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| Teen Voice: Dealing with stress 2013-05-16 By Kendall Uhrich |
| I have learned so many things from being a senior in high school, but as I round down to my last days at the high school I have realized yet another thing: All of the movies portray senior year wrong. They all show the nerdy guy that gets with the pretty girl, or the football player who always sat the bench that finally gets his chance to score the winning touchdown. While all of these make a fantastic place in the cinema they are not what senior year is all about. To be completely honest, senior year is the most stressful year of high school. Between having two jobs, being involved in extra-curricular activities and taking classes that challenge me, there is barely any time that I didn’t feel overwhelmed. Seeing the end of this year come is one of the most releasing feelings I have ever had. But, along the way I had to learn just how to deal with all of the added stress I had. At first it wasn’t easy. At all. This is why I want to share with my readers my tips for not becoming so stressed out. First off, take time for yourself. This sounds odd. When we have a million tasks that we are supposed to complete that are just piling up it seems nearly impossible to take a moment to just not do anything, but trust me, it will help. Go into your room, or even your bathroom, lock the door, and just breathe. With all of the work, there is definitely a time where we just want to give up, but if we just take some time to relax we can power through without giving up. Another great thing I learned is how relaxing a drive by ourselves can be. Get in the car with absolutely no destination, and just drive. Turn the music up, or take moments to just enjoy the peaceful silence. Even though I am not the most athletic person, I have realized that taking a nice jog can be just as relaxing as a car ride, and the plus side? We get to burn calories while we do it. I like to listen to my music on my phone, and sort out all that I have to do so that it seems less overwhelming. Secondly, keep a schedule. I am literally one of the most unorganized people, but when it comes to a time that I am crunching my time just to get a homework assignment done, or to study for a test I know that it is time to start writing it all down. Go to Staples or Walmart and buy a cheap planner, or even just write it down on notebook paper. Just map out the day, and even find time for those moments that we can just relax. Third, do not isolate yourself . One of the worst mistakes I made this year was not making time to spend with others. I was constantly giving my laptop company, or my job, but it is vital to still set aside time for a social life. Success will come, but don’t lose those who matter because we were too stressed out. Go to dinner with a family member, or see a movie with a friend, take time to let them and yourself know that they mean more than whatever is on your schedule for work or school. Lastly, talk to people about the stress. We can’t just stay by ourselves and expect everyone to know we are stressed out and think they need to come to our rescue. As many things that you may see you need to get done, they don’t always see that. Tell others that you are stressed out, and get there advice on what to do, or even get their help with whatever project you have. If they love us they will most likely be willing to help us out. So, even though I am checking out of my senior year, I’m most likely not going to check out of stress, and with all of these tips put together I promise that stress will not be nearly as hard as it would be without them. |
| Observations Only: Willfulness 2013-05-16 By Nina Betz |
| The third set of characteristics is obeying-ruling. Elisabeth Haich in her book, “Initiation” describes the duty of every co-worker in the great divine plan, as absolute obedience to God's will. “The latter can manifest itself directly through us or through other people. We can recognize God's will when we thoroughly examine everything that is asked of us to be certain it is in agreement with our innermost convictions. God speaks to us through our innermost conviction and we must give him absolute divine obedience.” Willfulness however, a desire to go our own way despite sound reasoning and logic is contrary to obedience; also, to obey someone against our own conviction, purely for reasons of cowardice, fear, material advantage, or merely wanting to “be good” for low, personal reasons is servility and is satanical. Mothers are our first rulers who tell us no; don't touch that, don't eat that, and a myriad of other don'ts. A wise mother uses redirection to distract her child away from harmful actions toward what is safe and good. Some mothers are reluctant to correct their child and demand they obey them for fear of making the child angry, resulting in a child-in-charge home life; the result being a child who grows into a selfish adult who is mainly concerned with himself. Other mothers consider a lack of immediate obedience as disrespect for them and their possessions, and become angry with their child when it's not forthcoming in the manner desired and as soon as possible. Some mothers think that a birth certificate is ownership papers and expect the child to be grateful for their life and obediently sacrifice their hopes and dreams to please them. While others want to assure them self of a comfortable old age by sabotaging their child’s self confidence and making them dependent, so that their obedient child will never leave them. Teachers have classroom and playground rules, and parents of a student who isn’t obedient and considered disruptive are often asked to put their child on medication. Society has rules that are called laws that we're expected to abide by. With each step-up the consequence is more dire if we break the rules. “All I really need to know I learned in the sandbox;” is a quote by Robert Fulghum that is often repeated in different versions. Another saying that is often repeated is that rules are made to be broken. The trick is to avoid being a scofflaw, meaning a person who flouts the law for personal gain, regardless if their crime is brought to the attention of a police officer or known only to themselves. Ruling means having love, uniting all the forces active within the person and leading them towards a general well-being, without infringing on their right of self-determination. Any ruler who, without love and for selfish motives, imposes his will on others and violates their right of self-determination makes the divine activity of ruling into satanical tyranny and creates a spiritual wound in the soul. In the closing words of the biblical book, Ecclesiastes, King Solomon states, “Now all has been heard and here is the conclusion of the matter. Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed into judgment, including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil. By substituting the words divine obedience to a higher power we have succinctly brought King Solomon's words to present day and applied it to our lives. Obedience to a higher power is the ultimate degree of sacred trust. |
| From the Superintendent’s Desk - Financial Outlook for Gering Public Schools 2013-05-16 By Don Hague, Superintendent of Schools - Gering Public Schools |
| As many people are aware, this past year has been a challenge financially for Gering Public Schools due to changes in funding at the state level. We are continuing to operate the school on a very tight budget, trying to hold down general fund expenditures as much as possible while still continuing to provide a quality educational program. We also began planning for the 2013-14 school year with the goal of reducing our expenditures by approximately $900,000. This should provide the district with an opportunity to develop a budget that will actually show a small surplus, which will allow the district to recover some of the cash reserve funds that we have had to spend this year. We depend a great deal on state aid as a revenue source. Our revenue can go up and down as the legislators make changes to the state aid formula. One component of the state aid formula is the number of students in a particular district. During the past couple of years our enrollment has remained about the same with little or no growth, therefore we cannot plan on a significant increase in revenue. We must address this problem by reducing expenditures. In the past, I have shared with you that around 85 percent of our budget goes towards salaries and benefits for employees. In order for us to make a significant cut in expenditures we will need to make staffing cuts. We are doing these keeping two important goals in mind. First, we wanted to be able to make these cuts without imposing a reduction in force with our certified staff. We have been developing a plan, which meant looking very closely at every staff resignation as a possible reduction in staffing. It also means that we need to make some staff transfers between buildings as well as some specific re-assignments within buildings. At this time, we are planning to not replace eight certified staff members, which include one administrator, as we are moving from the current four elementary principals to three. We are also reducing some classified positions as well as reducing hours for our classified staff for the 2013-14 school year. Second, we are making every effort possible to maintain the quality educational programs we have developed here in Gering. We are looking at reducing some staff positions as well as adjustments in hours. We will also be implementing some other cuts in our budget that are not directly related to staffing to determine the total cuts necessary for the upcoming school year. Our budget year runs from Sept. 1 to Aug. 30, therefore the exact deficit will not be known until late summer. The outlook is not a lot better for the 2014-15 school year at this time as it looks like state aid will remain stagnate. There is some good news; with the graduation of a small senior class (136 students) and around 160 kindergarten students expected for next year, our enrollment will increase therefore generating additional revenue. I can assure you that all administrators and staff have worked hard to develop this plan and are doing everything they can to maintain the quality educational programs we have become accustom to here in Gering. I want to thank the community as well because some of the changes require adjustments on your part, as there are times we have to assign students to different buildings and we know this requires working through a transition for your student as well as the family. One thing for sure, having spent 24 years now as a superintendent, you have to learn quickly to adjust to change and many times you have no control at all over the issue that is changing. The only thing you can control is your attitude and staying positive throughout the changes you are faced with goes a long way in developing effective plans. Again, thanks for your cooperation and support of Gering Public Schools. |
| The Good Life - The worst day on record at the Citizen 2013-05-16 By Lisa Betz - Editor |
| On Monday at 2 p.m., the gizmo that we call a "drive" died. Before we purchased this black box, Jim Headley researched it carefully and we thought it backed up all data on the drive onto four additional disks. We discovered, much to our regret, that this black box did not in fact operate that way at all, the box created a “redundancy” and not a back up. Yesterday we lost every story, photo, file, document, template, everything the Citizen has created or collected since 2010. Thankfully, we have a great deal online, and all of the eEditions since our beginning are preserved there. All is not lost, but most everything we use today is gone. We do have some very old back ups we made before purchasing this device, but the template pages are a different size from the earliest days of the paper, when we printed on a smaller press in Greely, Colo. Late into Monday night, I was busy recreating all of the pages, and rebuilding our standard art folder with column photos, etc. (taken from our website). Our graphic artist, Andi Hale worked diligently into the night as well, bless her sweet soul, recreating ad after ad and working to find logos and artwork that we had lost. What a horrible day was Monday. And really, it was just the beginning. I couldn't sleep at all that night, a combination of being too warm and numerous interruptive thoughts as our loss sank into my brain. So much work from the last four years will have to be rebuilt each week as we do special sections, and try to retrieve the data we collect weekly for our annual reviews, it's overwhelming. But the silver lining is that we will be fresh and new, with opportunities to be creative that may have been missed otherwise. So thank you for being patient with us this week, dear readers. If the Citizen looks just a bit different than you are used to, you will know why. Say a little prayer for the Citizen staffers this week, everybody is in shock, but the first thing we had to do is put this week’s paper together for you, our readers and friends. Many of this week’s stories were completed, photos were ready, and then we lost it all. The staff had to rewrite many a story from memory and try to reshoot photos that had been filed before the crash, which happened well into our production process. Special thanks goes to Philip Eckerberg, who seems to be everywhere with his camera, and who was able to provide us with photos of events around town that had been lost to us in this mishap. Last Saturday, I worked diligently to create our Gering and Mitchell graduation tribute pages, carefully processing each grad photo for the press. The pages looked beautiful, so many smiling young faces. We planned to run the tributes this week and it was all ready to go when the crash happened. While I do have the grad photos on the disks that the schools provided, we will have to download and reprocess each photo, lay out the pages from scratch, and recreate all of the advertising. As a result we have decided to delay the graduate tribute by one week to give us time to do a nice job of it for the kids and their families. We hope that they and our readers will understand. A sliver of hope appeared on Tuesday as I realized that our business insurance may indeed cover a data recovery process. While our trusty technical support guy, Ben Kuhlman at Intralinks did not feel we’d be successful, he thought perhaps the companies who specialize in this may have tools that could be successful. Thank you Ben for your quick response to help us get back on our feet Monday. Until next week, we wish all of the Gering graduates a beautiful graduation day, and a memorable goodbye to their high school years. We have enjoyed covering your activities and accomplishments. Congratulations on a job well done. |
| Completely Different - The magic of spring 2013-05-16 By Elizabeth Gross |
| Coming up with columns every other week can be a daunting task. It involves a lot of mopping about and staring at the ceiling. There are endless questions whirling in your head as you begin to type; from whether people will like it to self doubt thinking this was the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever brought to life. My original column this week was about giving advice to young people who are graduating in these next few weeks. Yet unfortunately that column has been lost to the cyber gods. So, I opened up a new document this week thinking about another topic. I took stock of my environment, wondering how in the world I would find inspiration from my coffee mug. Then I felt a light breeze roll by from the open door of my office; the subtle temperature dropped rolled off of me finding a way to calm my already frazzled nerves. There is something magical about spring. While the collective “they” have us believe that Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year; I argue that it is without a doubt spring. The season of spring is a living, breathing nostalgia. It takes us back to when we were kids waiting for those final days of school to end. That there was the promise of adventure and late nights in the back yard. I took my lunch my lunch to Terry’s Lake thinking about what makes spring so special even now. The nostalgia is a given. As a young kid, I remember coming home to my grandparents in Mitchell Valley being the one event I was always excited for. Spring in Western Nebraska is one of the most beautiful times of the year. The snow is gone, the weather warms up just enough, and the branches of the trees begin to bloom. When summer, was finally in full swing it was like you were in a completely different town. People’s attitudes changed as they gathered their families and friends together for a night out. Who could of course forget Oregon Trail Days, as the event pumps through the veins of every person from the valley. It’s the time of the year when you come home no matter where life has taken you. After living here for a few years, I nick named it reunion season as it always seemed like people were holding their class reunions. It was my sophomore year of high school, when my best friend, her boyfriend, and a few other friends decided to go out to Lake Minatare to celebrate the ending of the school year. I just received my license that winter and felt like we needed to give the school year a nice send off. It was the first year, we had ever done it, so we rushed to the Sun-Mart gathering the few dollars we had to by food to eat. I still remember having all my windows open in the old Thunderbird I drove because the air conditioning didn’t work. We did that at the end of every school year until we graduated. The people who came along changed and we added the occasional sibling here or there. I also remember spring time growing up in Denver. Your first tip was always the mountains. During the winter, they stood proud with their blue, black, and dark presence. In the spring, they would lighten up adding a splash of color of greens and reds. We were always camping in the summer time and there was nothing better than waking up to the low echo of chirping birds. The mornings were always damp with a light mist hanging in the air. I remember one camping trip where the weather was terrible there were literally trees falling over all around us. At the time, I was scared but looking back now how many people can say they’ve seen that happen? Which is why when people make the comment ‘when a tree falls in the woods does it make a sound’ always irked me. Of course it does! It’s really loud by the way. Now, I dare you to think about a Christmas time that was completely perfect and compare that to springs and summers. I guarantee you that adventures in the spring and summer will always win. It truly is a time of rebirth, a time of relaxation, and simple fun. Even as adults, while being stuck in an office all day sucks; when we get home there is still enough day light. We can still have those wild weekend adventures or travel the world. How do you think your parents did it? Embrace spring and enjoy summer because it really is the most wonderful time of the year. |
| Across the Fence: The hand dug well 2013-05-16 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| Early pioneers to Nebraska, Kansas and all other regions of the west, where live streams and rivers or natural springs were miles away, usually dug a well for ready access to water. The digging was a long, tedious and dangerous undertaking that could consume months to complete. Well digging was usually done during ‘free’ time, that is, time when settlers were not building homes or barns or fences or were not turning the sod, planting or harvesting. Usually a family affair, the head of the household would do the digging, with pick and shovel, and the wife and children would perform the tasks of hauling out the buckets of dirt and rock using a windlass of some sort. Tragic and crippling accidents often occurred and infrequent casualties were the result of cave-ins or falls. No doubt a family celebration would be held when the final bucket of mud was hoisted out of the well and water began to seep in. No longer were trips to the nearest stream required to bring barrels of water to the homestead. After months of backbreaking work the family’s water supply was just outside the door. One of Nebraska’s favorite daughters, Mari Sandoz, wrote of her fathers’ well digging accident in her biography of ‘Old Jules.’ Jules had solicited the help of two recent emigrants to the Sandhills in exchange for his locating services to file claims on homestead land. During the course of digging, Jules was riding the bucket up after a day of digging. The two who were helping ‘top side’ with the hoisting and emptying of buckets decided it would be amusing to give Jules a fairly rough ride up and out of the pit. Too much horseplay and a frayed rope resulted in a crushing fall that shattered the bones in Jules’ foot. Far from medical help the compound fracture became infected and nearly cost Jules his life. The injury left Old Jules permanently crippled. Hand dug wells were usually made in a 3-foot by 3-foot square. Where soil was loose and unstable, cribbing made of lumber about 6-inches wide, would be cut to fit each of the four sides and would create a wall that kept the sides from caving in. Where rock or heavy clay created a more stable wall cribbing would not be necessary. Depths of one hundred feet or more were not uncommon though sometimes water was found at more shallow depths. Much deeper wells often incorporated a drum and tackle with a long pole attached to the drum. Ox or horses were used to turn the drum and draw the heavy barrels of water to the surface. The largest, though certainly not the deepest, hand dug well in the United States is in Greensburg, Kansas. Completed in 1888, the well was dug to supply water for the Santa Fe and Rock Island railroad and the city of Greensburg. At 109 feet deep and 32 feet across it supplied water for the railroad and for the municipality until 1932. On the high plains of western Nebraska, the years from 1890 to 1895 were a severe drought. Without rain for livestock and crops, homesteads were abandoned and wells that had been dug were left to the elements. Over time, grass and weeds overgrew the old wells as windlasses and wooden frames disappeared. One such well was located in Custer County, Nebraska. One Mr. F. W. Carlin related this story that was published in the Custer County Beacon on September 5, 1895 and recorded in A. E. Sheldon’s 1913 History and Stories of Nebraska: “While driving through the country about fifteen miles northwest of Broken Bow on the evening of August 14th, I found I had taken a wrong track and driven up to some old sod buildings. I turned my team around and started toward what looked like a good road, when one of my horses seemed to step into a place. O got out of my wagon and started alongside the team to be sure that the road was all right when, without a moment’s notice, I became aware of the fact that I had stepped into an old well and was going down like a shot out of a gun. ‘I placed my feet close together, stretched my arms straight over my head and said, “O God, have mercy on me,” and I honestly believe that saved my life; but I went down, down, and it seemed to me I would never reach the bottom. The farther I went, the faster I went, and never seemed to touch sides at all. ‘I supposed, of course, it would kill me when I struck the bottom, but God had heard my prayer. I struck in the mud and water, which completely covered me over. I was considerably stunned, but was able to straighten up and get my head above water. I scrambled around and finally pulled my legs from the mud at the bottom and stood on my feet in the water, which came just up to my arms. I was very cold and tried a number of times to get out of the water, only to fall back. The curbing was somewhat slimy. I finally managed to break off a little piece of board and found a crack in which I managed to fasten it and perched myself upon it until morning. “While sitting there I heard my team running away. In its remaining by the well was my only hope of rescue, for I was aware of the fact that I was at least a mile-and-a-half from the nearest house and that no one knew that I was there. “There I sat until morning. It was about nine o’clock when I fell in and I was drenched and plastered with mud. The only serious injury I received was a badly sprained ankle which gave me great pain. I also had a sore place on my back, which I found a number of days afterwards was a broken rib. “As soon as daylight appeared I began to look around and take in the situation. In looking up it seemed to be at least one hundred feet to the top. I learned afterwards that it was exactly 143 feet I at once concluded that my only chance of rescue was my knife… I took it and began cutting footholes in the sides of the curbing. It was very slow, but sure. When I would get to the top of a curbing I took the board that I had cut out and made me a seat in one corner and in this way I think I got up about fifty feet the first day. “Some time in the afternoon I came to a curbing which I thought I could not get through. It was of solid one by six inch boards, closely fitted together and not less than sixteen feet to the top of it. I made myself a good seat, fixing myself as comfortable as possible, and concluded that I must stay there and await assistance or die there. I stayed there all the next night… “I remained at that point the greater part of the next forenoon, calling often for help. I began to give up all hopes. I thought of my wife and little boy… That was too much. I made up my mind to get out or die in the attempt. [Using my knife] I began cutting away the curbing and making one foothole after another. I cut, climbing higher and higher, and was at last on the top of the curbing. [Then] I cut holes in the clay for my hands and feet with my knife, and finally got within sixteen feet of the top. At that point, the curbing was loose and Mr. Carlin feared that it would collapse and take him with it, back down to the bottom of the well. He determined that the best way to reach the top from there was to dig behind the curbing and create a tunnel that would take him between the curbing and the earth wall behind. The earth behind the curbing was easily removed and after little more than half an hour of digging he finally reached the top. Hauling himself up and onto the edge of the well, Mr. Carlin lay, exhausted, for quite some time. He slept there that night and the next day crawled to the neighbors, one and one-half miles away, where he found help. Senator Beal, of Custer County, told the story of Mr. Carlin’s ordeal to the Nebraska legislature of 1897. The result was that an act was passed requiring landowners to fill abandoned wells, on their property, to the top with dirt. Failure to do so would result in the local county arranging the required backfill at the owner’s expense. The law remains on the Nebraska statute books to this day. M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist. To contact Tim, email; mtimn@aol.com |
| The Good Life: Mom, my partner in life 2013-05-09 By Lisa Betz - Citizen Editor |
| Mothers deserve more than one day out of the year to be honored. As with all holidays, we wouldn’t need this specially designated day if we simply lived in gratitude and love as we should do, honoring our mother, our Valentine, our father as we live each day. I’ve never been one who bah humbugged these special holidays though. I like having a designated day for honoring special people in my life. I enjoy Cousin’s Day too, even if it is just a post on Facebook that causes me to think about how much I love them. I told my mom just the other day that I doubted my cousins even know how much I love them because I hardly ever see them, yet they are big in my heart. Now back to mothers and Mother’s Day. No mother/child relationship has ever been the same in all of history. Think of that. Mothers everywhere are the first beings in our lives to teach us about love. It is the nourishment they provide us before birth, the first touch as a newborn, the mirror in their eyes as they look into our soul when we take our first breath. Our mother’s love for us sets us on our course in life. Like many daughters experience, my mom and I have gone through numerous cycles of change in our lives together. From being dependent, becoming independent, needing a button sewn on, a prom dress made, moving away, needing advice, needing help, a sympathetic ear, a divorce; my mother has been my partner and friend, and has never given up this belief that I am destined for great things. If only we could all see ourselves as our mother sees us, the potential in us for greatness. Of course, my mom also sees my flaws, and rarely does she point them out, unless there is a serious need to do so. I am one of the most fortunate women I know because I can honestly say that my mother is my soul mate. I don’t use the term in any romantic way, as many often do. For me, a soul mate is a person who is like a lifetime partner, part of your soul family, one that you’ve probably lived multiple lifetimes with, being mother, daughter, sister, friend, and swapping roles along the way. (Yes, I believe in reincarnation.) And this is the only thing that explains to me the relationship I have with my mom. She is all of the things I described, and even my business partner, although that only works well because we both agree that I am the boss. Not too many moms could handle their child being the boss, but my mom does a pretty good job of it. She has costumed plays I have directed, and she willingly plays the role of support staff in shared projects, because after all, someone has to take the lead, and I do. Mom and I have taught each other many things over the years, swapping interesting books, discussing religion, philosophy, metaphysics, and we both seem to be fascinated equally with these topics. Of all the people in my life whom I have encountered as friends, family and loved ones, my mom is the soul mate of this life. And while we have our ups and downs, she is the one person I don’t ever want to be without. Chances are that I will have to learn how to do that someday, but for now, I can’t even consider that. I have watched my mother grow as a person throughout her life. Children often see their parents as finished products, people who have it all figured out, but that’s not true of any of us, no matter how long we live. My mother is compassionate, kind, wise and becoming more beautiful every day. She is also quirky and fun. Friends throughout my life have always adored her and have even given her the nickname of Foxy. No matter my certainty about big decisions I am making, it is always important for me to have her nod of approval. That’s just the way it is for me. It seems that in the last few years though, I have been driving the bus, going to her with ideas like buying our building here on 10th Street, buying the paper from Jim and doing things on the farm that I want to do. It might seem strange to think of one’s mother as a lifetime partner or soul mate, but there is no other way I can describe the importance of my mother, Nina Betz. She is pure brilliance, not perfect, but perfect for me, the perfect mother for me in this lifetime. And I know that I had better mind my Ps and Qs, for who knows, perhaps in our next lifetime, she will be the boss, the one driving the bus, and I will be on the support staff. |
| Observations Only: Temptation 2013-05-09 By Nina Betz |
| The second set of opposite characteristics as discussed by Elisabeth Haich in her book “Initiation,” is receptivity-resistance to influence. This is a stumbling block that every person who has ever lived has wrestled with at some point in their life. Divine receptivity means that we are open to everything that is high and beautiful, good and true. Ability to resist influence means the ability to resist without flinching, all low influences; a refusal to be led or enticed away from the higher good. On the other hand, receptivity or impressionability can be disastrous and becomes satanic if it deteriorates into a spineless lack of character and capitulation to influence. Become a people watcher and you’ll notice that some are trying to influence others by constantly talking about love and goodness, wearing sweet smiles of smugness, and trying to show others on all possible occasions that they are loving and good but only on the outside. They wear the mask of love and goodness but when it comes to deeds, they reveal their selfishness because their character is selfish. Another person may never talk about goodness and never think about being “good” himself; yet the way he thinks, what he says and does arises out of goodness in his heart because he himself is goodness. A resistant personality doesn’t think about this because they are what they are. They don’t need to speak about themselves because everything they say or do is the expression of what they are, the genuine manifestation of themselves. Being receptive or impressionable also means that the door to our inner self is open and vulnerable to outside influences. During our life’s journey we meet people who are slaves to their bodies by confusing needs and wants; who can easily tempt others with subtle manipulation. We are coaxed by them into going where we don’t belong, spending too much, eating unhealthy food because they do these things and want company; the old adage of ‘misery loves company’ is still with us because it’s based in truth. Advertising tries to convince us that we want new, bigger, more of everything. The entertainment industry wants us to look at increasingly violent, ugly and explicit images and people who enjoy these things become desensitized to the negative influence on their well-being. A number of years ago I was visiting the home of a friend. She mentioned that her favorite recording artist, Steven Tyler, was performing on MTV and asked if I wanted to watch it with her. After the performance I asked her why she wanted to watch the show when his onstage antics and close ups were visually ugly. Her comment was that she just liked the excitement and high she got from the music. She said she hadn’t thought about the aftermath of coming down from the high or the impact on her young daughter. Receptivity becomes divine if we are open to the will of a higher power; open to what is high and beautiful, good and true and eschew ugly, negative influences. By practicing keeping silent and being slow to talk we buy ourselves time to hear our inner divine voice steering us away from influences that lead us into the shadows instead of toward the light. Resisting the influence of something we want so much even though we know it isn’t good for us is a most difficult task that can keep us on the edge between the divine and the satanic. Keeping silent and listening to what is said by others, coupled with careful observation of their actions allows us to match their words with their deeds; a method of determining whether we would be wise to be receptive or resistant of their influence. |
| Across the Fence: Class of ’67, last remnants of home 2013-05-09 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| This past week I made an unplanned trip back home. I say home but actually, my home is no longer there. My home place was abandoned and burned down decades ago when the bank foreclosed on a family Ag business gone bad. Northeast Kansas is the region I call home and it is there that I spent my first 25 years. Anxious for new beginnings I jerked loose of my roots and transplanted myself ‘out west’ in the long evening shadows of the Rocky Mountains. After high school I literally helped to pave my own future path when I worked building wash-checks and bridges on an unfinished section of Interstate 70 from Brewster, Kansas to the Colorado line. I gave college the proverbial ‘college try’ and failed miserably in the first go-round. It would take me a few more years of maturity and self-evaluation before I knew what direction I would take my life although I would still take a couple of wrong turns. It seems that I always knew that I would not stay near Nortonville, Kansas. From the time I entered high school I made a conscious effort to lose the Kansas twang that pinpoints and stereotypes the country bumpkin’s of the Missouri River Valley. My wife Deb claims that when I’m somewhat tired, or perhaps a bit lazy and unaware, she can detect a little of the old Kansas-boy lingo in my voice. I’m not ashamed of my beginnings but neither am I ashamed of my hard-earned education. But I’m getting off track, so back to the unplanned trip. My dad turned 90 years old this past October and his health has steadily declined since. Frequent dizzy spells and blackouts have left him bruised and confused since doctors had been unable to pinpoint the cause. A recent episode required an ambulance and well trained EMT’s quickly discovered the source of his problems. In less than 24 hours Dad was diagnosed, prepped and implanted with a life-changing pacemaker. His first week was a little on the rough side and antibiotics had left his immune system in shambles. It got to the point where he told my sister that he didn’t think he was going to pull through this one. That’s when I decided to make the trip. I arrived at the nursing home in Nortonville in the late afternoon. Because of the bacterial infection that had invaded him, I had to suit up in a surgical gown, latex gloves and mask. The sanitary barrier made our greeting seem a bit cold and sterile. But Dad was in good spirits and I could tell right away that he planned to fight this setback. Being under quarantine we had supper together in his room and we visited until he was ready to turn in for the night. The next morning I returned to the nursing home, went to his room and gave him a long, good-morning hug. (Without the gown, gloves and mask) We talked the morning away visiting about family, friends and memorable events. We covered the health and well being and current events of children and grandchildren. We talked of summer haying and winter feeding, calving, drought, fire, days gone by and progress. We talked of past, present, future and eternity. And he told me once again of his first and only love, the first and only girl he ever kissed, the girl that was my mother. This was the story that I had heard, for the first time, a little less than a year ago just after his first love was buried. He still loves her and I think he tells her so nearly every day. After lunch Dad was scheduled for physical therapy, a bath and then a nap. I stayed until the nurses ran me out and promised to return later. With a couple of hours to spare I decided to take a walk around the town that I hadn’t truly looked at for over 45 years. I walked up the alley behind the grocery store where I worked after school and weekends during my high school years. The store is closed now, just like all the other main street establishments. The bank, where I opened my first savings account, is gone. The drug store and soda shop is boarded up and empty. The café is dark and lifeless with windows painted over and a padlock on the door. The old tavern is still there, its neon ‘Miller on Tap’ sign fluttering an uncertain ‘OPEN’ although there were no lights on inside. The narrow, weather worn door looked downright unfriendly and I had no urge to go in. At the city park I stopped at the recently built veterans memorial, an inlaid patchwork of engraved bricks honoring those Nortonville heroes’ that had served. I found my grandfather, ‘Fredrick Nolting Pvt. U.S. Cavalry WWI’, my uncle ‘E.R. Zeek Pharm. Mate U.S. Navy WWII’ and scores of other known and unknown names. I walked past the lot where the beautiful stone structure, that was the Union Pacific Depot, was torn down in the early seventies to make room for a tennis court and shook my head, once again, at the senseless sacrifices made in the name of progress. I would wager that the number of people in Nortonville that ever played tennis would fit comfortably in a VW Beetle. I walked to the abandoned building that was Nortonville Public School. Built in 1936 it was, according to the brass plaque, an emergency project of the Conservation Corps. I don’t recall the exact year that it closed, but I think it was in the early seventies. After twelve years in that building, from first grade to senior year, I graduated with seventeen classmates in 1967. Of those seventeen classmates I was the only one that didn’t stay in Nortonville. As I walked around the building, saddened by broken windows and crumbling stonework, I remembered the locations of every piece of missing playground equipment. I remembered the missing evergreens that lined the sidewalk and the globe-topped pillars that had stood guard at the sidewalks entrance. There was the towering slide, the giant-strides, the merry-go-round, swings and teeter-totter. I watched, in my memories, as my best friends Danny and Steve pushed the merry-go-round faster and faster until our girlfriends screamed, “Stop!” In the back, by the wood shop, I was fortunate to find the owner at the door. After introductions and a brief explanation of why I was snooping around, I asked if I could go inside the building and was delighted to get permission and a flashlight. Once inside I was filled with a constant bombardment of memories. My first grade room the place where, under Miss Greeley’s desk, I kissed Sherry Johnson and missed recess as punishment. The stairway where we always slid down the bannister, ignoring the warnings of, “Now stop it boys! Somebody’s going to get hurt.” I still carry the scar above my right eye. There was the stage where the footlights illuminated my performances in school plays and chorus concerts. The hard maple basketball court floor still shone with the layers of varnish where team victories were celebrated, prom dances held and final graduation ceremonies conducted while the school band played Pomp and Circumstance. For the first time ever I stood in the principal’s office without having been called but still I heard Mr. Provost’s booming Boston accent as I stood in humble submission. I found my old locker where sometimes, in my dreams, I panic over having left something behind on that last day of classes. It was empty. And so was the trophy case that once held so many accomplishments made permanent on engraved brass chalices and silver, gold and bronze medallions. I stood in the now empty library where dark oak bookshelves lined the walls and row after row of study tables were cluttered with homework and textbooks. I stared at the stub of wire above the door where the intercom speaker hung and remembered the solemn announcement that reduced our stoic English teacher, Miss Cordon, to a trembling shudder of tears, “Students, teachers, President Kennedy has been shot.” I left the crumbling plaster walls, the scattered debris of insulation and suspended ceilings, the starkness of empty rooms and echoing memories and thanked the owner for his generosity. The old building is for sale. For $49,900 dollars one could own 23,000 square feet of storage space crammed full of memories. Empty hallways and classrooms where homecomings will never again be held. I walked back to the nursing home and found Dad still napping. I watched him sleep and waited. When he woke we visited more and I prepared to leave. “I won’t be going back out to the farm,” Dad said before I left, “When I get out of here I’ll go across the street to assisted living. I can’t cook and clean and do everything I need to do to take care of myself.” “I’m okay with that.” He said matter-of-factly. “I want you to take those pictures and the other things we talked about. Okay? I’ll see you again sometime this summer.” I drove back across Nebraska knowing that Dad was going to be fine. In the back seat was a box of pictures, mementoes and other things we had talked about. They were the last remnants of home. M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist, freelance writer, poet and entertainer. To contact Tim, email; mtimn@aol.com |
| A Stray Moment: God Knows 2013-05-09 By Doug Harris |
| By I hesitated to write this column as it might be seen as self-serving, but that isn’t my intent. This is an open invitation to join a unique spiritual discussion group that has managed to facilitate a (mostly) civil discussion between people of diverse faith, agnostic ambiguity, and non-believers. “God Knows” is the title of a book that I co-wrote with Ian Hewitt. Our book is a conversation between a believer (me) and a humanist who would accept the label atheist. We based some of our conversation on a series of questions that were presented by Newsweek magazine to Rev. Rick Warren and atheist author Sam Harris. The book generated some chatter among family and friends so a Facebook discussion group page was started. What started as a small group of friends has grown to include nearly 200 members. Our posts and threads on the “God Knows” Facebook group have ranged from the profound to the irreverent and silly. What I find interesting is that such a diverse group of people with so many different viewpoints have managed to maintain a respectful tone even while expressing complete disagreement with one another. The group has attracted believers and non-believers alike. The discussions have been occasionally derailed by the overzealous or those seeking to air political grievances, but for the most part in the two years since the group was created we’ve managed to maintain a focus on our theme: a discussion about faith, non-faith, existence, and the nature of reality. We have had long threads where we’ve discussed everything from gay marriage to ‘are angels real?’ to ‘what is the meaning of grace?’ I’ll admit that last year, during the presidential campaign, emotions and opinions got more shrill than usual, but the group weathered the storm and returned to the topic at hand. Our youngest member is 14-years-old and our oldest member is 88. I have counted over 20 teachers in the group, six or seven ordained ministers, three Catholic nuns, a priest, and other church lay-persons. But this is decidedly not a Christian group. “God Knows” is all inclusive. Among our members are Atheists, Muslims, New-Agers, Unitarians, Mormons, Jews, Hindus, and Pagans. Republicans, Democrats, Libertarians, independents, socialists, and more have all engaged in an ongoing civil dialogue. We have members from all over the world. If you are interested the group is open to anyone who uses Facebook. Ian and I met in Laramie, Wyo. about ten years ago. Ian is originally from Lincolnshire, England and was raised in a humanist oriented home that was ambivalent about spirituality. I was raised in Nebraska and attended Sunday school and became a confirmed member of the Lutheran Church (ELCA). Ian and I became friends because we had many mutual interests and were co-workers. One day a conversation came up where I professed my belief in God. Being new to America Ian’s impression of religious belief was deeply tainted by conservative pundits who claimed to have cornered the market on God via their political viewpoints. After I said I was a person of faith Ian looked at me and said, “That surprises me. You seem pretty intelligent and cool. You didn’t seem the type to get mixed up in all that nonsense.” This spurred further discussion. I liked the guy and valued his opinion. I wanted to reassure him that a person of faith can continue to be ‘intelligent and cool’ despite having a spiritual foundation. We started to send each other emails exploring the nature of what we believed about the big picture issues such as the creation of the universe or the nature of forgiveness. We agreed to read the literature we normally might not have considered. I loaned Ian spiritual books by Thomas Aquinas, and C.S. Lewis. He in turn gave me the atheist works of Dr. Richard Dawkins, and Christopher Hitchens. He soon learned that I was among the more liberal leaning crowd when it came to my faith. He had assumed many of my social positions in advance, taking it as a fact that Christians were close-minded bigots who seemed more interested in controlling people over helping them. I had assumptions of my own also. Most atheists that I have visited with seemed to be scornful and sarcastic, even angry. This wasn’t the case. Ian was open-minded and respectful. We earnestly wanted to understand ‘why’ we concluded such wildly different explanations to what is essentially unknowable. In our discussions we learned to agree to disagree, but we also learned that through our mutual humanity we shared more in common than not. We both believed in charity. We both believed in compassion. We both believed in forgiveness. Our common bond on approaching everyday life didn’t need to be defined by our non-faith or faith. There was no debate to win or lose. This helped us both lead one another on an inner-journey to get to the core of what and why we believed. He learned that not all Christians denounced science or ignored the theory of evolution. I learned that not all atheists are lurking in the dark corners of society plotting to destroy morality or undermine common-sense value systems. The “God Knows” group continues the conversation. We have learned and shared many things. I have learned of different philosophers and humanist writers that I had never heard of before. Those in the group have recommended movies, books, poems, and songs that have enriched my life. It is a place where we can nurture one another. Sometimes the sharing is surprisingly intimate. We have discussed death and loss. We have shared our hopes and fears. When the group first started I attempted to act as administrator. I deleted a few posts that I thought were in poor taste or had offensive language. The group practically cut my head off in protest. After some discussion we all decided the group conscious should be allowed to ‘organically evolve’ (as one member put it). I started the group so friends could discuss our book but it has organically evolved into something I could not have foreseen. It has become a haven of earnest interaction between those who might have avoided discussing anything at all due to innate prejudices or a tendency to stereotype. Recently, I had a chance to visit with Steve Farrell, coordinating director of Humanity’s Team, a global grassroots organization that promotes ‘oneness’ among all people. While he indicated that hard science has shown the link to our inter-connectedness he also said he believed in a unifying higher power that is present in all life. Farrell noted that everyone tends to have a compulsion to seek out this calming presence either via a spiritual journey or communing with nature. The believer, the agnostic and the atheist can find common cause and walk together hand in hand with mutual purpose. We can share the journey within and without. We can help one another. What unites us is much bigger than anything that separates us. I have seen it in action on a humble Facebook page. There are universal things found in the human spirit. It doesn’t matter if we come from different backgrounds or different belief systems. God Knows we are all in this together and a spirit of oneness can create a better tomorrow. |
| Life in the Rearview Mirror: Experiencing life passion 2013-05-09 By Glenn Hascall |
| Have I told you about my friend, Fred Passmore? No? Well in early 2006 I was still in the valley – still working at KCMI and still mayor of Terrytown, but Fred had contacted me about sharing sketch-based comedy for a radio show he was producing and I threw caution to the wind and said, “Why not?” I had never met Fred, and I’d never produced comedy, but he and his friend Jon were a singing comedy duo that had found some success on their own. To be asked to work on something for him was an honor and something I agreed to before I really thought things through. I produced one or two things before the move south and then continued producing in my new location. A year later Fred asked if we could bundle these comedy bits together and create a comedy album. I referred to myself as the most famous sit down comedian in my town. Since I was the only one I guess it fit. Fred has an audio label of his own and graciously invited me to provide voice on a number of his projects. I’ve even provided some minor consulting on some of his endeavors. That work with Fred ultimately led to my involvement in audio drama. While my first audio drama was produced in the mid 1990s I found a team of individuals who have been instrumental in taking my dramatized stories to a whole different level than what I could do on my own. To date I have written or provided voice for more than 100 audio drama projects, but there are many occasions when I stop to think about the guy that reintroduced me to the love of audio drama (using comedy). Fred. As time has passed there are new names added to my list of mentors and champions of the cause. John Tadrzak has provided great opportunities to develop my own audio drama and gave the finished product a home on the web for others to hear the result. Mike Murphy mentored me in the process of casting calls and new methods of audio development. Katie Dehnart, Tom Chalker, Russell Gold, Delvin Kinser and Natalie Stanfield Thomas and so many others have all been voice actors that have been very supportive of my work and have lent their voices often. Why are so many names mentioned? Whether it’s radio, public office, writing, or audio drama there are people who help along the way. No one can easily get to where they are going if they don’t have someone to help point the directions, provide navigational assistance and speak great stories into existence. I honestly have no idea why I have been allowed to do the things I do, but with my father’s earliest encouragement I have tried to remain unafraid to try new things and explore new doors. None of the doors has ever made me rich, but I remain amazed at what I get to do. Charmed life? No, I don’t think so. I think the two greatest lessons I’ve learned along the way are these – 1) Help others and accept their help, 2) Never fail to say thank you for opportunities while doing your work to the best of your ability. Who can you thank today that has been instrumental in helping you find your place of life passion? |
| Teen Voice: Go ahead, make my day 2013-05-09 By Kendall Uhrich |
| Every Sunday I go to work at eight o’ clock in the morning, and for this groggy teenage girl, that is about four hours too early. By the time we get to our Sunday lunch rush at noon I am ready to call it a day. But, even in my tired state, there are still those who manage to make my day. And trust me, in customer service it is rarer to get compliments than to get yelled at, but even through the blow outs with angry customers, there are still those that manage to blow my mind, and in the best way. There is one particular customer who always orders a turtle sundae and will wait by the counter until someone will get it for him, and when I am the worker who helps him, he has a smile on his face as he says, “I’m glad you’re the one getting it. You always make them the best.” Although it isn’t a huge gesture, it makes my day ten times better. When we simply take time to tell someone they are doing a good job, it can make their day. Everyone faces so much negativity that being able to get complimented, even for the smallest thing, can turn someone’s bad day into a great one. There are so many regulars at work that I have nearly three quarters of their orders memorized when I see them. I love these customers. Some of them can be picky, which to an outsider seems like we would find them annoying, but quite to the contrary. They actually take time to learn our names and ask us how our day is going. And upon having a conversation with another customer service worker, I realized that is a phrase we never have asked back. We ask, “How is your day?” Most of the time I just get a “Good.” It’s refreshing to actually have someone ask me for once, and these people do. But, one of the main reasons I am writing this column is to talk about my next individual. If there is one person I can point to and say, “He/she is the reason I still have faith in humanity,” it is him. He comes every Sunday, it is a routine. I take off some Sundays from my job, but he will always be a Sunday customer. He always has a smile on his face, waits patiently for his order, and has never complained. These are all reasons for me to like him, but it’s not his manners that make him stand out, it is his attitude. So many customers have the mentality that they just order food and leave, but he will still sit and have a conversation with me and this is especially striking, because he can’t talk. Now, I am not positive if it is because he is mute, or he is deaf, but he always writes his order on a piece of paper, so that we can plug it into our machines. Although he can’t speak to me like other customers, he finds his own way to have a conversation. I can always see him mouth the words, “How are you?” And I smile, nod, and say, “Good.” When I take his order he often grabs my hand and mouths to me, “Thank you.” And I can tell by the look in his eyes that he is truly sincere. Even if I am standing far away, he will spot me, and come over just to make sure he says hello to me. He is the reason my Sundays are worth getting up at eight o’ clock in the morning for. He is the reason I maintain a smile even through a 12-hour shift. The amount of kindness I have learned from him is enough to teach a whole community a lesson. There are so many able customers I see. There are so many that have the full ability to tell me, “Thank you” or ask me how I am, but they never take the chance. Their ability is stifled by the fact that they don’t even try. He tries so hard to have a conversation that it nearly brings me to tears. The one person who can’t talk to me, talks to me the most. It is humbling. It is astonishing. If we are fully able, why don’t we show the same kind of compassion that someone who isn’t able does? If we all showed that kind of dedication to others just imagine the kind of world we could live in. |
| Jane’s secret, XXVI: The suitcase 2013-05-09 By Nina Betz |
| The good people of Fort Laramie are busy this particular day in late spring; their early tasks are completed and it’s now midmorning. Housewives sent children off to school, did the wash and pinned it to the clothes line, put little ones down for a nap and set bread to rise in the sun streaming in the kitchen window, and finally have a chance to sit down with a slice of coffee cake and a cup. Shop keepers have served the first rush of customers and pour themselves a well deserved cup of coffee. Old men, ensconced at their usual corner table pretending to play poker, are really gawking at comings and goings, hoping for some excitement. Old women, who take their responsibilities as guardians of the town morality very seriously, are leaning across the back fence trading information. Little do they suspect the coming maelstrom that is about to descend on the village revealing a long kept secret that forces them to take sides, destroying their peace for a long time to come. Breakfast in the doctors’ house is over and Jane is rising from her chair, anxious to start carrying her sisters’ belongings outside to make room for the elegant furniture from the Chicago house. “I’ll just take this left over toast and bacon up to Hazel and tell her not to expect a breakfast tray,” Bridget says, hastily plopping the food on a plate and hurrying out of the room before Jane can stop her. Upstairs, Bridget taps on the door while carefully holding the plate. “Finally,” Hazel thinks, setting aside the small battered suitcase and going to the door. “I don’t think Jane believes you’re sick; she said there was too much work to do and no time to prepare a tray, and you can just come down stairs and get it yourself,” she explains, carrying the plate of cold bacon and toast into the room. Bridget sits down on the bed and watches Hazel eat for a few minutes before noticing the suitcase. “What an old suitcase,” Bridget says, examining the worn labels stuck to the side. “This one says, Fort L but the last part is torn away; at least I think that’s what it says; how odd,” Bridget says, looking at Hazel for an explanation. “It does? I hadn’t noticed. I needed a suitcase and found this one; I decided to use it when I moved to Fort Laramie to teach school,” Hazel explains nervously, still holding her plate, thinking her voice sounded false. “I better get down stairs before Jane comes looking for me,” Bridget says, a little too cheery. “Do I look alright to meet the school superintendent,” Hazel asks, wanting to distract Bridget from the suitcase. “You present a very nice appearance,” Bridget replies, admiring the close fitting, navy colored shirtwaist dress with white collar an cuffs. “I hope so, if this teaching position doesn’t work out I have no place to go,” Hazel blurts out, and then wishes she hadn’t. “Then we will make sure that it does work out,” Bridget says with a little wave before slipping out the door and pulling it shut behind her, her thoughts on the mysterious suitcase. Hazel peruses the little suitcase, noting the tattered leather and missing grip. “It has to be important, I just don’t know why,” she frets, fingering the ruffled edges of the label that led her to Fort Laramie. “Time’s wasting,” she reminds herself, pinning a small blue and white hat to her upswept red hair; throwing a soft, white wool shawl around her shoulders, she picks up her reticule. After a second thought Hazel goes to the window and looks out at the sky. I better take an umbrella, she decides, hooking it over her arm before slipping down the back stairs and out of the house with Jane none-the-wiser. Finally, Harvey can get our things from the Chicago house and I will have a place to call home while our new house is being built. Gertrude and Stephen should appreciate using my beautiful things instead of crabbing about it, Jane muses. “Aggie, block the doors open so we can carry the furniture outside,” Jane says, pulling out drawers to lighten the end tables. “Yes Mrs. Hogg,” Aggie murmurs, and hastens to do Jane’s bidding. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, we can do this without men; I grew up on a ranch remember,” Jane snorts, laughing at the expression on their faces, thinking her delicate appearance is the cause. Sometime later, despite the window peepers and gawking crowd; after much struggle, unladylike grunting and straining, the public rooms are bare of furniture save the kitchen and the doctor’s office. “What Doctor and Mrs. gonna say about this, I dunno,” Aggie mutters under her breath. “Did you say something, Aggie,” Jane snaps. “Nothing Mrs. Hogg, must been my stomach growling; didn’t have no lunch,” Aggie replies hastily. “It’s thundering and it’s going to rain,” Bridget says matter-of-fact, heartsick over what Jane forced them to do to the lovely old furniture. “Thunder?” “Oh, it is overcast; it does look like it’s going to rain,” Jane says, looking up at the sky, unconcerned about the furniture setting out in the rain. “I’m going to sit right here and catch my breath,” Jane says, plopping down on the settee in the middle of the yard, unconcerned that her dress is wrinkled and her hair hanging in her face. “Aggie, make some sandwiches, and make some hot tea,” Jane orders. “What are we going to sit on until the Chicago furniture arrives?” Bridget asks, beginning to wonder about Jane’s’ lack of embarrassment. “I imagine we’ll just go upstairs to our bedrooms as soon as dinner is over,” Jane replies, thinking that’s the best way to wait out the unpleasantness. “Not to worry,” Harvey will get some men together and bring our things from Cheyenne tomorrow; by night fall we will have all the furniture placed and I will finally have all my clothes and personal things,” Jane replies happily, sure that after she explains the logic of using her elegant furniture Gertrude will get over her anger like she always does. “Excuse me, my names Freddie and this here’s Bitsy, we just got hitched and we was wondering what’cha gonna do with this stuff you threw out?” he says, hat in hand. “You’re welcome to take whatever you want,” Jane replies. “Oh thank you,” Bitsy gushes, dropping a curtsy in front of Jane. “Take whatever you want,” she says to the neighbors who’ve moved closer to hear what was being said. “I want the lamps.” “I saw them first,” shouts a voice. “Well, I have them, now,” cackles the first voice. “Look at the cabinet with the glass front, I want that.” “Velvet chairs.” Aggie hears what sounds like a bunch of chickens clucking and joins Bridget on the porch. “What’s Doctor and Mrs. gonna do with that woman livin’ here,” Aggie mutters. Bridget wordlessly shakes her head. The cheap tawdry furniture is gone with no chance of getting it back, Jane smirks, going into the house for a late luncheon and a cup of tea. |
| Guest Voices… 2013-05-09 By |
| Editor’s note: The following stories were written in the freshman English class taught by Lisa Hadenfeld of Gering’s Freshman Academy. Why am I here? By Kiersten Newton I am here to make mistakes, to be hurt by people, but then realize that it is better to forgive and forget than to hold a grudge. I am here to make life happen, to learn to love and love to learn. I am here to realize that school is part of life and that it will get better in the future. I am here to learn that grandma does know best, but nobody will listen, I am here to play softball, to win some and lose some. I am here to live my life to the fullest. I am here to love and to be loved. Most of all, I am here to do my best and try my hardest, and to learn that life is tough, but I am tougher. If I could do it over... By Kyndra Kuxhausen If I had a choice to do something over it would be the year 2012 and the first four months of 2013. If I could do it over I would have worked much harder for what I wanted. I would spend less time texting and more time teaching my little sister how to play softball so she could be on a traveling team. I would treat people a lot better than what I used to, because I know how it feels to be bullied. I would listen to my mom’s advice, because no matter how hard I believe she is wrong she will always be right. I would take back some of my big mistakes. Most of all I would do over the month February of 2013, because I lost my best friend that day and I’ve been lost ever since then. That’s what I do over and how I would do it over. Last Wish By Tori Mueller When I was told I would be writing a journal about something I could do over again, I didn’t put much thought into what I wanted to write about. It wasn’t until the day my journal was due that I realized what I really wanted to do over. On April 18, 2011, I found out my grandma had been rushed to the hospital while I was in school. My parents didn’t tell me until later that night that she was in the hospital. My first reaction was why is she in the hospital, I just spent the afternoon with her cleaning out her desk the other day. She seemed fine to me. After what my parents told me sunk in a little bit, I asked if I could go see. My dad thought it was best that she got some rest and we could go see her in the morning. All of my cousins had been up there all afternoon. So I agreed with him. My grandma had been put in the hospital for blood clots that were in her legs and had traveled up to her heart. That night I’m pretty sure I got maybe a total hour of sleep. I was aroused by the walking around my house at around 4 am the next morning. When I came out of my room, my mom told me she was going to go to the hospital to check on my grandma. I asked if I could go, but she told me to go back to bed and keep the phone close by. I did as I was told and fell asleep with my phone held tight in my hand. The next thing to happen was a call from my mom at around 6 am telling me to get my younger sister and I ready to go the hospital. While I was doing my hair, the only thing I wanted in this world was to see that my grandma was ok, but it turns out that one wish that I wanted so badly would never come true in the aspect I was hoping. Early morning April 19, 2011, my beloved grandma passed away from a heart attack. One of the hardest things I faced that day in the hospital was seeing my Bompa (grandpa) walk through those hospital doors, knowing he wouldn’t be able to live with the love of his life. That day was the first and last time I ever saw my Bompa cry. The rest of that day, well the rest of that week was all a blur. I don’t remember much except crying and eating and then crying some more. So that brings us back the journal topic, If I had it to do all over again. I would take back every moment I spent fighting and bickering with my sisters in front of my grandma because I knew how much it truly hurt her. I would truly cherish every moment I spent with her because I had never lost anyone as close as my grandma was to me. Now that I think about it, I haven’t really lost anyone close to me except for when I was too young to understand. Before I lost my grandma, when I imagined myself starting high school, graduating, starting college and even maybe picking out a wedding dress, in those dreams and goals, my grandma was always in them. I guess I never really thought that I could actually lose her. That’s why if I had a do over it would be to truly cherish the people in your life because they won’t always be there. |
| Observations Only: Good and evil 2013-05-02 By Nina Betz |
| The next series of columns will be a study of the 12 sets of opposite characteristics as described in the book “Initiation,” by Elisabeth Haich. I’m chuckling as I write this because I know how boring this sounds; however, the ideas presented in her writings are quite different than the usual ones held as truths that we have grown up with in our society. They present a unique way of looking at traditional ideas. The first of the 12 is keeping silent or talking. Haich says in her book that “mastering these attributes means that you use them at the right time and in the right place. The same attribute that is divine at the right time and in the right place is satanically evil at the wrong time and in the wrong place. This is because God creates only what is good, beautiful and true. There are no bad characteristics as such, and no bad forces, but only wrongly used characteristics and wrongly applied forces. “To keep silent is perfectly divine and brings blessings on all concerned, if we do so where and when we should. On the other hand if we keep silent in a place or at a time when we should speak up to save a person from grave danger, with just a word our keeping silence becomes satanic. “If we talk in the wrong time and wrong place the divine gift of speech is turned into satanic chatter and gossip.” Opposite characteristics complement each other. Talking, which is the positive; the negative side, which is keeping silent, stays behind unmanifested, and the reverse is also true. Light and dark, positive and negative, is neither good nor evil; one cannot experience dark if the sun never rises providing light. A mountain, positive, cannot exist if there is no complementing valley, the negative. When taken together the complementing characteristics are the divine unity we call God. In other words, the visible world is only recognizable because it has separated itself from the unity as positives and negatives. There can be no perception unless unity is split into two halves; one of them manifested and the other one as a reflection unmanifested. The dilemma for our present day verbosity, society with its constant ‘noise’ is how to differentiate between the times when it’s better to keep silent and when to talk; whether to speak up in the face of selfishness and injustice or to keep silent; whether to say the hard but necessary thing to our child or keep silent lest they become angry with us. The task then becomes how to apply the above concepts to our daily lives; how to stop our quick tongue from uttering remarks that fill the silence but don’t serve the positive and good in our life or another person’s. The first step is to resolve to only speak when necessary. This allows us to listen to our own thoughts and evaluate our words before we speak. Another benefit of listening more and speaking only when necessary is that when you do speak, people listen because you have the reputation of being a wise person with something to say. As an added bonus, you rarely will have to apologize for sticking your foot in your mouth. A little thought of and underrated benefit of keeping silent is that we give ourselves time to think. We have well thought out ideas and opinions to share when we do speak. Others will listen to us because we aren’t nattering on about who said and did what, or parroting what we heard or read via the news media. A peaceful mind and heart is a wonderful blessing we can give to ourselves if we learn to keep silence. |
| Teen Voice: Being a girl 2013-05-02 By Kendall Uhrich |
| My name is Kendall. There is no doubt my readers know this by now, but there is a slight problem I see with the name, it’s a gender neutral name. One will see probably more women named Kendall than men, and that is because the name is weird. Simply put, it is a name that isn’t heard nearly as often as Ashley, or Stephanie. It’s off the wall. I can only deduce that my name is Kendall, because my parents knew I was going to be strange, and I know exactly how they had this foreshadowing, I’m a girl. It is not a generalization either, coming from the mind of a girl; girls are strange. So, because I know this and can prove it to my readers, here are 7 reasons why women are the weirdest sex. Girls cannot finish a sentence without laughter. Whenever girls talk to other girls, the laughter can be heard from miles away. It’s a happiness disease that every girl is infected with. This laughter can drive anyone up the wall, and girls are a pro at doing this. Girls won’t wear the same outfit as another girl. Another disease is the need to be unique. The odd paradox about girls is that they want to wear the exact same outfits as celebrities. When a girl has on a nearly similar dress as Selena Gomez she could not be happier, but when a girl sees another girl who isn’t famous wearing the same dress she will throw a fit. The entire night will be spent with the girl playing a “Who wears it better” game. And if anyone dares says it’s not her, watch out. It will start to get ugly. Fast. Girls never say what they actually mean. As a rule, if a girl says she is fine, she never is. If a girl says she doesn’t want a gift for her birthday, she’s lying. If a girl asks you if she looks fat in a pair of jeans, and to be totally honest, never be honest, just say she looks good. As another rule, watch any sappy Nicholas Sparks movie and do exactly what they do. Girls never want to go anywhere alone. This means going out to eat, taking a walk, even a trip to the bathroom. Even the most independent girls go everywhere with their best girlfriends. And this is not just a teenage stage that girls outgrow, even women will have the same never alone tendencies. Girls always have excuses for looking bad. I am fully guilty of this one. Even in $40 yoga pants, I will say I look homeless. And if anyone even looks in my general direction, I will explain to them how I woke up late because I had to work the night before. They will get an entire run-down on just why I’m wearing sweatpants. Girls have a hard time to owning up to those sweatpants days. Girls talk about other girls more than anyone else. This is a trait only girls do. I never hear men talk about other men. I never hear my guy friends say, “Did you see that shirt Brad is wearing today? He totally got that from the Target clearance section.” But, I have heard girls talk about other girls until they don’t have anything left to comment on. Last but not least, girls are emotional. I am a living testament to this one. I cry all the time, and I am one of the happiest people. I just cry a lot. When watching Les Mis, I cried because they were such talented vocalists. During Perks of being a Wallflower, I cried because it was a happy ending. If I am too excited or too happy, I cry. All of my emotions come out my tear ducts, and half the time women aren’t really sure what they are crying about, and the men better run, because they are our number one target when we get emotional. |
| Across the Fence: Cheyenne County, Nebraska: cattle country 2013-05-02 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| In my recent research of Cheyenne County, in the 1880s, I came across this extraordinary account of the cattle industry in the Panhandle, specifically Cheyenne County. It should be remembered that in 1882 the entire southern half of the Nebraska Panhandle was Cheyenne County. The wonderfully written description of the land, the climate, the cattle and the men who work them is so concise and vivid I thought it would be a disservice to try to retell it my own words. This account was written by William Cutler and published in 1882 in Andrea’s History of the State of Nebraska. The book itself is only available in Universities and other historical archives and I have been unable to locate an actual copy. This excerpt is made available through the Kansas Collection Books, an online resource made possible by those who transcribe historical manuscripts and make them available to the public. The entire excerpt follows: The first large herd of cattle brought into the county was in 1869, when Edward Creighton started a stock ranch, bringing in a herd of several thousand head. Previous to this time, the danger from Indians was so great that cattle had to be closely guarded to prevent them from being stolen. The luxuriant growth of the richest of wild grasses upon the prairie, and the dryness of the climate, which insures the preservation of its nutritious qualities during the winter; together with the fact that the winters are usually very mild with but little snow, and little shelter therefore is required – these things render this county peculiarly well adapted to the raising of cattle, now the main industry of the county. The cattle business has continued to increase till there are now in the county probably nearly 300,000 head, though the assessment returns show only 110,000 head. But the reader must understand that in these new counties where stock run at large, and where this is the one great interest of the county, the returns for assessing purposes are generally made for only from one-third to one-half of the number really owned in the county. One of the reasons for this perhaps is that, as the cattle all run at large, only being collected or "rounded up" once during the year, and that during the summer after the assessment in the spring; and as it is impossible to estimate, with any accuracy, the percentage of loss through cattle thieves, accidents, or losses during the winter; it is thought better that the number and value of cattle be under rather than over estimated. There are also a considerable number of horses raised in the county. These may now be estimated to number about 20,000. The sheep-raising interest has been given but little attention until quite recently. The number now in the county may be estimated at 8,000. This industry is very profitable, and many of the owners of the smaller herds of cattle are fast disposing of their cattle to invest in sheep. The raising of cattle as a business is here conducted far differently than in an agricultural community, where there are crops to be protected. The land being all, or nearly all, Government property, it is by mutual consent of the cattle owners divided among themselves into tracts termed "ranges," each range comprising an acreage in proportion to the number of cattle owned by the proprietor, and generally consisting of several thousand acres. The proprietor has no legal title to his range, but simply builds a ranche, and sometimes two or three on the range claimed by him. His rights to this are maintained by a mutual understanding among the cattle owners, and this right is respected by his brother cattle owners, and any encroachments by outside parties are promptly punished by the proprietors of the ranges, assisted by his men, who are known by the suggestive appellation of "cowboys." The prairies for thousands of square miles are one vast pasture, where the cattle, with no respect to ownership, are allowed to roam wild. These cattle, however, are "rounded-up" or collected each year, and the younger ones branded with the owner's private mark. To those unacquainted with the methods of carrying on the immense cattle business in this great free pasture region of America, these "round-ups" need to be described: Late in the spring, after the grass has attained considerable growth, so that cattle may with grazing a few hours in the day obtain sufficient food, large bodies of men termed cowboys are organized, after which they scatter out over a vast extent of territory, frequently embracing several thousand square miles, and ride toward a common center, driving all the cattle they can find before them. These cattle are all supposed to be branded, each owner having a private brand by which his cattle are known, and, as fast as the ranges are reached, all the cattle bearing the brand or private mark of the owner of that range are "cut out," together with the calves accompanying them, and left in charge of the cowboys in the employment of this owner, who proceed to corral them, after which they are counted and the young are branded. This is generally kept up about three months during the summer, usually being completed some time in July. These round ups are attended with considerable excitement, as the cattle are wild, and unused to the sight of mankind. When being driven in large herds, it requires much skill, experience and good horsemanship to cut out, that is, to separate, the wild steers one by one, as the range to which they belong is reached. While these annual round-ups are made as thorough as possible, there are, of course, many cattle that are not secured, therefore it is impossible for an extensive cattle owner to ascertain with accuracy just how many cattle he owns. Of late, so much has been said and written regarding the lawlessness of the "cowboys," it is eminently proper that a word concerning their real character be given a place in this work. In the first place, it must be said that, whatever his faults, the cowboy is a hard and faithful worker. His life on the broad and unsettled plains is one of freedom and liberty. The greater portion of his life is spent where law, legally executed, has little force. From the very nature of his habits he becomes somewhat rough and wild. The rifle or pistol is the only effective protection of life or property, and where such is the case – where each man takes the law in his own hands, and where he is deprived of the refining influences of society, where rough sports and daily exercises are such as to fit him physically for his hard and wild life, it is but natural that he becomes somewhat hardened in his nature and that he becomes daring and reckless of life. It is not strange that, when released from rough and wild life, he enters upon drinking sprees, and with a crowd of congenial spirits, gives himself up to the coarser instincts of his nature. Nor is it strange that, when a large crowd of these rough men are brought together in a frontier town, where drinking and gambling are the attractions and principal amusements, they let themselves loose, and, crazed with poisonous liquor, their deeds are many times lawless and horrible to witness. Still, these men have many excellent traits in their rough nature. They are honest; a thief is despised, and if one falls into their hands, he is, generally, promptly shot or hanged. They despise cowardice, and are wont to try to inspire terror in the breasts of a "tenderfoot," as they term those who are from the more civilized settlements of the East, and are unaccustomed to the rough life of the unsettled plains, and woe unto the "tenderfoot" if he proves himself a coward. Yet these very men, rough in their natures as they are, will spare no effort, or acknowledge no difficulty too great to attempt to surmount, no danger too great for them to risk, to aid even a stranger who is in distress. The soil of Cheyenne County is fertile, and well adapted to the raising of all kinds of crops common to this latitude; but from the great elevation above the sea level, the rainfall is slight, and crop-growing is not successful, except when irrigation is adopted. On some of the streams, notably on the Lodge Pole, where the farmers have adopted the plan of irrigation, bountiful crops have been raised, especially potatoes and other vegetables. We observe in Sidney that potatoes raised here bring about one-fourth greater price than those brought in from the East, the quality being much better. Some seasons there is doubtless a sufficient rainfall to insure the growth of crops along the valleys of the streams, but such seasons are very infrequent. There is an increased rainfall each year, but as yet not enough to make crop-raising a success. |
| Completely Different: The mystery of Vivian Maier 2013-05-02 By Elizabeth Gross |
| Everyone leaves behind a legacy but the definition of legacy varies from person to person. For some, their children are their legacy. For others it’s the work they leave behind. But what if your legacy simply fit inside a large cardboard box and that cardboard box is then left behind in a storage locker and later sold to the highest bidder? It may seem tragic but this is where the mystery of Vivian Maier begins. An anonymous Chicago street photographer whose life’s work was left behind in a cardboard box has begun to redefine the style of street photography. Uncovering Vivian Maier’s collection began in 2007. John Maloof, a real estate agent and historical hobbyist, purchased a box of negatives from an unknown photographer for $380. When Maloof pried the lid open he found more than 100,000 undeveloped negatives inside the box. Intrigued, he began developing his latest find. It only took one 30-minute chemical bath in his darkroom for Maloof to discover that he had found something very special. Many of the negatives were candid snapshots of New York and Chicago city life in the ‘50s and ‘60s. The collection contained much more than simple scenic shots of buildings. The photos are intimate, close up portraits of people from all walks of life. During Maloof’s examination of the negatives he found a name: Vivian Maier. Desperate to learn more about this woman, he tried to look her up only to be too late. In 2009, Maier died at the age of 83 but this has not stopped Maloof from learning more about this enigmatic street photographer. He is currently working on a documentary, “Finding Vivian Maier.” What we know for certain is that Maier was born in 1926 in New York City. At the age of 4, she and her mother were living with Jeanne Bertrand, an award-winning portrait photographer. It has been suggested that Bertrand may have taught Maier about photography, resulting in her unique style. Sometime between the age of 4 up until 1951, Maier had been living in France with her mother. In 1951, Maier returned to New York where she worked as a nanny. Her final home was in Chicago where she worked for a family as the nanny of three boys, who became her family until the end of her life. Maier used a variety of cameras from a Kodak Brownie to a Leica IIc. Her style shifted the older she became; from portraits to more abstract subject matter like graffiti. But no matter what moment or mood Maier was in; every click of the shutter provided a magical insight into her world. Not much is known about the motive behind her art. The three boys she took care of affectionately called her “Marry Poppins.”. She was remembered as being a unique and free spirit, yet very private and closed off. Many of Maier’s closest friends didn’t even know about her passion until Maloof knocked on their door. Though many of her friends agree; she would not like the attention she was getting for her work. This begs the question; why didn’t she tell anybody about her gift? Many photographers I know love to showcase their latest capture. When I posted her original story on Facebook one of my friends put it into perspective. She explained how it was not uncommon for artists not to showcase their work, that every creation was a sort of gift that no one else could have, “It’s their own piece of the universe, and having anyone else judge or glance at it might intrude on the idea that it isn’t as beautiful as it really is.” When viewing Maier’s photos there is no doubt in my mind that she was ahead of her time. Her composition ranges from the fairly classical to unique. I searched today’s popular modern street photographers and while their work is very good, it just doesn’t seem to hold a candle to Maier’s work. For instance, I found an article from ComplexArt+Design.com that listed the 50 greatest street photographers right now. While all are very good photographers in their own right, there was something missing in their work. After scrolling through samples of each person’s work, I pieced together what it was. Many of them had no story to tell. Street photography is one of my favorite art forms. Street style always has a unique ability to evoke an emotional response that is hard to find in other media. For instance, I searched for stories in back alleys and slowly started to gain confidence in taking candid photos of people. I began in alleys because to me it is the human experience at its core, a place where there is no shop window for you to put up a front. Your true self is found in the nakedness of a back alley where things are broken and nothing is perfect. Why did Maier begin with candid street portraits? It’s impossible to know the reason why. She is no longer here to tell us and what I feel looking at her work will be a completely different response that you might feel. Her work tells me that she just wanted to capture the simple beauty of being human. Her photos may mean something completely different to you. If you are interested in viewing Vivian Maier’s work, visit www.vivianmaier.com. |
| From the Pastor's Pen: Lord, teach us to pray 2013-05-02 By Pastor Mike Mead - Center Cross Community Church |
| Thursday, May 2nd is the day that has been designated as the National Day of Prayer. It is a time when we are called, not forced, to come together to pray for the success and protection of our communities, states and the country. This morning at 6:45 there was the annual Mayor’s Prayer Breakfast and at noon those who can will be gathering at the courthouse to pray. If you are like me, often times I don’t know how I should pray properly. I often need a refresher. In Luke Chapter 11:1, we see the disciples coming to Jesus asking Him to help them in this area. Most people when they pray, rush into requests. Either requests for health, or finances or we pour out our problems and irritations to God. Mostly, when we finish, we feel like we have not done anything. This must have been something like what the disciples we feeling when they came to Jesus and asked that He teach them to pray. They saw Him, Luke 1:1 and they wanted a more fulfilling prayer life like His. I want to take a closer look at the form prayer that Jesus gave us through the disciples. It is important to understand that Jesus did not give us this prayer simply to be repeated over and over. Matthew 6:7 “And when you pray, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do, for they think that they will be heard for their many words.” Nor did Jesus intend for this to be something that is used to impress others by using lofty words. Matthew 6:5 “And when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites. For they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by others. Truly, I say to you, they have received their reward.” I do want you to understand that there is nothing wrong with reciting this prayer or with saying it as a group or in front of others. But I believe that Jesus had a much different thought in mind when He gave it to the disciples and also to us. In His form prayer, Jesus points us to the new. First, a new relationship with God. In Luke 11 verse 2 Jesus begin by telling His disciples to refer to God as Father. This Greek word is the familial form of father. It is one that would be used between a father and children. It would be what a young person would call his dad when in general conversation. In other parts of scripture Jesus would add the Chaldean/Aramaic modifier “Abba” to add an even more intimate feel to this greeting. Jesus was reminding us that we have a new relationship with God than was experienced in Israel before. As we read the Old Testament, we see the prayers of the Israelites addressed to, “The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob,” or simply to “The God of our fathers.” Rarely was there a personal address. Here Jesus shows us that we can be personal with God. For some it is difficult identifying with God as father because of their earthly father. As we pray, it is important to recognize that we have a perfect Father in heaven who is not going to leave us nor forsake us. In the next part of this sentence, Jesus teaches us a new respect for God. When we pray “Hallowed be Your name,” we understand that although God is our Father, He is also the creator of the universe and the designer of our salvation. When we pray like this, we recognize that God should be the one on the throne of our lives. We hallow Him through our words and deeds in public and private life. It is an understanding of Who God is. Jesus goes on to teach a new priority. “Your Kingdom come.” We should always remember that it is God’s interests that should be the most important in our lives. In the “Sermon on the Mount” found in Matthew Chapter 6, Jesus adds “Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” Jesus is telling us to recognize a new priority of God’s will in our lives. We need to have a new recognition of our dependence on God. In Luke 11:3, we are to ask for God to “Give us this day our daily bread.” Most of us when we woke up this morning didn’t have to wonder if we were going to eat. We were probably more concerned with what we would fix for our meal. This is an understanding of our total dependence of God. The term “This day” reminds us that we need to renew our strength every day. We need to gain a new understanding of God’s pardon. Jesus tells us to pray, “forgive us our sins.” God’s pardon is needed daily. The scripture says that sin separates us from God and we need His pardon to maintain a close relationship with God. Jesus tells us the we need a new understanding of our relationships with others. “For we forgive everyone who is indebted to us.” Forgiveness and love go hand in hand. The extent to which we will forgive is directly related to the extent to which we recognize God’s forgiveness. In 2 Corinthians 5:!8, Paul tells the Corinthians that God has given us the ministry of reconciliation. Our inability to forgive could be one reason that we don’t have our prayers answered. Finally we need a new understanding of God’s protection. “Lead us not into temptation.” This is primarily a prayer for protection. Jesus is in no way suggesting that God is the one who tempts us. In James 1:13, James tells us that since God cannot be tempted, he will not tempt but instead will provide a way of escape from temptation. Jesus statement acknowledges the fact of temptation and asks for God’s strength in overcoming it. In John 17:15, Jesus prays that the Father would keep His disciples from the evil one. When you pray, Lead us not into temptation, you are admitting that this life is a struggle and we need God’s help. To really understand prayer you must pray. Jesus gave us the blueprint here for prayer. I want to challenge you to take this blueprint and begin to take time everyday to pray to our Father who is in heaven. |
