinny cartoon broomstick would be killed by JUST ONE speeding train, JUST ONE sinking ship or even by Bluto's bone-crushing embraces, and NOT saved by that imbecile Popeye and his can of spinach? Instead, of a thousand and one perils she faced every week, seems the sauce finally claimed Ms. Oyl. Could it be that she was driven to drink because of her indecision on whether to choose between the weekly would-be rapist, Bluto, or the ugly, misshapen gnome, Popeye? Olive Oyl's voice was born in Wichita, Kansas, and attended Washburn University in Topeka. It won't be missed.

Freedom v. Protection

2009-11-08T14:00:00.010-06:00

There are dumb people who are smart enough to realize they are dumb (construction sites, college campuses, assembly lines, taxi cabs, and 7-11s are filled with this category of folks).

There are dumb people who are too dumb to realize they are dumb (TV studios, prisons and episodes of "Cops" are filled with this latter group).

This pretty much accounts for 99% of humanity. But what of the others? The one-percenters? What about the "artists" of the world, those who write, paint, sculpt, compose, invent, sing, act, dance, perform, and those who "wing it" in a hundred other ways? These featherless bipeds who imagine they are artists and were born to create . . . are they not smart people, but too dumb to realize how dumb they are? If wealth and happiness are the measures, then I do not know any smart artists. . . .

Most of the 99 percenters say they admire the one-percenters. They see the glitz and bling, they hear the applause and shouts, they see the art shows and book signings, but they do not see the rest of the picture. How many of the 99 percenters would give up their steady paychecks, their paid vacations, their health coverage, and their retirement checks to become an independent trucker, so to speak? I can tell you straight: Very few. True artists pursue their passion even if the trail winds through a junk yard to a slice of cold pizza and a cardboard bed under a bridge. These people are convinced that their whirl on this mortal coil was meant for more than a lifetime of wage slaving in which the reward after thirty years of dog-like obedience is a gold watch, death from cancer two years after retirement and their name misspelled in the local obit.

I once came to a "T" in the road. One sign pointed to Freedom, Oklahoma; the other sign led to Protection, Kansas. And, as one true old artist, Bill Shakespeare, might have said, "therein lies the rub." Ninety-nine percent of humanity ditches freedom for protection; one-percent fore goes protection for freedom. Both groups make their choice. Some will know the slavery of protection all their lives; some will know freedom, but hardships, all of theirs. God Bless both groups; without the one, the world would stop spinning; without the other, this orbiting orb would be as gray and sterile as a rock in space.

Where the Buffalo Roamed

2009-11-03T16:04:00.007-06:00

There is a small "herd" of buffalo here--maybe 10 animals. Every time I see these buffalo, or others penned in, I have an overwhelming urge to see them unpenned. I find it sad that these most migratory of American mammals are confined by barbed wire to a few square feet of stubble and manure. No other animal was more wedded to the prairie than the bison--even their deep brown color matches the soil. With an instinct to move born over tens of thousands of years, it must be maddening to the great beasts, even perplexing, to be confined thus. Humans denied freedom kill themselves or go nuts. And yet, most caged humans have committed some crime against the rest of us; the buffalo's only crime is merely existing.

Even though these past ten generations of bison here in Hays, Kansas, have never known a single day of freedom in their lives, the urge to move hundreds of miles each spring and fall must still beat heavy in their hearts. I have no doubt that if the gate was suddenly thrown open, these buffalo would begin drifting south within days, if not hours. Next spring, I'm sure we would see the same animals moving by here on their migration north.

Do not trouble me with small matters of money or logistics: Would it not be glorious to some day establish a Migratory National Park--a swath of prairie say 200 miles wide stretching from the Missouri in the north to the Rio Grande in the south, in which a herd one million buffalo strong could live and roam as intended? Think of those nature films of the Wildebeest migrations in Africa and how impressive they are with the bellowing roar of thousands and the clouds of dust roiling on the horizon. That's a scene we could have here too . . . again.

Sorry. Just dreaming with words.

Beer + Busts = Bikes

2009-10-28T10:53:00.005-05:00

To all my loyal--and disloyal--blog-heads out there, my most sincere, humble and apocalyptic apology for being so negligent on this blog. A number of petty assignments and sundry bullwhack have kept me hoppin' 'round lately like a toad under a workin' harrow. With some luck and a bit of geographic stability we should be good to go for at least another hour or so. I won't promise to be more punctual, but I will promise to try.

