Ghost riders, end of newspapers & en guarde

I cannot resist bringing you another photograph of Fram the First and Fram Actual enjoying an evening on the town. Many people in this neck of the woods are aware of our talent on the dance floor. Hardly had we entered the Doll Hut the other night when we were approached by a bevy of beautiful young ladies and asked to dance. The two of us, I mean, and no wisecracks. Got it? Anyway, we decided to perform one of the numbers we had learned as mere boys. It is called "Ghost Riders in the Sky." Here is a photographic record of our performance. What? Oh. Yes. Right. There are three of us in the photo. No sooner had we begun the dance when we were joined on the floor by cousin Raisuli. He recently had shaved his beard at the demand of his girlfriend, Eden Pedecaris, and was out on the town looking for solace. You might also note this is a very rare photo of Raisuli because it does not show him with his sword in his hand.

Newspapers are a good place to be from ....

As I prepare to depart from what almost certainly is my last job on a daily newspaper, I am thinking about a commentary written by Diva a few days ago. Read it, if you at all have been a newspaper fan during your lifetime.

Some of the words that follow I posted in response to Diva's column, and want to use them again here, as well as to add a few more. I used to think that only a few national dailies and some small, "home town-type" newspapers would survive the obvious decline in traditional journalism, but I am no longer sure even those will last. For some time, I've been adjusting to the idea of a world without an actual newspaper delivered to my door.

I began my journalism "career" as a high school sports writer. You might imagine my stories: "Led by the Fabulous Fram, our team clocked the bad boys last night." Nothing like being the reporter writing about yourself.

By the time I was a junior in high school, my morning regimen was coffee and toast while reading the Minneapolis Tribune. (Cigarettes came a few years later.)

In college, I did a bit of writing for the campus newspaper, not so much news as book and movie reviews. My first year out of college, I spent in a classroom teaching English and history. Did not like it. Mostly, what I disliked was being "locked" in a classroom all day long. I began looking for newspaper work, and found a weekly that would take me. A mere 10 months later, I jumped ship again and went to a daily. And, so it began.

Over a span of years, with some "sabbaticals" interrupting newspaper time, I worked on weeklies and dailies: small, medium and large. I promise you, working on a small-town weekly is by far the most difficult. You do every job there is to do, and you pretty much are doing it free of charge.

I have been a reporter, both general and investigative. I have been the editor of a medium-size daily. I have written straight news, sports, opinion pieces (editorials) and been a columnist. I have won a few awards from state and national journalism associations.

Being a reporter was fun. Running around, meeting people, interviewing people, being in the midst of some exiting events like a forest fire or a police stand-off, meeting some famous sports figures, political figures and literary figures, learning every aspect of local government and knowing just about everything going on in a community cannot be beat as enjoyable work.

In a newsroom, however, what money there is to be found comes from desk work -- editing, bossing, putting the paper together. I could not resist the money and moved up. When I think about it, I would rather I had not made the change. Money is money; being alive is more important. Just like teaching, newspaper desk work means being caged all day, meeting very few and learning very little. (Do I see stones flying through the air?) Works for many (obviously), not for me.

Now, traditional journalism is being replaced by a little real news and much junk news via the computer screen. This, I think, is an actual crime because there is absolutely no responsibility or accountability associated with who posts what on the internet. Political fanatics (people far beyond mere partisans) spread lies, hatred and propaganda onto the internet and call it facts and news.

You and your children and grandchildren, as they say, will have to live with it. In that sense, I feel sorry for you and your children and your grandchildren.

Back to me. For one reason or another, I have left journalism and newspaper work a few times along the way. I am doing it again, thinking (actually, knowing) it will be for the last time. There will be no more traditional newspapers to come back to in a few years.

As I told Diva, this does not bother me, because I have left newspapers a few times in the past and jumped into new places and new times and new work. I anticipate doing that again somewhere along the line between six months and a year from now.

When I was in junior high school, the brother of a friend of mine came home after being discharged from the U.S. Army 101st Airborne. From my friend, I had heard about his brother's adventures since his first day at jump school. I asked the elder brother if he had liked the Army, fully expecting him to say something to the effect that it had been great. His reply, made with a straight face and his eyes looking away from me, was, "It's a good place to be from." His words had a startling impact on me at the time. Those words sort of describe my feeling now, today, about newspapers.

But, like Diva, I will miss their presence and being able to sit down and read them over coffee and toast in the morning.

En guarde, you scoundrel ....

How many read my "Scaramouche" words, I have no idea, but one additional thought came to mind with hindsight. I have "played" with swordsmanship myself. I participated in the fencing club my final year in college. It came about accidentally through choosing a fencing class as one of the physical education requirements, liking it and being asked to join the club. Another element I have in common with Andre-Louis. I just hope the ending to my story is as satisfactory as was his.