| Guest Voice: If I could do it over again 2013-05-02 By M.C. - Gering Freshman Academy |
| Editor’s note: Gering freshman English teacher, Lisa Hadenfelt gave her students the following writing prompt, “If I could do it over again.” We will be sharing a few selections of her students’ responses over the next few weeks on this page of the Gering Citizen. Well I would start when I was 5 years old. I always have regretted everything since then because that is when my dad got married. I never really got along with my stepmom. All because of what my mom had said about her, and I really regret it too! And I could say "what made my dad happy, made me happy" most of the times. Then I turned 6 the following year, in August. It was during the first two or three months that I had a seizure and found out that I had a brain tumor. So I had to be flown up to Denver's Children's Hospital to have the surgery. My dad didn't know what was happening because my mom didn't want to tell him, so my great grandma had to tell him because he worked with her. Then the next thing you know, he was in my hospital room. Then I got to be pushed around in a wagon for about a week after the surgery. Then I got to come home and my entire family was at home with a banner that said "welcome home, . And my kindergarten teacher came over and gave me a little teddy bear. Yes I was in Kindergarten, and when I went back to school, I had lots to catch up on. Then time passed as I was 7, 8, 9 and 10 years old. Those years were the best years yet, and many more to come as I thought. Some of the great times I ever had with my dad would be when I was down he'd always have a way to cheer me up. And where ever we drove to and I was in the front seat of the car, or whatever we had, if a song that 1 knew came on he'd let me sing to it and he'd just dance weirdly. I had always told him to stop because it was embarrassing to me. Then I turned 11 and became a little hurtful daughter. I told my dad I hated him and I didn't want to be with him anymore. I even told him he wasn't my real dad and I wanted to stop visitation. And I know I hurt him and other family members when I told that to him. And yeah, I have said I wish he were dead too. And did I not, get a really mean hurtful speech by my stepmother and my dad's mom! That sucked big time! I can't remember when my dad was supposed to get me on my birthday. All I remember is I told my mom 1 wanted to go to Burger King in Torrington. So I called my dad up to tell him and he said "well you better get back into town, we have plans for your birthday, and you knew that too!" and then I said "if you want me to come over, you better get rid of your wife!" And he didn't so I had to go anyway. And before you knew it my dad had a lung cancer. He had a really hard time with it! Every night that I was at his house, I would be woken up by his harsh, harsh cough. I thought he would get over it but turns out it just got worse and worse! One cloudy, rainy morning my grandma tells me, he is in the hospital. I had a very hard time concentrating in all my classes that day. Every night that I would call to see how he was doing, which wasn't very often because I was afraid, I only talked to him one time. And in that one last call before we hung up was "I love you" and I couldn't bring myself to say it back! And we both said "bye" and you just heard a "click." Three days later, on a sunny Saturday morning, 6 am. I get woken up by my grandma crying saying my name. All she had to say was "grandma is on the phone" and I started crying like I haven't cried before. Then she said "Honey, daddy died" and I looked at her like "no. no. no. no." and my last no was a long cry out. I couldn't bear to look at anyone, I hurt so much. And now I wish I had spent every last minute with him! I regret it all, because now I can't even see my younger siblings! Even though I still wave at them, they either stick their tongues at me, or they just look in a different direction. And these are all the reasons I would do it all over again. If you still have a dad, I would advise you to appreciate him and all his weird, but funny ways and cherish every moment! And if anyone loses their dad at a young age, such as 12, almost 13 like me, I understand what you go through. |
| Jane’s Secret, XXV: Mysteries 2013-04-25 By By Nina Betz |
| The caravan carrying Red’s body to Jay Em for burial beside his parents and grandparents makes slow steady progress. Harvey however, concerned about the touring car overheating at such a slow pace, passes the team and wagon leaving Clem to follow behind on horse back in case Molly has trouble with the team. Not long after their departure another wagon and team makes it way down the steep rocky road from the east and comes to a stop in front of the ranch house. “They’ve left for Jay Em without us; it was my right to help load the coffin and drive my brother to his final resting place,” Shorty, snorts in outrage. “What are we supposed to do with all this food that you didn’t need to make, anyhow,” he growls, turning toward Susan. “You just hold the horses, we’ll take the food inside and follow them to Jay Em,” Susan says unperturbed, gathering up her skirts and climbing down from the high seat. “Girls, get the picnic basket and the pies, and follow me,” she says to Pansy and Violet who obediently scramble down from the wagon. “George, hand the picnic basket down to Violet,” she says to her son who is day dreaming as usual. “Pansy, you carry the cake and I’ll carry the pies,” Susan says, hurrying up the walkway and into the house. “Put everything on the table and be quick about,” Susan admonishes, then hastens them outside. With one last look around the rooms she notes the neat appearance. “Just like Grandma Stubb kept it,” she says aloud to the empty room, smiling at the thought she pulls the door shut behind her. “Ready,” she says, climbing up beside Shorty in the wagon. Meanwhile, in Gertrude and Stephen’s house in Fort Laramie, Jane is no longer ill with the sick headache she used to excuse herself from accompanying Harvey to Red’s funeral. While the cat’s away, Jane laughs, on her way down stairs after knocking loudly on Hazel and Bridget’s bedroom doors, demanding they get up and present themselves downstairs for breakfast in thirty minutes because they’re expected to help rearrange furniture. Bridget opens her eyes reluctantly and begins feeling sorry for herself, not the least bit surprised by her employers’ rudeness. If I could just go back to Chicago; but I can’t, she mourns, hastily wiping away an errant tear with a corner of the bed sheet. I thought Jane was being kind when she took me in that awful night but she just saw me as an opportunity to get a free servant. I shouldn’t have told her what happened and why I was desperate to leave Chicago. I thought it a Godsend when she asked me to come to Wyoming with them but now I feel like a prisoner and she’s my jailer, and I have to live in this awful place, she thinks holding the crumpled sheet to her mouth to stifle her sobs Cozy and warm in the next bedroom, Hazel is awakened by pounding on the door and the bellowed demands from someone she thought was a lady; sitting up in bed she argues with herself whether she should put aside her plans for the day to appease Jane. No, I’m not going to give in; I just can’t do it this time, she resolves after weighing the consequences to herself. I have to find the school house, talk to the school superintendent and find a place to live. I’d like to find the parson and look at the old church records and this might be the only chance I have, she decides firming up her resolve. Well I guess I can use her old trick and pretend to have a sick headache; I’ll sneak out the back door when she’s not looking, she laughs, throwing back the covers. Slipping into her wrapper and slippers she goes next door and knocks on Bridget’s door. “Who is it?” Bridget calls, wiping her eyes on the bed sheet, thinking it’s Jane coming to harass her. “It’s me; can I come in, I want to talk to you,” Hazel replies from the hallway. “Coming,” Bridget calls, donning her wrapper, her voice well modulated. “I assume you got a knock on your door, too,” Bridget laughs by way of greeting her guest. “Yes, and I need your help,” Hazel blurts out, following her into the room. “And…?” Bridget says, gesturing for her to sit down next to her on the bed. “I need you to tell Jane that I have the woman’s complaint and a terrible headache; I’m indisposed and need to stay in my room all day. I need to find the school house and talk to the school superintendent, and find a place to live in the village. I’m not going to change my plans to appease that woman,” Hazel says with more vehemence then necessary. “I can do that, but how are you going to get out of the house without her noticing,” Bridget asks, happy to help with anything that thwarts Jane. “You go downstairs and tell her while I hurry and dress, then you offer to bring up a breakfast tray; I can eat a few bites and then leave by the back stairs while you and Jane are eating in the dining room,” Hazel explains, thinking it a sound plan. “I don’t see any reason it wouldn’t work,” Bridget muses, thoughtfully. “How will you get back upstairs, though,” she asks. “If Jane sees me out side and wonders why I’m not in my room, I’ll just say fresh air and exercise makes me feel better,” Hazel explains. “Alright, I’ll help you,” Bridget laughs, rising from the bed. “Since you’ve never been in Fort Laramie before how will you know where to go,” Bridget asks, walking with her to the door. “That’s a good question,” Hazel replies, thoughtfully. “I’ll go to the Jones mercantile first and ask for directions to the school house and the superintendents’ office. Hopefully it won’t be crowded with men,” she grimaces, remembering the awful scene Jane created. “I’ll expect you in about thirty minutes, Hazel says, opening the door. “Bridget smiles and nods her agreement. Downstairs Jane is seated at the dining room table impatiently waiting for the other ladies to join her. “There you are Bridget; Isn’t Hazel with you?” Jane asks, annoyed by another delay. “No, she isn’t feeling well today and is staying in her room. I offered to take a tray up to her,” Bridget explains. “Hmm, I see,” Jane muses, suspicious of any woman who uses her own methods to get her way. “Well it can’t be helped; there simply isn’t any time to waste preparing a tray and taking it upstairs. Hazel will have to come down and fix a tray for herself and take it up if she doesn’t wish to join us at the table,” Jane says, gesturing for Bridget to seat herself at the table. “I’ll just go up and tell her,” Bridget replies, masking her dismay at the callousness. “Very well, but be quick about it,” Jane snaps, serving herself eggs and bacon; the only happy person in the household. |
| A Stray Moment: Earth Day, am I doing my part? 2013-04-25 By Doug Harris dougharris@geringcitizen.com |
| After visiting with youth leader Xiuhtezcatl Martinez of the Boulder, Colo. based Earth Guardians environmental activism group, I found myself asking the question, how much am I doing to protect the planet? Young Xiuhtezcatl overwhelmed me with his enthusiasm and commitment to ensure that Mother Earth is well cared for and his message that we all have to do our part. A twelve-year-old kid politely reminded me that the future belonged to the coming generations and those of us who he called ‘adults’ have a pretty spotty record when it comes to putting Earth first before our personal comfort levels or our designs to make a temporary profit. As a result of his passion I had to revisit my own sense of commitment to ensure that I am playing my part to leave the world a better place than where I found it. In some areas I think I am doing my modest best to help out. I recycle most anything that can be recycled. I donate books I’ve read to local libraries. I support and vote for political leaders who accept modern science and understand that carbon emissions are a culprit in global warming. I share eco-friendly messages and memes found on Facebook. I shut off the water while I’m brushing my teeth. I am not doing much, am I ? I am good at lip service when it comes to protecting the earth. I think it is a good idea, but I have to ask myself what else could I be doing to reduce my carbon footprint and contribute to this effort in more tangible ways? When is the last time I planted a tree? It was probably around 1979, while participating in some Boy Scouts project. Do I compost? No. Do I write letters to our congressional delegation expressing concern over fracking or the XL Keystone pipeline? No. When I lived in California I did participate in a few green movement marches and for a brief stint I worked for the California League of Conservation Voters. We collected signatures and registered people to vote. I got the chance to hobnob with Hollywood celebrities while volunteering as staff at several fundraising events designed to stop off shore oil wells and protect the redwoods. It was fun but that was about 20 years ago. What have I done since? Not much. Xiuhtezcatl told me that adults need to be educated by youth. That we need constant reminders to continually be environmentally conscious regarding everything we do. Everything. Can we walk there instead of driving? Are we purchasing products that are more eco-friendly? Are we being respectful of nature and showing proper gratitude for our life sustaining planet? Are we putting our words and our sympathy toward a greener world into actual action? I like to think that I try but I am sure I could be doing more. This is probably true with many of us. We agree that the world is certainly worth protecting but we don’t really care to go too far out of our way to do anything about it. We become creatures of habit and mistakenly conclude that our small little life, our personal ‘footprint,’ is probably inconsequential in the big scheme of things. According to a twelve-year-old activist from Boulder, this is the most important thing that humanity needs to focus on. If the majority of people continue to be shortsighted and we stay upon our current path it is likely that future generations will face a harsher world. Author and environmental activist Bill McKibbon has declared that carbon emissions alone will raise global temperatures as much as 2 degrees within the next few decades. He has warned even that small increase will be ‘civilization altering’ and there will be no way to reverse it. The oceans will rise with melting polar ice, the geography of nations will change as water claims low lying areas. The Maldives Islands will become a nation that is 20 feet below the surface of the ocean. Drought will continue to plague the Midwest and water shortages will become the source of tensions and possibly warfare as we see with oil supplies in our current era. While politicians and arm chair pundits argue about whether the science behind these dire predictions is valid the people of the world continue to pump out carbon emissions as fast as possible. The tar sands of Canada are probably not the worst source for energy as other forms of oil create more carbon particles but it really doesn’t seem to matter, does it? It appears humanity is hell bent to burn every drop of oil or natural gas found on the planet. If this creates a greenhouse effect for future generations, who cares? If this causes a shift in natural habitat and the extinction of thousands of animal and plant species, what difference does it make for us today, right now? Sustainable energy can be harnessed but we seem disinterested. Am I doing anything to encourage it? Not much. How often do I drink from plastic ‘disposable’ water bottles? Can’t I just use a reusable metal water bottle? I own two of them but they seem to slip my mind on a daily basis. I have a Home Depot reusable grocery bag but it usually is rolled up and left forgotten on the back seat of my car. Am I doing my part? Am I taking this seriously enough? Am I doing what I can to buy locally? Is my life so busy and important I can’t give an hour a month to support the local greenhouse or volunteer in the service of a local or national park site? Not even one hour a month? The Earth Guardians don’t just talk or write about such things. They were instrumental in getting Boulder to ban plastic bags at stores. They helped to start a community garden. They are working to ban the practice of hydraulic fracturing in Boulder County. I am not a scientist, but the statistics and trends that I have read about paint a fairly grim future for life on earth. I enjoy a political argument more than I probably should, but in this case wouldn’t it be prudent to err on the side of caution? For those who believe, contrary to the evidence, that the whole idea of global warming is phoney science or a hoax, I hope you are correct. But if you are wrong the consequences are just too high to base our hope and faith on business as usual. Because I think Xiuhtezcatl is 100 percent correct that the future belongs to the coming generations, I have to oppose the pipeline and rally for more wind turbines. Because the future belongs to our kids and grandchildren I have to actively speak out against fracking in our region. Do we want to risk well water contamination or increased benzene levels in our air? There will always be the industry voice of highly paid experts who are charged with proving a preconceived notion. They aren’t asked to research if fracking is safe. They aren’t asked to research that global warming is real. They aren’t asked to prove that carbon particle levels are rising. They are asked to provide enough scant evidence to create a smokescreen to cause doubt. As Xiuhtezcatl told me, “This is too much of a price to pay; too much of a cost for corporate profits.” He also reminded me that while working to protect nature is a worthy mission we shouldn’t forget to go out and enjoy it. He mused about making sure his own children would one day climb mountains and swim in a clean ocean. We could learn a lot from youth, and we probably had better listen. |
| Political Cartoon by Doug Hoevet 2013-04-25 By |
| Teen Voice: Go ahead, make my day 2013-04-25 By Kendal Uhrich |
| As many of my readers know, from my columns and even the stories appearing in the Gering Citizen, I pride myself in being one of Gering High School’s Bulldog speakers. This is my second year being on the speech team, but it only takes one meet to know the jest of meets: the speakers get judged. Each speaker goes into their rounds with one goal: impressing the judge. We spend our time tailoring our speech to match just what each judge wants to see, and in the end our fate is in their hands. The judges decide the top six speakers that will go into a finals round, and from that round, the winners are chosen. Sounds simple, right? Just be the best we can be and every judge will love us and declare us the champion. Wrong. As great as that may seem, if there is one lesson I have learned from those Saturday competitions it is that we are constantly being judged, but no matter how great we are, there are still some people that won’t like us. At the state competition, I was lucky enough to make it to the finals round of Serious Prose. Meaning that I received a second place from my first round judge, and a first place from my second round judge. With all the excitement and nerves building up, I knew that I did not give my best performance, but in the end it is up to those three judges to decide if I had actually done well. My results: a second, a fifth, and a sixth. One judge thought that my performance was nearly perfect, while the next thought I was dead last in that round, both from the same performance. My point is: No matter what we do to try to impress people, someone won’t be pleased. There is a quote I found on Pinterest the other day that states: We can be the juiciest, ripest peach in the world, but there is still somebody who hates peaches. Purely stated: we can be the best us that we possibly can be, but there will still be at least one characteristic about us that someone won’t like. As much as I wish I could change the fact that we are always getting judged, no one person can change that. We are constantly putting on a show for everybody else, no matter if we mean to or not. They won’t give us a critique sheet, and give us a ranking, but mentally, they are giving us their own crits, and no matter how much we want to live up to the standards others set for us, we never will. That isn’t pessimistic, it is just a realization we all must come to. So, go out and do exactly what I do for speech, go into every day and give our personal best performances, and no matter if others would think we win or lose, as long as we are happy, their scores really don’t matter. We mess up, we fail, we fumble, and even if we do, sometimes the “judge” doesn’t even notice. Speakers will concentrate on one line they messed up, when their audience often times doesn’t even notice. So, because others judge us, don’t judge ourselves. We are often our worst critic, and if we don’t fuss about minor details, others won’t either. Life is a speech meet. So perform. And break a leg. |
| Observations Only: Beginnings 2013-04-25 By Nina Betz |
| As an inquisitive 5-year-old I had many questions to ask my new parents. Many happy hours were spent riding in the pickup with my father and helping him do chores. During the summer I played in the water and learned to set tubes. During harvest time I rode in the truck with him when he took in loads of beans to the elevator. Once, I climbed on a truck tire to look over the side rail at the beans and received a scare; rattlesnakes had been scooped up by the combine and were slithering through the beans. My father pulled on tall leather boots and yelled at the hired man to be ready; and then climbed in the box with a pitch fork and flung them over the side. The hired man chopped their heads off with a special long handled shovel. After corn harvest my father fenced the fields and let the cattle clean up the fallen ears instead of feeding them hay. Later, when the weather was cold and snowy, I put on my red rubber boots and helped him stomp fresh straw into the muck in the corral. He explained that walking around in the manure would make them sick. I noticed pigeons pecking at cow pies and asked him what they were doing. He said they were eating the corn kernels that didn’t get digested. I thought this was interesting and told mother about the pigeons. Other times I helped Grandma Pansy in the vegetable garden and discovered new things to ask about; like where the garden toads slept in the winter and how did they know when it was time to get up? Another time Grandpa Charlie said he was going to kill a chicken so Grandma Pansy could make chicken and noodle soup. At first he didn’t want to let me watch him twist the head off but he finally gave in and I watched the chicken hop around. Naturally, I wanted to know how it could do that without its head and he explained that their nerves were still twitching. I began going to Sunday school and listening to Bible stories. Again, my curiosity got the better of me and I began asking how and why questions. The teachers didn’t know the answers like my parents did and said, that’s just the way it is. Others became cross with me and said that believing the Bible stories is part of having faith. Later, as a teenager in youth group, I asked questions about where the daughters of men came from if Adam and Eve and their sons were the only people on earth. I asked why women didn’t do anything in the Bible but wash feet and pour wine. I wondered about many things and as with many biblical mysteries, no one knew the answers. Time passed and I forgot about my questions that didn’t have any answers. Recently, I discovered a book written by Elisabeth Haich. In her book, “Initiation,” she provides an explanation for the Biblical mysteries that makes sense without denigrating the Bible. Her answers are gathered through her personal dreams of a past life in ancient Egypt. Throughout the book she reveals her in-depth insights into the subtle workings of karma, reincarnation, the interconnectedness of individual daily life choices and spiritual development. This unusual book is filled with hidden truths, enabling the reader to awaken essential understanding necessary to enlighten one’s understanding, regardless of their life journey. Whether a person chooses to read “Initiation” as a fascinating novel or an autobiography that unveils mystical truths is the prerogative of the reader. Nevertheless, the impact is profound. |
| Across the Fence - Boston: April 18, 1775 2013-04-25 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| It’s been nearly 10 years since I was last in Boston, Mass. For more than a year I flew from Denver to Boston every-other weekend and spent each two-week stretch working as an independent consultant for Philips Medical Systems. On my off weekends, when I wasn’t flying back to Denver, I immersed myself in the rousing history of the Colonies. Although I found the breakneck pace of life, on the east coast, to be a little too hectic for my slower paced Kansas blood I was spellbound by its history. At Plymouth Rock I stood upon the shore where the first pilgrims stood after their long and perilous voyage. I walked the deck and climbed the riggin’ of an exact Mayflower replica that was built in the shipyards of England and sailed across the Atlantic to be permanently anchored in Plymouth Harbor. The ships log clearly indicated that the re-enacted voyage was one of the most frightful the crew had ever experienced. I ducked under the beams of a five-and-one-half-foot ceiling where hand-hewn timbers supported the second story of the Sparrow House, built in1640. And I walked through cemeteries where lichen covered headstones, worn by centuries of coastal wind and weather, grudgingly revealed the eroded dates of men born in the late 1500s. In Boston Harbor I walked the pier where, more than two hundred years before, Boston’s famous, clandestine tea party was held under cover of darkness. At the Charlestown Navy Yard I stood humbly on the polished decks of The U.S.S. Constitution and gazed in amazement at the towering masts, massive yardarms and spider-webbed rigging. Below decks I ran my hands along the oak railings where countless others had done the same until the tight-grained wood shone with the luster of time and touch. I slapped the breech of one of the massive cannon held securely to its caisson by ropes thicker than my arm. And I could not resist the temptation to grip the brass bannister around the ships compass and then watched, in childish shame, as a white-gloved Marine stepped forward to wipe away my fingerprints. In Boston proper, I visited the home of Paul Revere and stood in the courtyard of the Old North Church under Cyrus Dallin’s statue of Revere and his steed and I imagined the glow of two bright lanterns hung in the steeple. I crossed the Charles River to Cambridge and walked for several miles along the path that Paul Revere had ridden to Lexington. The trail passed beneath a dark canopy of branches as dense stands of trees lined each side. In Lexington I stood upon the Commons Green and imagined the long rows of pompous British soldiers as they took aim against a handful of patriots. I climbed the stairs and stood in the rooms where John Hancock and Samuel Adams were sleeping when Paul Revere finally arrived to give warning. And I stood on the bridge at Concord where a rag-tag group of farmers and merchants, who were the American militia, gained their first victory at the beginning of America’s War for Independence. Most everyone knows the story and the history of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. But, I believe the time is appropriate for a brief retelling. By 1775 tensions between the American colonies and the British government had risen to the boiling point and the pent up steam of revolution blew the lid off the kettle. Under the leadership of Samuel Adams and John Hancock the colonies had formed a revolutionary shadow government and organized a militia of like-minded colonists. Confrontations between British soldiers and residents of Boston had reached explosive and deadly proportions and British Parliament feared an uprising. For months, the Boston Patriots had been preparing for the possibility of a military action. Adams and Hancock were in hiding in Lexington and the Patriots had formed a cohesive militia and devised an intricate plan of rapid communication should the British forces execute a military offensive. In Concord, the militia had accumulated and stockpiled a hidden cache of weapons and ammunition in preparation for the unwelcome possibility of open conflict. It should be remembered that most of the colonists, including Adams and Hancock, considered themselves to be loyal British subjects. They did not want a war against Britain but rather were seeking reform that would give the colonists the ability to self-govern while remaining loyal to the crown. Their hopes for a peaceful resolution would be crushed. In the early spring of 1775, General Thomas Gage, the governor of the Massachusetts colony, received orders from Great Britain to assemble a military force and march against the townships of Lexington and Concord. The directive they were to achieve was to confiscate, by whatever means necessary, all sources of weapons and ammunition available to the American insurgents. In other words, total disarmament of the American colony. General Gage was also ordered to arrest Adams and Hancock. (Perhaps there is some irony in the fact that these orders, to disarm the American colonists, were given on April 18, 1775. Two hundred and thirty-eight years later, April 18, 2013 the U.S. Senate upheld the rights of the American people and would not pass a law that would further restrict the rights of Americans to obtain arms and ammunition.) When information of General Gage’s order was received the plan to alert the colonists was rapidly implemented. If British troops were to march out of Boston on the peninsula, called Boston Neck, one lantern would be hung in the Old North Church steeple. If troops crossed the Charles River into Cambridge, two lanterns would be hung. When one, then another lantern shone from the highest point in Boston, Paul Revere took a rowboat and crossed the Charles River. Crossing undetected among several ships of the British fleet, Revere secured a horse in Charleston and began his famous ride. Unlike the famous words we were taught in grade school history, Paul Revere did not shout, “The British are coming!” In fact, at the first dwellings he reached he quietly tapped on the darkened windows until someone wakened and came to answer. (It was after 11 p.m.) “The Regulars are out.” Paul Revere spoke in brusque tones of urgency as hundreds of American militia, ‘Minutemen,’ were alerted and armed themselves to oppose the advancing British soldiers. William Dawes also rode that night and alerted the colonists along a second route. At Lexington, Revere and Dawes met each other and together warned Adams and Hancock. Continuing toward Concord, British troops intercepted the two messengers. Dawes escaped on foot and walked back to Lexington. Revere was detained for more than an hour but was finally released though his horse was kept by the British troops. Revere also walked back to Lexington and arrived very shortly after the battle at Lexington Green. British Major John Pitcairn had arrived in Lexington around 5 a.m. on April 19 and approached the house from where Adams and Hancock had recently fled. Approaching from the east, Major Pitcairn dispersed his 700 British troopers into their usual rigid battle lines. On the west end of the Green, between the guarded house and the British troops a 77-man militia of American colonists stood in defiance. With muskets raised, Pitcairn ordered the militia to disperse. There was a long and breathless silence as men stared down the length of their barrels. Slowly the outnumbered militia began to lower their rifles when the silence was shattered by a single blast. Who fired that deadly “shot heard ‘round the world” is not known but soon the Green was filled with the echo of gunfire and the smoke of gunpowder. When the firing ceased, eight Americans lay dead and ten more wounded. Of Pitcairn’s men, only one British soldier was wounded. From that point there was no turning back, the American Revolution had begun. Pitcairn’s troops continued their march toward Concord where they found and destroyed the arms and ammunition that the militia had accumulated and cached there. However, the British were soon under attack from a large group of Minutemen who inflicted heavy casualties. The British withdrew and were ordered to regroup and return to Boston without engaging the American militia. The march back to Boston took the troops once more through Lexington where Captain Parker’s militia took quick and lethal revenge for the morning’s battle. On the 16-mile march back to Boston the militia continued to harass the British column with Indian-style attacks of strike and run as the Red Coats marched onward offering little effective defense against the unorthodox tactics of the militia. During the first day of battle, the American militia had suffered nearly 100 casualties. The British command reported 300 men killed, wounded or missing. In light of this past week, we would do well to remember the resolve and tenacity of those who fought for our precious freedoms. And also give honor to the people of Boston and beyond who will not shrink in the face of terror but who stand tall and proud in defense of our families, our communities and our nation. M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist, freelance writer, poet and entertainer. To contact Tim, email; mtimn@aol.com |
| Completely Different: Do you know John Green? 2013-04-18 By Elizabeth Gross |
| To begin this week’s column, I would like to say that if any of our readers are named John Green, I’m sorry. While I’m sure you’re a very nice man, this column is not about you. The John Green I am referring to this week is author John Green and his influence on the digital age. The Internet has the ability to create two results. One is mindless time wasting via social media sites like Facebook or Twitter. At the beginning of these websites creation I’m sure there was a much bigger purpose than simply spying on old flames or picking fights with people based on political views. Yet, every day I find it harder and harder to log onto these websites and not want to presently delete my account. (If you are considering deleting said accounts be prepared to give your first born away) No one is a bigger fan of the Internet than me. However, it gets pretty frustrating to not be bombarded by “trolls”. We can connect with people all over the world like never before. It is by the simple click of a button and you can chat with people from New Zealand who share your love of The Hobbit. I remember the early days of the Internet which makes me feel old. Many parents couldn’t figure out how utilizing the Internet would help us in the future. Now we can access tons of information for free like never before. For example, YouTube has a reputation of being a place to watch funny cat videos and laughing babies. However, you can find a multitude of videos on virtually any subject out there. This brings us to John and Hank Green, the leaders of the Internet group known as Nerdfighters. Hank and John are two brothers who began a YouTube channel called VlogBrothers 2.0. Every week, John and Hank exchange vlogs discussing various topics ranging from ‘Your Yard Is EVIL’ to ‘Tales of Nerdy Love’. The brothers started the channel back in 2007, as a 30-day challenge to refrain from any form of communication except for the blog. Inspiration for the channel came during the early days of YouTube. John was inspired by the YouTube channel; Lonelygirl15. It was the first one of the first vlogs on YouTube that featured a young girl name Bree. She made weekly videos talking about what was going on in her life. But people began to question whether Bree was actually who she said she was. Thus began the mystery of Lonelygirl15. It was later discover that Bree was in fact not real but a marketing technique for an Internet site. John like many others had fun discovering whether or not Bree was real. Fast forward to six years later, the vlogbrothers now have 1,091,356 subscribers and have uploaded 1,064 videos. They have even expanded from the vlog channel to include; SciShow, Crash Course, Hank Plays Games, Truth or Fail, and the Lizzie Bennet Diaries. Crash Course is hosted by John and Hank Green where every week they do more than discuss but teach you something. John teaches literature and history while Hank does science and biology. As, it happens with many Internet trends, I accidently found Crash Course while pursuing through vlogbrothers. So, far I have only watch the literature and history videos. . I have to say many of their Crash Course videos makes me wish some English and history teachers could have been this great. John makes every subject discussed accessible without dumbing down the subject matter. By doing this the videos are presented in such a way that you don’t feel ridiculous watching them whether you’re a 24 year old college drop-out or a 16 year old in high school. Though the vlogbrothers have many channels, Crash Course is my second favorite. So, why should you care about two brothers who made some YouTube channels? For starters, it’s pretty obvious that John and Hank are two really intelligent guys. What makes them more fascinating is that John is actually a bestselling author and Hank is a musician. John Green has written five novels and his current best seller “The Fault in Our Stars” is in the process of becoming a movie. Yet, these two brothers have taken their creativity and built an entire fan base around their simple philosophy of “reducing world suck…one cause at a time”. They and the nerdfigthers have raised many for many organizations around the world. When discussing whether the YouTube channel has affected his readership John acknowledges the fact that the channels have given him wider exposure and replied “It reminds you, if nothing else that books are written by flawed and broken, and damaged people.” What John and Hank are doing is what the Internet should be about. It should bring a group of people together to share ideas and be excited about the things your passionate about. If you’re lucky you can help change the world because we do live in a world of suck. I think it’s hard for people to find the simple joys in anything anymore. Every day were bombarded with the latest scandal and headline filled with so much hatred. It’s hard enough trying to have a civil discussion with people about current events but then you log on to the Internet for a form of escapism only to find it there. That’s why I think you should know about John Green. D.F.T.B.A- Don’t Forget To Be Awesome. |
| Teen Voice: Previously unwritten cell phone rules 2013-04-18 By Kendall Uhrich |
| As I said in last week’s column, I am the proud new owner of the iPhone 5. Although this phone is the newest craze, and one of the most talked about, and written about electronics on the market, there are plenty of cell phone rules that remain unwritten, and they are for any phone, not just the iPhone. So, at last I will bring my readers some of the unwritten, but most needed rules about using our cell phones. 1. Overuse is annoying There is nothing worse than having to deal with people who are always on their phone. I have to deal with this constantly at my job. People are so absorbed in their phone conversations, that they forget they are having a conversation with you. I get so many people telling me to “hold on a second” so they can finish their phone call. Although our cell phones are a communication gateway, don’t forget the people who are right in front of us. They hold top priority. 2. Stop sending one word text messages Although texting gets what we want to tell the person fast, don’t forget that it is still a conversation. Stop replying to messages with “lol” or “okay.” These kinds of messages make the other person feel less important. Be sure even our text messages show sincerity. 3. Never text an argument With the average person sending thousands of texts per day (especially high in today’s teen’s), there are millions of conversations we have with everyone from our mom, to our significant others. I have seen so many teenage relationships end, because they broke up over texting, and so many fights between girls, that never happen face to face. Texting a fight with another is a definite no-no. If a disagreement arises, wait until the next time you see the person to calmly discuss the matter. Often times behind the keys of a message board we feel overly powerful and end up saying things we would never say to people’s faces. 4. Remember that others are around us This is another rule that I always see abused. When at my job and even at the local Walmart, I end up being a part of people’s phone conversations, whether I wanted to be or not. I have heard so many personal conversations, that I really didn’t want to hear. Believe it or not, I don’t want to hear about the fight you had with your boyfriend last night, stranger. Remember to take these calls at home. In public is not the place to talk about our personal lives. Only take the call if it is of high importance. That gossip can wait until later. 5. Use the silent feature (it’s there for a reason) When going into public, we need to remember to set our phones on vibrate or on silent. There is nothing more annoying, and distracting than someone who has left their phone on loud, and takes forever to shut it off. I have heard more obnoxious and annoying ringtones than I would ever care to because people forget this one simple rule. 6. Don’t leave long voicemail messages There is an unwritten truth about voicemail messages: people usually don’t actually listen to them. My voicemail box is completely full, because I never actually check mine. If I see someone called me, I return the call. I never listen to their lengthy message telling me what they called for. Simply say “Hello, I’m X and I am calling for X, please call back whenever you can.” This 15 second voicemail is much more effective than a drawn out message. 7. Text back as soon as possible I find myself breaking this rule constantly. Don’t reply to a text three days later than when you got it. Give that person your time, at the soonest, convenient time. It is rude to keep them waiting for your reply. If they gave you their time, it is courteous to do the same in return. |
| Observations Only: Expect the best, part II 2013-04-18 By Nina Betz |
| As I write this second installment of Expecting the Best, I have to laugh at myself because a big component of this escaped me. Recently, I learned about a project undertaken by an acquaintance, and my analytical way of thinking went in to action. I thought about the need for the project in our community, I considered the personal characteristics of the acquaintance, and then I considered the likelihood of success. I put the matter aside and turned my attention to my tasks; however, my mind kept going back to the project and thinking about it until I realized I was minding other people's business for them, again; wasting my mental energies and time. Later I felt a little sad and began thinking about my past disappointments, which led to scolding myself for the poor choices I had made in the past. I said my affirmations but they didn't lift my spirits as I have come to expect. Despite the struggle to change my first thought about a thing, which leads to a swell of emotion, whether tears or feelings of remorse or anger, the old thought patterns sometimes sneak up on me and I feel sad, and caught up in worry. I mentally separated from the present moment and reviewed my thought processes that preceded the onset of my sadness; I hadn't been watching television or reading about some world happening that would account for my low spirits. I attempted to bring myself out of the doldrums by visualizing the best result for myself but it didn't work this time. Then a very important realization came to mind; I was expecting the best result for myself and yet expecting a negative result for others. My brain couldn't separate the thoughts and emotions that were about my life from my thoughts about situations outside myself. Negative thoughts, regardless of the subject matter, have the same power to engender emotions. I was doing well managing my past memories by visualizing them as dry dusty leaves blowing away in the wind, but I was still sabotaging my daily happiness by over thinking at times, which led to worry about the future, and what if this or that happened. Then I was behaving as if the worst had actually happened. This is an old pattern I'm striving to change. The first thought one has about a thing is of primary importance and must be carefully monitored because emotion is triggered by that thought, which in turn engenders more thoughts and more emotion. Our first thoughts about what day it is, an idea presented to us, a co-worker's promotion, an unexpected difficulty, alter our emotional balance for the day determining whether we have a good day or a stressful day. If our thoughts are positive our spirits are light and happy, but if we are caught up in how terrible and how awful something is our spirits plummet and we have set ourselves up for a stressful day. Petty annoyances such as waiting on a train, waiting in line at the grocery store or a noisy child can have an impact on our well being, depending on our first thought. We can immediately relieve stress and make our life better by strictly controlling our first thought and avoiding imagining the worst case scenario which, if we're honest, rarely happen. This should be a simple concept but in reality many of us expect the best for ourselves and only pretend to be glad when something good happens to someone else. When we expect the best result for everyone our spirits soar with delight and happiness for ourselves as well as others. |
| Across the Fence - Catherine’s boys 2013-04-18 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| Catherine McGurk Masterson and her husband Thomas raised five sons and two fine daughters. Catherine and Thomas were Irish emigrants who sailed from the impoverished island in the early 1800s and began a new life in the East Canadian province of Quebec. As their children grew so did their restlessness and further wanderings took them to New York, Illinois and finally to Kansas where they settled into farming near Wichita. Perhaps it was the mundane routine of chores and crops and Kansas wind or maybe it was simply the call of adventure that pulled three of Catherine’s boys away from the farm. Possibly it was the promise of a grizzly fortune to be made from the hides and humps of the hundreds-of-thousands of buffalo that roamed the Kansas plains. Whatever may have been the siren’s lure, the late 1860s and early ‘70s found brothers Edward, Bartholomew and James in the company of men who prospered from the slaughter of the American Bison. When nothing was left in Kansas of the once countless herds and the prairie was littered with bleached bones and still rotting carcasses, brothers James and Edward looked to the bustling Kansas cow towns. Bartholomew, on the other hand, pursued the sparse remaining herds south across Oklahoma Territory and into Texas. In late June of 1874, Bartholomew and over two-dozen other buffalo hunters were camped at Adobe Walls in northern Texas. Hopeful storekeepers who intended to revitalize the area with local trade had recently reoccupied the site of the old Texas fortification and the nearly 300 buffalo hunters in the surrounding area brought renewed life to the old town. While at Adobe Walls, a large band of Southern Plains Indians attacked the hunters in retaliation for their slaughter of the buffalo and encroachment on their lands. In all there were about 30 men at Adobe Walls including the young, 20-year- old, Bartholomew Masterson to defend against a band of more than 300 Indians. The hunters were able to repel the attack with only a few casualties while the Indians suffered significantly more. After surviving the battle at Adobe Walls, Bartholomew briefly abandoned the buffalo trade and worked for a time as a scout with the U.S. Army. By 1875 the tribes of the southern plains had, for the most part, been sufficiently suppressed and confined to reservations in the Oklahoma Territory. The brothers then went to work on the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad as it stretched westward toward the rail camp called Buffalo City, later to be named Dodge City, Kansas. No doubt building grade and laying track was considerably more strenuous than laying in ambush for a buffalo herd and perhaps less lucrative. The brothers returned to the buffalo trade as able hunters. It is said that during his buffalo hunting days Bartholomew’s hunting skills were compared to those of the famous mountain man Baptiste ‘Bat’ Brown. Disliking his given name, Bartholomew quickly accepted the complimentary moniker and became Bat Masterson, later changing his name to William Barclay Masterson. When the buffalo trade had played out, Ed and James returned to Wichita and Bat headed back to Texas at Cantonment Sweetwater. It was there that in 1876 Bat was involved in his first gunfight. The true circumstances surrounding the affair are no doubt tucked away among the various tellings of the event. Stories range from a matter of honor stemming from a crude insult, to a jealous rage over a lady of dubious character, or possibly an unprovoked attack upon Mr. Masterson. Regardless of the cause, the end result was a gun battle that left a soldier by the name of Cook, also known as King, mortally wounded and the lady in question caught in the crossfire and killed. Bat was exonerated of any wrongdoing and his involvement was deemed to be self-defense. Bat left Texas and in 1877 joined brothers Ed and James in Dodge City, Kansas where James was the Assistant Marshall and Ed was a Deputy. Ed later became the appointed Marshall of Dodge. For a brief time Bat worked with Wyatt Earp as a sheriff’s deputy but soon was elected Sheriff of Ford County, Kansas. Wyatt Earp once commented that Bat’s brother Ed just didn’t have the temperament to be a peace officer. Perhaps because Ed was more inclined to use friendly persuasion than deadly force with a gun. In the two years that Ed served Dodge City he was shot twice, the third time was fatal. In early April 1878 Ed was attempting to disarm a drunken cowboy named Jack Wagner when Jack turned his gun on Ed and shot him in the side. Mortally wounded, Ed staggered from the scene and crossed the street where he summoned his brother’s help. Bat was quick to avenge his older brother and promptly killed Wagner. Ed died the following day after much suffering. He was 26 years old. No charges were filed. After Ed’s death, Charlie Basset was made Marshall of Dodge and appointed James Masterson and Wyatt Earp as deputies. From 1878 through 1880 James Masterson made several hundred arrests as Marshall Basset endeavored to clean up Dodge. Earp didn’t last long in Dodge and soon traveled west to the boomtown of Tombstone, Arizona. After gaining a quarter interest in the Oriental saloon and gaming establishment, Wyatt invited Bat to join him in Tombstone as a manager and enforcer of the Oriental. In 1881, while in Tombstone, Bat received a telegram from Dodge; “COME AT ONCE. UPDEGRAFF AND PEACOCK ARE GOING TO KILL JIM.” With a change in city government Jim had been dismissed from his law enforcement position and was in partnership with Updegraff and Peacock at the Lady Gay Saloon and Dance Hall in Dodge. Disagreements among the business partners had escalated from arguments to threats. Bat left Tombstone immediately and arrived by train on April 16, 1881. Shortly after his arrival Bat spotted Updegraff and Peacock among a crowd on the boardwalks of Dodge. "I have come over a thousand miles to settle this," Bat shouted. "I know you are heeled, now fight!" Guns were drawn and shots fired. Masterson took cover behind the railroad grade while Updegraff and Peacock ran behind the city jail. Several citizens joined the melee with some defending Bat. A ricocheting bullet intended for Masterson wounded one unlucky bystander and Bat got off a shot that went through Updegraff’s right lung. The Dodge City mayor and sheriff, armed with double-barreled shotguns, dispersed the crowd and stopped the fight. Updegraff and the wounded citizen received medical treatment and both recovered. According to Dodge City standards the fight was judged to be a ‘fair’ fight and no charges were filed. Bat did pay an $8 fine for disturbing the peace and that evening boarded the westbound Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe and got out of Dodge. That was the last gun battle that Bat Masterson would ever fight. James moved west to Trindad, Colorado and later to New Mexico where he served as Sheriff from 1889 through the early ‘90s. In 1893 James was appointed as a Deputy United States Marshall in Oklahoma Territory and was closely involved in the breakup of the Doolin-Dalton gang. On March 31, 1895, after 17 years in law enforcement, James succumbed to tuberculosis. He was 40 years old. Bat continued to travel among the most notorious towns of the old west. Though he never again engaged in gunplay there is no doubt that his exaggerated reputation followed him. In 1883 he served a peaceful year as Marshall in Trinidad, Colorado and also South Pueblo. While in Colorado Bat began his writing and journalism career by writing a sports column that appeared in a Denver newspaper called ‘George’s Weekly.’ Continuing his writing and with the acquaintance of editor and publisher Alfred Henry Lewis, Bat left the west and headed to New York City in 1902 where he continued as a sports writer and boxing promoter. With Lewis’ recommendation, President Theodore Roosevelt appointed Masterson as deputy U.S. Marshall of the southern New York district. As Roosevelt’s appointee, Bat divided his time between writing and keeping the peace from 1908 until 1912 then continued his journalism career as a three-time weekly columnist, for the New York Morning Telegraph, until his death in 1921. Catherine McGurk Masterson raised five sons. Three of those sons became well known throughout the west as able gunmen and law enforcement officers. One can only imagine the anxiety and grief those three sons brought Mrs. Masterson, but they surely also brought her some amount of pride. At least two of her sons, James and Ed preceded her in death, a pain that must have stayed with her until she passed in 1908. Bat Masterson died at his desk, slumped over his typewriter as he prepared his next column. His final article ended with these somber words; "There are those who argue that everything breaks even in this old dump of a world of ours. I suppose these ginks who argue that way hold that because the rich man gets ice in the summer and the poor man gets it in the winter things are breaking even for both. Maybe so, but I'll swear I can't see it that way." M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist and freelance writer. To contact Tim, email: mtimn@aol.com |
| A Stray Moment: Tacos! Our embarrassment of riches 2013-04-11 By Doug Harris |
| When I returned to the Valley exactly two years ago this week I wasn't exactly sure what my prospects would be but I knew I was coming home to the best tacos in the universe. That is a personal observation of course, but with well over 25 locally owned and thriving Mexican restaurants in our area it seems clear that I am not alone in coming to that conclusion. My appreciation for the unique and delicious style of Mexican cuisine found in Scotts Bluff County might not do any favors for my waistline but I figure if I walk around the block or ride my bike more often it will be a fair trade off to satisfy this happy addiction. My family moved from Kearney to Scottsbluff in 1976; this is when my ongoing love affair with the Valley-style taco began. I'm sure it is different now but Kearney, in my memory, didn't offer much in the way of exotic food back then. Godfather's Pizza was considered the height of decadent comfort food. And while I still enjoy the occasional slice I must confess the amazing Mexican food offerings around here usually trump all others in capturing my modest 'out to eat' budget. My first discovery was Taco Town. I had never eaten a real homemade-style taco before. The exceptional blend of spiced meat, melted cheese, lettuce and tomatoes wrapped in a deep-fried tortilla was a revelation. And we can't forget the peas! Topping the taco with this weird concoction called 'hot sauce,' I was immediately transported to the seventh heaven of food. Once my mind caught up with my taste buds I noticed there were even other things besides tacos on the menu. While I still enjoy a Taco Town fix the choices now available in and around Scottsbluff offer an embarrassment of riches. I've been asked 'who makes the best taco in the region?' We all have our individual preferences but my honest answer is all of them. I cannot list every Mexican restaurant in our towns, nor am I a food critic, I'm just happy to eat tacos almost anywhere. For those I fail to list, trust me, it is only a matter of time before I enter your establishment and walk out a satisfied customer. It seems every time I drive down East Overland in Scottsbluff I notice a new mom and pop Mexican cafe has opened up. I'll be arriving as soon as I can. Tacos in the Valley are an affirmation that life is good and that the world is turning in harmony with the cosmos. Tacos are goodness. They confirm Providence is smiling upon us and that we really do live in a great part of the world. I've had tacos in New Mexico, California, Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, Minnesota (not recommended) and even in Mexico itself. Some were pretty good too, but the local style still comes in first place, hands down. The spoil sport in me does pose the question: are tacos healthy? Well, anything in excess is probably not the best plan, but indulging in a wonderful treat every once in a while is just one more reason for being alive, isn't it? Some folks are addicted to cheesecake or chocolate. In moderation, enjoying the pleasing sensation of occasionally eating our favorite food is literally the spice of life. While, yes, it is a good idea to avoid getting carried away, I refuse to feel any shame over this craving. When I decide it is time to go out for dinner at a new or favorite Mexican eatery I look forward to it all day. I anticipate the meal with relaxed euphoria. It isn't just the taste that calms my demeanor. It is the entire ambiance of it all; the accordion music, the smells, the smiles, the bright pastels, the Mexican flags, and the Spanish language beer and soda-pop placards. It all adds up to a truly magnificent experience. Eating a taco in the Valley says to me I am home. It reminds me of seeing my friends and neighbors and being near to so many things I find familiar and grounding. It is about more than just a beguiling taco. It is about knowing I not only belong to this community but that I am invited to share in its' bounty and traditions. I am welcome to enjoy and join with everyone else in our shared passion and enthusiasm for the brilliant local spin on classic Mexican food and culture. How did so many amazing cooks all end up in our tiny little sliver of the world? When I count my blessings I need to make sure these dedicated culinarians are included. Thank you! Gracias por hacer la vida más hermosa! And while the terrific taco is a staple in my love of Mexican food the local offerings don't end there. Do you like pork chili? Smothered enchiladas? Within five miles of my desk there are over 20 different varieties. El Charitos’ pork chili is legendary. A melt in your mouth mixture that can whip your senses into a frenzy and cause delightful beads of sweat to run down your forehead. The pork chili plate at Taco De Oro is another favorite. Served with fresh hot tortillas and rice and beans, you don't even need a fork or spoon to eat it. You can scoop it up Mexican style by just dipping the tortilla on the plate. At La Bonita across from the Panhandle Coop Plaza, their unique pork chili has a texture and taste that makes me feel like someone's wonderful grandmother lovingly labored over it for hours in advance. Maybe she did? A current lunch time favorite is Sandy's Burritos in Gering. They offer traditional cornhusk wrapped piping hot tamales to die for. And I always gravitate to Carmen's Burritos during the Oregon Trail Days international food fair. Last summer the men at the booth encouraged me to order a taco topped with pork chili. This isn't normally on the menu but during OT Days people get a little extra festive. A pork chili taco offered year round just might make my head explode. While I was eating it (and standing in line to order another) I felt as if I had unveiled the eighth deadly sin. The guy from Carmen's said, “That's pretty good like that, isn't it?” Talk about a rhetorical question. I could always order a taco and side of pork chili and mix it up myself but I have to temper my madness. Eating that only once a year is the wisest choice, but I'm glad July is only a few months away. Other popular spots are Rosita's, Ole', El Torito, Garcia's, El Mexicano, and San Pedros who all offer single and solitary interpretations of Mexican dishes and tacos sure to make your mouth water. Lira's in Lingle is well worth the trip. The El Molcajete pork chili tostada is another stand out among the nearly endless choices we are presented with and Tacos Mexico, which frequently offers one dollar taco sales, has over a dozen different options for filling their excellent white corn tortillas. Topping the tacos with fresh cut cucumber and radish slices, along with their fantastic verde sauce, it is impossible to make an incorrect choice. Whenever I have friends visiting from out of town I have to insist they sample at least one local Mexican restaurant. They have all agreed with me that something special is going on here. When other friends who have moved away come back for a visit they are sure to show up at their favorite spots. Eating a taco in Scotts Bluff County puts us at ease. It reminds us that all is right in the world. It says welcome home. |
| Jane’s Secret, XXIV: The Last Drive 2013-04-11 By Nina Betz |
| Night shadows give way to the morning sun and the Meadowlarks sing as though nothing untoward was happening this day. Molly, enjoying the first flutters of life, pats her face dry and loosens her braid, intending to brush out the waves when the sound of an automobile door slamming is heard. Darn, I wanted to leave before she got here, grumbles Molly. There’s no point hurrying now, she decides, picking up her brush and leisurely pulling it through her hair. Gertrude, busy in the kitchen filling thermoses with coffee, also hears the door slam. Jane’s here. I suppose I have to let her in, she grimaces, regretting her poor appearance despite the knowledge that it’s foolish to let Jane’s childhood taunts about her clumsiness and red hair bother her. “Sounds like Harvey and Jane are here,” Stephen says, upon entering the kitchen and sitting down at the table to wait while Gertrude finishes screwing on the lids. “I know, I heard the door,” she crabs. “You go ahead and join the others; I’ll come in a minute. I’m going to check on Molly,” she says, drying the sink with a tea towel. “Molly, they’re going to load the coffin on the wagon, are you ready,” Gertrude asks, sticking her head inside the bedroom door. “I’m as ready as I ever will be,” she sighs, tying her bonnet strings, and following Gertrude outside just in time to hear Harvey explain why Jane didn’t come with him. “Jane has a sick headache and wasn’t able to come,” Harvey says, explaining her absence to Stephen and Gertrude. Clem brings the team around to the front of the house just in time, saving them from the need to offer a sympathy neither of them feels. “Whoa,” Clem calls, pulling back on the reins and setting the brake. “You got here just in time,” he says to Harvey, tying off the reins and hopping down from the seat. “Jane didn’t want to come, did she,” Clem says, surprising the others with his bluntness. “No, she didn’t,” Harvey admits, relieved to have the truth out. “Just as well, girl never seems to be much use when the chips are down,” mutters Clem. “Come on boys, let’s get this sad business underway,” he says, leading the men into the parlor, followed by Gertrude and Molly. “Oh, be careful; don’t drop him,” Molly cries out, anxiously. “It’s all right sweetheart, we’ll be careful with him,” Clem soothes, glancing toward Gertrude. Taking her cue, Gertrude grabs Molly’s arm, “Come on, let’s go into the kitchen while they take care of Red,” she says, gently turning her away from the men. “Jane didn’t want to come,” Molly says, as they sit down at the table. “I can’t say I’m disappointed; she would have managed to make the day about her instead of Red. Odd isn’t it; you and I used to fight and argue all the time while Jane just smiled at us and watched. We thought of her as a peacemaker but I think we were wrong about that. She didn’t care enough to bother and was laughing at us behind our backs while we were growing up. “Remember that time when Pa and Pearl were talking in their bedroom and caught me listening by the door? Gertrude asks. “Yes, Pa said if he caught you listening at keyholes again he would tan your hide,” Molly says, laughing at the memory. “I heard them talking about the silver hair and sky blue eye combination and how it skips a generation; except that it didn’t with Jane. She has silver hair the same as Pearl; when it doesn’t skip and the combination occurs the child seems fine but lacks something in their personality. I didn’t know what it meant then and I forgot about it. Remember how Jane cut up her wedding dress to make a table cloth and my missing engagement ring? It all makes sense now,” Gertrude says, shocked by the realization. Molly ponders this before speaking. “So Pa does know about her,” Molly says. “I think he understands Jane and that’s why he’s happy she’s safely married to Harvey who has plenty of money to take care of her,” Gertrude says. “Gertrude, I’ve always wondered about something; do you know why we call her Pearl instead of mother?” Molly asks. “I’ve never thought to ask Pa. All I know is that he called her Pearl and neither of them taught me to call her mother,” Gertrude replies matter-of-fact. Walking into the house to tell the girls they’re ready, Clem overhears them talking and listens for a few minutes. “Molly, we’re ready to start,” he says from the doorway, pretending he hasn’t heard their conversation. “Thank you, Pa; we’re coming,” Molly says, rising from her chair. “I almost forgot to put a note on the door for Shorty and Susan,” she says, taking writing paper out of a drawer and sitting down to write instructions for the other mourners. “Molly don’t you think we should wait for them? It might cause problems if we go on ahead without them,” Gertrude suggests. “Probably, but I have to do this my way,” she says, going out on the porch and impaling the note on a nail. Stepping off the porch, Molly stops short and looks at Clem seated in the wagon that carries her husband’s body, causing Gertrude to narrowly miss bumping into her. “Get down from there, Pa; I’m driving the team,” she says. “You ride in the automobile with the others,” she orders, in a firm voice. “But Molly, in your condition?” he says, jumping down from the wagon seat, hoping to dissuade her. “I’m going driving with my husband one last time, and don’t argue with me,” she says, her voice breaking on the last word as she climbs up on the wagon seat and gathers up the reins. “Giddy up,” Molly calls to the horses, moving them out at a fast trot, leaving the others to watch in amazement. “That’s my spunky girl!” Clem chuckles, as he pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping the sweat off his face. “Pa, are you going to let her do that,” Gertrude demands, turning to Clem. “Yep; you try and stop her if you want,” Clem says, glancing at Stephen for assurance. “What if she has trouble with the team?” Gertrude argues. “It’s all right sweetheart, I’ll saddle King and follow behind the team just in case; don’t wait for us, we’ll catch up,” Clem says to the men, heading off to the barn. “Well, let’s get started,” Harvey says, going around to the front of the touring car to crank the motor while Stephen helps Gertrude climb into the back seat. “All set?” Harvey asks, glancing back at Gertrude as Stephen climbs in beside him and pulls the door shut. Gertrude nods her head, but doesn’t speak. A sense of Red’s spirit envelopes Molly, comforting her. “I feel you sitting beside me,” she whispers, a ghost of a smile curving her mouth. Driving along, Molly talks to Red as though he really is beside her. “This is our last day together and I’m wearing the blue dress you like so much,” she says. Then there is a flutter in her belly. Smiling, she continues. “I didn’t have time to tell you about our babies before the accident.” Tears slide unchecked down her cheeks. Back at the farm, a sudden whirling gust of wind moves through the yard between the barn and ranch house, plucking the note off the door and carrying it away with the dry winter leaves. |
| Across the Fence: A Cheyenne weekend 2013-04-11 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| This past weekend was the first Junior/Senior Prom I’ve attended since 1967 and although the traditions of prom night are pretty much the same, things have sure changed over the past forty-six years. My wife Deb is one of the junior class sponsors for the ‘Broncs’ of Burns, Wyoming. This year, instead of the usual venue of the high school gymnasium, the junior class decided something a bit classier was in order for their prom. In a bold move away from the norm the class of 2014 decided to hold the event at the historic Cheyenne Depot. The polished marble floors and bold architectural lines of the old depot seemed a perfect fit for the evening’s theme: The Roaring Twenties. It is far too infrequent that Deb and I get a chance to enjoy an evening of dancing and so we have been looking forward to ‘Prom Night’ for several weeks. We practiced and polished our Cha-Cha moves, rehearsed our two-step, refreshed our country swing and even attempted a few Charleston antics with the help of a You-Tube video. Fortunately the DJ never played the Charleston so our ineptitude was not revealed. Deb found a vintage 1920s evening dress and I rounded up a classic double-breasted, pin-stripped suit. I think we came pretty close to capturing the spirit of the era. Deb and I, a handful of students and a couple of other teachers began decorating the depot on Saturday afternoon. Events coordinators and custodial staff at the depot helped to set up tables while we decorated with centerpieces of roses and Ostrich plumes, flapper beads and feather Boa’s. Silhouettes of twenties-era partygoers were assembled as well as a life-sized cutout of a 1920s Buick convertible. The simple decorations, throughout the huge main lobby of the old depot, seemed to transport us back to the carefree days after The Great War and before the dark days of the Depression and dust bowl. As the students began to arrive, their boisterous chatter and laughter echoed through the lobby. Some students went all out with Zoot suits and wide-brimmed hats, tuxedos that reflected the era, and more than a few jauntily worn Fedoras. Ladies wore fancy gowns in bright satins and elegant lace as well as flapper-style fringe reminiscent of the times. Of course there was the traditional formal attire accessorized with the expected boots and hats of Wyoming ranch kids. Deb and I danced to every tune that we were familiar with. Most of them were waltzes and even a Cha-Cha that Deb had requested. We considered a country-swing but it appeared far too dangerous on the dance floor amid the exuberance of youth. And we watched in numb amazement at the shocking moves performed to the monotonous rhythm of hip-hop and rap. Must be I’m getting old. I just don’t get it. Near midnight the DJ announced the last dance and couples shuffled across the marble tiles collecting the memories that they will hold for years to come. Goodbyes were exchanged as the young men and women flowed out the doors and into the lamp lit night. As the sponsors and student volunteers began the cleanup, the Cheyenne Depot staff cleared the tables and chairs and chased the litter of boa feathers across the floor with wide push brooms. In a matter of minutes, the Roaring Twenties had vanished and only memories lingered in the emptiness. Earlier in the day, as Deb and I were waiting for the DJ to arrive, the depot custodian allowed us to take a brief self-guided tour. Near the center of the building is the historic staircase that rises to the third floor. Beautifully finished red oak balusters and rails ornately grace the stairway as it climbs to each floor. The oak woodwork seems as fresh and brightly finished as the day it was completed back in 1887. Each floor opens into a hallway lined with beautifully finished offices with oak wainscoting that accentuates the rugged elegance of the building. On the third floor, you can see a part of the super-structure that supports the massive weight of the building. Not unlike early suspension bridges, the beams and cables that support the huge ceiling of the main lobby are exposed in the hallway. I have been told that the architect was a bridge designer and so had used the suspension technique in the construction; however I have not found anything to confirm that opinion. The architect, Henry Van Brunt was perhaps the leading architect of his time and was chosen by the Union Pacific Railroad and city fathers of Cheyenne to be the designer of the building that would reflect the rugged character of the west and the wealth of Cheyenne. Van Brunt also designed the depot in Ogden, Utah but that building was constructed of brick rather than the Richardsonian Romanesque style of stonework used in the Cheyenne Depot. Other buildings that used the same style were the Sioux City, Iowa depot and the depot in Omaha, Nebraska. Other buildings designed by Van Brunt and of similar construction were the Thayer Building and the Gibraltar Building, built in the late 1880s in Kansas City. Other Van Brunt buildings of this style are the Hoyt Library in Saginaw, Michigan and the public library in Cambridge, Massachusetts. However, it has been said that none of these buildings come near to the grandeur and architectural accomplishment of the Union Pacific Depot at Cheyenne, Wyoming. Of the many depots designed by Van Brunt for the Union Pacific, only the Cheyenne, Wyoming and Portland, Oregon depot still stand. All others have been demolished. Always interested in the history of places we visit, while in Cheyenne, Deb and I stayed at the historic Plains Hotel, the same hotel where her parents spent their honeymoon. Built in 1911, the Plains Hotel was the jewel of Cheyenne. Completed in just over one year, the building and all of its elegant furnishings and modern amenities totaled nearly $250,000. It was the gathering place of the political and social elite of Cheyenne and has hosted presidents and Hollywood stars during its heyday. Cattle barons, bankers and oil tycoons have negotiated untold fortunes and toasted the deals struck in the smoke filled lounge. In 1915, Arapaho warrior, Little Shield was the hotel’s honored guest for Cheyenne Frontier Days. Every year thereafter, Little Shield returned to the hotel and after his death, his descendants have continued the tradition. Little Shield would dust off his clothing and wash off in the horse trough, across the street, before entering the hotel to visit with the crowds of people who had gathered there. However, the friends and family that accompanied him would stay in their tipis at the Frontier Park rodeo grounds. The young Arapaho warrior possessed a striking appearance and created quite a stir with the patrons at the Plains. Cheyenne philanthropist, Harry Hynds commissioned noted photographer, J.E. Stinson to photograph Little Shield and the Plains Hotel subsequently adopted Little Shield’s likeness as their trademark, even creating a mosaic image on the sidewalk at the east entrance to the building. Also, in the lobby of the hotel is a large color enhanced copy of that famous photograph that was given to the Plains Hotel by the great-grandson of pioneer and Nebraska rancher Edwin Brass. In the very early 1900s cattleman Edwin Brass of Grand Island, Nebraska traveled to Texas to purchase 10,000 head of cattle. While in Texas he also found and purchased a large colorized copy of the famous photo and had it crated for the return trip to Nebraska. During the journey home Mr. Brass died on the train and in the rush of grief and final arrangements the crate was stored in the attic of his home and forgotten. In 1970, Mr. Brass’s great-grandson discovered the photograph and donated it to the hotel. While the image of Little Shield remains forever youthful, I was reminded several times this past weekend that youth is indeed fleeting. First of all came the realization that I can no longer dance until the sun comes up. Secondly, I’m afraid I relate better to the oldies but goodies and I cannot understand the social or musical relevance of hip-hop and rap. And finally, to my deep disappointment, I apparently no longer possess the youthful appearance that I though I had. Case in point: I was purchasing a bottle of spirits and stood at the counter next to a seasoned old cowboy who had apparently been there at least a couple of times earlier in the day. “ Good afternoon, sir.” I said. “Looks like I should be calling you, sir.” He said as he teetered against the counter. “I’d say you’ve got a few years on me.” “I don’t think so.” I replied. “How old are you?” He asked me. “Sixty-two.” I said proudly as I squared my shoulders and pushed back my hat. “I’ll be danged!” the old cowboy slurred. “I’m sixty-nine. Thought you was older’n me.” I’m hoping that his vision was as blurred as his speech. M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist, freelance writer, poet and entertainer. To contact Tim, email: mtimn@aol.com |
| Observations Only: Expect the best 2013-04-11 By Nina Betz |
| The closure of the construction company became an unexpected blessing by forcing me to change how I live each day. Most of us have heard the song from South Pacific about being a cockeyed optimist, which I always thought was silly, after all, my life was serious. It didn't occur to me that it didn't need to be that way. My worry wart tendencies began when I was separated from my sister Hazel in the orphanage, and grew into a life-long habit of worrying about money, what people thought of me, whether I made a mistake or said something I shouldn't have. A kind person did me a great favor by explaining that people want to have fun and don't want to hear about the serious things I talk about. As a five-year-old, I remember sitting on the cement step at the farm house thinking that I didn't like my new parents and felt a great sadness that I couldn't trust them and would have to take care of myself. I didn't want these strangers; I wanted my sister and Momma and Daddy. I became a sad child who seldom smiled or laughed; always worried that I would forget the rules and be sent back to the orphanage. Grandma Pansy told me I was an old child; I knew by the tone in her voice that it wasn't a good thing to be; then I worried that something was wrong with me. One summer, my father remarked at the dinner table that the crops were hailed out and we wouldn't be able to eat this winter. He didn’t realize the impact of his words on a child who knew what being hungry meant. I believed what he said and worried about eating too much and possibly being returned to the orphanage. As I grew older, I avoided taking risks that others gave no thought to. If I didn't already know how to do a thing or if it appeared dangerous, I refused to participate for fear of getting hurt or looking foolish. My reluctance to try new things kept me from making friends and enjoying life. The years passed and my early anxiety became ingrained to the degree that I was a pessimist, always fretting about what might happen and becoming upset as if the worst had already occurred. Seldom did the worst happen but I was so stressed by the negative self-talk that I cried easily and made myself nervous and edgy. Eventually, I realized that my problems stemmed from a lack of self-confidence, a direct result of an inability to trust in basic goodness. I realized that potential problems do resolve themselves in a mostly satisfactory way. I began reading books and meditating, and the techniques help to a degree; but it still felt artificial because I was pretending to feel a confidence that wasn't authentic. I made up my own personal affirmations by saying 'I am' statements. Lastly, I began saying, “I expect the best result, I deserve the best result.” This does not mean asking for the result I want and expecting to get it, it means trusting that the best possible result will happen and being content with the result, because I trust that it is the best. It means expecting the best today not imagining the worst. The knowledge that all is as it should be brings wonderful peace and a sense of power; not over others but over my own emotions and thought processes. Expecting the best is the best medicine for what ails all of us, whether it be a disease process or an ailment of the spirit or maintaining our joy and happiness. |
| Teen Voice: By my side until the newness wears off 2013-04-11 By Kendall Uhrig |
| I am the proud new owner of the iPhone 5. My white phone surrounded with a sparkly pink case the newest and most talked about cell phone on the market, and I am more than happy to own one. There is absolutely nothing this phone cannot do, or apps that I can purchase, and I spend so much time just obsessing over trying to figure out all of the millions of features I know it has. This phone is attached to my side at all times, and I keep it in its own blue pokka-dotted case just to keep the all glass screen from getting cracked. I make sure that it is in my sight at all times just to be sure nobody harms it. Everyone knows that my new phone is technology that only I am allowed to touch. And they know this because when I purchased my laptop this summer with the money I had made from my job, I did the same exact thing. I was on it for hours and used any excuse to use my computer just to show off the large, beats audio laptop I had worked hours serving people for. I am like this with anything new, I get something and it stays by my side for a month or two, then I quickly lose interest and spend my time invested in my newest material possession. With my old phone, my first touch screen, I treated it like it was my first born child, but after awhile I found myself throwing it around and losing it from time to time. The point is, when the newness wears off, I lose interest. But, this doesn’t just happen with technology, it is how I am with everything else as well. Relationships, new places, a school year. At the beginning, I am 100 percent focused, but when there isn’t anything left to keep me interested I end up giving the task a solid 30 percent. It is so easy to get caught in that rut. To just get used to our normal routines and forget just how exciting it was when we first began. Like day one of our jobs, or the first day of the school year. Our outfits are picked out, and we walk into the building with excitement and a bubbly attitude, but then we find ourselves dragging our sweatpants wearing self, groggy from lack of sleep dreading the day ahead. But, imagine the tasks we could complete if we gave it that “first day attitude.” The first day of my senior year I told myself that this would be the best one yet, and at the beginning I made every single effort to do so. My all A’s told me that anything was possible, but here I sit nearing graduation time and I am totally burnt out. My teachers don’t see the dedication they used to, and my classmates aren’t seeing me at my loudest and most bubbly self. I feel bad for not giving everyday my all, but I finally found the reason why, I like new things. We all do. That’s why we buy new outfits for special occasions and why we try to be spontaneous. But, we can fix all of those groggy days by trying to add an element of newness to our everyday schedules. We can add a morning workout, or try taking a new way to work. We could invest our time in a new project, or find a new hobby. It may be April, but it is never too late to start a new year’s resolution. Even if we don’t follow it, we are trying to make something new, something different. So, just as I am attached to the newness of my new phone, bring something new into our lives. It will be more than rewarding and I’m sure those around us won’t mind our new found excitement for the day ahead. |
| Totally Random: The Golden Rule 2013-04-11 By Jon-Lee Campbell |
| I wrote a little piece for the paper last fall after I’d been working at the Citizen for three months. In it, I mentioned the fact that I’m not a writer, and I still stand by that statement. However, I do view myself as a creative individual. I’ve always been involved in theater (acting, directing, stage managing, costumes, make-up) and music, and recently my boss, our lovely publisher, told me that perhaps it was time to “flex a new creative muscle.” So now, once a month, I will be giving all of you a glimpse into my “totally random” mind. I just hope it doesn’t scare anyone. I’ve lived a very interesting life, and it has made me the person I am today. Which I must say, I’m proud of the person I am. I survived a car accident when I was 16 which left me paralyzed from the hips down. It helped me learn just how strong I am. It also taught me to never give up on the things I want, and brought me more in touch with myself and my spirituality. I’ve also moved around a lot throughout my life. I’ve lived in Alaska, Montana, Colorado, Arizona and Nebraska, and after my accident, Philadelphia became like a second home after I was accepted to the Shriner’s Hospital there; I was out there every three to six months for check-ups until I turned 21. It’s nice moving around and traveling because you get to see how different people and cultures are from place to place. I’m what some people would call a “new-aged hippie.” I’m very concerned about things like: the environment and human rights. I’m also interested in astrology, poetry, yoga, meditation, and photography. I’m very spiritual and believe all religions share a common thread. Most know it as “The Golden Rule,” “One should treat others as one would like others to treat oneself.” This “rule” is mentioned in Christianity, Buddhism, Confucianism, Bahá’í, Hinduism, Islam, Jainism, Judaism, Quakerism, Scientology, Sikhism, Taoism, Wicca, and the list goes on. It’s even taught to school kids without any connection to religion. I have a respect for all of the religions, but I also believe that because they are all manmade, there is room for errors. We live in an egocentric society. Everyone wants to be right, to be the best, to have all the answers, but I feel that this is an impossible task. “God,” in whatever name you choose to call it, is beyond our full understanding as human beings. For thousands of years, people were able to develop their own cultures and religions without any knowledge of what the people on the other side of the mountain were thinking and doing. People thought that if you ventured too far off, you would simply fall off the world. It wasn’t until humans started to really explore the world that they discovered that other people have different beliefs. As history plainly tells us, other beliefs were not often welcomed. Many wars have been fought in the name of religion. I find this fact very upsetting; especially when we look back to “The Golden Rule.” If we are supposed to treat others how we want to be treated, why do so many religions try to persecute each other? I feel I need to quote The Youngbloods’ 1967 song, Get Together, “Come on people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together, try and love one another right now.” That song always makes me smile, and I wish more people would embrace its concept. We don’t have to agree with each other to respect and love one another. |
| Across the Fence: The Pony Express 2013-04-04 By |
| “I, Billy Campbell, do hereby swear, before God, that during my engagement and while an employee of Russell, Majors and Waddell, I will, under no circumstances, use profane language, that I will drink no intoxicating liquors; that I will not quarrel or fight with any other employee of the firm and that in every respect I will conduct myself honestly, be faithful to my duties and so direct all my acts as to win the confidence of my employer. So help me God.” Billy Campbell later remarked, “I took the pledge he extracted of all the boys; received my little leather-bound Bible and after thanking him, went out walking on air – a full-fledged pony rider.” No doubt Billy Campbell and dozens of other young pony riders were walking on air after taking the pledge. At a time when most non-skilled laborers were earning one dollar a week, Waddell, Majors and Russell were paying their pony riders an unheard of wage of $25 per week. Although the work was grueling, the hours long and the risks were many, the Pony Express had no problems in finding skinny young men between the ages of 15 and 19, though many were not the orphans that the company preferred. Waddell, Majors and Russell already operated a freighting company employing somewhere around 4,000 men with 3,500 freight wagons and over 40,000 head of hearty oxen. They held government contracts for freight delivery of goods to western posts and hoped to gain similar contracts for mail delivery. However, those hoped for contracts never came to fruition and in the end the Pony Express venture was bankrupt with a loss of more than a half-million dollars. Early rates for postage were $5 per ounce with a 5-cent charge for each additional ounce. That was later changed to $1 per ounce. Despite the pricey postage, operating expenses far exceeded the income. At the time, it took nearly a month, by ship, for letters to reach San Francisco from New York and nearly as long overland by the Butterfield Express. With the fast approaching threat of civil war and the recent addition of California as a state, it became increasingly critical to speed communication between the two coasts. It was well known that in the near future, the railroads would span the distance and telegraph would speed delivery of urgent communication, but something was needed immediately. The Pony Express was the answer to that need. Pony riders would ride in daylight and dark, sunshine and rain, blistering sun or numbing blizzard. The route taken, using parts of the Oregon, Mormon and California Trails would take about 10 days to complete. Riders would change horses approximately every 10 – 15 miles, depending on the terrain and availability of water. Mail pouches would be passed on to a fresh rider every 75 – 100 miles at what was known as a ‘Home Station’. It was no doubt one of the most ambitious and innovative endeavors in the history of communication on the American frontier. Expectations of the men who established the horseback mail service, from St. Joseph, Missouri to Sacramento, California, recognized the possibility of deadly peril from brutal weather and harsh elements of parched desserts, frigid mountain passes and flooding rivers. In addition was the threat of hostile Indians as white encroachment began to disrupt their nomadic lifestyle. However, during its operation, the Pony Express suffered very few casualties with most being station keepers and stock tenders. Actual preparations for the overland mail service began in January of 1860 although the idea and planning began much sooner. In scarcely three month’s time the company had established a viable route, leased or built more than 156 stations, purchased nearly 500 meticulously selected horses and hired the 120 daring riders that were needed to accomplish the unprecedented results of their bold undertaking. The ‘boys’ were required to weigh no more than 125 pounds and were provided with a water pouch, a pistol, a rifle, their small, leather-bound Bible and a horn, to announce their arrival at the next station. Before long the rifle was no longer issued because of its infrequent use and cumbersome bulk and the horn was found to be unnecessary since the sound of the pounding of horses’ hooves was heard long before the blare of the horn. In the early twilight hours of April 3, 1860 throngs of people crowded the streets around the PX Stables in St. Joseph, Missouri. The local brass band blared out boisterous tunes in celebration of the grand event. Fireworks popped and cracked, spooking the horses hitched nearby as they pulled against their taunt reins. Small children perched on the shoulders of their dads, waiting impatiently for whatever happened next. Newspaper reporters from Kansas City, St. Louis, Chicago and New York scurried amongst the crowd, shouting above the cacophony of whinnying horses, beating drums and politicians speeches, as they jotted down cryptic notes on small white tablets. After considerable coaxing, the crowd quieted as Mayor M. Jeff Thompson stepped to the podium and eloquently initiated the first run of the Pony Express: “This is a great day in the history of St. Joseph. For more than a decade she has been the portal through which passed the wagon trains for the great west. Now she is to become the connecting link between the extremes of the continents. For the first time in the history of America, mail will go by an overland route from east to west. The time will come when steam will drive a railroad train through those fastness’ and bear passengers from St. Joseph to California in less than a week. “I see you smile, my fellow citizens, and nudge each other at the idea I am harboring. Some of you are saying, ‘Jeff is dreaming as usual of the impossible and unknown,‘ but I tell you all that, as sure as I stand here, the day will come when at this very town you may board a train which will take you through the gold fields, and that within a very few years. “More than that, I say to you the wilderness which lies between us will blossom as the rose, cities will spring into existence where the Indians and Buffalo now hold possession. Mountains will be tunneled, streams bridged and the iron monster which has become mankind’s slave will ply between our confines and those far distant shores. “Citizens of St. Joseph, I bid you three cheers for the Pony Express – three cheers for the first overland passage of the United States Mail.” After Mayor Thompson’s oratory, William Russell and Alexander Majors addressed anxious crowd. Then at 7:15 p.m. a cannon boomed and echoed across the waters of the wide Missouri River. The stable doors swung open and the first horse and rider, of the westbound Pony Express, exploded from the darkness inside. The crowd cheered in wild approval as sparks sprayed from shod hooves against the hard brick pavement of Jules Street. After a half-mile ride to the river’s edge, horse and rider boarded the ferry and crossed into Kansas Territory at station #2. The following morning, after nearly 12 hours in the saddle, Johnny Fry would turn over the route to the next rider at the first home station, station #5 in Marysville. At Julesburg, Colorado Territory, the next rider followed the Little Blue River into Nebraska Territory at Cottonwood/Hollenburg station. Riders changed again at Fort Kearny and O’Fallon’s Bluff just east of the fork of the North and South Platte. A short jog to the south took the rider to Old Julesburg in Colorado Territory then north again into the Panhandle of Nebraska Territory. Changing mounts at Mud Springs the rider followed Pumpkin Creek to Courthouse Rock then north to the Platte and east past Chimney Rock. In the distance stood Scotts Bluff, its sandstone cliffs and sun-washed walls stood like a fortress in the distance. Wide, flat, open prairie filled the surrounding expanse and perhaps the young rider would shout in exuberance at the rush of wind across his face. Coaxing his pony to a ground-covering gallop, the herds of antelope that scattered before him would be but a blur of gold and white. He could feel the heartbeat of his pony against his thigh, keeping time to the rhythm of hoofbeats and the pulse of horse and rider matched in perfect harmony between grass and sky. Around midnight on April 14, the last pony rider on the westbound route arrived in San Francisco. In little more than 11 days, riders had traveled nearly 2,000 miles to deliver the first of many letters postmarked “Pony Express.” That first mail west contained 49 letters, nine telegrams and several newspapers. In the following 18 months of operation, over 300 trips carried nearly 35,000 pieces of mail. The pony riders were the envy, and the heroes, of men and boys alike. In the eyes of many, they were the cream of the frontier crop, the epitome of daring, courage, commitment and loyalty. On October 24, 1861 the final connection of the transcontinental telegraph was made. And so was the final ride of the Pony Express. Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist, freelance writer, poet and entertainer. To contact Tim, email: mtimn@aol.com M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist, freelance writer, poet and entertainer. To contact Tim, email: mtimn@aol.com |
