Bölümler
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In my mail appears a thoughtful gift, a book, inscribed to me by one of the authors: The Missouri: America’s Longest River, edited by Jon K. Lauck and published by the Center for Western Studies, Augustana University. The chapters are various, from native forests to Indian-White conflict to big dams and their consequences, so let me focus on some pieces, then try to say something about the whole. If that’s possible, because the more you read, the more you become conscious of our failure to comprehend, historically, the Missouri River as a whole.
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It says something about me as a historian that I am preoccupied with the origins of things. I mean, I seldom just launch into an abstract investigation into something in the past from which I am disconnected. I begin with a thing here and now, and then get curious about the question, Where did this come from? How did this thing come to be?
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Eksik bölüm mü var?
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A half-century ago—actually, a little more than that—I charted my course as a professional historian by choosing to specialize in Western Americana. Keep in mind, I was studying at a western land grant university that had not completely shed its skin as a cow college. When my peers and I were asked what field we were working in, we would say, “Cowboys and Indians.”
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I know I used to have one, but it’s disappeared, along with the cause it celebrated—one of those old black-mesh American Agriculture ball caps. I thought about it this week as I was working up, for a historical journal, a little piece about the American Agriculture Movement and its Washington tractorcade of 1979. It always makes me feel a little queer when someone calls on me to treat events that I remember personally as history. Oh well, I did it.
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In sublime overview of the valley of the Little Missouri River, in the Badlands of North Dakota, stands a simple but elegant residence from the 1880s known as the Chateau de Morès. As a historian, I have a little bit of a problem with anachronism here. You see, I can uncover no evidence that people in the territory ever called this place the Chateau des Morès. There was no Chateau de Morès, but there was a Chapeau de Morès. Which is to say, the hat of the Marquis de Morès.
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A powerful new biography of Antoine-Amédée-Marie-Vincent Manca Amat de Vallombrosa, here generally known as the Marquis de Morès, has consequence on both sides of the Atlantic—in France, and in Dakota Territory.
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James W. Foley Jr., who on his passing in 1939 was eulogized as “North Dakota’s unofficial poet laureate,” has always intrigued me. Not because of sublimity as a poet, although sometimes he surprises you with poems like “The Passing of the Prairie” or “The Garden of Yesterday.” More often he lapses into faux-vernacular rhetoric that doesn’t age well. Sometimes he descends to cynicism. Overall his contemporary, Clell Gannon, is a better poetic exponent of the children of the pioneers on the northern plains.
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An old friend left an orphan cookbook on our doorstep, and it proved to be of more than passing interest. It is a centennial cookbook from the town of Lignite, near the Canadian line, published in 2007. It is a rich register, containing some recipes I’m going to try out, each credited to a particular person. I’ve never been satisfied with recipes for beer cheese soup—Jud and Gen Tracy’s recipe from the Chieftain in Carrington comes closest—but I think I can work with the one contributed by Nancy Nodland Hermanson.
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Two conferences of regional scholars, one in Lincoln, Nebraska, the other in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, have taken the future of the Great Plains as their theme this spring. This sort of thing makes me uncomfortable. I can mouth off about the future like anyone else, but when I take up my tools as a historian, I have to say, the future is not my business. Heck, I’m not even sure the present exists.
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Since publication of Thom Tammaro’s new book of poems, Aurora, by North Dakota State University Press, I have been present at two venues where Thom read from his work. He reads his work well (not a given among poets and writers). He reads with a manner that makes the room gentle. He owns the podium by ignoring it. Quiet confidence in his work.
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Finally I found it, this song people were telling me about; found it in the Alfred G. Arvold Collection of the Institute for Regional Studies, at NDSU. The song, written by an NDSU graduate, James Golseth, is “Lilac Days,” an ode to spring, and beauty. Maybe also to hope, and persistence.
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There is this group of people that gathers now and then in a converted gas station in Rapid City for what they call the Morning Fill Up. The agenda is to have a conversation with some interesting thinker with ideas about life in rural America, to have a “national conversation” within the context of the Great Plains. Now and then the contributions are gathered into a book and published by North Dakota State University Press. So now we have Rethinking Rural, Volume 2, with the subtitle, Reflections on Changing Communities.
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Christmas Eve, 2015, on the Montana Hi-Line, somewhere near Glasgow, in a one-room school called Willow Bend. Miss Miller had prepared her pupils well, and the local correspondent declared their program “a success.” Then there was the ringer: a quartet of bachelor homesteaders, the Willow Creek Quartette, comprising Will Lloyd, bass; Raymond Sullivan, baritone; James Lloyd, tenor; and L. O. Carter. Lorenzo Otis Carter, that is. The absence of a part-designation with his listing indicates he was the lead singer.
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Early in his new memoir from North Dakota State University Press, Tough but Fair: Reformation of a Prison, Memoir of a Warden, Winston Satran recounts a great escape. Ten prisoners broke out of the North Dakota Penitentiary in 1973. They overpowered officers in recreation areas, scaled the walls, stole a car, and lit out east on Highway 10. The ten-day manhunt required to return them to captivity was a shock to the public, and to prison administrators.
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If you are familiar with the face or name of Henry R. Martinson, it is likely because of the classic documentary film of 1978, Northern Lights, about the early days of the Nonpartisan League in North Dakota. In which, the aged Martinson plays himself, his words and persona framing the narrative.
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Exploring the sandhills countryside in search of something, I stepped into a white frame Lutheran church along the road and found, on a table in the entryway, for reason unknown, an old, slender booklet, unrelated to church business: Songs of Charlie and Cedric was the title. Never heard of them, but I took notes.
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In Dakota Territory, the outbreak of spelling bees in the late 1880s was commonly referred to as a “craze.” Since publication of The Hoosier Schoolmaster in 1871 the craze, epidemic, or infatuation with spelling bees, as it was variously called by cultural commentators, had constituted a conscious revival of old custom. When announcing a spelling bee on the prairies, organizers almost always referred to the event as “an old-fashioned” or “old-time spelling bee.”
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“The spelling bee at the Baptist church Tuesday evening was quite a lively entertainment,” so says a press report from Jamestown in April 1885. “Rev. S. N. Griffith acted as umpire, Professor Clemmer conductor and Professor Culver and C. T. Hills captains. Between thirty and forty participated in the exercises. Professor Culver and Miss Flagler were the last contestants for the honors, and finally the former staggered at the word ‘millionaire,’ and the latter was declared the best speller.”
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In a lovely book of 2008, America Eats, author Pat Willard puts fish fries into her subtitle, but hardly mentions them in her book-length discussion of food events in American culture. Examining the custom in our own region, I have figured out why. Willard relies heavily on WPA interview transcripts from the 1930s. And fish fries, it turns out, are a more recently evolved custom than that. I mean fish fries as a come-all, public event for profit or charity, as a community institution.
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In Bottineau during the late 1880s, there emerged an association of men “on the ragged edge of civilization,” as one of them said, in a boom town on the Manitoba Railroad. They determined to have some fun poking fun at the booster spirit and the fraternal lodges that dominated the social scene. They gathered and wrote a constitution for the Ancient Order of Sit Stills and declared themselves the Knights of Leisure. They resolved “to take things easy and never to stand when it is possible to sit.”