Since reaching the environs of this most historic of historic places, your blogologist has noticed with surprise that there is an incredible number of cyclists in Hays. Indeed, I have seen more bikers here, per capita, than anywhere else in the States. Most, like myself, just prefer a quiet, healthy way to get around. That seems clear. As for the others? Since you see "the others" even in cold weather pedaling around, bundled, smoking a cig, I don't think the bike has anything to do with being eco-friendly in their case. Don't forget: This is German America out here.

Talking with a Hays chap last night (another biker, of course), I mentioned the super high incidence of cyclists in town. A wry smile came to the man's lips, a twinkle in his green eye. He said he personally knew one drunken farm fellow, a bit down on his luck after his hundredth DUI, who was warned by the cops that he would be jugged the moment he tried to drive his truck again on the streets of Hays. So, next time he gets a suds seizure, this ingenious imbiber fires up his tractor and chugs into town. The cops were waiting, of course, and promptly caught and caged the man, but not for driving the tractor; it was verboten for the drunk to drive ANYTHING on the streets. Worthless/desperate sot that he may have been, stupid he was not. So, the next time this gent gets a hankerin' for hops, he drives his tractor to town on the railroad tracks, then parks back behind the Horseshoe Inn. Problem solved.

Half-Masts, Half-Wits: Gripes & Groans

2009-09-23T18:43:00.007-05:00

Perplexing. Buzzing around the High Plains this week I noted that some flags are at half-mast and some not. This half-staff stuff must stop. I have no idea whose death made possible this latest flag lowering but it does seem like the flag is at half-staff about half the time, or more. We may as well just leave the flag where it is now, cut off the top half of the pole, and never move the flag again; that way the flag can be at full-mast and half-mast at the same time. Ridiculous. The thing with Ted Kennedy just sort of says it all. Certainly one of the most divisive characters in modern American politics, I can safely bet that well over 50% of Americans despised this liberal wonk who voted for Lefties 99% of the time. Who decides if this US senator or that US senator gets a half-staffer? I say stop it. It's out of control. It's a bad joke. No more half-mast for anybody or anything.

Speaking of divisive. Who has had it with Obama? I personally am tired of the empty suit, the empty rhetoric and the toothsome smiles. Stop making war on half the world, Mr Obama, and stop threatening war on the other half. Make peace. Follow through with your campaign promises. You were elected because we were just sick and tired of a smirking clown in the White House who tossed out world-wide threats like other people eat popcorn, who sanctioned torture and surrounded himself with some of the most sinister men the world has ever seen. You were elected by white people, Mr. Obama, not because you are black but because you promised to stop these non-stop wars. To many white voters you looked like a breath of fresh air. You were not. In less than a year there is the stench of corruption and duplicity surrounding you that takes most presidents years to acquire. Where is that Iraqi shoe-thrower when we need him? Send in the shoes!

Stones

2009-09-09T17:32:00.010-05:00

Despite its Italian-sounding name, Antonino is an old German community. At the close of the Nineteenth-Century these thrifty, industrious immigrants flocked to the High Plains around Hays, Kansas, and established their own communities. When I lived here in the late Seventies, I still recall German being spoken in the supermarkets.

I biked to Antonino today. One way is maybe eight miles but the day was gorgeous and the wind was behavin' and when those two come together I ain't complainin.' Just west of town is the community cemetery. Here I stopped, opened the little gate, then rested and watered in the shade of a large statue depicting the crucifixion. Like the blood of Christ above, the sweat of Tom dropped down to the bricks below.

Perched on a gentle slope above the Smoky Hill River valley, this cemetery is a large one, I judge, surrounded on one side by a fancy wrought iron fence and on the others by the ubiquitous post rocks (top, limestone posts cut from the ground to make up for the lack of wood on the plains). But it does seem odd. In that large plot of land--maybe 3-4 acres--only a hundred or so souls rest in peace, and these in the middle, taking up only a fraction of the space. Obviously, the city fathers long ago looked to a day when Antonino would be a booming, bustling hive of industry, commerce and agriculture with plenty of dead folks to fill the plots. But that day never came. Barely a crossroads today, no more than fifty souls call the village home. The dead easily outnumber the living.

Sauer...Klaus...Pfanenstiel...Reichert...Wasinger...Keberlein...Munsch....
the names on these New World stones trace back to the earliest beginnings of the Old World. Touchingly, separated from the adults, a children's cemetery. The two dozen markers here, many made of metal, appear to be done by hand, as if it were the last loving act a heart-broken father could perform for his child.