| Completely Different: The Marilyn Monroe conundrum 2013-04-04 By Elizabeth Gross |
| Marilyn Monroe is one of the few Hollywood icons who has stood the test of time. Even though the height of her popularity was in the 1950s she is one of the most identifiable actresses in the world. Why? Monroe was a model who happened to have starred in a few good movies. From “Some Like it Hot,” to “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” Monroe fell victim like many before her, to being typecast as the blonde desire of the male lead. Career-wise, Monroe should have been forgettable, yet many young women today turn to the raspy-voiced temptress as a sort of role model for what it means to be a desirable woman. Monroe had something every women desires; confidence. The ability to be comfortable in your own skin is extremely tough to obtain. It begins when we are teenagers and for most, never ends throughout life. Monroe’s persona is what we remember most about her. She exuded confidence, which translated to sexiness. So, why is it that we don’t see more women shaped like Marilyn Monroe in advertising, television or films? The answer is simple; we simply need to turn to the world of advertising. As much as we hate to admit it advertising influences everything we do from the clothes we wear to the soda we drink. Advertising helps companies reel you in and buy into their product. This isn’t an evil practice per se it’s simply an important part of business. However, advertising in turn influences us on a cultural level which treads dangerous ground in warping our perception of beauty. The weight loss industry is a perfect example of this potentially damaging result. We are given images of thin women who hate their bodies. Deep down we know that it’s ridiculous yet subconsciously, we see that to be thin is simply not enough. By today’s standards, Monroe would have been considered a plus sized model and it’s questionable if she would have ever had an acting career. This skewed perception creates what I like to call the Marilyn Monroe conundrum. We have an icon that we would love to emulate, yet society says that this is not the path to happiness. As powerful a medium as it is, we are not stuck on the proverbial hamster wheel when it comes to advertising. Lately, I’ve noticed there have been small changes in ad designs aimed at women. The first being Dove’s “Campaign for Real Beauty.” The advertising campaign featured a series of ‘real’ looking women in nothing but their bras and underwear. Since the launch of the campaign the company has advocated building self-esteem in young girls. The criticism lodged at the Dove’s campaign is that many of the photos were retouched, therefore could not make the claim that they were real women. I don’t think retouching is an issue or takes away from the message the campaign was trying to communicate. Retouching is not only a practice used in the advertising industries but professional photographers also use it for wedding photos and senior pictures. It’s a matter of how that retouching is used that becomes an issue. For example, when I was a senior in high school my mother and I sat down to pick out the senior pictures we would order from the proofs. While going through these photos, I came across one that looked rather strange. At first I couldn’t put my finger on why my face looked so weird. After a while I realized that the photographer had Photoshopped the natural curve in my nose which completely changed the look of my face. While I am by no means a professional model trying to get you to buy cashmere socks, the point is that form of retouching caused the image to significantly alter the original intent of the photo, which was to capture what I looked like as a senior in high school. It also showed me that I will never get a nose job, as it will make my face look completely lopsided. Another example of this shift to truthful representation of models in the advertising industry has occurred in Europe. Spain has now banned the use of models that are classified as being underweight. It is now a requirement for a model to submit a Body Mass Index check before she is allowed to work for a designer. About a month ago, an image of two Swedish shop mannequins went viral. These two mannequins were shaped to look like average-sized women, and were dressed in. (One was suspiciously shaped like Marilyn Monroe.) This gives us proof that women are tired of seeing an outfit they may enjoy wearing only to discover it looked ten times better on a plastic doll than it would on them. Recently, many workout trends are promoting a stronger, leaner look instead of a simply ‘get thin’ image. The recent popularity of Cross Fit has seen an influx of women attending these classes along with men. While these are just a few small yet observable changes, we may see a return of the healthy woman as the beautiful woman. With the promotion of healthier bodies, may come a greater sense of self esteem, which may put an end to the vicious cycle of self-loathing women seem to put on themselves. If we are empowered ourselves, we empower the young women around us. Slowly, we will begin to see the use of stick women in ads fade away to a more realistic standard. So ladies remember, self confidence is the new sexy. |
| Teen Voice: What’s so great about pizza? 2013-04-04 By Kendall Uhrich |
| I hate pizza. Yes, as an American teenager these are words one never thought I would utter, but just as I made my confession, I would like explain this phenomena since many may be taken aback. Over my years of being a teen I have experienced so many meetings, get-togethers and slumber parties that I have lost track, and at every single one of them I am forced to eat pizza. The cheesy, saucy dough stares before me at every event and I know that I am being forced to eat it. No, nobody is looking down my shoulder and threatening me if I don’t eat it, but as my propriety has taught me, I know I need to suck it up and eat the food I have consumed countless slices of in the past. There is nothing about pizza that I don’t like. I love cheese, and there is nothing more tasty than carbs (ask anyone who has ever gone on a diet), but it’s the fact that I am always being fed it that annoys me, and makes me dislike a food that everyone else seems to love. The bottom line is: Nobody likes being forced. For me, it’s being forced to eat pizza, but more often times we find ourselves being forced by others to do and most likely to believe something. Everyone can name a time where something has been shoved down our throats, whether it be others political beliefs, religious beliefs or their thoughts on what is moral or good, there is always “those people” who think their way is the only way and everybody else is just plain wrong. So, instead of only talking about pizza, I would like to teach a lesson, not only those who tell others what to believe, but for the people taking the heat as well. When others push their beliefs onto us, it is important to remember to take it with a grain of salt. Although they may seem bothersome at the time, they are only trying to improve others’ lives. They just take a different approach to it than we do. They may seem rude and superficial, but by sharing what they believe it means they have a heart, and courage. It may not seem commendable at the time, but some of even the oddest souls have some light to them. To those who are guilty of telling others what to do when we shouldn’t, respect others beliefs. Although we may feel like we are in the right, we may not be, and it is vital to realize that our way is just one path, but the destination has many roads leading up to it. And just as strong as we feel about our own opinions, they feel just as strong about theirs. My Facebook wall is covered with others changing their profile pictures to either support or to show how they decline the gay marriage subject that is being brought up to our government. It is absolutely wonderful that everyone is taking their stand, but some have gone to a spot that is far beyond admirable. As I read though the comments, I discover that people are arguing about which opinion is right and which is wrong, trying to force upon each other their beliefs. But, nothing good comes from this bickering. They go back and forth saying they are right and why, but no minds are being changed and no action is getting done other than making each other upset and the simple reason why is because nobody wants to be forced to believe in something they do not believe. Just as I don’t want to be fed pizza anymore, others don’t want to be fed our beliefs. When we force something on others they aren’t going to want to hear it. No matter how much we think it will benefit them. Try simply bringing up the subject, if they are interested in our opinions they will ask. No good comes from pushing people too hard. Look at it this way. Nobody can move a mountain, but we can push pebbles. Bring up our beliefs in pebbles, and eventually mountains will be moved with a little respect and lots of food… that isn’t pizza. |
| Our View: Pipeline not a solution to oil problems 2013-04-04 By |
| The heat is on. Will President Obama sign off on the Trans Canada Keystone XL pipeline permit? Everyone feels the pinch when gas prices sky rocket, and it has been said that this project will help to bring costs down for consumers and create much-needed jobs in Nebraska and other states. Let’s explore the reality of those assumptions and others being asserted at water coolers, coffee klatches and in the media. First, a little background. This project represents an extension of the already existing pipeline that has been in operation since 2010, already reaching from Alberta, Canada to Nebraska and Illinois. XL is a 1,660-mile extension to an already 2,100 miles of pipeline. The proposed extension would pass through North Dakota and South. Dakota, Montana, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois and Texas. Keystone Pipeline supporters assert that the pipeline would shield Americans from volatility in the Middle East but this is a pipe dream. The Congressional Budget Office released a report stating the following: “The extensive network of pipelines, shipping and other options for transporting oil around the world means that a single world oil price prevails.” The report continues, “Disruptions related to oil production that occur anywhere in the world raise the price of oil for every consumer of oil, regardless of the amount of oil imported or exported by that consumer’s country.” Based on the CBO report, it is clear that the Keystone Pipeline project would not stabilize oil prices in the U.S. Many Americans are also under the impression that this oil would be destined for use in the U.S.; however, according to the New York Times, much of the tar sands oil that would be refined on the Gulf Coast is destined for export. Six companies have already contracted for three-quarters of the oil. Five are foreign, and the business model of the one American company, Valero, is geared toward export. Pro pipeline advocates tout the high number of jobs the project will create; however, it is a fact that job estimates have been proven to be exaggerated and are based upon a flawed analysis funded by TransCanada. Independent analysts have assessed the company’s analysis and proclaimed it “dead wrong” and “meaningless.” “According to the National Journal, The Keystone XL pipeline would likely create several thousand temporary construction jobs but the project would not have a significant impact on long-term employment in the United States. While some reports have suggested there could be over 100,000 direct and indirect jobs created by the pipeline, this inflated number appears to be a misinterpretation of of the economic analysis prepared on the pipeline. Based on the amount of money the applicant projects it would spend on labor in building the pipeline, and the number of construction crews likely to be used in constructing the pipeline, the final EIS estimated there would be approximately 5,000 to 6,000 direct construction jobs in the United States that would last for the two years that it would take to build the pipeline.” [National Journal, 1/18/12] A report by the Cornell University Global Labor Institute states that the number of permanent jobs in the U.S. could be “as few as 50.” Environmental activists are most concerned about the prospective pipeline’s impact on water resources. Although the route was moved to avoid the sensitive Sandhills of Nebraska, the pipeline would cross the large Ogallala Aquifer, where a spill could pose serious health risks to the two million people who rely on it for drinking water. The aquifer is also the source of water for many farming and ranching operations across Nebraska. A study by John Stansbury of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln warned that a worst-case spill in Nebraska “would pose serious health risks to people using that groundwater for drinking water and irrigation.” [Lincoln Journal Star, 7/11/11] Some supporters of the pipeline express frustration with environmental advocates who focus on worst-case scenarios; however, the existing Keystone Pipeline is known to have a poor safety record. TransCanada insists that there is little risk of a spill from the Keystone XL pipeline, and that it is prepared to contain leaks quickly and effectively. The fact is that in just the first 12 months of operation of the original Keystone pipeline, 14 major leaks were reported. The worst spill was over 21,000 gallons and was not detected by TransCanada’s leak detection systems. Additionally, the pipe used to build the Keystone XL is thinner and cheaper than the original Keystone pipeline and was not designed to carry bitumen oil carried in a high-pressure system. The pipe isn’t even made in the United States, it’s made in India by a company named Welspun, who has well-documented quality control issues with its products and is the same manufacturer used in the original Keystone pipeline that led to 14 major spills in its first 12 months of operation. It is our view that the Ogallala Aquifer, relied on by Nebraskans for drinking water, farm irrigation and ranch operations, cannot and should not be risked under any circumstances. The aquifer must be protected from short-sighted interests. In addition, many of the perceived benefits of the pipeline touted by supporters have been clearly debunked by reliable sources. The promise of good jobs is a myth; the promise of reductions in gas prices is a myth; the promise of independence from the Middle East is a myth, and there is no guarantee of safety for our aquifer. One fact remains, tar sand oil is one of the most toxic substances on the planet, and the Keystone XL pipeline, with its poor record of spills, cannot be allowed to go across our aquifer. If there is one thing that could utterly destroy the State of Nebraska economically, it is the hobbling of our agricultural industry, and the inability of the state to provide clean water for its people. Because gasoline prices are largely determined by the cost of crude oil, which is set on the world market, experts say that the way to reduce our vulnerability to gas price spikes is to decrease our dependence on oil, regardless of where the oil comes from. We agree. Rather than investing in the pipeline project and its false promise to solve our problems, we believe our nation should invest in clean energy production, particularly with regard to wind energy, which would better serve the people of Nebraska, and would pose no threat to the Ogallala Aquifer nor the millions of people who drink its water, nor the farmers and ranchers who rely on it for their agricultural operations which make up Nebraska’s primary industry. Technology fails, materials age. It is inevitable that a leak would happen eventually. |
| Observations Only: A soul's journey, part III 2013-04-04 By Nina Betz |
| In March, 2011 it became necessary to close the construction company due to a combination of the bad economy and a joint business venture with another construction company that turned out to be a very bad business decision. We also realized much later, when it was too late, that poor management also played a part. The subsequent embarrassment and problems were very upsetting. During that time, I was unable to eat and lost 25 pounds in three months. I knew I was risking my health by continually scolding and chastising myself for the errors in judgment I had made. I also had the added stress of learning a new job in an entirely new field. I was used to working alone and had to adjust to the noise and distraction of working with several people near me in the office. After spending weeks scolding myself, I remembered another situation where a business owner had made the same bad decision two different times and was still able to hold up his head in public, I felt a little better knowing that I wasn’t the only foolish, stupid person in the world. A kindly person who had once gone through the same ordeal reminded me that my business wasn’t the only one to ever bite the dust. I began to feel better and eventually the embarrassment lessened and the problems inherent with closing a business worked themselves out. Still, feeling better isn’t the same thing as being happy. I began wondering when I was ever going to be happy and knew that it wasn’t going to happen magically or it would have already done so. My old dilemma that I’d wrestled with for years still existed, how to block sad, painful memories without good ones to replace them. I was tired of sad feelings and crying over the past. I began meditating every morning saying the positive words, I choose to be happy today, today is a good day, all is well today. Eventually, I could say I am happy without it being a choice. Then I was given a tool to use by the counselor who had helped me many times before. When an unwanted memory pops in my head, I imagine it to be a wisp of smoke and let it dissipate without letting it take hold in my mind; I began thinking of the past as dry leaves blowing away in the wind. Eventually I began thinking of myself as deserving. I don’t mean the most expensive or best thing money can buy, but deserving of the best outcome instead of the worst, and trusting life to be that way. I developed the imagery of floating down a river in my own little boat, sometimes rowing and sometimes lying back drifting with the current, safe and content. If there’s turbulence in the water, I remind myself to expect the best because Archangel Michael is protecting me with his sword. The closing of the construction company eventually resulted in a blessing because it forced me to do the hard work to reprogram my mind; to change my first thought from expecting the worst to expecting the best result and getting the best. It helped me see the past as a soul journey instead of a series of painful episodes. I changed myself into a person with personal power instead of someone to be sorry for or an object of pity for others. It is possible to reprogram one’s mind, to change one’s first thought about a matter. We can regain our power and self-respect by changing what we think about what happened to us. We can triumph over the past, whether it be thoughts or deeds by looking at the unvarnished truth about our circumstance and mentally walking away. |
| Capitol View: Wild life proposal costly but worthwhile 2013-04-04 By J.L. Schmidt - Statehouse Correspondent |
| Like many of his Sandhills neighbors, freshman State Senator Al Davis of Hyannis watched last summer as wildfires consumed acres of some of Nebraska’s most scenic countryside, areas of rugged forested land which are home to once secluded cabins. Likewise, similar fires consumed hundreds of thousands of acres from the Panhandle to Northeast Nebraska and a lot of places in between. Nebraska officials called 2012 the worst wild land fire year on record with nearly 500,000 acres burned, 65 structures lost and at least $12 million spent on fighting the fires (more than 390 fires recorded by mid-July 2012). So what’s another $1.75 million in anticipation of a problem which experts say will “occur far more frequently than in the past, spread and grow very rapidly immediately upon ignition, and burn over large areas for weeks. They are difficult to control and threaten lives, property, communities and infrastructures statewide,” Davis told the Natural Resources Committee recently. His bill (LB634) directs the Nebraska Forest Service, among other things, to contract with private aviation companies to place two single engine air tankers during the fire season at airports near Chadron and Valentine, the most heavily-forested and some of the most rugged areas of the state. Davis said the planes would provide rapid initial attack across a broad area of western Nebraska on both private and public lands, keeping fires small and less destructive. The Legislature’s Fiscal Office estimates that would cost $750,000 a year, the largest chunk of the projected cost. The bill also calls for the Nebraska Forest Service to thin forests to reduce fuel loads, substantially reducing wildfire risk, intensity, and rate of the spread, and reduce risks to residents, communities and emergency personnel. Expanded training programs for volunteer firefighters, private landowners, and communities in order to increase fire suppression effectiveness and safety would rack up another $150,000. Development of a Nebraska-based incident management team that would serve as a comprehensive resource to augment and help manage large wildfire operations carries no additional cost. The committee offered an amendment to the proposal that would require the state Emergency Management Agency to develop the team as a resource for wildlife management. The committee also added the emergency clause to the proposal, which would mean that it would go into effect as soon as it is passed by the Legislature and signed by the governor. The bill had 17 proponents, including Davis, at the public hearing and no opposition. Davis told the committee “we’re going to have serious problems (with these fires) for years to come. We need this kind of support for our volunteer firefighters, our communities and our state.” Nebraska Forest Service Director Scott Josiah called the 2012 wildfires “a huge wake-up call. As these fires become bigger and more intense, we need better incident management.” Spending $1.75 million to prevent a $12 million loss makes sense. Let’s hope that Davis’ 48 colleagues and the governor agree. |
| From the Pastor's Pen: Unbelievable breaking news 2013-03-28 By Brad Gustafson - Presbyterian Minister |
| Every spring across the world, more people gather for worship on Easter morning than on any other day in the year. I recently attended a church in the southeastern United States that regularly welcomes an average of 4500 people to services every Sunday; and on Easter morning they are anticipating close to 9,000! What is it that draws human beings so courageously to church sanctuaries on this particular day? Christmas in the early winter is an equally joyous season in the church calendar, and some might argue it is even more extensively and sentimentally beautiful in its celebrations. By comparison, Holy Week in the spring can seem so morbid, with the tensions and betrayals of Maundy Thursday and the stunning violence of Good Friday. Yet Easter is the time when even more of us venture out, squeezing into crowded pews to sing ancient hymns and hear the incredible breaking news of forgiveness in Christ once again. With friends and strangers alike, we gather ourselves together around the incredible story of an emptied tomb. Why do we do this? Is it really because we find the good news of Easter morning so believably good? Or could it be because this unbelievable story promises to change everything for all of us, if only it actually turns out to be true? Surprising as it may be, part of the reason for the enduring appeal of this Easter story, about the raising of a dead body from an opened tomb, is that it raises far more questions about life than it answers. As is often said, churches that pretend to have all the answers are leaving out some of the questions - that the best kind of church to find is one that doesn’t ask you to leave your mind in the parking lot on the way in! For example, regardless of the academic certainties of the most prominent Biblical scholar, or the highest degrees of the most brilliant theologian, he or she will not be able to enduringly answer, satisfactorily, two of the simplest questions raised by the death and then the raising of Jesus: ‘How’ did this all happen? and ‘Why’ did this all happen? According to the Easter story, although many saw the death, we are told that the resurrection happened in the dark, in the middle of the night, with no human witnesses to anything, except to Jesus himself after the break of day. Whereas science believes what it can see, faith sees (if only darkly) what for the moment it can only believe. If you find a genuine believer in Jesus’ resurrection, they have not become believers, God knows, because they have been enlightened with all the answers as to how it happened; nor do they believe because they have let go of all the questions. They have, instead, very simply found themselves known and loved, the hows and whys of which remain a mystery. When Jesus offered the bread and cup of his own life to his disciples at the last supper, he said, “Take, eat.” He did not say, “Take, comprehend.” We might say that the cross proved once for all, that the story of the resurrection is, if nothing else, the story of an event beyond the comprehension and control of even the most powerful political, economic, intellectual or religious forces on the face of the earth. It stands to reason that the story of such Easter power continues to challenge our minds each and every year even as it compels our hearts, because as an enlightened and scientifically educated people, we fear that no story is worthy of belief if it cannot be understood. I would suggest that if we insist on knowing scientifically how or why the resurrection of Jesus’ body could occur, we might as well ask an astronomical or quantum physicist to explain to us how and why life came into existence in the first place. ‘How’ did we get here - do we really know? How and why are we alive, even now? The search for a Big Bang theory is just that, the pursuit of a scientific answer to these scientifically unanswered questions. While the Genesis account of creation is a deeply satisfying answer for the believer, even that seeks to answer fully only the ‘Who,’ not the ‘How’ or the ‘Why’ of life. Mind you now, the fact remains that we are still promised that we will somehow know the truth and that the truth will set us free. The fact remains, that even without answering definitively these (as yet) unanswerable questions, the Breaking Morning News of Easter does turn out to be incredibly freeing news. The center of this theological Easter egg eventually allows itself to be cracked open for everyone to see - with their hearts and minds - to this end: Regardless of how God did it, or why God did it the way God did it, the more important question is the question the story decidedly answers for all of humanity: For ‘whom’ has it all been done? The answer to that question could not have been made more clear. The answer is us. Editor’s note: Brad Gustafson is pastor of the First Presbyterian Church at 101 E. 20th Street in Scottsbluff |
| The Good Life: A farm girl in my heart 2013-03-28 By Lisa Betz |
| Growing up here, I always wanted to be a farm kid. The word farm meant grandpa and grandma, Sunday dinners after church, helping with irrigation, handing grandpa the tools he needed to fix the tractor, sitting in front of him on the motorcycle, catching kittens and playing with puppies, climbing trees, exploring the hills, finding pretty rocks, smelling the most beautiful roses, watching out for snakes, learning how to pound nails into 2x4s when grandpa had had enough of my chatter, and trying to make friends with the cows, which, ultimately I decided was a waste of time. Of course, I wasn’t a real farm kid, and I knew this, but I always wanted to be one. Grandpa and grandma retired and started going to Texas for the winters the year I was born. They came back in the summers and grandpa helped Les Thompson on the farm for many years before he truly retired. My grandfather was very proud of his farm, and took excellent care of everything in his power. According to my mother, who grew up on the farm, once a month there would be a clean-up day. On that day, everyone would put things away, make repairs to broken items, wash the vehicles and the equipment, and everything on the farm would be put aright, shipshape, where it belonged. This is why it was always so beautiful while grandpa farmed. I remember when I was very young, we used to have an orchard with apple trees and other fruit. It was the most beautiful part of the farm. Later, after those trees died, the grasses in that area got very tall and weedy. My farm playmate was Clint, who lived on the farm with his parents, Les and Gloria, after my great-grandma Pansy sold out to them. Clint was about a year older than me, and sometimes he was ornery. Looking back, he was probably just being a boy, but since I was an only child, I wasn’t used to that. He would tease me and tell me that the kitty my grandparents fed scraps to wasn’t really our kitty because we only fed it in the summer, and of course, this bothered me very much. I have to laugh at it now, because it really was so silly. One day, Clint and I decided to “weed” the orchard. We put all our might into it and started yanking away. We were quite scared out of our britches when under one clump of weeds, we found a den of baby rattlers. That put an end to the weeding project. Though I had farm experiences, I was never really a farm kid. When I moved to Kentucky after college, I was stunned to see a bag of beans from Mitchell, Neb. on the shelf at the restaurant I worked at. I called my uncle who farmed in Mitchell and told him about it in my excitable way. He wasn’t impressed and said, where did you think the beans went? Now I own the farm. Last year was my first year learning the ropes of being a land owner. I am still not a farm kid, I don’t do the farming but I love the farm more than ever, and though I know I’m not a real farm girl, I’ll always be one in my heart. |
| Across the Fence: Discovering Ed Stemler 2013-03-28 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| It was a couple of weeks ago that I wrote about the abandoned wagons on Lodgepole Creek, which were discovered by Capt. Eugene F. Ware and also the legend of “66” Mountain. The thread that connected those two pieces of Nebraska/Wyoming history was a mysterious and incredible story told by Wyoming homesteader, Ed Stemler and recorded by Grant L. Shumway in his voluminous ‘History of Western Nebraska.’ At the time, I could find no further references to Mr. Stemler. However, this past week I acquired a book at auction, then realized it was a duplicate of a book that my daughter Jamie had already given to me on the occasion of a past birthday. ‘Trails, Rails and Travails’ is a Wyoming Centennial volume covering the history of LaGrange, Wyoming. This excellent volume was compiled and edited by Elizabeth Wilkinson Johnson and other volunteers from the LaGrange community. My rediscovery of this rare and invaluable historical account (of which I now have two) of that region from 1889 to 1989 includes additional information about the colorful Wyoming pioneer, Ed Stemler. Ed Stemler was perhaps one of our region’s most consummate western storytellers. He was also a hardworking, resourceful and successful ‘cowboy turned rancher’ on the Wyoming range near Horse Creek. It is also recorded that Mr. Stemler was a fiddle player extraordinaire. Ed Stemler was a native of Prussia whose parents came to America and settled in Ohio in 1857. Born October 14 1852, Ed was only five years old when his family reached the eastern shores of the continent. No doubt this youthful experience was reflected in his later life and I can imagine him, as a small boy, on that long and eventful voyage across the Atlantic. Perhaps he had occasion to stand, wide-eyed and entranced, amidst a group of good-natured sailors, listening to their wild tales of seafaring adventures. Those stories may have afforded him a brief but influential tutorial on storytelling. I can see him standing at the ships massive wooden railing, his chin resting on his hands, as he stared across the vast and rolling sea and wondered what lay ahead. Ed’s early years in Ohio may well be forgotten and perhaps those many days of staring across the open sea left him with a lingering sense of wonder about what lay ahead. No matter what the reason, at nineteen years of age, young Ed Stemler left Ohio to cross a seemingly endless ocean of tall prairie grass as he made his way west. Ed wanted to be a cowboy and he did what was needed to achieve that dream. Following Lodgepole Creek and the recently completed Transcontinental Railroad, Ed arrived in Wyoming Territory at the ‘Magic City of the Plains’ also known as Cheyenne, on July 4th, 1872. The bustling cow town was alive with the wild celebrations of Independence Day. The staccato crackling of firecrackers was accompanied by the echoing blasts of gunfire as overly enthusiastic cowboys shot holes in the sky while their wobbly-legged compadres staggered to the next saloon. Ed’s lack of fear, concerning hard work, soon landed him a job as a freighter. At that time, many freighting companies were busy hauling supplies to the gold fields of Dakota Territory and to the U.S. forts along the Oregon Trail, as well as the Rose Bud Agency on the Sioux Reservation. For the next several years Ed drove oxen and mule teams from Sidney, Nebraska to Cheyenne then on to Fort Fetterman, Fort Laramie and north to the Black Hills. As a freighter, muleskinner and bullwhacker I’m fairly confident that Ed’s storytelling skills expanded dramatically and his propensity for embellishment was cultivated. Ed could also play the fiddle; a fact that made him much appreciated at many a cowboy dance. Ed had taught himself to play and made his ‘music’ in a most unusual way. Ed played left-handed and fingered the strings with his right hand. Perhaps a left-handed fiddle player is not too unusual, but Ed played with the neck of the fiddle pointing vertically upward and the sound box sitting on his leg. When playing horseback, Ed would rest the fiddle on the pommel of the saddle. A well-known writer of the times, one Mrs. Stickney, visited a round-up dance in LaGrange and in her published story described Ed as a “bow-legged, left-handed, red-headed and freckle-faced fiddler, who played with the violin standing on its head.” Finally Ed’s opportunity to engage in the work that had fueled his dream, of coming west, came in 1878 when he hired on to cowboy with the Union Cattle Company whose headquarters were at the Bridle Bit Ranch near Chugwater, Wyoming. From that day forward, Ed would be a cowboy, working on the Bridle Bit and other local ranches until he would later patent his own homestead and begin to build a ranch of his own. Long, cold nights in winter cow camp, conversation around a spring roundup fire and the fall gather, present opportunities for elaborate storytelling. No doubt it was during those days that Ed began to finely tune and skillfully hone his storytelling ability. I don’t doubt that Ed spent many hours entertaining his friends with his elaborate, well-crafted stories. Perhaps, some of them were entirely true or at least, somewhat based on certain verifiable facts. In the spring of 1885, Ed’s solitary, carefree days on cowboy wages must have taken a turn toward a more domesticated way of life. On the 22nd of April, Miss Ettie Teasdale became Mrs. Ed Stemler. Ed’s land patent, along with his mother-in-law’s patent, would be the first homestead on the northern slopes of “66” Mountain. Ed skillfully built the Stemler home on Horse Creek near a free-flowing spring that provided a constant flow of fresh, cold water to the house. The log structure had a living room, a dining room, a large kitchen and two small bedrooms. Two of the living room walls contained only four individual logs, yet the ceilings were nine feet high. Unique to the typical homestead dwelling, Ed built a bay window in the living room with a panoramic vista of the southern hills from the Nebraska plains in to the east to Bear Mountain in the west. Tom Rivington, a writer for the Gering Courier, enjoyed a friendship with Mr. Stemler in Ed’s later years and recorded some of the stories he told. One of those stories related a method he used to catch fish. Ed insisted that he had tamed the fish in the Platte River so that they would come to him whenever they heard him playing a flute. He had built a holding gate at the place where Horse Creek dumped into the Platte River. Whenever soldiers from Fort Laramie or a roving band of Indians would come by and want a meal of fish, Ed would take his flute to the gate and play ‘Down on the Swanee River.’ As soon as they heard Ed’s flute, thousands of fish would swim up Horse Creek in droves, like hogs coming in to a call. Once past the gate, Ed would swing it closed and his friends would help themselves to all the fish they wanted. “Some of them fish were five feet long,” Ed claimed. In the fall of 1914, after 29 years together, Ettie Teasdale-Stemler passed away and left behind a heartbroken cowboy, three daughters and two sons. Shortly thereafter, Ed sold the homestead and bought another ranch south of LaGrange. During his time as a rancher near the community of LaGrange, Wyoming in the vicinity of “66” Mountain, Ed Stemler became a successful and well-known cattleman as well as a treasured friend to those who knew him. Many remember his stories. The story of the massacre of sixty-six emigrants, on the slopes of the mountain that stretches across the Nebraska/Wyoming line, is one that has been told and retold many times. The telling of the tale in “Trails, Rails and Travails” is similar to the account in Shumway’s “History of Western Nebraska.” Although Shumway gives no dates, Johnson’s history of LaGrange pinpoints Mr. Stemler’s arrival in the west in 1872, eight years after Capt. Ware and his men discovered the abandoned wagon train. The likelihood that Mr. Stemler accompanied those lost emigrants to “66” Mountain, several years before he ever came west, requires an agile imagination. The possibility that he heard the story, embellished its telling and inserted himself into the story is possible and highly likely. Or, perhaps Mr. Stemler was the recipient of a vision or vivid dream that, to him, made the unrecorded event seem real. Nevertheless, to those who Ed Stemler told the tale, in muted and mysterious tones, he would admonish them to tell no one and pledged them to secrecy for fear that others might think him to be demented. Ah, what better way to keep the story alive to be told and retold around the dying embers of a cow-camp fire where ghostly images dance, just beyond the flickering light. Ed Stemler, pioneer, cowboy, homesteader and cattleman, teller of tales and fiddle player extraordinaire, died on the street of LaGrange in December of 1933. He had crossed the Atlantic Ocean and half of the North American continent to live the dream he dreamed. He was 81 years young. |
| Political Cartoon by Doug Hoevet 2013-03-28 By |
| A Stray Moment: Star Trek: Infinite diversity in infinite combinations 2013-03-28 By Doug Harris |
| Anyone who reads my column probably already knows I am a total Star Trek fan. I admit this proudly and without any hesitation. I am a die-hard life-long Trekkie. I was too little to enjoy the original run on NBC but as the show(s) have been in perpetual syndication my entire life I haven’t missed out. I have two older brothers who guided my interests and tastes during my childhood. I am grateful that they both watched Star Trek pretty much as often as they could when we were growing up, but in adulthood I have far surpassed both of them in overall Trek obsession. The original Star Trek was created by the visionary television writer and producer Gene Roddenberry in the mid 1960s and ran from 1966 to 1968. Most everyone is familiar with the unflappable Captain Kirk and his logical Vulcan first officer and friend Mr. Spock. The phrase “Beam me up, Scotty” is part of our national lexicon. Even President Obama tried to chime in recently when he erroneously said a form of a ‘Jedi mind-meld’ might be needed to break the fiscal cliff stalemate. Any Trekkie knows it is actually a Vulcan mind-meld and that should never be confused with a Star Wars Jedi mind trick. Mr. Obama gets points with me for at least trying. He is pretty savvy in my book but not everyone is cut out to be a science fiction nerd. It appears even with Mr. Obama there are limits to his coolness. Not everyone knows the difference between a Tholian and a Gorn. And those of us who have wasted enough time to tell you all about it could probably be a little less enthusiastic, but everyone has a little spot in their brain labeled ‘frivolous fun center’ don’t they? But is it really a waste of time? Is Star Trek really frivolous? I think not. At its core Star Trek is about hope for the future and the desire to reach beyond the stars in a grand utopian dream. Star Trek is both a journey without and a journey within. Star Trek inspired many spin off series as well as movies and an animated Saturday morning cartoon. We have Star Trek: The Next Generation; Star Trek: Deep Space Nine; Star Trek: Voyager; and Star Trek: Enterprise. From these original series ten movies were made featuring not only Kirk and Spock, Scotty and McCoy, but new-comers Captain Picard, Commander Riker, and the fully functional android Data. Director J.J. Abrams launched an alternate universe time line Star Trek a few years back reintroducing the world to a new version of the original crew. The movie was so successful a sequel; Star Trek Into Darkness will be coming out this May. I can’t wait. Writer and entertainer Seth MacFarlane is hoping to get Star Trek back on television. I wish him well with this goal. Make it so and they will come. I realize it is a matter of taste and preference that drives us to become fans of anything. I’m not writing this in an attempt to convert anyone. If Star Trek isn’t your cup of hot Earl Grey tea you probably have shows of your own to fall in love with. Some folks love to watch golf or NASCAR on TV while others want more ‘Survivor’ or ‘NCIS.’ To each their own. The ideal of Star Trek would approve. The pointy eared Vulcan philosophy of ‘infinite diversity in infinite combinations’ allows room for just about everything. I think I love Star Trek for the hopeful message of it all. Almost every episode serves as a metaphor for some greater social meaning or clever morality play. Star Trek (and its many spin-offs) addresses racial equality, gay rights, non-violent resistance, and advocacy for those with mental illness, and the wonder of exploration. It has crossed many boundaries to boldly go where no one has gone before in a television show. Star Trek brought to television one of its first interracial kisses when Captain Kirk was forced by the Platonians to kiss his Communications Officer Lt. Uhura. They explored gender biased politics in several episodes in The Next Generation series, using alien cultures to represent aspects of ourselves or others as we explore our ‘different-ness.’ Every time the Star Fleet ideal seems to pass muster in trying to show us a future filled with equality, openness, and cooperation. In the magic future Roddenberry envisioned humanity no longer suffers from want or need. Greed and avarice have been defeated. War and poverty have become distant memories. Humanity is united as one without the ethnic or nationalistic squabbles of the present. Almost all disease has been defeated and humankind strives not for material gain but for the quest, the ‘trek’ of discovery. In this grand and complex fantasy humanity has joined forces with likeminded alien species to form the United Federation of Planets – described by Captain Pike in the latest movie as ‘an armada of good and an agent for peace in the galaxy.’ This is a future worth imagining. While probably unobtainable this vision is still a virtuous goal to aim for. This is a beautiful dream. A world at peace and in harmony, offering friendship and aid to our extraterrestrial neighbors. So popular to contrary belief, Star Trek isn’t just about the ‘pretty girl of the week’ that Captain Kirk inevitably hooks up with. I probably appreciate green skinned Orion slave women as much as the next guy but it is the ideas behind Trek that fuel my obsession more than the brightly costumed ‘60s-style eye-candy. A friend of mine gave me a book recently. It is called ‘The Unauthorized Starfleet Daily Meditation Manual – Going Boldly On Your Inner Voyage.’ It was written by Mark Stanley Haskett and inspired by three decades of selected quotations from Star Trek. This wonderful little book is so packed with Trek wisdom I plan on reading parts of it daily as a reality check and food for thought. It might seem silly to the untrained eye but let me share a little of it so you can decide for yourself. Here are a few quotes to ponder: “Freedom is not a gift. You have to earn it, or you don’t get it,” - Captain Kirk. “What you were, and what you are to become, will always be with you,” - Q. “Maybe it is better to look those feelings in the eye than to keep them locked up,” - Captain Janeway. “We have to make the best of the little time we have … we can’t waste a second,” - Chief O’Brien. “What your eyes show you is only the surface of reality,” - Commander Tuvok. “We certainly have the right to exercise control over our own bodies,” - Commander Riker. “You must have faith that the universe will unfold as it should,” - Spock. There is a quote and a little meditation for every day of the year. I’m not a huge fan of the idea of daily affirmations but with them written in the language of Star Trek I look forward to reading each one. Funny thing too, it helps. It brings a smile to my face and sends encouragement to my soul. My friend who gave me this book has helped me find a tool that will prove very useful on my personal journey within. Oh, and not to leave you hanging – Tholians are crystalline beings who survive in superheated 400 degree spaceships and a Gorn looks like some guy dressed up in an alligator outfit. |
| Observations Only: A soul's journey, part two 2013-03-28 By Nina Betz |
| After nine months of constant nursing, my husband died and I was alone again. The funeral was held on a Thursday. Hazel and Lloyd were unable to come from Indonesia on such short notice. On Friday, the following day, my daughter returned to her home in Laramie, Wyo.. The ladies in my husband’s family were planning to attend a retreat in Colorado and left that afternoon. A close friend was attending the same retreat and was unavailable, and another friend was on a business trip in Texas. My parents planned a weekend camping trip with their friends and didn’t want to stay home, which left me on the first weekend of my widowhood, alone. My fifth life began as a widow; after 26 years of marriage I was alone and it was necessary to figure out what to do with my time. Saturday, I went to the grocery store and it occurred to me that I didn’t need to buy cigarettes or his favorite breath mints anymore. As I walked around the aisles I noticed other foods I didn’t have to buy; I realized then that I could choose what I wanted and do exactly as I wished from that moment on. That night I suffered a panic attack and began crying with no one available to talk to. I called a sister-in-law living in Lincoln and felt calmer after a lengthy conversation with her. As time passed I became happier through opportunities to travel and meet new people. Two-and-a-half years later, fate again took away my happiness. A few days after the plane crash a neighbor, meaning to be kind, came to my home to offer condolences. Tears gathered in her eyes and she said how very sorry she was for me because all these awful things kept happening to me and nothing bad had ever happened to her. The memory of this chance remark by a kindly neighbor caused me to think about all that has happened in my life and the many times it became necessary to rebuild my life. Others wanted to pray with me and said that I should just give it to Jesus. They were surprised when I asked how to do that and admitted they didn’t know. We girls were given IQ tests when we were placed in the orphanage. The doctor’s opinion was that I was a bright, very nice child and a good candidate for adoption. By the time I was nine years old another doctor’s opinion was that I was slow and behind other children. As a teenager I never gave up hope and knew that the years would pass, and I would be able to make my own decisions. What escaped me was that I wouldn’t know how to live with confidence and self-esteem. Later in life, I experienced grief, anger, self-pity and a need to tell about my personal trials to kind souls who were willing to listen. Gradually, with the help of a wonderful therapist, I came to realize that my adoptive parents were good people who loved me in their way but didn’t know how to help a frightened five-year-old child. The poor advice given to them at the orphanage was to give me a new name and a new life. They were assured that I would forget about my past life and become a happy child. Unfortunately, they were not told that I had an older sister until I pretended to talk to her on the telephone. If they had known they would have adopted her along with me, which would have made a huge difference in both of our lives. To be continued |
| Teen Voice: Pinning your interest 2013-03-28 By Kendall Uhrich – Teen Columnist |
| My phone contract recently expired, and because I lugged around my old (and completely slow) phone around for two years I decided that it was time for me to join the millions of people who are iPhone users. This phone not only gives me amazing 4G speed, and HD quality, but a time-consumer called Pinterest. I’ve had my account for a year, and haven’t really done anything with it. I’ll check it every once in a while, but it never was that much of a distraction until I got my iPhone. For people who currently have the Pinterest app they know the pains of being a pinoholic, and I am at stage 5, with a ragging case of Pinterestitis. I heard this term used at a speech meet and the moment I heard the phrase I knew that was the disease I had. Its symptoms are constantly checking Pinterest and repining a life away, and for those who use the site already, this makes sense, but for those who don’t, get an invite and start pinning. I promise that it is worth it. This site is taking the Internet by storm, because of its heavy visual content. It is all pictures, and categorized ones at that. Looking for a hairstyle? Pinterest. Looking for humor? Pinterest. Searching for a prom dress? Pinterest. It is a one stop shop for every picture idea out there. But, some may still be skeptical of the site, because as the teen columnist, readers may think I am telling them the latest teen fad, but many may be surprised to figure out that Pinterest is more of a “mom site” than a teenager one. It features recipes, and cute ideas to do with the kids. There is millions upon millions of pictures of wedding ideas and things to do for guests or social gatherings. I have found the best ideas for everything under the sun for things around my house. There is everything from stain removal tricks to ways to use old clothing. Pinterest may cost time, but the tips learned from the site can definitely save money. Another thing I loved is how Pinterest is so tailored to the individual. There are rarely times that I find myself scrolling through without seeing a picture I enjoyed. The site goes off of images one has repined and shows ones similar to it. So, unlike Facebook where the user is bored from nonsense they don’t care about, they can spend hours and not even notice, much like I have with the wonderful Pinterest app. And many may ask, “Well that sounds wonderful? How could Pinterest get any better?” But, oh, it can. There are no advertisements. Watching TV and getting on Facebook and Twitter it seems as though companies are always trying to get our money. This site not only doesn’t try to get our money, but the DIY (Do it yourself) category actually tries to help save money. They use this do-it-yourself technique to spark user’s creativity and keep them coming back. We all like to feel like we have accomplished something, and Pinterest gives us the know-how. We want to have that food at the potluck that everyone is raving about, and Pinterest gives us the simple tricks on how to be a success. And luckily for me the tricks are super easy to follow. The task never seems hard or time consuming, making everything simple and so much fun. But, wait, with all of these great ideas, it gives me another reason to keep coming back; it’s inspirational. I have a whole board on Pinterest just devoted to quotes I like and stories of those who have helped make the world a better place. Quotes like: “I fell in love the way you fall asleep, slowly, and then all at once” by John Green. Or “You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world, but there’s still going to be somebody who hates peaches” by Dila Von Ceese. They make me just that much more inspired to do something great that day, and if something as simple as a picture on a website can spark emotions like that I believe everyone should hop on the bandwagon. So, with all these wonderful ideas and fun images to look at it is no wonder the site has over 3.2 million happy users. Some are just users and others, like me, have a full on addiction. A full-on raging case of Pinterestitis. If readers haven’t discovered the wonders of Pinterest, get on the computer and start pinning. Begin to wonder where the hours have gone, and enjoy this great source of entertainment. |
| Life in the Rearview Mirror: The Moments we live for 2013-03-21 By Glenn Hascall glenn.hascall@gmail.com |
| You know those times when someone wants to share cute stories about their kids and you feel like using knitting needles for a purpose for which they were not intended? You do? Well, let me apologize before we get started. Now before you do something drastic let me request that you put the knitting paraphernalia down and simply see if you can relate. Both of my kiddos are teenagers, and one will graduate next year – and both were offered jobs this week. My daughter is working in a high end ladies apparel shop. This is a job she has been wanting for the past two years so to say she's excited would be a sad little understatement. My son came home from school today and told me he had been asked to run spotlights at a weekend circus that came to town. This event is being held at an indoor venue so he'll have his own light 'suite'. The only trouble is he was told he would earn $125 (which is true), but he will need to run lights for six performances over three days. His enthusiasm level diminished rapidly. It was important for me to remind him that a salary generally requires work. I think he will grasp that concept a little better three days from now. I'm not sure why, but it's different talking about my kids today than it was ten years ago. Their sayings may be less cute and may even be laced with an occasional hint of snarkiness that causes me to wonder if perhaps I may have moved to a place that can no longer be called a 'young' father. My hints as to my aging stature have included the suggestion that perhaps their friends will be less excited about things I have done that they once thought were funny. Never fear, I still am fully committed to the parental contract that requires the application of slight parental stressors that may help my children once they have children of their own. They don't always appreciate my daily sacrifice. The good news is that for the most part my kids still enjoy being with their dad under only the most perfect of circumstances. While the expectations change I am convinced that no matter what kids always need their parents. After a difficult day my daughter came and sat with me and rested her head on my shoulder. My son still wants to spend a few minutes before bed just talking about his day. I am often heard to say, “I've never been the dad of a 17 year-old before,” and it's true. As much as my kids are learning I think I am learning just as much. There are things I don't bend on when it comes to ideals and values, but as life circumstances change I have become a firm believer in the idea that I need to adapt and adjust. Our kids are subjected to more influences than I remember facing. They live in a world that is faster, colder, and less trusting. Every day I wish things were different, but today, in this moment, I am celebrating jobs with my daughter and son. Today I am listening to the dreams they have for the money they will earn and the futures they are dreaming of for themselves. One day they will be independent and in that moment I am hoping my daughter will still feel comfortable resting her head on my shoulder and my son will keep in touch from time to time to tell me about his day. Parenting has been one of the hardest – most enjoyable experiences of my life, and I wouldn't change these moments for anything. |
| Jane’s Secret, XXIII: Molly’s plan 2013-03-21 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| Clem and Gertrude sit companionably in the warmth of the barn while the horses munch their hay, unaware that their conversation is being overheard, and not appreciated by the listener. “Somebody’s talking about me,” Molly says, louder than she normally would. A startled Gertrude and Clem turn to see Molly step into the light from the door. “Molly, we didn’t hear you come in,” says Gertrude, embarrassed by being caught talking about her sister. “Obviously, you didn’t,” she replies, miffed. “I’ve thought about what you said, Pa,” Molly begins, sitting herself on a hay bale. She watches him thread new leather straps through rings in a bridle for awhile. When Clem doesn’t reply and keeps working the leather straps, she wonders if he heard what she said. “What have you decided?” Gertrude asks Molly, smoothing over the awkward moment. “Pa, put that down and look at me,” Molly demands. “I’m listening,” Clem says, laying the bridle aside and looking at her intently. Molly takes a deep breath, gathering her courage before she begins. “I have to protect my babies’ inheritance and the only way I can do that is to manage the ranch myself. “Robert and Pricilla,” Clem says, nodding at her. “So, I want to take you up on your offer to live here with me on one condition; you teach me how to manage the ranch. I want to learn everything about managing the grassland and handling the money, how to manage the hands, and sell the cattle; I know I can do it. Pa,” Molly explains, with more determination than actual confidence. “Sweetheart, I was hoping you would say that,” Clem says, smiling broadly. “Dang it, my eyes water at the worst times,” he says, yanking his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping his face. “Oh Pa,” the girls say at the same time, before turning to each other and laughing. “One thing more, I know about your plan to partner up with Harvey and his ranching operation; I want you to promise me that the Stubb ranch won’t be swallowed up. I’m sure there will be times when the hands work on both ranches but I want to make sure we don’t pay a hand for time he worked for Harvey. I don’t want Jane to have any say in the running of the Stubb ranch,” Molly says, emphatically. “Agreed?” Molly asks. “Absolutely agreed,” Clem says, gruffly. Molly takes a deep breath, thinking that it was easier than she anticipated. Frowning slightly, it occurs to her that Clem wasn’t surprised when she said babies rather than baby and even knew their names. “Pa, how did you know that I’m having twins and their names are to be Robert and Pricilla,” Molly asks, curiously. “Pearl told me on the night I was caught in the blizzard, and I’m asking you the same question,” he laughs. “Mama told me in a dream,” she replies. Then Molly realizes something that surprises her. “Pa, I wasn’t married when that happened. She is silent for awhile, I’ll have to think about it, she muses, tucking the knowledge away to be considered at another time. “Pa, I’ve decided something and I don’t want either of you to try and talk me out of it,” Molly says firmly, hoping to head off their objections. Clem looks at Gertrude and speaks for both of them. “I guess we can agree to that, but we’d both feel more comfortable if we knew what you’re talking about first,” Clem replies. Molly closes her eyes for a moment then says what’s on her mind. “I want to put Red in the wagon now and start for Jay Em,” Molly says, steeling herself against their objections. “But Molly…,” “No, my mind’s made up. We can leave a note on the door for whoever wants to follow us and attend the burial or they can wait here and have a meal with us when we get back,” she explains. “Shorty and Susan will follow us, and I don’t want anybody else. I just have to do it my way, Pa,” Molly says, fighting back tears. “What about the minister?” Gertrude asks, trying to understand her sister’s wishes. “I don’t care if he’s there and neither would Red. We can say our own prayers for Red and remember how kind and gentle he was to me and our animals,” she says, her voice breaking on a half sob. “Alright Molly, if that’s how you want it,” Clem says, getting to his feet. “Come on Molly let’s get ready,” Gertrude says, putting her arm around her shoulder and walking with her to the house. Clem takes one last look around the barn and considers the import of all that’s been said in the last hour. Shaking off his reverie, Clem takes the bridles off the wall and slips the bits between the teeth of the two horses, and then backs them between the traces. “Just shouldn’t have been this way,” he rants, slinging the harness over their backs and hitching them to the wagon. Just then he hears the familiar sound of Harvey’s automobile coming to a stop in front of the house. Just in time he thinks, relieved to have another man to help load the coffin. Upstairs, Gertrude enters their bedroom. “Oh good, you’re awake,” she says to Stephen while unbuttoning her night dress and stepping out of it. “Molly wants to start for Jay Em as soon as we can be ready.” “Why does she want to do that? Harvey and Jane and the other mourners aren’t here yet, are they?” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Molly’s going to put a note on the door explaining that we’ve gone to Jay Em and they can follow us or wait and eat with us when we return,” Gertrude explains, pulling the same dress over her head, and pulling the side zipper closed. “It’s irregular but I can’t see anything wrong with it, if that’s what she wishes to do,” he says, thoughtfully. “I wish we’d had time to pack a change of clothes but Molly was so distraught we rushed off with out any thought of how long we would be gone,” he remarks, grimacing at the rumpled shirt and trousers lying across a chair. Gertrude laughs. “We make quite a pair, don’t we? You’re rumpled and my hair is all frizzy. My red hair makes me look like a match that’s been struck,” she laughs. Stephen rises from the bed to stand behind her, “My dear, you’re a flaming candle that brightens my life,” he says, kissing the skin on her neck. “Stop that,” she giggles, smiling inwardly at his words. “Hurry and dress while I see if Molly needs my help,” she says. Gertrude pokes her head in the other bedroom and finds Molly still in her nightgown, standing in front of the closet looking at her clothes, crying. “I don’t have a black dress, what will people think if I don’t wear black,” Molly wails. “They will think you didn’t have a black dress to wear. Gertrude turns her around to look carefully at her sister. Now which dress is Red’s favorite,” Gertrude asks, gently, taking charge in her practical way. “The blue one,” Molly mumbles, pulling her wrapper tighter around herself. “That’s what you’ll wear then, his favorite dress,” Gertrude says, pulling it out of the closet and laying it across the bed. “I’m going to make coffee and see about some food we can take with us while you get ready,” Gertrude says, leaving Molly to dress and comb her hair. Molly moves to the wash basin and pours water, intending to bathe her face when suddenly she feels a flutter. Placing her hand on the area of her belly, she waits. There it is again. A smile emerges as Molly remembers her dream, “Hello Robert and Pricilla,” she says. |
| Teen Voice: Don’t be fooled by fads 2013-03-21 By Kendall Uhrich |
| In high school the word “fad” holds a large influence. From fuzzy winter boots, to Silly Bandz this school has seen its fair share of fads, but there is a new one holding precedence, the Harlem Shake. This new string of dance videos has been a taking off hit. With sports teams and even entire schools coming together to make their own version of the Harlem Shake, it quickly became an Internet sensation. But don’t be fooled, the dance has had its fair share of bad moments as well. In Russia, a group of friends got in trouble for doing the popular dance on top of the World War II memorial. They said, “It was just a memorial to a friend serving in the army.” But, this did not lessen their punishment, because they still were arrested. A group of Colorado students also were caught in the police station for doing their dance on a commercial flight. Egyptian students also felt the heat of the police force, because in their dance they were Harlem shaking in their underwear in public area. This proves the age-old tradition surrounding fads. When one person does something, everyone else tries to outdo them. Even in fashion trends, girls try to one-up each other and be sure that they are the one that can wear it better, and who can get the latest styles the quickest. It’s quite vicious actually. Everyone tries to be the best of the best, but why? It can be answered simply; everyone wants to be the best. They take what everyone else is doing, but still try to be the best, even with hundreds of other people in competition with them. We see this when looking at the Harlem Shake. Every one of those students who got in trouble, only did because they wanted their video to be the newest, and best out there. Even looking at the Silly Bandz trend from a few years ago, everyone wanted to have the coolest or most interesting ones. One week it was new colors, then new animals, then sparkling ones, then glow in the dark. Everyone fought to have the ones nobody else had yet. It was the highest definition of fad, and not to mention expensive. Where is the originality in fads? Everyone is just doing the same thing, even with slight tweaks to the original; it is still the same thing. My advice? Don’t follow fads. Why is being the same as everybody else in style? Wear what nobody else does, and do your hair completely different. It will be worth it. I promise. What is so fun about a school full of copy-cats, we should be who we want to be, instead of trying so hard to fit in. But, as far as the Harlem Shake goes, I’ll continue to dance to that. Because, although there is no fun in being the same, there is lots of fun in dancing. So, if anyone sees me dancing in the hallways, don’t question that. But, I won’t be dancing the same as everyone else, because I wouldn’t want to go against my motto of fighting high school fads. And, some of the other people who fight high school fads are some of my very own teammates. The speech kids always get the bad rep for being “nerds” and the “weird ones” and although we may be a little odd and dramatic, this Thursday, 15 of us will be headed to Kearney to the state competition. So, congratulations, speech team. Way to stick out, and succeed in high school. |
| Observations Only: A Soul’s journey 2013-03-21 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| My first life as a very young child was a happy one although not what most people would consider appropriate. Carefree days were spent traveling with my parents and sisters. Strange people, colors and smells piqued my curiosity and imagination; I felt loved and safe. Wherever we camped our father explored the land with us, naming the birds and flowers. He told us the names of plants, which ones were good to eat, and how to take care of ourselves. Then a stranger began traveling with us and it wasn’t so nice anymore. One day we three girls were left sitting on a bench in a soup kitchen. When our parents didn’t return for us we were taken to a large house. My second life or interlude began when I was three-and-a-half, and living with a bunch of other children in an orphanage. Strange women watched us and got mad if we broke the rules. Gone were the happy days with my sisters and parents, I never saw any of them again. Eventually, I was adopted and separated from all that I knew once again and went to live on a farm with strangers. The advice I was given was to do exactly what I was told or they could send me back if they wanted to. My third life began as a farm girl when I was two months shy of five years old with new rules to remember. The farm was a good place with cattle and chickens, and dogs and cats to play with. I spent many a day climbing trees in an orchard full of fruit trees, black walnut and ash. I had my own bedroom for the first time but I was alone. I wanted to be invisible but people came to see me and I was conscious of their eyes staring at me. School began a month after I arrived at the farm and my new mother got permission for me to start, although she was told I was too young and it would be better for me to wait another year. I felt strange around the other children and didn’t know how to play games. I apparently cried a lot because the other children teased me, calling me a bawl baby. Some children whispered about me and dared each other to ask me questions, like why my parents didn’t want me. Nevertheess, I adjusted to my new life, as a child does, but became increasingly sad. My fourth life began when I married at 21 and became a mother. I was raised differently from my husbands’ family and a sense of belonging didn’t come easily. My sadness began taking over, making it difficult to be a good wife and mother. After a friend shared her thoughts with me I became frightened by the direction my life was taking. The next day I started counseling that lasted about five years. After 25 years of marriage, my husband began slurring his speech and walking with an abnormal gait in November 1993. After a visit to the doctor and an MRI we learned that he had a highly malignant brain tumor growing in the center of his brain. After treatment at Swedish Hospital in Denver, I brought him home and took care of him while I managed the construction company. He died in August the following year, two-and-a-half years before the plane crash in Indonesia. I was a very busy woman dealing with business, and at the same time helping my husband deal with the last months of his life. To be continued |
| Completely Different: The bucket list phenomenon 2013-03-21 By Elizabeth Gross |
| It’s hard to pinpoint the moment when our life becomes routine, when we shed the innocence of childhood and adopt society’s version of adult responsibility, those responsibilities that make us get up, go to the gym, go to work, eat, go home, eat again, find a form of relaxation, then repeat it all over again. The routine changes when life events occur, such as marriage or starting a family. We allow ourselves the occasional adventure, yet speak to anyone in the medical field who deals with the dying and they will tell you that people are still left with regrets. Most are left with regrets that make them question every decision they made in life and whether that socially-adopted routine was worth it all in the end. Enter the bucket list, a cultural buzzword created to provide us with a sense of accomplishment when it’s time to meet whatever maker is waiting for us at the end. If you are unfamiliar with the phrase; a bucket list is a list of activities someone wants to accomplish before they die. These can range from simple things like learning how to draw, to visiting a foreign country. The phrase itself derives from another idiom known as “kicking the bucket.” Kicking the bucket is a phrase that dates back to the middle ages. In that time period a common form of death was hanging whether it was by suicide or because of a criminal act. To properly hang themselves, they stood on a bucket and then kicked it out from under themselves. The popularization of the phrase came in 2007 with the film “The Bucket List,” staring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson. It tells the story of two terminally ill men who come from completely different walks of life. While they share a hospital room together they discuss mortality and all of the different things they wanted to do before they died. That is when they both decide to ditch the cancer wing in order to accomplish everything on their bucket list before they died. The Bucket List was not the first film to explore human mortality and what we do with the time we are given. Many films have taken a variety of themes in order to make the audience question whether the choices they are making in life are the right ones for them. This could be why I am conflicted about the idea of a bucket list. I think part of the problem is people grasped onto the idea presented in film as a literal way of measuring accomplishments before death. The point of the film was not in creating a “death to-do” list but instead, to make you step back and examine whether you are really living or merely existing. After all, my measure of a life well spent is going to be different from every single other person I see and come into contact with. When I want to understand the behavior of the human race, I turn to my old friend Google. I performed a Google search on the term bucket list. There are over 147,000,000 pages dedicated to the topic, ranging from 7,000 things to do before you die to 225 things you MUST do before you die, really, reinforcing my belief that the measure of accomplishment truly does vary from person to person. One website that instantly caught my eye was bucketlist.org or 10,000 things to do before you die. I can’t think of 10,000 things to do in this life without choosing something ridiculous like eating a cheese sandwich. Alas, I decided to give the website a chance and scrolled through it. I was pleasantly surprised as it was actually a social media website. Users can create their bucket lists and share them with others. As users accomplish those the tasks they can check it off. There are even message boards and videos about what to do to in order to achieve your list. Curious, I checked out a few of these bucket lists. Most of them were typical, like visiting various landmarks or seeing a sunrise. Some were very strange, like “get a job delivering pizzas on a motorbike,” because apparently, that’s a hard job to get in the UK. The whole concept of the bucket list reminds me of a segment on BBC Radio 4 from my favorite writer, John Finnemore. In one of his episodes of ‘John Finnemore’s Souvenir Program’, he tells a story about a book his sister got him for his thirtieth birthday, called “50 Things you MUST do before you’re 30.” He goes on to explain how his sister thought it would be funny to underline in red everything he had not yet accomplished. Finnemore described his disgust with the book and others like it. “Two things to do before you’re 30 have always been enough: survive and procreate,” He explains that it should never be up to the collective “they” who decides what is important for us to do. So, Finnemore simplifies it for everyone, sharing two things to do before you’re 30 is to 1.) Be Kind and 2.) Have Fun. All of us had ideas of what we wanted to do, see or be when we grew up but somehow the collective “they” grasped hold of that inner child and beat them to a pulp. I think this is part of the reason we grasp on to the idea of a bucket list. It allows us to beat “them” at their game by defying the social norms and fulfilling all those childhood dreams. What we have to remember is that many of the things we want to do before we die are very much achievable. If visiting a foreign country is something you would like to do, it is possible. For example, I really want to visit and then live in London for a year. So, one day on a whim I figured out everything I want to see or do, where to stay, and when to buy plane tickets. After all of the number crunching, I discovered this wasn’t something I had to wait to do but something (with a little saving) I could do next year. And even if I were, for some strange reason, to start a family in that time, I don’t have to give up on that dream. Now, it can be a dream for me and my future children to enjoy. No matter the dream, embrace it! Don’t let fickle consequences keep you from achieving your dreams. So, I end this week’s column with a quote from a favorite TV show of mine, “We’re all just stories in the end, just make it a good one, eh?” |
| Across the Fence: Burnett’s Mound and the Topeka tornado 2013-03-21 By M. Timothy Nolting mtimn@aol.com |
| At the southwestern edge of the city limits of Topeka, Kansas lays a large mound of earth known as Burnett’s Mound. Prior to the late 1800s it was known as Webster’s Mound and before that, Knox’s Mound. The history of Webster and Knox has perhaps been lost within the age-yellowed and brittle pages of misplaced diaries or lie in unmarked graves with the buried memories of forgotten pioneers. But the legend of the mound that now carries Burnett’s namesake should long be remembered. Among the Potawatomi Indians of the Kansas Band, Chief Wis-Ki-Ge-Amatyuk was a principle pipe carrier and spiritual leader during the mid-1800s through the early 1900s. Wis-Ki-Ge-Amatyuk told the story of what is now known as Burnett’s Mound. Long ago, when the buffalo watered beside the river of the Kansa and grazed upon the prairie grasses, in numbers beyond counting, this land was the home of the Potawatomi. Upon this land the grass grew tall from the torrents of rain that fell from the sky. Great flocks of black-plumed turkey strutted along the rivers edge scratching hungrily for seeds and grubs. Large coveys of Sage Grouse exploded from matted grass cover when disturbed by marauding prairie wolves. The buffalo, elk, antelope and deer grew fat on the land and their meat filled the cooking pots of the Potawatomi and their skins protected the Potawatomi from the harsh prairie winds and the snows of winter. Upon these plains there often came great and terrible storms, storms that covered the sun and turned day to night. Storms that split the sky with crooked lances of fire and set the grasses ablaze with yellow flame and rolling clouds of black smoke. And in the season of the tall grass when the rains came like waterfalls from the sky there also came the twisting wind. It came in the heat of the day when northwesterly breezes rushed in to collide with the warm summer winds from the south. The winds would embrace in fierce battle and in the whirl of combat leave behind a path of terrible destruction. A traditional Potawatomi song that tells of the great twisting winds includes the phrase, “The grass is moving, the trees are moving, the whole earth is moving…” The Potawatomi did not yet have a name for these storms we call tornados. Chief Wis-Ki-Ge-Amatyuk told of one such storm, long ago, that swept across the Kansas prairie. It was a time of deep poverty and the Prairie Band of Potawatomi had few supplies and scant shelter which left many exposed to the elements and open to the full force of the swift moving storm and its violent twisting winds. When the tornado had passed, many bodies of the Potawatomi were left scattered across the plains along with horses and other animals that could not escape the powerful whirling torrent. It took many days to gather up the dead and prepare them for the burial ceremonies that would take place near the foot of the earthen mound that stood, as a solitary sentinel, over the vastness of the prairie. The holy men of the band spent those days in prayer and preparation. In those prayers they asked that The Great Spirit of life would spread itself over the great mound and bless it with the ability to stop the advance and destruction of the terrible spinning winds. They asked The Great Spirit of life to watch over their dead that had been killed by the mighty storm and would be buried there. And from The Great Spirit of life they received the promise that as long as they continued to respect this final resting place of the dead and leave it undisturbed, the people of the Kansas valley would be protected. Among the Potawatomi of the Plains band that were killed in that angry wind were seven ancestors of Potawatomi Chief Abram B. Burnett and so the name has become Burnett’s Mound. Too soon the buffalo disappeared from the prairie valley that lay in the shadow of the sacred mound. Too soon the majestic elk migrated to the remote sanctuary of mountains and rugged timber, as men who numbered more than the buffalo, pushed them ever westward. Too soon the lush prairie grasses were turned under by the plow and other grasses took their place, hand sown grasses that were harvested with the gleaming blades of finely honed scythes, bundled and stacked for winter feed. Too soon the land of the Potawatomi was surveyed, sectioned, sold and platted. Too soon wooden stakes marked the path of city streets and perfectly squared corners of city blocks. Too soon the sharp cries of steam whistles signaled the arrival of lumber and lawyers, builders and barons, planners and politicians. And too soon, too few remembered the sacred mound on the southwest corner of the city limits of Topeka, Kansas. The town of Topeka was platted in 1854 and by 1860 was already a hub of commerce with steamboat traffic docking regularly on the banks of the Kansa River. The census of 1860 reported a population of little more than 700 souls. One hundred years later in 1960 the Kansas capital city would boast nearly 120,000 citizens. The years immediately preceding 1960 were years of continued growth and there was a need for additional public services. Urban sprawl had strained the cities ability to provide adequate water to all of its widespread suburbs and additional water storage was desperately needed. The ideal location for a five-million gallon water tank was determined to be atop the Burnett Mound. The late 1950s had seen the construction of an Interstate highway at the base of Burnett Mound and those who remembered cautioned others about disturbing the sacred grounds. It was noted, that although Topeka lay squarely inside what is called ‘Tornado Alley,’ it had never been hit by a twister. But progress often comes at any cost. Besides, surely no one actually believed those old Indian stories of spirits and sacred places. In late 1960, bulldozers and construction crews attacked the mound. By 1963 Burnett’s Mound had been cut down by nearly half its original height and the five-million gallon steel water tank had been completed. Supply lines spread their steel fingers down from the tank to the growing communities that surrounded it. Maintenance workers and groundskeepers clambered over the mound like worker ants, oblivious to their surroundings. Perhaps, many did not even know why it was called Burnett’s Mound. In 1966, a massive storm cell hung over northeastern Kansas from the 2nd day of June until the 12th. During that time 59 tornadoes were confirmed that left 18 people dead and nearly 550 injured. That was the summer of my junior year of high school and I remember several trips to the storm cellar during those days. Our place sat within the corridor of tornado alley and hardly a summer passed without a trip to the storm cellar. Fortunately we never suffered a direct hit but being on the perimeter of several close calls did account for quite a bit of minor damage. During that 11-day stretch in June of ’66 there was one tornado that sent us scrambling to the cave. The gray-black cloud came at us from the southwest and skipped over the nearby town of Nortonville. As it cut across the fields coming toward us we could see the dust and debris billowing up around the base of the funnel. The twister was on a direct course to our place and it looked like this one was going to hit. Dad was standing on the cellar steps, holding the door open while we watched. The roar was deafening and the suction of the tornado was pulling at dad as he struggled to hold onto the door. Then suddenly the funnel was sucked into the dark cloud above and passed overhead. On June the 8th of that year, a tornado of F5 magnitude touched down a few miles southwest of Topeka and continued to cut a path, one-half mile wide on its northeasterly, 22-mile journey. Burnett’s Mound lay directly in line with the massive storm. At 7 p.m. the Kansas twister hit Burnett’s Mound at 300 miles per hour and dipped down into the heart of Topeka. The destruction lasted just over half and hour destroying more than 800 homes and severely damaging another 3,000. The Washburn College campus was completely destroyed along with many businesses along the tornado’s path. Despite a 15-minute advanced warning 16 Topekans perished and more than 500 were seriously injured. In the summer of 1968, my college roommate and I stood atop Burnett’s Mound. Two years later the half-mile wide path of the tornado was still visible. There were no remaining trees. Rubble from the brick and stone buildings was still piled in heaps where workmen had pushed the debris off streets and alleyways. New construction was obvious among the chaos of destruction. In 1966, newspapers, radio and television carried reports of the disaster for days afterward. I don’t recall that anyone mentioned Chief Wis-Ki-Ge-Amatyuk or the Great Spirit of life, the sacred ground and broken promise of Burnett’s Mound. |
| A Stray Moment: Now is the winter of our disconnect 2013-03-14 By Doug Harris |
| With all the terrible blizzards we've been having lately I thought it would be appropriate to try to offer a ray of sunshine. It involves a simple question: What is the nature of happiness? That should be easy to answer, shouldn't it? I started to make a quick inventory in my head and noted while the things that popped into my mind do make me happy, my list was awfully superficial. It makes me happy to have a few dollars in my pocket. I am usually happy when I'm reading a good book. Having a running car and a reliable Internet connection makes me happy. Knowing that Netflix offers every single episode of every incarnation of Star Trek makes me happy. Tacos make me happy. All these things are true but I found the list wanting after I considered it for a moment. Apparently the nature of my happiness is based upon the quality of the distractions I can find. Is that really happiness? Probably not. Any dictionary will tell us happiness is a state of contentment and well -being. The secondary meaning would indicate happiness is found in a pleasurable or satisfying experience. That almost makes it sound like being happy is selfish. How I feel? Always me, myself, and I, isn't it? Who cares how I feel? I think most of us are taught that feeling happy is a good thing; it is something we should strive for. I don't disagree but I do stop and wonder why. I think if we learn to find our happiness in seeing that emotion in others we are probably on the right track. I decided to consult a few luminaries and see what they have wrote or said on the subject. Gandhi wrote, “Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.” The Dalai Lama has stated, “The purpose of our lives is to be happy.” Abraham Lincoln is reputed to have said, “Most folks are as happy as they make up their minds to be.” These are three diverse sources to cite but it gives a starting point. I think of these three quotes, to me, Gandhi hits closest to the truth. He includes the action part of happiness and not just the ambiguous feeling of it all. What you do, and matching it with how you feel and what you say, does seem to lead to greater inner harmony. This can lead to the feeling of contentment and well -being. Makes sense to me. This is probably self-evident to most people but I have a tendency to over analyze things. The Dalai Lama might be correct also, assuming the source of our happiness isn't just how well we are entertained or how nice our material belongings might be. If the purpose of life is to be happy we still need to figure out the source don't we? What if it makes us happy sit around and play video games all the time? What if it makes us happy to cheat on our taxes? Perhaps the greatest source of happiness is found in the gift of giving it away? As for Lincoln's quote I again have to agree to disagree. While it sounds wise to place mind over matter or circumstances sometimes it is near impossible. But if he was able to find happiness by just deciding to be happy I salute him. Lincoln lost his 11 year old son and presided over the worst years in our nation's history. He had much to bear before his life was unhappily taken from him. I hope he was as happy as he decided to be. Then let's allow old Ben Franklin to chime in. He reminded people our Constitution only gives us the right to pursue happiness, and that in order to have it we must catch it for ourselves. That seems wise, and from all accounts I've read, including his autobiography, Franklin seems to have lived a fairly happy life. The flip side of happiness is probably sadness but some claim it is fear. If happiness is contentment then the opposite would be discontentment, right? In our paranoid storm watching blizzard-less winter of our discontent we can find looming drought worries adding to our sense of unease. A burning hot summer with thirsty sickly crops isn't going to lead us to blissfully fulfilled contentment is it, no matter how happy we decide to be about it. The phrase “Now is the winter of our discontent” is an abused notion. The famous quote, from Act I of Shakespeare's 'Richard the Third,' is never finished. People get to discontent and just stop. The full quote is actually happy. “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York; and all the clouds that low'r'd upon our house in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.” Richard is happy that his brother has won the English throne. The discontentment has ended. Words intended to be celebratory have eroded in our language to suggest a poetic statement of doom. How we have decided to use the term is our choice. Decisions. If Lincoln was correct is it also true that people are about as sad or angry as they decide to be too? I suppose. It leaves me confused. It probably leads the reader to be confused. What is the nature of happiness? I assume I would choose to be happy if all I had to do was decide I was. It isn't that I am particularly unhappy about many things. There are a few things I should act upon to change that very likely would lead to greater happiness. But we all face the ebbs and flows of life where we have greater or lesser degrees of contentment. My life isn't an exception to that reality. I have no great desire for more happiness any more than I would desire less of it. Is having happiness and wanting even more of it wrong? On the surface it almost sounds like it should be. But wanting to share a blessing with as many as possible is probably a moral and worthy thing to do. In 1963, Charles Schulz, creator of the Peanuts comic strip, put out a book called “Happiness Is a Warm Puppy.” It seemed to be everywhere when I was growing up. I saw that book at school, at friends' homes, and even at church. I've never owned a puppy but I've been around enough of them to think Schulz was on to something. Schulz also wrote “Happiness Is a Warm Blanket.” Maybe happiness is that simple? Maybe happiness isn't some elusive bugbear we need to run around trying to capture. Maybe. The “Happiness” books were best-sellers all over the world. In 1968 the normally cheerful Beatles cynically replied with their song “Happiness Is a Warm Gun.” (And having attended the recent Second Amendment discussion at the Valley Events Center last week I have come to believe the Beatles were right, for many of our neighbors.) Gandhi wrote he once met a man who said 'I want happiness.' Gandhi replied that first you should remove the word 'I' as it represents selfishness, placing yourself before what you seek. Second you should remove the word 'want' as it represents desire and envy. After those two words are removed you will find Happiness. This seems so incredibly simple it is amazing to me how terribly difficult it is to follow this advice. But I still find this to be a great lesson. While I favor the words of Gandhi over the others, perhaps they are all correct. Happiness really is a warm puppy. Happiness really is the purpose of life. And yes, we have the right to pursue it, but it is our choice to decide how difficult or easy it is to grasp. Happy hunting. |
| From the Superintendent’s Desk - Parent Teacher Conferences 2013-03-14 By Don Hague, Superintendent of Schools - Gering Public Schools |
