Thankful on Thanksgiving

Frederick McCubbin was among the founding members of the Heidelberg School, an art movement related to Australian Impressionism. This particular work titled "The Pioneer" is oil on canvas, was done in 1904 and is displayed at the National Gallery of Victoria in Melbourne. McCubbin's life spanned the years 1855 through 1917. That he and other "artists" in myriad fields lived and produced their work for me to enjoy is one of the things for which I am grateful.

Be happy .... be obliged ....

This post began with reading a Thanksgiving article in last Sunday's edition of the Saint Paul Pioneer Press under the headline, "What first-graders are thankful for in 2021." Mostly, the kids "seem to appreciate people who spend time with them."

Me, too ....

The most-used words from the kids were, in descending order: "family, mom, love, friends, God, dad, school, play and food."

With a few modifications, those could be on my list, too. So, I asked myself, what am I thankful for in 2021?

My own "dumb luck" probably envelopes my appreciation of my existence in the sense of thankfulness: For being born into the family I was; in the country, region and town I was; at the time in a historical context I was. On a scale of having had a "charmed life," I would give mine a "B" or a seven.

On my blog, I frequently refer to myself as Fram the Fortunate and use "Old Norse" references such as "gold-luck" and "woman-luck" and "health-luck" and "weather-luck" to describe the road I have walked. I have had two terrific wives and have three cool kids. There is nothing more beautiful than a blue sky with billowy clouds and nothing more wonderful than a nap in a meadow on a sunny, breezy afternoon.

Although I am a devotee of "Bitter (Ambrose) Bierce" and skeptical about many things, I am essentially glad to be alive and to experience so much of life and living. What else is there to do with life other than to appreciate / to study / to learn from it?

Returning to art and artists, my thankfulness comes in the form of being able to enjoy the paintings of individuals like Monet and Vasnetsov and Caravaggio / sculpture by Michelangelo and Rodin / books from Homer and Hemingway and Durant / music by Bach and Mercury .... well, you get my drift .... be happy .... be thankful, baby ....

Semper Fidelis, to the end of time

Two Marines with carbine rifles slung over their shoulders stand beneath an American flag flying atop Mount Suribachi on the Pacific Ocean island of Iwo Jima in the Ogasawara Archipelago. They are watching the cloud of smoke and dust as the World War II battle rages on in the distance. Varying sources give varying figures for casualties, but it is accepted that nearly 21,000 Japanese defenders were killed in the fight which lasted from February 19 to March 25, 1945. American casualties were about 6,800 dead and more than 19,000 wounded, mostly Marines. A variety of naval vessels and landing craft are visible on the right along the shoreline.

It's a good place to be from ....

Driver training class seemed to be moving slower than slow one summer morning as we pulled into the parking lot at the high school. A young man walked up to car and asked the high school principal, who was giving the class, if he could get his records so he could enroll in college. The principal went to retrieve the records and I started talking to the young man. I knew he had just been discharged from the 82nd Airborne, where his older brother remained on active duty.

"Did you like the army?" I asked, a curious 14-year-old boy plotting my own future.

"It's a good place to be from," replied the young man.

His answer puzzled me then, but now I understand it. When someone asks me if I liked the Marine Corps, I usually provide the same answer: "It's a good place to be from."

In terms of myself, I never have been able to think a more concise and accurate response. I also never have been able to adequately explain why I went into the USMC beyond the stock cliché: "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Part of my entry, I am sure, came from reading about the Marine Corps and seeing films about it and having known veterans from all branches of the armed forces and hearing their remarks about their military lives. Beyond those things, I am hesitant to search deeper within myself.

Today is the 246th birthday of the United States Marine Corps and, in the spirit of the Corps, I wish happy birthday and salute all Marines -- those among the dead, those who still live, those yet to be born: Semper Fidelis, to the end of time ....

A moment frozen securely in time ....

There is a neatly handwritten, personal message in Swedish on the back of the 1911 post card sent by "Nels" to "Mrs. S. Sjosttrom" in Marcus, Iowa. A photographic duplication of the message is shown here, in hopes someone will take a run at translating it.

Walking along the street & reading the message

(Part 2 of two segments)

The post card is dated February 9, 1911, so the photograph could be no later than then. Although some of the houses have changed in appearance over the decades, many still exist and still are recognizable. 