The plain surrounding the cemetery is almost treeless. I walked about this wind-swept ridge, looking at the markers, avoiding the little cacti that refuse to die after a thousand mowings. Chewing on some buffalo grass that grows here reminded me of oats. A flock of small birds passed high overhead. I had forgotten that wonderful whooshing sound so many working wings make.

Some of the stones have little round photos of the deceased.

"Dale F. Rohr, November 19, 1948-June 5, 1969."
Dark suit...thin black tie....innocent looks...his high school graduation photo. One year younger than me, we look nothing alike....but then again we do.

An ambulance speeds by on the lonely little highway in front of the cemetery, lights flashing but siren silent. The irony.

Pedal Ponders

2009-09-02T16:59:00.011-05:00

Back after a glorious pedal over the plains. Each day the weather gets better. Today, straight south on a paved road with no shoulder but...no problem. Very few cars use this road and those that do give a biker plenty of room. The wind, of course, is always a problem up on the prairie plateau but for every action there is an equal reaction and sailing back with a stiff breeze at my butt is just the greatest thing.

At one ranch I passed, I noticed that out back several hundred yards, amid a waste of rusting farm equipment and sundry junk, sat a big blue bread box. Someone's older stoner brother, no doubt, abides with his habit and eccentricities in that painted school bus. Who hasn't seen this a hundred times? A school bus squatting in a debris field. Let's call it rural recycling.

A little further on was a field of sunflowers-for-profit. So heavy-headed with seeds were these that none could lift their face to the sun anymore. With bended necks, all drooped on their chins submissively, I thought. Harvest and the dying time are already upon the plains.

Generally, when I arrive back in town, I plant myself for a fifteen minute cool-down in the pretty little park at 10th & Main. Here, I am in my glory. Not only do I share space with the wonderful statue of Wild Bill Hickok (top), but if I am really lucky a train on the old Kansas Pacific thunders by only a few yards from the park. The horn will blow out your eardrums. Since my diaper days, when I popped up in the crib each morning to watch the old Missouri steam engine pass by the window, I must always stop and watch a train go by even today.

Across Main is 10th Street. This is the front street of the notorious old Hays City that Custer, Cody and above all, Hickok, made so famous at the time. Modern bronze plaques at virtually ever door tote the tally of the poor nameless wretches who did, at least, make a name for Wild Bill.

On the corner of 10th and Main is the old bank building. Every half hour or so there is a loud and terrible taped screeching of owl, falcon and hawk sounds, designed to keep the pigeons moving. It does not work. The pigeon may have a brain the size of a raisin but with him, as with everything else in life, familiarity soon breeds contempt. On the roofs above, the birds continue to poop twice a minute and madly mate to make even more pigeons.

Apologia: I have repeatedly neglected to mention this but for the past several months yours truly has been blogging for something called Great History. If interested, go to greathistory.com and look for me under American History.

Weather Central

2009-08-18T13:57:00.004-05:00

Hays, Kansas. For the past week I have taken longish bike rides out into the country. Since there are no trails here one must either negotiate the stop-and-go city streets, risk life and limb on the highways, or strike off on the rural roads. No brainer. The locals call 'em "gravel roads" but they are actually dirt roads, sandy and as hard as concrete in the summer sun. Unlike the back roads I grew up with, which were yellowish, these out here on the high and dry plains are chalkish. My bike tires quickly turn white after only a few yards.

On the southern heights above town, out by "Sentinel Hill" (soldiers stood watch here to warn the fort of Indian attacks), one can see for miles and miles in any direction. And with no trees or other obstructions, the sky is a beautiful open book. If a thunderstorm is brewing three counties west, you know it. Rain fifty miles south? Easy to see and up go the car windows. Cold front from the north? Plenty of lead time to chop more logs. I love it. Weather Channel? Ha! Don't need no fancy folks a thousand miles away in fancy clothes pointing at fancy radars and fancy Doppler's to tell me what's cookin' out here.

And something else: Nothing like a storm cell thirty miles wide and a towering thunderhead seven miles tall to make you feel small as an atom and put life into perspective. Vanity and large egos cannot survive the Big Sky. Maybe that is why I value the folks out here so much.

The Human Shooting Gallery

2009-08-03T14:56:00.010-05:00

Kansas, August 21, 1863: During the Lawrence Massacre, when rebel raiders knocked on their doors, women employed almost any device to save their homes . . . and very often the men hiding in rooms just above or cellars just below. But as often as not, no amount of tears or lies would suffice, and a home was put to the torch anyhow. And, as soon as the bushwhackers had done their work and moved on, behind them women and children rushed with quilts and slopping buckets of water in an attempt to smother the flames. As was commonly the case, however, after gamely battling and subduing a blaze, the soot-smeared ladies looked up only to find another squad approaching with the same intent.