| An effective educational program is built on a strong foundation consisting of an aligned curriculum delivered by teachers and an assessment system that monitors student learning on a regular basis. If students are not progressing toward their expected growth, then changes are made to the program so they can be successful. Gering Public Schools has developed a thorough assessment system to measure the success of individual students and the over all success of our programs. We make changes within our educational program based on data, not assumptions. Relationships within the entire system are one of the most important ingredients in a truly effective educational program. There must be a good relationship among our teachers in each building and throughout our district. We all work together to provide the best programs for our students. For example, all teachers teaching math must have a clear understanding of what they are expected to teach and what their students are expected to learn at their particular level so that we can reach our end goal when a student graduates. A good relationship must be developed between our teachers and their students. Our teachers hold high expectations for all students and challenge them daily to do their best. Today our mission is to educate all students, therefore, many changes have been made in how we teach students and, more importantly, adjustments are made in our programs if they are not effective. Our student–teacher relationship is important and we hope every student will be able to foster a relationship with their teacher(s) that will enable them to reach their full potential. There must also be an effective relationship between our parents and our schools, specifically our teachers. Many of our parents take advantage of the technology available to them by communicating with teachers through e-mail as well as through Infinite Campus. Next week is a very important week with parent–teacher conferences scheduled. This is a time when our parents can meet with their child’s teachers and discuss how the year is progressing and, most importantly, how their child is doing in school. More than likely, our parents know how their child is doing, but it is a great opportunity to develop a better relationship with their teacher. If you need more time to visit about your child than the schedule allows, please schedule a separate meeting with the specific teacher. If you are unsure of the schedule for parent-teacher conferences at your child’s building, please contact your child’s school. If you are unable to attend, please contact the school and schedule an appointment with your child’s teachers. |
| Observations Only: Sisters Lost, part IV 2013-03-14 By Nina Betz |
| The newspaper headlines suggested that confusion may have led to the crash in Indonesia. Pilot and air traffic controllers mixed up their signals. The following is an account of the official statement from the Indonesian government as reported by the Associated Press: The pilot said “right.” The control tower thought “left.” Seconds before an Indonesian jetliner crashed into a jungle, killing all 234 aboard in the country's worst air crash, it appeared no one knew which way the plane was supposed to turn. An air traffic controller momentarily confused two planes as he gave instructions for a turn, according to a transcript of the plane's final radio conversation...The controller was handling two other flights at the same time; one arriving and one departing from the two- runway airport. A transcript of the confused exchange between Captain Rachmo Wiyogo and the controller portrays a distracted pilot getting wrong information in the critical moments before he attempted to land. The conversation ended when Rachmo cried out, “Allahu akbar!” in Arabic which translates “God is great!” in English. The transcript portrays Rachmo and the unidentified air traffic controller confusing the words “left” and “right” At another point, the air traffic controller emphatically assured Rachmo that the 15-year-old, twin engine Garuda Airlines Airbus was clear of mountains in the area. Two minutes later the jetliner slammed into a highland jungle 20 miles south of the airport. In a newspaper article the Antara news agency told of 212 bodies located in the burning, broken-up wreckage before the search was ended for the night. Eleven foreigners, including two Americans and a 12-member crew, and one infant were among those who died. Authorities investigated whether thick smoke and haze played a role in the crash of the airbus. Hundreds of forest fires smoldering for months across Indonesia had forced many Southeast Asian airports to shut down because of poor visibility. Airport officials refused to say whether the pilot was making a visual or instrument approach or what the visibility was at the time of the crash. Witnesses said the airbus was flying low in the haze 20 miles from Medan's Polonia Airport when it hit a tree and exploded. “The weather conditions were OK for landing, but there was smoke haze around Medan at the time,” said Communications Minister Haryanto Danutirto at the time. Garuda Airlines canceled several flights to Medan after the crash, citing poor visibility. However it was reported that other airlines continued to use the airport into the night. The haze and rugged terrain prevented rescuers from flying helicopters to the crash site in the mountainous area about 870 miles northwest of Jakarta. Sumatra, the island where Medan is located, along with neighboring Borneo is among the islands that were most affected by the forest fires, most which are deliberately set to clear land for means of profit. Information about the controller and how he would be reprimanded was conspicuously absent during media briefings by the government. When pressed for information, the communications minister stated that he couldn't be found. The truth is that he escaped the country if he was lucky or he was shot by a firing squad. His family would be told of his disappearance. Officials assured that every effort was made to locate them. There was speculation in the news that the pilot was suicidal or inexperienced, but he had flown that route at least 50 times in his career. It's easy to assess blame when in reality, many factors contributed to the crash of Flight GA152. |
| Across the Fence: Standing on the wagon 2013-03-14 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| The first time I helped with the summer haying I didn’t weigh as much as a single, small square bale that lay in the long, straight rows behind Uncle Butch’s New Holland baler. I had watched my dad cut the alfalfa fields that stretched to the horizon and covered the gently rolling northeastern Kansas hills with blossoms bluer than the Kansas skies. Skies made more blue by the billowing, cotton-white clouds that changed from elephants to horses to dragons right before your very imagination. The smell of fresh cut hay lingered for days as the white-hot summer sun cured the thick blanket of stems and leaves. Once cured, Dad raked the fields into long, perfectly straight windrows then waited for Uncle Butch to come with his baler. Uncle Butch, like most of the Nolting men, inherited the broad-shouldered, barrel-chested stature of their Prussian ancestors. He baled hay while standing on the metal platform of his tractor. Sometimes, shifting position to relieve the monotony of the tractors steady droning and the methodic rumble of the baler, he would lift one foot onto the tractor seat. He reminded me of the picture that hung in our school classroom, the one of Washington crossing the Delaware. Uncle Butch, standing on the tractor, peering intently into the distance, stoic and statuesque as the New Holland spit out tightly bound bales in the wake behind. My first job on the hay crew was that of tractor driver. However, to call me the driver was a bit of an exaggeration. I could not reach the brake pedal or the clutch and I was firmly and emphatically instructed to not touch the throttle. In actuality I suppose I was more of a tractor ‘steerer’ than a tractor driver. If there came the need to stop, Dad would sprint to the tractor, jump up behind me and do whatever needed to be done while I held a steady course between the rows. Because I could only steer and not actually drive the tractor, Grandpa or Dad would take control while going to and from the fields and I, along with the rest of the crew, would be relegated to riding the wagon. The haying crew was generally made up of my uncles, and usually a couple of their high-school buddies, who pitched the bales onto the wagon. Either Dad or Grandpa would do the stacking and if we had two crews, Grandpa would drive the second tractor. I remember my very first ride on the empty hay wagon as we headed out to the field. First of all, it should be understood that he distance from the barn to the hay ground was not a quick trip across the field. Often the hayfields were several sections away and haying season is a frantic season. A leisurely summer day, soaking up the sun and basking in a soothing summer breeze is not haying season. Haying season is hurry, hurry, hurry. Get it cut while conditions are right. Get it raked before the leaves curl or dry too much and fall. Get it baled before the dew goes off and get it up and in the barn before it rains. That being said, you might understand that when the wagon was empty, it was mandated that the trip back to the field would take as little time as possible. In short, go fast! Now, hay wagons have no springs, shock absorbers or cushioned seats and two-track roads are far from smooth. To say the least, riding on the wagon involved inherent danger. Uncle David, Uncle Wendell and Dad stood on the wagon bed and absorbed the constant, bone jarring bumps with their slightly flexed knees and balanced themselves with all the skill and dexterity of a circus tightrope walker. Dad could even make up a ‘roll your own,’ light it with a kitchen match and have a leisurely smoke while standing on the wagon. I, on the other hand, was bouncing around like a jumping bean in hot, iron skillet. First Uncle David would grab my arm and jerk me away from the perils of falling off the wagon and then Dad would make a desperate grab for me while I bounced past him toward the other side. “Better sit down and hold on!” Dad yelled above the rattling of the wagon and the clatter of my teeth. I suppose sitting may have been a bit safer but it was even more jarring. Uncle David, Uncle Wendell and Dad formed a small three-cornered barrier around me while I bounced, from one pair of legs to another, like a little silver ball in a pinball machine. Doing my best to look brave, I gazed up, past my dad’s knees, my head bobbing like a dashboard bobble-head doll and I thought; ‘Someday, I’ll be standing on the wagon.’ By the time we reached the field my tailbone tingled, my teeth were all loose, my eyes were unable to focus and the water I had drunk before we left the barn had become extremely uncomfortable. When Grandpa finally stopped between the first rows of bales I jumped to the ground and struggled to regain my land-legs. I guess my recovery took a bit too long, for Grandpa grabbed my shoulder and nudged me toward the tractor with the stern admonition, “Hurry up boy, times a-wasting.” As I grew older I became more helpful and less trouble. I actually became a tractor ‘driver’ when Dad bought an Allis Chalmers WD45. We called her ‘Alice’ and she had a hand clutch that I could kick out of gear, with my foot, when either Dad or someone else hollered “Whoa!” Then I’d slide down in the tractor seat and reach the brakes. I could even get her in gear again by reaching through the steering wheel and using it for leverage against my chest, I could pull the hand clutch back. I was also, finally allowed to use the throttle. In truth, haying became one of my favorite chores. I looked forward to those first cuttings, the smell of fresh-mown alfalfa, the tractor time spent cutting, raking and baling and the hard, muscle straining work of pitching bales. Despite the urgency of the season it was, in fact, a time of camaraderie. The uncles kept things lively and there was good-natured bantering, harmless pranks and frequent laughter. I remember impromptu races when we would run two crews and the challenge was to see which crew could load the wagon faster, or higher. There were races when those who were pitching bales were running alongside the wagon to keep up. Grandpa didn’t say we were wasting time but he did call it ‘foolishness.’ I remember a load that we stacked fourteen layers high with the top three layers resembling a peaked roof. I was riding the top layer as we left the field going a bit too fast when we crossed the ditch. I rode the bale I was straddling down into the alfalfa avalanche and landed unhurt beneath a mountain of jumbled bales. Frantic uncles reloaded the wagon in record time as they hurried to unbury me. Experience taught me to jump away from the fall, not into it. Encounters with Bull snakes and Black snakes were frequent and I learned that you don’t have to be afraid of snakes to have the ‘beejeebies’ scared out of you when someone sneaks up behind and tosses one across your shoulders or around your neck. I missed out on the Prussian genetics that built broad shoulders, barrel chests and bulging biceps. When I graduated from tractor driver I was never able to get a bale up more than four rows above the wagon bed, a little over seven feet. They say the secret is momentum, but it takes a bit of brute strength as well. So, like my dad, I became a stacker and I learned from the best. Like him, from the field to the barn, I can humbly boast that I’ve never lost a load. Not unlike many father and son teams that attempt to work together, Dad and I did not always see eye-to-eye. But years later, when I had my own place and it was haying season, Dad would come from northeastern Kansas to the foothills of the Rockies and help me with the haying. We both drove tractor, we both pitched and stacked and somewhere along the line, through those many years of haying seasons, we became friends. There’s another memory I have from those long ago days of haying in Kansas. I remember those days when it was a hundred degrees plus, when my shirt was soaked with honest sweat and we rode back out to the hayfield from the barn. With knees flexed I easily absorbed the rattle and bump of two-track roads and rough stubble fields. I was older and a bit more experienced in those days when, side-by-side, Dad and I were standing on the wagon. M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist, freelance writer, poet and entertainer. To contact Tim, email: mtimn@aol.com |
| Teen Voice: Learning calculus more than numbers 2013-03-14 By Kendall Uhrich |
| By Every blue day I drag my tired self to second period, and going into this class, I know I will not be able to just get by, because this class is calculus. I dread having homework in this class, because all of the concepts are so over my head. Even though my teacher always tells me, “it goes back to third grade math.” There is no way I will ever actually believe that it does. But, when I am there I learn more about life, than one would normally expect to in a math class. No, not only do theorems and equations come out of my teacher’s mouth, but lessons. One of them being, “Don’t use technology to replace your knowledge, use it to enhance it.” Basically, he is telling us that instead of using calculators to get the answer we should be able to do it ourselves. But, this not only works in the math realm, but everywhere else as well. We shouldn’t use computers and tools like Facebook messaging to replace talking face-to-face, but to use it to maybe make a date to see them, or send them a quick message when we don’t have the chance to see them. After all, people go through their entire lives without the Internet. I’m sure we could do the same. Another lesson he teaches is to see the world. He has traveled to so many different places that he tells us about. But, he not only goes there, he learns the whole culture of that society. He picks up on the language, knows about the people and the sights. He has been so many different places and never takes them for granted. He doesn’t go to the beach just to say they went, he uses it as a learning experience. Through all of these stories that he may think I’m not even listening to in class I have learned that everything can be a learning experience and to take in as much as I can. A simple trip to Walmart can make anyone learn if they really try. And even living in Nebraska can make us learn. The mountains and beaches have history, but have we ever stopped to look at ours? The most important lesson that he teaches though is how to care. He says that the reason he teaches high school and not college is because fewer students care, making it more of a challenge. Which is more than true. Most high school students would take their diploma without taking a single course if they could, but he is out there to make students have a thirst for learning. I love this lesson, but what I love more is how he teaches it by example. He will be the last teacher to leave the building and the first one there because he is helping students. Students don’t just graduate and lose contact with him either, he will treat them just like they are still sitting in his classroom. He truly cares about students and that is why he is such a well-known teacher. He does not just go through the motions, he is there to teach and he does more than just accomplish that, he makes students live a better life. I may not be the best calculus student, but I’m positive he is the best calculus teacher. I may forget derivates and equations, but I’ll never forget the life lessons I have learned in the two years of having him. This teacher is a wonderful teacher who is retiring next year. It makes me sad that other students won’t get to sit in his classes anymore, and be teased just like I have. It makes sense for him to retire; even I have to leave the school at graduation. But, with every beginning there must be an end, and for him there was a fantastic middle. |
| Our View: Come home to Nebraska, but not just anywhere 2013-03-07 By |
| For the past several administrations, Nebraska governors have emphasized the importance of seeing ourselves as one state, working together toward a mutually bright economic future. While we’re sure our governors believe that, it gets translated differently through our state agencies. It’s a sad truism that Nebraska’s biggest export is its young people. Part of the blame lies locally. Whenever high school students show real promise and potential for a bright future, they’re encouraged to leave. Too many parents and school teachers tell them if they want to be a real success, they’ll have to do it somewhere else because there’s no future for them here. That attitude has to change. Joseph Moore with the Nebraska News Service recently wrote an excellent piece on Nebraska’s “brain drain.” What he found were attitudes within the university system that actually encourage this outmigration. One of the people he interviewed was Eric Thompson, director of the Bureau of Business Research at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Thompson said a lack of good jobs isn’t the entire reason young college graduates take flight. It’s also because Nebraska may not be such a great place to be young and single. Scott Fuess, chairman of the economics department at UNL, was even more blunt. He said he expected young college graduates to leave because Nebraska is one of the most remote and sparsely populated states in the country. He asked “Why wouldn’t a 22-year-old college graduate be drawn to the allure of life in Chicago or the Twin Cities or Dallas or Houston?” From our viewpoint, high crime rates, constant noise, traffic jams, never feeling completely safe and not knowing your neighbors are not very alluring. As for the superior entertainment in metro areas, it wasn’t that long ago when people in smaller areas made their own entertainment. They didn’t wait for others to entertain them. But that takes imagination. Both Thompson and Fuess said the state should focus on the “boomerang effect” and lure former residents back to Nebraska once they start raising families. But once these young adults become parents, they’re somewhat settled and it’s often difficult for them to uproot everything and move back home – even if good, high-paying jobs were available, which is not often the case. Both men said the best solution is to recruit these young families, but we should focus on luring them to Lincoln or Omaha. During his interview, Moore asked Feuss if anything could be done to attract more people to rural Nebraska. The professor’s answer was telling: “I doubt it. What are they going to do in those rural areas? I don’t know that there’s going to be a big boomerang effect to come back to remote, rural Nebraska.” There you have it – the kind of anti-rural academic snobbery that’s been around for decades. With its highfalutin name, the Bureau of Business Research has long been lamenting the economic death of rural Nebraska, which by the way is most of the geographic state. And it’s rural tax dollars that enable them to keep churning out this nonsense. We sent an email to Moore, thanking him for his article. He said he was also surprised when “both of them basically wrote off most of the state as a lost cause.” Our governors, past and present, were right. We all need to be on the same page to forge a bright economic future for the state. A good start would be for metro dwellers and the wizards of smart in academe to declare a permanent moratorium on writing economic and cultural obituaries for rural Nebraska. As for those of us in rural areas, we can start embracing and welcoming our returning entrepreneurs, innovators and future leaders. Too often we push them away because they just might upset the status quo. The future is what we make of it, so it’s up to us to decide what we want. |
| From the Superintendent’s Desk: Early Childhood Education 2013-03-07 By Don Hague, Superintendent of Schools - Gering Public Schools |
| The last news article was focused on Kindergarten enrollment for the 2013-14 school year. It is very important for all parents who have children who reach the age of 5 by July 31, 2013 to enroll them in kindergarten so we can plan accordingly for the upcoming school year. A child must be enrolled for Kindergarten no later than the year the child turns 6 years old (example: if a child is born in 2007, they would be required to register for kindergarten this year). One of the most important decisions parents have to make is when to start their child in school. My best advice is to assess each child on a case by case basis. Keep in mind that when a student graduates from high school what age will they be when they go on to a post high school education or become trained for an alternative career program. The state legislators are currently having discussions around the concept of early childhood education. Continued research is showing just how important those first three years are in a child’s life and what the child is exposed to can have a big impact on the future of the child as they progress through the educational system. New parents have numerous resources available to them and I would encourage you to review these as you receive them from the time you leave the hospital when your child is born. Parents are the very first teacher children are exposed to and doing simple things like reading books early on helps prepare them for the formal education which lies ahead. The concern is that many children in Nebraska, and across the nation, do not take part in any type of preschool education. Currently Gering Public Schools is serving approximately 70 students in half-day programs a couple of days a week in our pre-school classrooms which are located at the Lincoln Elementary building. We also have a number of students attending private preschools or the Head Start program. We have and continue to work with these programs so that all students are receiving age appropriate educational opportunities as well as the opportunity to develop social skills. If you have a young child who has not reached the age requirement for kindergarten but would be old enough to attend preschool (check with each preschool as to their specific requirements for a child to attend) I would encourage you to look at this opportunity. If your child misses this opportunity they can be potentially be playing catch up for a number of years. It is also important to visit classrooms and see exactly what students are doing. Again, research shows preschool can make a big difference and more and more states, as well as school districts, are increasing their efforts to enroll all children in a quality preschool program. More than likely Nebraska would be more involved as a state with this program but due to limited funding for education it has not became a priority in our state but as the research continues to mount, I believe it will become a higher priority in the future. The University of Nebraska, along with the Buffet Foundation, is developing a premier Early Childhood Educational Program to promote the training of individuals to better serve needs in the future. If you know of children who are currently not taking advantage of programs available to them, encourage their parents to look into the possibilities. The decision they make will have a lasting impact on the future of their child. |
| Completely Different: What’s speech got to do with it? 2013-03-07 By Elizabeth Gross |
| As a reporter, there are certain people, subjects, and events you grow to love writing about. Mainly here at the Citizen, I cover events dealing with the area’s youth. While every event I attend or write about is important to me, it’s hard not to pick a favorite. One of my favorite events to cover is area high school competitive speech. Speech, as a school event, I think is viewed as an enigma wrapped in a mystery. It’s hard for anyone to grasp why any person, let alone teenagers, would want to stand in front of a group of strangers and speak. Yet every year students show up to those first team meetings excited to suit up and spend a Saturday competing. I used to think for anyone to understand the importance of speech they would have to spend a Saturday in their suits. To sit down and actually explain how a speech event works is fairly simple. Like any other ‘game' there are rules that must be followed in order to win. Where everything starts to get a little muddy is how to actually win. A speech tournament is an all-day process with the first round beginning as early as 8:30 a.m. That usually means that most competitors have to be at their schools ready to go as early as 6 a.m. There is no warm up round. By the time students arrive at the tournament they must be ready to go. Every tournament is different and you never know what the judges may be feeling that day. A competitor can be extremely successful all season but have that one tournament that doesn't allow them to break into finals. The reason could be as vague as not liking the material to something as superficial as what the competitor was wearing. All a competitor can do is take that criticism, change, polish and perfect their performance. I can go on until I'm blue in the face about the camaraderie and friendships built in speech. That dynamic comes with any team and yes, in speech you are a team. You can't really pin down a certain type of student involved with this event. These teams are not comprised of just outcasts or misfits. A speech team is made of a spectrum of students from every hierarchy of high school life. Speech is no different than sports, your teammates are there to be supportive during a round and cheer you on when you make the awards stage. Every coach I have had the honor of meeting wants their students to succeed. I can see these coaches’ infectious love of speech. You can see it in their students. They have a radiating confidence and hold themselves a little higher. Speech is also a very personal event. It's all up to you to determine the level of your success. One cannot be idle or piggyback off the success of others. Keep in mind these students are essentially doing public speaking for fun, which is considered the biggest fear among most people. They are not only conquering a fear that many will never be able to, they are also becoming stronger people in the process. No matter the reason, signing up for speech team, whether it be for the free pizza at the meeting or wanting a chance to perform; competitive speech changes you as a person. I know firsthand what speech can do for its students. What speech did for me was help me to find my voice. High school is hard and when you feel like a shadow among a sea of personalities it’s easy to feel voiceless. Speech helped me to find my voice and showed me that I really was capable of achieving anything. I know that I wasn't alone in finding that voice and strength. That was part of my motivation for why I covered speech like I did this season. I could have simply listed the results and told you who won. If you've never been involved with such an activity it’s hard to grasp just how life-changing it can be. That's why this season I let the competitors do the talking. To give you the reader a chance to understand that magic, and allow the students to tell you their motivation for getting up at six in the morning. We live in a world where the youth is already pigeonholed as being thoughtless, thankless, and unmotivated. It makes me extremely sad to see young people being thought so little of. That’s why I enjoy writing about what goes on with the youth in our community, to remind everyone that if we want to change our attitude about our future, we need to support the youth, to support activities like competitive speech, band, choir, theatre, and art. If you want to invest in your future, support these students and their passions. These are the students that will change the world with their unique vision. So what does competitive speech have to do with it? Everything. |
| Observations Only: Sisters Lost, part III 2013-03-07 By Nina Betz |
| I remember the flight to Medan with Hazel when I first arrived and how frightened I was. We were seated in the first class cabin and the mountain loomed up in our faces, and then the pilot banked sharply to the left to approach the runway. Hazel laughed and said everyone has that reaction the first time. I thought at the time that it was dangerous and wondered why there wasn't a better flight pattern. The days following the crash were filled with phone calls from Mobil Oil personnel, State Department under secretaries and officials from the Indonesian embassy keeping me advised of their efforts to find the bodies and determine the cause of the plane crash. The first photos of the crash site shows a rice paddy with Indonesian rescue workers sorting through the rubble for bodies. Torsos, heads, legs, a hand or a foot were matched up with like skin color and placed in plastic bags for mass burial. Hazel and Lloyd were the only Americans on board, his body was found intact except for half of his face that was burned. The irony is that Lloyd told me he would die by fire. Hazel's body was never found and Lloyd's body was brought back to the United States for cremation. On Monday following the accident a memorial service and mass burial took place. The following is an account of the memorial service and anecdotes sent to me by a friend of Hazel and Lloyd. The bodies were buried near the site of victims of a crash that took place at Medan in1979. Approximately two thousand were in attendance and a separate place was reserved for the families. First there were condolences speeches and prayers of the different faiths represented by the victims.. Afterward the families were allowed to throw dirt on six coffins symbolizing all who died. The coffins were covered over with dirt, and wreaths placed on top. The service was peaceful with many nations represented. Buddhist priests, a group of Japanese and their Shinto priest, Muslim Imam, Christian and a Hindu Pundit all said prayers in their language. A man standing near by and asked me personal questions about Hazel and Lloyd. It turned out that he was a reporter for the South China Times in Hong Kong and wanted to do a personal story on the two Americans. I told him that Hazel was one of the few genuinely good persons I knew; she was always kind and went out to the kampungs to do social welfare projects for the Woman's International Club and was a soft touch for beggars and children. Hazel was a curious person, interested in other religions, other countries, and other people; but never judgmental. She obtained a masters degree in nursing and another one in divinity; she liked music, playing the piano, singing and listening to others. She loved her garden and kept Anto busy with growing orchids and waging war on golf ball sized snails that ate her lettuce every morning. They were planning a trek to Nepal, and just received their tickets. It isn't much consolation, but Hazel insisted on traveling with Lloyd because if anything happened to him she didn't want to live with out him. As it turned out she didn't have to. In a recent dream I was sitting at a round table in an outdoor setting with Hazel and Lloyd. She was sitting across from me and Lloyd was seated to my right smiling at me. Hazel reached over and took a piece of bacon off my plate and ate it. They are waiting for me on the other side. To be continued |
| Teen Voice: What senior year taught me 2013-03-07 By Kendall Uhrich |
| I know, I know that the year isn’t over yet, but I have learned more things in these few months of my last year in high school than I think I have my entire four years, and I would like to share with my readers just the trials I have gone through. Number one: How powerful Red Bull is. These drinks come in a slender 8 ounce can, but pack in more punch than a professional wrestler. Though nights of working, then going home to write essays, complete worksheets and practice my speeches the energy from these is exactly what I need to pull an all-nighter. Number two: We only get one shot. There is nothing like the last chance to do something that shows you how fleeting every moment is. I know at every moment that it’s my last shot to prove myself, but I’ve realized that it’s like that all the time, not just senior year. I have learned to enjoy every single second, because I’ll never get it back. Number three: College planning isn’t what I thought it was. For some reason college always seemed as simple as packing up my bags and wearing the school colors for my new college, but it’s not that simple. Between scholarships, applications, housing arrangements, it’s something that is more work than I ever imagined, and way harder to finally accept that I’m moving away. Number four: They don’t just hand out diplomas. I always thought my high school degree would be handed to me and I would cry with how much I was going to miss all these great people, and all though that will most likely still hold to be true, a sigh of relief will be just as prevalent. The amount of work my classes demand, along with a job and extra-curriculars has been quite the large load of work so that one piece of paper will be my pride and joy. Number five: You’ve never “arrived” Although we may seem like the “top dog” we’re never there. We never know everything and we’re not the best at everything. I am one of the oldest people in the school, but that by no means insinuates that I am the most talented. There is always practice to do, and always new knowledge to learn. We are never perfect at everything, no matter how old we are. Number six: Little eyes are looking up to you. And though I may not be the best there is there are still underclassmen looking up to me. So many of them say they want to be like me, and I never realized just how much influence we have on other people. Whether the individual is parent, or an aunt or uncle, or the boss at work, there are always those looking up to us, so we need to watch what we do, so others don’t mimic our mistakes. Number seven: Time management is key Today is all about hustle and bustle, and my senior year is just that. Between the jobs I have, school and speech I am exhausted. If I didn’t have time management and set aside times to do my homework, or even take a shower, it wouldn’t get done. The less scheduled events are, the more stressed we become. If we don’t take the time to do the important things, it will only lead to piles of stress later. Number eight: Leave a footprint No matter what we do it is so important to make sure we have done a good enough job that our name is remembered. Because I’m leaving I want all of those who I will forever remember to remember me too. That is why it is vital to actually make a difference. Big or small. Do something that makes our names memorable. Number nine: The people that matter stick around My close knit circle of friends was torn apart my junior year when we knew we only had only one last year together, but now that all of our colleges are chosen, they are all quite close to each other. Although everything changes when we leave, one thing that stays the same is just how much those people mean to us. They haven’t stopped talking to me, because I’m not a part of their future, like many seniors do with each other, but they hold on, because the people who care about us aren’t going to leave at the drop of a hat. So, this year is probable the biggest learning experience of my life, but I hope that it not only taught me about life, but taught my readers a few things as well, even if it’s as simple as that energy drinks really do work. |
| Jane’s Secret, part XXII: While the cat’s away 2013-03-07 By Nina Betz |
| The joyous song of a meadowlark wakes Gertrude. Stephen snores softly beside her. After a huge yawn, she wriggles around to find a more comfortable spot, her thoughts turning dark in contemplation. Tragedy has touched us twice, she muses. First it was Pearl being thrown by Queenie and breaking her neck, now Red gets himself killed by a mountain lion. Pa’s old, something awful could happen to him too, and Stephen, I couldn’t bear if I lost him, she thinks, as she lays her head on his shoulder, shuddering at the awful thought. Stephen mumbles something unintelligible and slides his arm around her waist, but doesn’t wake. Feeling too restless to sleep, she gets out of bed, dons her wrapper and shoes intending to go for a short walk. Going down the stairs, she pauses for a few minutes to observe her sister curled up in a chair. Her heart aches, as she remembers that just a few days ago, Molly was a happy woman with a loving husband, expecting her first child. They weren’t even married a year and now she’s a widow sleeping in a chair beside her husband’s body in a pine box. It just shouldn’t be this way. Shrugging off her pity with the realization that it won’t help either of them, she eases the door open. After glancing back inside to make sure no one will notice her absence, she steps outside and gazes up at the cloudless sky, marveling at its blueness. A vision of her sister smiling, with a new man at her side, surrounded by noisy happy children takes the place of sadness in her heart. Feeling comforted, she decides to poke her head inside the barn to see if Clem’s awake. “Pa, you awake,” she calls from the doorway. “Just feeding the horses,” he says. You’re up early” he exclaims, secretly pleased. “Stephen and Molly are asleep and I decided to take a walk before the day gets started,” she replies. “Hold on and I’ll go with you, been wantin’ to talk over last night,” he says, mucking out King's stall. “Let’s talk here in the barn, like we used to do when I was a girl,” she suggests, plopping down on a block of salt. “What’s got you upset Pa?” she asks, noticing his tightened jaw. “Nothing much, at least I hope not,” he mumbles, concentrating on a worn leather strap. Gertrude waits patiently, knowing he won’t speak until he’s ready. “When the three of us made plans for me to live here and manage the ranch with Harvey’s help, we didn’t take into account that Red’s brother might object to the idea of his grandparents’ ranch passing out of his hands. He might want to manage it himself. Maybe we put the wagon before the horse,” he mutters. “Pa, are you saying that Shorty can take the ranch away from Molly? He can’t do that, it belongs to her,” Gertrude exclaims, jumping to the worst conclusion. “Won’t know’til the will is read, if Red even had one. If he doesn’t then it comes down to how the land abstract reads. With Molly being in the family way, I doubt that ownership of the ranch can be taken away from her but who manages the ranch might be a fight,” he explains, cutting away a piece of worn leather with his pocket knife. “We’ll have to talk to her soon, I would think she’d want her father’s help but Shorty’s a wild card. Molly will consider what Red would want her to do and we can’t just assume she’ll choose her family,” Gertrude replies, thoughtfully. “It’s Molly’s good we have to consider. Shorty is a good ranchman,” Clem admits, reluctantly. Unbeknownst to Gertrude, another conversation is taking place in a bedroom in Fort Laramie that doesn’t bode well for her future. “Jane, wake up,” Harvey says, gently shaking her shoulder. “Leave me alone, I just fell asleep,” she snaps, after opening her eyes and noticing that it’s still nighttime. “The funeral is today and you know how long it takes you to dress,” he reminds her, lighting the lamp next to her bed. “I think you should come with me; it will cause gossip if Molly’s sister doesn’t put in an appearance,’ he warns. “Very well, if you insist,” she snaps, sitting up in bed. “Oh, my headache is worse,” she cries, allowing her voice to tremble slightly. “Bring me a cloth for my forehead; I just can’t stand it,” she moans, lying down again. Harvey stares at her a moment, causing Jane to moan even more piteously. “I’ll wake Bridget and have her fix a powder for you,” he says, resigned. “They’re over there on the dressing table. I don’t need Bridget fussing over me, just pour the powder into the glass of water on the night table and give it to me; it’s the least you can do when I have a sick headache,” she coaxes, hoping to make him feel guilty. “Thank you,” she says after he brings it to her, drinking the concoction and carefully sitting the glass on the bedside table. “You’re welcome,” he says out of politeness he doesn’t feel. Jane positions herself in bed so she can watch Harvey fasten his cufflinks and slip a diamond ring on his hand while still pretending to be asleep. He hesitates at the door and looks back at her, wondering what happened to the Jane he fell in love with at the harvest hoedown. With a shrug, he leaves the room and goes down to the kitchen, surprising a sleepy Aggie with his rummaging in the ice box. “Mr. Hogg, you scared me,” she giggles, nervously. “Is today the funeral for poor Mrs. Stubbs’s husband? He nods. “Is Mrs. Hogg going with you?” Aggie asks hopefully. No, Mrs. Hogg is ill and won’t be going with me, I trust you to look after her,” Harvey explains. “Certainly I will, sir,” she assures him. “Can I trouble you to make me a thermos of coffee and a couple of ham sandwiches with a little mustard to take with me?” he asks. “I’ll be happy to make you a real breakfast, sir,” she says, feeling a sorry for him that he has the likes of Jane for a wife. “Thank you Aggie, but ham sandwiches will do,” he says. Upstairs, Jane is listening intently for the sound of the motor starting and Harvey driving away. After the all clear, she gleefully hops out of bed, puts on her oldest dress and goes to the hall to knock on the other bedroom doors. “Bridget, Hazel get up! We have work to do and make it quick. Breakfast downstairs in thirty minutes!” she bellows rudely through the closed bedroom doors on her way downstairs. “Mrs. Hogg, I thought you was sick,” Aggie stutters, shocked to see Jane downstairs and dressed in ordinary clothes with her hair pinned up in a bun. “It was a headache, I took a powder and now it’s gone,” she says, walking through the rooms with Aggie trailing after her. “We are going to do some spring cleaning, but first I have to decide what to get rid of and where to put my things from the Chicago house,” Jane says, eyeballing the dimensions of the room. “But Mrs. Hogg..,” Aggie begins. “Are you arguing with me Aggie? Have you forgotten our arrangement?” Jane asks staring at her pointedly, shocked by her temerity. “No Mrs. Hogg,” says Aggie, lowering her eyes to the floor. |
| Across the Fence: Fact, fiction or fragmented dreams? 2013-03-07 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| On November 5th 1864, a detachment of soldiers under the command of Captain Eugene F. Ware of the 7th Iowa Cavalry discovered an abandoned circle of wagons near present day Chappell, Nebraska. Some distance off the Jules cutoff trail, north of Fort Sedgwick on Lodgepole Creek against the rocky bluffs near Trapper’s Rock was found sixteen emigrant wagons, carefully and expertly circled with the right front wheel of each wagon against the left hind wheel of the wagon ahead. The wagon tongues were directed to the inside of the circle and over each tongue of the sixteen wagons hung the harness for a team of four horses or mules. The white canvas covers were torn and tattered from the constant battering of Nebraska wind, sideboards were bleached to a silvery grey in the relentless sun and grass grew tall and twisted around the felloes of the steel-rimmed wheels. The wagons contained no weapons or ammunition, no cooking utensils or food, no clothing, books nor any documents that might have indicated the plight of those who were not there. Large trunks, still in the wagon boxes, with lids agape or torn from hinges, contained only tattered blankets and few other meager, forgotten possessions. Captain Ware suspected a fierce and gruesome Indian attack with no survivors, livestock stolen, supplies plundered and arrow pierced bodies dragged away by wolves that scattered bones and shredded bits of clothing across the empty prairie. Dispatches were sent to surrounding military forts, queries were published in Denver newspapers seeking information about the abandoned wagons and those who had traveled with them. But no one knew the story. No one had ever before seen the circled wagons or heard of the unfortunate travelers who must have perished there. Shortly after Captain Ware’s book ‘The Indian Wars of 1864’ was published in 1911, Captain Ware gave up his adventurous spirit and made his final journey to the hereafter. Perhaps he never heard the story, the intrigue and the mystery that was later revealed by the spirits of those who left their wagons, neatly circled, near the banks of Lodgepole Creek. The story, or perhaps I should say ‘legend’ begins and ends on the long, flat top range of buttes that stretches westerly across nearly twenty sections of land, crossing the Nebraska border and reaching into Goshen County, Wyoming. The legend sheds an eerie light on two little known mysteries of the Panhandle and surrounding regions. Few people had heard this remarkable story and even fewer were willing to risk the possible ridicule that would likely follow its telling. As far as I know, the first and possibly only recorded account of the story can be found in Grant L. Shumway’s ‘History of Western Nebraska Vol. II.’ Beginning on page 92, Shumway relates, in all the eloquent flourish of his finely crafted art, the story of the abandoned wagons on Lodgepole Creek and the origin of the naming of Wyoming’s Sixty-Six Mountain. If true, this has to be one of the most remarkable stories I have ever come across. My thanks to Jim Christiansen, of Kimball, for discovering this account and passing it on to me. The following is my retelling of the story. The actual dates of these events are less than clear so I must begin somewhat vaguely. I can only surmise that it was sometime after the Civil War that a young lad of fourteen years, by the name of Ed Stemler, journeyed from Ohio to seek his fate in the west. Traveling horseback on a broken down plough horse and carrying his only earthly possession, his late father’s cap and ball Colt revolver, the red-headed, freckle-faced orphan boy set out to become a cowboy. After long and lonesome weeks of solitary travel, the youngster plodded heavily alongside the Union Pacific rails through the Lodgepole Valley, past the pine covered bluffs near the Rock Ranch in Wyoming and on to Cheyenne. It was long past sundown when he reached the depot in that frontier town during a rare but welcome downpour. The cold rain soaked his ragged coat as he hunkered over the saddle horn and having no money for food or lodging he slid wearily off his horse, crawled under the wooden platform beside the tracks and like a mongrel dog, curled himself against the elements and slept. Morning found young Stemler disheveled but determined seeking out somewhere to trade his father’s pistol for the cash he needed to buy food. His search led him to the boardwalks north of the depot where a motherly ‘soiled dove’ provided the needed charity for a much-appreciated breakfast. A Black Hills freighter needed a driver, hired the young newcomer and Mr. Stemler found himself on the trail that would lead him to his dream of working on a ranch. His cowboy life found him on the wide-open expanse of eastern Wyoming prairies on and around Sixty-Six Mountain. When drovers on the Texas Trail first came to the area in the early 1870s the sprawling butte already carried the name. Many believed that the Dater brothers, Jim and Phil, who ran their cattle there and at roundup branded their calves with the ‘66’ brand, had given the mountain its name. But the Daters had chosen the brand because of the mountain. And no one knew with certainty how the mountain had gotten its name. Oh, there were stories, but they were only stories. By nature and of necessity, Ed Stemler led a solitary life. His companions were the cattle he cared for and the company that he kept was his own. Time passed through the monotonous weeks into slow moving months, the months became lost in the seasons and the seasons into years. One day Ed found himself longing for the black earth and rolling hills, the lush grass and changing leaves of hardwood forests. Ed was homesick and Ohio was calling. Ed packed his saddlebags, rolled up his soogan and tied it behind the cantle, draped his slicker over the pommel, swung aboard his Meanea saddle, gathered up the reins and spurred his pony to a trot. He headed south toward the bluffs and picked up Lodgepole Creek then turned east following the meandering stream and the double ribbon of steel that ran alongside. His pony shied as a passing UP locomotive’s whistle shrieked and the engineer laughed as he watched the pony buck and the cowboy shake an angry fist. On the second night of his homeward journey Ed was drawn to a meadow near the sandstone walls around Trapper’s Rock. It was there that he saw the remnants of an abandoned circle of wagons. Weather-beaten and crumbling, the skeletal hulks of the wagons had fallen into the grass. Wagon wheels with rusted rims lay scattered beside grey and splintered planks. Ed walked among the ruins and peeked into a few crumbling boxes with rusted hinges and rotted leather handles, and he wondered what had happened here. Ed made his camp there and in the night, the people, from the wagons, came to him and he joined them in their journey. The wagons were circled and the stock, horses and cattle, were picketed outside the circle. During the night, wolves gathered in packs around the huddled group of emigrants. Were they wolves, or were they Indians mimicking the prairie predators? All night long the howling continued, constant and frightening. The livestock panicked, pulled at their tethers and fled, terrified, into the night. When morning came, the men proposed to go out and find the runaway horses and bring them back. The women, afraid to be left alone demanded to accompany their menfolk and so the entire caravan of travelers, men, women and children took to the trail, on foot. A young, red-haired, freckle-faced boy was with them. The horses were never found and the weary would-be settlers continued along the trail. They followed the Lodgepole then traveled northeasterly. Eventually they would find the Platte, perhaps find another train, and join them, then on to Oregon. After several days they came to a long, high, flat top butte that stretched for miles from east to west. Here they made camp. No sooner had they begun to settle in than a band of Cheyenne warriors swept down from off the butte. With terrifying war cries, the Cheyenne surrounded the group of travelers as the men set up a circle around the women and children. Crouching among sagebrush and yucca the settlers set up a line of rifle fire that slowed the attack. Several Cheyenne warriors fell from their ponies and lay dead. But the defense was short lived and the battle-hardened Cheyenne far outnumbered the men who valiantly fought to defend their families. Of the 67 men, women and children, all but one was killed at the foot of that mountain. Sixty-six were dead. One little boy, one redheaded, freckle-faced little boy was spared. Spared because of his bright red hair, an oddity, perhaps a sacred ‘omen’ to the Cheyenne. Was it real or was it a dream, perhaps a revelation of past events. Was it a memory or a story imagined from long years of solitude? Only Ed Stemler knows and he is long since gone. |
| From the Superintendent’s Desk - Option Enrollment 2013-02-28 By Don Hague, Superintendent of Schools - Gering Public Schools |
| The option enrollment program provides an opportunity for Nebraska parents to choose an alternate school in a district for their child to attend (other than the one in which they reside). Important issues to be aware of when considering this program; specific time lines (especially if your child plans to participate in extra curricular activities) and completing the necessary paperwork with both the option school and your resident district by March 15, 2013, for 2013-2014 school year. It is also important to realize that you may only use the option program once unless you change resident districts. For example, if you reside in the Scottsbluff school district and you decide to option your children to Mitchell, once your child begins classes in Mitchell they have exercised their one chance to option. If they decide to return to Scottsbluff, they must cancel the option and return to Scottsbluff to attend school. They cannot pursue a new option unless the family moves to a new district. They cannot attend Scottsbluff for a period of time and then go back to Mitchell. The option enrollment program gives parents in Nebraska a choice of where their children may attend school, but it also creates some challenges. It is very important that parents or guardians inform the school if they change residence. We are working hard to keep accurate records of the option students in our district, not only because we are required by the state to do so, but also because our numbers have increased to the point where we must be careful not to overcrowd our classrooms. The option school district has the right to refuse an option application if the program is full. This program was not intended to resolve a conflict between a teacher and a student during the course of the school year. This means if you are considering using the option program, you should spend time studying the issue well before the beginning of the school year. If you have questions concerning this program, please contact the schools involved. Due to limited space in classrooms, we may deny options. The deadline to apply for the option program is March 15 unless both districts agree to waive the deadline. These dates are established by the state. |
| A Stray Moment: - The case for Hagel 2013-02-28 By Doug Harris dougharris@geringcitizen.com |
| By the time you are reading this former Nebraska Senator Charles Timothy 'Chuck' Hagel may or may not be our Secretary of Defense. Perhaps it is with a Nebraska bias I support Mr. Hagel and agree with president Obama for nominating him to this top military position. Remarkably, Chuck Hagel is the first actual military veteran ever nominated for this important post. Most around here are familiar with his story. Hagel, who is 66 years-old, was born in North Platte and grew up in many small towns around the state, including Scottsbluff and Terrytown. Hagel graduated high school in Columbus, Nebraska before serving in Vietnam in 1967 and '68. His military service record is impressive. Hagel and his younger brother Tom both served in the same squad in the 9th Infantry Division. It is believed they were the only two brothers who served in the same unit during the war. Nebraskan's know that the brothers saved each others lives to two separate missions. Chuck Hagel was decorated with two Purple Hearts, the Army Commendation Medal, the Combat Infantryman Badge and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. After the war Hagel earned his bachelor's degree in history at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. He worked in radio for a few years before serving as a staff member for congressional representative John McCollister. In 1980 Hagel worked in the election campaign for presidential candidate Ronald Reagan. After Reagan's victory Hagel was appointed deputy administrator of the the Veteran's Administration. Hagel was instrumental in the creation of the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial on the Mall in Washington D.C. Always a bit of a true maverick, Hagel resigned that post in 1982 after a dispute with V.A. Director Robert Nimmo who denied Agent Orange was harmful and said that veteran's were 'greedy' in seeking benefits. Hagel then lived in Virginia for two decades working in the newly formed cell phone industry. He co-founded Vanguard Cellular and eventually became a multi-millionaire. He continued to serve in many public roles offering his time to the American Red Cross, Bread for the World, and the Eisenhower World Affairs Institute. Hagel moved back to Nebraska in 1992 and worked in the voting machine industry out of Omaha. I've had the opportunity to meet Chuck Hagel a few times. Our first meeting was in 1995 at the Gering Civic Center. Hagel was running for the U.S. Senate and touring the state. Somewhat of a dark horse without much name recognition at the time Hagel was quickly winning over fellow Nebraskan's with both his absorbing story and his direct no-nonsense approach to the issues. In '95 I was working for Jack Lewis at the Courier. Jack was pretty convinced that then Governor Ben Nelson was a shoo-in to win the senate seat, but he sent me to visit with the Hagel camp 'to keep the damn republicans off my back.' It was a pretty heady experience to suddenly be talking about international politics with the charismatic Hagel. Being more attuned to watermelon eating contests and 100-year birthdays I felt a little out of my league talking to Hagel about Bosnia and the AIDS crisis in Africa. I can't deny I was a little star struck and flattered this remarkable man was willing to give me literally hours of his time to both get to know him and learn his views. After I returned to the paper and gave Jack my story he pretty much put it on the back-burner. A few weeks later Mr. Hagel personally called me and asked why nothing had been published. Yes, he was hoping for some free copy but did note that we had given ample coverage to his opponent Governor Nelson, who had also stopped by the office. I was swimming in pretty deep waters. Jack concluded that whatever happened one of these guys was going to be our next senator so it was prudent to 'give them a damn story' but he added they were both welcome to buy some advertising. They both did, and our stories continued. Hagel stopped by a few more times over the campaign, and after Jack got to personally take his measure he began to think this dark horse war hero might just have a chance of pulling it off. I got to know Chuck (as he insisted I call him) a little better. I was aware that I and other members of the local media were being slightly wined and dined so we would continue the publicity but the fact is I genuinely liked the guy. Nelson was likable too but a little on the stiff side, whereas Chuck was significantly more open and friendly. With the exception of Bill Barrett my voting record in Nebraska had been 100 percent in favor of only Democratic candidates. I will confess in the end I voted for Hagel. We all know that he won and became the first Republican in 24 years to win a senate seat in Nebraska. Hagel went on to be be reelected with an extraordinary 83 percent majority vote. That still stands as the largest margin of victory ever achieved in any election in Nebraska history. I recall saying to Chuck, “Now that you have hit the big time I hope you won't forget us little guys out here who might have helped you out.” I never saw him or heard from him again. O well. Being a U.S. Senator is a pretty busy and important job. I guess I didn't expect I could just call Washington and bend his ear whenever I felt like it. At that point I wasn't even working in the media anymore so there wasn't much of a reason to site Hagel's opinions. Now that president Obama has called for Hagel to serve as Defense Secretary it seems the personable and intense Nebraska war hero has to face yet another trial on his political journey. Members of his own party are saying they have their doubts. They worry he is perhaps soft on Middle East policy despite his voting record of being in favor of action in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Some are saying Hagel isn't as loyal to Israel as he needs to be. It is true that in 2006 Hagel was critical of the Jewish lobby saying they used 'intimidation tactics' and he also reminded folks “I'm not an Israeli senator. I'm a United States senator.” Which was true. But blunt talk like that can sometimes come back and sting you. Hagel was also very critical of president George W. Bush stating Bush's time in office was “...the lowest in capacity, in capability, in policy, in consensus – almost every area - of any presidency in the last forty years.” I can't say I would disagree, and having a Defense Secretary willing to speak his mind directly and without trying to tow any party line seems like a good thing for our nation. We live in uncertain times and a strong defense is paramount. Having a secretary with this level of government and private sector experience, as well as boots on the ground combat experience, seems an excellent choice. We don't need our defense compromised with some wishy-washy people-pleasing style of leadership. American can use a man like Chuck Hagel watching our back, just as he did for his brother and other fellow soldiers long ago in some deary rainforest on a dangerous tour in Vietnam. The case for Hagel By Doug Harris By the time you are reading this former Nebraska Senator Charles Timothy 'Chuck' Hagel may or may not be our Secretary of Defense. Perhaps it is with a Nebraska bias I support Mr. Hagel and agree with president Obama for nominating him to this top military position. Remarkably, Chuck Hagel is the first actual military veteran ever nominated for this important post. Most around here are familiar with his story. Hagel, who is 66 years-old, was born in North Platte and grew up in many small towns around the state, including Scottsbluff and Terrytown. Hagel graduated high school in Columbus, Nebraska before serving in Vietnam in 1967 and '68. His military service record is impressive. Hagel and his younger brother Tom both served in the same squad in the 9th Infantry Division. It is believed they were the only two brothers who served in the same unit during the war. Nebraskan's know that the brothers saved each others lives to two separate missions. Chuck Hagel was decorated with two Purple Hearts, the Army Commendation Medal, the Combat Infantryman Badge and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. After the war Hagel earned his bachelor's degree in history at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. He worked in radio for a few years before serving as a staff member for congressional representative John McCollister. In 1980 Hagel worked in the election campaign for presidential candidate Ronald Reagan. After Reagan's victory Hagel was appointed deputy administrator of the the Veteran's Administration. Hagel was instrumental in the creation of the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial on the Mall in Washington D.C. Always a bit of a true maverick, Hagel resigned that post in 1982 after a dispute with V.A. Director Robert Nimmo who denied Agent Orange was harmful and said that veteran's were 'greedy' in seeking benefits. Hagel then lived in Virginia for two decades working in the newly formed cell phone industry. He co-founded Vanguard Cellular and eventually became a multi-millionaire. He continued to serve in many public roles offering his time to the American Red Cross, Bread for the World, and the Eisenhower World Affairs Institute. Hagel moved back to Nebraska in 1992 and worked in the voting machine industry out of Omaha. I've had the opportunity to meet Chuck Hagel a few times. Our first meeting was in 1995 at the Gering Civic Center. Hagel was running for the U.S. Senate and touring the state. Somewhat of a dark horse without much name recognition at the time Hagel was quickly winning over fellow Nebraskan's with both his absorbing story and his direct no-nonsense approach to the issues. In '95 I was working for Jack Lewis at the Courier. Jack was pretty convinced that then Governor Ben Nelson was a shoo-in to win the senate seat, but he sent me to visit with the Hagel camp 'to keep the damn republicans off my back.' It was a pretty heady experience to suddenly be talking about international politics with the charismatic Hagel. Being more attuned to watermelon eating contests and 100-year birthdays I felt a little out of my league talking to Hagel about Bosnia and the AIDS crisis in Africa. I can't deny I was a little star struck and flattered this remarkable man was willing to give me literally hours of his time to both get to know him and learn his views. After I returned to the paper and gave Jack my story he pretty much put it on the back-burner. A few weeks later Mr. Hagel personally called me and asked why nothing had been published. Yes, he was hoping for some free copy but did note that we had given ample coverage to his opponent Governor Nelson, who had also stopped by the office. I was swimming in pretty deep waters. Jack concluded that whatever happened one of these guys was going to be our next senator so it was prudent to 'give them a damn story' but he added they were both welcome to buy some advertising. They both did, and our stories continued. Hagel stopped by a few more times over the campaign, and after Jack got to personally take his measure he began to think this dark horse war hero might just have a chance of pulling it off. I got to know Chuck (as he insisted I call him) a little better. I was aware that I and other members of the local media were being slightly wined and dined so we would continue the publicity but the fact is I genuinely liked the guy. Nelson was likable too but a little on the stiff side, whereas Chuck was significantly more open and friendly. With the exception of Bill Barrett my voting record in Nebraska had been 100 percent in favor of only Democratic candidates. I will confess in the end I voted for Hagel. We all know that he won and became the first Republican in 24 years to win a senate seat in Nebraska. Hagel went on to be be reelected with an extraordinary 83 percent majority vote. That still stands as the largest margin of victory ever achieved in any election in Nebraska history. I recall saying to Chuck, “Now that you have hit the big time I hope you won't forget us little guys out here who might have helped you out.” I never saw him or heard from him again. O well. Being a U.S. Senator is a pretty busy and important job. I guess I didn't expect I could just call Washington and bend his ear whenever I felt like it. At that point I wasn't even working in the media anymore so there wasn't much of a reason to site Hagel's opinions. Now that president Obama has called for Hagel to serve as Defense Secretary it seems the personable and intense Nebraska war hero has to face yet another trial on his political journey. Members of his own party are saying they have their doubts. They worry he is perhaps soft on Middle East policy despite his voting record of being in favor of action in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Some are saying Hagel isn't as loyal to Israel as he needs to be. It is true that in 2006 Hagel was critical of the Jewish lobby saying they used 'intimidation tactics' and he also reminded folks “I'm not an Israeli senator. I'm a United States senator.” Which was true. But blunt talk like that can sometimes come back and sting you. Hagel was also very critical of president George W. Bush stating Bush's time in office was “...the lowest in capacity, in capability, in policy, in consensus – almost every area - of any presidency in the last forty years.” I can't say I would disagree, and having a Defense Secretary willing to speak his mind directly and without trying to tow any party line seems like a good thing for our nation. We live in uncertain times and a strong defense is paramount. Having a secretary with this level of government and private sector experience, as well as boots on the ground combat experience, seems an excellent choice. We don't need our defense compromised with some wishy-washy people-pleasing style of leadership. American can use a man like Chuck Hagel watching our back, just as he did for his brother and other fellow soldiers long ago in some deary rainforest on a dangerous tour in Vietnam. The case for Hagel By Doug Harris By the time you are reading this former Nebraska Senator Charles Timothy 'Chuck' Hagel may or may not be our Secretary of Defense. Perhaps it is with a Nebraska bias I support Mr. Hagel and agree with president Obama for nominating him to this top military position. Remarkably, Chuck Hagel is the first actual military veteran ever nominated for this important post. Most around here are familiar with his story. Hagel, who is 66 years-old, was born in North Platte and grew up in many small towns around the state, including Scottsbluff and Terrytown. Hagel graduated high school in Columbus, Nebraska before serving in Vietnam in 1967 and '68. His military service record is impressive. Hagel and his younger brother Tom both served in the same squad in the 9th Infantry Division. It is believed they were the only two brothers who served in the same unit during the war. Nebraskan's know that the brothers saved each others lives to two separate missions. Chuck Hagel was decorated with two Purple Hearts, the Army Commendation Medal, the Combat Infantryman Badge and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. After the war Hagel earned his bachelor's degree in history at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. He worked in radio for a few years before serving as a staff member for congressional representative John McCollister. In 1980 Hagel worked in the election campaign for presidential candidate Ronald Reagan. After Reagan's victory Hagel was appointed deputy administrator of the the Veteran's Administration. Hagel was instrumental in the creation of the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial on the Mall in Washington D.C. Always a bit of a true maverick, Hagel resigned that post in 1982 after a dispute with V.A. Director Robert Nimmo who denied Agent Orange was harmful and said that veteran's were 'greedy' in seeking benefits. Hagel then lived in Virginia for two decades working in the newly formed cell phone industry. He co-founded Vanguard Cellular and eventually became a multi-millionaire. He continued to serve in many public roles offering his time to the American Red Cross, Bread for the World, and the Eisenhower World Affairs Institute. Hagel moved back to Nebraska in 1992 and worked in the voting machine industry out of Omaha. I've had the opportunity to meet Chuck Hagel a few times. Our first meeting was in 1995 at the Gering Civic Center. Hagel was running for the U.S. Senate and touring the state. Somewhat of a dark horse without much name recognition at the time Hagel was quickly winning over fellow Nebraskan's with both his absorbing story and his direct no-nonsense approach to the issues. In '95 I was working for Jack Lewis at the Courier. Jack was pretty convinced that then Governor Ben Nelson was a shoo-in to win the senate seat, but he sent me to visit with the Hagel camp 'to keep the damn republicans off my back.' It was a pretty heady experience to suddenly be talking about international politics with the charismatic Hagel. Being more attuned to watermelon eating contests and 100-year birthdays I felt a little out of my league talking to Hagel about Bosnia and the AIDS crisis in Africa. I can't deny I was a little star struck and flattered this remarkable man was willing to give me literally hours of his time to both get to know him and learn his views. After I returned to the paper and gave Jack my story he pretty much put it on the back-burner. A few weeks later Mr. Hagel personally called me and asked why nothing had been published. Yes, he was hoping for some free copy but did note that we had given ample coverage to his opponent Governor Nelson, who had also stopped by the office. I was swimming in pretty deep waters. Jack concluded that whatever happened one of these guys was going to be our next senator so it was prudent to 'give them a damn story' but he added they were both welcome to buy some advertising. They both did, and our stories continued. Hagel stopped by a few more times over the campaign, and after Jack got to personally take his measure he began to think this dark horse war hero might just have a chance of pulling it off. I got to know Chuck (as he insisted I call him) a little better. I was aware that I and other members of the local media were being slightly wined and dined so we would continue the publicity but the fact is I genuinely liked the guy. Nelson was likable too but a little on the stiff side, whereas Chuck was significantly more open and friendly. With the exception of Bill Barrett my voting record in Nebraska had been 100 percent in favor of only Democratic candidates. I will confess in the end I voted for Hagel. We all know that he won and became the first Republican in 24 years to win a senate seat in Nebraska. Hagel went on to be be reelected with an extraordinary 83 percent majority vote. That still stands as the largest margin of victory ever achieved in any election in Nebraska history. I recall saying to Chuck, “Now that you have hit the big time I hope you won't forget us little guys out here who might have helped you out.” I never saw him or heard from him again. O well. Being a U.S. Senator is a pretty busy and important job. I guess I didn't expect I could just call Washington and bend his ear whenever I felt like it. At that point I wasn't even working in the media anymore so there wasn't much of a reason to site Hagel's opinions. Now that president Obama has called for Hagel to serve as Defense Secretary it seems the personable and intense Nebraska war hero has to face yet another trial on his political journey. Members of his own party are saying they have their doubts. They worry he is perhaps soft on Middle East policy despite his voting record of being in favor of action in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Some are saying Hagel isn't as loyal to Israel as he needs to be. It is true that in 2006 Hagel was critical of the Jewish lobby saying they used 'intimidation tactics' and he also reminded folks “I'm not an Israeli senator. I'm a United States senator.” Which was true. But blunt talk like that can sometimes come back and sting you. Hagel was also very critical of president George W. Bush stating Bush's time in office was “...the lowest in capacity, in capability, in policy, in consensus – almost every area - of any presidency in the last forty years.” I can't say I would disagree, and having a Defense Secretary willing to speak his mind directly and without trying to tow any party line seems like a good thing for our nation. We live in uncertain times and a strong defense is paramount. Having a secretary with this level of government and private sector experience, as well as boots on the ground combat experience, seems an excellent choice. We don't need our defense compromised with some wishy-washy people-pleasing style of leadership. American can use a man like Chuck Hagel watching our back, just as he did for his brother and other fellow soldiers long ago in some deary rainforest on a dangerous tour in Vietnam. |
| Teen Voice: The benefits of online learning 2013-02-28 By Kendall Uhrich |
| “Tell me and I forget, teach me and I’ll remember, involve me and I learn.” This quote was uttered by Benjamin Franklin discussing his views on learning. Although internet was not a part of his life, this quote transitions into the present with the battle between online learning and the traditional classroom learning. For years my generation saw school as a blue chair, accompanied by a too-small desk, and well-dressed teacher with handprint chalk marks decorating their slacks, but now we are forced to blankly stare at computer screens in a dark room and obtain the curriculum. We are losing the values gained from traditional education, because we are being placed in distance learning courses. Not only the values of learning the textbook material, but social skills need to be successful in any future career. Online learning has removed these vital skills. Because the youth of today are the first being brought up in the virtual world, not many studies have been done to prove that online learning is any different from the traditional way, but being a student who has done both, it is easy to notice the benefits of being able to physically see what I am learning in a classroom. With distractions like YouTube, Facebook and Twitter it seems like the task that I need to accomplish will take hours more than what is necessary. My direction is not fully focused on reading because I am not physically holding a book, so it appears like the other nonsense found on the internet. Not to mention that for visual learners, the computer has little to offer. Sure, nicely colored graphics accompanying a story sounds ideal for these types of learners, but the opposite is true. Being able to see something written on a board gives the student just that much more to see and in return to learn. According to Daggoret Carlos in his article, “Difference between Online Education and Traditional Education” some of the disadvantages for visual learners is the graphic display of learning sites. Because the site is structured fully on learning and not appeal it looks similar to the graphics found on the popular game Tetris. Simple blocks put together to make a mess of color and pixilated illustrations. The fact that the website offers nothing artistic means that those who are highly right brained will be turned off by the looks and pay attention less than they would had they been put in front of something more visually appealing. However, there are some distance classes that do rely heavily on video and audio, but Carlos also mentions that these kinds of courses because of their lack of technological achievement the video and audio will often times frustrate the pupil more than aid them, because usually there are problems occurring with the site. And because the instructors are constantly adding new information these sites are often “in construction” Because so many learners need the visual appeal it is hard to take online into consideration. The visual disadvantages are a large reason why online is the worse choice. Often when online college is a choice the college is not a nearby one and if the website is down, then the student is out of luck. According the article by Iowa State titled, “E-learner Advantages and Disadvantages” “Limited bandwidth means slower performance for sound, video, and large graphics” So, although the student is saving time by not actually going to a classroom, they are still wasting time waiting for the computer to load. The article also talks about newness mentioning some of these courses require technology courses just to learn how to use their software. So, the student is then paying for credit hours that will be spent on just learning how to learn electronically. So, the speed of learning is slowed down by these types of courses that eat up their time. The article mentions that this course work can often give out lots of homework, but offer minimal credit towards the degree. Not only is the speed of the computer the problem, it is the speed at which the students learn. For students with low motivation sitting down to do the work will be harder than anything. With all of the sites out there to distract them it will take them hours to accomplish the task, that is if they even sit down to do it. Because they aren’t physically handing in a paper it does not feel like they are missing an assignment. It is hard for these types of students to pass, even if they are highly intellectual. It would be a huge leap for these students to put in the work necessary. If they have to re-take it, then the money saved from choosing online is not even worth it. So, when we look at the speed of the technology and the students it seems like it would equal out to the same amount of time if spent at a regular classroom. It would just exclude the benefits gained from a regular school setting. As many students can see in their day to day relations at school, there is rarely a day that anyone could not talk to another student. Students have classroom discussions, group projects, passing periods, lunches and extra-curricular activities that teach them how to properly interact. Although it is true that online there are chat rooms and emails that can be sent to the instructor and other classmates, there is something valuable learned in the regular school setting according to, Candy Lawson’s article, “Social Skills and School.” She says that, “Although students don't get grades on social tests from their teachers, their peers are constantly giving them "grades" on "social tests" every day. If a child does well on these "tests", he is apt to be well liked and happy. He will enjoy school and look forward to coming to school. If a child fails these tests, he is apt to feel disconnected and left out” Failing these “tests” for students is worse than failing any math test, because it is not dealing with their knowledge, but rather who they are. When we just look at doing online education we are not getting these social tests needed for good communication, and therefore they are not given the knowhow when they acquire jobs on how to deal well with their co-workers when they “test” them. All of this can be said for just the normal individual, but Lawson also mentions children with disabilities saying, “Children with memory problems may have difficulty following a conversation because they cannot remember what was just said. Children with language and communication difficulties are especially vulnerable to social problems. They may have difficulty keeping up with the pace of a conversation, especially when there is a group of children talking.” In a school setting the teacher and other surrounding peers can cater to the needs of the individual and by being around others they are likely to feel more normal about their social shortcomings and hopefully learn how to well handle situations with others, but when we put them on the roster for online courses we are taking away the chance for them to get over their fear of direct contact and enabling them with the use of talking to others without really talking to them. Carlos also mentioned in his article that employers today have somewhat of a bias against online degrees thinking they are easier to get and so the person is less likely to get hired compared to another applicant who attended college traditionally.. Slow and steady wins the race and for this race the traditional classroom style of learning will always win the gold. |
| Observations Only: Sisters lost, part two 2013-02-28 By Nina Betz |
| My brother came from Casper on Saturday morning and spent Sunday with me. My landline was the only contact phone number, which meant we had to stay home and take condolence calls from Hazel and Lloyd's friends in Paris and London. Jerry taught biology at one of the high schools at the time and needed to leave early Monday morning, leaving me alone. My daughter was living out of state at the time and couldn't come home. On Monday a Mobil Oil spokesperson contacted me with information about traveling to Indonesia for the memorial service. As I look back on those two days in September 16 years later, it occurs to me that I was in shock and shouldn't have been making decisions. I couldn't think clearly about what the spokesperson was saying about connections and I wasn't told that Mobil Oil would pick up the expense, but that was their intent. I didn't have the presence of mind to ask for time to think about making the trip before saying no. Lloyd's children were going, and Jerry and I could have been on the same overseas flight. I told Jerry about the opportunity later and said I couldn't face another long trip or the emotional stress we would face. He was disappointed and said that he would have liked to go but understood my reluctance. That night I had the first dream. The setting was in a park with a walkway that wound through wooded areas and colorful flowerbeds. As I walked along through sunlight and shadows cast by tall trees, I glanced up and spied a large, brilliantly-colored parrot high up in a tree. There was a loud noise like the report from a rifle. The bird fell dead at my feet; its blood spattered on my hands. My daughter was riding a bike beside me and didn't seem to notice the dead bird or the blood. She said. “Mom I lost my ring.” I looked at my hands in wonderment and then washed them in a fountain as if I hadn't heard what she said, and walked on. The next day I felt an odd sensation in my head that wasn't a headache. I could literally feel the chemicals in my brain change and began craving chocolate; thinking about chocolate and eating lots of chocolate which doesn't help one’s waistline. No one told me that I was in shock and needed to be under a doctor's care for a period of time instead of eating chocolate, and it didn't occur to me. The three of us had wonderful plans to visit Bali, Malaysia, and China. Hazel wanted to move back home but Lloyd liked the money he was making with Mobil Oil and wanted to stay one more year. His desire for more money cost them their lives. The symbolic death of the bird represents the end of those wonderful plans and the end of love and family. The setting for the second dream was the side of a mountain. I found myself inching along a narrow path that skirted the side, winding its way to the top. Suddenly, the path ended. I looked down and it was a sheer drop and I couldn't go back. Then I noticed footholds in the sheer cliff above my head and knew that the only way to go on with my life was to climb over the mountain. To be continued |
| Across the Fence: Judge Roy Bean : Texas prizefight promoter 2013-02-28 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| Robert (Bob) Fitzsimmons came to America from Australia in 1890. Named Australia’s Middleweight Champion Prizefighter that same year, Fitzsimmons embarked on a quest to become a world champion. He reached that goal in September of 1894 when he defeated fellow Australian Dan Creedon with a decisive KO (knock-out) in New Orleans, Louisiana for the boxing title of World Middleweight Champion. Despite his relative small size, (Fitzsimmons always weighed less than 160 pounds) Fitzsimmons immediately set his sights on becoming the World Heavyweight Champion. Though small in stature Fitzsimmons had been a blacksmith by trade and his massive upper body possessed an amazing strength. His powerful, straight-ahead right punch became legendary. The year 1890 also marked the first U.S. appearance of Ireland’s boxing champion, Peter Maher. Maher had won the Irish middleweight championship in 1888 and followed two years later with the Irish heavyweight championship. Maher also set his sights on a world title. Maher’s championship title would actually come without a fight. In 1892 Gentleman Jim Corbett, a trained fighter and banker by trade, ripped the title of World Heavyweight Champion from the legendary John L. Sullivan, Chicago’s famed street fighter and arguably America’s first sports hero. In a 21-round, bareknuckle prizefight that ended with Sullivan flat on his back, Corbett held the title until 1895 when he gave it away. Fitzsimmons had been scheduled to fight Corbett but the match did not materialize. After winning the championship Corbett continued fighting both for prize money and for exhibition. One of his most noted and worthy sparring partners was Steve O’Donnell who also fought professionally. In November of 1895, Irish champion, Peter Maher faced off against Steve O’Donnell at the Empire Athletic Club in Queens, New York. In the first round, after a brief one-minute and three-seconds, O’Donnell lay unconscious on the rough canvass floor of the fight ring. Maher was one step closer to a match with Corbett. However, in an unexpected announcement that stunned the sports world in general and the boxing world in particular, Gentleman Jim Corbett announced his retirement from the boxing game and awarded the title of World Heavyweight Champion to Peter Maher. The sands of time had been set in motion and trickled through the hourglass of fate that would bring Maher and Fitzsimmons together in a bout to determine the next Heavyweight Champion of the World. The early days of prizefighting were little more than bloody barroom brawls with a paying audience of so-called ‘sports fans.’ Fights were arranged by promoters, a prize purse was awarded the winner, side bets were made and fight organizers as well as local saloon owners were the biggest winners. It’s not hard to imagine the associated crime and corruption that often follows such brutal, animalistic activities. Due, in part, to the brutality of the sport, the late 1800s saw an increase in states that banned the practice of prizefighting. And because of its increasing illegality more and more prizefights took place ‘underground.’ Fitzsimmons and Maher continued their fighting careers and in late 1896 plans were being made for a match between the Australian and the Irishman. Dallas, Texas promoter, Dan Stuart planned to sponsor the fight. Bareknuckle fighting was illegal in Texas as well as most other states but boxing was a licensed profession in the state and if the proper fees were paid the governor could not stop the fight. By 1895, the sport had become more ‘civilized’ and lightly padded gloves somewhat softened the vicious blows of hammer-hard fists. However, Texas Governor, Charles A. Culberson was opposed to Stuart’s planned match and to the sport of boxing in general. Convening a special session of the Texas Legislature on October 1, 1895 he was able to enact a law that banned boxing in the state of Texas. The new law was an unpleasant surprise for the Governor’s constituency where nine out of ten Texans favored the planned fight between Fitzsimmons and Maher. Not to be deterred, Stuart approached the State of Arkansas with a proposal to hold the fight in Hot Springs but Governor Clarke promised to uphold the prizefighting ban of his state as well. U.S. Attorney A.C. Cruce ruled that the fight could not be held in Indian Territory, Wisconsin and Illinois refused to bend their laws, and when Arizona Territory was mentioned the Arizona National Guard was called to insure no prizefight would occur there. New Mexico refused to allow the fight and General Miguel Ahumada, Governor of Chihuahua, promised to keep the fight out of Mexico. By February 13, one day before the fight was scheduled, Stuart had no place to hold the event while nearly 1,300 fight fans, from across the continent, converged on El Paso. And then he received a most unusual telegram: “Invite you to hold fight in Langtry, I am law west of Pecos and guarantee protection. Judge Roy Bean.” Stuart had heard of Judge Bean of Langtry, Texas. Recent stories of his unorthodox enforcement of the law included the arrest of a man found dead near Langtry. After the dead man had been arrested a pistol and forty dollars were found on his person. Judge Bean charged him with carrying a concealed weapon, confiscated the firearm and fined the deceased $40, the pistol he used as a gavel in later court hearings. Apparently negotiations proceeded. Stuart raised a $10,000 purse that was kept safely in El Paso. Tickets for the fight sold for $20 apiece and the fight was scheduled for February 21, 1896, but no one knew where. Meanwhile near Langtry, Texas, Judge Roy Bean was making preparations. There was construction to be done as well as other arrangements to accommodate the crowd and the fight. Among other preparations Judge Bean ordered a train carload of beer to arrive no later than February 20th. On the 19th a squad of 25 Texas Rangers arrived in El Paso under orders from the Governor to stop the fight if it was held in Texas. Stuart ignored the anxious and bewildered Rangers as he posted an announcement on the outside wall of his office: “Persons desirous of attending prizefight report at these headquarters tonight at 9:45. Round trip fare will not exceed $12.” By 9 o’clock over 300 fight fans had gathered at the Southern Pacific rail station in El Paso. Ten extra passenger cars were added to the train with General Mabry and his Texas Rangers crowding in along with the others. Among those who boarded the train was a sports reporter from the New York Morning Telegraph, a man familiar with the independent nature and ingenuity of determined westerners, the well-known gunfighter and lawman, William Barclay “Bat” Masterson. The special fight train pulled out of the El Paso station about midnight and nearly 16 hours later, with 400 miles of track behind them, the passengers disembarked at Judge Roy Bean’s domain of Langtry, Texas. Many travelers stretched their legs while resting elbows on the bar inside The Jersey Lilly but nowhere was seen a place to hold the fight. “This way to the fight of the century gents,” Judge Bean shouted as he motioned the crowd to follow. “There’s cold beer at ringside.” The boisterous crowd followed behind as Judge Bean led the way down a winding path to the northern bank of the Rio Grande, the U.S. border. At the border they were led across a hastily constructed pontoon bridge that crossed over the water to an isolated sand bar in the middle of the river. There, inside a 200-foot circle of 16 foot tall canvas was the secret fight ring. Fitzsimmons and Maher climbed into the ring while nearly 200 paying customers crowded impatiently around and waited for the fight to begin. The rest of the crowd, seeing an opportunity to watch without paying, gathered on the bluffs above the river and enjoyed an unobstructed, birds-eye view of the ‘fight of the century.’ In disgust and amazement General Mabry of the Texas Rangers shouted an unanswered curse across the rolling border waters, “D___ Roy Bean! He’s staging the fight outside the United States!” Fitzsimmons and Maher shook hands at the center of the ring then held their bare knuckles at arms length while slightly padded four-ounce gloves were fitted over their hands. After returning to their respective corners the timekeeper banged the bottom of a tin pail with a hammer and the fight began. Maher rushed Fitzsimmons from the start and landed a few wild blows, bringing blood from Fitzsimmons mouth. Fitzsimmons held him in a brief clinch then pushed him aside. Following with a series of punishing blows, Fitzsimmons pushed Maher back across the ring then delivered the final blow, a devastating uppercut to Maher’s jaw. Maher went down, tried to regain his feet and then crumpled, unconscious, to the canvas. The ‘fight of the century’ had begun and ended in ninety-five seconds. Fitzsimmons won the title of World Heavyweight Champion, Promoter Dan Stuart lost his shirt and Judge Roy Bean sold a carload of beer at $1 a bottle, twice his regular price. M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist, freelance writer, poet and entertainer. To contact Tim, email; mtimn@aol.com |
