Monday, December 18, 2017

The Great and Awful Burden of My Intellect…

The other day, I was telling my redheaded sweetheart about a friend who was taking time off of work to have a medical procedure done.

“What’s wrong with him?’ she inquired.

“He has ‘very close veins,’” I answered back.

She gave me one of those looks that I have become all too familiar with. It’s a kind of blank expression that signals to me that I have broached a subject with her that is beyond her comprehension. I have to keep reminding myself that she graduated high school in only three years, whereas I took my time and managed to make a five and a half year journey through the hallowed halls of Poynette High (Go Indians!). Obviously, I learned a lot more during my extensive academic career than she did during her brief encounter with higher learning.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, confirming my suspicion.

“He’s going to have laser surgery to remove his VERY-CLOSE-VEINS.” I raised my voice slightly and said the words slowly in an effort to facilitate communication. Tami always appreciates it when I do that.

“What are very close veins?”

The tenor of her voice led me to believe that she really had no idea what I was talking about. I thought back over the past (almost) twenty-nine years that we have been married. If I had a nickel for every time that I had to explain something to her, I could buy her a decent set of encyclopedias which she could use to further her education. It would be nice to have an intellectual equal to converse with. It can be lonely being a person of great intellectual prowess, but it does give me a sense of fraternity with some of the early Greek philosophers such as Sucrets and Pluto.

“Very close veins,” I instructed, “is a condition where the veins in your legs push outward and get very close to the surface. That’s why they are called ‘very close veins.’”

She rolled her eyes, shook her head, and gave a big sigh, obviously frustrated with her lack of knowledge. “I think you mean ‘varicose veins.’”

I have noticed something about Tami, and other people for that matter. Oftentimes when they don’t have any useful information to contribute to a conversation, rather than keep silent, they will dig the hole deeper by trying to sound intelligent – even to the point of making up words like ‘varicose veins.’

I think that Tami is often jealous of the fact that I am the writer in the family. Sometimes it gets the better of her and she will make some poor (but adorable) attempt at word-smithing, making up her own words for every-day, common things. She will even make up words and apply them to me, which is what she did next.

She turned to face me, and, with her hands on her hips, she said, “You are a verifiable ignoramus!”

She could have kept it simple and just said that I was brilliant, or a genius, or just a really-really-really smart guy; but she had to embarrass herself by describing my intellectual acumen with some meaningless, made-up word.

I smiled and tried to put my arm around her. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I don’t mind your limited vocabulary. It’s okay with me that we are not intellectual equals.”

She pushed me away; her eyes wide; a lone tear about to spill over the causeway of her rosy cheek. “You and I will NEVER be intellectual equals!”

“Now honey,” I replied, “you shouldn’t talk like that. You know I hate it when you make self-defecating comments.”

She stood with her mouth hanging open and stared at me like I had a third eye or something. “The word is ‘self-deprecating,’ not ‘self-defecating! There is no such word as ‘self-defecating.”

“There most certainly is,” I gently corrected her. “Self-defecation is when you get depressed and you make insulting comments about yourself; basically crapping all over yourself.”

She threw her arms in the air and stormed out of the front door. I saw her heading up the path to the top of the mountain behind our cabin. She likes to take a walk sometimes when she is feeling frustrated and inadequate.

As I watched her heading up the path, arms flailing about, yelling something I couldn’t quite make out, I felt sorry for her and decided that I needed to do something to cheer her up. Christmas is just around the corner. Maybe I’ll buy her those encyclopedias anyways.


Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Book Review - "Go West Young Woman" by Nancy Quinn

The story of America is the story of westward expansion. There were the Pilgrims and early colonists who crossed the Atlantic to reach the shores of New England. Braving storms, disease, and uncertainty, they endured harsh and crowded conditions on their ships in order to have a new, better life in the western “New World.” Men like Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, and Simon Kenton felt the call of the west, and helped to pioneer the western expansion across the Appalachians and down the Ohio River valley toward the Mississippi. Spurred on by accounts from Lewis and Clark, and the Corp of Discovery, mountain men like Kit Carson, Jim Bridger, and Hugh Glass crossed the Great Plains to trap beaver in the icy rivers and streams of the Rocky Mountains.

Many adjectives could be used to describe their experiences, but “easy” would never be one of them. It was a difficult way of life, and those answering the call of the west had to face any number of challenges in their efforts to conquer and subdue the land. The blazing summer sun was contrasted by freezing winter snows that could continue for days. Downpours of rain that could cause flash floods were met by drought, dust, and blowing sand. The winds could be so heavy on the plains that they often drove the pioneer women mad. Besides the weather, there were the native inhabitants to deal with as well; Indians, grizzlies, mountain lions, wolves, and a host of others.

It was Horace Greeley who, in the mid 19th century, was credited with saying, “Go west young man, and grow up with the country.” With national policies like Manifest Destiny, and legislation such as the Homestead Act, tens of thousands took the advice. Even more poured into the western territories with the discovery of gold and silver in places like California, Colorado, Nevada, and the Black Hills.