Music Note: Listening to .38 Special ....
Specifically, "Special Forces" ....
Some lines from: "Caught Up In You:"

I'm so caught up in you
Little girl
Fill your days and your nights
No need to ever ask me twice
oh no
Whenever you want me
And if ever, comes a day
When you should turn and walk away
Oh no
I can't live without you
I’m so caught up in you

Hero worship & the end of mountains

The last runner sometimes is the best man ....

In a passing comment the other day, I mentioned that the British soldier, explorer and writer, Richard Burton, was one of my "heroes," which started me thinking: Does the male of the species ever outgrow hero worship?

Definitions and semantics play a role here, just as they do in every concept. In terms of admiring other men for various attributes, I know I still do, and the characteristics involved have remained fairly consistent since I was a boy -- but, with a few adjustments along the way.

There are a few athletes I admire. This does not so much involve talent at hitting a baseball or the ability to throw a football 60 yards accurately. Rightly or wrongly, I think such stuff is maybe 80 percent accident of birth and 20 percent hard work. For me, the admiration involves such people as those who do not whine about not being paid enough, those who do not cheat, those who keep getting up when they are exhausted or hurt.

The same is pretty much the case with men in any field, I think. God-given talents separate us all in degrees. Some are gifted with big muscles, some with big brains, while most of us just hang out watching -- looking for somewhere we might excel.

Sometime during the last week or two of high school, I happened to be walking with a school mate who was a year younger, and who I would term an acquaintance rather than a friend. During the conversation, he said he admired me and envied my athletic ability. I was genuinely surprised because I had always considered myself middle-of-the-road in that regard, and knew others with greater skills and who, in fact, I admired and envied.

This young man was always the last to finish running laps after football practice. He was the slowest on the team. Neither was he particularly strong. Although he was physically bigger than I was, I still had literally run over him more than once on the practice field. But, he never quit running until he had completed all his required laps and he always got up after being knocked down.

That was the last time I talked with him. High school ended for me, and I was forever on the road. Not too many years later, though, I saw a photograph of him in a national magazine. He was in the Army. He was in the Special Forces. He was standing among the toughest of the tough, the best of the best.

It was about that time I caught on to the fact that it should have been me admiring him back on the high school football field, for putting his entire being into accomplishing those goals he set his mind to, rather than being satisfied to live off his natural talents alone, like I had been back then.

Where have all the mountains gone?

Life is becoming more artificial by the day. Soon, there will be nothing unique, nothing individual left, or am I wrong about that?

I know a man who has been atop Mount Everest. He got himself into great physical shape, wrote out a check and off he went. Little more than six decades ago, the summit of Everest had yet to be conquered. Those who have stood there now number in the thousands.

One hundred years ago, men were dying trying to be the first to reach both the North Pole and the South Pole. For a few thousand dollars today, a person can fly to the North Pole, possibly land if conditions cooperate, or pay a few more dollars and tour the Antarctic in cruise ship comfort. Men and women cross the polar caps, re-supplied from the air, broadcasting their "adventure" to anyone who owns a computer and signs up for internet service.

Climb a plastic cliff with a rope around your waist in case you fall, and feel the thrill. Kill the Nazis on a computer game and feel flush with pride. Jump from a plane, be a temporary bird, and feel the rush. Stand on the stage at a karaoke bar and feel the adulation.

Personal accomplishment is nothing to make fun of or to belittle, and my point is not to do that. To run a greater distance tomorrow than today is real accomplishment; to obtain a college degree is real accomplishment. What I am saying is that true individuality is rapidly becoming a thing of the past, and sameness reigns supreme. Why bother to climb Mount Everest now other than for the personal pleasure of it? There is nothing especially unique about it anymore. Not much more than a checkbook is required.

Myth and legend, true daring and challenge, are fading into history, being replaced by fantasy and games. Goodbye, Sir Edmund Hillary; hello, Harry Potter. Not only is the world shrinking geographically, but so seems to be the imagination of mankind. Sort of boring now.

Music Note: Listening to .38 Special ....
Specifically, "Live at Sturgis" ....
Some lines from: "Fantasy Girl:"

Lately I'm learnin
That so many yearnings are never to be
The childhood illusions are merely delusions of a girl that I see
In my minds eye
I see clearly a vision of how it could be
Me and my fantasy girl
Hold on to me
Be my fantasy girl
Don't set me free

Now I've had my share
Sometimes I swear that I've had enough
You end up in sorrow
Broken tomorrows, love can be tough
But my minds eye sees a vision of true love and how it should be
Me and my fantasy girl
Hold on to me

(Neat song, and the band has the greatest name of any band.)