| I'm falling for Tumblr? 2013-02-21 By Elizabeth Gross |
| The beauty of being a geek is that I am not alone in the world. They walk among us, dressed as everyday people. They come in the forms of your accountants, cashiers, babysitters, and writers for your local newspaper. Some are vocal of their endearing love of all things Doctor Who or Marvel comics while others turn to another sources to express their love; the internet. I’ve discussed in depth before various internet trends. These trends are typically created by geeks for geeks with a sprinkle of normality for everyone else. What make them so fascinating is that they begin to take on a life of their own creating a fantastic sub culture. A culture that allows people to throw off the mask of normality they must wear everyday to be themselves. Facebook and Twitter are the two most well known sites for people expressing their thoughts, opinions and ideas. Pinterest is starting to gain a massive following where people can peacefully exchange cupcake recipes instead of fighting about politics. I love Pinterst and find it a delightful time waster in a digital world that seems to be filled with internet angst. Lately, however; I’ve notice that many of my repins redirect back to one site; tumblr. Tumblr is a social networking site in the form of a micro-blog. It was launched in 2007 by David Karp. It allows its users to post multi-media messages such as photographs, animations, and written blog posts. A user gains followers, who can look at any public content made by the user. Similar to the format of Pinterest, users view their various content using what is called a dashboard icon. This gives the viewer snippets of content and allowing them to click if they want to view more. Since its 2007 launch, there are currently 94.6 million blogs with 43.5 billion posts. The success of tumblr mainly has to do with its design. At first glance, the homepage is a clean cut designed filled with various pictures. Navigation is confusing at first but is relatively easy to figure out once you’ve explored the site. It’s a very attractive website which is part of the reason Karp has had such success. He understood that people want a site that is clean, simple, and easy to use. I don’t know anyone personally who has a tumblr. The internet is filled with many jokes about tumblr and its followers. For example, fans of the television shows Sherlock, Supernatural, or Doctor Who seem to flock to this website to express their undying love for these shows. The various blogs allows fans to spread the love about these shows, no matter how strange that love may be. I decided to sign up for tumblr to see just how easy it was. To create an account, all you need is an email, username and password. Next you’ll hope and pray you can see the cache then it asks you about your interests. After, choosing what interests you are given various blogs (or tumblr’s) to look at. Then you decide if you want to invite friends from your gmail or facebook and you’re done. You are given a simple and clean profile that shows you your dashboard of what people are posting. The large buttons at the top of your profile are easy to use. After my profile was created, I was given a basic tumblr blue profile. I decided to try and figure out what other people had done with their tumblrs to get an idea of what I could do. The first blog I clicked on was title Garden of Vegan. The blog is dedicated to a vegan eating lifestyle. As the blog downloaded, it looked like nothing more than pictures of food. I started to wonder if this tumblr thing was nothing more than a place for people to express weird fetishes. The more I explored the blog however; I realized that I was being extremely harsh. It provides recipe ideas, ingredients, tutorials, and reviews. It was appealing to the point that a meat eater like me might try vegan just from the inspiration. The next blog I visited was call traveling colors. This tumblr was dedicated to beautiful travel photographers taken by its followers from around the world. While not as well put together as the Garden of Vegan once I clicked the photo index all of the photos spilled out onto the page. I scrolled in awe at the beautiful photography on this page. Hungry for more I noticed the tumblr called Adventures in Ice Cream. This blog is from a store called the Milkmaidicecream. Their blog tells its users the company’s adventures in ice cream including pictures of their latest creations. I couldn’t help but salivate as I scrolled through the pictures of ice cream posted on their blog. As I was about to go back to the blogs I was following something hit me at that moment. “Oh no! What have I done?” Here I was infatuated with the latest social media website. Was this tumblr just another time wasting form of internet crack? Then I found a tumblr dedicated to the BBC show Sherlock and suddenly I didn’t care. |
| Observations Only: Sister lost 2013-02-21 By Nina Betz |
| A few weeks after my return home I received an e-mail from Hazel inviting me to meet them in New Orleans. They were coming home in April for medical appointments, redoing their wills and wanted me to join them because there wouldn't be time to come to Nebraska. I was still tired from my six week vacation and couldn't face another plane trip so soon. What with work responsibilities and elderly parents to look after I couldn't afford to be gone another week. Hazel and Lloyd tried hard to convince me but I stayed at home. Soon after I made my decision I had the first of two troubling dreams. In one, I was seated on a sofa in a living room similar to the one in my parent’s home. The room was large and I had a sense that others were in the room with me but I couldn't see them clearly because the room was misty. Two people got up and left the room. I felt uneasy because I knew they were leaving but I couldn't tell who they were. I assumed that it was a spirit message telling me that my elderly parents would be leaving this life in the coming year. I may have written to Hazel describing the dream because we were in the habit of doing so. I forgot about it until I had the second identical dream about six months later. This time I asked the couple, where are you going? One of them turned back and said 'deadwood' but I couldn't tell who they were. I felt a profound sense of unease and e-mailed Hazel with the details knowing that a second identical dream is more urgent. After I sent the email I remembered that she and Lloyd were in Jakarta because manager of the Mobile Oil liquefaction plant was on medical leave in England. This meant that I wouldn't hear from her for two weeks and not to worry. On Friday, Sept. 26, ten days after the second dream, I turned on the radio at 6 a.m.. Keven Mooney announced that there had been a plane crash at Medan, Indonesia and all were believed dead. I e-mailed Hazel immediately telling her what I heard on the radio and that I needed to know that she was okay. I felt a chill, a subtle reminder of the dreams. Still, I knew there were several flights into Medan on any given day and that didn't mean they were on the plane. By 8 a.m. I knew. I was on my way to Cheyenne for the day on business and was approaching the Wildcat Hills when my cell phone rang. My daughter was calling to tell me that Hazel and Lloyd were thought to be on the plane but it wasn't confirmed because there was a chance they could have been delayed or taken a later flight. All day on Saturday I waited for news while receiving phone calls from the U.S Embassy in Jakarta and the Mobil Oil Corporate office informing me of what measures were being taken to locate my sister and her husband. An Under Secretary for the Indonesian government called me offering their condolence. On Sunday I received a call from the State Department telling me that their presence on the plane was confirmed. I said, “My sister’s dead isn't she.” The voice said, we don't know that for sure and I replied by saying, “You're calling me aren't you.” The woman dropped the practiced, formal tone and said “Yes I am, and I 'm sorry to give you this news.” I thanked her for her kindness and hung up the phone. To be continued |
| Across the Fence: Fort Mitchell on the Great Platte River Road 2013-02-21 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| ‘The Gap’ threaded through the wind-cut spires and time-worn edifices of nature’s carved cathedrals in the towering sandstone walls of Scott’s Bluffs. North of the bluffs, reaching to the banks of the Flatwater (Platte), lay a rugged expanse of land known as ‘The Badlands,’ an area of deep-cut ravines and gullies that no team of horses or oxen, pulling an overloaded immigrant wagon, could possibly traverse. And so, about five miles east of the gap, the trail would leave the nearby banks of the river and strike more westerly toward the imposing fortress ahead. Once through the gap, ox teams and wagons, men horseback and on foot and women and children trudging behind, would wind their way down from the pass and follow the deeply rutted trail to the bend of the river. At the rivers bend the trail would return to its northwesterly course and on to Oregon while the picturesque bluffs dissolved in the distance behind them. In 1849 the American Fur Company sold their trading post on the North Platte to the U.S Government and moved down river to Scott’s Bluffs in 1851. The former trading post property, which had been purchased by the U.S., then became Fort Laramie. And so, throughout the 1850s, when travelers reached the bend of the river, they would likely stop for a spell at the American Fur Company’s post now located there. The trading post was known as Fort John and for a short time moved to the Wildcat Hills then back to the banks of the Platte. During the late 1850s immigrant and military traffic increased on The Great Platte River Road. An 1858 military expedition from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas followed the Oregon Trail along the Platte, through ‘the gap’ and on into the Wyoming and Montana Territories with 3,000 soldiers, nearly 5,000 wagons and just over 53,000 horses and mules. In 1859 more than 6,000 immigrants traveled the Platte River Road. As tensions between the Indians of the region and the U.S. Government continued to mount, attacks against the ever increasing numbers of intruders became more frequent. The little post at the bend in the river, west of the gap, also became a U.S. Mail station in addition to the American Fur Company’s trading post and later, in 1860, the site became the Scott’s Bluff Pony Express station. By the end of 1861, the transcontinental telegraph had replaced the daring but short-lived Pony Express and the American Fur Company had abandoned their trading post. By 1862 the site had become no more than a road ranch where stagecoaches would stop to change teams while passengers took the opportunity to stretch their legs, grab a quick meal, a cup of stale coffee or perhaps something a bit stronger. By mid-April of 1862, Indian attacks on the Overland Stage Company had become so frequent that Ben Holladay threatened to end all overland stage operations. As a result, President Abraham Lincoln promised increased military protection. Part of that promise included the assignment of the 11th Ohio Volunteer Cavalry to Fort Laramie. The 11th Ohio, stationed at Fort Laramie under the command of Colonel William Collins was responsible for the safety of travelers along the Oregon Trail from the Missouri River to the Continental Divide, a distance of more than 800 miles. The effectiveness of Colonel Collins’ troops was minimal and less than two months later, the U.S. Postmaster General, Montgomery Blair, directed the abandonment of the North Platte River route and opened a southern route on the South Platte at Lodgepole Creek from Julesburg to Denver. Since immigrant travel continued on the northern route, this increased the area of Colonel Collins’ responsibilities by an additional 400 miles. The summer of 1863 saw an increase in attacks against westward expansion. Stagecoaches were attacked and travelers killed, telegraph lines were destroyed and operators murdered, wagon trains ambushed and would be settlers killed or captured and tortured, horses and cattle were stolen and homes burned. In early 1864, Brigadier General Robert Byington Mitchell was named commander of the District of Nebraska and ordered to organize a peace council at Camp Cottonwood (later to be named Fort McPhearson). His efforts were unsuccessful. In order to increase the military strength along the Great Platte River Road and counter the increasing Native unrest, additional troops and military encampments were planned. There were to be two new forts, one at Scott’s Bluff and one at Julesburg. Also, fortified structures and telegraph stations were to be established at Mud Springs and Ficklin Springs, both were former Pony Express stations. The Julesburg post would become Fort Sedgwick and the Scott’s Bluff post would be located at the old trading post site near the existing road ranch, it would become Fort Mitchell. ‘The Gap’ would become known as Mitchell Pass. The open expanse of prairie west of Scott’s Bluffs was barren of trees and an ideal location for a defensive structure. Flat and open prairie to the south and west insured that there would be no chance for anyone to approach unnoticed. Corrals were built close to the southern bank of the Platte and adjoined the north side of the stockade. And finally the bluffs, towering in the east, blocked any approach other than through ‘the gap.’ Captain J. S. Shuman of the 11th Ohio Volunteer Cavalry was given the command along with the needed troops to construct the fort. The lack of building material dictated that the fort would be constructed of adobe. The outside walls of the fort were three and one-half feet thick. Overall, the fort was approximately 170 feet in length north to south and 80 feet east to west. The attached corrals were 170 feet by 30. Inside, along the west wall, there were nine rooms and two larger squad rooms on the south wall. The parade ground was 160 feet by 66. Each room had defensive rifle ports built into the outside walls and a sentinel tower was built above the guard room on the southwest corner. Shortly after Fort Mitchell was completed, on November 29, 1864 Colonel J. Chivington, commanding the Colorado 3rd Cavalry of about 700 men, organized an offensive attack on the peaceful camp of Cheyenne, with Black Kettle, on Sand Creek. The unprovoked, surprise attack resulted in the massacre of nearly all of Black Kettle’s people. Few escaped the carnage as men, women and children were killed and mutilated. Black Kettle was killed as he ran towards the soldiers waving a flag of truce. Chivington’s men butchered many of the dead and displayed the gruesome body parts as ‘souvenirs’ when they rode, victorious, into Denver. The atrocities provoked an outbreak of Cheyenne and Sioux that would become known as the Indian wars of 1864 and would last until the final massacre, 26 years later, at Wounded Knee, S.D. on December 29, 1890. After Sand Creek, in December of 1864, 150 lodges of Oglala Sioux, 250 lodges of Brule Sioux and several Cheyenne, made up a force of nearly 1,000 warriors who came out of the Colorado grasslands on a sweeping raid that began at Julesburg and continued north to Mud Springs, killing 14 soldiers and 4 civilians. At Mud Springs, 9 soldiers and 5 civilians held off hundreds of Sioux and Cheyenne while dispatches were sent to Fort Mitchell and Ft Laramie. Troopers from both forts were sent to assist in the defense of Julesburg and Mud Springs, with the detachment from Fort Mitchell arriving first after a forced march in winter conditions with temperatures below zero. Troopers from Fort Laramie stopped at Fort Mitchell where a large number of troopers, suffering from frostbite had to stay. The combined forces, at Mud Springs, pursued the Sioux and Cheyenne north across the Platte but were unable to engage them. From 1864 until 1867 the troopers at Fort Mitchell provided escort for the Overland Stage and immigrant wagon trains on the Oregon Trail. They were responsible for maintaining telegraph lines that were often cut down and dragged across the prairies. Also on the duty roster for Fort Mitchell was the order to supply firewood to the camps at Mud Springs, Court House Rock and Ficklin’s Ranch. Frequent skirmishes occurred along the Great Platte River Road and throughout the western Nebraska region. However, Fort Mitchell itself was never attacked. The last communication to Fort Mitchell came from Ft. Laramie on November 22, 1867. The communication informed the post commander: “…the post is to be abandoned entirely. …how many wagons will be required for your removal...” Today, nothing remains of Fort Mitchell except perhaps a few relics in local museums. Long forgotten footprints lay beneath the soil that has been turned countless times by wooden handled plows behind a team of oxen and diesel driven behemoths that turn more earth in an hour than grandpa could in a day. But maybe, if you stand at ‘the gap,’ peer into the setting sun and let your imagination soar, like the hawks that ride the winds above the bluffs, just maybe… |
| Jane’s Secret, part XXI: Gertrude’s Agenda 2013-02-21 By Nina Betz |
| The shadows lengthen at the ranch house as Molly finishes her meal of bacon and eggs under the watchful eye of Clem and Gertrude. “Let’s sit in front of the fire, I feel a little cold,” Molly says, wrapping the quilt tighter around herself and rising from her chair. “The sun’s still warm, why don’t we go for a walk,” Gertrude suggests. “That would be good for you Molly, getting your circulation moving is healthy for the baby,” Stephen agrees. “No, you go on your walk, I’ll make myself a cup of tea and sit here by the fire,” she replies, hiding her eagerness to be alone. “Well if you’re sure,” Clem says, not entirely comfortable leaving her after such a shock. “I am,” she says, smiling encouragingly. “Where shall we walk?” Gertrude asks, standing in the shade of the porch seeing nothing but cattle and grass. “The cow path leads to a little stream in a wooded area just over the hill. I’ll meet up with you as soon as I check on King,” Clem says, heading for the barn. “Don’t be long, we have things to talk over,” she calls over her shoulder, carefully stepping around cow chips. “There old boy, you thought I forgot about you. How about you and me goin’ for a little run,” Clem says, fitting the bridle over Kings head. “Now don’t go suckin’ in a belly full of air,” he says to King, hoisting the saddle onto his back. Clem shoves his shoulder in his belly before tightening the cinch. “Thought I forgot about your trick didn’t you,” he laughs gathering up the reins, just as King swings his head around and tries to nip his leg. “Hey, none of that,” Clem yells, swinging himself up into the saddle. “Got some thinkin’ to do, we’ll take the long way around,” he says to King, who shakes his head in agreement. “So what’s to talk over?” he asks Gertrude, dismounting and twirling the reins around the pommel. “Well for one thing, Stephen and I don’t think Molly should live by herself,” Gertrude replies, drying her feet on her skirt and donning her shoes and socks. “I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’ about Molly’s situation. The way I see it, Red’s brother has his own family and spread to see to and I’m the only one who can stay and run the ranch for her. The barn is in good shape for King and I wouldn’t mind stayin’ with Molly for a spell. Harvey’s badgerin’ me to manage the ranch hands for him while he sees to the ranchin’ side of things. My spread is too far east and this here ranch is smack in the middle of his operation. I think it would work out good to have a middle meetin’ place to work out of and I’m gonna take him up on it,” Clem says, pulling the gold cigarette case out of his pocket and lighting one up. “Oh Pa, I love you,” she cries, throwing her arms around his neck, knocking him off balance. “Thank you sweet heart but what’s all this about,” he laughs, righting himself. “Pa, it’s the perfect solution for what to do with Jane. Stephen and I hated the idea of them living with us but there didn’t seem to any other place. Living with Molly frees up your house; it’s the perfect answer to our prayers. I’m just so sorry we had to lose Red for it to be possible,” she says, with tears rolling down her cheeks. “Hadn’t thought that far but it’s a sound idea for all of us,” Clem admits, relieved to have his daughter in a place were she can’t cause trouble. “Except that Jane won’t like it,” Stephen points out, excited by the new development. “Jane will have to accept what’s necessary and best for Molly, her having twins and all,” Clem blurts, without thinking of the import. “What makes you think she’s having twins,” Stephen asks, surprised by the remark. “Remember when I almost froze to death in the blizzard and I told you Pearl came to me in the white out, telling me to get up that it wasn’t my time. She explained that Robert and Priscilla are our grandchildren waiting to be born and would need me to teach them things. Her words have come true, they need me to be their father figure,” he says, his voice gravelly with emotion. “Twins,” Gertrude says, thoughtfully. “Then there’s no question that you need to be here with Molly, which opens up your house for Harvey and Jane to live in. Jane won’t like it but there it is; the best solution for all of us,” Gertrude says, relieved that Clem is in agreement. “Shall we draw straws to decide which one of us gets to tell them,” Stephen suggests, only half teasing. Clem grimaces, knowing it’s for him and Harvey to do. “It’s Harvey’s place to tell his wife where they’re going to make their home and I suppose I should be there when he does,” Clem says, reluctantly.” “It’s settled then,” she says happily, brushing bits of grass off her skirt. “It makes no sense to put it off, I think we should go to Fort Laramie tomorrow after the guests leave and get your things out of the house and get you moved back here,” Stephen remarks. “Can’t see that it does,” Clem agrees. “I’ll get Aggie to help and I’m sure Hazel and Bridget will too; we’ll give the place a good cleaning before they move in. We can have your clothes packed in Molly’s wagon tomorrow, get an early start with the cleaning the next morning and have them out of our house the same day. Bridget and Hazel can help Jane put the house in order,” Gertrude explains. “Won’t that seem like we’re throwing them out the door,” Stephen remarks, surprised by his wife’s urgency. “Probably, but I don’t want Jane under my roof after she finds out they won’t be living with us. What’s the point of putting up with her tantrums after the house is ready,” she snaps, irritated by his comment. “Let’s go to the house and talk to her, hopefully she will agree,” Stephen says, taking the lead down the cow path. “I feel so sad that the solution to our problem is because of Molly’s heartbreak,” she muses aloud. “I know it doesn’t feel right for now but life goes on and so will Molly and the babies,” Clem replies, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Come on boy,” he says, whistling for King. “Molly we’re back,” Gertrude says as they approach the house. She sits down beside Molly, forcing cheerfulness. “What,” she says, as the men pull up chairs and sit down. “Molly we don’t think it’s safe for you to be here alone. How would you feel about me moving in with you for awhile to help with the ranch,” Clem suggests. “You were talking behind my back and deciding what’s best for me like I’m a child,” she says, struggling to control her rising temper. “I’ll have to think about it,” she says, dismissing there carefully thought out plan. |
| Teen Voice: Living within our means 2013-02-21 By Kendall Uhrich |
| As a kid we always aspired to be something great, an astronaut, a lawyer, a surgeon. We pictured the fancy house in the perfect neighborhood, the shiny new car and to top it all off we would be adorned in most expensive name brand clothes. But, for me, my aspirations were different; I wanted to be a waitress. It’s not because I wasn’t a smart kid, I always had good grades and never mouthed off to my teachers, I just never wanted to be wealthy. I pictured myself in high school to be the frizzy haired girl with braces that had a few great friends, not the popular blonde-haired, blue-eyed cheerleader. I never had the want of having it all. I remember fondly having a plastic kitchen and serving all of my family members at the table. “Here you go mom, here’s your dinner.” I would say as I handed her the miniature dish with plastic spaghetti and a fake corn on the cob. I would later check up on her, like all the pretty waitresses I saw at restaurants did. “Is everything alright?” I would ask. “Yes, Kendall it’s great,” she replied with a giggle. “Mom!” I would proclaim. “You aren’t supposed to know my name. I’m your waitress remember!” I loved the idea of being grown up, of serving people food. This may seem so odd, but as a child it was how I thought, but when I got into junior high what I would strive for became a whole different story. I heard all the other kids tell me what they wanted, and soon my dreams seemed… mediocre. There was the heart surgeon, the dentist, the artist, so I changed, because my dreams didn’t seem like they were enough. I told everyone I wanted to be lawyer. It may sound like an odd jump to make from a waitress to a lawyer, but for a pre-teen having just seen the movie Legally Blonde, I thought if a ditzy blonde sorority girl could do it, then I could too. But, quickly I realized that becoming a lawyer would be nearly impossible for me. I hate fighting. (Well, unless it’s with my mom about what time I should get home after hanging out with my friends that is.) I then decided I would be a teacher. Everyone (including my teachers) would tell me I should choose something else, because being a teacher doesn’t pay well, and I never cared. I would think that is not at all a concern, making a lot of money. I just wanted to have a job that I enjoyed going to, and that people would enjoy seeing me there. The old saying, “Money can’t buy happiness” is true. All the riches in the world don’t make happy people. Even the waitresses, and teachers have the same rights to happiness as the business owners, and the people working in corporate offices. No, I don’t want to be a waitress anymore, but I don’t look down upon the profession, because that is what I wanted to do. I’ve never made money an object, in fact I like paying for other people’s things. I feel a lot better buying lunch for a friend, than getting it in return. Even the bible mentions living within our means in Proverbs. Extra money is fantastic to have, but it is disheartening when we realize all those that do not have even enough. I’m so bothered by having it all in fact that when there is milk left in the fridge for one more bowl of cereal I would avoid it, because I never want to take something from others, even if it’s as minuscule as milk. So, today I encourage all to be selfless with their money. Buy someone lunch, or surprise them with ice cream. After all, money doesn’t matter, our bank accounts don’t reflect on the kind of people we are. If a job that doesn’t require a college degree is the one you have there is no harm in that. As long as we are happy, nothing else matters. |
| Our View: The elephant in the room 2013-02-14 By editor@geringcitizen.com |
| Downtown development, has long been one of Gering’s greatest challenges. The more time that goes by without progress in this direction, it seems the harder the road is to hoe. Last Thursday’s downtown development meeting at the Gering Civic Center saw an encouraging turnout among Gering’s business leaders and stakeholders, and good progress was made. Five groups gathered around five tables for brainstorming sessions that brought such ideas as creating a wow factor, using temporary wooden patios to expand sidewalk use, landscaping, trashcans, and the need for businesses that cater to the junior high students who walk straight through downtown Gering every day with money in their pockets and nothing to buy. It was a good meeting, with an encouraging result. Valley Bank President John Stinner pledged $500,000 in low-interest matching loans when Gering receives the grant. We need to keep selling Gering to Gering, but we also need to sell Gering to Scottsbluff, and we especially need to sell Gering to those organizations that help entrepreneurs with loans and grants to open new businesses here. We have heard too many times from business people that when they said they wanted to be in Gering, they were expected to justify themselves. They were asked questions such as, Why do you want to be in Gering? Are you sure you want to be in Gering? And then the inevitable statements were made that sound like fact, but are really fictionalized scare tactics, “You know, people won’t drive to Gering to do business.” and “All the business is in Scottsbluff, why would you want to risk it?” you get the idea. This is the elephant in the room that nobody wants to talk about. We have a question of our own, who is behind these tactics used to dissuade people from doing business here? We need to find out who and why and put a stop to it. And if you don’t believe us, ask new business owners about their experience. This happens so frequently, it begins to sound routine. People do drive to Gering for a variety of reasons. We have heavy traffic from the County Administrative building and Courthouse. People drive to USave Pharmacy for the excellent and friendly service. They drive to Fresh Foods because the store is quality. People purchase appliances at Main Street Appliance because they have a great selection and offer exceptional service. They drive to Julie’s Antiques because it is a fun and unique place to shop. People drive across the river for the services of LOGOZ because the guys are innovative and cool and they do a darned good job for their customers. People go to Gering for financial services, chiropractic care, massage, dental work. It isn't that people won't drive to Gering, it's that we need to offer them more to do and experience while they're here. We need more businesses with excellent offerings and excellent service and unique wares to set up shop in Gering. First we need to get that message out about what is already working here. God bless Jared Michaelson and Jeremy Dollarhide for persisting in their goal for LOGOZ to be in Gering. God Bless Ben and Kerri Dishman too. Every business owner takes a risk, no matter where they choose to set up. These are new businesses that are thriving here and this is just the beginning. We need to change the old message about Gering. We need to affirm that Gering is open for business. |
| A Stray Moment: All's well that ends well, usually 2013-02-14 By Doug Harris |
| Happy Valentine’s Day, all you lovers young and old and in between. Whether your love is thrilling and new or time tested and true, I hope you enjoy this special day set aside to honor the spirit of romance. I’ll probably console myself by curling up with another Sookie Stackhouse book, but in truth I don‘t feel too terribly lonely being single on this lovey-dovey day. If you are single at least you can do exactly whatever you want today, and if unhappy in your solitude don’t forget the old adage of being careful what you wish for. The most important truth I think I’ve heard on the subject of love is that it is so powerful once you are ‘in it’ you can’t really help yourself. It is not like we have magic switch that allows us to turn love on and off as it might please us. Nope. If we’re struck down by this beautiful malady we are going to have to ride it out to either happily ever after, or to the bittersweet heartbreaking end. It’s kind of a paradox isn’t it, love? It can take us up to the dizzying heights of happiness or down into the miserable depths of sadness. That is a wide range of territory. Finding how to stay level in the middle is probably the secret of enduring companionship. Now that I’ve expressed the serious part let’s move on to something silly. Silly probably isn’t the correct word, but let’s move down a less serious path on this great tangled road map in the all-encompassing atlas of love. Instead of taking the easy way out and just zipping around the Internet for generic lists of famous lovers in history I decided to do the next best thing and ask my Facebook friends for suggestions. The replies were a mixed bag of ideas ranging from the indelible to the flighty. I originally wanted to confine my observations to only real people but there was such an influx of fictional characters thrown my direction that it seemed just too frumpy to leave such classic lovers out. Of the many actual people from history that represented prototypical romantic couples we’ll start with an old stand by and mention Antony and Cleopatra. We all know the story don’t we? The great Roman warrior falls for the exotic Egyptian queen. They get mixed up in imperial intrigue, start a major war, lose it, and end up committing suicide. Love love love, always the same old song and dance. While we weren’t a witness to this history we’ve probably all either seen the movie or Shakespeare’s play. The way my mind works I can’t help but see Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor in the title roles from the 1963 film “Cleopatra.” I see the rakish Burton wearing his Roman bronze being fed grapes from a garishly costumed Taylor, wearing enough make-up I am surprised it didn’t sink their regal barge. Come to think of it didn’t Burton and Taylor themselves have a real-life bout with the insanity of love? Weren’t they among the original lovers featured in endless tabloids and followed near and far by the paparazzi? This was before I was born but I know America can’t get enough of this type of stuff. Today we have the obsession with Brad and Angelina and spend far too much time worrying if Taylor Swift is going to be alright after her latest celebrity tryst failed to blossom into ‘true love.’ I’m sure she’ll land on her feet, she always does. Another suggestion of a real couple that I liked was King Edward the VIII and Wallis Simpson. The man who surrendered a kingdom in the name of love. This is a romance even older than the Burton/Taylor affairs, but it seemed everyone in the Western world was scandalized by the English king steeping down for his American mistress (and a two-time divorcee, at that) … ‘gasp’... but all the good people who were so offended seemed to have a hearty appetite for learning every little lurid detail they could dredge up. The fact that the couple lived happily ever after and were married for almost 35 years always seems to be the part of the story people never tell. I wonder why? Another favorite real romance, from my own recollection, is the wild ride of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his flapper wife Zelda. Their rocky marriage lasted for 20 years where they embodied the Jazz Age and the Roaring Twenties. Their struggles are nothing to make light of, but between their notorious battles with one another, with alcoholism, with mental illness, infidelity, and literary rivalry there burned a glowing passion that made them a golden couple for the ages. Another literary romance of note was between the novelist Gertrude Stein and her companion, editor, cook, and muse, Alice B. Toklas. The two helped to form the renowned salon of American expatriate writers and artists living on the Left Bank in Paris. The two met in 1907 and remained inseparable until Stein’s death in 1946. Of the many other suggestions of real-life lovers beyond the “Brangelina” or various Kardashian sagas, I was offered the following: Beyonce` and Jay Z; Bonnie and Clyde; Desi and Lucy; Pocahontas and John Smith; Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo; Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward; Abraham Lincoln and Mary Todd; Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee; punk rockers Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen; John Lennon and Yoko Ono; and the beloved country couple Johnny and June Carter Cash. Heck, even Jim Nabors recently married his longtime beau Stan Cadwallader, in Seattle. And it’s about time, they’ve been together for 38 years. The fictional lovers came in faster than I could keep track. Several books could be written to highlight all the literary or dramatic love stories throughout time. I would be remiss to not start with Romeo and Juliet. Their timeless classic tale of star-crossed young love has been a hit since 1597, but older romances certainly abound. The myth of lovers Orpheus and Eurydice goes back thousands of years. Then there is King Arthur and Lady Guinevere, or Guinevere and Sir Lancelot (depending on how you look at it). Tristan and Isolde? Why do so many of these stories end in a tragic demise? It’s Valentine’s Day. Let’s focus on the romances that had happy endings, shall we? Pygmalion and Galatea lived happily ever with a love blessed by Venus herself. (And no, Professor Higgins did not marry Eliza Doolittle.) Tarzan and Jane had a pretty successful go of it. Robin Hood and Maid Marian were finally able to settle down after their dangerous adventures. Popeye and Olive Oyl worked things out. Jeannie got her wish when Major Tony Nelson finally said ‘I do.’ The Beauty and the Beast found lasting love after breaking the magic spell that separated them. Rob and Laura Petrie are presumably still married and probably planning their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Miss Piggy is still chasing after Kermit the Frog. In certain renditions we’ve even seen Superman (Clark Kent) marry Lois Lane; and we can‘t forget the courtship of Spiderman (Peter Parker) and his beloved Mary Jane. What about Han Solo and Princess Leia? This list could go on and on, but it is time to close. Enjoy your special day you lucky romantics. I’ll end with a favorite quote: “Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold” - Zelda Fitzgerald. |
| Observations Only: Journey's end 2013-02-14 By Nina Betz |
| The flight home was uneventful, apart from the necessary inconveniences. I had the opportunity to explore the terminal in Tokyo during the wait time before boarding the next flight to San Francisco. There were colorful formal gardens with walkways surrounding the terminal but they could only be accessed through glass doors that had no signage saying if entry was allowed or restricted and no other passengers were in sight. I was tempted to go through the glass doors and smell the air of Tokyo but a voice in my head said no, the doors are locked from the outside. I went back to the international waiting area and sat down to wait for the boarding call, frightened by impulsiveness that could have caused a lot of problems if I had left the international terminal. During the 15 hour flight to San Francisco I had ample time to consider all that I had experienced during the six weeks’ visit to Indonesia. One conclusion is that Americans are encouraged to be opportunists, to promote themselves by taking the initiative to do more than is required; whereas in Indonesia and I suspect many other nations, this is frowned upon. Hazel explained this to me after our visit to the department store in which I made several attempts to ask a clerk to remove an article of clothing from its packaging so I could determine which size would fit best. Each question required her to ask her supervisor because her job was to watch me and carry each item to the central location for payment, not to answer questions nor think for herself. Children are taught to be quiet and do nothing that would cause them to stand out or draw attention to themselves. As adults, Indonesians are discouraged from countermanding orders given to them by their superiors, even though they may know that the orders are wrong. This is a truth that was to become painfully clear for me a few months later. The comical part of the trip is that you cross the International Date Line, meaning that I flew east at the outset on a Thursday and arrived in Indonesia on Saturday. Returning home to Nebraska, I left on a Monday and arrived in San Francisco on Monday. I was glad to be back on American soil and felt like sitting down and having a good cry to relieve the stress and anxiety of flying half-way around the world but instead, I got in line at McDonalds and ordered a fish sandwich. The blessings we take for granted in America are simple ones, like going to our local farmers market without a soldier carrying a machine gun watching us every minute or riding public transportation without the presence of military. Quite possibly for Indonesians, the presence of armed guards is so common that the citizenry takes it for granted, just as we do their absence, but I was very aware of it and concerned at times that I might make a false move, given my impulsive nature. As luck would have it, boarding for the flight to Denver was delayed and there was concern about connecting flights. I was on the last flight to Scottsbluff and should have had a two hour layover between flights. The layover was changed to 30 minutes and I was seated in the back half of the plane. I started crying and told the attendant that I had just flown for eighteen hours and just couldn’t face going to a hotel if I missed my connecting flight. She came back saying the pilot would hold the plane. The flight to Scottsbluff was uneventful and my six-week adventure in Indonesia was over. It was wonderful to be home and sleeping in my own bed. |
| Across the Fence: Wasicu Wakan 2013-02-14 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| Born in Racine, Wis. on Feb. 14, 1849, to Irish immigrant parents, Valentine Trant M’Gillycuddy would become one of the wests most notable military surgeons, government agent of the Pine Ridge, Sioux Reservation and influential statesmen. At the young age of twenty years, he graduated from Detroit Medical School and a year later became an instructor at the college. Teaching apparently did not suit him and so he took a job with the geodetic survey crew that was mapping Lake Michigan. Tall, gangly and in poor health, Dr. McGillycuddy sought out an opportunity to restore his health and strengthen a weak heart. To that end, in 1875, he joined the Jenney-Newton Expedition to the Black Hills as mapmaker and the expedition’s doctor. The fresh air, physical effort and invigorating western climate provided the cure that he sought. The expedition confirmed the claim of George Armstrong Custer’s earlier expedition that there was gold in the Black Hills. That confirmation and the resulting flood of white gold-seekers set the stage for what would become known as The Great Sioux Wars. It was during this expedition that M’Gillycuddy became the first man to summit Harney Peak, a feat that was attempted but failed by Custer. Custer had attempted to scale the sheer cliff face by brute force but was unable to conquer the obstacle. M’Gillycuddy accomplished the feat by cutting down a nearby towering pine tree, that fell against the steep cliff, which he then used as a makeshift ladder and climbed to the top. M’Gillycuddy is also credited with the discovery of the warm mineral springs in the Black Hills region that is now known as Hot Springs, South Dakota. While in the service of the Jenney-Newton Expedition, Dr. M’Gillycuddy met a host of memorable western personalities. Wild Bill Hickok, Buffalo Bill Cody and Calamity Jane, whom M’Gillycuddy danced with in Cheyenne, were among those whose acquaintance he made. He was also introduced to the first Indian he had ever met, Oglala Lakota Chief, Sitting Bull. On the return trip to Washington D.C., after the Black Hills Expedition, M’Gillycuddy detoured to Detroit where he married his betrothed sweetheart Fanny Hoyt. Fanny would be at his side, through all of his varied adventures, until her death in 1897. When the newlyweds arrived in Washington D.C., M’Gillycuddy was appointed to the position of surgeon for the 2nd U.S. Cavalry and served in South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana and Nebraska. July 1876 was the Centennial celebration of America’s Independence. While folks back east were celebrating, Custer was leading a military force against the Sioux and Cheyenne in the hills of Montana. The celebration would quickly become bitter as news of Custer’s defeat at Little Big Horn spread across the continent. M’Gillycuddy was with General Crook and the 2nd Cavalry when a pursuit of the hostiles was ordered. It was the 10th of August 1876 when Gen. Crook, with 2,200 troopers began a military action in pursuit of the Sioux and Cheyenne forces that had defeated Custer. The expedition began as one intended to bring a swift and severe punitive action. Speed and surprise was important so only 14 days of rations, consisting of hardtack, bacon and coffee, were prepared for the men along with grain for the horses and mules. Wagons, tents and cooking utensils were left behind. All of the supplies were carried on the backs of 240 pack mules. Soldiers were allowed to carry nothing more than a single blanket. What was intended to be a brief and successful campaign became a 40-day march in adverse weather conditions of rain and hail in severe thunderstorms that occurred during 22 of the 40 days. Exposure and fatigue took a heavy toll and as supplies diminished the troopers were reduced to a diet of emaciated horses and mules. The expedition was mainly unsuccessful with only a small band of Sioux engaged and defeated at no small amount of casualties to Crooks command. However, that engagement, The Battle of Slim Buttes was heralded as a victory for Gen. Crook. The expedition became known as “The Horsemeat March” and Army Surgeon M’Gillycuddy suffered alongside the troopers in his care. It was during this campaign that M’Gillycuddy performed his first amputation. Later, while stationed at Ft. Robinson, Nebraska, M’Gillycuddy was promoted to Major and served as the post surgeon for the remainder of 1876 and through 1877. At Ft. Rob he became acquainted with Crazy Horse when he treated Crazy Horse’s wife who suffered with tuberculosis. On September 5th, 1877 Crazy Horse was bayoneted during an attempt to place him under arrest. M’Gillycuddy insisted that the wounded chief be cared for in the adjutant’s quarters rather than the guardhouse. He administered morphine to ease the pain of the dying chief and with Crazy Horse’s family, kept watch until his death. M’Gillycuddy became known among the Sioux as Tasunka Witko Kola, “Crazy Horse’s friend.” M’Gillycuddy wrote down his thoughts and his memory of Crazy Horse’s death; “He was but thirty-six. In him everything was made secondary to patriotism and love of his people. Modest, fearless, a mystic, a believer in destiny, and much of a recluse, he was held in veneration and admiration by the youngest warriors, who would follow him anywhere. These qualities made him a danger to the government and he became persona non grata to evolution and to the progress of the white man’s civilization, Hence his early death was preordained. At about eleven p.m. that night in the gloomy old adjutant’s office, as his life was fast ebbing, the bugler on the parade ground wailed out the lonesome call for Taps, “Lights out, go to sleep!” It brought back to him the old battles; he struggled to arise, and there came from his lips his old rallying cry, “A good day to fight, a good day to die! Brave hearts....” and his voice ceased, the lights went out and the last sleep came. It was a scene never to be forgotten…” In 1879 M’Gillycuddy was appointed Indian Agent of the Red Cloud Agency on the Pine Ridge Reservation. Opposed by Red Cloud from the beginning, the two strong-willed men engaged in a seven-year cold war. Red Cloud considered M’Gillycuddy to be a youthful upstart and made several trips to Washington to have him removed as agent. Dr. M’Gillycuddy was in fact dictatorial in his administration as Agent, but was always fair and consistent in his treatment of the Indians under his charge. Despite his rigidity he was sincere in his efforts to assist the Indians in achieving a peaceful and productive existence within the constraints of the white man’s imposed conditions. Eventually, Red Cloud and M’Gillycuddy resolved their differences but despite protests from both whites and Indians, M’Gillycuddy was replaced in 1886 when he refused to dismiss one of his assistants. Dr. and Mrs. M’Gillycuddy then moved to Rapid City, S.D. where he became involved in the growing community. He became the president of the Lakota Bank, was appointed Surgeon General, elected to the state’s constitutional convention, was president of the School of Mines and served as mayor for two years. In 1890, due to the escalating unrest over the troublesome Ghost Dance, Dr. M’Gillycuddy was asked to return to the Pine Ridge reservation to help in resolving the explosive unrest. When he arrived, Chief Red Cloud stood and pointing to M’Gillycuddy said: “That is Wasicu Wakan. For seven winters he was our Father. He said to me, ‘Some day you will say that my way was best for the Indian.’ I will tell him now that he spoke the truth. He was a young man with an old man’s head on his shoulders and he never sent for any soldiers.” On December 29, 1890 Dr. M’Gillycuddy received word of the massacre at Wounded Knee. Leaving Fanny at their home in Rapid City, he rode horseback through the bitter cold night and arrived at Wounded Knee the following morning. As he approached the site and saw the frozen bodies of Sioux men, women and children being thrown into wagons and carted to the gouged out burial pit, I have no doubt that he wept. Then dismounting, he began to care for the wounded, both those in blue wool uniforms and those in leather and blankets. After twenty-two years together, Fanny died in 1897. Dr. M’Gillycuddy moved to California where he practiced medicine. At nearly seventy years of age, in 1918, he traveled to Alaska and across the west treating victims of the tragic influenza epidemic. On June 6th, 1939 at the age of 90 years, Dr. Valentine T. M’Gillycuddy passed from this world to the next. On the Pine Ridge Reservation, flags were flown at half-mast. He was a man of principle, a man of courage, a man of conviction, a man of vision for the future and a man of compassion for his fellow man regardless of their heritage or faith. Perhaps he was aptly named, Valentine, for I believe he was a man whose heart was filled with a sincere love for all of mankind. In 1940, the cremated remains of Dr. Valentine Trant M’Gillycuddy were buried atop Harney Peak, overlooking the Black Hills and the sweeping prairies to the Pine Ridge. The stone marker is inscribed: “Valentine T. McGillycuddy 1849-1939 Wasicu Wakan.” (Holy White Man) |
| Teen Voice: Equality 2013-02-14 By Kendall Uhrich |
| Booming bass. Rich rappers. Singing about girls and alcohol. Drug use. These things have quickly become the normal for hip-hop music, but in a time of change, our music is changing too. Those who listen to this genre know that going out to clubs and getting one-night stands are the main focus of these rappers, and they are glorifying the acts that should be looked down upon, but some artists of today are making it a point to be different. One of them being the newly famous, Macklemore. Gaining fame from YouTube, this famous star has this week’s number one song on iTunes: Thrift Shop. A great song with a jazzy tune, with a talented musician rapping about looking good in thrift store clothes instead of the ridiculous money that stars usually spend on their clothing, this one song makes him stand out, but if one listens to his other songs they will understand what he stands for and one of them is gay marriage. His song Same Love featuring Mary Lambert takes a strong stand for his support of gay marriage and the points he makes in the song are so incredible and emotional I strongly urge spending the dollar and twenty-nine cents it costs on iTunes. He raps, “For those that like the same sex have the characteristics. The right wing conservatives think it’s a decision, and you can be cured by some treatment and some religion…. God loves all his children is somehow forgotten, because we paraphrase a book written 3500 years ago.” Then Mary Lambert stands strong and says, “And I can’t change even if I tried. Even if I wanted to. My love she keeps me warm.” It is so powerful. Macklemore a hip-hop artist stands out against even what his genre believes. My favorite line from the song is, “If I was gay I would think hip-hop hates me. Have you seen the YouTube comments lately? That’s so gay gets dropped on the daily. We get so numb to what we are saying… A word rooted in hate, yet our genre ignores it. Gay is synonymous with the lesser. The same hate that lead to wars about religion… It’s human rights for everybody there is no difference. Live on and be yourself… No freedom until we are equal. Of course I support it.” If even the most stuck in their ways are changing and making a stand I feel that I need to too. As Macklemore even says, “Press play and don’t press pause.” If we aren’t moving forward on this issue, we are only moving back. He mentions that, “A certificate on paper isn’t going to solve it all, but it’s a great way to start.” I always listened to Martin Luther King and admired him for standing up for his cause and I wondered what it would be like to fight for equality, and then it hit me, I am. I would see all those flashes of images from parades of people speaking their minds against how they were being treated differently and I always think to myself, “If I was there in the sixties there is no doubt in my mind I would be helping fight for their rights.” But, to me this is the same thing. No, I’m not gay, but I’m not African-american either, but I’ll fight for their rights just like I am. I’m not saying that whoever is reading this column needs to think the same thing as me, I am just saying, it’s a fight worth fighting for. A support that is needed. A voice that needs to be heard. Although it is a very democratic idea, I think it is just a humane idea. If same-sex love is what makes a person happy, then I support that. I believe everyone is entitled to their happiness, but I believe everyone is entitled to their own opinion as well, but with even hip-hop supporting gay marriage, it is quickly becoming a hot button issue in today’s society. So, for Macklemore can take the scare of losing fans, and losing money, but they stand up for it anyway. That takes boldness and courage that I admire. Hip-hop artists are never looked up to, with their drug usage, and jail time, but these two are worth listening to, and gay marriage is a topic worth supporting. |
| Observations Only: Going home 2013-02-07 By Nina Betz |
| Five weeks had passed and I had been away from home so long that I had begun to forget my real life in Nebraska. Hazel wanted me to have the experience of visiting a beauty salon in a third world country before I left. Although I was reluctant to let a stranger cut my hair I agreed to a wash and style. The first thing I noticed was electric cords crisscrossing the floor that were plugged into outlets without coverings. The curling irons and blow dryers had frayed cords and were so old they belonged in a museum. It was surprising to learn that thick shampoo is put directly on the hair without using water except to rinse. This tiny Indonesian woman with hands the size of a 10 year-old girl gave me the most wonderful scalp massage. Shopping in department stores was also very different. Packages brought into the store had to be checked at the door as well as purses. Hazel refused and threatened to leave; they finally agreed that we could keep our purses. Sales clerks watched our every move and straightened merchandize behind us. The customer is not allowed to hold or carry around merchandize; anything we wished to buy was held by a clerk and taken to a central desk for payment. The clerks could only say a few practiced phrases in English. It was a different experience to be treated as a potential thief as if they were doing us a favor by letting us shop in their store. I mentioned to Hazel that I felt uncomfortable with the close scrutiny and worried about a slight misstep that might bring the police down on our heads. She agreed and we left the store. It was time to go home. Hazel asked me if I felt comfortable with her staying in Medan and flying to Singapore by myself, which meant going through customs alone. I said I wanted her to go with me as far as Singapore which she agreed to do. We had our exit visas and passports and went through customs without any problems. Hazel mentioned that I needed to reserve a small sleeping room in the hotel attached to the airport for passengers who have a five or six hour layover and want to rest. I forgot to call and felt anxious about it. The only pay phone was on the Indonesian side and I was on the international side. I went back to the customs agent and tried to explain that I wanted to cross over to the other side to use the phone and would come right back. The customs agent probably didn’t understand a word I said but he was happy to take my passport away from me and spend several moments looking at it. He was standing in a raised kiosk and I could tell he was considering keeping my passport and calling the border police. I became frightened and grabbed my passport out of his hand, and ran back to the international side. I found Hazel and sat down beside her to wait for the boarding call for her return flight to Medan, too scared and embarrassed by my foolishness to tell her what happened. The boarding call came; after many hugs and a thank you for everything, I walked away from her. I looked back at her, imprinting the color of her hair and the smile on her face in my mind. I felt a strange premonition that I would never see her again. I shoved it out of my mind as something everyone thinks when saying goodbye in an airport half-way around the world. Never-the-less my premonition proved to be true. |
| Miss Movies: Ten movies for romance 2013-02-07 By Elizabeth Gross elizabethgross@geringcitizen.com |
| February is the month of love. Romance movies have always been a celebration of our never ending quest for love. To help get you into the spirit of the holiday here are my top ten picks of romantic flicks for this Valentine’s Day: The Princess Bride (1987) For many kids who grew up in the ‘90s, Westley was our first love. Director Rob Reiner’s The Princess Bride is the perfect fairy tale film. The movie begins when a little boy must stay home from school because he is sick. His grandpa comes over to read him the story of The Princess Bride. Despite what the grandson says it’s much more than a “kissing book.” The movie is classic because you can watch it at any age and still fall in love. To this day there is nothing more romantic then these lines, “That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying “As you wish,” what he meant was, “I love you.” Even more amazing was the day she realized she truly loved him back.” It’s cheesy for all the right reasons which make this film a must on Valentine’s Day. Casablanca (1942) Casablanca is a romance classic. The setting is fantastic, the actors are beautiful, and it has a fantastic soundtrack. Casablanca takes place during World War II. Rick Blaine, an exiled American, runs the hottest night spot around. He comes in possession of two letters of transit that will get him out of Africa. Rick keeps a low profile thanks to his friend Captain Renault. Everything is going mildly well for Rick until his old love Ilsa comes to Casablanca. The film is in black and white. It’s a beautiful film worth checking out. The story is never slow and at times very funny despite the context of the story. Love, Actually (2003) Writer and director Richard Curtis wants to let you know that if you look for it, love actually is all around. Curtis then proves it too you with a beautifully crafted story. Love Actually is a film that follows the lives of eight different people weeks before Christmas in London, England. I actually bought this film on a whim over the Christmas holiday when I noticed it had many of my favorite actors. Despite having so many story lines, the flow of the film was excellent and ties it all up for you in a nice tiny red package. What I also liked about this movie was that it showed love in various stages. It was realistic and not oozing sentimental rubbish all over the floor. Even though, it takes place before Christmas, Love Actually is a great movie to watch during Christmas and Valentine’s day. Ever After (1998) There is something nostalgic about fairy tales. It brings out the child in us that believes in true love. Ever After is the retelling of Cinderella starring Drew Barrymore. In this version we meet Danielle who is plagued by her own wicked step sister Baroness Rodmilla De Ghent. Danielle meets Henry the Prince of France and not drifting from the classic tale lives happily ever after. I will never forget the gorgeous costumes in this movie. Danielle’s dress in the climax of the film is stunning as she is framed with beautiful wings as she utters the words “Just Breathe.” Drew Barrymore gives one of her best performances as Danielle. Ever After is a great along the same reasons as The Princess Bride, a sweet, simple story to fall in love with. 10 Things I hate about you (1999) When this movie came out, I’m pretty sure I was the only teenager that thought to her “oh this is based off of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew”. I later discovered this to be a fact when we studied Shakespeare again in high school. Nobody remembers the play but everyone remembers it was based off of 10 things I Hate About You. I will give the creators of this film credit, that without this film an entire generation of short attention span teenagers would never appreciate Shakespeare. The movie does a great job on setting the story in modern times in a high school. Kat Stratford played by Julia Stiles is everything you hope for in a feisty, independent, teenage girl. This was also the film that brought us the handsome Heath Ledger. Though it is a movie targeted for teens, it’s a great film based on the works of William Shakespeare; master of romance. Elizabethtown (2005) Elizabethtown tells the story of Drew Baylor. He just lost millions of dollars for the company he works for and thinks suicide is the only way out. However, just as his about to have his exercise bike stab him repeatedly in the heart he receives a call from his sister. Drew finds out that his father has just died of a heart attack. It’s now up to him to go back to Elizabethtown, KY to bring his father home. Along the way he meets Claire who brings meaning back to his life. Director Cameron Crowe’s Elizabethtown is a little off beat. It deals with a man having to deal with failure and the death of his father. While the premise seems silly I think it’s meant to remind us that despite it everything it’s going to be okay. As the banner at Drew’s father’s funeral says “If it wasn’t this…it’d be something else.” Many of us remember when Hollywood came to Scottsbluff for the filming of Elizabethtown. Orlando Bloom took to the top of the Scotts Bluff National Monument for a scene during this film. Unfortunately, the extended Scottsbluff scene was cut from the film. What’s weird is that, it’s not in any special features or deleted scenes. It’s as if the scene was cut from the film then lit on fire, never to be spoken of again. However, there is a gorgeous nighttime shot of our beautiful monument. You Can’t Take it With You (1938) This is the classic tale of boy meets girl; they fall in love, and then have to deal with their eccentric families. Alice falls in love with her boss Tony Kirby. The two fall madly in love with one another only there’s a problem. Alice is embarrassed by her eccentric and poor family. Tony meets them and falls in love with the strange bunch. It’s until Alice meets Tony’s rich parents do things start to go badly for the love birds. Eventually, love conquers all and the two wed. Much like the title says you can’t take it with you. It’s a film that reminds us that despite our differences we can find love in many different places. The Proposal (2009) Margaret Tate is a ruthless Canadian book publisher working in New York. Everything is going well for Margaret until she finds out that her visa has expired. In order to prevent her deportation she has to prove that she is getting married to her whipping boy/ assistant Andrew. Andrew doesn’t go down as easily as he agrees to marry Margaret if she gives him a promotion. Now it’s up to Margaret and Andrew to prove to INS that they are in fact a married couple. The movie is pretty predictable but it’s a fun romantic comedy. Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds have fantastic chemistry which makes the movie enjoyable. Bullock is great as Margaret being everyone’s favorite boss they love to hate. The Wedding Singer (1998) I played the soundtrack to the Wedding Singer on my cassette Walkman until the tape went bad. Robbie is a wedding singer whose job is to set the mood for everyone’s happily ever after. He’s all set to marry who he feels is the women of his dreams until he meets Julia. Julia is a soft spoken waitress who becomes fast friends with Robbie. After asking for his help to plan her wedding Julia and Robbie start to feel like that they are maybe with the wrong people. Drew Barrymore and Adam Sandler have wonderful chemistry together. This is another enjoyable romantic comedy during Adam Sandlers prime. Moulin Rouge (2001) For the right price your dreams can come true at the Moulin Rouge. Christian, a young English writer, comes to Paris to work on his story about love. The only problem he has is that he has never fallen in love. After a case of mistaken identity, Christian falls head over heels in love with the Moulin Rouge dancer Satine. Moulin Rouge finds a way to touch everyone’s inner bohemian with great music, set designs, and acting. |
| Teen Voice: Twitter as sleep criminal 2013-02-07 By Kendall Uhrich |
| I don’t sleep. As I try and try to fall asleep I am plagued by one of the biggest sleep criminals. Twitter. Ever since I made my account it has been an obsession. I check it all the time to read my newsfeed and laugh at all the comedians I follow, and the most I have discovered about this social networking site, the more I love it. Many haven’t made the transition from Facebook into the Twittersphere, but I would like to take some time for my readers to give them 9 reasons (Because ten is just too original) why they should make the switch. 1. Direct messages onto your phone One wonderful thing about this site is that if you sign up for a user’s mobile Twitter number their tweets come directly onto your phone by a text message. At my school the councilors have an account, so any important scholarship or college news I can figure out right on my phone without even having to log in online. 2. No more game requests I don’t have much extra time, so playing games on the internet is not really an option for me, but even though it isn’t it does not stop me from getting flooded on Facebook with game requests. But, with Twitter it is just what I want to see, and no more Farmville requests 3. Short statuses Twitter statuses are only allowed to be 140 characters max, which is wonderful when I am just trying to get a quick read when I have the time. People don’t have the space to go on and on about their lives, so it’s nice to see what they are up to in as little words as possible. And as a fan of one line jokes, Twitter is chalked full of time for a laugh whenever I need it with the Twitter mobile app. 4. Fast Application On my phone, the Facebook app takes a long time to load all of the information, and pictures, but the Twitter app always opens right when I click it. I am not sure why, but this app is much more efficient, because I don’t know about you, but waiting a long time just to read things I don’t necessarily want to seems like a waste of time. 5. Quick friends Following someone on Twitter takes five seconds. All the user must do is click the follow button and now that person’s tweets are into the feed. There is no waiting for the person to accept, because Twitter doesn’t have the whole friend request business. If a user wants to follow anyone they can. 6. Famous friends Because there is no friend request business anyone can follow anyone. Which means if I want to follow even the biggest celebrities, or even the president, I can. They usually tweet interesting things and for big fans it is neat to be able to see what they are up to. 7. News feeds As a fan of the journalism realm I follow big names like The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal and I can get even international news right as it happens. Twitter is a fast way to communicate which means people are constantly getting the story out right as it comes. It is handy and one of the most efficient ways of news today. 8. Less security issues Because Twitter isn’t centered on a photo gallery there is no need to post pictures, making it a safer site for teenagers with fewer worries about what pictures are appropriate and which are not. 9. Hashtagging This Twitter thing categorizes tweets by what they are about. As an example, during the Super Bowl Sunday madness everyone was tweeting using the hashtag #superbowlsunday and all of the tweets about the game were all there together. It is no wonder for me why I have chosen this social network as my favorite, and I encourage anyone without a Twitter to hop on the band wagon. I promise it is not at all a waste of time and when you figure out how it works you will love it just as much as I do. |
| Across the Fence: Rural free delivery 2013-02-07 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| The United States Post Office Department was created in 1775, by decree of the Second Continental Congress, with Benjamin Franklin being named the first Postmaster General. However, it was not until 1896 that Rural Free Delivery was begun as standard delivery to non-city dwellers by the U.S. Postal Service. The idea of a free delivery to rural areas had been debated for a long time and experimentation with the concept was begun in 1891 amid a firestorm of opposition. The strongest argument against the implementation of Rural Free Delivery was the cost. Manpower, vehicles, feed and care of horses would be an expense that would incur unrecoverable costs resulting in operating losses. Although autos replaced buggies and gasoline replaced feed, the costs of operations, even with taxpayer subsidies, always exceeded the income generated from postage paid. The other major opposition came from shop owners, in the local towns, who complained that RFD would keep the rural folks from making their weekly shopping trips into town and sales revenue would suffer. In fact their fears we well founded though not because of less frequent trips to town but rather due to the ease of mail order. Rural Free Delivery was a boon for Sears and Roebuck and Montgomery Ward. The final opposing argument came from the rural folks themselves. In order for the free delivery of rural mail to occur the Postal Service required that mailboxes should meet the specifications mandated by them. One of those requirements was that the mailbox must be made of steel. Many farmers argued that a handcrafted wooden box should be a sufficient depository for letters from Uncle George in Seattle. Perhaps, due to their fiercely independent nature, they were more opposed to being ‘dictated’ to by a branch of the U.S. Government than they were to the size and shape and structure of the mailbox. However, despite their early resistance, by 1902 the RFD program had been implemented throughout the continental United States and all recipients had the required, government approved, steel mailboxes. Still, most rural residences continue to display their mailboxes in a wide assortment of creative and independent disguises. I’ve seen mailboxes hidden beneath old saddles, mounted on miniature windmills and oil derricks, transformed into John Deere tractors, Conestoga wagons, steam locomotives and Bucyrus Erie steam shovels. They have adorned the tongues of horse drawn corn planters, one row plows and steel wheeled dump rakes. I’ve seen them decorated to resemble old red barns, black and white Holstein cows and northbound Missouri mules with the south end facing the road. They’ve been mounted on old hand pumps, milk cans, steel-lugged tractor tires, welded log chains and Caterpillar tracks. No sir, you cannot say that rural America lacks innovation or creativity. A number of years ago, when I was in Colorado, I helped a friend of mine clean out an old abandoned bunk house on a Nebraska Sandhills ranch. Amongst the trash, broken down furniture, scrap iron and junk that we hauled off was an old wood-burning stove. Most of the firebrick on the inside was gone, the bottom grate was broken and rust had taken its toll on the metal. But I hated to just throw it in the dump and so I decided to keep it. My first thought for repurposing the old relic was to clean it up, paint it in black and silver and set it up as a mailbox pedestal. Though not really all that original, I did think it a clever idea. I even thought of labeling the door of the firebox with a sign that read ‘Bills.’ However, the old stove sat in the tack room for nearly ten years before I finally got around to converting it to a mailbox pedestal. I poured a concrete base for the stove to sit on and even put in bolts to anchor it down. I sanded off all the rust and painted the main part of the stove in a flat black and all of the trim, that might have been chrome plated at one time, I painted in metallic silver. I bolted the stove down on the concrete pad and mounted the mailbox on the top then stood back to admire my clever handiwork. I was not surprised when several of the neighbors commented on my unique mailbox. To say the least, I was quite proud of it. Less than a week later, in the 3 o’clock hour, I was awakened from a sound sleep by the squealing of tires, a boom and a thud. From the bedroom window I could see the lights of a car shining upward from out of the ditch. When I got to the end of the driveway I saw a fellow standing on the road looking somewhat bewildered by the awkward angle of his car in the ditch. Fortunately he was not hurt, but I was extremely disappointed that he had reduced my mailbox pedestal to a twisted, shattered hunk of junk. I replaced it with a reflective topped, green T-post and wired my crumpled mailbox off to one side. But getting back to Rural Free Delivery. The first rural mail route was established on October 1, 1896 in West Virginia. My home state of Kansas was close behind with a route in Bonner Springs on October 26 and Nebraska followed with a route on November 7, in Tecumseh, a little ways east of Beatrice. Back home, in northeastern Kansas, Mr. O’Trimble was our mail carrier on Rural Route #1. My sisters and I would often stand in the yard and wave as he stopped by our mailbox and delivered whatever might have come in our daily mail. After he had left we would run to the box to gather up the clutter of envelopes that he had delivered. We were always disappointed when he drove straight on by without even stopping. No mail on those days. I can remember when Mom would use a spring-loaded clothespin to hold three pennies to the corner of a letter and have me take it to the mailbox. Somehow I felt quite important being responsible for taking that letter to the mailbox and raising the flag so Mr. O’Trimble would know to stop. I knew that our letter was important because, if the flag was up, he would stop even if he had no mail for us. When our school district finally purchased buses, the bus would stop for us at the end of our lane, right in front of the mailbox. In the wintertime, Mom would try to make me wear a stocking cap to keep my ears warm. I much preferred my hat, but Mom wouldn’t allow me to wear it to school. I hated that stocking cap and thought it looked pretty stupid on me. So, every morning, as I went around the front of the bus I’d take off that silly looking stocking cap and stick it in the mailbox. Then at night, when I got off the bus, I’d pull it out of the mailbox and put it on. I don’t know if my Mom ever knew about my little deception but I know Mr. O’Trimble did. Our address was always, R.R. #1 Nortonville, Ks. But, I remember that after the 9-1-1 program went into effect the address changed to some seemingly irrelevant number on a street named Haskell. It is not a street, just a long stretch of dirt road that wanders off to nowhere. I was living in Colorado when the change was made and had sent a letter to Mr. and Mrs. M. H. Nolting, R.R. #1, Nortionville, Ks., it came back marked ‘address unknown return to sender.’ I thought, whaddya mean, unknown? We’d had the same postmaster since dirt and Dad and Mom had not moved. Before this, I remember sending a letter addressed to, Grandma Zeek, Nortonville, Ks., it got there. My wife Deb grew up in northern Sheridan County, Nebraska. Their route was called The North Star Route. I like that even better than Rural Route #1. North Star Route has a bit of an adventurous tone, perhaps even a bit of a romantic flare. Deb also remembers their mail carrier, Paul. She and her siblings would sometimes hide in the ditch until he had gone by or would stand by the roadside and wave. She remembers once when they picked sunflowers and spelled out ‘HI PAUL’ with sunflower blossoms across the road. In many rural communities the local mail carrier was an informal link among neighbors separated by miles rather than city blocks. The mail carrier was a friend of the family, a neighbor, and a certain constant in a changing world. Their comings and goings marked days and months and seasons. They delivered good news and bad, they were the bringers of tomorrow’s surprise. But, there is a change in the wind and it is a certainty that tomorrow’s postal service will be different than today’s. The ‘experiment’ begun in 1891 continues and in truth, there never was Rural ‘Free’ Delivery. |
| Jane’s Secret, part XX: Change of plans 2013-02-07 By Nina Betz |
| The very minute Harvey and the ladies left Jones Mercantile, letting the door slam shut, the cowboys jumped to their feet knocking over chairs and tables in their haste to get a good spot at the windows. “Aw, there goes my chance with the pretty lady.” “You, ha, that breath of yours could kill a rattlesnake.” “Shove over I can’t see.” “You’re standing on my foot you old sidewinder.” “Never seen one like that.” “Who are them people?” “That’s ol’ Rupert’s boy and the Clemp girl. “Naw, he never looked like that even when he got all slicked up.” “Well, I’m tellin’ you it’s him.” Mrs. Jones, as she prefers to be called but usually settles for just plain Myrtle, was standing in the door way that separates their private quarters from the common room of the store when she heard the commotion. Now what? she wonders, observing the backside of a dozen men crane-necking to get a better look at something outside. Nosey as a bunch of old women, she thinks. Put them in a dress and they’d look just the same she smirks to herself, imagining the funny sight until she spots a familiar pair of pants. “Mr. Jones, what are you gawking at?” she hollers over the din, noticing the turned over chairs and tables out of the corner of her eye. “You’ll never guess who came prancing in here wanting to hire some men,” he says, resuming his place behind the counter. “Well, who was it?” she said. “Give me a minute to catch my breath,” he says, his laughter subsiding. “Mr. Jones!” she says, throwing arms akimbo. “I’ll get to it just hold your knittin’ woman,” he says, laughing again. “Jane Clemp opened the door and marched right up to the counter and said she wanted four men who wanted a job. “That’s all it took; just about every man in the place was eager to volunteer except for the married ones, of course,” he adds hastily. “Heavens, people will think we run a brothel here. Never used to be such goings on,” she sniffs. “No they won’t. Harvey and two ladies came in after her, and he was none too pleased by her behavior. He made it plain that he was hiring four men for a day’s work. There was talk about a rider coming by and telling about a big cat clawing a man to death; said he thought he was husband to one of the Clemp girls. Harvey overheard what was said and got this funny look on his face, and told Jane they were leaving. I thought she was going to put up a fuss but she finally simmered down and they all left. We were just watching them drive away,” he finished, embarrassed that she caught him looking out the window with the other men. “You’re not storying to me are you?” she laughs, her eyes gleaming with the thought of gossip potential. “Nope it was her all right,” he insists, leaning on the counter, relieved that she’s forgotten about the window. “I’m not surprised considering that her mother paraded around half naked on stage in Chicago. She called herself Pearl as if her white hair and blue eyes made anybody think she was pure; how ridiculous. Purity isn’t what catches a man who belongs to somebody else,” Mrytle rants, then clamps her jaw shut thinking she’s said too much. “She was a mighty good lookin’ woman. How long has it been since Pearl fell off her horse and broke her neck; must be about three years now,” he estimates. “What was her horse’s name?” he asks, brushing sawdust off the counter. “Queenie,” snaps Myrtle, irritated by the dreamy look men get when they think about a beautiful woman. “That’s right. She was a mighty fine animal. It was a dirty shame that Clem went crazy and shot her instead of selling her, it wasn’t her fault. Something odd about the one lady, though; she has the look of the Clemp girls. Tall with red hair like old man Clemp but that isn’t it; maybe something about the eye color. Can’t figure out what it is,” he muses. “It wasn’t Gertrude was it?” she asks, straightening tins of tobacco. “No, but from a distance a body might make that mistake,” he says. “Interesting,” is all Myrtle can think of to say, privately wondering about the woman. “Say, is it closing time yet; should be with all the excitement around here,” he laughs while setting the room to rights. If it only was, Myrtle grumbles under her breath. I could take a hot bath and go to bed with a book to sooth my poor nerves; I could have a sick headache and go upstairs right now, she muses, warming to the idea. No, I would just think about that awful woman and her three awful daughters she sighs, gathering up receipts and returning to her desk in the back room. Hazel and Bridget ride in silence in the back seat, each dreading the awkwardness of being strangers in a house of bereavement while Jane wraps her arms around herself; an action not lost on Harvey. She’s made up her mind about something and it’s not going to be pleasant, he thinks before returning to his considerations about the management of Molly’s ranch. This is certainly a setback, Jane muses. How inconvenient; I’ve barely arrived, our belongings are still packed in Cheyenne and I’ve seen Gertrude for five minutes, all sticky and smelly with dried blood. This is not what I planned for when we moved back here she rages privately, her anger at the unfairness of it all growing by the minute. Now the drama of Red getting himself killed by a cat for heaven’s sake; Gertrude and Pa will be pandering to my poor pregnant widowed sister; that’s all they will be able to think about for months and months, she rants, grinding her teeth. “Calm down my dear and remember that you’re mine, and we have a plan; it is well that they’re preoccupied and not watching what you do,” says the Voice. I don’t agree with your plan, but thank you for reminding me, Jane replies, reluctantly. “You’re welcome.” Jane glances sideways at Harvey taking note of his white knuckle grip on the steering wheel, then makes a decision to wait awhile before announcing her headache and the necessity of returning home. To Jane’s annoyance, Harvey abruptly turns the car around, heading in the opposite direction. “What are you doing?” she demands. “I’ve thought it over and it doesn’t make any sense to go the ranch house now. Proper lodging isn’t available for us to stay the night so we’re returning home. You and I will get an early start in the morning,” he explains, glancing at her for approval. Jane stares back at him, irked that he spoiled her announcement. “I feel a sick headache coming on and I doubt that it will be gone early tomorrow morning. You’ll have to go without me,” Jane replies, turning her face to the window, not even bothering to pretend to care about her sister’s plight. I’ve lost, she muses. “No my dear you haven’t lost; it’s time to begin,” says the Voice. |
| Completely Different: The good, the bad, and the remedy 2013-02-07 By Elizabeth Gross |
| Wintertime, a time when we pull out those heavy jackets, hats, and gloves. The nippy weather brings us indoors to spend evenings around the television or game of Scrabble. It is also the worst time of the year for the flu. It’s a time when our day-to-day lives become absolute misery as a thick cloud of sickness contorts our mind, filling it with phlegm. I hate getting sick. Though I’ve never met anyone who jumps for joy at the prospect of lying in bed surrounded by used tissue and orange juice containers. As a little kid, falling ill was the best day ever. It meant no school, no homework, and a day filled watching cartoons. Watching cartoons never changes but as an adult, getting sick is terrible because there’s no one to attend to your whiny wheezes. Then there’s that whole having to miss work, which means no money and that means ramen noodles every day for the next two weeks. As a kid, I was one of the lucky ones who didn’t get sick very often. My gift was my curse as they say because when I did get sick I made it count. What someone would consider to be a simple cold was for me the equivalent of contracting the Ebola virus. All that went away however, when I was in middle school. That summer I caught mono during a family vacation. I spent the whole summer indoors drinking protein shakes because my throat was almost swollen completely shut. After dealing with that my immune system has never been the same. Now, all it takes is for some stranger from across the street to sneeze and I get sick. For the last couple of weeks, I have been hit hard with the flu and bronchitis. Bronchitis is a pretty typical sickness for me to get during the wintertime. Nothing makes me happier than trying to sleep at night only to awaken to the sensation of choking to death. I went to the doctor when I was first sick and was told I had the flu and bronchitis ( big surprise). I was prescribed the typical antibiotics and given the whole speech on finishing the pills even if I feel better. Surprisingly, I wasn’t prescribed a temporary inhaler which has helped me in the past. I had to stay home and try to combat this sickness, which led to many sleepless nights hacking. I did get better and my nasal passages were cleared. I felt back on top of the world and in fine form; for about a week. Last week, I felt the same tickle in my throat again which quickly manifested into the same sickness. This time I didn’t have the headache, I just couldn’t breathe. It’s been a week of sleepless nights of not being able to breathe. Nothing was working, so I decided to stop with the pharmaceutical method of relief and turn to the world of home remedy. When doing a Google search on “nasal decongestant home remedies” you only get about 55,600 results. I found it interesting that the number was so low until you check out a first few of the results. One website called myhomeremedies.com had a five page forum on the topic of nasal decongestant. Remedies ranged from the practical, like finding pressure points on the face, to the downright bizarre like a nasal cocktail containing hydrogen peroxide. The forum was interesting to read because it not only contained strange remedies but theories on why certain people have chronic nasal congestion. One theory stated that a diet too high in carbohydrates is the culprit for not only bad nasal congestion but the common cold in general. Their solution seemed to be more about simply taking care of yourself yet blaming carbohydrates. Another theory stated that chronic nasal congestion in the winter months may be due to an allergy to cow’s milk. This post stated that you should stop drinking cow’s milk for twelve weeks before taking any sort of medicine to clear out the nasal congestion. As long as you avoid cow’s milk you should be never form nasal congestion again. Intrigued by some of the remedies I read, I decided to try a few of these over the next three days. I avoided any remedy that suggested sticking, prodding, or snorting anything up the nose. There is nothing I hate more than the sensation of something up the nose. This could come from the fact that when I was three, I shoved popcorn so far up my nose we had to go to the hospital. Either way, you will never see me do any sort of nasal saline for that reason. One remedy was combining lemon juice and hot sauce in a glass together. The theory was that the lemon juice paralyzes the throat while the spice from the hot sauce simulates the nasal passages. Taking a small glass from the cupboard I combined Franks Red Hot with the lemon juice. As I swirled the concoction together it turned a weird shade of orange. I tossed it back and it was the strangest taste in my mouth. Luckily, I was home alone at the time because as the mix made its way to the back of my throat I let out a loud yelp. The lemon juice did nothing but burn holes in the back of my throat followed by the hot sauce that sit on the wounds. I coughed and wheezed for all the wrong reasons. Needless to say that didn’t work. The next remedy was lime juice. The poster said that if you placed a little bit of lime juice around the nose it helps open you up. It also said that gargling the lime juice creates the same effect. Not wanting to risk inhaling lime juice I went for the drinking method. It did nothing, no reaction at all. The third remedy I tried was drinking hot sauce. Many posts said that spicy food was key to clearing out your nasal passages. I pulled the Red Hot out of the fridge and made myself a small glass. After the initial burn, I sniffed, wheezed and was able to get some sort of relief. So far, this was the second best remedy. The final remedy that worked the best was taking a large bite out of a fresh jalapeño. I found that there was a certain way you had to eat it to be effective. If you spent time chewing on it, the result was just a burning mouth. However, if you take two large chews and swallow it then you’re able to get nasal relief. Of all the crazy options I tried this one worked the best. After my adventures with home remedies, I did find some relief. Now every morning and night I take a bite out of my jalapeño. It stimulates the nasal cavity causing me to drip. Of course, I am no medical professional. Please don’t try any of these remedies at home. You never know when you might be accidently sniffing a chemical combination. Take care of yourself readers, it is the season of the sniffles. |
| From the Superintendent’s Desk - Haig and Aurora Buildings 2013-02-07 By Don Hague |
| During the past few years, Gering Public Schools utilized both the former Haig School and old Aurora building to provide needed classroom space for students. The Haig School became part of our school system when the class one schools were closed by legislative action and we operated it as a K-6 elementary school for a year and then made the decision to close the building and place those students in our remaining elementary schools, which included the Cedar Canyon school, which we still operated as a K-6 single section elementary building with approximately 120 students attending this building this year. The Haig school was used for storage for a couple of years and, throughout the building process of the new Lincoln Elementary school, additional supplies and materials were stored in the building. The board elected to sell the building to the original property owners a few years ago with the stipulation that we could use it for storage until we no longer needed it. Over this past summer we were able to clear out this building and now Gering Public Schools no longer has any ties to the Haig facility. Likewise, the Aurora building provided us with a place to house all of the Lincoln Elementary students during the 18 months we were in the process of building the new Lincoln Elementary school. Had this not been available, we more than likely would have had to split up the building and put different grades in whatever building we would have been able to secure. The timing worked out very well for us as Scottsbluff had just spent a year in the building during their middle school remodel and, with a few modifications, we were able to move in and hold school. We moved into the new building this fall and basically used the Aurora building to store surplus property for the district. This past December we had a surplus property sale and now have disposed of all the property we had in the Aurora building. Just like the Haig building, Gering Public Schools no longer has responsibilities or obligations for the Aurora building. The City of Scottsbluff is the owner of this facility. From time to time we have had calls or people express concern about these facilities to us and I wanted everyone to fully understand the status of these two facilities. If you have any questions or concerns about this issue please do not hesitate to contact us here in the central office. |
| From the Superintendent’s Desk: Summer School – 2013 2013-01-31 By Don Hague |
| Why an article about summer school in the middle of winter? The primary reason is that we are planning some major changes for summer school this year. First of all, our summer school is focused on students who need additional time to learn. We all know some of us learn much faster than others. When you look at our school calendar and days, every student gets essentially the same amount of time. It is also important for students to use their skills throughout the summer break or those skills will regress, which requires re-teaching at the beginning of the school year. There is more and more talk each year about year round school, which would reduce the length of the summer break. Most of us have been in the business for a number of years and remember when school began after Labor Day in September and was dismissed for the summer prior to Memorial Day. In Nebraska, as with most of the Midwest, this school calendar has changed. Now school normally starts anywhere from the first week to the middle of August, which reduces that three month summer break. As more research is done, I am sure the move to a more balanced year round calendar will continue. Last year our Elementary Summer School Program was divided into two sessions. Again, this is an attempt to give those students continued opportunities to maintain and improve identified skills. The effort we make with summer school must be combined with efforts by parents to make this time truly beneficial to students. Parents must make sure students understand the importance of attending school each day. Support for these programs that we offer ensures students practice their skills each day at home. We do plan to develop a split calendar again this summer with dates being determined in the next month or so. Each school will work closely with parents and students to identify students who would benefit from attending summer school. The primary reason for summer school is to catch students who are not demonstrating the expected skills for their grade level up to speed. If a student is demonstrating expected skills we would not ask them to participate in summer school. A big change from previous years will be that we are holding summer school for all students at the Lincoln Elementary building. This is for a two reasons. First we want to make sure our air conditioning system works as expected and by having students and teachers in the building during the summer months it will give the system a much better test. Second, Lincoln is located in the center of our school district and our current plan is to eliminate busing this summer. We believe parents should be involved and committed to their students attending summer school, therefore it is their responsibility to get them to school or see that they get to school each day. More specifics of summer school will be shared later but I thought it was important to get this out so parents could begin to develop necessary plans to take full advantage of the opportunity if your child is asked to attend summer school. Our goal would be to have those students identified so teachers and parents could discuss this at the third nine weeks parent teacher conference. |