Much has changed over the past two hundred years. The ease and speed of modern transportation has made the Conestoga wagon a thing of the past. Amenities provided at nearly every exit off of the Interstate mean that people no longer have to sleep outside under the stars, or hunt for their evening meal. But other things still remain the same as they were for those early pioneers. Although they may be a dying breed, many people still hear the call of the west, and never rest satisfied until they see towering, snow-capped peaks and fill their lungs with cool, clean mountain air.

Go West Young Woman,” by Nancy Quinn, is the story of one such modern pioneer family who answer the westward call, giving up their lives on the beltway in Washington, DC to move to the mountains of western Montana. Although the times have changed, many of the challenges remain the same, including encounters with predators like grizzlies and mountain lions; severe weather; and learning to live peacefully with the native inhabitants (cows, ranchers, loggers, etc.).

Nancy Quinn has an easy to read, almost conversational, anecdotal style of writing that makes it seem as if you are sitting down with her over a cup of coffee, listening to the latest adventures of her family, dogs, horses, or the numerous animal visitors that frequent their mountain property. Written with warmth and humor, you will find yourself moving effortlessly from chapter to chapter as Nancy, her husband, Bill, and their two daughters face one new challenge and adventure after another; and when you are finished, you will wonder, right along with me, how long will it be before the next book comes out!

Nancy has a background in conservation law enforcement, and has spent many hours in wildlife rehabilitation. This gives her a perspective into wildlife that helps to inform her writing. But not only is she a gifted writer, she is an award winning, internationally known wildlife artist. Nancy writes about her artwork:

“I believe art has a purpose other than decorating our walls. I think it can touch our minds and our hearts. When I sit down to create art, I think about how best to give an animal or bird a soul and how to foster an emotion on canvas, paper, or precious metal. If I can have a positive effect in someone's life, then my work has served an important purpose.”

Whether you are reading her book or enjoying her art, you will have made a friend in Nancy Quinn; and you will have experienced what so many of our pioneers and early adventurers have experienced – a love, admiration, and respect of the American west that still lives on today.

Her artwork can be viewed here on her website.

You can check out Nancy’s blog here.

You can connect with Nancy on her Facebook page.


Monday, November 13, 2017

The "Bear" Facts About One of Hollywood's Finest...

Bart and Trainer Doug Seus
Bart the Bear (1977-2000) is arguably one of the best known animal actors of all time, staring in twenty-two motion pictures and television shows. His film credits include The Great Outdoors, with John Candy; The Edge, with Anthony Hopkins; and On Deadly Ground, with Steven Seagal. Bart also starred in several westerns such as Legends of the Fall, Windwalker, White Fang, and Louis L’Amour’s Down the Long Hills.

Bart was born at the Baltimore Zoo and was subsequently adopted by animal trainers, Doug and Lynn Seus. Bart got his first acting job as a cub, appearing in the television series, The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams, playing the part of Ben – Adams’ companion grizzly – as a cub.

As an adult Alaskan Brown bear, Bart stood nine and a half feet tall and weighed over seventeen hundred pounds. As an actor, Bart reportedly earned $10,000.00 a day. The money was used to start the Vital Ground Foundation, an environmental land trust which works to protect and promote grizzly bear populations through wildlife habitat conservation.

Bart was diagnosed with cancer in October of 1998. He underwent two separate surgeries, but the cancer persisted. He was euthanized in May of 2000 at the age of twenty-three, and is buried on the Seus ranch near Heber City, Utah.


Friday, September 8, 2017

Frankenspider and the Mouse…

I was recently reminded of an incident that occurred several years ago while we were still living in Colorado. One day my redheaded sweetheart, Tami, was putting something away under the kitchen sink. All of a sudden, I heard her scream as she quickly backed away from what she was doing. The mouse trap under the sink had done its job and had caught a mouse. For some reason, Tami has developed an aversion to mice that she never had when we were first married. Of course, I just laughed at her silly fear. I mean mice are so cute and fury, who could be afraid of them?

Being the big, strong he-man protector of my wife and home, I volunteered to dispose of the remains. I picked up the trap, with its contents and headed outside to toss the fury little carcass into the trees and brush behind the propane tank where I had unceremoniously dispatched previous mouse cadavers.

As I opened the door and prepared to step down onto the first of two steps that led to the walkway, I spotted a spider that – and I kid you not – was the size of a Volkswagen Beatle! Frankenspider saw me and JUMPED up the first step right toward me. I screamed, dropped the mouse and slammed the door.

Tami steadfastly refused to go outside because of the dead mouse. I was just as adamant that I wasn’t going outside because of Frankenspider. I rested all of my hopes on the possibility that Frankenspider would satisfy his hunger by eating the mouse, and he would leave us alone.

Eventually, he moved on to terrorize some of the other villagers, which is a good thing, because, if he hadn’t left, I would have been forced to call 911 again, which I am loath to do. Ever since the time I called to tell them about the flying monkeys that were eating all of our crabapples, they don’t seem to take me serious. Can you imagine someone not taking me serious?!?