"Put that out if you can!" snapped an exasperated guerrilla to a woman who had just stopped one fire. When he had gone, she did just that.

Those at the home of John Thornton were more persistent. When the straw tick they ignited was doused, the rebels returned and started it again, but this time Nancy Thornton was forced to leave. In a short while, when the husband too appeared and raced out the back, the guerrillas were ready and waiting. A chunk of hot lead burned into Thornton’s hip. He turned and fled back into the house. Again the heat became unbearable, and when he reappeared another shot was fired, this time blowing his knee apart. Once more, and followed by his screaming wife, Thornton limped back into his blazing home.

Blinded by smoke, the wounded man soon came out again, leaning on Nancy for support. One of the raiders rode up, took aim, but just before he could jerk the trigger the Kansan lunged for his leg. Thornton was unable to reach the weapon, however, and a slug at pointblank smashed into his eye and exploded out the cheek. Another gun went off and a ball entered the victim's back, ripped down the spine, then tore into a buttock. Still, Thornton clung to his attacker. Frustrated and out of ammunition, the bushwhacker tried again.

"I can kill you," he growled as he used the heavy revolver like a hammer to bash again and again the head of the struggling man. At last John Thornton lost his grip and released the leg. But he wasn’t dead.

"Stand back and let me try," yelled an impatient guerrilla nearby. "He is the hardest man to kill I ever saw."

With that, the enraged bushwhacker let fly every ball in his weapon, striking the target one, two, three times. Thornton stumbled a few steps, then collapsed in a heap. Still doubtful, one of the rebels reared his horse to stomp the body.

"For God’s sake," shrieked the hysterical wife as she grabbed the horse’s bridle, "let him alone, he’s killed now."

Satisfied, though amazed at the time and energy needed to do it, the men finally moved on.

To preserve it for burial, Nancy managed to drag the body away from the fire to an open space across the street. There, she saw that her dead husband had a wound for almost any given spot and was literally soaked in blood from head to toe. Looking closer though, the woman saw something else--John Thornton was still alive!

Historical Postscript

Many of John and Nancy Thornton's neighbors were not so lucky. Shot, stabbed, drowned, strangled, suffocated, incinerated--150 men did not escape the awful revenge of Missouri on that fateful "Black Friday." And, in more ways than one, John and Nancy Thornton may have envied them. Terribly maimed and disfigured by his ordeal, Thornton spent the rest of his life as a pitiful freak, slithering along the sidewalks of Lawrence on his hands and knees like some crippled amphibian.

More on Fire Ants

Little did I realize when complaining about the fire ants in the last blog that the best was yet to come. A day or so after receiving the stings, blisters began to form. Now, as painful as the initial attack was, it was nothing compared to these poison pockets. I could not stop itching the things one night. In desperation I applied vinegar. For the most part, it worked. But today my scabbed over feet look like a meth addict's face. At a party last night, one lady told me that fire ants are responsible for some horrific livestock losses. When horses, cattle and sheep deliver their babies, death is sure to follow if the newborn happens to be dropped near a fire ant colony. And, given that there might be dozens of such nests per acre, the likelihood of something bad happening are strong.

More Devils

2009-07-30T18:49:00.003-05:00

Since my last post on Dallas and Hell, the Lone Star has mercifully backed off a bit. Although the humidity is hovering around a hundred and twenty percent, the rains have cooled Old Hell down tolerably. But as I am learning, when Texas gives, Texas also takes.

Off and on today I have been out trimming small mesquites. Hopefully all of your encounters with this almost shadeless "tree" came out of a barbecue bottle and not up close and personal. The mesquite is truly one nasty customer; more like a big rack of thorns with a few tiny leaves placed here and there by God to dress it up a little. The enormous white stabbing things, needle sharp, seemingly cover every inch of the mesquite and if one is not careful (and even if one is) the result is worse than being jabbed by an ice pick. The mesquite grows in Texas like crab grass grows elsewhere--all over, and fast. There is a town just north of here called Mesquite. The people who formed this town must have run out of heroes or ideas for why anyone would name a place after a horrible tree like the mesquite in beyond me.