| Teen Voice: Serendipity 2013-01-31 By Kendall Uhrich |
| 6:30 Wake up. 6:45 Eat breakfast. 8:00 Go to school. 11:25 Eat Lunch. 3:20 Come home from school. 3:45 Practice for speech. 5:00 Go to work. 10:00 Get off work. 10:30 Start homework. 11:30 Go to bed. And repeat. Again. And again. And again. My schedule is set in stone like a vicious cycle. I have become merely a predictable creature with the same habits and tendencies, but it keeps me wondering, thinking. Where has the serendipity gone? Where are the spontaneous memories? I am so busy that most times I don’t take time to just sit back and enjoy anything. But, to think of it, we all are so busy. That is not just a reflection of my life, but society’s. Although my schedule may not mirror my reader’s schedules, I am betting they have their own. Each and every time slot filled with important activities. And when we get a hole in that schedule and we actually have time free to do anything different, we fill up that time to do something else instead of doing something we would actually enjoy. When an appointment gets cancelled instead of relaxing, we fill that spot with a chore, or make another appointment. When is the last time we read a book, or watched a movie without the constant feeling that we need to be doing something of higher importance? When will we all realize that whatever seems more important can wait? We need to just stop and enjoy things for once, instead of constantly being bothered by chores left undone. We all run, run, run to get things done, but always still want more. We can chalk our day full of activities that are meaningful, but at the end of the day we are still left unsatisfied. But, when will we learn to just slow down? So what that we didn’t run a marathon or write a book today. That schedule that plagues our every single minute, throw it out for just one day, and do something for you. We have become slaves to our schedules. Everything we do is a huge obligation that if we do not complete we will have a falling out. But, with every single obligation it has become a blur of too many tasks to complete. Too many meetings, too many places to go, too many people to see. Our cellphones don’t help our cause much either. Instead of using that hand-held device to call up an old friend or family member, we use it to respond to emails, check our Facebook, update everyone of what we are doing at that moment. We are using it for the exact opposite of what it’s intended use was. We were supposed to keep connected. Phone calls were the one way we could catch up with old friends and enjoy ourselves, but now they are just our workplace on the go. In this fast paced society, we seem like merely a machine. Turned on in the morning only to grind out the tasks we were set for that day. But, we are people. Which is something we have to realize. We are more than our cellphones and laptops. Leave some emails unanswered, cancel an appointment and take time for you. Some of our most memorable moments weren’t planned. When that dentist appointment got changed to a later date and you had time to read a book, or when your Saturday night plans got changed, so you finally go t to see that movie you have been dying to go watch. Go enjoy those things. I promise that work will still be there when you get back, but the chance to enjoy the little things is a moment that is fleeting. Being lazy just for a little while does pay off, no matter what your schedule tells you. |
| Observations Only: Curious things, part II 2013-01-31 By Nina Betz |
| By My six-week visit to Indonesia was drawing to a close and I had yet to ask about government structure and public life. Lloyd laughed, saying that it’s called a guided democracy and went on to explain that public elections are held but the seated government controls 50 percent of the votes and the military controls 40 percent. The remaining 10 percent belong to the people. Government officials visit small villages promising a new well or a paved street if they vote the correct way allowing the president to proudly proclaim to the world that once again he was reelected by 100 percent. There aren’t laws that limit job opportunities or career advancement but lack of money is a brick wall that keeps the poor or those without family connections from getting a better job in a store or office. As in other countries, filling out an application for a job is the first step. Although it’s an illegal practice in Indonesia, without money to pay the person on the bottom rung, the application goes in the garbage. Money is then required to pay the supervisor to look at it and add his initials before passing it along to an under assistant who also requires payment before passing it on for consideration. Despite greased palms and filling out countless forms requiring more money, a government official can submit the name of a relative or friend for the position superseding all other applicants. Rarely does a person rise above the station they were born into. The ability to speak English is highly prized by the government and is a mandatory subject taught in schools. Again I noticed something curious. Their English didn’t sound like any I’d ever heard; and I didn’t recognize it as such. I asked Hazel when they spoke English. She laughed and said that’s what they were speaking. Hazel explained that the government wouldn’t hire teachers from outside the country to avoid undesirable influence from the outside world. The result is their own garbled version perpetuated by teachers who didn’t learn from an English-speaking first language teacher, but they proudly say they speak English. One afternoon Hazel returned home earlier than expected and heard a frantic mewing sound. Her housekeeper denied hearing anything. After hearing the sound again Hazel began looking in all the cupboards and discovered a little kitten in a closed plastic bag, wet with sweat, struggling to escape. The housekeeper explained that her niece brought the kitten and they were playing with it. Hazel was incensed by their lack of concern and the horrifying cruelty that she fired her housekeeper on the spot. The concept of having an animal for a pet is nonexistent in Indonesian culture. Cats and dogs are considered filthy, and it’s considered unthinkable to have one living in the home. Animals have no inherent value in Indonesia apart from a source of food and their ability to work, or as a source of amusement. That an animal has a spirit, feels fear and pain is given little thought and isn’t taught to Indonesian children. Imagine getting up tomorrow and facing just one of the cultural limitations or unfair practices that I have written about in Indonesia. Ask yourself how you would like to live with them every single day of your life. Now let us be thankful that we live in America and that we have hope. We can shout and scream about our lot without fear of arrest. We can vote and our choice really counts. Out of all the billions of people on earth, no matter how poor or unfair we think our life may be, we are lucky to live in America. |
| A Stray Moment: I love Sookie Stackhouse 2013-01-31 By Doug Harris |
| While I realize it would be a bad match, her being telepathic and all, I can’t seem to resist Sookie Stackhouse. Another problem with this unrequited crush is Sookie is a fictional character but that hasn’t stopped me before. I’ve been in love with a few other imaginary creations over the years but Sookie Stackhouse has captured my heart completely and she won’t let go; I don’t want her to either. For those who don’t know who she is I am happy to introduce her to you. Sookie is the lead character in the Southern Vampire Mysteries by Arkansas native Charlaine Harris (no relation). Harris has written twelve books in this series and seems poised to write twenty more. I hope she does because I can’t get enough of them. Some might know Sookie from the HBO TV show ‘True Blood’ where she is portrayed by the captivating actress Anna Paquin, but the literary Sookie is much more interesting. All the books are written in a first person narrative by Sookie herself, where we ‘see’ her thoughts as clearly as she can read the minds of others. Humans, that is. Sookie can’t read the minds of vampires and has trouble getting into the thoughts of other ‘supes’ such as all the werewolves, faeries and shape-shifters she seems to find herself surrounded by. No, this isn’t Anna Karenina or even Jane Eyre, but for pure entertainment value I can’t recommend this series enough. This might make me the biggest blushing fan-boy in Scotts Bluff County, but who cares, at least I’m reading. It is fun. Everybody has the right to some cheerful enthusiasm once in a while, don’t they? Sookie more than holds her own with other literary fantasy heroines (the sword-maiden Eowyn from the ‘Lord of the Rings’ and Hermoine Granger come to mind). However, be warned Ms. Stackhouse’s adventures are not for kids, this is decidedly adult fare. Harris doesn’t go into untoward or lurid detail but creates a world that is an over-the-top send-up of the detective story, light-weight bodice rippers and other vampire novels such as the books by Anne Rice or the popular Twilight series. (And no, I haven‘t read the Twilight books. I might be a book nerd but I have my limits). HBO characteristically dives in head first in their interpretation of Sookie’s wild ride. The cable network gleefully amps up the sex and violence into a predictable blood raining spectacle but the books themselves are much more dignified. Sookie is a nice and proper Southern young lady after all, and she doesn’t relate her travails in an exploitative fashion. While I appreciate what HBO has done to bring Harris’ world to a wider audience the books (as always) are much better than the live-action NC-17 rated romp. Sookie lives in Bon Temps, Louisiana, a small rural town filled with charming locals and many back-woods bumpkins. Sookie works as a barmaid at “Merlottes” for her friend Sam. The conceit of the novels are that the Japanese invented a form of synthetic blood that satiates the ‘nutritional needs’ of vampires. As a result vampires from all around the globe decided to come out of hiding and announce their presence to a wary world. In the United States they were greeted with trepidation but have generally been accepted after the living came to see that the vamps, for the most part, have learned to behave themselves. They had been living in the open for a few years before a mysterious vampire named Bill Compton shows up during Sookie’s shift at the bar. Vampire Bill has been ‘alive’ for almost 200 years and is a Confederate veteran from the Civil War. He orders a bottle of True Blood and they strike up coversation. Sookie is instantly enamoured by his antebellum charm, and it doesn’t seem to hurt that Bill is tall, dark and handsome. I’m not going to go into all the mushy stuff but (spoiler alert!) Sookie and Bill are drawn to each other and embark on a whirlwind romance that leads them into all sorts of crazy adventures throughout Mississippi, Texas, and down to New Orleans. Harris doesn’t pull out any stops as she expands upon her supernatural themes. Over the course of the many books we are introduced to an endless variety of mythical and magical beings. Sookie learns that the world secretly hosts not just vampires and shape-shifters but goblins, demons, angels and witches. We also learn that a certain rock and roller (once known as simply “The King” and famous for his voice and white sequined jump-suit) now lurks among the walking dead and prefers to be called ‘Bubba’. This explains all his post-death sightings. Why yes, of course it does. Mystery solved! With great humor, Harris lets us follow the level-headed Sookie as she becomes a sort of spy for the local Louisiana vampire community. Her ability to read minds is valuable to the vamps in their dealings with the normal humans. Sookie can detect lies and learn what motivates people. She doesn’t always enjoy the dangerous situations the vampires drag her into but she is pragmatic enough to accept payment for her services. As she would point out, working for tips makes it difficult to make ends meet. She dreams of one day owning a decent car and having health insurance. The area vampire leader is sheriff Eric Northman. Even Vampire Bill has to answer to Eric. Typical of Harris’ style of leaning on romance novel clichés vampire Eric is a resplendent Nordic viking with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Sheriff Eric has walked the earth for over 800 years and runs a bar of his own called “Fangtasia.” Along with his ‘child’ and sidekick vampire Pam (yes … a vampire named Pam) Eric holds court in nearby Shreveport. Pam dresses in modest twin-set styles and prefers pastels. If this is starting to sound ridiculous you are getting the feel of the books correctly. Harris (and Sookie) make me laugh and smile on almost every other page. Having read almost all of the series I am glad it seems a new book comes out every six months or so. I could tell you more but I don’t want to spoil the fun. Sookie Stackhouse is a wonderful character to follow. She is brave and strong but not immune to falling for the charms of the striking and dashing vampires. Well actually she is immune to their charms due to her telepathy, but she is only human after all (for the most part), and is capable of some hilarious missteps. The weird, wild, and wacky world of Sookie Stackhouse is a masterpiece of imagination that seems to have no limits. Be careful. These books are highly addictive. Once you pick up the first, “Dead Until Dark,” you’ll be hooked. The good news is it won’t cost you a dime. I’ve found every book in the series at the Scottsbluff and Gering libraries. Visit Sookie at Bon Temps! Bon appetite. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. |
| Our View: County has some ‘splainin’ to do 2013-01-31 By |
| We applaud the Gering City Council for doing what we consider “the right thing.” At Monday’s regular council meeting, the plan was to have a first reading of a proposed ordinance that would levy a three percent cell phone and land line occupation tax on residents with the 69341 zip code. This tax would exempt schools and government entities, but would cause every resident and business to pay a three percent tax on telecommunications services. This meant that regardless of the size of your usage, you would be coughing up three percent after other taxes are factored out. Originally, the tax was intended to fund the Gering portion of Scotts Bluff County’s request for dollars to upgrade the Communications Center, which provides 911 and other law enforcement communication services. When Scotts Bluff County Communications Director Ray Richards began making the rounds to civic groups and area council meetings touting the need for upgrades, many shook their heads when he was unable to answer the simple question of why the county had not planned ahead for the obvious need for upgrades that was coming. When County Board Chairman Mark Masterton was asked the same question, the answer was a shoulder shrug accompanied by the unsatisfactory phrase, “budget shortfalls.” However, when one takes a close look at the budget over the last three years, more questions arise than worms appearing on the sidewalk after a rain. And the situation certainly does smell fishy. Some concrete answers to the following questions would sure clear things up: 1. The state has provided money collected by phone companies for 911 services, called E911, but Richards stated at the Gering council’s public safety meeting last week that “there are a lot of hoops to be jumped through to get this money.” Our question is, whose job should it be to jump through those hoops? Has every effort been made to claim these funds or is it just easier to ask cities to pick up the tab? 2. Who has the statutory authority for emergency communications at the state and federal levels to answer questions about public safety and E911 matters? 3. What has the county done to try to find the $349,000 requested? 4. Where is the itemized pricing list of all items that are being purchased and what is included in the list? Is it only technological items or are we also paying for clocks, desks, chairs, etc.? Until satisfactory answers are provided by the Scotts Bluff County officials regarding the 911 funding questions, Gering should be cautious, particularly when considering a new tax in an already tight economy. We commend the Gering Council for refusing to tax the residents of 69341 to pay for something we’re not sure we ought to pay at all. And that is not to say that we don’t see 911 and law enforcement dispatch services as critical to our community. We do. We just wonder why the county’s possible mismanagement of funds should be the cities’ problem. And speaking of ongoing support – While some council members seemed to be under the impression that the tax was solely for the benefit of this one-time payment for Communications Center upgrades, notably, Larry Gibbs, Don Christensen, Justin Allred, Julie Morrison and Jill McFarland, who verbalized this stance at Monday’s meeting, Mayor Mayo told us point blank that he wanted this tax to be a new revenue stream of ongoing support for Gering’s safety and security that could purchase new squad cars and fire trucks in addition to the ongoing support of the comm. center. But Gering already has a five cent public safety tax in place for just those purposes. We’re glad that the council saw it the way we do, and killed the ordinance Monday night. As councilman Christensen said, this is not the time to create a new tax. We believe such a tax would cripple families who barely scrape by as it is. Like it or not, cell phones are no longer a luxury item, they are a modern necessity. Scotts Bluff County has one of the highest poverty rates in the State of Nebraska, with too many children taking home “pup packs” on Fridays just to be able to eat over the weekend. As one visitor in the gallery put it, perhaps the Mayor hasn’t been forced to make the choice between eating dinner and buying formula. Not everyone buys $500 cell phones, Mr. Mayor. Budget constraints are a real problem. Cities and counties do need to be creative to find resources that meet the needs of the communities they serve. But one thing is certain. Before people are taxed for bad planning on the part of the county, a full accounting should be made of the county’s budget with regard to 911 funds received by the Public Service Commission and federal dollars earmarked for that purpose should be made. There is a well-known phrase, “Your lack of planning does not constitute an emergency on my part.” Emergency 911 services are critical and should be funded by the cities as a last resort if the county cannot do so. However, a serious look into the county’s books, perhaps even an audit, is warranted, particularly when city governments asked to foot the bill aren’t getting their justified questions answered. In addition, we need very careful oversight of what we are buying for these upgrades to ensure that we are purchasing the Ford we need, and not the Cadillac we want. |
| Across the Fence: Dull Knife’s Quest: Part 2 of 2 2013-01-31 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| On January 8, 1879 three Cheyenne Chief’s, with Dull Knife’s band, were taken from the barracks where they were being held at Fort Robinson. Capt. Harry Wessells hoped that by removing the leaders from the Cheyenne people that they would relent and agree to be returned to the reservation at Darlington. Each of the three leaders, Old Crow, Wild Hog and Left Hand, individually and collectively refused to voluntarily return to the Indian Territory Reservation at Darlington and were subsequently placed in irons and held in separate quarters. Their families were also taken from the barracks where Dull Knife and the others were being held and were confined along with the three leaders. Of the 149 Cheyenne who had been captured two months earlier, only 107 remained confined in the barracks with Dull Knife. The other 42, including Old Crow, Left Hand and Wild Hog were imprisoned in separate quarters, had perished or were confined to the post hospital. After seven days without food or heat and three days without water, the remaining 107 resolved that they would not surrender without a fight and planned a desperate escape. Although they had been searched for weapons, Dull Knife’s people had somehow managed to smuggle 5 rifles and 11 pistols into the barracks. How this was accomplished and how they were able to keep them hidden for over two months is the subject of some dispute. Some claim that the women had hidden the weapons under their clothing and since supposedly chivalrous soldiers would not dare to search a woman, the weapons were undetected. Others claim that the weapons were dismantled and the parts were worn as trinkets on necklaces, bracelets and hair ornaments and hidden under blankets. Still others maintain that, over the two months of captivity, various weapons were smuggled in to the barracks and hidden under the floors. Nevertheless, however the arsenal was accumulated, the armament was critical to the success of the planned escape. The daring breakout was to be led by warriors of the Elk Society. Armed with some of their few weapons, they would break through the windows of the barracks and set up a line of defense against the soldiers guarding the barracks, who were bound to attack, once the breakout began. Next, the warrior society of Dog Soldiers, those charged with the responsibility of protecting the women and children, would set up a secondary line, protecting those who fled into the moonlit night. Throughout the skirmishing, other warriors would gather up the weapons and ammunition of the soldiers killed and arm themselves against the pursuit that would inevitably ensue. The night of January 9, 1879 a full moon shone brightly across the snow-covered prairie near the fork of White River and Soldier Creek. Nearly a foot of snow blanketed the grounds of Fort Robinson and the temperature had dropped to well below zero. Into this freezing prairie emptiness, 39 men with 68 women and children, weak from the cold and days without food or water, with no supplies or adequate clothing, would break from their prison. They planned to complete the final 100 miles of their 800-mile journey to return to their ancestral home, to live free upon the land of their fathers or willingly die in the pursuit of that quest. At 10 o’clock that night, the sentries were startled by the sharp clatter of shattering glass. From out of the broken barracks windows a half-dozen warriors leaped like startled deer ahead of a rushing prairie fire. Aligning themselves as a human fence, between the barracks buildings, they set up a line of fire and held back the advancing troops that charged the Cheyenne defenses. While other Cheyenne broke down the bars that blocked the prison doors, the Dog soldiers attacked wildly while the old men, women and children fled into the night. The Dog soldiers continued to fight until eight of the ten were killed by troopers. Several U.S. soldiers were wounded but only one was killed during the breakout. Among the first of the Cheyenne to escape was Dull Knife along with his wife Pawnee Woman, his youngest son Little Hump and two of his daughters. As they fled across the moonlit expanse the Elk warriors and remaining Dog soldiers continued to cover their escape without much effect. Meanwhile, troopers had assembled and pursued the fleeing Cheyenne on foot and horseback. The last Cheyenne to leave the gaping doors of the fort barracks were three women, each clutching babies. All three were shot through the back, killing each woman and the child she carried. One of those women was Dull Knife’s daughter. The fleeing Cheyenne were pursued into the hills and ravines to the north and west of Fort Robinson. Several times, during the next two days, troopers would return to the fort for fresh mounts, food, warmth and rest then rejoin the relentless search for the escaped prisoners. Their orders were to kill or capture as many as possible. Among the Cheyenne who fled were Big Antelope and his wife. Both were wounded as they ran and fell near each other. Big Antelope’s wife pulled herself closer to her husband and was shot again as she crawled to him. As they lay together in the snow they spoke to one another and Big Antelope said it would be better to die than to be captured and returned. He drew his knife quickly across her throat then plunged the bloodied blade into his own heart. During the next two days the soldiers scoured the surrounding area and brought the dead and wounded back to the fort. The dead were stacked like frozen logs and the wounded were treated in the fort hospital. Most of those injured died of their wounds. Most were women and children. On the 11th of January, troopers under the command of Capt. Lawton cornered a small group of Cheyenne. A brief skirmish ensued during which one of the trooper’s horses was shot and killed. Fearing that the starving Indians might butcher and eat the horse, he detailed two men to burn it and remain with the horse until it was reduced to ash. During the two days following the mass escape, three more soldiers were killed while routing the Cheyenne. Those Cheyenne who escaped the first two days of pursuit fled to the northwest toward their homeland in Montana on The Rosebud. They were discovered and surrounded on the 22nd of January on the open plains near Hat Creek, about 45 miles northwest of Ft. Robinson. They were just a few hundred yards from the sight where, three years earlier, Buffalo Bill Cody had killed the Cheyenne warrior Yellow Hand at the Battle of War Bonnet Creek and claimed the first scalp to avenge Custer’s defeat. On spotting the approaching troopers the Cheyenne ran for the cover of an old buffalo wallow about fifty feet in length, a dozen feet wide and nearly six feet deep. Four companies of the Third Cavalry, nearly 150 men, surrounded the wallow and opened fire on the seventeen men and fifteen women and children who hid there. After nearly half an hour they ceased the barrage and approached the edge of the wallow. As they approached three Cheyenne warriors charged up and over the edge of the wallow. They were immediately cut down. One of the warriors brandished an empty revolver, the other two carried clubs. All of the men and boys and several of the women who had taken cover in the wallow were dead. When the soldiers removed the bodies they discovered three women, alive, who had been covered and protected by the men. A wagon detail was sent out to gather up the bodies and while soldiers loaded the frozen corpses, local trophy hunters and some soldiers gathered blankets, moccasins, knives, pipes, jewelry and scalps from off the dead. After the breakout Dull Knife along with his wife and daughters had hidden in a cave a short distance from Ft. Robinson. For five nights they remained hidden until the troopers ended the search in that area. Then they began a thirteen-day trek, in sub-zero weather, to walk the seventy miles to the Pine Ridge Reservation. They survived on scarce berries and frozen roots and finally ate the sinew from their clothing and the leather uppers of their moccasins in order to stay alive. Of the 107 Cheyenne, who made the courageous break for freedom, all of the men in Dull Knife’s band, 39 in all were killed, along with 8 women and 15 children. The survivors numbered 45 women and children. Dull Knife, his wife, two surviving daughters and one son were allowed to stay at Pine Ridge with their Sioux brothers. Dull Knife died in 1883. His quest, to return with his people to The Rosebud, was never completed. Today, his many descendants continue to honor his legacy and memory on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. |
| Life in the Rearview Mirror: Personal control of an individual response 2013-01-31 By Glenn Hascall |
| Death has always been a reality. From the day of our birth we march relentlessly toward a chilly embrace. Yes, that is a stark opening comment, but deep down we accept this as a hard truth worthy of avoidance. But the stories we may recall are moments when family would gather to participate in the passing of a loved one. Not always easy to be sure, but there was a sense of a final rite of passage that was grudgingly accepted. I remember receiving news of classmates who journeyed on before it seemed life could be fully embraced. It seemed senseless – heartless. Still, the world soldiered on seemingly oblivious to the wounded hearts left in its wake. Today we look to Connecticut and Texas as recent examples of a world that seems to have gone mad in an era where the world as we know it has been changing. Gone are many of the internal guides some call conscience that alerts us to the wrongness of actions. Concern for others is expressed less and our hearts can only seem to grieve so long before we embrace diversions that stop us from thinking about this place in which we find ourselves. We would all likely agree that bullying is a problem in school culture, but I think there is a problem that is far more prevalent – a lack of forgiveness. This is not to excuse the act of bullying, but by pursuing a greater degree of perfection among students I wonder if it's possible to foster the role of victims who believe justice can come from their own hands. Sadly, my observation is that this misplaced sense of personal justice is glorified in video games, shown on television, and often is meted out to those who are innocent. Perhaps I am alone in my belief, but I have considered the possibility that the issue is less about school bullying, gun control, and video games. It seems that a like candidate is the condition of the human heart. I have always loved the quote, “A lack of forgiveness is like drinking poison hoping it kills the other person.” When we fail to forgive others we are usually the one who suffer most. When we marinate our souls in the stink of unforgiveness we should not be surprised when we express anger that is generally pointed in the wrong direction. We could long for days past when things seemed a slightly more brilliant shade of perfect, but even that is a mirage. When we remember the good old days we are often only remembering the best of difficult days. I'm certain my daughter and son are tired of hearing me say this, but I firmly believe that the only person we have any control over is – ourselves. I can't control you – you can't control me. When I face each day with a desire to end it with self-respect then it alters the way I interact with others. The way I treat others will also change, and my expectations of others also bends to a less entitled direction. We each stand responsible for our own actions. I want to spend my life so involved in living I don't have much room left for unforgiveness, envy, anger and bitterness. No, I don't always manage perfect days, but forgiveness is the place I want to return to over and over again. Why? The alternative shows up regularly in newscasts that try to analyze how someone got to the place where such violence was possible. Controlling individual responses – it's everyone's opportunity to alter our future. |
| Five Good Reasons to Create an Investment Strategy 2013-01-31 By Jess Pilkington |
| Some people buy investments here and there, now and then. Others open an Individual Retirement Account (IRA), put some money in it, and then forget about it. But this type of haphazard investment behavior can lead to haphazard results. On the other hand, you’ve got five good reasons for creating and following a comprehensive, long-term investment strategy. • Reason No. 1: You want to enjoy a comfortable retirement lifestyle. For most people, building resources for retirement is the most powerful reason to invest. As a key part of your investment strategy, you’ll want to consider investments that have growth potential. The proportion of your portfolio devoted to these growth investments should be based on your individual risk tolerance and time horizon. And, as you move much closer to your actual retirement date, you may decide to shift some — but certainly not all — of your portfolio from growth-oriented vehicles to those investments that can provide a reliable income stream and incur less volatility. • Reason No. 2: You need to stay ahead of inflation. Over the past few years, we’ve experienced relatively low inflation, but over time, even a low inflation rate can dramatically erode the value of your savings and investments. That’s why you may want to consider investments that provide the potential for rising income. • Reason No. 3: You need to help manage the unexpected. You can’t predict what life will hold in store for you. To cope with unexpected costs, such as a major car repair or a new furnace, you’ll need to create an emergency fund containing six to 12 months’ worth of living expenses so that you won’t be forced to dip into your long-term investments. And to deal with other major uncertainties of life, you’ll need adequate life and disability insurance. • Reason No. 4: You need resources for major life events. Your retirement may eventually require the bulk of your financial resources — but it’s not the only milestone for which you’ll need to save and invest. You may need a down payment on a house, or you may someday even want to purchase a vacation home. And if you have children or grandchildren, you may want to help them pay for college. • Reason No. 5: You’ll want to keep in mind investment-related taxes. Taxes, like inflation, can eat into your investment returns. You’ll need to evaluate whether you can benefit from tax-advantaged investments and retirement accounts, such as traditional or Roth IRAs. So there you have it: five good reasons to adhere to a unified investment strategy that’s tailored to your situation. This type of “blueprint” may not sound glamorous, and it’s certainly not a “get rich quick” formula, but it will help you stay on track toward your important financial goals. Editor’s note: This article was provided by Jess Pilkington at Edward Jones in Gering. |
| From the Superintendent’s Desk - District purchase of building 2013-01-25 By Don Hague |
| A hearing was held on Jan. 21 prior to the regular Board of Education meeting for the purpose of allowing any individual that would like to address the Board concerning the purchase of the former Western Heritage building on 10th St. in Gering. The board was made aware of the availability of this building over a month ago and went through an extensive study to determine the feasibility of this purchase. First, the Gering Public School District is like the majority of districts in Nebraska; due to lack of funding for education and specifically state aid, we are operating under a tight budget this year and would expect to see the same situation for the immediate future. So where does the money come from to support this purchase? Our $1.05 tax levy is split between the General Fund, which receives around $1 and a couple of other funds, one of which is the building fund. The building fund is approximately a five cent levy and generates around $300,000 a year in revenue. The money can only be used for large building expenditures. During the past few years this fund was used to replace windows at the high school, build science classrooms at the high school, build a vocational building at the high school, air-condition all the elementary buildings and add five modular buildings to our grade schools to provide much needed space. This fund cannot be used for personnel salaries or benefits, which is about 85 percent of our total general fund budget. The Board is, and continues to be, committed to maintaining all of our educational facilities to provide the best learning environment possible. We are able to lease purchase this building which spreads of the cost over a seven year period at a low interest rate. The cost per square foot for the facility is around $50 and we could not begin to build for this figure. The building was recently housing a savings and loan business as well as offices for a law firm. The building does not require any remodeling and central office could move in as is. It provides a space much more appropriate for the size of operation we run and gives us a presence on Main Street, making us a more important part of the business community. The current central office has been in use for around 40 years and anyone who has visited the office over the past few years would agree it is time to upgrade. An example would be the restrooms within the central office are not handicap accessible. With the move of the central office, this stadium space will be utilized to house the district’s IT department which supports all technology throughout the district. It will also provide a space for bus drivers to meet prior to their routes. The move of the IT department out of the Freshman Academy wing of the Junior High facility will allow this space to be used as a classroom in the future. There are a couple of negatives; one is parking around the new building. We currently have eleven individuals who work full or part-time at the central office and our plan is to use public parking areas for staff rather than park on 10th St. to allow space for visitor parking. Second is the perception that we are spending money on what some would consider a lower priority than other facility needs. An opportunity like this does not come along very often and the Board is looking at the long range benefits. This move will serve as the District’s Central Office for the next 40 years. This also helps us establish an even better working relationship with the City, as our monthly board meetings can be held in the City Council meeting room. Over the past few years our efforts to work with the City has helped us be much more effective and effective with maintenance of our grounds and will only enhance our collaborative efforts in the future. Our plan is to begin this move within next couple of months. If you have any specific questions or would like to discuss this move, please to not hesitate to set up an appointment and I or any of our Board Members would be glad to visit with you about this issue. |
| Teen Voice: Catfished 2013-01-25 By Kendall Uhrich |
| Hi, I’m Kendall Uhrich and I’m a real person. No, I’m not some fifty-year-old man, claiming to be a teenage girl, but that is truly who I am. Many may think, “What an odd way to start off her column. I knew she was a teenage girl I can tell by the picture and the byline that she is a smiley teen with curly hair who looks like she lives a totally normal life.” But, although it may seem obvious that the picture seen is really who is behind these columns, in today’s society, these kinds of things cannot be assumed, especially online with a new trend called “catfishing.” It may sound strange to some, but the new term is used to describe the act of pretending to be a different person online, whether be it just to change a few details about oneself or to create a completely new and completely fake persona. This outrage has become apparent to those around the country with Notre Dame’s linebacker Manti Te’o and his recent “relationship” drama. Anyone with a Twitter account has most likely read many tweets talking about Te’o’s fake girlfriend. Seeing many of the people whom I follow getting up in arms about this news story got me wondering what all the fuss was about, so I did my research to find out just what had happened. It seems that Teo’o had met a girl online named Lennay Kekua, a 22-year-old who had been in a serious car accident in California, and then had been diagnosed with leukemia. Two years after Teo’o and Kekua began their relationship Kekua had lost her battle with cancer, but before passing on had sent this text to Teo’o: “Babe, if anything happens to me, you promise that you’ll stay there and you’ll play and you’ll honor me through the way you play.” So, instead of attending her funeral, Teo’o played the game, a tribute to her and her willingness to fight a battle she inevitably knew she would lose. But, if Teo’o had attended her funeral, he would have come to an empty church and to see his beautiful brunette not there, because, in fact, Lennay Kekua did not exist. His long-distance love was in all reality, a fake persona invented by a man by the name of Ronaiah Tuiasosopo. Teo’o had been catfished. Tuiasosopo had invented Kekua for reasons not yet discovered but he accomplished his unknown goal and kept it going for nearly two years. Creating a Facebook and Twitter account using pictures and becoming a very active status updater, Kekua seemed like a totally normal and beautiful young woman who was just unlucky enough to come down with a life threatening disease, but was lucky enough to grab the heart of a famous college athlete. But, when Tuiasosopo’s plan unraveled, news reporters later tracked down the realk woman whose pictures were used on Kekua’s profile. This woman was living in Torrance, Calif. She was confused, then horrified to find that she had become the face of a dead woman. “That picture,” she has been reported saying, “is a picture of me from my Facebook account.” To imagine the horror of this woman is astonishing. To imagine all of the news television stations flashing your picture and for every blog and online story to have the same picture of you, but with a completely different name and story would be more than even I could handle. Even to imagine the horror for Teo’o as he learned his love was all just a figment of his imagination, and that the woman he fell in love with was truly a man pulling off a huge stunt. “This is incredibly embarrassing to talk about,” Teo’o was reported saying, “But over an extended period of time, I developed an emotional relationship with a woman I met online. We maintained what I thought to be an authentic relationship by communicating frequently online and on the phone, and I grew to care deeply about her. To realize that I was the victim of what was apparently someone’s sick joke and a constant lie was, and is, painful and humiliating.” So, today I want to urge all of my readers to learn from this story. To let everyone know that becoming the victim of catfishing is so easy that even celebrities have gotten into it. Just because online there is a person who seems genuine, there is a strong possibility they are not. Only become friends with or follow people known and trusted. It is a big risk not to follow online safety rules. Not only just for children, but teenagers and adults alike. It’s typical to feel invincible online, like none of the horrific stories read will actually happen to us, but they can. Do not end up like Teo’o. Be yourself online and make sure that everyone else is as well. Report anything that looks out of the ordinary. Do not become the victim of a catfish. |
| Observations Only: Curious things 2013-01-25 By Nina Betz |
| During our daily outings I began to look past the obvious and notice some things that seemed odd. While seated with Hazel in a Chinese tea shop one day, I observed a group of women clad in black burqas walking along the street. They were probably a family of mothers, daughters and sisters. I watched them for a few minutes before noticing that some were obviously old and bent over, while some appeared to be young. The oddity was that they all walked with an irregular crab-like gait that belied their age, almost as if they were in pain. Hazel explained that female circumcision was very prevalent in that part of Indonesia and their awkwardness was due to scar tissue that made walking painful. Women who were forced to undergo such an operation are now writing about their ordeal in depth and are working diligently to get the practice outlawed. As a sheltered American woman it was shocking to observe the day-to-day suffering that has to be endured by these women for the rest of their lives and not just read about it. Traveling through the countryside I noticed other peculiar sights. Odd dirt formations the size of a one story building rose above the highway with tufts of grass and palm trees growing out of the top. Lloyd explained that all of the land was once at that elevation and the government cut away the jungle to make way for the highway, leaving the formations for some unknown reason. Another oddity observed was structures that consisted of a raised floor on stilts covered by a roof held up by poles. These were built in clearings in the jungle just off the highway. I asked Hazel about them because they didn’t appear to be used for anything. She explained that their religious custom forbids a boy to live in his childhood home with his sisters after reaching puberty. At the age of thirteen they are considered to be men and are sent to live in these structures until they take a wife. At first I was shocked to think of these young boys with no adult supervision but then I realized that I was reacting like an American mother. These boys had shelter from the elements and knew how to feed themselves; they didn’t require further care from their parents. While waiting at a stoplight in heavy traffic a motorcycle came up beside us with a husband and wife on board, and two children holding on to her waist. The woman was riding side saddle and was holding on with one hand. I was shocked by how dangerous it was. Hazel explained that their religious belief forbids a woman to touch a man in public, even her own husband. I was shocked to learn that some consider it necessary for a woman to risk her life and that of her children instead of holding on to her husband’s waist for safety because it might cause him to sin in his heart. On a lighter note, Hazel and I were entering a store at the same time as a Muslim man was leaving and almost collided with him. He was very dignified and wore a traditional dress complete with headdress. He was outraged that not only were two infidels in his way but we were females too. He glared at us and waited for us to give way. Hazel and I bowed to him, backed away with right arm extended indicating that he should precede us through the door. His countenance brightened immediately when we acknowledged our low status by showing him proper deference. To be continued |
| Completely Different: That’s so Pinteresting 2013-01-25 By Elizabeth Gross |
| These days it seems we live two lives. One life is spent doing average everyday human activities like going to work or washing our hair. Yet there is another life we live. One that hooks us into our computers, mobile phones, mp3 players, X-Box 360s, Playstation 3s, and tablets; the world of the Internet. The Internet has manifested itself into a whole other world. It keeps us connected with what’s going on in the world. It’s all the information we ever wanted, with the click of a button. But with great power comes great responsibility and nowadays the Internet is mainly used for politely stalking people via Facebook or looking up funny cat pictures. The Internet has become a hub of ideas to follow along with our social protocol of what is fresh. Trends fill our world everyday, whether it is the latest fashion or style of car. The Internet is no exception. Remember MySpace? You don’t? Don’t worry, no one else does either except those few who lived in the era of creating a space dedicated to your style. It was not merely a place to ask people how they were doing. You had to create background, a music icon box, upload pictures, find the right profile picture and more. I remember countless websites dedicated to helping users find those great backgrounds. All you had to do was highlight the html code, update your page, and presto your background was updated. I was in college when I figured out that MySpace was for kiddies and to be cool was to have a Facebook page. My roommate told me about Facebook and convinced me to sign up. I felt like one of those kids in the anti-drug commercials we used to watch in school all the time. I had given up on trying to be cool yet the peer pressure was too tempting. As I typed in the website URL I had this odd feeling like I was somehow taking a hit of cocaine instead of surfing the Internet. Well, myself and millions of other people now seek our hit from this horribly addictive website. I like to consider myself a somewhat hip twenty-something. Despite my lack of Internet access at home, I like to think I follow the trends of the Internet pretty well. I could tell you about the latest memes and what started it, and provide a list of the who’s who on YouTube. Alas, it is not enough as I find myself finding out about new Internet trends literally every other month. The latest trend to hit the net is a wonderful website called Pinterest. I discovered this site while following a story last year. The person I was interviewing told me they found inspiration for their project thanks to a website called Pinterest. Their facial expression told me “You know? Pinterest, that wonderful website, I thought you young people knew all about this sort of thing.” I didn’t ask what in the world Pinterest was, figuring I would look it up later. During my lunch hour I went over to my mom’s house. I love to tease my mother when it comes to all these latest trends. When I walked through the door, my mom was at the kitchen table with her laptop. I asked her if she had ever heard of a website called Pinterest. Her eyes went wide, sparkling, and her voice went up an octave, “You’ve never heard of Pinterest? Here let me show you!” I sat down next to her at the computer and watched as she showed me the ins and outs of this pretty creative idea for a website. Pinterest was launched in 2010 by Internet blogger Ben Silbermann. Silbermann was working as a consultant. Finding no fulfillment in that chosen career path, Silbermann teamed up with a college friend to design a phone app called Tote. Ultimately, the app failed but Silbermann found inspiration in failure. Combining a love of collecting, he and a college friend designed the website Pinterest. The site allows its users to create boards based on interest. They can then search through the various categories and pins to fill up a certain board. The site allows users to sign up using their Facebook page and share it on both sites. What is innovative about the site is that it has taken the entirety of the Internet and downsized it. Every pin allows the person to connect to the site it originally came from. The site has become a godsend for bloggers and Internet retailers. Their pins help to drive traffic to their site by finding common ground with their consumers. Pinterest is now one of the fastest growing social media websites, climbing faster than Facebook. After the interesting visit with my mother, I decided that I wanted to learn more about this Pinterest. I took my laptop to the nearest wireless connection and checked it out for myself. I browsed through the various categories they offered. First, I tried out the photography section. It was easy to use and kind of interesting. Moving on to the next category I saw that they had a one called Geek. I clicked on the section, angels sang from the heavens as my browser was filled with all of my favorite fandoms. I may have whispered “It’s beautiful.” To me, that was the deal breaker and I signed up. Once I clicked the sign up icon I noticed that there were two ways to sign in; make a user name or via your Facebook. Suddenly, I felt that peer pressure again from when I started Facebook. Was Facebook some sort of gateway drug to a new kind of heroin called Pinterest? Long story short: yes it is. Pinterest is just as addicting, if not worse than Facebook. I’m slowly starting to see why so many people are flocking to this website. While you can make comments on pins there is no fighting, name calling, or hate. Facebook fills you with rage while Pinterest fills you with supper (because of a pin you found with 500 ways to use a Crockpot). This site is what social media should be; a fun escape from the ‘real’ world, a place where people can share ideas, dream, and find inspiration. If you can have any addictions to the Internet make it Pinterest. |
| Jane’s Secret, Part XVIV: Crystal Waters 2013-01-25 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| On any given day, Jones mercantile is buzzing with activity; but when Jane walks right up to the counter, everything stops. The men in the room suck in their breath waiting for her to speak, paying no mind to Hazel and Bridget who are trying to be invisible at a table in the corner. “Can you believe her nerve,” Bridget whispers, aghast at Jane’s forward behavior. “I hope they don’t notice us,” Hazel giggles. “They won’t, Jane will see to that,” Bridget whispers, with a knowing smirk. “I’m looking for a few men to help me; any of you men willing?” Jane announces, ignoring the whispers and cat calls. “Well sure, count me in little lady” “I got nothin’ else to do but help a pretty lady.” “Naw, you don’t want them, my buddy and I can do you a good turn.” “I will take you and you, and you two over there,” Jane says, pointing at them, enjoying Harvey’s embarrassment. “What my wife means is, I want to hire some men to do a day’s work,” Harvey says icily, effectively silencing the overeager volunteers which makes the argumentative old men’s voices seem even louder than they actually are. Harvey is about to ask for the men’s names when he overhears the words ‘Clemp girls’ and begins listening to the conversation. “Ain’t shutting my mouth and I ain’t layin’ a card; got me somethin’ to think about.” “You old buzzard, I got me a good hand and you got thinkin’ to do.” “Well, don’t that beat all.” “Can’t help it, a rider rode up fast while I was out back; said he was lookin’ for the sheriff. Said a man got hisself clawed real bad by a big cat and bled to death; thought he was hitched to one of them Clemp girls.” “I’m thinkin’ I should maybe say somethin’, and it won’t hurt getting’ a close up look at her face.” “Well I’ve had a bellyful of the two of you fightin’ and snortin’ like a couple of old bulls lookin’ at each other across a fence, and not likin’ what you see. Do what you gotta do so we can get back to playin’ cards.” “Did I hear my wife’s family name mentioned?” Harvey asks from across the room, walking slowly toward the table. “You’re old Rupert’s boy, aren’t ya,” George says, too old to be nervous under Harvey’s scrutiny. “Yes I am, but you didn’t answer my question,” Harvey snaps. “Well it’s like this,” George says, trying not to squirm. “A rider came by asking for the sheriff, said a man married to one of the Clemp girls got clawed by a big cat and bled to death. I was just tellin’ the boys here when you came in with the ladies, that’s all I was saying. I was just gettin’ my nerve up to come tell you, except you was busy with your wife,” George snickers. “When was this?” “Maybe twenty minutes ago,” George replies. “Appreciate it,” Harvey says, flipping him a coin. “Thank you, sir, don’t mind doing another fella a good turn,” George gabbles, picking up his cards and slapping down an ace. Harvey mulls over the information for a few minutes, deciding what to do. “Jane, we’re leaving,” Harvey says, abruptly taking her arm and forcing her to walk toward the door with him. Hazel and Bridget glance at each other, and wordlessly gather up their things to follow. “Harvey, we haven’t hired the men,” Jane complains, trying to peel his fingers off her arm. “And we’re not going to, I’ll explain in the automobile,” he growls in her ear. “Oh very well,” she snaps, wisely giving in. “I assume we’re leaving because of what the old man told you,” Jane crabs, when they’re settled comfortable in their seats. “I think Red’s been killed and we’re going to the ranch house.” “Oh,” is all Jane can think of to say for a few minutes, privately thinking about the inconvenience of it all and how typical of Molly to choose a husband who gets himself killed at the worst moment. Harvey has forgotten about the ladies and is considering the ramifications of Molly being a pregnant widow with a ranch to manage and the possibility of purchasing the ranch or managing it for her. Hazel thinks about the many hardships Molly will have to endure and feels sorry for her while Bridget considers it a sad state of affairs but not her concern. They ride in silence, each considering the import of the dire news. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ How pretty, Molly muses, trailing her fingers in the crystal clear water flowing at her feet, delighting in the myriad of colors within its depths. “Why are you here, it’s not your time?” She raises her eyes, searching but not finding the owner of the voice. Boats of many colors, shapes and sizes are moving along the river, some carrying many people and some just one or two. A small, cobalt-blue boat with silver fittings rests against the bank. She knows that this is her boat and she is supposed to get in. Settling back on the cushions, Molly marvels at colors so beautiful they can’t be described as the little boat moves into the flow of the river. A golden pink mist envelops the boat and then it clears, gradually revealing a being glowing with light, reclining on the cushions beside her. “You haven’t answered the question of why you are here,” says the being in a familiar voice. “Mama?” “Yes darling.” “Oh mama, Red was killed and I don’t want to live without him.” “It’s not your time, you have to go back,” says Pearl. “You are going to have twins, their names are Pricilla and Robert. They have an important mission to fulfill and you must go back and assist them,” says Pearl. “But Mama, I can stay with you can’t I?” says Molly. “No child, you must go back; your children have a destiny to fulfill. When it’s your time I will be here again.” The little blue boat moves out of the current toward the riverbank and Molly steps out. In the ranch house Gertrude and Clem are gathered around the bed anxiously watching as Stephen checks Molly’s neck for a pulse. “Molly, wake up,” he shouts, slapping her hard across both cheeks. Molly sucks in a huge gulp of air. “She’s back with us, thank God. I’ll build up the fire; we need to warm her up quickly,” says Stephen, putting her in charge of Molly and hastening out of the room. “Let me do that,” Clem says, following him out, struggling to keep his voice even. “We’ll do it together,” Stephen says, recognizing his own fear reflected in Clem’s eyes. “Molly you’ve got to stop scaring us like this,” Gertrude scolds, sitting down beside her on the bed. Molly’s eyes flutter open. “Red’s gone away from me,” she says, glancing at him laying cold and still beside her on the bed, her eyes filling up with tears. “I know dear,” Gertrude says, taking her cold hands in hers, tears flowing down her own cheeks. Molly is quiet for a few minutes gazing at Red’s face beside her. “I’m all right now; I just wanted to go with him,” she says, turning back toward Gertrude. Then she smiles. “I’m believe that I am hungry as that bear Pa always talks about.” |
| Across the Fence: Dull Knife’s Quest, part 1 2013-01-25 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| On the night of September 9, 1878 the last remnants of Northern Cheyenne, under the leadership of Chief’s Dull Knife and Little Wolf, ‘jumped’ the Darlington reservation on the northern banks of the Canadian River. The 700-mile journey, that they would make, created a legacy of remarkable courage, determination and human endurance. That same journey would also leave in its path a bitter legacy of violence, bloodshed and brutal revenge. Perhaps it will always be that among those who seek peace and quiet refuge there will also be those who only seek the chaos of war. Two years earlier, after the battle of The Little Bighorn, the Northern Cheyenne were rounded up and shipped to the designated Cheyenne reservation at Darlington, Oklahoma Territory. Despite the protests of the Cheyenne, who had been assured that they would be returned to their homelands on the Rosebud in Montana, that particular treaty was ignored and the Northern Cheyenne were shipped south. Dull Knife and Little Wolf were assured that there would be plenty of game in the area to hunt in addition to the promised subsidies. Both promises proved to be false and after a year, most of the Cheyenne had perished from disease and starvation. Because of these conditions, Dull Knife and Little Wolf agreed to lead their people back to their native home. Dull Knife believed there were only two alternatives, either death on the reservation or death on the long journey with the remote possibility of at least some of his people reaching the Rosebud. The long, improbable journey was worth the risk and death by any other means was preferred over death on the reservation. Dull Knife and Little Wolf hoped to avoid detection and travel mostly at night, avoiding the inevitable Army troops and to minimize the risk of encountering the increasing numbers of white settlers in Kansas Territory. However, another leader among the Cheyenne, Wild Hog was equally intent on a path of war and revenge that included slaughter, rape and plunder. History has named the breakout ‘Dull Knife’s Raid’ and when word of the Cheyenne leaving the reservation came out, newspapers reported that Dull Knife, the ‘panther of the prairie’ had escaped and that settlers, farmers and ranchers throughout Kansas and Nebraska were in grave danger. Dull Knife was 68 years old and he and Little Wolf led a group of 353 people. Those consisted of 92 men, about half of which were old men, 120 women and 141 children, hardly a Cheyenne war party. And it was Little Wolf, not Dull Knife, who was likely the greatest warrior chief among the Cheyenne. It would be Little Wolf’s defensive, tactical strategies that would prevail over the thousands of U.S troops that were sent out to stop them. Sheridan’s orders to General Crook were clear, any and all measures were to be taken to kill or capture the fleeing Cheyenne. The first battle was fought at Turkey Creek on the Oklahoma-Kansas border. It was a brief skirmish with U.S. troops withdrawing soon after engaging the Cheyenne defenses. The fleeing band of Cheyenne were in Kansas at Cimarron Crossing on the Arkansas River when Colonel William H. Lewis was dispatched from Ft. Dodge. He and his troops intercepted the Cheyenne at Punished Woman’s Fork near the Smoky Hill River. At this battle, the old men, women and children hid in a cave near the river while the Cheyenne warriors set up a defensive position between them and the approaching soldiers. In the ensuing skirmish, Colonel Lewis suffered a fatal leg wound. After the troops withdrew, Dull Knife and Little Wolf continued to lead their followers north. Colonel Lewis would be the last Kansas Cavalry officer to die during the Plains Indian Wars. On the last day of September the Cheyenne crossed Sappa Creek near present day Oberlin, Kansas and into Nebraska. During the western Kansas crossing several small bands of warriors did make deadly raids away from the larger body of travelers. Their purpose was to steal provisions, food, clothing, weapons and ammunition. Wherever a settler, cowboy or teamster was found, they were attacked and killed and their horses and weapons taken. A dispatch from Fort Wallace stated: “…about 25 miles north of Buffalo Station they commenced killing settlers, and so far 17 dead bodies have been found along Sappa Creek. The Indians do not go out of their way at all to kill white people, but if they meet a man on horseback they kill him and take his horse. They are now 80 or 100 miles north of the Kansas Pacific Railroad, with troops pressing pretty hard. They have killed no women nor children and have not thus far mutilated the bodies of their victims.” However, not stated in the dispatch was an instance where three white women were attacked and raped. The suspected warriors were later arrested and sent back to Kansas for trial. They were turned over to Deputy U.S. Marshall ‘Bat’ Masterson who escorted them to jail. At the trial, the prosecuting attorney was unable to prove their guilt and all were released. From Oberlin, Kansas the band of refugees cut across southern Nebraska toward the Platte River and in early October crossed the Platte at Ogallala and headed northwesterly across the Panhandle. As they crossed into Nebraska, hundreds of troopers from Camp Sidney were dispatched west and east along the route of the Union Pacific in an attempt to intercept the so-called hostiles and end their northward march. Somehow, the entire band slipped by unnoticed. Once into the western edge of the Nebraska Sandhills, Dull Knife and Little Wolf decided to split their bands. Little Wolf and his followers, which included not only a number of women and children but also a majority of the younger warriors, scattered throughout the rugged Sandhill terrain and being well hidden, settled in for the winter. Dull Knife resolved to find Red Cloud’s camp that, unknown to Dull Knife, had been moved to Pine Ridge. Late October of 1878 had ushered in an already brutal winter. Sub zero temperatures took a dreadful toll on those who followed Dull Knife. On the 25th of October troopers from Fort Robinson intercepted Dull Knife and his people. In the midst of a driving blizzard, the tired, hungry and worn out travelers surrendered. From then until late December, Dull Knife and his people enjoyed the comfort and hospitality of Fort Robinson. Although ‘detained’ the Cheyenne were treated like guests rather than prisoners. Their barracks were warm, meals were served, hunters were allowed to go out and hunt game, on condition that if they did not return, all privileges would be taken away. The Cheyenne men and women were even invited to the fort’s Christmas dance. The standing orders from Washington commanded the return of the Cheyenne to Darlington. However Dull Knife and his people refused to go, declaring that they would fight and die rather than return to the reservation. The post commander, Capt. Harry Wessells Jr. preferred not to use deadly force and tried to persuade Dull Knife that he must go. About the same time, the people of Dodge City, Kansas had called for the arrest of Wild Hog and his accomplices for the murders in Kansas. The pressure was on and Wessells then determined to use whatever means necessary to force the return to Darlington. The situation began to deteriorate rapidly. Four days after Christmas, Dull Knife’s son Bull Hump left the fort to go hunting and did not return. That night, during the distribution of the evening meal, the acting Sargent’s headcount was one short. Hoping to give the missing Bull Hump a chance to return, he did not immediately report his absence. Three days later, the headcount still one short, the missing Cheyenne was reported. Wessells immediate action was intended to force the defiant Cheyenne to submit and agree to their return to Darlington. He ordered the doors of the barracks to be locked and barred with sentries posted around the building at all times. To provide further encouragement to comply, all food, water and fuel were denied. After three days, Dull Knife was summoned and Wessells tried to persuade him to give in. Dull Knife informed him that their wives and daughters had encouraged the men to fight and die if necessary, but to never agree to return to the reservation at Darlington. The January weather was bitterly cold and though the barracks provided shelter from the biting wind, with no fuel for the barracks stove, the imprisoned Cheyenne were near freezing. By the seventh day without food or water, the prisoners were becoming weaker but no less determined to be free. Mothers held their children up to the frost-covered windows so they could lick the frozen moisture from the panes. Although surrender was not an option and death would be a welcome freedom, starvation while locked away from the land and the sky held little honor. Dull Knife and his people were willing to fight and die for their freedom. Chains and barricades and armed sentries would not hold them. |
| Our View: County Manager option leads to Good Old Boys' Club 2013-01-24 By Gering Citizen editor@geringcitizen.com |
| State Senator Harms has once again proposed legislation (LR12CA) that would place a Constitutional Amendment on the statewide ballot in 2014 making it possible for counties to implement a County Manager form of government under a majority vote by election of the people. This is a terrible idea, one that was supported in its earlier version (LR2CA) by Scotts Bluff County Commissioner Mark Masterton. LR2CA died in committee but the idea keeps rearing its ugly head in new incarnations. Currently, the people of Scotts Bluff County elect their own representatives. County Commissioners are also elected. Their job is to manage the County budget, oversee elected officials who run individual departments such as the Register of Deeds, County Clerk, Sheriff, County Assessor, County Treasurer, County Attorney, Public Defender, and those who are appointed to positions within county government. Fewer elected officials will not serve the people of Scotts Bluff County best, although Harms suggests the County Manager form of government will save the taxpayers money. How? Can someone explain how it works that by adding an expensive professional position to the county staff, we the people will save money? No one has said yet which jobs would be eliminated under the county manager form of government, probably because there isn’t a plan for that. What the plan does do is increase government and county payroll. It does not trim the budget. What the plan also does is take a lot of power out of the people’s hands and put it directly into the hands of a small group of elected commissioners, who then have the authority to appoint one person to do their bidding. That county manager will do as the commission wants, and will serve at the pleasure of the commission, not the people. Our electoral ballots will shrink. Elected officials who received a vote of confidence from the public every four years could see themselves terminated after years of faithful service. The unspoken, underlying reason will often be because the county board found them “troublesome.” Oh, it won’t be that simple. Excuses will be given that so and so is not really qualified, they lack the education, etc. to really do the job justice. But in reality, it’s a means for the power brokers of this community to rid themselves of people who are inconvenient. That’s the bottom line because we’ve seen it happen. A review by the electorate every four years is quite enough oversight and we’d like to keep it that way. We also believe that people who are elected by their own neighbors and community members have a great interest in running things well, because it’s their county too and they must answer their family, friends and neighbors’ questions when things aren’t going right. There is no reason to move us to a County Manager form of government. None. If LR12CA is passed by the Legislature, the stage would be set to create a more closed form of government. If Scotts Bluff County voters then decide to implement the County Manager form of government it would amount to firing county officials who were put into office by the voters themselves. It’s the voters’ job to choose the people for important positions within county government. And if some elected official isn’t doing his or her job, it’s the responsibility of the voters to remove that official through the ballot box, by putting someone up for election against them, or by running themselves. That system has worked pretty well so far. All a County Manager form of government would do is to create a ripe opportunity for more cronyism and we’re not interested in any more back slapping than we already have around here. |
| From the Superintendent’s Desk : Draft Calendar 2013-14 2013-01-17 By Don Hague |
| During the past couple of months we have been developing a calendar for the 2013-14 school year. The calendar is being shared with all Board Committees, as well as staff, during this month and will be on the February agenda for approval. The complete draft is available on the districts web site at www.geringschools.net. There are not a lot of significant changes from this year’s calendar. The school year will begin for students the week of Aug. 19. The first day for all high school and 7th grade students will be Aug. 20. August 20th will also be kindergarten orientation from 9-11 a.m. so parents will have the opportunity to bring their kindergarten student to the school to become acquainted with the building, classrooms and staff. The first day for Pre-K through 6th grade will be Aug. 21 with an early dismissal for PreK-6 at 1 p.m. This will allow staff to make any necessary adjustments to be prepared for the first full day for all elementary students on Aug. 23. The first nine week period ends on Oct. 18 with a teacher workday. The following week parent/teacher conferences will be held in the evening and on Oct. 25 there will be no school for staff or students. There will be an early dismissal on Nov. 27 for Thanksgiving vacation and on Dec. 20 for Christmas vacation. There is a full two week break between semesters for all students before they return to school for the second semester on Jan 6. A winter break is scheduled for Feb. 13-14 for staff and students and there is no school for students on Feb. 17 as staff will be having an in-service day. Parent/teacher conferences will be held during the following week with no school for staff or students on March 21. Easter break will be on April 18 and April 21. High school graduation will be held on May 18 and the school year will end for students on May 22. Make up days, if needed, are scheduled following Memorial Day. Early release days for the elementary schools are scheduled every Wednesday and there are seven early release days scheduled for the junior high and high school. The specific start times and ending time of the schools days for each building will be developed later this spring as we work with First Student, who provides student transportation, to develop the most effective and efficient routes for the 2013-14 school year. The times will more than likely be a little different from this year. Again, the 2013-14 draft calendar is available on the district’s website and will become official with the Board of Education’s approval at the regular Board Meeting in February. |
| A Stray Moment : Carry the weight 2013-01-17 By Doug Harris dougharris@geringcitizen.com |
| There is a cold wind blowing out there. Are we ready for the storm? I suppose we can never be fully ready even when we see what is approaching on the horizon. We can brace ourselves and prepare ahead of time but we never really know when the hammer is going to fall. Our communities are grieving now. The tragic loss of three young women, all in their late teens, in less than one week, has shocked and hurt us. I can think of no better word than hurt. I knew the family of one of these girls but it doesn't matter if we have a personal connection or not. This type of pain is a universal fear. We can lend our hearts and compassion as a family of neighbors in our small towns. When tragedy lands this close to our own doorsteps we can't help but be shaken. Here goes Harris again with his doomsaying and grim assessment of reality. I'm not fixated on the shadows of life but winter's dark days and gray skies do make it harder to find the sunshine. I guess that leaves us with the only option of comforting one another. It is like we are all together on a ship being tossed on a stormy ocean. We have to remind each other of brighter days and hold our hopes on calmer seas ahead. But sometimes sad things happen. Sometimes we hurt. We carry the weight. I can pan the camera outside of our community to see we are still recovering from the storm called Sandy. We are still trying to piece together a rational response to the other terrible storm called Sandy Hook. Focusing closer to home, along comes yet another shooting in Aurora, Colo.. Looking directly at Scottsbluff/Gering, now three local girls killed in two different horrible automobile accidents? I lost two great friends last year and learned today a classmate from my graduating class lost his long battle with a chronic illness. Will there be Justice for Juliet? And deepest to my heart, my own dear father died on January 6th. How much are we expected to take? All of it. And after we take that, no doubt fate will come along and offer us another portion. We can count on it as sure as black ice on the highways and deep fog on a frosty night near the river. We carry the weight. But there is hope. There really is. Our minister reminded my family that my father died on the day of Epiphany. Epiphany is traditionally considered one of the final chapters of the story of the Nativity. It is considered a holy day among many Christian sects. Epiphany (from the Greek) means 'manifestation.' It is sometimes called Theophany meaning 'vision of God.' Most of us have probably heard the story of the three wise men bearing gifts. Without pretending to be some drugstore preacher the idea is the biblical Magi came to see a vision of God manifest on earth - suggesting salvation for the gentiles. I can think of worse days on which to die. I hope readers will forgive my dabbling with religious themes lately. It won't become a habit nor would it be appropriate. It is a privilege to write this column and offer my thoughts on many subjects, but the truth is I am an authority on nothing. The death of my dad is of course a very personal issue, but like the fears and pains noted above, the death of a parent is a near-universal event in the passage of life. Many reading this have laid to rest their fathers. In that respect my story isn't unique, but it is unique to me. I spoke at his funeral and started my eulogy noting that I'm glad we live in a world where the vast majority of us loved and were loved by our fathers. This love crosses all cultures and all nations on earth. Societies around the globe have different ways of life, different values, different laws and social customs, but the love between parent and child is a bond that seems to hold true the world over. When this bond is interrupted by change, by death, it would seem the void now created cannot be filled. That is probably exactly as it should be. That empty spot that was once occupied with a living wonderful person isn't going to be repaired. The person who occupied that spot can never be replaced. Perhaps in time we can smooth over the edges where today our heart feels partially ripped out. We can learn to live with the changes. We have to, don't we? There is no alternative. We carry the weight. I now know how it feels to lose a parent but I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose a child. I've been told by those who have lost children that it is the worst, a stark emptiness that gnaws at both the body and the spirit. But the world keeps turning. Other kids will grow up and live long happy lives while the departed become locked in time forever young. It is difficult to try to express my feelings. Originally, I had intended to write about the last few months with my father, but other happenings, other deaths, sidetracked my thoughts. I am better reminded how blessed and lucky I am that my father lived for 79 years, and only saw ill health in the last few. I am better reminded that all of his children are well over 40 years old and have lived fairly happy lives that haven't been visited by any deep traumas or lasting calamities. I am glad my parents were married for 56 years. My father is dead, and I am terribly sad about that, but I have to accept what good fortune we've had. I have to look at this gift of life with gratitude and not sorrow. The word epiphany is also used to describe an emotion or feeling; the 'eureka' moment of a new and clear realization. This happened to me on the day my father died. He was at Regional West in the hospice program. Our family had gathered near and we were aware dad was going to leave us soon. My niece and I arrived to meet my mother and sister in dad's hospital room. We had planned to go to lunch and then return to our bedside vigil. I walked up to the bed and placed my hand on my father's forehead. I said, “You did a good job, dad. I love you. Go with God,” and right there and then he died. I knew his death was eminent but had not thought I would so intimately witness his last breath. My epiphany wasn't like a lightning strike. It was a realization that came upon me more like the manner of testing the waters in a cool lake, wading in slowly, and trying to acclimate before diving in. The feeling was sadness mixed with joy, certain knowledge that faith will be rewarded and that we had so many good long years together. To those now laying to rest those three young women from Gering and Scottsbluff, I offer my sympathy, and to some degree, my empathy. Death is a great teacher but it doesn't offer any easy lessons. Let's gather together as we remember our common bond as neighbors; let's reach out with love to ease the pain of those with broken hearts. No one need walk alone facing grief and sorrow. We cannot fix or undo harsh reality but standing together we can carry the weight. There is a cold wind blowing, but together we can face the storm. |
| Teen: Voice : Drinking enough water 2013-01-17 By Kendall Uhrich |
| Being the New Year I decided that I was going to join along in the “New Year, New me” excitement filling the panhandle and like I said in my New Year’s resolutions column, it is vital to make goals reachable and so for mine I decided it was easiest to simply drink the amount of water needed in a day. 64 ounces a day I read in multiple diet books, I thought that it wouldn’t be all that hard, but oh, was I wrong. I tried it for a few days and I discovered soon that I would have to take this water with me all day, and more trips would be taken to the bathroom than any place else. I quickly found that my average 16 ounces a day was nowhere near what I needed and doing 64 a day was nearly impossible. Upon trying for a day and not even coming close to the needed amount, I decided to do my research about why I do have to drink so much water just to keep in tip top shape and the conclusions I found I have felt important enough to share with my readers. I had never realized just how much of our bodies are actually made of water. Muscle consists of 75% water, the brain consists of 90% of water, bone consists of 22% of water, and blood consists of 83% water. It is no wonder that we must drink that much when a vital organ like our brain are almost completely made of this product. Not only are we made up of this substance, but most of our body’s functions are dependent on it. Water transports nutrients and oxygen into cells, moisturizes the air in lungs, helps with metabolism, protects our vital organ, helps our organs to absorb nutrients better, regulates body temperature, detoxifies our systems and protects and moisturizes our joints. So, even though I had felt like I was going to the bathroom all day and that my stomach was full, it was a good thing. The amount of water I was consuming was cleaning out my system and controlling my hunger. I began to feel more and more energetic the more I drank and I found that working out wasn’t quite the task it used to be, because the water is actually helping to regulate body temperature. Not only will it help out in the gym, but also in the classroom. Because the brain is made of 90% water when the system has more water to power it the brain functions more properly. My body was finally feeling the way it needed to, and in return I was in a much happier, and cheerier mood, even though the “3 p.m.” crash that I usually get. But, with all the benefits offered from drinking the water I needed to consume, I figured out with further research that there is also much harm from not drinking my eight glasses a day. Tiredness, migraines, constipation, muscle cramps, irregular blood pressure, kidney problems, dry skin, 20% dehydrated – Risk of death, just to name a few. This information can be found anywhere, but where most of my information has come from is from my family’s diet books, and Mangosteen website. So, drink up, even when you don’t think you are thirsty. I promise you will soon find that drinking that much water will make you feel better, eat less and become more energetic. It is something I have found true in my own life, and seeing that it is more than necessary, drink your 64 ounces of water every day. You’re only eight glasses away from better health. |
| Observations Only : White water 2013-01-17 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| Hazel and I were met by Lloyd’s driver at the airport in Medan. Their home in the gated Mobil Oil compound resembled what we think of as ranch style with large, cool rooms. The floors and walls were ivory colored and made of what looked like marble, creating the impression of a public building. Hazel explained that mold was a problem in homes and they used a lot of rattan furniture with brilliantly colored textiles to make the houses feel like a home. The other families living in the compound were excited for my visit and held a pot luck dinner in my honor but I was too tired to do little more than smile and murmur a few pleasantries. Medan is situated in the strictest Muslim province of Indonesia. Hazel emphasized the importance of never using my left hand to touch items for sale or to wave at someone because it is considered unclean and an abomination. I forgot once and waved at a woman using my left hand and received a horrified look in return; I solved the problem by clutching my purse with my left hand or holding it behind my back. Showing the soles of ones feet is also considered a grievous insult requiring some form of retribution. Hazel was proficient in their language and our excursions into the city and countryside were enjoyable. Lloyd made his driver available for us every afternoon and we made good use of his time, visiting outdoor markets in tiny villages and driving through the countryside. One of my favorite side trips was a visit to the Orangutan Viewing Center in the jungle canopy. Hazel warned me that if I wanted to go we would have to ford a major river. We set out the next day. The driver wended his way through tiny villages on dirt paths barely wide enough for the car to pass through until we came to a wide river flowing through a deep gorge. Cardboard shacks lined the sides and were stacked on top of each other creating an appearance of brick walls. Women were washing clothes at the water’s edge while naked children played nearby. The driver parked the car and we joined a tour group waiting to cross the river. The river ferry was a flat bottomed boat attached by a set of pulleys to a cable strung across the river. The bargeman would pull on ropes that would move the barge, bobbing and twisting in the turbulent current, to the other bank. White water rapids were within a stone’s throw downstream. Broken rigging or any mishap would plunge us all to our deaths. Hazel said we didn't have to go and left the decision up to me. I decided that if the others could do it, so could I. We paid the money and got into the boat, which was in even worse condition up close. There was a foot of water in the bottom and a man was dipping it out with a bucket. Our guide met us on the other bank and we began a two hour climb on a narrow path that wound through dense foliage to a viewing platform in the jungle canopy. We were lucky. A mother orangutan in all her orange glory sat grooming her baby about fifteen feet away from us. The guide said that, although wild, she appears to enjoy an audience. A loud thunder clap spoiled the tranquility and it began to rain heavily. The guide said if we didn't hurry down the mountain our path would soon be a river two feet deep. We literally ran down the mountain and made it safely to the other bank dripping wet but happy, despite an increasingly turbulent river. |
| From the Superintendent's Desk: School Safety and Security 2013-01-10 By Don Hague |
| School safety and security have always been a priority for Gering Public Schools. With the recent events, each school building is currently reviewing safety and security procedures, the district is conducting a safety review, as well. The administrators met on Jan. 4 to discuss our safety protocols and the recent incidents of lock downs and lock outs, and our communication methods. Over the past several years we have developed procedures at each building: Once students enter the building and school is started all doors but one are locked. All visitors to the building are expected to enter through the designated door and report to the office prior to going to any other area in the building. All staff are expected to wear identification badges and visitors are issued a visitor badge when they come check in at the building office. A couple of our buildings (Freshman Academy and Cedar Canyon) have been using a buzz in system once school has started primarily due to their particular situation. This is a system that we are in the process of installing at all district buildings over the next few months. All doors, including the door designated for entrance into the building, would be locked once school has started, or at a specific time established by the school. Visitors to the building would have to buzz in or call the office in order to be allowed entry to the building. A number of schools across the country have adopted this procedure as a safety measure in their schools. It is somewhat inconvenient for those wanting to visit a school, but this inconvenience is a small issue when compared to the peace of mind parents, students and staff have knowing this measure of security is in place in their school each and every day. Safety and security within the school is a concern for everyone, therefore everyone has a responsibility to help us maintain a safe learning environment for our staff and students. We have, and will continue to practice drills for these issues, just as we do for fire and tornado. It is also important for parents, staff and students to share any suspicious activity with the building administrators. As a district, we continue to have a positive working relationship with local law enforcement. We plan to implement a 2-way radio system which allows administrators to communicate directly with other administrators and/or law enforcement personnel. All administrators will carry these radios on their person while on duty. In the event of an emergency, they will not have to rely on land telephones or cell phones to communicate with each other. Communication has become more challenging now that social media instantly notifies a broad audience when an incident occurs. We plan to utilize Facebook and Twitter as a district to disseminate information as soon as we have facts available. You can find us on Facebook under “Gering Public Schools”. This is our first attempt as a school district to utilize social media as a communication tool. Our plan is to have this operational by Feb. 1. We also encourage parents to obtain an Infinite Campus portal account. This allows parents to monitor their child’s academic progress and to update their contact information. In an emergency, the district wants to be able to share pertinent information with parents as quickly and accurately as possible. Working together gives us the best opportunity to have the safest schools possible. |
| Completely Different: New Year’s Resolutions 2013-01-10 By Elizabeth Gross elizabethgross@geringcitizen.com |
| Happy New Year! I hope all of you had a fantastic holiday season. As you haul all of the Christmas decorations downstairs, I’m sure you’ve taken time to reflect on 2012. Was it everything you had hoped for? What do you wish you had accomplished? Never fear, with the New Year comes the New Year’s Resolution, the promise that this year you will make all of the positive changes that you were going to do last year. Yes, 2013 is going to be the year you’re finally going to lose weight, eat right, stop smoking, and reduce your stress levels. You proudly stand before your family like a hero on the mountain top, your metaphorical cape blowing in the breeze. This is the year that is going to change everything. Try as we may, statically, very few of us will actually follow through with our resolutions. So what is it about the New Year that makes us make promises we can’t keep? The history of the New Year’s Resolution takes us back as far as ancient Babylonia. During that time the New Year was marked by the spring equinox. Typically that day landed on March 23. It was time to begin the growing season. To celebrate, people would simply return farm equipment they had borrowed in the previous year. The Chinese New Year is typically in February. In China they follow the lunar calendar instead of the solar calendar. To celebrate, they would light firecrackers to destroy and ward off any bad spirits. One common trait many of these ancient cultures shared with the start of the New Year was based on that community’s growing season. Tradition then shifted during the Roman Empire. To mark the beginning of the New Year they exchanged gifts of coins with the god Janus printed on them. Janus was the god of beginnings and endings; his two heads represented looking back and looking ahead. The reason that many western cultures celebrate New Year’s on January 1 was not because of an agricultural reason but a civic one. January 1 was when newly-elected Roman officials took office. Celebrating the New Year was viewed as a pagan practice and was condemned by many early Christian churches; however, to ease the transition of its new followers, the church adopted the date as a celebration marking Christ’s circumcision. Deep rooted tradition could be the reason why we view the New Year as an opportunity for a clean slate. A chance to let go of any missed opportunities and missed guidance in order to begin the New Year. The funny thing about this is that typically we all share the same resolutions. The top five most common resolutions are getting fit, losing weight, quitting smoking, getting out of debt, and trying something new. Four out of five of these resolutions are due to a bad habit. As the saying goes “old habits die hard.” So, it’s no surprise that for every New Year’s resolution we make we are doomed to fail at them. Let’s look at the definition of resolution. Resolution is a firm decision to do or not to do something. While we might recognize a bad habit, very rarely are we ever really determined to fix it. There could be a number of reasons varying from straight up laziness to not really seeing anything that needs to be changed in the first place. Not every bad habit can go out of business like the spongy, cream-filled heaven that was the Twinkie. Yet every year millions of people sit around the last meal of the previous year and decide what could be changed for the New Year. When we look back at our old traditions something about the New Year gives us a glimmer of hope. Why do we fail at keeping those hopeful positive changes? To understand human nature, I turn to one source, Google. If you have a question about anything there are literally millions of answers to one simple problem. According, to Google there are exactly 122,000,000 reasons why we fail to keep our New Year’s Resolutions. But to save you a lot of reading, one of the most common reasons is that we jump in head first in changing or creating habits. It is impossible to stop behaviors like smoking cold turkey. If we are to create any sort of positive change it must be done gradually. We can’t simply wake up one morning, and will ourselves into a completely different behavior. According to Timothy Pychyl a professor of psychology at Carleton University in Canada New Year’s resolutions are simply a matter of “cultural procrastination” that we put off changing our behaviors until the New Year. The symbolism of a new beginning gives us “false hope syndrome,” which is why many people simple give up on their resolutions quickly. Then how does understanding the nature of the New Year’s resolution help us? Following a tradition is why we engage in a certain behavior in the first place. Whether you jump on the bandwagon or act simply as an observer you understand why people do what they do. Now, if you are someone that follows said tradition but fails, understanding why helps us to learn from our mistakes. I don’t think using the beginning of the New Year as a launch point is a bad idea; however, a changed behavior is something that takes a bit of planning. Getting caught up in the spirit and stress of the season doesn’t really give us much time to think about it. I think any time of the year is a good time to change your life for the better. Remember to take baby steps to keep yourself from getting frustrated. My New Year’s resolution is to do a lot less talking and more doing. I come up with ideas all the time on how to change my life. Instead of filling my mind with questions of ‘I wish I could,’ I will instead take more action to make that idea come true. I wish you luck in the New Year and hope all those positive changes really come true for you. |