Monday, August 28, 2017

Home Alone

One night not too long ago, after getting ready for bed, I managed to step on a push-pin that was on the floor as I walked into our bedroom. I managed to push it in to the hilt, which meant that it was almost a half of an inch into the heel of my right foot. There was some gnashing of teeth and a fleeting dalliance with a short list of some colorful expletives.

Tami was not home at the time so I was left up to my own devises with regard to the ministration of first aid. I did not want to pull it out right away because I knew that I would bleed all over the carpet and leave a trail of blood all of the way to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom downstairs. So I managed to hobble carefully downstairs, placing my weight first on my left foot, then judiciously on the toes only of my right foot. In this manner, I made it safely to the bathroom – almost. Crossing the kitchen on my way to the bathroom, I discovered some Goat-head burrs that the dog had brought into the house. They stick to his coat like some type of Satanic Velcro when he lies down in the yard. Unfortunately, I discovered them by stepping on one with my left (my good) foot.

Instinctively, I took the weight off of the foot with the Goat-head imbedded in it, and placed it on the foot with the push-pin imbedded in it. Having literally no leg to stand on, I wound up prostrate on the floor with both feet in the air in some foolish and futile belief that I could drain the pain out of them by lofting them heavenward. Somehow, on the way down, I managed to hit my elbow against the corner of the kitchen counter, thus accomplishing the rare and allusive trifecta of injuries within mere minutes of each other.

I believe that there was more gnashing of the teeth, and I may have developed a more intimate relationship with an expanded list of expletives. I can’t say for sure because I think I blacked out for a while.

In any case, Tami came home shortly thereafter and tended to my wounds and tucked me into bed.

If any of you remember the movie “Home Alone,” I felt like one of the robbers.




Friday, August 25, 2017

The Battle of Summit Springs

“Rescue during the Battle of Summit Springs”
Painting, 1908, by Charles Schreyvogel (1861–1912).
The Battle of Summit Springs occurred on July 11th, 1869, when a regiment of the U.S. 5th Cavalry, under the command of Major Eugene A. Carr, successfully engineered a mid-day attack on a camp of Southern Cheyenne Dog Soldiers led by Chief Tall Bull. The U.S. Army was ordered to attack in retaliation for a series of raids by the Cheyenne in north-central Kansas.

Monument to Susanna Alderdice

Remarkably, only a single trooper was wounded during the engagement, while 52 Indians were killed, including Chief Tall Bull. Seventeen women and children were captured, along with more than 300 horses and mules.

One white woman, who had been captured by the Cheyenne forty-two days earlier, Susanna Alderdice, died of a tomahawk wound to the head during the battle. Susanna's four year old son, Willis, was found the next day with four arrows in his back. Remarkably, he survived his wounds and lived until the age of fifty-five. Another white captive, Maria Weichell, was shot in the back but survived her injuries as well.

About fifty Pawnee, who were scouting for the Army, took part in the battle, as well as at least one white scout, William (Buffalo Bill) Cody.

The "road" leading back to the battle site
The site of the battle field is located about five miles south of Atwood, Colorado. We had to hike about a mile into the prairie off of County Road 43 to find the actual site where there are three monuments and a couple of other markers in place – including one marker on the actual spot where Chief Tall Bull’s tipi stood.

The author's wife, Tami, reading one of the monuments. In the background
are the ravines where some of the Indians made their stand.

A monument to an amazingly brave 15 year old Cheyenne boy


Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Revisiting The Golden Age of TV Westerns: The Rifleman

One of my favorite old-time TV westerns is The Rifleman, staring Chuck Connors. The show aired on ABC, and ran for five years from 1958-1963. Connors stood an imposing six-foot, six inches, so before landing his gig on The Rifleman, Connors played professional sports and is one of only a handful of American athletes to have played both Major League Baseball (with the Brooklyn Dodgers and the Chicago cubs) and in the National Basketball Association (with the Rochester Royals and the Boston Celtics). Connors was also pursued by the Chicago Bears to play professional football, but a football career never developed.

The uncredited star of the series was arguably the rifle used by Connors, which was a modified 1892 Winchester .44-40 carbine. The rifle was actually a little ahead of its time in the series, which was set in the late 1870’s and early 1880’s, which meant that Conner’s character, Lucas McCain, was using a rifle about twelve years before it was even produced.

In the opening scene to the show, McCain is walking down the center of Main Street in North Fork, New Mexico Territory, rapid firing the Winchester at some off-screen foe. Although the .44-40 Winchester carried eleven rounds in its magazine, viewers can watch McCain working the lever action on the rifle to fire off twelve shots. The reason for this is that the blanks being fired were shorter than the actual standard .44-40 Winchester Center Fire cartridges, so they were able to fit twelve rounds in the magazine. If you listen closely, however, you can hear a thirteenth round being fired. This additional round was dubbed into the audio track to sync the firing with the theme music for the show.

What I always got a kick out of was that after emptying his rifle in the opening scene, McCain deems it adequate to remove a single bullet from his shirt pocket in order to reload.