But as I learned today, the mesquite's daggers are only its first line of defense. In roughly every other tree that I sawed into I found a colony of vicious fire ants. Fire ants are surely the devils of the insect world; their sting is like that of a small bee and they are aggressive beyond belief. They are remorseless. They will hunt you down in record time. The angry brutes today attacked my feet in seconds and even as I was slaughtering them right and left like Samson of old other fiends were racing up my clothes to attack other unnamed parts. After a few such encounters (and some swelling feet) I changed my tactics. In quickly, out quickly was my new motto. For the most part it worked. But even as I would periodically come into the ranchero for something to drink, ten minutes later I would discover one or two of the ugly things crawling on my clothes still looking for a patch of bare skin to sting.

Quite a place this Texas. Quite a place.

Dallas Devil Diary

2009-07-21T15:01:00.011-05:00

May 10th:

Just moved to Texas! Now this is a state that knows how to live!! Beautiful sunny days and warm balmy evenings. What a place! It is beautiful. I've finally found my home. I love it here.

May 22nd:

Really heating up. Got to 100 today. Not a problem. Live in an air-conditioned home, drive an air-conditioned car. What a pleasure to see the sun everyday like this. I'm turning into a sun worshipper.

May 30th:

Had the backyard landscaped with western plants today. Lots of cactus and rocks. What a breeze to maintain. No more mowing the lawn for me. Another scorcher today, but I love it here.

June 10th:

The temperature hasn't been below 100 all week. How do people get used to this kind of heat? At least, it's kind of windy though. But getting used to the heat is taking longer than I expected.

June 15th:

Fell asleep by the pool. Got 3rd degree burns over 60% of my body. Missed 3 days of work. What a dumb thing to do. I learned my lesson though. Got to respect the ole sun in a climate like this.

June 20th:

I missed Tom (my cat) sneaking into the truck when I left this morning. By the time I got to the hot truck at noon, Tom had died and swollen up to the size of a shopping bag, then popped like a water balloon. The truck now smells like Friskies and Cat S--t. I learned my lesson though. No more pets in this heat. Good ole Mr. Sun strikes again.

June 25th:

The wind sucks. It feels like a giant freaking blow dryer!! And it's hot as hell. The home air-conditioner is on the fritz and the AC repairman charged $200 just to drive by and tell me he needed to order parts.

June 30th:

Been sleeping outside on the patio for 3 nights now, $400,000 house and I can't even go inside. Tom is the lucky one. Why did I ever come here?

July 4th:

It's 115 degrees. Finally got the air-conditioner fixed today. It cost $500 and gets the temperature down to 85. I hate this stupid state. It was not meant for human habitation. Give it back to the fire ants and scorpions!

July 8th:

If another wise ass cracks, 'Hot enough for you today?' I'm going to strangle him. Damn heat. By the time I get to work, the radiator is boiling over, my clothes are soaking wet, and I smell like baked cat!!

July 9th:

Tried to run some errands after work. Wore shorts, and when I sat on the seats in the car, I thought my butt was on fire. My skin melted to the seat. I lost 2 layers of flesh and all the hair on the back of my legs and can . . . Now my car smells like burnt hair, fried ass, and baked cat.

July 10th:

The weather report might as well be a damn recording. Hot and sunny. Hot and sunny. Hot and sunny. It's been too hot to do jack squat for 2 damn months and the weatherman says it might really warm up next week. Doesn't it ever rain in this damn state? Water rationing will be next, so my $1700 worth of cactus will just dry up and blow over. Even the cactus can't live in this furnace.

July 18th:

Welcome to HELL! Temperature got to 115 today. Cactus are dead. Forgot to crack the window and blew the damn windshield out of the truck. The installer came to fix it and guess what the first words out of his mouth were??? "Hot enough for you today?" My friend had to spend $1,500 to bail me out of jail. Freaking Texas. What kind of a sick demented idiot would want to live here?? Will write more later when the trial is over.

(The above--with a few adjustments--was forwarded by a Dutch friend. Although some other poor devil composed it, the sentiments pretty well square with my own. Like General Sheridan once said, "If I owned Texas and Hell, I would rent out Texas and move to Hell.")

Ted & Cecil

2009-07-11T15:04:00.005-05:00

I have not watched TV much in the last two months and none at all in the last two weeks. So, imagine my euphoria when I did sleepily push the power button Thursday night and I saw that, within a few minutes, the Turner movie channel would show Union Pacific. The last--and only time--I had ever seen this thundering Cecil B. DeMille classic was over thirty years ago. And I never forgot it; imagined I would never see it again in this lifetime. But....God Bless Ted Turner.

If the "Golden Age" of Hollywood was the 1930s and 40s, the Golden Year was 1939. Jesse James, Dodge City, Gone With the Wind, Young Mister Lincoln, Stagecoach, Drums Along the Mohawk....and those are just some of my '39 favorites with a Western theme. Throw in The Wizard of Oz, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Roaring Twenties, Gunga Din, and Goodbye Mr. Chips, and you see why it was such a stellar year. Add Union Pacific to the list.