| Teen Voice: Fifty reasons to smile 2013-01-10 By Kendall Uhrich |
| Yet again, as an over the top optimist I look around and I am saddened by how pessimistic those around me mindsets have gotten. Life is wonderful and I would love to share with my readers 50 reasons why I think so. Scratch that, why I know so. Wait, wait fifty reasons, Kendall? My readers may be thinking. Why, yes. I promise if life gives us all one reason to frown, I will do my best to provide all of those out there with 50 common reasons to smile and enjoy the little things. Finishing a book Making a new friend Looking at old photographs Making somebody laugh Reaching a goal you set for yourself Remembering childhood innocence Making someone feel wanted Going shopping and finding exactly what you went to the store for Giving someone a gift that they love Even if every week starts with a groggy Monday, it will always end with a Saturday Winning. Whether the jackpot in the lottery or just a pack of gum Watching your favorite movie over and over again Seeing every episode of your favorite television show Having intelligent conversation Becoming truly interested in what others have to say Wishing for someone else’s happiness instead of your own Doing something that other’s said you couldn’t do Being different than everybody else Traveling somewhere you have never been before Hearing the laughter of your best friend, or just hearing someone laugh Wearing comfortable clothes and not caring what you look like Getting a text message that makes your day Reading a classic book Writing down what you’re feeling Helping out a family member Hearing someone tell you that you’re good looking Saying hello to someone you really missed Listening to music that takes you back Hearing a motivational speech Eating a delicious meal that only gives you pleasant memories Living without fear of anything Failing at something then learning from it Getting a raise or complimented by the boss Getting complimented by a stranger on anything from your hair to your personality Getting to know someone and liking them more and more Doing better at something than you thought you would Having no plans and just relaxing Reading the news Getting so emotionally attached to a movie or a book that the characters seem like your friends Supporting a bigger cause i.e. wearing pink to support breast cancer awareness Wearing your favorite outfit Drinking hot chocolate or coffee on a very cold day Snuggling up on the couch Having a pet Daring to try something new Telling an inside joke with a friend Seeing someone that you haven’t seen in years Reading quotes from your favorite author i.e. “Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.” –J.K Rowling Remembering someone’s life who has passed on Smiling uncontrollably, because life really is that great So, I hope my 50 reasons haven’t bored my readers to death, and that they weren’t just a meaningless list of ordinary occurrences. I made 50 so that hopefully at least one of them would catch my reader’s attention and remind them of happiness and hopefully make them smile too. I have provided you with all of these happy circumstances, so I hope that you can pass them onto another, and that other person can pass them onto someone else. Today, smile and make somebody else smile. Life is a wonderful ride, so jump in, buckle up and enjoy it. |
| Observations Only: Uneventful flight 2013-01-10 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| In my December sixth column I described the events preceding my visit to Medan, Indonesia. Due to heavy fog in Scottsbluff, I missed my overseas flight. That meant I had to retrieve my luggage, which was checked through to Singapore, and spend the night in a hotel. Next door was a five star Japanese restaurant. The servers were dressed as geisha complete with white toe socks and brightly painted wooden thongs; a wonderful experience for a Nebraska girl. After everyone was settled in their seats, the first message from the pilot was that he was changing his flight plan. The southern route over South America was experiencing turbulence. We would be flying the northern route which would take us over Russia and China. After thinking for a few minutes I remembered something about two passenger planes being shot down over Russia because they had inadvertently strayed into their air space. Without realizing that I was voicing what my seat mates were also thinking, I blurted out that I certainly hoped they notified the Russian government that we were going to be in their air space so that we didn’t get shot down too. Someone told me to shut up in no uncertain terms. My seatmate was a Chinese student studying in Seattle who was on his way home for semester break. He wanted to practice his English so we sat in the rear of the plane for hours talking about our different lives. The odd experience of hurtling through space while sitting in a type of coffee shop, looking down at the lights of Moscow and Peking is one I will never forget. We were scheduled to change planes in Tokyo for the final leg of the journey, ending in Singapore. The pilot announced that he needed to make up two hours flight time and he meant it. Airline personnel were lined up at the gate yelling at us to hurry, run like we were a herd of cattle, and said in no uncertain terms that we had no time to use the restrooms or get food. This was not what I was used to but how else could they get hundreds of passengers to hurry. Thankfully, it was a short flight. My impression of Singapore was one of pleasant surprises. The air was hot and heavy with humidity, smelling of flowers and mold. Orchard Road is the main shopping strip bordered by tiled sidewalks and orchids growing up the sides of public buildings. Kiosks full of flowers for sale occupied most corners. Singapore is also very clean and neat, despite being one of the world’s most heavily populated cities. Hazel explained that littering is against the law and strictly enforced by arrests and jail time; not a snip of paper or blob of gum can be found on public streets. A few days later, I had my first experience with extortion in a third world country while trying to enter Indonesia through customs at the international airport. Hazel breezed through customs and assumed that I was following her but I was held up by a large white X on the side of my luggage which meant it had been targeted for inspection. Hazel and I waited patiently while they slowly opened each piece and slowly fingered every item, holding up my clothes for inspection. Hazel finally slipped the inspector some money before he began holding up personal items of clothing; he immediately closed up the suitcases and passed them through, smiling and nodding at us like he hadn’t just taken a bribe. Hazel said if she hadn’t paid him off he would have kept us standing there for hours. As it turned out this wasn’t the last debacle I was to have with custom officials. |
| Across the Fence: Bose Ikard; Texas Cowboy 2013-01-10 By M. Timothy Nolting mtimn@aol.com |
| It was in the late spring month of June, the year 1847, in Summerville, Mississippi that an African slave woman known only as ‘King’ gave birth to a son. She named him Bose. Who his father was is unknown but some suspected that King’s master, Dr. Milton Ikard was the most likely sire. However, whether by custom or by lineage, the little boy child, born into slavery on that spring day would be officially recorded as Bose Ikard. In 1852, when Bose was five years old, Dr. Ikard moved his entire family, including his slave family, to western Parker County, Texas on the Comanche-Kiowa frontier known as Cross Timbers. Once in Texas Dr. Ikard established himself as a doctor, teacher, rancher and later Texas Legislator. It was there, on Dr. Ikard’s ranch at Cross Timbers that young Bose, owned by Dr. Ikard, grew and learned the skills of bronc riding, wild cow gathering and Indian fighting. In those days, on the Texas plains, Indian fighting was almost a daily chore, required to stay alive and to keep livestock and possessions out of the hands of marauding Comanche and Apache bands. Bose worked not only for his master but also for other ranchers in the area. Tall, lean and lanky, Bose was a natural for the role of cowboy and became well known as a good hand. Even after emancipation, Bose continued as an employee of Dr. Ikard’s. During the years of the Civil War, a successful Texas cattleman by the name of Oliver Loving supplied beef to the Confederacy. At the end of that long and devastating conflict it is said that the Confederate Army owed a debt of over $100,000 to Mr. Loving, a debt that would not be paid. At that same time, several thousand Indians had been herded onto reservations around Fort Sumner in New Mexico and the U.S. Army needed beef, lots of it, to provide the required allotments to feed them. Because of this need Loving determined to trail his cattle to Fort Sumner, provide the Army with whatever was required there and then drive the rest further north to the gold fields of Colorado. There was also another aspiring rancher in the area that had a similar idea, but knew that his herd was not large enough to supply all of the beef to fill the entire allotment. He needed a partner. And so it was that Texas cattleman, Charlie Goodnight convinced Oliver Loving to join herds and head them north. Loving, 24 years older than Goodnight, was an experienced drover and Goodnight was depending on Loving’s expertise to handle the large combined herd. It would take skill and daring to accomplish the ambitious undertaking and many good men would be needed. One of the first men to be chosen by Mr. Loving was Bose Ikard. Goodnight had in mind to take a different route to Fort Sumner than had been taken before. He proposed a route that would not head directly north but would start out by going southwest, away from their destination. Essentially, the route that Goodnight intended to take followed the old Butterfield stage route. Goodnight argued that it might be longer, but was considerably safer than going straight north through Texas and into Oklahoma Territory then west to New Mexico. Apparently Goodnight had a convincing argument because Loving agreed and in 1866 the two cattlemen headed to Fort Sumner on a route that would become known as The Goodnight-Loving Trail. On that first Goodnight-Loving drive, more than 2,000 head of Longhorn cattle lined out to the southwest from Cross Timber near Fort Belknap on the Brazos River. Among the hand-picked crew of Vaquero’s rode nineteen-year-old Bose Ikard. He would become Charlie Goodnight’s ‘right-hand’ man. Heading southwesterly from the Brazos, the herd made two crossings on the forks of the Colorado River then continued on to the eastern banks of the Pecos. Swinging north at a place called Horsehead Crossing they continued toward the Texas – New Mexico border then on to Fort Sumner. Although the new route was expected to be safer, many of the cowboys argued that they would have been better off to take the old trail. There were the expected Comanche raids and one stretch of trail marched the restless Longhorns through a 90-mile stretch of no water. It took nearly a week to travel the 90 miles without water and the entire venture was at risk of perishing before water was found. At the first faint smell of fresh water that filled the nostrils of the lead cattle, the herd could not be contained and the ensuing stampede took a heavy toll on the already weakened cattle. This new trail took longer than the old and had its own share of difficulties but overall proved to be a viable route. During those long months on the trail, Bose proved himself to be a valuable and trusted employee. He was always ready and willing for any task, dependable in every situation and maintained an amiable and cheerful disposition. Both Goodnight and Loving considered him to be the best man in the outfit. At Fort Sumner, the U.S Army paid Goodnight and Loving $12,000 in gold for the cattle delivered. The drive a success the two men returned to Texas to gather another herd. Successive drives, over the next two years, continued past Fort Sumner, over Raton Pass to Pueblo and then Denver, Colorado. On the third drive, in 1868, severe weather conditions delayed the progress of the drive and Oliver Loving rode ahead with a scout to let the buyers know there would be a delay. While in Comanche country, Loving and his companion were attacked by a small band of warriors. Loving was wounded and sent the scout back to inform Goodnight as to what was happening. Loving managed to make it to Fort Sumner but his wounds became infected and he died of gangrene poisoning. Before his death, Loving extracted a promise from his partner, Charlie, that he would take him back to Texas to be buried, a promise that Mr. Goodnight kept. It is said that from that time forward Charlie Goodnight and Bose Ikard were constant companions. It is thought that after the 1868 cattle drive was completed, it was Bose who accompanied Goodnight from Fort Sumner to Weatherford Texas, a six hundred mile journey, to return Loving’s body to his beloved Texas. Oliver Loving was buried in the Greenwood cemetery at Weatherford, Texas on March 4, 1868. Bose accompanied Goodnight on two more drives to Colorado. One of those drives was to add stock to the northeastern Colorado range on a ranch known as the Iliff Ranch. Also, one of those last drives made by Goodnight and Ikard brought cattle to the Cheyenne, Wyoming area. Long after his last cattle drive, on the fourth day of January 1929, the mortal shell of Bose Ikard passed from this earth. He was not taken by marauding Comanche. He was not taken by a wild-eyed bronc. At 85 years of age, Bose Ikard, slave, free man, Texas cowboy and Parker County Rancher, trusted friend and companion to Charlie Goodnight and Oliver Loving, died quietly at his home. It is told that Charlie Goodnight, at 93 years of age, heard of his old friend’s death and arranged to have his body exhumed from a cemetery for ‘negroes only’ near Fort Worth, Texas and reburied next to his old partner, Oliver Loving, at Greenwood Cemetery, in Weatherford Texas. Supposedly Goodnight was challenged during Bose’s reburial for putting a black man in a white’s cemetery. Charlie calmly replied, “I’m busy with a buryin’ now but if any man has an issue with me buryin’ this comrade of mine in this cemetery I’d like to meet him tomorrow morning at 9a.m. on the courthouse steps.” It is said that Charlie showed up packing a 12-gauge shotgun. No one else came. Charlie Goodnight wrote these words, about Bose Ikard, in his biography. “He was a good bronc rider, and exceptional night herder, good with the skillet and pans, and surpassed any man I had in endurance and stamina. There was a dignity, a cleanliness and a reliability about him that was wonderful. His behavior was very good in fight, and he was probably the most devoted man to me I ever had. I have trusted him farther than any living man. He was my detective, banker, and everything else in Colorado, New Mexico, and the other wild country I was in. …and when we carried money I gave it to Bose. We went through some terrible times during those four years on the trail. He was the most skilled and trustworthy man I had.” Charlie Goodnight had Bose Ikard’s tombstone engraved with these words; “Bose Ikard served with me four years on the Goodnight-Loving Trail, never shirked a duty or disobeyed an order, rode with me in many stampedes, participated in three engagements with Comanche, splendid behavior.” |
| The Good Life: The best Christmas gift 2013-01-03 By Lisa Betz |
| Oh what a Christmas! My dad’s family, the Betzes, are a large, boisterous, fun-loving group. Each Christmas Eve, our tradition is to gather at someone’s home and enjoy three different kinds of homemade soups, fresh bread and other holiday treats. We play cards and games and often some of the cousins create a clever game to play that involves silly gifts. With Christmas Day falling on the newspaper’s normal deadline for the press, everyone at the Citizen had to work extra hard to get their stories and other assignments completed by Friday so that I could spend my weekend laying out the paper. I’ll admit, I worked all weekend and I felt a bit sorry for myself too. By Monday, my plan was to put the finishing touches (copy edits and layout tweaks) on the pages and get home early to finish my most important assignment, making bean soup for the family. How many times have you heard never to leave a pot unattended on the stove? Like you, I have heard this all my life but did I listen? No. Sunday, I had made the most delicious homemade stock for the soup, with the beans soaking overnight. Monday, I decided to let the beans slowly cook in the stock on the stove at a very low temperature while I went to finish the paper. It took longer than I expected and when I got home, the house was full of smoke. It was a scary thing, but fortunately, there were no flames. Yes, yes, yes, I know. I get the dunce award for 2012. Not only did I ruin my soup, but my house smelled like a smoking den. I hurriedly added to the Chicken Tortilla soup I had made for the Solstice gathering I hosted on Friday night and decided it would have to do, even though my aunt Janice was making the same kind of soup. When I arrived at my aunt Shelly’s I realized for the first time that the smoke had clung to my hair, my coat, everything. Fortunately, we were all supposed to wear “ugly” holiday sweaters and they had an extra one for me. It all turned out just fine, I got the teasing I deserved from the family and we had a great evening. But now my house smells like a ‘90s era bar, and I will have to clean the entire upstairs surfaces in order to get rid of the smell. I am counting my blessings though, it could have been much worse. My favorite Christmas gift this year came from my grandpa Cleo. I’m a terrible procrastinator about wrapping gifts. Mom was banished to the living room on Christmas morning while I holed up in the guest room wrapping her presents. My wrapping paper is stashed way up high in a little used cabinet. I dragged the step ladder over and for the first time, saw a bunch of folders and books that grandpa had kept up there which I had never noticed before. I dragged everything out and laid it all on the bed. What an amazing treasure I found! Grandpa had kept photos of Martin and Sarah Gering, Edson and Nellie Gering and their small children, and the Fremont Scotts’ New Year’s Eve portraits taken in Mitchell Valley with all of their extended families. Best of all, most of the photos list names on the back! Great-grandma Pansy Gering was Pansy Scott. All the Scott sisters were named after flowers. Her sister Daisy married Emerson Ewing, who was featured in our Christmas edition of Remembering When. Daisy’s daughter, Goldie Ewing, was a beloved local historian. What a treasure trove of family history I found. Grandpa also had two copies of A.B. Wood’s Pioneer Tales book and two other books about the history of Scottsbluff. I am very excited to share some of this with all of you on our Remembering When pages, beginning this week with a photo that very well may have been taken by the famous pioneer photographer, Solomon Butcher. I’m still marveling at how my grandpa Cleo managed to give me a Christmas gift from Heaven, especially since I thought I had poked in every nook and cranny of the farmhouse. I sure do miss him and my great-grandma Pansy too. What a wonderful gift I was given this year. Another great gift I received was from the Betzes’ gift-giving game…a huge bag of pinto beans. I am given another chance to make bean soup and I promise that I won’t ever leave a pot cooking unattended on the stove again. Family really is what makes life sweet. Happy New Year everyone! May the blessings of gentleness, understanding, kindness and love be yours this year and forevermore. |
| A Stray Moment: World War Two is not forgotten 2013-01-03 By Doug Harris |
| I have seen a few letters to various editors in recent weeks lamenting the fact that many younger people seem to be letting the events and legacy of World War Two slip from memory. I suppose it is natural as time passes new generations face the issues of their day and don’t spend a great deal of time considering the political and military happenings of their grandparents or great-grandparents. This doesn’t mean young people don’t care. How many teens in 1940 felt a deep personal connection to the war dead at the Battle of Gettysburg? But I want to assure the remaining members of what Tom Brokaw called “The Greatest Generation” that many of us ‘youngsters’ are aware of history and we will make sure future generations will not allow such a significant narrative to fade. It will not happen because it must not happen. The lesson is too important. You have to trust us on this one. The Library of Congress Veteran’s History Project has recorded thousands of oral histories also. These powerful voices, your voices, will never disappear. I am 48 years old. It would be more than a stretch to claim I am young. But I suppose that is relative if you are 88 years old and reading this. I have a few personal connections to the war. My father was too young to be called to service in World War Two but he did serve in occupied Japan in the aftermath. Both of my parents have recalled the era of black out drills, ration cards, and recycling drives on the home front. My uncle James ‘Jim’ Walker collected pictures of the aircraft used by the various armies before he was called up to serve in the war by the navy. He kept the pictures in a now old photo album. He cut them out of magazines and recruiting paraphernalia. It is personal because my mother’s oldest brother Jim died in the Pacific Theater during the war. My middle name is James. In addition to his name, after my “Gold Star Mother” grandmother passed away I was given his airplane album and his burial flag. It would have been nice to have known him. He dreamed of being a pilot but his poor eyesight derailed that ambition. In old photographs he looks like a nice bespectacled skinny kid from northern Minnesota. He played the trumpet; a skill the navy utilized on the ship he served on. He is buried in Hawaii. I have never visited his grave. I had other more distant second cousins or ‘third uncles once removed’ who died in W.W. II. I have heard tell of them over the years at family reunions or funeral gatherings. Some of them came home but they died before I was born or before I was old enough to remember them. As I understand things my mother’s side of my family line was hit pretty hard during those years of sacrifice. I think about my blood relations who died on unknown beaches or in icy ravines in Europe. It is a bittersweet thing to consider. On one hand I am proud of their service and willingness to give all, but I also feel animosity towards the scourge of war. I am confident those of the Greatest Generation are deeply aware of the rising death count related to the recent war in Iraq and our continued conflict in Afghanistan. We can be thankful these newest sets of war dead numbers are infinitely smaller than those of the W.W. II disaster but thank God it isn’t a contest. A dead solider is a dead solider. Those who gallantly served to fight against tyranny in Germany and brutal expansion from Japan can take comfort that our young people today still answer the call when America is attacked or threatened. Even those with political disagreements with our leadership are still willing to place themselves in harms way in defense of our nation. The sad necessity of armed action seems to be never ending. I greatly admire men of peace but accept that waving a peace-sign or wearing flowers in our hair isn’t going to stop those hell bent on destruction or genocide. So I hope the elder statesmen (and women) who gave so much to defeat Hitler and Tojo and Mussolini do see the bravery and patriotism of today’s generation. I have to trust they do. A friend of mine lost both of his grandparents in the past year. They lived in Scottsbluff. His grandfather survived the horrific Battle of Tarawa while his wife worked in a munitions factory in California. The marine and the riveter. I knew them both, not well, but I understood clearly that when duty called they answered. This was true of millions of other Americans. I mention them as they serve as an example of the blunt fact that the Greatest Generation is leaving us. I don’t say that lightly but it is undeniable truth. Not terribly long ago the last veteran of World War One was laid to rest. He lived well past one-hundred-years old. The veterans of World War Two will face the same fate, just as all the veterans from the Civil War did. Sometime in the future we will lay to rest the last veteran from Vietnam or Iraq. This doesn’t mean their deeds will be forgotten or ignored. The sheer global scope of the catastrophe of W.W. II defines the 20th century. The atrocities of the Nazi regime are unlikely to ever be forgotten. The black stain that divides 1900 and 2000 isn’t going to be painted over with a white brush. Tens of thousands of books have been written about the worst armed conflict in the history of the world. A quick Google search of ‘World War 2’ offers close to a billion and half links for more information. (For the cynical that is significantly more links than pop-stars Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber combined). The History Channel on TV seems at times to be dedicated solely to the Second World War. They have explored, and continue to explore, almost every angle imaginable. They have made episodes featuring nurses in the war, the use of atomic bombs, army dog squadrons, weaponry, tactics, aircraft, generals, foot soldiers, tanks, POW camps, spies, codes, supply lines, weather conditions, etc... Popular television programs, most notably HBO’s “Band of Brothers” serve as reminders that the preceding generations, post W.W. II, still have an interest. “Band of Brothers” isn’t some fictionalized hero-worship shoot ‘em up drama either. It is based on Stephen Ambrose’s unit history of the E/506th ‘Easy Company’ from the 101st Airborne. This detailed history and subsequently filmed reenactment was based upon first person interviews with surviving members of the company. Many were alive when it was produced and advised both actors and producers to ensure realism. Yes, this was Hollywood imitating reality but they did it with meticulous attention to detail and strove for accuracy. Many history teachers use the 10 episode miniseries as a visual aid. The meaning of W.W.II is the victory of freedom over bondage and every generation must forever hold that memory dear. They will. |
| Across the Fence: Bloody Pocket, the final battle 2013-01-03 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| The military activity in Dakota Territory during the final days of December 1890 included the 7th U.S. Cavalry and the 8th U.S Cavalry. Their intended purpose was to track down the bands of Sioux who had left their respective reservations. Indians who stayed within the boundaries of their reservations were considered ‘friendlies.’ Those who were not on the reservations were labeled as ‘hostiles’ and were to be rounded up and returned by force, when needed, and by deadly force if necessary. Many of Spotted Elk’s Miniconjou, Sitting Bull’s Hunkpapa and Red Cloud’s Brule had left their designated reservations and were heading towards the Pine Ridge Reservation. Some were trying to distance themselves from the turmoil being caused by the Ghost Dance and many were desperate to secure the food and clothing allotments that had failed to arrive. Food was scarce and adequate clothing and shelter was imperative due to the already severe winter conditions. It was the 7th Cavalry, under the command of Col. James W. Forsyth that surrounded and attacked the 350 Sioux at Wounded Knee Creek. The massacre at Wounded Knee, officially designated as a battle, is often said to be the last battle in the conflict between U.S. troops and the Native Americans. These forty years of turmoil is collectively referred to as The Indian Wars. However the final, official, battle was actually fought on December 30, 1890, the day after Wounded Knee. It is estimated that nearly fifty Indians were able to escape the mass killings at Wounded Knee. Those who escaped were mostly women and children who fled south, across Wounded Knee Creek in hopes of finding safety at the Pine Ridge Reservation. The morning of the 30th brought the brutal beginnings of a three-day blizzard that gripped the badlands and the Pine Ridge country with sub-zero temperatures, blinding snow and fierce winds. The fate of those, who survived the bullets, then fell into the icy hands of a Dakota blizzard. Several had been wounded, many suffered from fatigue and hunger, and most of them died of exposure, as they struggled to traverse the steep ridges and cedar-filled canyons. There were few who actually reached the sanctuary of the reservation. Col. Forsyth dispatched Company K, of the 7th Cavalry, to pursue those who fled and return them to their respective reservations on the Cheyenne River, Standing Rock and Rose Bud. The pursuit took the troopers to a place called ‘Bloody Pocket’ on White Clay Creek, about 15 miles north of Pine Ridge near the Drexel Mission. It was at this place where Forsyth’s Company K was met with armed resistance from the Lakota bands who had gathered there. Forsyth’s men were quickly surrounded, according to some accounts, by as many as four thousand Sioux. If that number is correct, the impending battle could well have been a repeat of the Custer fight but apparently the troopers were able to hold off the attacking Sioux who had them pinned down. This battle would become known as the Drexel Mission fight. I have been unable to find much information about the Drexel Mission fight. No doubt, somewhere in military archives there are records of the battle but readily available details are scarce. I have found no information of casualties, either Sioux or soldiers, and most accounts indicate it was more of a siege than a battle although it is said that shots were fired. However, I might speculate on the circumstances. If the number of Sioux was in fact four thousand, or anywhere near that number to as little as five hundred, and Company K consisted of the average number of 30 troopers, then one might easily assume that the Indians had few, if any, effective weapons. The accounts that I found agree that Company K was ‘pinned down’ so it must be assumed that they were sufficiently surrounded by enough warriors to eliminate the chance of escape and that there was adequate firepower to keep the troopers in a defensive position. Apparently a messenger was able to break out and get word back to the main body of the 7th for reinforcements. During the Drexel Mission battle, back at Wounded Knee Creek, Major Guy V. Henry had arrived after a forced march of 300 miles from Fort McKinney. This march, conducted under extreme winter conditions is reportedly one of the most remarkable marches in U.S. military history. Major Henry was in command of the 9th U.S. Cavalry, Companies, D, F, I and K, famously known as The Buffalo Soldiers. It was the Sioux who had given the name ‘Buffalo Soldiers’ to the troopers of the 9th Cavalry which was made up of former slaves and free men of African ancestry. Despite days without rest, Major Henry and his command proceeded immediately to the bloody pocket where Col. Forsyth and his men were trapped and waiting for rescue. When the 9th Cavalry reached the mouth of the canyon they assembled for battle and deployed one of the Hotchkiss guns. Major Henry divided his men into two battalions, one battalion for each side of the ‘Bloody Pocket’ canyon. With the Hotchkiss gun blazing away and the four companies of soldiers sweeping the perimeter, the Sioux made a speedy retreat from the battle. Major Henry boasted that the battle was of one of the 9th Cavalry’s most celebrated triumphs. The Sioux had been routed and the battle won with not a single soldier being killed. Wounded Knee and the Drexel Mission fight had brought the year 1890 to a bitter and bloody close. The Great Sioux War had at last come to an end and now perhaps, there could be peace. Unfortunately, there was yet one final act of war. On January 7, 1891, a young Brule Sioux named Plenty Horses shot and killed Lieutenant Edward W. Casey near the Stronghold Table in the Badlands of the Pine Ridge Reservation. Plenty Horses explained the killing in these words, “Five years I attended Carlisle and was educated in the ways of the white man. When I returned to my people, I was an outcast among them. I was no longer an Indian. I was not a white man. I was lonely. I shot the lieutenant so I might make a place for myself among my people. I am now one of them. I shall be hung, and the Indians will bury me as a warrior.” Plenty Horses stood trial at Fort Meade where he was defended by two lawyers, George Nock and David Powers, who had donated their services. They argued that since the United States was in a state of war with the Sioux, Plenty Horses had killed Lt. Casey, who was caught spying on the Sioux encampment at the Stronghold, in an act of war. The argument continued that if the United States was not in a state of war with the Sioux, then Wounded Knee and the Drexel Mission fight were not acts of war but were then nothing more than murder. General Miles testified that the U.S. was indeed engaged in a war with the Sioux and that Wounded Knee and the Drexel Mission fight were acts of war. Obviously, the United States was compelled to consider the Sioux at Wounded Knee as combatants who were being held as prisoners of war and had retaliated in armed resistance. The ensuing battles were then acts of war as well as the actions of Lt. Casey and Plenty Horses. Plenty Horses was acquitted which also exonerated the soldiers of the 7th Cavalry and gave controversial legitimacy to the twenty Congressional Medals of Honor that were given to soldiers who fought at Wounded Knee and Bloody Pocket. There were a total of not more than 1,500 soldiers who fought for less than an hour at Wounded Knee, against fewer than 100 Sioux warriors, and twenty Medals of Honor were given. By contrast, 64,000 South Dakotan’s, including many Sioux men, fought for four years in World War II. Among them, only three Medals of Honor were awarded. It was said by a Sioux elder that the ‘wasichu’ (the whites) “… made us many promises, more than I can remember, but they never kept but one; they promised to take our land and they took it.” Perhaps it is true that wars are sometimes necessary to preserve freedom and maintain civility among nations but it seems the cost, in terms of human life, suffering, bitterness and prolonged hatred is far too high a price to pay. I hear the words of an old protest song from the ‘60s, “Where have all the soldiers gone. Gone to graveyards every one. When will we ever learn…” The history of our nation has presented us with many lessons to be learned and has, at times, been a harsh teacher. An even though we cannot change the past, we can shape the future. May this year of 2013 be a truly Happy New Year, a year when old wounds are healed, a year when hope becomes reality. Let there be peace on earth among all nations and may God bless America. Tim Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist, freelance writer, cowboy poet and entertainer. To contact Tim, email; mtimn@aol.com |
| Observations Only: Critical thinking 2013-01-03 By Nina Betz |
| While shopping in Herberger’s recently, I overheard a conversation between two clerks that I found humorous. Before anyone thinks I was inappropriately eavesdropping, I must qualify the forthcoming narrative by saying the young woman was about nineteen and not speaking discreetly, anyone standing nearby would be privy to the conversation. What caught my attention was the comment to her co-worker that she got along well with her boyfriend’s ex-wives except that one was a real bitch. My curiosity got the best of me and I asked her, “How many ex-wives does he have?” “Three,” she said pleasantly, seeming happy to include me in their conversation. I took that as encouragement to ask more questions. “Why do you want him then?” I asked bluntly. She looked surprised and thought for a few moments before she replied. “I love him and he doesn’t treat me the way he did his wives,” she explained, smiling happily. Then I asked her how long they’ve been together. “About a year,” she said, after thinking for a few minutes. I wanted to ask her why she thought she was so special that he wouldn’t mistreat her like he did his ex-wives, and didn’t she suppose that he said I love you and treated them well in the beginning of their relationship, too? I didn’t ask of course, and instead replied that it sounded like her boyfriend has done some growing up and that was a good thing. “Oh, he has,” she replied, glad for a comfortable end to the conversation with a stranger. I wished them a Merry Christmas and went on my way, feeling amused and saddened by her innocence. Let’s examine the facts: she’s about nineteen, he’s been married and divorced three times; they’ve been together for at least a year; he mistreated his ex-wives but doesn’t mistreat her and she loves him. We can assume he has said I love you; has children by his ex-wives which can be problematic, and made promises to her. It’s unlikely that she delved into his marital history by asking the ex-wives about problems they considered serious enough reasons to divorce him before choosing to become involved in a relationship with him. The facts show a lack of critical thinking on her part and an inability to assess that, given her boyfriend’s relationship history, he will likely mistreat her too, eventually. Unless he acknowledges his past errors in thinking and behavior, understands why they were hurtful, and can say how he will manage his behavior in the future, she should have said no thank you for her own well-being. A friend of mine once shared a story with me that happened to her. A man that she had loved very much had hurt her by going on his way as if their relationship hadn’t meant very much to him. Several years went by and he called out of the blue wanting to catch up on each other’s life. During the exchange of information he slipped in the fact that he was still in love with her and that he’d changed, hinting that they should get back together. My friend was cautious, asking him to tell her in what ways he’d changed. He had nothing more to say but that he was older and wiser. He couldn’t name anything definitive. When she told him that it wasn’t enough of an answer, he admitted that he was in between girlfriends and thought she would be a good choice. Without the ability to think critically and assess the likelihood of abusive behavior recurring, we’re at the mercy of persuasive people who treat us like a toy to pick up and play with, and then set down again without ever realizing we’re at risk for a repeat performance. |
| Teen Voice: New Year’s goals 2013-01-03 By Kendall Uhrich |
| Last year was a monumental year for me. At the beginning of the year, I made the New Year’s resolution to eat healthy and work out. I decided January first to be proactive and follow the millions of other individuals who have gotten healthy because they set goals for themselves and for those of you who want my secret to resolutions here is an example of the process of my resolution went last year. Week one: I’m fresh onto this and have the perfect mindset. I’m going strong, eating my vegetables and fruits, drinking my eight glasses of water a day and running two miles every single day on the treadmill. I feel like I could take on the world. Week two: I’m doing okay, eating my fruits, drinking some water and running when I feel like sweating up a storm, so… not at all. I don’t feel like I could take on the world per se, maybe just a country. Week three: I have downgraded. I am eating mostly bad, but sometimes I’ll throw in a lettuce leaf every once in awhile. That counts right? I’m walking up the stairs. That’s pretty much running I think. I feel like a nap right about now. Week four: It’s only been one month and I’ve already stopped everything. I’m back to eating pizza rolls in my basement and watching reruns of Vampire Diaries on Netflix in my comfortable reclining chair. I take one look at the treadmill and look at the chair right next to it and sit down. My New Year’s resolution has turned into the same thing I was doing last December about getting proactive about my health, absolutely nothing. I feel like the world I took on quickly became a not just feeling like taking a nap, but actually doing it. I said the year was monumental in my dieting, and oh, it was. I learned to never make a New Year’s resolution to diet ever again. My readers may say, “Well, Kendall you are just being pessimistic. Lighten up. Just stick to it and you can accomplish anything!” And to that I say, “Absolutely... If that anything I have to accomplish is a plate of nachos I have no doubt that I can get that done.” Let’s be honest. How many New Year’s resolutions have we all made that we didn’t go through with, because I have many. That gym membership we bought that got used twice. The treadmill we bought that has only felt the running of our tennis shoes a handful of times. That closet or garage that never got organized and the book we never wrote. I’m not saying that nobody else should ever make resolutions. I am simply saying that I never can go through with them. In order to make these resolutions it takes drive. Lots and lots of drive. It takes commitment to stick with anything for an entire year. I couldn’t even do it for two weeks. I’m positive that the workers at the YMCA hate to work in January because all of the resolutions have been put into place and most of them are to get that dream body figure we see in magazines. I am so positive because I asked. Yes, readers, I accosted a worker to ask them what working in January was like and they told me it is the busiest month, but by February all of the new-found members have stopped going, because their resolutions have run their course. So, to those who are going to make resolutions, best of luck in your endeavors, but to those like me to decide instead to not make them, best of luck sitting on your couch and eating delicious microwavable foods. Setting goals are one of the ways to improve our lives, but make sure to make those goals reachable. Losing 100 pounds in a month by barely moving a finger and making a hoarder suddenly a neat freak is out of anybody’s league, but losing five pounds or cleaning a closet IS possible. And sticking to these will be the hardest part. If need be treat every month like January and make a new resolution to switch everything up and keep it fresh so we are excited to start it rather than burnt out. I hope all of your goals are reached this season. 5.4.3.2.1. Happy New Year’s. |
| I hate coffee 2013-01-03 By Glenn Hascall |
| Have I ever mentioned I hate coffee? If you’ve ever been around me for any length of time you know I stay aware from the crude elixir. Growing up I recall my dad sipping a cup of hot ‘joe’ early on a Saturday morning when he and I would go out to eat for breakfast. I always settled for either orange juice or hot tea. Dad never offered any coffee and I never asked. When I went to work for my first radio station I was informed coffee was the drink of choice for broadcasters, and I saw cups of oil slick brew sitting on almost every desk. My first day on the job I tried a cup and ultimately decided that if I had to drink that stuff in order to be a broadcaster I’d need to locate another line of work. They overlooked my coffee rebellion and let me stay, which is good considering the fact that broadcasting has been the role I have played since, well, a long time ago. As much as I hate coffee I have to admit I love the smell. I’ll walk the coffee aisle of the store just to breathe in the heady aroma. I’ll spend time in a coffee shop for the same reason. The truth is – I love coffee shops. My friends Kolene and Will work in coffee shops. Visit often enough and they know your name. Come back at the same time with a regular order and they might have it ready when you arrive. Not, of course, that I ever place a coffee order. For me the love of a coffee shop goes beyond the smell. The coffee shop invites conversation, but it can also respect the need for privacy. You can go to a coffee shop to talk to friends or to simply utilize the wi-fi and get some work done. Just like the coffee shops of the past the latest models signal a 21st century collection of family members. You may not know their names, but they are familiar and you feel comfortable knowing they enjoy the same thing you do. Coffee shops are designed to convey the feeling of home and family when you’re away from both. The drink can provide comfort, the setting promotes contemplation, and in some cases there may even be live music to compliment the drink. For some (far removed from family) the coffee shop becomes a community. Maybe that’s why so many bookstores work to recreate a similar atmosphere in their shops. Places to read and drink coffee. Places to engage or disengage at will. No pressure – no hurry. The truth is we all need a place to feel like we belong. Some find it in a coffee shop. Some find it at home. Some find it in church. In the bleak mid-winter we seem to find that need even more pressing. The human heart longs for connection. It shouldn’t surprise any of us that the coffee shop has become a premier point of human connection in the 21st century. Maybe there’s a lesson for all of us at the coffee shop. Like a family there may be things about the place you don’t like, and others that bring back a flood of great memories. You may not like everyone there, but there are plenty of people to meet. You may wish to be left alone and most will respect your wish. You may want to connect and there are those willing to talk. Deep meaning? Naw, I was just dreaming of a Scotch-A-Roo and a Chai tea and got sidetracked. Wouldn’t you know it – I’m out of space. |
| Completely Different: It’s the end of the world as we know it 2012-12-27 By Elizabeth Gross elizabethgross@geringcitizen.com |
| Congratulations, if your reading this that means you survived the December Doomsday of 2012. May you have tales to tell your children and their children of the tragic day of December the 21st 2012. A day where you woke up to your usual breakfast of burnt toast and coffee. You got into your car, drove to work, and spent your typical eight hour shift. Meanwhile, in outer space the menacing existence that was the deep void didn’t have much going on that was going to change the life of the people who were on the third rock from the sun. The sun went down; you went home to your family and watched the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. Yes, may December the 21st be yet another day we can all put down as another disappointing threat of the end of the universe that was never fulfilled. This is not the first threat of the coming apocalypse. May of 2011 was to bring the Rapture, and who can forget the date combinations of 06-06-06, 11-11-11, and 12-12-12. My exposure to the idea that the world could possibly come to an end came with the Y2K crisis. The belief that on the stroke of midnight all the computers in the world would crash; bringing the fall to Western Civilization as we know it. Computer analyst thought that many software systems would malfunction because it would read the year of ’00 as 1900 not 2000. Naturally, conspiracy theorist took the simple idea of a necessary software update and morphed into a globe panic that the world was coming to an end. There were a few instances of scattered power failure but nothing that compromised the safety of anyone. This year’s December Doomsday brings forward a very interesting question. What is our fascination with the end of the world? Is it religious beliefs? Pop culture? Or are people seriously stressed out that the only way out seems to be the plant being sucked into a black hole? If we look at this from a religious perspective, it may be a matter of how we view time. The Judeo-Christian religions view time on a linear scale, there is a beginning and an end. According to the Bible the end of man will come. However, it doesn’t give us a time or place. We are simply told that it will happen but it’s up to the man upstairs to decide when. Since we can’t find the good Lord’s blog to try and figure out what He meant by that it is left to interpretation. While eastern faiths view time as cyclical, there is no ending, time simply repeats itself. We are all trapped in what is called the samsara and our goal here on Earth is to break out of the cycle. I believe as the phrase goes that if we don’t learn from history we are doomed to repeat it. Of course, time has shown us that no matter what we do, we repeat it anyway. And if we look at The Doctors perspective time its wibley, woobley, timey, whimey, stuff. Our culture may also play with how we view the end of the world. Mad Max, The Matrix, zombie movies, 1984, Fahrenheit 451; all these stories deal with what the world would be like if our current existence was to simply end. What I find completely fascinating about these post apocalyptic stories is that many of them aren’t predictions of the end but metaphors. Ray Bradbury’s 1984 was a warning to its readers of what could happen if we give government too much power. Fahrenheit 451 told us the importance of books and education. The Matrix fueled the idea of our reliance on machines. Metaphors nothing more, yet people tend to look pass that and focus more on the story. We love the idea of the fall of our arrogance as a society. That all our actions finally have a consequence and we get what we deserve. It fuels our imagination on what we would do if we were one of the few people left on earth. A bizarre pride in ourselves saying that if zombies, the plague, nuclear bomb, or the Terminator showed up we would know what to do. A stroke of the ego knowing that of all the people left on the earth, we were the smartest, that we didn’t fall for it. I’m sure next year; someone will take a look at the alignment of the stars and claim it’s a message from aliens. Internet chat forums will always explore the idea of the end whether it is by zombies, aliens, or due to the construction of the inner stellar highway system. A thought that someone will take seriously, make a website about it and cause a few too imaginative people to view their claim as gospel. In the end all we really are just stories. We all have a beginning, middle, and an end. I think were terrified of the end. Maybe that’s why we cling onto the idea that I, as a person, will not simply end but everyone is coming with me. We’re fearful what lies before us when we leave this earth. No matter how much a person’s denies it, it’s true. To quote Doctor Who; “we’re all just stories in the end; make it a good one, eh?” And if the earth does come to an end, remember the immortal words of Douglas Adams; “Don’t Panic.” |
| Observations Only: Musings of an odd duck 2012-12-27 By Nina Betz |
| Recently a friend shared the news that her next door neighbor was selling her house and moving to a retirement community, and she and her husband decided to buy it. She explained that they wanted to control who would be living next to them; understandable. The conversation turned to descriptions of the house and what changes in color schemes she wanted to make and possibly they might consider moving to the new house and renting out the house they’re currently living in. Another friend usually joins us on our Friday lunch date. They began discussing cleaning products that worked the best and what kind of tile was easiest to clean, and absolutely don’t buy this kind or that. I quickly became bored with the discussion but tried to listen politely because they listen to me ramble, and that’s what friends do. It is necessary to say here that my friends are immaculate housekeepers with beautiful yards, .and I am not. These women and I have been friends for many years supporting each other through the death of our husbands, problems with children and serious illness. They have never made me feel badly about my poor housekeeping. Nonetheless I began to feel less than and beat up on myself for not being a better homemaker. I always resolve to do better and succeed for a few days then dust accumulates and clutter seems to multiply by itself. Part of the problem is that I think chasing dust and cleaning a necessary evil that has to be done again and again, but there’s no alternative unless one wants to live in a pigsty. My excuse for neglecting yard work is I don’t like doing it at six o’clock in the morning to avoid the hot sun. All of us have the same number of hours for our use and are free to do what we wish with our allotted time. I began thinking about time and what people do with it. Some people use their allotment according to a strict routine that dictates when laundry, dusting and other chores are to be done, saying no to opportunities that interfere with the routine. Others use their free time being busy; doing crafts, listening to music, watching television or playing sports; leaving no free time for contemplation or examining their life. A friend once told me that she liked to keep busy because thinking about problems gave her a headache. It didn’t seem to dawn on her that problems multiply like dirty dishes and it might be better to take an aspirin for her headache instead of ignoring them. As a teenager it wasn’t fun being an odd duck who was always thinking about something, wondering about other people and why they acted the way they did instead of caring about the Beatles or going along with the crowd like other kids. It didn’t occur to me then that they wanted to have fun and weren’t interested in my ideas. Some kids listened politely and others thought I was weird or dumb. It wasn’t until later that a wise person told me it was because they didn’t understand what I was talking about. Present day, I enjoy being an odd duck who doesn’t do any of the above activities because I like my own thoughts better. I enjoy thinking about social problems, wondering what lies behind a word or deed I observe. My analytical way of thinking is serving me well as a writer and the hours spent thinking instead being busy are not something I regret. Although, without my daughter insisting that I have talent and encouraging me, all those hours spent thinking might have been wasted instead of shared. Merry Christmas from an odd duck. |
| Across the Fence: Wounded Knee; December 29, 1890 2012-12-27 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| Sitting Bull, his son Crow Foot and fourteen other Sioux, had been killed in a botched attempt to arrest him on December 15, 1890. Stunned by his death and fearful of reprisal approximately 200 of his Hunkpapa band left the Standing Rock Reservation to join the Miniconjou Sioux at the Cheyenne River Reservation. The Miniconjou band was under the leadership of Chief Spotted Elk. The attempted arrest was based on the false assumption that Sitting Bull was a leader and instigator of the recent Ghost Dance religion. The Ghost Dance was a ceremony performed by those who believed that the practice of the dance and adherence to the religious beliefs that it espoused would result in the re-creation of the earth. In the rebirth a flood of soil would cover the old earth, bring back the ancestors of the people and restore the decimated herds of buffalo. Equally important, this re-born earth would be devoid of the ‘white man’. Most non-native people believed that the Ghost Dance movement was the prelude to war and were fearful of a massive uprising of unprecedented violence. In truth the Ghost Dance was a non-violent movement although there were those among the Sioux who hoped for battle. No doubt the young warriors did not share the view of their elders, that armed conflict was not the path to peace. The previous forty years of war had shown the futility of resistance to the ever-increasing numbers of land hungry settlers and broken treaties. And not since Custer’s defeat at The Little Big Horn, fourteen years earlier, had the Indian Nations won a decisive victory. The Ghost Dance embodied the deepest desires of their last hope. By this time, in the last days of December 1890, most native tribes were settled on reservations under U.S. jurisdiction and reservation management was administered by appointed Indian Agents. Some were more sympathetic to the plight of the Indian than were others. At the Cheyenne River Reservation, Spotted Elk and his people were poorly clothed and ill equipped for the winter conditions. A two-year drought had taken its toll on crops and livestock throughout the region. A scarcity of food and absence of promised rations had weakened Spotted Elk’s people to the point where death by starvation and exposure seemed imminent. And so, in order to distance themselves from the turmoil at the Standing Rock Agency where Sitting Bull had been killed and in hopes of finding food, shelter and safety, Spotted Elk led his people south. It was the twenty-third day of December when Spotted Elk, with nearly 350 Miniconjou and Hunkpapa Sioux, left the Cheyenne River Reservation and began a winter trek, of almost 100 miles, to seek shelter with his Sioux brother Red Cloud on the Pine Ridge Reservation. On the sixth day of their journey, December 28, Spotted Elk and his followers had reached a point southwest of the Dakota badlands near Porcupine Butte. It was there that a detachment of the 7th Cavalry under the command of Major Samuel M. Whitside intercepted the nomadic caravan of weary men, women and children. At that point, the troopers took custody of Spotted Elk and his people and escorted them further west, about five miles, to Wounded Knee Creek. While the Sioux made camp in the broad valley northwest of the creek the rest of the 7th Cavalry, under the command of Col. James Forsyth, arrived to assist in guarding the Sioux encampment. In the lodges that dotted the valley floor there were no more than 50 or 60 young to middle-aged warriors. The other 300 Sioux, who huddled close to the lodge fires for warmth, were old men, women and children. The soldiers of the 7th Cavalry, who surrounded the encampment, numbered about 500 men. Included in that number were 20 soldiers from Battery E of the 1st Artillery who set up four Hotchkiss guns on the nearby hill overlooking the Sioux camp. At least one of the four guns was the Hotchkiss, revolving barrel, gun capable of firing 43 rounds per minute with an effective range of 2,000 yards. Hopefully, on that cold December night, no one could have imagined the carnage that would unfold in the morning hours to come. The stage was set and the rising sun would draw the curtains for the opening scene. The players were in their places. Nervous warriors with an inferior arsenal concealed their weapons beneath their tattered blankets, afraid of a possible surprise attack but too weak, in numbers and strength, to mount an offensive on their own. The flicker of lodge-fire flames danced against the sides of tipi’s illuminating the clear night like candles inside brown paper bags. In the midst of the circle of lodges, a white flag hung unmoving from the long pole that had been pushed into the frozen ground and propped with white sandstone rocks. A clear sign of truce, but many remembered that white flags also flew in the Cheyenne camps on the Washita and at Sand Creek. Around the camp was stationed the 7th. Some remembered their comrades who fell under the assault of Cheyenne and Sioux who overwhelmed and defeated Custer’s command. Perhaps there was a score to settle. To the south, in Rushville and Hay Springs eastern reporters telegraphed news of the Sioux uprising, the frenzied mayhem of Ghost Dancers who were heading their way. Settlers were being attacked, scalped and mutilated and although the reports were unfounded, it made for exciting, sensational news. Fear of the unknown brought outlying settlers and their families crowding into town for protection and the hope of safety in numbers. Nearly halfway between the guarded Sioux camp at Wounded Knee and the crush of settlers who had doubled the population of Rushville, stood a remote homesteaders cabin that had not been abandoned. At that place, between Rush Creek and Wounded Knee Creek, a lone man stood watch in the bitter cold beneath a clear, star filled sky. His eyes to the north, watching the horizon for painted warriors. Listening for the sound of horses, or the imitated yip of coyotes or hoot of owls. He paced the perimeter of the cabin like a soldier on watch, his rifle ready. From outside the cabin, that he so fiercely guarded, he listened to the moans and muffled cries of his wife who lay inside. Her pregnancy at full term, she had been unable to make the journey into town and so they had stayed, she would deliver, he would keep them safe. Through the long night the horizon remained empty, no painted warriors, no rush of horses. In the pre-dawn of December 29 1890, came the urgent sounds of birthing then a sharp slap and the gurgling cry of new life. As he rushed to the door of the cabin he heard another stifled cry of pain, then another slap of palm on flesh and finally yet another burst of life joined in chorus with the first. Twin boys had been born on that early morning. The parents of those boys were my wife’s great grandparents. At Wounded Knee Creek, as the sun peaked above the timber that stood along the creek’s edge, Colonel Forsyth ordered a search of the camp to confiscate any weapons. The initial search netted nearly 40 rifles and a few more were found under the blankets worn by several warriors. It is told that none of the old men had any weapons. There are several differing accounts as to who or what triggered the first shot. One Sioux woman, who was eight years old at the time, later told that she remembered a soldier holding a cloth in the air and when he dropped his arm, the shooting began. Others tell that a medicine man began performing the Ghost Dance that unnerved the soldiers and caused the first shot to be fired. Oral history among the Sioux is a strong and often accurate account of events. Most oral history, according to tradition, must be verified before it becomes eligible for retelling. One of those accounts, told by an Oglala Sioux descendent on the Pine Ridge Reservation relates that it was Sitting Bull’s adopted brother, who while coming forward to lay down his weapon, was spun roughly around by soldiers. During this rough treatment his gun accidentally discharged and the shooting began. Perhaps this was Jumping Bull, the Hohe boy that Sitting Bull had saved and adopted many years earlier. Perhaps he was also symbolically ‘surrendering’ for his brother who had been killed just two weeks earlier. Whatever the cause, the ensuing melee brought gunfire from all quarters of the surrounding 7th Cavalry. Many soldiers were killed by their own crossfire. The fury of the Hotchkiss guns were unleashed and when the echo of the last bullet faded among the cedars, 25 troopers lay dead and nearly 300 Sioux, mostly old men, women and children, lay in the red stained snow near Wounded Knee Creek. |
| Teen Voice: Happy news 2012-12-27 By Kendall Uhrich editor@geringcitizen.com |
| With the tragedy of the Sandy Hook shooting filling up the media it is a wonder that anything positive would be a news story. The media are covering gun control laws and the fiscal cliff, leaving America wondering where the optimism is. So, for this column I would like to talk about the positive stories that may not be getting as much coverage, but are giving us all a new sense of hope after the catastrophe we have seen. Mark Zuckerburg, the creator of Facebook and now helping with Instagram, has given over 18 million shares (498, 789,000 dollars) of his company to the Silicon Valley Community Foundation. This foundation is created so that wealthier people can give money to charities without having to decide which charity to give to. The foundation takes the money and then decides who from there gets all the cash given to them by big names like Zuckerburg. Nothing should light up one’s day better than knowing that almost 500 million dollars is being given to those in need. No matter what charity the Silicon Valley Community Founation decides to give the money to, it is comforting knowing that the more unfortunate are getting what they need to become happy, healthy individuals. The next happy story is brought by TIME magazine who have named President Barack Obama their 2012 person of the year. The author of the article said Obama was their choice because, “After four of the most challenging years this nation’s history, his chance to leave office as a great president who was able to face crises and build a new majority coalition remains with each.” Whether or not in the last election you voted for Obama or Mitt Romney, Obama has dealt well with the situations and all the emotions with the many tragedies we have seen in the four years and it is good to see all of his hard work is recognized. And for those video gamers (or parents of video gamers) 2100 people have now been banned from Xbox Live and Playstation 3, which at first sounds like bad news, but hear me out. It a new operation that got it’s start in New York that is called Operation Game Over. This act is making it so sex offenders cannot play the interactive games with underage children. The state law is requiring convicted sex offenders to register all email addresses, screen names and other online persona with the state. The state then gives the information to Operation Game Over and the sex offenders are then not allowed to game with minors. This makes for not only more strict laws, but an online world that is getting even safer. With new laws prohibiting cyber bullying and Operation Game Over, parents can feel more at ease with their children’s online lives than they would have even five years prior. Also making pageant news, Miss. USA was also crowned Miss.Universe. Now, being the not-so-girly girl I am, I have never really seen the whole pageant competitions as much of a hard hitting story, but after I figured out more about Miss.USA I came to admire her more. The sophomore at Boston University did not grow up as a pageant girl, but last year decided to go to a pageant in a 25 dollar rented dress and ended up going all the way to the top. This dress even had a hole in it. I admire this queen, because she not only stands up for equality and tolerance, but she is proof that even normal girls who aren’t rich and famous can climb their way up the ladder. Making teenage girls not feel insufficient, but rather more empowered. All this information was brought to my attention by watching none other than YouTube videos. It is my hope that the good the nation is coming to will give all my readers just a little bit more hope for a better tomorrow, because despite what the Mayans predicted, the world did not end, and it is time to celebrate being alive and all the perks to living in the United States of America. |
| Miss Movies: The top ten films of 2012: The year of the geek 2012-12-27 By Elizabeth Gross elizabethgross@geringcitizen.com |
| It was a year of the comic book hero, The Hobbit, and other triumphs of the geek. 2012 was a great year for everyone to pull out those cosplay costumes and embrace their inner geek or nerd. This year will only bring more great films with the release of the new Star Trek movie, the next installment of the Hobbit and other promising sci-fi films. So let’s take a look back at some of the best with my top ten movie picks of 2012 The Avengers You may remember that I put the Avengers on my must see summer movies list a few months back. Not only did this become one of the highest grossing movies of the year, it was everything thing I would hoped it would be. Staying until the end of the credits of Iron Man, Iron Man Two, Thor, The Incredible Hulk, and Captain America had finally paid off. All the little clues and hints these other films left finally came together in what could be one of the most epic comic book movies to date. The Avengers had everything, a great storyline, cool special effects, lots of explosions, and Robert Downey Jr. It appealed to everyone, so you didn’t have to be a comic book fan to enjoy this film. I think what made the Avengers film so successful is that geek culture is becoming less stigmatized. Comic book movies are no longer simply meant for the geek but everyone. I will confess I did see this movie three times in the theatre and every time there were people from all walks of life there. The Internet is filled with critics saying that the comic book movie is on its way out. If the lineup for 2013 is any indicator, the comic book movie is here to stay. The Dark Knight Rises I have pledged to be a Marvel fan-girl for the longest time. While I have always enjoyed some of the older Batman films they never really captured my imagination. The only one I had been faithful to was Tim Burton’s Batman Returns and I think that was only due to the fact that Catwoman is my favorite DC Comics character. I was however pleasently surprised when I went to see the final installment of director Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy. The other two films, Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, were what many claimed to be the greatest versions of the caped crusader. Nolan has been praised for giving realism to these dark characters and not making them to cartoonish. I didn’t really see it in the other two films. Never went to see Batman Begins and the only thing that was amazing about The Dark Knight was Heath Ledgers chilling performance as the Joker. Both films were very dialogue heavy and lacked the necessary action to keep people entertained. However, the Dark Knight Rises completely changed my opinion on Nolan’s view of the Dark Knight. What this film had that the other two lacked was interesting character development and compelling metaphors about the current state of our world today. While it was still very dialogue heavy, this final installment was able to incorporate more action sequences. Bruce Wayne is more likable and you want him to succeed, something I feel the other two films seriously lacked. I did not like Bruce Wayne in the other two and found myself cheering for the Joker instead of Batman. The Dark Knight Rises has more heart and was definitely a great ending to Nolan’s Batman. The Amazing Spiderman I have been a huge critic of reboots and remakes. To me there is nothing lazier than taking an old idea and trying to give it new life. More times than not, remakes can never capture the magic of their originals. Hollywood has been on a dangerous track of going by the creative philosophy that “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” In 2011, I barely darkened the doors of many multiplexes because of the lack of creativity in a film that was going to cost me almost 10 dollars to see. However, The Amazing Spiderman surprised me. When I first heard that this film was coming, I brushed it off as another lazy remake. The first Spiderman film was made in 2002 and 10 years is not long enough have a film remade. Scoffing at the idea of seeing this in the movie theatre, I waited until it came out on DVD. However, I gave the movie a chance and this is a film that I am surprised to say was better than the original. The Spiderman comic books hold a special place in my heart. They were the first comic I ever spent my hard earned allowance on. I remember being excited when this movie first came out. However, Sam Raimi’s Spiderman wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I thought of a live action version of my favorite web slinger. You could tell that director Marc Webb was a fan of the comic books. Andrew Garfield as Peter Parker not only looked like the part, his acting was amazing. Spiderman is supposed to be a sarcastic superhero that frustrates his enemies with his mouth more than his strength. This movie hit all the right notes on what made Spiderman an amazing comic book. 21 Jump Street Another movie that surprised me this year was 21 Jump Street. As if remaking a film wasn’t lazy enough, let’s take a television show that wasn’t really popular during the ‘80s and turn that into a movie. I’ve never seen 21 Jump Street the TV show, all I know about it is that Johnny Depp was the star. Maybe the fact that there is an entire generation of people that had never seen the TV show helped. Channing Tatum and Jonah Hill have fantastic chemistry and both characters are very likable. The movie proved that you didn’t have to resort to toilet humor and sex jokes to make a movie funny. It was refreshing and really brought us a great buddy cop comedy. Magic Mike If you’ve been living under a rock for the past year, then you have no idea what Magic Mike is about. What was this movie about? It’s about men who make money taking off their clothes while dancing. There was something in there about a love story between one of the dancers and another dancer’s sister. (I think) Women across America flocked to the theatres to watch two people fall in love; of course. All jokes aside, I put Magic Mike on my list because of the effect this movie had on people. Men cringed at it and women went for the love story (yeah the love story). It was everyone’s dirty little secret, a film most people don’t want to admit they actually watched. The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey There are very few film franchise sthat I will proudly yell, “Shut Up and Take My Money”. One franchise that will make me go to the theatre every time is the Lord of the Rings. I haven’t read the books in years but I remember it being one of my favorite fantasy stories as a kid growing up. The original three films were a fantastic adaptation that no director has ever been able to achieve. When I found out that they were making The Hobbit into a movie it was a must see for me. It captured all the magic of that made the first three films so memorable. There has been a lot of criticism of breaking this story up into three movies. Frankly, I don’t care, Peter Jackson creates such a memorable world I will see these movies there and back again. The Hunter This selection was not a block buster film. It was a movie filmed in Australia, and only released to four screens in the U.S. The Hunter, however, is defiantly a film worth checking out. It tells the story of hunter Martin David. He is hired by a powerful biotech company to hunt down the last Tasmanian tiger. The company is interested in the DNA of the believed to be extinct animal. David is sent to the last reported sighting of the Tasmanian tiger posing as a researcher from the nearby university. There he lives with a woman and her two children. They question what happened to their father as he went into the woods and never came back. This movie was very interesting. It had an original script and leaves you with an ending you don’t expect. I highly recommend this film as it is a true gem that we are not accustomed to here in the U.S. Willem Dafoe is a fantastic actor that always gives you a performance that you’re not soon to forget. I’m not sure if it is available on Netflix but it can be rented at the Red box. Check this movie out. The Pirates! Band of Misfits Another gem from our friends overseas is The Pirates! Band of Misfits. It tells the story of the Pirate Captain who dreams of winning the prestigious award of Pirate of the Year. While plundering a ship they come across Charles Darwin who tells them that their bird Polly is in fact an endangered dodo bird. Darwin informs the Pirate Captain that it is the scientific find of the year and convinces him to come to London where he could win an award. This film was made by Aardman Entertainment the U.K. team that brought us Chicken Run and Wallace and Gromit. The stop motion animation is at its finest and gives it enough effects that it doesn’t lose its creativity. The Pirates! Is a great film that both children and adults can enjoy. It has a great balance of humor for both and leaves the viewer very satisfied. While there are some differences between the U.K version and the U.S. version it doesn’t take away the heart of the film. This is another film you will have to find either on Netflix or the Red box. Wreck it Ralph This year was also the year of the video game nerd. Wreck it Ralph tells the story of Ralph who is tired of playing the bad guy and wants to be a good guy. This film is really more for the video game minded viewer. It’s filled with tons of nostalgic video game references fans will be sure to enjoy. The benefit is that there is great storyline as well. John C. Reiley gives a wonderful performance as Ralph. You feel bad that this great guy has to be trapped in such a terrible world. Brave Another film that was on my ‘what to watch this summer’ list and I’m happy to say it held up to my expectations. Merida is a head strong girl who is determined to make her own path in life. My biggest fear that this would follow ala ‘The Taming of the Shrew.’ Give us a strong female character that is determined to make her own path but falls to the social norms anyways. I was very happy to discover I was wrong. Merida is the type of role model we should be telling little girls to mold themselves after. I grew up with the Disney cliché of the princess needing to get the man at the end and I hated it. Mulan, The Princess and the Frog both had strong female characters but lo and behold they got married at the end. Brave was very refreshing and I hope we see more characters like Merida. |
| The Good Life: We are not separate, we are one family 2012-12-21 By Lisa Betz editor@geringcitizen.com |
| Since last week’s mass murder at Newton, Conn. that cut short the lives of 20 school children, four teachers, the school psychologist and the school principal by a disturbed young man, 20-year-old Adam Lanza, many of us have struggled for answers and solutions to the rash of gun violence and mass murders experienced in America. Did you know that last weekend we saw even more than the Connecticut shootings? There were two police officers shot and killed in Kansas; a three-year-old child accidentally shot and killed himself in Oklahoma; a man shot his wife in Roy, Utah and kept police in a stand-off for two hours; a Detroit gunman is at large after shooting someone four times; one person was shot in a San Antonio movie theater parking lot; a woman was shot at a campground in Bradley County, Tenn.; another woman was found shot to death in her home in Grand Rapids, Mich. The rise of violence and mass murders is being discussed everywhere, in coffee shops, work places and online. As we celebrate our holiday season by watching heart-warming movies about the Christmas message of love and kindness, I wonder how we can continue to compartmentalize the mixed messages we send and receive in a culture that allows so many of us to fall through the cracks. Christmas means many things to many people. For some it is the birth of Jesus, for others it is the return of light in a dark and dreary month, for others it is the giving and receiving of presents, and for some it is a time of sadness, depression and misery. Christmas is the most beloved of holidays, and most can agree that its primary message is one of peace, joy, generosity of spirit and brotherhood. I have long believed that Dec. 21, 2012, predicted to be the final day of our existence by the doomsdayers, is really about a shift in consciousness. I have felt that something was going to happen to cause mankind to shift to a loving way of being, one that celebrates our Oneness rather than the current paradigm of separateness. And now we have an event of such earthshaking magnitude that our backs are broken in grief for those precious babies who are dead, those teachers who valiantly tried to save their students and the administrators who were helpless in the face of one angry man loaded for bear. How did this young man go from being one of those precious little babies himself to the tortured soul who insanely destroyed the lives of so many on his path to ending his own suffering? That is the question we must ask and the problem we must solve together. I put up my Christmas tree Sunday. It took me all day and while I decorated, I had holiday movies on the TV. I have seen Charles Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’ many times. I have performed as Mrs. Cratchet and know the script well. One particular scene from A Christmas Carol gave me goose bumps when I heard it this time. The scene is with Scrooge and two donation collectors: “At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,” said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and Destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.” “Are there no prisons?” asked Scrooge. “Plenty of prisons,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again. “And the Union workhouses?” demanded Scrooge. “Are they still in operation?” “They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.” “The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?” said Scrooge. “Both very busy, sir.” “Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Scrooge. “I’m very glad to hear it.” “Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?” “Nothing!” Scrooge replied. “You wish to be anonymous?” “I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned — they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there.” “Many can’t go there; and many would rather die.” “If they would rather die,” said Scrooge, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides — excuse me — I don’t know that.” “But you might know it,” observed the gentleman. “It’s not my business,” Scrooge returned. “It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!” The ghost of many election conversations reared up in my mind. The thing is, other people absolutely are our business. They are Scrooge’s business and they are ours too, each and every day, not just at Christmastime. When we make it our business to care for those around us who are struggling, sad, lonely, lost and suffering, we lessen the suffering in the world. We tend to separate ourselves from those outside our blood or church familes. We do this by labeling people, placing them into categories that help us to write them off. No one is immune from this. If someone is rich, we think, they must be happy and don’t need our generosity. If someone is fat, they just don’t care so why should I? If they are labeled as evil, well they’ll get theirs in hell someday. Unchristian? Pray they find the light; back to regular programming. Poor? Lazy. Stupid? No help for that. Ignorant? It’s a choice. We write people off with labels every day. We all do this in some measure, even when think we are better than that. The thing is, we can be better than that if we live conscientiously. We can invest our love and energy in people we see every single day but we can only do that if we begin to see that we are all part of one family. We are not separate from each other. I am not talking about writing a check for the poor, the hungry or the lost. I am talking about love. Give your love to someone who has little of it. Talk to someone who is withdrawn and backward. Find out how the person in front of you lives, what their struggles are. If you demonstrate that they matter, remember them every time you see them, develop relationships of caring and respect with the person who takes out your groceries and others who perform service to you every day, the world will change. Don’t just write a check and say thank you, invest your heart, your time, your energy. That one relationship that you develop over time (and it does take time) could be the one reason someone isn’t lost. You might be the one person in someone’s life who gives that person love and attention. At some future date when that person contemplates doing something awful, they might think of you, of your friendship and realize that you would care about what they are about to do. And it may be enough to stop them. To stop these horrific tragedies, we have to stop creating Adam Lanzas, Eric Harrises and Dylan Klebolds. This is going to take a concerted effort for each one of us to invest in each other as though everyone was our sister, brother, father, mother, child. Look around you. Who is the awkward person, the lonely one, the angry one in your daily life? Talk to them. Ask about their families, ask them what they are doing for Christmas, then ask them after the holiday how it went. Keep asking questions every time you see them. Invest your love and don’t give up. Those who live without kindness and love are often suspicious when it comes their way. Keep at it. It isn’t that hard, it isn’t painful. What is painful is seeing on the news that another deranged gunman has slaughtered more children and senselessly destroyed the peace and happiness of countless lives. These tragedies will continue until we create a world where we all treat each other as family. |
| A Stray Moment: Merry Christmas – God save us all 2012-12-21 By Doug Harris dougharris@geringcitizen.com |
| When I was about 12 years old I remember being in a classroom filled with many students and our teacher posed the question, “What is the most precious thing that ever came up out of a mine?” Many in the class eagerly replied. “Gold,” one said. “Diamonds,” said another. “Rubies and emeralds,” tried another. The teacher kept shaking her head indicating no one had arrived at the answer yet. “Uranium, or maybe salt,” one clever kid mused. The teacher continued to shake her head. After a few more incorrect answers one small girl in the back of the classroom shyly offered, “A miner?” The teacher beamed at her and said, “Correct!” To this day I have never forgotten how slightly embarrassed I felt that I was unable to arrive at so obvious an answer. What are all the rubies or all the diamonds in the world worth when compared to the priceless value of the miner? I am writing this about 15 minutes after learning of the grade school massacre in Newtown, Connecticut. Like probably everyone, I am reeling with the shock and sadness of this unspeakable tragedy. I cannot imagine a more terrible event to befall our national conscience as we settle in to greet family and friends during this Christmas season. What can be said? There will be endless speculation about how and why this happened. At the end of the day we are still left with 28 dead and must face the bitter truth that 20 of them were little children. For myself my head is spinning. A friend of mine told me that he once had an existential crisis of the heart and sought to find a better explanation of the meaning of life. He was on a camping trip with his sister and her family. As they settled around the campfire on a dark warm night at Lake Minatare all they could hear was the crackling of the flames and her four small children scampering about the campground laughing and goofing around. “That is it,” she said. “That is the meaning of life.” He related that hearing the innocent elation and happiness from the spirited children became the only sound in the world. And he believed her. “It was the meaning of life,” he told me. I think he made a fair argument but I tend to rely on the traditions of my faith to balance my bouts between the darkness and the light. It has been advised it is better to light a candle than curse the darkness. Yet so many brief flickering lights have now gone out. So many families will carry this horrible wound forever. Our hearts go out to them, but I have to wonder what good will that do? The gift of life, like that of the cherished miner coming up from the mine, is precarious. There is a price tag after all, isn’t there? Our time upon this mortal coil came with no promises of long duration. And we the yet still living are left to shoulder the burdens and joys of memory. The philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer questioned the accuracy of the text of Shakespeare’s soliloquy from Hamlet in the famous ‘To be or Not to be” speech. The text has Hamlet, also lost in his own existential struggle, wondering over the ‘shuffling off this mortal coil.’ Schopenhauer wrote “Should there not have been originally ‘shuttled off’? ‘Shuttle’ is an implement used in weaving. Accordingly, the meaning might be: ‘when we have unwound and worked off this coil of mortality.” The length of our life is metaphorically the length of thread that is coiled on a spool, a metaphor related to the ancient Greek mythological figures of the Fates. As we live, the thread is unwound from the coil by the shuttle of the loom of time. But today another old turn of words comes to mind, the phrase ‘vale of tears.’ It is a Christian phrase referring to the tribulations of life which Christian doctrine says are left behind only when one leaves the world and enters heaven. For those who place their faith in the Christmas story as told in the Bible the birth of our Savior Jesus Christ is the most significant and profound thing to happen in the history of the world. The idea of walking with the Lord doesn’t come with the caveat that we should try to do it especially well in late December. To my understanding such a walk is a full time endeavor. Sometimes it is hard. Most of us are familiar with the poem ‘Footprints’ where a man sees a set of two footprints upon the sand and asks Christ why there were only one set of footprints during the most difficult times upon his journey. The Lord replies “That is where I carried you.” In another spin I have seen a variation to this story. The Lord adds, “See that long groove in the sand over there? That is when I dragged you along kicking and screaming.” Collectively, as we try to make sense of the senseless we are probably better off that Providence sees fit to drag us forward. The world seems dark to me right now but I have faith the sun will come up tomorrow. I was recently told I tend to ramble and drift sometimes when I write this column. This column in particular might be clear evidence of that. I was accused of being ambiguous and confessional. Perhaps I am guilty of that? But without any ambiguity I would like to confess my faith. I believe the Christmas story in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke. When it comes to the New Testament I pretty much believe the whole thing. I think Saint Paul has a tendency to ramble and drift sometimes himself but the strength and perseverance found in the books of Saints James and Peter more than make up for it. In the Gospel of Matthew it is recorded that Christ said “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.” This is sometimes referred to as the parable of the pearl or the ‘Pearl of Great Price.’ The French theologian John Calvin commented on the parable in 1554 saying, “We are greatly in need of such a warning, for we are so captivated by the allurements of the world that eternal life fades from our view, and in the consequence of our carnality, the spiritual graces of God are far from being held by us in the estimation which they deserve.” As we weep for poor Connecticut may we find some solace that 20 little, invaluable gifts have been embraced by the loving arms of God. The message of Christmas holds forth the promise of what was the result of the birth of God incarnate in Bethlehem. We glorify the birth of the Jesus but also must remember the sacrifice involved in this gift. It is a story of triumph but not one without suffering and tragedy. As a Christian I must rest my faith on the mantle of trust in the promise that however great the price, however unobtainable and valuable, the price of our salvation has been paid. “For God so loved the world He gave His only begotten Son.” |
| Observations Only: Scourge of violence 2012-12-21 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| Let us suppose that you are ten years old, not quite at the age of adult reasoning which makes it difficult to look beyond the present moment and remember that actions have a result and a consequence. Later, after you acted on an impulse, you realize that it wasn’t such a good idea, and maybe you have to tell a little story to your parents blaming the other kid to keep out of trouble. Now suppose you’re visiting a friend’s house and his parents see nothing wrong with video games that make you feel really powerful, able to kill monsters; get the feel of a weapon in your hands, see the red blood and bodies fly to pieces; your nerves are singing and you can be anything, do anything. You know your parents wouldn’t like it but so what, you’re not hurting anyone. Then you and your friend hear about a game that lets you feel what it’s like to kill people and you decide that the game you’re playing is for little kids. No one’s really dead, and the power is exhilarating. The trouble is that this game gets boring too, and there’s always another game that’s so real, so graphic that your heart starts pumping harder and harder, your nerves tingle and your brain thinks it’s real. You become used to this level of excitement and want to experience more. What was once unimaginable horror becomes just another level that pushes the excitement up higher and higher until the line between reality and insanity is momentarily blurred, and possibly becomes a permanent addiction that later becomes your identity, depicted by wearing a certain type of clothing and a sullen anti-social attitude. Fortunately, most children become interested in organized sports and school activities before there’s a serious problem; however, a few children identify with the perpetrators of violence, considering them to be real heroes standing alone against the injustices of life at home or school. Their attachment to normalcy is broken and their narrow view of society is an all or nothing matters mind set, including their own life. Most children who play these increasingly violent games and watch violent movies won’t commit the atrocities that happened in Connecticut, Aurora, and Columbine and countless others. What is inescapable is that all of the perpetrators of these atrocities did play these games and watch these movies, and make detailed plans for the ultimate revenge, the ultimate thrill; killing as many people as possible, and then the supreme sacrifice, taking their own life. Many words have been said and much ink used in newspapers and magazines describing what happened in Connecticut. In the words of King Solomon, it’s all meaningless. Not one word or one drop of ink, or one lit candle makes the slightest difference. We can honor those who have died by talking with children about violence and then together destroying all videos and games that glorify violence in their honor; vowing to never purchase them or use them again. Censorship is not the job of churches and governments but of thoughtful people who want to rid the nation of the scourge of violence. Yes, there’s a difference between virtual murder and the real thing, but isn’t it a bit hypocritical to believe that it’s alright to enjoy games that mimic violence and mass murder because we haven’t actually killed anybody, then wring our hands and feel sorry for the murdered victims and their grieving families who have lost their greatest treasure? Each of us can do more than lighting a candle and saying a prayer; we can honor the dead by vowing to never purchase another item or view another movie that glorifies violence and destroying those we have in our possession. |