The street lights are gone, however. They were replaced around 1950 by obnoxious apparitions which are considerably higher with more powerful lights near the tops overhanging the street. Safety and economy were judged more important than beauty and gentility. They probably are, but some of us are occasional risk-takers and will walk to the edge of the precipice to tempt fate and it is not uncommon for a few people to sometimes place a greater value on the old over the new.

Looking at this photograph is like looking back in time -- glancing into the history of the town I traveled from infancy to "almost" manhood. I visualize myself walking on this sidewalk -- both in the context of observing myself and of seeing the sights as though I am experiencing it at this very moment.

Then, I think of the generations who came before me and who walked there and drove carriages and wagons there, some of them my ancestors and those of my own young friends. Mind boggling ....

The note on the post card is written in Swedish and was sent by Nels to Mrs. S. Sjosttrom in Marcus, Iowa. This is what is says:

"Alskade Mor, Jag härmed sänder mors två  bj öoker. Jag har fått et par bref från Ernest som säg in datt mor var icke frisk meu jag hojapas mor blix stnox frisk igen. Jag hade tänks att kommma hem ingefär vid denna tiden men det slog fel. Jag fick icke apotekare men skoll för såka få han imgam varen Här är hoppen vch my kin annan sjvkdomy."

I am reasonably certain neither Nels nor Mrs. Sjostrom would mind me sharing it with you 110 years after it was written. In fact, you might wish to translate it. If you do, I hope you will share it with me so "we" can compare notes on our translations. 

I am not certain my copying of the text is completely accurate or how many dialects of Swedish might exist which could affect local usage, but this is best I could do. I purposely am not including my translation here so others will not be influenced by it.

There are times when, it seems to me, it is a pity (possibly a tragedy) not all keep history alive in their minds and understand the intrinsic value it has for us in our lives. Because we do not do this, we are "condemned" to repeat our mistakes over and over as seemingly has been our fate since forever -- or for a few hundred thousand years .... at least ....

But, perhaps, the challenge and the reason for life is to continue the struggle to transcend our fatal flaws .... whoops .... pardon me, while I catch a few minutes of football ....

A moment like no other ....

There once was a moment like no other. It took place when a photographer's finger released the shutter of his camera and captured this near-wintery sight more than a hundred years ago. In reality, every moment is like no other in that change never ceases motion. This could be a street in any of thousands of small towns in the United States or elsewhere, but it is where what once was my town.

Walking in the footsteps of history ....

(Part 1 of two segments)

What you are seeing is an old post card, wintery view of West Front Street in the southwestern Minnesota town in which I spent the first 18 years of my life. I walked this street many times as a boy and a teenager. There would be a .22 caliber Mossberg Model 142-A with a scope or a Winchester Model 77 rifle occasionally over my shoulder or, in the autumn, a .16 gauge Stevens Model 77-AC shotgun, as I made my way from my home to where the town ended and the countryside began.

Such was the "relaxed attitude" toward 10-11-12-year-old boys with guns during my childhood and years as a young man. Most men and boys who lived there hunted and everyone knew both boys and girls took a "hunter safety course" with certified instructors before legally being allowed to hunt.

Sometimes the guns were cased; other times they were not. Never were they loaded. That part of the ritual came after the last house on the edge of town had been passed and could only be seen by looking back over the shoulder.

Guns and hunting were part of our culture.

The photograph, to me, appears to have been taken on an October or a November day, recalling the frosty mornings with dustings of snow when I walked the same sidewalk on my way to the lake to intercept ducks and geese on their southward pilgrimage.

When hunting, the morning walk would be well before sunrise so I could be on the other side of the lake perched on a small island where I could see the sun rising over 75-foot cliffs across a half-mile of open water. There were lights on in some houses at times as early risers prepared for a day of work.

The walk in the afternoon came with sunset only minutes away and meant running and racing in hopes of catching a shot at a late flight of ducks coming in from feasting in farm fields to "bed down" on the lake. Crops were not picked to the last kernel of corn then as they are now, in this "modern era" of agriculture.

Thus, endeth the parable for the first day of November 2021 ....

(Part 2 of two segments will appear in a few days)