With literally a cast of thousands, with sets that are right out of the period, with costuming as accurate as any movie ever made, before or since, and with a wonderful script and plot that holds you throughout, the film is pure DeMille. Then add an incredible cast. Joel McCrey as the hero, Barbara Stanwyck (left) as the saucy Irish engineer's daughter that every one loves, Robert Preston as the formula-villain who proves his mettle in the end, the leering Brian Donlevey who proves nothing in the end except that he is still a wretch, his hired gun and card shill, a young Anthony Quinn....there are already enough headliners to ensure box office bullion.

But in typical, epical DeMille fashion, Union Pacific tells a mighty story--The Winning of the West. From the brawny Irish gandydancers who brawl their way through one Hell-On-Wheels after another, to the young Indian warriors (real Indians) who imagine they can halt the Iron Horse by shooting arrows into it, this is one movie that everyone who loves the Old West must see.

Begrijp? ¿Entienda? Understand?

2009-06-24T09:15:00.004-05:00

Wat moet de taal met de geschiedenis van Wilde Westennen doen?

¿Qué la lengua tiene que hacer con historia del oeste salvaje?

On a typical day, I interact with three Dutch women and three Mexican men. Thus, the constant in my life is seemingly always language, or rather, my inability to understand it. Since the women were born and bred in Holland, and since the same goes for the men in Mexico, they speak with one another in their natural and native tongues. When exchanging with me, or with one of the other group, they jump to English. The results vary from very good communication to stone age sign language.

What the heck does language have to do with Wild West history? That's the question raised above in Dutch and Spanish. Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. As one who has done his share of research into the Nineteenth-Century, I can vouch that I have never seen a totally accurate portrayal of those times. Almost always left out in any modern depiction of the Old West is the lack of homogeneity. Watch a typical TV Western or a John Wayne movie and one comes away with the impression that everyone more or less looked alike and everyone more or less spoke alike. Only occasionally is a Swedish, Italian or Irish accent heard, and these are always just sprinkled around and always obligatory, it seems.

Fact is, America in the 1800s was a Babel of languages and strong accents. A traveler crossing the continent back then would have been hard-pressed to move ten miles and not encounter ten languages spoken. Hard as it may be for modern Americans to understand, America was a far less homogeneous place back in the 'good ol' days,' than now. Indeed, could they come back and visit us today, I think our ancestors might be as much amazed by the loss of our linguistic variety as anything.

Another New Book

2009-06-19T09:48:00.005-05:00

General Orders No. 11 is perhaps the most draconian act committed by the US Government against its own people in American history. Following the Lawrence (Kansas) Massacre of August, 1863, several Missouri counties bordering Kansas were burned from the face of the earth. A sanctuary for the guerrillas ... that was the official reason given for destroying the area; revenge for years of strife along the state line was the unofficial reason. Millions of dollars in property were destroyed or stolen, scores, perhaps hundreds, of civilians were killed, and an entire people were cast from their homes, never to return.

The author and executioner of the edict was Thomas Ewing, Jr. The author and expert of a new book on General Ewing is Ronald D. Smith. Smith, a Kansas attorney, knows his subject. Although the above mentioned disaster was perhaps the singular event in Ewing's life, the book covers the gamut. A foster brother (and later a brother-in-law) of William Tecumseh Sherman, a Kansas supreme court justice, a brave and very capable Union officer in the American Civil War, a defender of the conspirators at the Lincoln assassination trial, an Ohio politician, Tom Ewing not only lived through stirring times, but played an active role in them. Thomas Ewing, Jr.: Frontier Lawyer and Civil War General: Check it out at amazon.com, or order through your bookstore.

Texas Tid-Bits

2009-06-04T13:53:00.003-05:00

Judy, the lady living on the south twenty, had some trouble last week. The woman came home one afternoon and found a small snapping turtle in her kidney-shaped pool. Judy did eventually get a net over the nasty little brute but senor snappo was so aggressive that the would-be rescuer lost her balance in the tussle. The leap from the diving board to the concrete was not a good one. Result: A badly sprained ankle.

A few weeks previous, Judy was compelled to perform the same rescue with a large armadillo. Now, a snapping turtle in a swimming pool makes much more sense than an armadillo in a swimming pool. These poor, dumb little beasties (above) seem to set new standards for stupidity. I am told that when a car approaches an armadillo on the road, the little things--instead of fleeing to the right or left--jump straight into the air. That tactic might work for some natural encounters, but not with a car. Whenever one enters the range of the armadillo, the roads and ditches are littered with the carcasses of the stupid little things.