Who would guess their descendants would be cousins? & "the great battlefield tour"

Family details can be an absolute mess ....

I am fortunate in the sense that I have had relatives who devoted a considerable amount of time delving into genealogical records. One of my father's cousins traced the male lineage (young ladies, do not blame me for that) back to the 1500s. If you want the precise date and location, tell me, and I will pull out my copy of his papers and check.

On my father's side, I have a direct ancestor who fought in the Civil War. Meanwhile, moving on over to my mother's side, I have three non-direct ancestors who fought in the Civil War. Now then, who has the edge in that competition, indirect ma or direct pa? (All wild-eyed northern boys, by the way.)

Another absolutely, positively fascinating element (at least, to me) in this maze is on my mother's side of the coin. One of those ancestors who participated in the Civil War did so only briefly before becoming a volunteer in a militia unit riding against the Dakota in the wake of the 1862 uprising in Minnesota. At this time, I should like to mention that I have a relative married to an individual who carries Dakota blood, as well as another relative whose spouse has French-Canadian/Ojibwai ancestry. Beyond that, I have been a participant in an Assinaboi initiation ceremony, have sat in a few sweat lodge ceremonies and been among the honored guests at a wacipi. This simply is to say I have extended family members among the Native American community, and am aware of some of their customs and beliefs.

Back to the story before I forget it. This 1862 rider of vengeance later returned to the regular U.S. army cavalry. He did not last long. He was among troopers killed on a patrol in Kansas by a party of Sioux and Cheyenne in 1867. (The Seventh Cavalry on a search and destroy, with George Custer in the lead, discovered the bodies.)

The element which makes the events uniquely special to me is that I visited the exact site (no more than a few meters away, at the most) of his death during what I designated my "battlefield tour." Have you ever stood on the ground where an ancestor went down fighting nearly 150 years ago? Then, scarcely before you have taken another breath, wondered if the ancestor of a modern-day relative might have done the killing? Ain't life a mystery?

Maybe I should have signed on as a deckhand ....

Whether you know or not, it snowed in Minnesota on Thursday. I had about six inches of heavy, wet stuff to throw from my driveway into my neighbor's lawn. He does not care, since his boys build forts and caves in the heaps of snow. Here is a glimpse of my neighbors. Sorry, Diva. (I already told her this one.)

On one side, my neighbor is 97. She still shovels a path through the snow to her mailbox by the street. On the other side, my neighbors have two little boys (nine and four), who frequently are trying to sell me things, mostly stuff from their dad's garage. I usually buy it. Real bargains. A dime here, a quarter there. Is there more to these stories? Never mind. Write the endings yourselves.

Now, where was I? I certainly have a tendency to drift off topic.

Snow. And, cold. (Three degrees Fahrenheit above zero this minute.) Winter has returned to me again and, again, I have become immensely bored with it. The last time this happened was during the winter of 2000-2001. (Time flies when most of it has been spent in the same routine, as mine has, for a couple of years now.) In February 2001, I briefly toyed with the idea of flying to Florida for a week of sun and whatever. I was within the punch of a keyboard button to close the deal. But, I did not.

I decided, instead, to save the money and to spend it (and more) on a "decent trip" that summer. In May, I took an "unpaid sabbatical" from work, departed Sanctuary/Refuge and left on a driving tour (the aforementioned "battlefield tour") that ranged from Canada into Mexico and lasted until well into October.

Much camping with many nights under the stars, a few good motels, a few bad motels, much canoeing, much brandy, some days spent walking and some nights spent sleeping on old battlefields from the days of the "Indian wars." Too much tequila, dancing and a bar brawl across the Rio Bravo del Norte in Ciudad Juarez. (We won; locals, including me, against outsiders. Weird, hah? You fit in where you fit.) Too much money spent on gasoline and potato salad, many historic sites seen, kissed the Alamo, a great sun tan and uncut hair bleached blond once again by the sun -- well, you get the picture. Free Bird.

This is the most beat-up by winter I have felt since then, and I continue to wonder if this, again, will be the year of the traveler. (Do not panic; I think I may have passed beyond the bar brawl stage of life.) Greece and the "wine dark sea" of Mediterranean waters linger on in my mind.

I think if I could be age 18 again, I would skip the Marine Corps, skip college, skip newspapers and a few other distractions, and sign on as a deckhand on a Great Lakes ore carrier. Once upon a time, after an hour or so of drinking beer and mingling with a group of Great Lakes sailors in a Lake Superior waterfront bar, I was asked "what ship I was from." To me, that was an enormous compliment, and another occasion of fitting in where you fit.

Music Note: Listening to 38 Special ....
Specifically, "Live at Sturgis" ....
("Hold on Loosely" -- wanna dance?)