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?)

The price of romance might be high ....

But first, cold water prepares one for California

I did a lot of swimming while I was in California. The water of the Pacific Ocean was pretty cold, but I was prepared for it. Anyone who thinks the Pacific Ocean is cold ought to try a Minnesota, spring-fed, gravel pit. Now, that is really, really cold water, and I grew up in it. And, even before California, I'd dumped a canoe a couple of times in Lake Superior. Try holding a rope between your teeth and swimming ashore in "The Lake," towing a canoe filled with water and an idiot hanging onto it, dodging mini-icebergs along the way. (There he goes, sidetracking again.) "The Lake" has cold water, but I think the old gravel pit has both it and the Pacific Ocean beat. By the way, most old gravel pits are great places for moonlight parking, too.

Some of my California swimming was close to shore. Some of it was 90 miles off shore, give or take. Either way, if I would have known at the time great white sharks liked to prowl the California coastline, I probably would have stayed in Minnesota. Well, not really. Who spends any time thinking about sharks, anyway? I saw live sharks and dead sharks, cute sharks and ugly sharks, smiling sharks and sinister sharks, and I didn't give any of them a second thought. They really weren't very frightening. The ones I saw, that is. It's sort of like, "beware the ides of March."

Pretty obvious, isn't it? I've got California, especially San Francisco, on my mind. Or, is it princesses, divas and contessas I have on my mind? Or, is it something else altogether? With those questions hovering above us like ethereal spirits, it is time to wind down the exercise.

The Ideal Couple: Episode III

Moving to San Francisco and wearing flowers in my hair? I don't know about that. Maybe I'll just head down there long enough to find a princess or a diva or a contessa, and use my powers of charm to convince her we should settle down on neutral ground. Not in San Francisco. Not in Minnesota. Concentrating once more on great romances in the wonderful world of motion pictures, but this time not just movies confined to San Francisco, one possibility would be for us to find a peaceful, middle-class town and to live our lives as normal, ordinary, the-kind-of-couple-you'd-want-next-door people. People like Marge and Norm Gunderson.

Remember "Fargo?" You betcha. Great place to live, and it's a hotbed of entertainment up there in Fargo, Nort Daakotaa. I saw Don Dokken actually live on stage up there last summer. What's San Francisco got that Fargo doesn’t? And, isn't it preferable to be "up there" instead of "down there?" I'd even be willing to change my name to Gunderson if I found the right princess or diva or contessa, or reasonable facsimile thereof. Maybe she would want to become a sheriff. You have to confess, there is something compelling about a woman wearing a badge. Just check out Marge.

I'd even make breakfast for my contessa. Ya, you betcha.

I suppose I must admit that it would be possible some very few young ladies would soon grow disenchanted living in the midst of potato and sugar beet fields, and yearn for a more glamorous, adventurous existence cruising the highways and byways of Europe in the footsteps of Jason and Marie in "The Bourne Identity." Yes, I suppose members of the fair sex might prefer that to the simple life of touring the badlands, hunting antelope and visiting the grounds of General George A. Custer's last duty station. I suppose Europe would be ok. Sometimes, to win a princess or a diva or a contessa, a man must compromise. All right, we'll do it your way, but you have to drive.

It costs how much in euros? Well, I suppose, if you say so.

With apologies to Geoffrey, here ends the new Pardoner’s Tale -- except -- maybe -- for an epilogue tomorrow to complete a circle.

Music Note: Listening to (and, again, sort of watching) Queen ....
Specifically, "Live at Wembly '86" ....
(Wish I would have seen them perform live .... little late now)