Why did the chicken cross the road? To show the armadillo that it can be done.

Like Louisianans and their crawdads, some opportunistic Texans have apparently acquired a taste for armadillos, or "possum on the half shell", as they call them. Armadillo chili, Barbecue 'Dillo, Coon on the Rocks--which only proves that if something can be eaten, it will be eaten.

Dallas

2009-05-31T16:09:00.008-05:00

Since February 17 is the last entry posted on this blog, a normal person might assume that either the blogologist a) has gone to his long home or b) there has been a lot of water under the blogologist's bridge. If a "normal person" chose a little from line a) and a little from line b) they would be just about dead on.

For reasons I will note in another post, one fine day I picked up my twenty year-old dog and a box housing my one year-young tom cat, tossed some rags and my bike into the back of my cowboy limousine (which a normal person might call a beat up pickup truck), and made my way to Dallas, Texas. Except for the fact that I chose to abide in the Lone Star State directly in the teeth of the fiery furnace Texans charmingly call "Spring," things have progressed as well as could be hoped for. Although I have been pretty busy since coming here, and will be busier still in the months ahead, I do promise to make a better attempt at posting on this blog.

And so, to all you cowboys and cowgirls out there, from me to you, I send you a "Big D" HOWDY!

Hope in a Bottle

2009-02-17T15:24:00.004-06:00

The latest issue of Wild West magazine has a great article on the classic movie, The Searchers, and the true story behind it. Sometimes Hollywood gets history right. Here is something I wrote way back that has more than a whiff of The Searchers to it:

The tiny bottle lay on the sand. Nearby, gentle waves lapped softly against the beach. How long the bottle had been laying there no one knows. Whether it was the tide or a storm that placed it, we do not know that either. This much we do know: At some point, someone walking along the sand spotted the bottle and instead of breaking it or hurling it back out to sea, they stooped to pick it up. We also know that when the finder uncorked it he discovered that a note was folded inside. After fishing out the note and reading the incredible words on the paper, whoever held it must have been dumb-struck. Finally, we also know that soon after the finder read the note and recovered from his shock, word quickly spread.Thus ended one of the most remarkable journeys ever recorded.

The little bottle's story began somewhere on the dry and desolate plains of northwest Texas or eastern New Mexico, hundreds upon hundreds of miles from where it was found. Here, at a camp of the Southern Cheyenne Indians, a ragged and frightened young white woman secretly brought out her hidden treasure--a bottle, a cork, a pencil, a piece of paper--then nervously scratched out a note, a desperate plea for help. The girl quickly folded the paper into the bottle, corked the end tightly, then tossed it into the headwaters of the Brazos River. In this arid region, the Brazos in the best of times is a mere trickle of water; at worst, it is just a sandy draw. Nevertheless, this bottle and the tiny trickle that floated it were the best, and perhaps last, hope for freedom that the young woman would know.

Several months earlier, in September, 1874, Catherine German and her family had been moving up the Smoky Hill River with everything they owned in the back of a covered wagon. The Germans, from Elgin, Kansas, were bound for Colorado and a fresh start. Just moments after breaking camp that morning, the family was surprised by Indians. Within minutes the wagon was in flames, the mother, father, and two children were dead and scalped, and four daughters--Catherine, aged 17, Sophia, 12, and little Julia and Addie, aged 7 and 5 respectively--were carried off into captivity.

Catherine's story is not a pretty one to relate. There are no Harlequin Romance endings here; no Dances With Wolves Hollywood nonsense; no silly sentimentality. Catherine was raped repeatedly during her captivity; she was traded back and forth from one brave to the next; she was transformed into the tribal prostitute, her worth being measured in horses. Each time the frail young woman was forced to fetch wood or water for her lodge, she trembled in fear for she could expect to be raped as many as six times per trip.

Hence, Catherine's desperate attempt one day with her little bottle along the Brazos. Pathetic as her gesture was, it was all she had. Over the next several months, as her prayer drifted slowly down a shallow stream, this hope was the only thought that kept the young woman going. When all else had been stripped from her--her virtue, her freedom, her dignity--Catherine at least had her little star of hope.

Finally, after five months of captivity, the band holding Catherine and her sister, Sophia, at last returned to their reservation and surrendered the girls. Along with the two younger children, who earlier were rescued during a thundering cavalry charge, the two shattered girls tried to pick up the broken pieces of their lives.

Unbeknownst to Catherine (left), throughout her captivity, during all the rapes and beatings, during the freezing nights and terrifying days, the little bottle that she had secretly tossed into a trickle of water on the high plains had, despite snags and shoals and rocks and floods, continued its slow journey down a winding river.

Four months after Catherine's rescue, the Ellsworth (Kansas) Reporter picked up an article from a Houston, Texas, newspaper. The startled editor then informed his readers:

"Strange to say, after having traveled eight hundred or one thousand miles along the devious windings and changing current...a bottle...was picked up on the beach of the Gulf of Mexico near the mouth of the Brazos River, in which upon examination, was a written account of the capture of...."

Thus ended an incredible journey. After the message was uncorked and read, it can only be hoped that the reader saved the little bottle and today, passed from one generation to the next, it sits atop some bookshelf, an antique, curious and pretty...if nothing more.

(An account of Catherine German is found in my book, Scalp Dance, available at Historynetshop.com at: http://historynetshop.com/wsdb.html )

History Lives!

2009-01-22T15:30:00.006-06:00

In previous posts I have mentioned Wyatt Earp, Doc Holiday and the shoot-out at the OK Corral; I have written about George Custer, Crazy Horse and the Battle of the Little Bighorn; Wild Bill and the Rock Creek Massacre; and dozens of other 19th-Century topics. When most folks read the gory details about any of the above, and when they get over their shock and horror, a certain disconnection unavoidably sets in. After all, these incidents occurred well over a century ago and to most people anything that happened that far back seems as remote and distant as the Bronze Age. I felt much the same way until a couple of interviews I did a dozen years ago while researching my book, Scalp Dance.

One of the interviews was with a lady in her 95th summer; her Kansas mother had been captured by Indians in 1874. The other meeting was with Agnes Shrader of Topeka; she was 92 at the time and her aunt had suffered the same fate in the same state in the same year. Mrs. Schrader was as lucid and bright in her chat with me as most people half her age. She still lived in her own home and kept it neat and tidy. Indeed, it was immaculate. Mrs. Schrader even walked around the block every day for exercise. Although neither woman knew much about the ordeal of their loved ones, this to me was unimportant. Just sitting and talking to someone who was a single generation removed from the Indian Wars was everything. It was something akin to time travel.

A few years later, during the Q&A following a talk we had just given in San Francisco, Deb mentioned that William F. Cody (top) was her hero and that he was perhaps the greatest American of all time. Out in the audience, an old man stood up and, with the drama of a Shakespearian actor, he announced: "I'll have you know that I SAW Buffalo Bill!" The feeling was electric.

Suddenly, after being with the ladies above and hearing the words of this old Californian, the accounts of Wild Bill Hickok, or Wyatt Earp (above), or the Little Bighorn, were not something from the dark and dead past. They were close, very close . . . and they were real. For me, from that time forth, History Lives!

New Book

2009-01-15T21:14:00.004-06:00

James Henry Lane was beyond a reasonable doubt one of the most colorful, flamboyant, astute, charismatic, and utterly dangerous men in American history. The noxious and disturbed Rasputin--of Czar Nicholas II fame--is the first and only image that comes to my mind when conjuring Lane. Jim was a confidant of Abraham Lincoln, the first US Senator from Kansas, a general in the Civil War and he was also responsible for mass murder, mass arson, maybe mass rape, and he was perhaps even into bestiality. During his tenure in this world, there seemed no mountain so high, or no valley so low, that Lane had not stalked through. When the animated stump shrieker, through his flaming oratory, persuaded thousands of normally sane, sober men to not only follow him into a shark frenzy of looting and plundering, but also swear fealty to him at the polls, he must have been precisely the sort of demagogue our Founding Fathers had in mind when they worried about the capacity of Americans to govern themselves.

Although this book will not be available until later this spring I can safely predict it will become a much-talked about staple in history circles. I know the author. I can vouch for his research abilities. As preposterous as some of the incidents in this book may seem, they will be truthful. And as ludicrous, horrifying and incredible as Jim Lane may appear to the outsider, it will be an accurate portrayal of the real man.

The Time: American Civil War
The Place: Kansas and Missouri
The Cast: Jim Lane and his Jayhawkers
The Author: Bryce Benedict
The Book: Jayhawkers--The Civil War Brigade of James Henry Lane

(to save some bucks, check out Amazon.com and pre-order: http://www.amazon.com/Jayhawkers-Civil-Brigade-James-Henry/dp/0806139994/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1232074572&sr=1-1 )