| From the Superintendent’s Desk: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year 2012-12-21 By Don Hague |
| This week marks the end of the first semester of school; we are also rapidly approaching the end of the calendar year. It seems like only yesterday we were starting up the 2012-13 school year. I’m sure a lot of the reason was due to all of the excitement around the opening of the new Lincoln Elementary Building. The building was an outstanding addition to not only Gering Public Schools but also to the community as a whole. It is a building that will serve as a model for future schools, as well as other new buildings throughout the community and state. We continue to work with the architects and our commissioning agent to make sure all aspects of the building are working at expected levels as well as address those issues that come up within the one year warranty period. Such a big project kept everyone busier than normal, which really does make time fly. The new owners of the Haig property have been working with the district to allow us time to clear out our equipment and other property from the building. Over the past weekend we held a surplus property sale at the Aurora facility, which consisted of accumulated surplus property from the past 20-plus years. Now that the surplus property has been taken care of we are no longer involved with the Aurora building. We would like to thank the City of Scottsbluff for working with us as this building did provide us with enough room to house all of our district preschool students, as well as the K-6 students that would have been going to the Lincoln building. Again, time passes quickly as it was in November at the general election in 2010 that the community overwhelming passed a bond issue to build the Lincoln Elementary building. We will continue to review facility needs in the future. Buildings within the district are in good shape due to their age, however upgrades and repairs will be required from time to time. The real challenge for all school districts is that you have limited funds with which to operate and being a business that requires a lot of personnel to do what we do. Often maintenance is deferred and the more years it is deferred the more costly it can become. 2012 is a year which has been filled with accomplishments and I am sure 2013 will be as well. The warmer than usual temperatures throughout 2012 were appreciated by many and did allow us to complete the Lincoln Elementary building on schedule, but the lack of moisture has placed a lot of stress on trees, native grasses and crops. Hopefully we can get back to near normal on our rainfall during 2013. Having had ample snow and rain during the summer of 2011, enough which filled surrounding reservoirs and lakes, many of us thought the drought was over and then came last spring and summer, which were drier than any year in the recent past. Let’s all hope and pray for moisture this year. The holidays are a special time and we are looking forward to having our sons and their friends and families here for Christmas this year. Like so many who have children scattered over the United States we do not always get to have everyone home for Christmas so 2012 is going to be special. I would like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. |
| Across the Fence: Sitting Bull: The Last Surrendering Sioux 2012-12-21 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| In the pre-dawn hour of December 15, 1890, a squadron of more than twenty Indian Police roughly wakened Sitting Bull. Rudely escorted from his home, not even allowed the dignity to cover his naked body, Sitting Bull protested his unwarranted arrest. Careless, though passionate, shots were fired in defense of Sitting Bull and the fearful tribal police responded by killing the great Sioux Chief with one bullet in his back, one bullet in his head. While he lay in the spreading pool of blood, his home was searched and a young man was found still inside the cabin. “There’s one in here,” someone shouted. “What should I do with him?” The death of Sitting Bull was the prelude to the final massacre (some say battle) that would finally end the Great Sioux Wars that had started more than 40 years earlier near Ft. Laramie. In that first fight, an overzealous, young Lieutenant who was eager to ‘kill Indians’ found his opportunity in a peaceful Indian encampment when tempers exploded over a dispute involving the death and consumption of a skinny Mormon cow. The brash Lieutenant Grattan is memorialized in the history of the American west as the commanding officer that lost control of his emotions and his men. The result of which was the unnecessary killings, of both soldiers and Indians, in a fight called The Grattan Massacre. At the time of the Grattan Massacre, Sitting Bull was a young man in his early twenties. Already heralded among his people as a courageous warrior, Sitting Bull was destined to also become a great leader of the Sioux Nation. Those who knew Sitting Bull spoke often of his courage, his leadership, his wisdom and compassion. In 1857, a handful of years after the Grattan affair, Sitting Bull was already a member of the Strong Heart Society, an elite group of warriors and hunters among the Hunkpapa Sioux. During the winter of that year Stands-at-the-Mouth-of-the-River proposed that the Strong Hearts should make a raid on the Hohe. The Hohe, or Assiniboin, lived north of the Missouri River and though once a part of the Sioux nation they were then bitter enemies. Stands-at-the-Mouth-of-the-River offered the war pipe to Sitting Bull who took it immediately. Other warriors, including Swift Cloud, High Bear and Bear Ribs also smoked and joined the small war party. It was bitterly cold and when they reached the Missouri they found it was frozen over and covered with snow. Across the river stood a single tipi, a Hohe family. The warriors stealthily crossed the frozen river and attacked. In those days tribal warfare was as ruthless as Appalachian blood feuds and men, as well as women and children, were subject to swift and merciless execution. The Hohe lodge consisted of a man, his wife, and three children. As the Sioux attacked, the family fled but was soon overtaken. All were killed as they fled except for the oldest child, a young boy of eleven or twelve years, who turned to fight. The boy faced the Sioux with his small bow and arrows and shot at the advancing warriors until he had only a single arrow remaining. Swift Cloud, Bear Ribs and High Bear had led the raid and each counted coup on the boy as he readied himself for death. Sitting Bull had observed the bravery of the young Hohe and commanded the warriors to spare the boy and adopted him as his brother. The boy remained with his adoptive brother, Sitting Bull, for the rest of his long life. He became an honored warrior and later, a chief of the Strong Hearts. Sitting Bull gave his adopted brother his own father’s name, Jumping Bull. It was Sitting Bull’s compassion for the young boy that brought about a truce between the Hohe and the Sioux. The fierce and brutal warfare against their rivals was imperative for the survival of the Sioux nation. Such a large population required expansive hunting grounds to supply the numbers of buffalo needed for food, clothing and shelter. Sitting Bull, as chief of the Strong Hearts successfully drove away all would-be encroachers, organized extremely successful hunts and insured that his hunters shared their kills with those who were poor or had no one to hunt for them. The elders said, “He fed the whole nation.” However, Sitting Bull was not a wanton killer of game and thought that it was cruel to kill more than was needed for his people. He considered the animals to be his brothers and spoke of them, and to them, with great admiration and affection. The wolves were his brothers because they led him to game and he shared with them after the kill. It was the birds that often warned Sitting Bull of danger and he is said to have remarked that the Meadowlark was a fluent speaker of the Sioux language and spoke to him often. The buffalo, the deer, the elk and antelope all gave their lives so that his people might live and so, after each kill he gave thanks to Wakan’ Tanka for the gift given. It is told that when Sitting Bull would come upon the site of a previous buffalo kill he would stop and position each sun-bleached skull so that it faced the rising sun. He would tell those with him to honor the bones of their four-legged brothers for they had given their lives so that the Sioux might live. Even in battle Sitting Bull was known to have compassion for his enemies. It is told among the Sioux that it was Sitting Bull who saved the lives of Reno and his remaining troopers at Little Big Horn. Sitting Bull was riding the Sioux battle lines and came upon many warriors who had Reno under attack. “That’s enough,” he shouted, “let them go! Let them live. They are trying to live.” Although Sitting Bull spent two years in prison for ‘killing Custer’, he was not Custer’s killer. However, it was Sitting Bull who, during a sun dance, had a vision of the enemy falling headlong into camp. The enemy would be defeated because ‘they had no ears,’ a sign that they did not listen or could not comprehend the consequences. Sitting Bull cautioned that although they would be victorious in battle they must not take any spoils of war. No horses, no weapons, no clothing, nothing could be taken from the enemy for if they did, there would be dire consequences in the future. However, in the heat of battle and the jubilation of victory, many spoils were taken and Sitting Bull’s warning unheeded. Angered by the disregard of his warning Sitting Bull spoke strong words. “Because you have taken the spoils, henceforth you will covet the white man’s goods, you will be at his mercy, you will starve at his hands. The soldiers will crush you.” In 1876 Sitting Bull and a handful of his followers fled to Canada to escape the continuing warfare. Five years later, in 1881, Sitting Bull returned to U.S. soil in hopes of reclaiming the Sioux lands of the Sacred Black Hills through a true and lasting treaty. On the 19th of July 1881, Sitting Bull surrendered at Fort Buford by giving his weapon to his eight-year-old son, Crow Foot, who in turn handed it over to the commanding officer. “My son,” said Sitting Bull as he handed his son the weapon, “if you live, you will never be a man in this world, because you can never have a gun or pony.” Nine years later, on December 15, 1890, in the pre-dawn hour, the Indian police rousted Sitting Bull from his bed and informed him that he was under arrest. At first, Sitting Bull agreed to go peacefully but his rough treatment angered him and he began to resist. As the commotion rippled through the village, Sitting Bull’s supporters rallied to his defense. The silver-gray show horse, given to Sitting Bull by Buffalo Bill had been saddled and brought to Sitting Bull’s cabin and pranced impatiently amid the scuffling and confusion. Finally Sitting Bull, angered and dishonored, struggled mightily to break free of the grappling hands that tried to restrain him. In the struggle, shots were fired. Sitting Bull’s legs buckled beneath him and the spirited silver-gray horse reared above his fallen master. Some say it was at that moment that the warrior spirit of Sitting Bull escaped from his broken body and became one with the horse that stood defiantly over him. Inside the cabin someone shouted, “There’s one in here. What should I do with him?” “Kill him,” was the command. The next shot slammed into the flesh of the young man who stood unarmed, pleading for his life. His pleading fell upon ears that would not hear. His pleading was not heeded by a man with the compassion of a warrior such as Sitting Bull. His pleading was met with a vengeful bullet. The young man was Crow Foot, Sitting Bull’s son. Perhaps, as he fell to the rough plank floor he heard, once more, the words of his father, the last Sioux chief to surrender. “My son, if you live…” Tim Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist, freelance writer, poet and entertainer. To contact Tim, email; mtimn@aol.com |
| Life in the Rearview Mirror: The cumulative effects of giving 2012-12-21 By Glenn Hascall |
| I’m certain you have never met Cale. When I first met him he wore thick glasses and was slightly cross-eyed. I was writing stage-drama for an organization at the time. I still remember Cale’s first stage performance. I was amazed at how a boy (then 12 or 13) could have all lines memorized while everyone else referred to Teleprompters for refresher courses on their lines. He was (and is) a natural in stage performance. He is a self-avowed geek. To see him in any type of sports attire causes one to chuckle involuntarily. And as awkward as he looks when trying to be something he’s not in real life, Cale can absolutely sell himself on stage. You name the character and Cale can become that persona on stage. I still remember the first time I was backstage with him for one of the performances he was to be involved. His palms were sweaty; he paced, seemed as if he might pass out, and was very ill at ease. However, once he stepped on to the stage something happened. He delivered an incredible performance. The fear he experienced before heading to the stage seemed to empower his performance in ways I’ve never understood. In May, Cale will graduate. He has been in every play and every musical that has been performed at his high school. Furthermore, he’s played the lead in each performance. He beat out seniors his freshman year. He was elected president of the drama club. He won a grant to develop a summer camp that teaches young men confidence by helping them learn skills in public speaking. Recently Cale performed the role of George Bailey in a stage performance of “It’s a Wonderful Life”. I imagined some of the scenes changing from the classic story to ones that fit more directly with this young man. Today the glasses are gone and his eyes look straight ahead. He has inspired multiple younger siblings to participate in drama. While it looks easy to the audience very few realize what profound fear Cale had to overcome to make it look so effortless. So this year, like so many others, I will watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” with Jimmy Stewart and it will present a feeling that aligns with Christmas, but it will also remind me of a boy who went through an incredible inner battle to find success on stage. Many tell me they believe Cale will wind up on Broadway. I can’t argue the point. What I appreciate about his story is that he is working to give back by helping others to embrace the difficult things in life to encounter personal and professional success. It’s Christmas and we always think of giving as a part of the season. It was that way from the beginning. It’s been said that you can’t help someone up a mountain without getting closer to the summit yourself. The good news is giving doesn’t have to end on December 25th, and it doesn’t always need to involve wrapped gifts. Giving doesn’t always mean that you are somehow left with nothing in return. Sometimes it is the gift of satisfaction, the gift of a good night’s rest knowing you did the right thing, or maybe the return of unexpected blessings. There may even be times when you have no idea what you were supposed to learn from the giving, but the collective moments of giving are so much like George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life”. The cumulative effect of nameless acts of kindness leads to individuals who will always be remembered for the right reasons. Perhaps Cale will be one of those long remembered people. Perhaps you will be one, too. “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.” – Aesop Merry Christmas. |
| Teen Voice: Making sense of the Sandy Hook tragedy 2012-12-21 By Kendall Uhrich |
| Most everybody has heard the story of the tragedy that took place last Friday morning of the shooting in Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut. With the death of 26 people, mostly children in the ages of five to seven, the United States went into shock. The media flooded to the scene of the crime, Obama prepared a speech, the news reporters wrote the story and almost as soon as the shooting happened, the nation knew what horrific event had occurred. For me, Gering High School all knew by fourth period, because the students Twitter and Facebook feeds flooded with information about the shooting. Usually my columns are funny anecdotes of my life, but this week with the sad stories filling the news, it seems necessary that it is time to take a moment of silence and seriousness for those who have lost their lives. Being a high school student who was affected my sophomore year with the loss of a close family member I wanted to tell my readers a few things they may have not thought about. I want to urge everyone to not only care about those who died right now, but remember them later. Two days from now, two weeks and even two years. I firmly believe that grief is not a few day process, but sometimes it even takes a lifetime to get over. Just because those affected do not show symptoms of still being in mourning does not at all mean they will be over it. Just because the news will stop reporting the stories and it won’t be the top story on the Internet does not mean those families stop being affected. It is vital to still remember the victims when the media flurry stops. The United States and President Obama have declared they are doing all they can to stop future shootings from happening and I am so joyous to hear they are taking these steps. But for right now, the news is becoming harder and harder to read. I love news stories, but I don’t like reading this story. I recognize how important it is, but it is such a hard concept to grasp, even as an eighteen-year-old. I have started and stopped reading many times. I know what it is like to lose a family member and having three brothers the age of those students I cannot grasp the state of that community. The town of Newtown has come together to mourn, but I believe the towns of Scottsbluff and Gering need to come together just as well. Just because a tragedy hasn’t happened doesn’t mean we would not be helped by a sense of community. My journalism class is participating in an event that we call 26 random acts of kindness, one for each life lost on that day, and I urge every one of my readers to do the same. An NFL athlete is now sporting the name of one of the little boy’s names on his cleats, so why can’t we do one thing to make someone’s day better, because after all we don’t know if it will be their last, or even our last day. We cannot stop or change what happened that day, but we can make each passing day just that much better. Go out and do kind acts for others in memory of those listed below. Rachel Davino, 29. Dawn Hochsprung, 47. Anne Marie Murphy, 52. Lauren Rousseau, 30. Mary Sherlach, 56. Victoria Soto, 27. Charlotte Bacon, 6. Daniel Barden, 7. Olivia Engel, 6. Josephine Gay, 7. Ana Marquez-Green, 6. Dylan Hockley, 6. Madeline Hsu, 6. Catherine Hubbard, 6. Chase Kowalski, 7. Jesse Lewis, 6. James Mattioli, 6. Grace McDonnell, 7. Emilie Parker, 6. Jack Pinto, 6. Noah Pozner, 6. Caroline Previdi, 6. Jessica Rekos, 6. Avielle Richman, 6. Benjamin Wheeler, 6. Allison Wyatt, 6. Victoria Soto gave her life to save many of the Sandy Hook students, a selfless act worth recognition and I believe we all need to aspire to be more like her. It is a shame that tragedies like school shootings happen, but remember those who lost their lives and be kind to others. |
| From the Superintendent's Desk: PLAS School 2012-12-13 By Don Hague |
| Federal regulations require the state to identify 15 percent of schools by category as PLAS (persistently low performing schools) each year. The data used to determine this designation is a statewide test known as NeSA. One reason many schools are identified is because a subgroup of students did not performance at the same level as all students. Examples of subgroups are students receiving special education services, gender groups, ethnic designation, English Language Learners or students receiving free or reduced price lunches. Geil Elementary school is on the PLAS list this year being identified in the lower 15 percent of Title I schools. Geil has consistently been one of our top performing schools, but a subgroup of students within the building has not performed as well during the past couple of years. Mary Kay Haun, principal at Geil Elementary, is working with all staff to develop a comprehensive plan to address areas of concern and is working hard to raise performance levels. The other three elementary buildings continue to address their level of student performance. The real issue is when all buildings are placed on a list, there are going to be those at the bottom of the list. Even though the performance of these buildings demonstrates a very good level of student performance they could be in the bottom 15 percent of schools. It is a reminder to all staff that we must continue to strive to teach all students. This provides us with a specific focus for staff development activities designed to address needs of students. Specific information will be shared with parents, staff, and students as we continue to work with state officials to meet necessary requirements due to this designation. I can assure you that students at Geil and all Gering Public Schools are getting a quality education. When a decision is made using only one data source given on one day of the year, it is not a true picture of the performance of students over a year’s worth of schooling. Gering Public Schools uses a variety of assessments to allow a more accurate picture of student performance. We are concerned about NESA tests but we are just as concerned about ACT tests and other tests in the district. If you have specific questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact your building principal or the Director of Curriculum and Assessment, Terri Martin. Rest assured that Gering Public Schools is committed to educating all students to a level that prepares them for their future. All staff in every building share in this commitment. |
| The Good Life: A very interesting meeting indeed 2012-12-13 By Lisa Betz editor@geringcitizen.com |
| The Gering City Council meeting last night was chock full of interesting moments. As publisher of the Citizen, I attended because the Council was set to designate its legal newspaper of record for the City of Gering. Having mixed results two years ago when the Council last made this designation, I was prepared this year. I had contacted several residents and business owners in Gering asking for support of the Citizen. Many wrote letters, sent emails, and called their council members on our behalf. Some generous souls even came to the meeting prepared to speak on our behalf should it become necessary. For these efforts, I am grateful. There is nothing quite like the experience of asking for help, and receiving it. I am pleased to say that the Council did vote to make us the official newspaper of Gering. What a feeling of elation it was, especially after the challenges we have faced in our young days as a newspaper. Other business before the Council was Neal Smith’s request to build additional storage units at his M Street location. After about an hour of discussion and testimony, which left me with many questions about the whole matter, the Council elected to deny Smith’s request for the necessary zoning exception. Many Gering business people along M Street wrote letters of support for Smith’s venture, with one letter against it submitted by the neighboring doctors’ office. The gallery heard the final remarks of outgoing councilman Manuel Escamilla as he individually thanked fellow members of the Council, praising each for attributes that he appreciated in them. Monett Ross, who stepped up to fill the chair vacated by Joyce Hillman-Kortum, had kind words for the council as well. Most interestingly, Ross said that she has been encouraged by Gering residents to run for the Council herself. I sincerely hope that she will. Ross has demonstrated a thoughtful approach to the decisions made by the Council in her brief time there and would make a good representative for the people of Gering. Two newly elected council members, Troy Cowan and Justin Allred, were sworn in, as well as our new City Clerk, Kathy Welfl. New beginnings often have a spirit of hope and optimism. I like what I see in this new Council and hope for continued prosperity and good ideas for Gering under their leadership. Don Christensen was elected Council president, meaning that he will be the one to run meetings and represent Gering publicly in the event that Mayor Mayo is unavailable. One oddity of the meeting, City Administrator Lane Danielzuck took ten minutes at the end of an already long meeting to discuss the federal deficit. It left me scratching my head. Between the recent letter of support for the Keystone XL pipeline that he placed on the agenda for the last meeting and now this discussion of the federal deficit, my sincere hope is that Danielzuck will focus his attention closer to home in 2013. |
| Teen Voice: Practice makes perfect 2012-12-13 By Kendall Uhrich |
| Week after week I look at my life trying to find inspiration for these columns. But this week, my scrutinizing came with no effort at all besides waking up. As I was writing my column, I took a look up at my wall. Above my desk hangs almost every newspaper clipping my picture has ever been in, and above that I have a sign that reads, “CHANGE THE WORLD,” in all capital letters in bright orange and hot pink. I have stared at the collection of newspapers so many times that it barely fazes me anymore, but I realized how much they should. This array mainly consists of speech pictures with a few of fall play and state journalism, and stories on Gering speech team’s nearly undefeated season last year and pictures of our district championship team, who grabbed first place for the first time in 27 years. I realize that my speeches have not changed the world, but they did make at least a few people smile and the team most definitely changed my world. The huge district defeat reminded me of the feeling of accomplishment. (With perfect timing as well, considering the speech season kicks off Saturday in Morrill) But with accomplishment, we often forget how we got there. At least I hadn’t. That is why today I want to stress that practice makes perfect. And if not perfect at least better than it was before. Yet another cliqued saying, but have we ever stopped after winning and remembered how much we had to practice to get there? That not only goes for just teenage athletes or even speechies like me, but adults as well. Do we remember how we got the job that we currently have? There was finding out the job, dressing up for the interview, possibly practicing for any questions that were going to be thrown our way. And if we had to get a college degree to get there do we remember the hours upon hours of studying for the tests? We are only human. We learn by trial and error, which means we are practicing all the time, for a state championship or even just for tomorrow. We need to constantly be preparing, because in order to be the best we can be we have to put in the work for it. Recently Gering High School had a speaker named Big Milt. I know by the sounds of his name he does not seem influential; however, the opposite is true. He even gave insights about practice in his speech. He reminded us that even top chart musicians like Usher still have to practice. Even though Usher is now claiming millions of dollars, he still takes voice lessons and practices the piano. He remains humble and never believes he is the best, even if the charts say he is number one. He even sings in his new song Numb, “They say life is a battlefield. Well, bring it on.” We have never gotten to the point where we have “arrived.” We always need to be constantly striving to learn more knowledge and have new techniques. Although, we may be very talented and hardworking there is always someone who will seem to surpass us, and instead of feeling down because someone is better we need to strive to reach what they are. And if the person we believe is better than us is in reach we need to ask them how they got to where they are. Maybe it is a teacher, then the students need to constantly be asking questions. Or even in the workplace, ask the boss to teach us new information we did not know before. As Demi Lovato sings in her hit song Give Your Heart a Break, “The world is ours if we take it.” That means take the world, by its horns, so to speak, stay humble and practice, practice, practice. |
| Observations Only: The two faces of poverty 2012-12-13 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| The holiday season, celebrated worldwide, with different names and traditions, focuses to varying degrees on giving or buying something. Retail stores begin displaying the trappings of Christmas months in advance of the actual day to be celebrated, encouraging us to spend a lot of money and spend it early. We are cautioned not to offend others with different beliefs by not actually wishing them a Merry Christmas, but using the phrase Happy Holidays instead, allowing them to substitute the phrase they prefer. Parties are planned and special clothes purchased in hope of looking our best. Attending religious services is an important ritual observed by many families. The big day arrives, beginning with the opening of presents and cooking for the feast later that day. Thus, we have in a nutshell, the holiday experience for many in our society. Much concern and sympathy is offered to needy families living in poverty who can’t afford warm clothes and enough food. Communities hold food drives for these families who would otherwise be hungry. Other groups, private and public, collect toys and clothes for children who live in poverty and wouldn’t otherwise receive a gift. Some parents ask their children to give a toy or garment they receive to a child who may not receive a gift at all. Churches and civic groups prepare turkey dinner with all the trimmings for anyone wishing to partake. On the other hand, some people refuse to feel sympathy for those living in poverty through no fault of their own; we all know there are people who consider it a challenge to get something without working but we’re not discussing that group here. Another type of poverty is that of the spirit, stemming from lifelong neglect in childhood, which has nothing to do with physical abuse; or the amount or quality of food; nothing to do with where a child lived, or how much or little money his parents made. It has everything to do with a parent or caretaker unable to recognize or care about the reality of a child but treating him as little more than a piece of furniture to be made use of. It’s caused by impatience, by the disregard for a child’s feelings as if they’re of no importance. A child takes this to mean they aren’t important. Other forms of neglect are tainting a child’s self-worth by making inanimate objects more important or valuable than the child. A neglected child can become a target for bullies and wish to be invisible, fear risk taking or adventure. The nuances of childhood neglect are subtle by the time adulthood is achieved. A neglected child becomes an adult who neglects himself; delays doctor and dentist appoints, neglects to replace worn out shabby clothing. A neglected adult uses food and drink as a way to stuff down anger and emotional pain. A drug abuser treats his body as if it has no value just as he was treated as a child. As horrifying and painful as physical abuse is to children it’s still a form of attention and many children love the abuser and want to be with them. Childhood neglect damages a child at his core, coloring their entire life with self-doubt, insecurities and a tendency to neglect themselves in adulthood. Without intense sessions with a psychotherapist, it is virtually impossible to overcome severe neglect. Many who begin therapy never finish because they don’t know who they will be afterward and it feels safer to remain as they are. The sadness and pain of childhood neglect shows in the eyes of many people when they think no one is watching, but they are. |
| Miss Movies: Top ten holiday films, part II 2012-12-13 By Elizabeth Gross elizabethgross@geringcitizen.com |
| Christmas films are the one form of entertainment that can truly get us into the spirit of the season. They make us remember what makes the Christmas season the most wonderful time of the year. Last week, I gave you my first top five Christmas films to check out. I hope that you have taken my list and started getting into the Christmas spirit. As the holiday season is coming even closer here are five more holiday films. Eight Crazy Nights (2002) Davey Stone is a loser. He is constantly in trouble with the law and is on the fast track of ending up in prison. Davey’s judge however gives him one last chance to redeem himself by spending the holidays serving community service with a youth basketball team. Already not very happy with his predicament, Davey begins to have a change of heart when he meets the head referee Whitey Duvall. Whitey is determined to make Davey see the good within him and bring back the holiday spirit. If you are a fan of Adam Sandler you will enjoy this movie. If you don’t enjoy his other works this movie is really not for you. It contains a lot of Sandler’s style of humor, so if you have somehow missed this one I recommend it. The story line is a bit cheesy but has enough holiday spirit to keep you entertained. At times, it’s really hard to like Davey but the film does a good job of making you want to care towards the end. Eight Crazy Nights is an animated film but I would not recommend this as a film for children to watch. Nativity! (2009) Primary school teacher Paul Maddens is in charge of this year’s nativity play at St. Bernadette’s. Not at all excited about having to do this year’s show, he has the misfortune of running into Mr. Shakespeare from the posh rival school down the road. Every year the school competes for the honor of best reviewed show. Wanting to one up the competition, Mr. Maddens makes the mistake of bragging that his ex-girlfriend, a Hollywood producer, is going to see his show and turn it into a film. The problem is Maddens hasn’t spoken to his ex- girlfriend in years. To make matters worse his over excited classroom assistant overheard his white lie and has told everyone. Now it’s up to Mr. Maddens to make everyone’s holiday wishes come true. If you can’t already tell from the description this is a British Christmas film. It has a lot of British humor, great music, and will instantly become a Christmas classic. However, the only way you will be able to view this film is if you order it. You might luck out and find it in the Redbox but if you don’t want to leave it up to chance I recommend finding it on Netflix. If you don’t have a Netflix account the film can be purchased on iTunes or Amazon.com. The Santa Clause (1994) Scott Calvin is a divorced father who has is priorities a little mixed up. He is a constant disappointment to his son Charlie. When Christmas Eve comes, much to Charlie’s dismay he must spend the holiday with his dad. After Scott has read Charlie ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’, he hears a noise up on the roof. Running outside he sees what he thinks is just a guy dressed in red trying to break into his house. Scott calls out to the man in red, spooking him, and making him fall off the roof. Charlie races outside and discovers that his dad has in fact killed Santa Clause. Now Scott has donned the coat and must take his place as the new Saint Nick. For a kid growing up in the ‘90s this was our Miracle on 34th Street. It’s not often you find a film about Santa that is not already overused or cliché. At the time of its release there hadn’t been a film like this that could make you laugh and cry. While Santa is the focus of the storyline, it doesn’t leave its viewers with a commercialized Christmas story. The Santa Claus has a lot of heart and can truly capture the spirit of Christmas. The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993) Deep in the forest there are magical portals that take you to the land of our favorite holidays. In Halloween Town, the pumpkin king Jack Skellington is tired of celebrating the ghoulish holiday. So, Jack ventures out to the forest past the town and discovers the portals to all the holidays. Curious he goes to Christmas Town. Jack is amazed by all the amazing activities that go on in Christmas Town and decides to bring the spirit of Christmas to Halloween Town. Completely missing the point of the holiday Jack takes it upon himself to overtake Christmas. Jack’s plan ends in disaster but he is given a new insight into his own holiday. For any fan of Tim Burton this stop motion movie is a holiday must. At the time of its release, the films stop motion animation was one of the most innovative and original techniques of animation. Though a tedious process, the film remains a classic for many whether or not you’re a fan of Tim Burton. Fun fact about this film is it was not originally marketed as a children’s Christmas film. It was viewed as too scary for kids to enjoy. I don’t know about other kids but I was four when this movie was released and yes it was very scary for me. However, compared to what many children see in films these days it’s really child’s play. The Nightmare Before Christmas is not even close to being a typical Christmas movie. The film is a more off-beat Christmas film but one worth checking out. Home Alone 2: Lost in New York (1992) Kevin McCallister can’t catch a break when it comes to traveling with his large family. Last Christmas he was left home alone. Now as the McCallister family plans to head to Miami, Florida for the holidays they all keep a watchful eye on Kevin. That is until he gets caught up in the crowd and gets on the wrong plane. While his family heads to Florida he is off to New York but this time is armed with cash and dad’s credit card. Despite being alone in the Big Apple everything seems to be going great for Kevin until he runs into the Wet Bandits, who have escaped from jail. Personally, I enjoy the second Home Alone film to the first. The first Home Alone film to me didn’t feel like a comedy but a horror film dedicated to bad parenting. While, the storyline is essentially the same as the first film this one takes a more comedic approach. Everything from the hotel room full of sweets to Duncan’s Toy Chest this film played more on a kids fantasy Christmas instead of a childhood fear. |
| Jane’s Secret, part XVIII : Devil’s bargain 2012-12-13 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| Miles away from her father and sisters’ suffering and the heartbreaking loss of one of their own, Jane has finished her toilette and gone downstairs for breakfast. “Good morning everyone,” she says, sitting down beside Harvey and shaking out her napkin, annoyed that they seated themselves without waiting for her. “Good Morning,” they respond. With a practiced eye, Jane peruses the table for placement errors, making mental notes for Aggie. “What are your plans for the day?” she asks Hazel while passing the biscuits. “I thought I might explore the town; find the school and look for a furnished place to live,” she replies, passing the butter dish to Harvey. “I would like to go with you, if you don’t mind and Mrs. Hogg doesn’t need me,” Bridget says, glancing at Jane for approval. “I don’t mind,” Jane replies, taking a small amount of scrambled eggs onto her plate. “And you Harvey; what are your plans,” she asks, passing him the platter of bacon and eggs. “I thought I might go down to Jones Mercantile to buy some boots, work shirts, and dungarees,” he says, privately wondering what became of the black Stetson hat he used to wear. “You want anythin’ else,” Aggie barks from the kitchen door, interrupting their pleasant conversation, Jane winces at her rough intrusion and bad grammar, resolving to make a proper servant out of her. “That will be all, Aggie,” Jane says, dismissing her. “Harvey, I’ve been thinking,” she says, carefully dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her napkin so not to smudge her lipstick. “What have you been thinking, my dear,” he asks, doubting his wisdom in asking. “Well, since you’re going to Jones Mercantile anyway, you can hire some cowboys, rent wagons and horses, and take Stephen and Gertrude’s furniture to Cheyenne. Then load the wagons with our furniture and bring it back here, all in one day. Plus you can bring our luggage back at the same time,” she says, pleased with her idea. “Jane, that’s not a good idea; you can’t take over Stephen and Gertrude’s home like that,” he argues, shocked that she would actually follow through with her plan. “Really, you don’t think it’s a good idea?” Jane mimics, surprised at his nerve in front of Hazel and her maid. Jane thinks for a few minutes than rises from her chair. “If you will excuse me, I must return to my bedroom,” she says, leaving the dining room abruptly without a parting glance at the others. Harvey, after momentary consideration, opts to continue the pleasantness at the breakfast table despite the growing storm upstairs. “I would enjoy having your accompany me Bridget,” Hazel says, setting her silverware across her plate. “And I would enjoy driving you both downtown,” Harvey says, just as Jane descends the stairs wearing a hat and pulling on gloves that match her navy blue kid skin boots. “I’m ready Harvey,” Jane says, smiling brightly. “Ladies, I suggest you fetch your hats and gloves if you plan to accompany us,” Jane remarks, adjusting the angle of her hat. Hazel and Bridget excuse themselves and hurry upstairs to fetch their outdoor things. “May I presume to ask where we’re going,” Harvey asks, reluctantly retrieving his hat from the tree in the entryway. “Of course you may; I’m going to Jones Mercantile to hire men and wagons, with or without you, and Gertrude isn’t the only woman who can drive, remember,” she says, amused by his expression. “Wait for me in the automobile,” she says to Harvey and the others. “I need to give Aggie her instructions,” she explains, returning to the kitchen just in time to see her behaving oddly. Jane observes Aggie, back turned to door, wrapping up food items into a tea towel. We have a thief in the house; Jane realizes. I should tell Gertrude but I don’t think I will. I need a pair of eyes in the house and Aggie will do nicely, she muses. “Aggie, what are you doing?” demands Jane. “Oh, Mrs. Hogg you startled me,” Aggie says, a guilty red stain creeping up her neck. “No doubt,” Jane snaps. “What’s in here?” Jane demands, looking at a lumpy bundle. “I take home the leftover food that nobody eats so it don’t spoil,” Aggie explains. “So it’s alright if I ask the doctor and Mrs. Elliott about it?” Jane asks. “Please Mrs. Hogg, don’t say anything, I need this job,” Aggie pleads. “Just so I understand this properly, you’ve been cooking extra food so you can take home what’s left; is that right?” Jane snaps. “I promise I won’t do it again. It’s just that I got growing boys at home,” she explains, nervously. “I see,” replies Jane, thoughtfully. “Perhaps it won’t be necessary to tell them,” she muses aloud. “I think we can do something for each other Aggie. I need another pair of eyes and ears to help me manage the household properly and you need to think about feeding your boys. “You want me to spy for you,” Aggie says bluntly. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I simply want to know what is said and done in the house,” Jane explains, surprised by her astute grasp of her real intention. “I have the means to make life a little more comfortable for you and your family; so do we have a bargain?” Jane coaxes. Aggie wordlessly nods her head, sickened by what she has agreed to do. “I’m glad we understand each other,” Jane says with a knowing smile. “I came in to tell you that we will be eating luncheon out but we will be here for dinner at the usual time,” she says, pleased with her new arrangement. Aggie parts the curtains and watches Jane get into the automobile with Harvey and the other ladies. That woman’s bringing evil to this house, Aggie shudders, returning to the kitchen. Doc’s a good man and don’t deserve the likes of her under his roof but there’s no help for it, I got my boys to feed, she sighs, resigning herself to the distasteful bargain. You could tell the Doc, whispers her conscience but Aggie ignores it. Jane, quite aware of what’s to be found in Jones Mercantile, doesn’t bother with etiquette and hurries inside, leaving Harvey and the other ladies to follow in her wake. Several old men seated around a table playing pitch and smoking cigars stare at her, mouths agog. They lay their cards down when the others enter the store, not wanting to miss the entertainment. “Aint that old Rupert Hogg’s boy?” “Nah, he aint got two nickels to rub together.” “I’m tellin’ you it’s him.” “Where’d he get the scratch for a stable like that?” “Heard tell he hooked up with some rich dame from back east that died on him; left him with plenty of scratch.” “That one there’s old man Clemp’s daughter, real beauty with silver hair and eyes like a mountain lake.” “Heard talk about her but never seen her meself.” “Well now you have, George. Shut your mouth and pick up your cards, it’s your play |
| Their View: Hey Gering, mind your own business! 2012-12-13 By Fairbury Journal-News, Letter to the Editor |
| On Nov. 26, the Gering City Council voted seven to one to support the construction of the TransCanada Keystone XL Pipeline through the eastern part of Nebraska. Gering, you’re not a player in this matter and you have no reason to stick your nose into other people’s business. Perhaps the Gering City Council would become better community servants if they tend to their own flock and fix their own problems rather than supporting something that has nothing to do with them or the people they represent. The construction of the Keystone XL Pipeline is very controversial in this part of the state and the City of Gering lies more than 350 miles away. There is no way Gering’s City Council should be discussing this project. Gering council member Jill McFarland was the only member of that city board to cast a nay vote on the matter, as she stated there are too many unanswered questions about the project and the Gering council did not have the authority to take a position on it without knowing how its constituents felt. Thank you Ms. McFarland for stating the obvious, even though the other members of your board went ahead and blindly passed the measure. The question is not whether one is in favor or opposed to the pipeline but rather that the Gering City Council does not have a dog in this fight. This newspaper is neither for nor against the pipeline because we don’t know all the facts. Gering’s letter of support will be mailed to the Nebraska Department of Environmental Quality, Governor Dave Heineman and the White House. Whether you support the construction of the Keystone XL Pipeline or not, you have to agree that the City of Gering is so far away from this controversy that they should tend to their own business and not ours. There is no way the members of Gering’s City Council talked to and got the opinions of the voters they represent before casting this vote to support the Keystone XL project. Their council vote represents their personal opinions and not the opinions of their constituents. Elected government officials should represent the people and not themselves. Editor’s note: This editorial was submitted by the Fairbury Journal-News, located in Fairbury, Neb., nine miles away from an already extant Trans Canada pipeline in Steele City. A juncture is planned between the two pipelines in that location. Jobs will be created in the coverage area of the newspaper, as well as a potentially higher risk of leaks and problems where the two pipes join. |
| Across the Fence: A boy called Slon-Ha 2012-12-13 By M. Timothy Nolting mtimn@aol.com |
| He was the only son born to his Hunkpapa Sioux parents and the source of considerable pride for them. It was an honor for his parents to have been blessed by the birth of a son and he would continue to bring honor to his parents and himself in later years as well. He would become a mighty hunter, a great warrior, respected holy man and a revered leader of his people. It was the year 1831, the Winter-when-Yellow-Eyes-Played-in-the Snow, in March, the Moon-of-the-Popping-Trees, that the boy came quietly into this world. The lodge, where he was born, was on the south bank of the Ree River at a place called Many-Caches, so named because of the presence of several old storage pits that had been dug along the river’s banks. Today, the place is known as Bullhead, South Dakota near the Grand River. When his name was chosen, by his parents, it was in recognition of his inherent characteristic of caution and careful curiosity. His actions were deliberate, methodical and with purpose, never hasty or impulsive. The literal translation of his name, Slon-Ha, from the Sioux language to Anglo-European would be ‘Slow’. And so it was, that in his first fourteen years he was known to all in his village as Slon-Ha. As a toddler, he enjoyed the carefree life of a boy-child, playing and exploring alongside his father and uncles. No sooner had he grown steady in gait and stride on his adolescent legs than his father gifted him with his first pony. His short and pliable limbs slowly warped to the shape of his pony’s sides and left him a little more than slightly bow-legged. Early on, his father taught him the importance of a swift horse, for those who led the hunt, those who rode first into battle were those whose deeds would be told at feasts and celebrations around the campfires of the people. He would become known for his fast horses as well as for his bravery. His father was a hunter and so Slon-Ha was trained early on in the skills required to provide food for the tribe. As a small boy he played with the other boys in the camp and competed in games of skill with bow and arrow, his slow, methodical ways proving valuable in consistent marksmanship. Early targets of birds and rabbits soon progressed to antelope and deer and at only ten years of age he killed his first buffalo. Later in life, as a young man, he would be chosen to be a member of the Strong Hearts, a select group within the tribe responsible for providing meat for the village. And even later, he would join the elite clan of Midnight Strong Hearts, responsible for not only organizing the hunts but also the protection of his people’s hunting ground, against the encroachment of other tribes and the ever-increasing numbers of emigrant ‘whites.’ Before his people, the Hunkpapa Sioux, and his cousins the Brule Sioux and the Oglala Sioux were forced onto the government subsidized reservations, he and his Midnight Strong Heart brothers would routinely kill thirty thousand buffalo a year to feed his people. His last hunt, in the early 1870s, would occur at a time when the great herds of the plains, numbering in the millions, had been reduced to less than 500 harassed and weary beasts. But during his boyhood, before the glory and burdens of leadership, he was ever present around the victory fires as warriors told and retold their stories of battle. He witnessed the praise and admiration of his people toward those whose exploits of bravery were celebrated. And he was eager to join the ranks of warriors, impatient for his chance at war. He watched as war parties prepared for battle and rode off, painted and fearsome, into the distance then returned victorious to the shouts of praise and ululations of grief. The words of his teachers echoed in his head, “It is better to lie naked than to rot on a scaffold.” It had been four years since Slon-Ha had killed his first buffalo at the young age of ten years. He was now fourteen and though still only a boy, he was eager to prove himself a man and war was the best way to prove it. Slon-Ha was neither unfamiliar with nor naive about the consequences of war. He, like all other Sioux children, grew up knowing that enemy attack might occur at any time. As a small child, Slon-Ha had slept with his moccasins on his feet so that he would be ready to run if his mother grabbed him by the hand and fled as their enemies raided their camp. He had seen many faces of death, watched the tortures of prisoners brought in by his uncles and heard the keening of mothers and wives who had lost sons and husbands. But still he longed for the glory of battle. Slon-Ha’s father and others had formed a war party and were preparing to ride from camp in search of glory, scalps and horses. The warriors had mounted their horses and were quietly leaving their lodges when Slon-Ha decided that his time had come. Quickly he prepared his pony, gathered his weapons, a boy’s shield, a bow with blunt tipped hunting arrows and followed. When he caught up with the war party of nearly twenty warriors, including his father, he saw the look of disapproval of those who watched him and sensed that he was unwelcome. He rode bravely up to his father who stood patiently waiting. Slon-Ha slid gracefully from his ponies back and faced his father. With one arm draped over his pony’s neck he drew himself up to his full height and boldly declared, “We are going too.” Slon-Ha’s father looked deep into the boy’s eyes and knew there was no turning him back. He had raised his son to know his heart, to be brave and forthright and he knew that he could not nor would not dare to break his spirit. “You have a good running horse,” his father said. “Try to do something brave.” Slon-Ha nodded and leaped onto his pony’s back and his father handed him a small, feathered coup-stick. In the warfare of the Plains Indian, counting coup by being close enough to touch the enemy with a coup-stick, or bow, was considered an act of greatest bravery. Counting coup was the ultimate feat of triumph, even surpassing the act of killing the enemy. When a warrior counted coup he would yell out, “I have overcome this one,” and shout his name. Thus claiming the honor of the coup and the rights to all the honor associated with it. The number of coups was the measure of a warrior’s bravery and worth. When preparations for battle had been completed, Good-Voiced Elk, who led the war party, gave the orders to be followed and the war party rode off in search of their enemy and the hoped for spoils of war. When the enemy was spotted, Good-Voiced Elk gave instructions for the group of warriors to hide behind a nearby hill and wait for their approach. The size of the approaching party was nearly equal to the number of Sioux warriors and Good-Voiced Elk intended a surprise attack. However, the eager young Slon-Ha could not wait. Mounted on his swift pony, Slon-Ha, naked except for his moccasins and breechcloth, his entire body painted a bright yellow, broke away from the rest of the party. He charged recklessly from hiding and rode directly into the face of the oncoming enemy. The others quickly followed but Slon-Ha held the lead. The enemy turned tail and fled. While those on faster ponies soon out distanced Slon-Ha, the young boy continued his pursuit and overtook the slowest of the enemy war party. Willing to stand and fight, the fleeing enemy jumped from his horse, nocked an arrow and drew the feathered shaft its full length. Slon-Ha never slowed his charge nor turned aside to avoid the flying arrow, but ran his pony over the enemy and smacked him with his coup-stick. “On-hey!” he shouted, “I have conquered him!” The Sioux warriors who followed killed the fallen enemy, which Slon-Ha had struck, before he was able to stand. When the running battle had ended, the victorious Sioux collected their trophies of horses, scalps and weapons and returned home. Not only had Slon-Ha counted coup, he had counted the first coup of the battle. This was the highest, most prestigious honor that could be achieved in battle. It was the first of more than fifty coups that the warrior-chief would count. Slon-Ha’s father led the boy, mounted on his gray pony, through the camp shouting praises of his bravery. “My son has struck the enemy!” he proclaimed. And to show his great love for the boy and to demonstrate his boundless pride, his father shouted, “I give him my name, Ta-tan-ka I-yo-ta-ke, Sitting Bull!” Tim Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist, freelance writer and entertainer. To contact Tim, email; mtimn@aol. |
| From the Superintendent's Desk: State report card 2012-12-06 By Don Hague |
| The 2011-12 state report cards were released on Nov. 20, 2012 and are available for viewing on the Nebraska Department of Education’s website. The 2011-2012 State of the School Reports are listed on the home page. Once you click on that you can then select the district and school to review available data. Nebraska Accountability data comes from the Nebraska State Test, which is an assessment given during the spring for Reading and Math to all students in grades 3-8 and 11th grade. There is also a state Science assessment, which was given to 5th, 8th and 11th graders, as well as writing for 4th 8th and 11th. Reading has been done for three years, math for two years and science was administered last year for the first time. Writing has been a state assessment for many years but the scoring was changed this past year for 8th and 11th grade and 4th grade scoring will change this year to reflect the same type of scoring. This past year was the first year that all three state assessments were given in reading, math and science. This coming year will be the first year that all of the state writing assessments will be given and graded with the same procedures. Getting data from the state report card is the first step; now the most important step is using that data to make decisions about curriculum and instruction for the future. It is very important not to take immediate action from a single source of data or from a single year on an annual assessment. You have a much better chance to determine student performance if you compare and utilize multiple assessments, which we do. We give Terra Nova assessments (in grades 3rd – 7th) which are a national test and the ACT battery of assessments beginning with the Explore test in the 8th and 9th grade, Plan in the 10th grade and the ACT to all 11th graders. Both the Terra Nova and ACT battery of tests have been given for a number of years now and provide us with trend data. Gering Public Schools has used student performance data to make decisions in the past on changes needed not only in our curriculum, but also in the instruction or manner in which we teach a subject and I am sure this practice will continue in the future. Reliable data is a much better source of information needed to make these types of decisions than personal beliefs or feelings about curriculum and instruction. It has also become imperative for the schools to align their curriculum with state standards as they are developed and/or revised. Gering is fortunate to have a Curriculum and Assessment Director, Terri Martin, who guides this process. She also utilizes the teaching staff and administrators to assist her in these important decisions. If you have questions about any of the assessment scores you receive on your student(s) please do not hesitate to contact the building principal for an explanation and clarification of your student’s individual performance. Our ultimate goal in Gering Public Schools is to see each individual student reach their maximum potential. We have a much better chance of reaching this goal if school personnel and parents work closely together on this issue. |
| Miss Movies: Top Ten Holiday Films 2012-12-06 By Elizabeth Gross elizabethgross@geringcitizen.com |
| What makes a great holiday movie? Simple, it needs to tug on our heart strings. Christmas time is some people’s very favorite holiday. It’s a time when the entire world slows down a little and appreciates the simple things in life. The movie experience is very much ingrained in our culture. What makes Christmas movies great is that they are more than just films they become a tradition. Here is part one of my top ten holiday films that you need to try out this holiday season. 1.) It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) On the night of Christmas Eve, George Bailey looks over the edge of a bridge and contemplates taking his life. He makes a private wish that he had never been born. As George is about ready to take the plunge his suicide is turned into a rescue as a man jumps into the river instead. George saves the man and learns that his name is Clarence; his guardian angel. Clarence is there to show George what his life would have been like if he had never been born. When it was released in 1946, It’s a Wonderful Life was a box office flop. The film received mixed reviews and made an FBI analyst report as displaying communist like behavior. However, later that year the film received five Academy Award Nominations. Liberty Films who financed the film was bought out by Paramount Pictures in 1951. It’s become a Christmas classic because of a simple clerical error that prevented the films copyright from being renewed. This made the film become a part of the public domain and was allowed to be used by television stations without having to pay a large amount of royalties to Paramount Pictures. Many television stations showed the film on Christmas Eve during the ‘70s and ‘80s bringing the Christmas classic back from obscurity. The film is inspiring. It’s so incredibly well made that all the characters are someone you know in real life. We’ve all experienced having to let go of dreams or compromise for the sake of others. I remember as a kid staying in one of my great uncles bedrooms during a family Christmas party prepping the old knob TV waiting for It’s A Wonderful Life to come on. It became a personal tradition I try to hold onto and I know I’m not the only one. 2.) National Lampoons Christmas Vacation (1989) Clark Griswold is a family man who dreams of creating the best Christmas ever. His work and home life are going great and wants to end the year with a big family Christmas. However, for the Griswold’s nothing is ever easy watching their simple plans take a turn for the worse. This film is filled with memorable quotes and gags that make this film a Christmas classic. Christmas Vacation is a film I will claim for us kids growing up in the ‘90s. It was one of the first Christmas movies I remember. The plot is simple but the gags in the movie are what we remember the most. Whether its Clark getting caught shopping for lingerie by his son Rusty or Cousin Eddie dumping sewage in the drain these were the moments that made this movie great. 3.) A Christmas Story (1983) “You’ll shoot your eye out kid!” Those are the immortal words of a film that is quickly passing Its A Wonderful Life as a Christmas classic. All Ralphie wants for Christmas is a Red Ryder B.B. gun. Now all he has to do is convince his parents, teachers, and Santa Claus to get him his blue steel beauty. Set in the 1940s the film is based off the semi-fictional stories of writer Jean Shepherd. Like any of the other films on this list it’s the memorable Christmas moments that have just the right amount of humor to put anyone into the holiday spirit. If this Christmas movie has somehow passed you by don’t worry. Every Christmas Eve TBS runs a 24 hour marathon of A Christmas Story. I think what has made this film stand the test of time is because it takes all of us back to the child like joy of Christmas. 4.) Elf (2003) When Buddy was a baby he crawled into Santa’s sack and ended up at the North Pole. Years later, Buddy who is now an adult realizes that at 6 foot 3 he might not be like the other elves in Santa’s workshop. Determined to find out who he is he confronts his adopted Papa Elf who tells Buddy that he is in fact human. Before he begins his search he is sad to discover that the father he’s never met is on the naughty list. Determine to meet his father and get him off the naughty list Buddy travels to New York where he experiences all the ups and downs of human culture. Personally I absolutely love this film. It’s funny, cute, and has a wonderful blend of humor for both adults and children. Will Ferrell as Buddy is fantastic. He plays the perfect blend of innocence without it becoming stupidly annoying. It’s a sweet film that I feel will soon become an instant must watch during the Christmas season. 5.) Scrooged (1988) TV executive Frank Cross has never been a fan of Christmas. His studio is doing an adaptation of A Christmas Carol yet Frank has somehow managed to turn the film into a twisted action movie on the Dickens classic. As Christmas Eve draws near, you can tell the Frank is a nasty, condescending, mean person that no one can really enjoy. This film is one of the darker comedies on my list. It’s very much a modern take on the Dickens classic. Scrooged is more of an adult Christmas comedy which when you think about it is a very rare find. Bill Murray as Frank Cross is fantastic. Murray has always been good at playing the jerk but towards the end of the film you can really see the change in Frank. Scrooged helped bring Murray back into the public eye and he made a triumphant return in this film. |
| From the Superintendent's Desk: Election over – work begins 2012-11-29 By Don Hague |
| The 2012 election is now over and for those who were successful in their campaign the important work begins. First and foremost the most important issue that all elected officials must come to grips with is that they must be willing to work with their colleagues to resolve the tough issues they will be facing. It seems that during the past years politics and political affiliation has become more important than collaboration at all levels of government. We have some very important issues that need to be resolved in the very near future or the future we will be giving our children will not be very bright. It is high time we put politics aside and focus on solutions to our programs. Working together – Democrats, Republicans, liberals and conservatives – we must focus on solutions and do what is best for our country. Social Security has become a very important issue and with so many baby boomers entering into retirement the problem with an underfunded program will only get worse. Many individuals are going to rely on this as a major part of the retirement income, therefore the issue can no longer be ignored; it must be addressed. It will only be resolved by everyone working together to do what is best for all. Medicare is also critical as individuals are now living longer than ever and this, in part, has increased the reliance on health insurance. Again, it will take solutions developed and supported by all to help resolve this problem. Affordable health care is important to everyone. The educational system in the United States has served us well for many, many years but we are now facing some large challenges. Other countries have taken our programs and implemented them so they too are providing quality educational program to their citizens. Because we have now become a global community, the students attending Gering Public Schools will not only be competing for opportunities in our universities with students from other Nebraska communities. They will be competing with students from all over the United States and the world. The competition will continue far beyond their formal education and into the work force. The educational programs we provide all of our students here must be equal to that provided to students in other countries. We have data available to us which can show us exactly where we currently stand at this time. What is important is that we must be willing to work together to make the necessary improvements in our system if we truly want to give our children the best possible chance to continue to be world leaders in the future. Generations of Americans before us have stepped up to the challenge when they were confronted with some very difficult issues. We have survived a Civil War that divided our nation, two world wars, and numerous other regional wars so we could remain a democratic society. We have and continue to be the country others look to for leadership; but if it is going to continue into the future it will require a great deal more collaboration among all elected officials and a lot less politics. We must stay focused on doing what is best for all and realize there is always going to be a lot of give and take in the development of solutions to the challenges we are facing. It is time for all of us to ask all elected officials to work together and put personal agendas aside. This will give our children and grandchildren the same opportunities we were given. |
| The Good Life: The economic footprint of one small business 2012-11-29 By Lisa Betz editor@geringcitizen.com |
| There’s a lot of concern going around about the future of our economy. As a business owner, this prompted me to take a careful look at my own business, the Gering Citizen. The Citizen is the first for-profit business I have operated, and the first time I have generated jobs for other people. Prior to the Citizen, I held numerous jobs, beginning with my very first one at Northfield Villa. I also worked at Baily’s as a checker. The only time I have ever been fired was by Connie Kramer at Vic’s Popcorn, which still makes a good story. Everyone should get fired at least once in life. It prompted me to go in a new direction. I was also downsized from a high tech recruiting firm after 9-11 and the tech crash that resulted, which caused me to return to theatre. I have worked as a restaurant hostess, waitress, a front desk clerk at a hotel and a hair salon, respectively; as a baker, a cook, an administrative assistant at a non-profit theatre and at the Job Service. I have also worked with people who have developmental disabilities, taught college courses and worked as a theatre artist. I was even an accounting clerk once. Whew, I’ve held a lot of jobs and none of them has been a waste of time. I have even been a recipient of unemployment insurance. This gives me a perspective as a business owner that has humbled me when I look back on my days as an employee. I always have had a lot of ideas in this noodle of mine. I used to think I knew how some of my managers could do a better job of running the businesses where I worked. Now that I am a business owner, I realize that there is a lot more to every decision than the obvious issues seen by an employee. Many things need to be considered before a business can make changes. So I have a lot more respect for all of my former bosses, and I hope they forgive me for some of my opinions, even if they didn’t know of them. I did not understand their perspective at all. I am proud to own a business in Gering because we have a positive economic and social impact on Gering. Recently, I asked the full and part-time employees of the Citizen to make a list of the Gering businesses they frequent because of their proximity to work and to estimate how much money they spend in Gering each month. When I tallied up the list and the sum, I was even more proud to operate this business. Here is a picture of the economic footprint the Citizen has on Gering: Property tax: $818 per year, $478 of which supports Gering Schools, including our portion of the school bond which built the new Lincoln Elementary. Jobs created: five full time, one part-time and eight independent contractors providing a variety of services. Monthly utility payments made to the City of Gering support our town’s infrastructure. We spend approximately $600 a month in mailings through the Gering Post Office, an office that has been listed as at risk for closure. Citizen employees spend approximately $3,000 a month combined at the following businesses: Fresh Foods, Union Bar, Johnson Cashway, Little Red, Subway, Pizza Hut, Dollar General, U-Save, China House, Gering Bakery, Daily Grind, Loaf N Jug, Pony Express, Laundromat, Cyclone Shell Station, Bluffs Shoe Service, Grease n Go, Log Cabin, Man’s Image, Subway, McDonald’s, Runza, Pizza Hut, Taco John’s, First State Bank, Western Heritage Credit Union, Main Street Appliance, Gering Dental Clinic, Valley Bank, Valley Insurance, The Roots, Spectrum Photographics, Julie’s Antiques, Prairie Florist, Stagecoach Stop, Starbright Satellite, Gabe’s Barbeque, US Bank, Gering Post Office and Ron Engelhaupt State Farm. Other Gering businesses that have performed work at the Citizen location are Gering Valley Plumbing, Creative Signs by Cozad and Cowan Custom Cabinets. That’s a footprint I am proud of. I have been a Gering cheerleader for as long as I can remember and I have the photos to prove it, as Paul Christian can attest. I will never believe that Gering is a town whose identity depends on its proximity to big little sis across the river. Everyone who chooses to start their business in Gering is to be commended for their investment in our town. For those of you considering a business location, come to Gering, the water is warmer than you think. Just ask those businesses listed above. They tell me that business has been good this year, as it has been for us at the Citizen. If you offer something people want, they will drive across a bridge to get it. Geringites have known this for years as many of us make the trip to Scottsbluff quite regularly. Gering is worth your investment. |
| Completely Different: How the savings stole Christmas 2012-11-29 By Elizabeth Gross elizabethgross@geringcitizen.com |
| For Thanksgiving this year, I decided to spend it in Scottsbluff with my family. Before I made my way to the old family homestead I made a stop at the local Walmart. I needed to pick up some toilet paper and French’s Fried Onions for the green bean casserole. As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed that the supercenter was surprisingly vacant for 11 in the morning on Thanksgiving. It was sort of neat, actually being able to easily navigate through the aisles as I searched for the finishing touch to the green bean casserole. As I made my way toward the food aisle, I happened to notice external hard drives, beautifully stacked. I found myself stupidly thinking to myself, “that’s strange, I didn’t think computer equipment and Pizza Rolls really went together.” Then I sadly remembered why the place was so vacant. This evening when the clock strikes midnight, this quiet super center will become a battleground of great deals and savings. I found great irony in all of the happy-looking displays and the cheery writing on the boxes, making it look like Thanksgiving is really just a day to rest up then kill each other later in the evening. I’m waiting for the day when we will simply call stores the arena and ads will loudly proclaim “May the odds be forever in your favor.” Knowing what was going to go down here later in the evening, I was surprised to find that the merchandise sat in red boxes and not in gold. It is no secret that I have a particular distaste for the American shopping experience known as Black Friday. I fear Black Friday will quickly overshadow the entirety of the Thanksgiving holiday itself. Black Friday makes us transform from happy citizens to members of a consumerism cult. Cult may be a little harsh but if we look to our friend the dictionary, the definition of a cult is “a relatively small group of people having religious beliefs or practices regarded by others as strange or sinister.” It makes sense as we gather around our Temples of choice whether it be Walmart, Target, or the local RadioShack armed with the latest glossy ads as a holy testament that we have found our homeland and it’s on sale for the low price of $49.99. As I left the warmth and comfort of my grandparents’ home, I made my way past the Walmart. It was only eight o’clock and the entire parking lot was filled to the brim. Vehicles filled the parking lot all the way down to the small shopping center below. Adventurous owners of 4-wheel drive vehicles tested their suspension by parking along the drainage ditch separating the supercenter from the highway. While I admit that was probably a great move on their part as they could simply kick it into 4-wheel drive and escape via the highway. The view shouldn’t surprise me, yet it always does. I stared out my passenger window like a gaping fish shocked that at 8 o’clock, people were ready to test their shopping abilities. Now it made sense; the vacant parking lot a mere nine hours earlier was simply the calm before the storm. Is anybody else disturbed by the fact that people create bets to see how many people will be injured or killed on Black Friday? There are website forums that place bets on how many will be killed and how many will be injured. A popular YouTube video shows people at one store literally breaking a metal door down in order to get into the store. The employees who were supposed to open said door ran away from the chaos as the stampede filled the store. I don’t find it funny, ironic or ridiculous, just extremely sad. The holiday season should be about remembering what those holidays represent. It’s a tragedy that we choose to gather up the family in the cold of winter to buy objects. I worry sometimes that the Thanksgiving turkey will be replaced with the Black Friday pre-sale meal. The meaning of a holiday that is ceremoniously the kick off of the most wonderful time of the year will be replaced as the happiest time of the year to save a few bucks on a TV. We will no longer gather around the table and be thankful for the people in our lives. As the Christmas decorations come out of storage remember the famous words of Dr. Seuss in “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” “Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn’t come from a store, maybe Christmas perhaps means a little bit more!” |
| Teen Voice: Eighth day of the week - Someday 2012-11-29 By Kendall Uhrich |
| Hi, my name is Kendall, and I am a procrastinator. I will come to terms with it. I, Kendall Uhrich, am a procrastinator. All of my readers should be surprised I actually just admitted that instead of saying I’ll admit it tomorrow. As an active procrastinator, I’m excited when my papers are actually turned in on time, my teachers shake their heads at my lack of punctuality and I am actually quite surprised I have woken up this morning and not hit my alarm clock’s snooze button twelve more times. Because I have now admitted it, I have set out to find solutions, quite ridiculous solutions, but solutions nonetheless. Being a procrastinator means I say one word more than any other word and that is someday. It’s a great thing for people like me that each week has seven days. That should be plenty to complete all of my work, right? Wrong. I’m seriously considering talking to whoever invented the calendar, I’m contemplating even having a quick chat with the Mayans to make someday a day of the week. If Wednesday, Sunday and Saturday can all be days it is not to my understanding why someday can be a day, because if it was I would actually get something accomplished that day. I am often found using that one dangerous little word in my everyday conversations. For example: My dad asks me, “Kendall, when are you going to clean your room?” “Someday.” I shrug off. My history teacher questions me, “When are you going to get a start on that 12 page research paper?” “Someday.” I promise. My mom demands, “You need to clean your car out. It is getting really messy.” “Eh, someday.” I reply. It is my famous go to statement, but I am a procrastinating pro, what can you expect? Just imagine the things that can be accomplished on someday if it were a day. Cars would be cleaned, houses would be sparking, that project we’ve wanted to complete for months would be finished and finally we could sleep well at night knowing we’ve accomplished all of our need work. But, unfortunately this day will probably never be invented, and if it can’t I would settle for a medication that solves all of my promptness problems. Envision a pill that would somehow make people like me on time. I wouldn’t get caught by the tardy bell at school anymore, I wouldn’t get the late points taken off of my assignments and my teachers would be in awe of my new-found timeliness. Not to mention that it would be such an upbringing that I found this new lifestyle, I would be the spokesperson for the new product and make money off of the new advertisements. I can only take from this that if I were to be given one of these two solutions it would change so much about my life and most definitely in a positive way. But, as I said, these solutions are ridiculous and probably will not happen any time soon. But, fortunately for people like me there is a quick solution, just do the work and do it on time. Set out ways to get work done early, even if that means spending the hour that we would have checked our Facebook or our Twitter feeds. It’s taking that time that we always say we don’t have and turning our time to actually spend it wisely. Books never get written in a few minutes and songs that we hear on the radio didn’t just take the three minutes they last. These famous celebrities no matter how much we bash on them have put the time and effort into what they love, so why shouldn’t we? It may seem strenuous and annoying, but if you sit down and do it today, then someday doesn’t have to become a day of the week and that medication doesn’t have to get invented. Do work and do it on time. Reliability is a skill we all need to seek, even if we are procrastinators. |
| Jane’s Secret, part XVII : Plans gone awry 2012-11-29 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| Shorty sits on the bed with Red for a few more minutes, taking a final look at his brother’s face before going out to the porch to keep Molly from rushing into the house before he tells her the bad news. “They’re home,” Molly says, recognizing the horses. She looks around anxiously for Red as Gertrude navigates the dog leg turn leading to the house. Clem and Stephen follow in the wagon. “Don’t look right,” says Clem. “Red would never let the horses stand like that.” They bring the wagon to a stop beside the model T. “No it doesn’t,” agrees Stephen, as he gathers up his medical bag and jumps down from the wagon seat. His eyes take in the bloody travois. Gertrude sets the brake while Shorty opens the door for Molly. “Where’s Red, is he alright?” Molly asks, straightening her dress. “Uh, he’s asleep,” Shorty says, forcing cheerfulness. “Well, I’ll just wake him up,” she says with a sigh of relief, motioning for Gertrude to accompany her into the house. “Pa and Stephen are here, let’s wait for them,” she says, linking arms with Molly. “Made darn good time,” Clem says, blocking Molly’s view of the travois. “I’m not surprised, considering Gertrude’s heavy foot on the gas; the horses had to practically run to keep up,” Stephen laughs, carrying his medical bag. “Fiddlesticks, I didn’t drive fast at all,” teases Gertrude. Molly looks at each of them and realizes something is off. “You don’t want me to go in the house, do you?” Molly says, becoming angry at their efforts to keep her from her husband. “Red’s hurt isn’t he,” she says, trying to push Shorty out of her way. “Molly wait, Red is asleep but you can’t wake him up,” he explains gently, taking hold of her arm. “Then he’s unconscious and I’m standing out here instead of taking care of him,” she snaps, peeling his fingers off her arm, and running up the steps; refusing to think anything else. “Let her go to him,” waiting won’t make what’s coming any easier,” Clem says, heartsick for his child. “I’ll see to the horses,” Shorty says to Clem, leading them to the barn. “Nothing for you to do Doc, I took care of Red. Didn’t want Molly to see him that way,” Shorty says, over his shoulder. Stephen looks surprised, and follows Clem and Gertrude inside. “Gertrude, make us some coffee and somethin’ to eat, I’ll look after your sister,” Clem says, giving her something to do. “I’ll have to examine the body, and I’m concerned about the baby if Molly becomes hysterical,” Stephen says. “I’ll go in first and try to keep her calm,” Clem replies. Clem hesitates in the doorway, surprised to see Molly sitting beside Red and smoothing his hair back, a serene expression on her face. “I knew my dream would come true, Pa. Red’s gone away from me,” she says tearfully. “Come here sweetheart,” he says, taking her in his arms like he did when she was a child. “Thank you Pa; I think I’d like to sleep now, I’m awfully tired,” she says, returning to the bedside. “Molly,” Clem says, watching her raise the covers and get into bed beside Red, sliding her arm under the covers to hold his hand. Clem is speechless, shocked by her actions. “Let her be, it’s the best thing for her and the baby,” Stephen says, pushing him out the door. “Is Molly alright?” Gertrude asks as they enter the kitchen. “Yes, she’s sleeping,” Clem says, pouring a cup of coffee and sitting down at the table to think things over. “I think she knew Red was gone this morning when we left home,” Gertrude says. “She kept talking about how I tricked Red into thinking she liked him and how she got so mad that she tore pages out of Pearl’s book. You threw her out of the house and Red came to her rescue, convincing her that they should get married. She said it was the luckiest day of her life,” explains Gertrude, as she pulls a skillet of bacon grease off the stove to cool before frying the eggs. “We’ve got some planning to do,” Stephen says, coming into the kitchen and washing his hands after examining the body. “I’ve been thinking about what needs to be done,” Clem says. “Jane and Harvey should be told. “Stephen and I will get an early start, pick them up and bring them here for the burial tomorrow,” he says. Gertrude becomes angry, grinding her teeth while the eggs fry, and decides to say what she thinks about the plan. “Pa, I can’t see any point in Jane being here at all, and Harvey didn’t even know Red,” she blurts, sliding the eggs onto the platter of bacon. “That wouldn’t be right, and you know it,” Clem scolds. “I don’t care about right, Pa. Jane has changed and she doesn’t fit with us anymore. Red’s relatives do not need to be subjected to Jane and her whims during this painful time, and neither does Molly,” she says angrily, plopping the platter in the middle of table so hard the eggs jump. “I consider it settled,” she says, setting a plate of toast on the table, glaring at her father. Stephen looks at his wife with approval but declines to comment. Before Clem can lay down the law to his daughter, Shorty joins them in the kitchen and the moment passes. “I saw to the horses and did the other chores; the eggs need to be gathered,” he says bluntly. “Thank you, we appreciate your help,” says Clem. “We’d like you to stay and eat with us.” “No thanks, I need to tell the rest of the family,” he says, anxious to get home to Susan. “We need to talk about where Red’s to be buried. Do you have a minister you can call?” Stephen asks. “We don’t need a minister and Red would want to be buried beside our grandparents in the cemetery at Jay Em. My wife Susan will see that a noon meal is brought in tomorrow then we can all go to the cemetery together. I’ll make my brother’s coffin; that should take care of every thing,” he says, waiting a few minutes for comment. “I think Molly will agree with your plans,” Clem says. “Goodbye then,” he says, heading to the barn to saddle his horse. “That solves the Jane situation,” Clem remarks, secretly relieved that they both saved face. “Yes, it certainly does, and I’d better check on Molly,” she snaps, rising from her chair. “Oh,” she says, standing in the doorway, shocked to see her sister in bed beside her dead husband. She’s awfully pale, she thinks, moving to the bedside for a closer look. “Molly, wake up; we have toast and bacon and eggs on the table. You need to eat something for the baby’s sake. Sitting down beside Molly, she notices that her chest isn’t rising and falling. “Molly,” she says, shaking her shoulders. Pulling the covers back, she sees their joined hands, and draws back in shock. Dropping the bedclothes, she runs to the kitchen. “Stephen, Molly’s not breathing!” |
| Observations Only: Wilkerson Pass 2012-11-29 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| Thanksgiving in Glenwood Springs was over on Saturday. After the bags were packed and stowed in the trunk, thank yous were said and hugs given, Lisa, Jody and Robin headed to the Denver airport for their flight back east. Hazel and Lloyd, Lloyd Jr. and I were scheduled to leave on Sunday. The warm springlike weather that we had enjoyed the previous three days changed during the night and a monster snow storm moved into the mountains during the night. Our reservations expired that morning and we had to be out by eleven o’clock. We went to a truck stop for lunch before starting down the mountain. The parking lot was jammed with vehicles of all kinds, along with semi-trucks and trailers. Inside it was standing room only, Hazel and I were the only ladies in the room save the waitresses. A table opened up and we were invited to sit down by friendly truckers who told us the bad news; the Eisenhower tunnel on I 70 into Denver was closed. That meant we had no way to get to Denver and Lloyd Jr. needed to be at work on Monday morning. Lloyd, while generous when he wished to be, which was most of time, was annoyed by the idea of losing the price of the airfare for three people and having to rebook. While Hazel and I ate our lunch, Lloyd asked a trucker if there wasn’t another way into Denver. A forest ranger was standing nearby and said that Highway 24 was still open but it was only a matter of time before it was closed as well. He tried to discourage Lloyd because the route went south over high mountain passes. I looked out the window and was horrified. Snow was falling so heavily that I couldn’t see across the street; but Lloyd made up his mind, he wasn’t going to be intimidated by a little bit of snow. Hazel and I looked at each other, too scared to say anything. I wanted to refuse to go, but didn’t feel that I knew my brother-in-law well enough to to make a fuss, and Hazel wouldn’t object. Lloyd bought food and water, and we started out at 12:30 in the afternoon on Highway 24, which took us over Wilkerson Pass, elevation 9507 feet. I haven’t mentioned Lloyd Jr. because he mostly sat around and didn’t say much, but Hazel and I knew he didn’t feel comfortable starting out in a blizzard. The road was paved but so narrow we could reach out the window and touch the trees on either side. The fog and snowfall was so heavy we couldn’t see the road alongside the Explorer. Then the situation became even more frightening. Lloyd decided that his son needed to be the man of the family and stopped in the middle of the road, demanding that he get in the driver’s seat. Lloyd Jr. started crying and said he couldn’t see. Loyd’s only comment was, “I’ll guide you, but you are going to drive.” Thus began a harrowing six hour drive in near white out conditions. A vehicle was traveling ahead of us and we could follow the tracks, and use the red tail lights as a guiding beacon. The tracks themselves proved to be a danger; any slight turn of the steering wheel could cause the Explorer to lose traction and slide off the side of the mountain. The southern slope of the pass had a few inches of snow and we stopped at the first truck stop. This was a Thanksgiving I will always remember as the most heartwarming, and harrowing experience of my life. |
| Across the Fence: Thanks for the memory 2012-11-29 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| It was in the late 1930s when Leo Robin wrote the lyrics and Ralph Rainger composed the tune that would become Bob Hope’s signature song. From the Academy award winning original, sung by Hope in the film “The Big Broadcast of 1938,” to the sultry birthday serenade of Marilyn Monroe for President Kennedy, the song has been modified with lyrics to suit the occasion. Recorded over the years by the likes of Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney, the lyrics may differ but the sentiment remains the same. In the past couple of years it has become popular among Facebook friends to share 30 days of thankfulness during the month of November. Although I’ve not participated directly I have enjoyed the posts of friends who have daily shared at least one thing that they are thankful for. Among the many things named were the practical, such as water, shelter and food. Mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, family and friends were often listed. Freedom and those who fought and died to preserve it was frequently mentioned as well as thankfulness for this country that, despite its imperfections, is still deserving of our pride. Included in the many things worthy of thanks were things such as books, faith, education, a fireside evening, pets, love, laughter and good health. As you might imagine, the list could be inexhaustible. I suppose it is especially appropriate to designate November as the month of daily thanksgiving. However, it is unfortunate that even the proclamation of a national day of thanksgiving should become the basis of dispute and protest. I understand that Texas, Virginia and Massachusetts each lay claim to the ‘first’ Thanksgiving. Some Native Americans mark the day as the beginning of the Anglo extermination of their people and definitely not a day for celebration. I personally believe that any day would be fine. But I think of Thanksgiving as a harvest festival and it seems that November, with the harvest done and winters stores laid by, is the most appropriate time to reflect on the year past and give thanks for the many blessings that came with it. And for me, Thanksgiving has become a day of memories. The first Thanksgiving that I remember was at the home where I grew up in Kansas. I was ten, maybe eleven, years old so it wasn’t my first Thanksgiving but the first that I have a particular memory from. It is likely that the celebration was held at our house, rather than at one of the grandparents, because of my twin sisters. Penny and Jenny had been born in early September and I have a hunch that it was easier for Mom to cook Thanksgiving dinner than it would have been to get five kids, Mom, Dad and all the accouterments necessary for baby care into our ’49 Chevy pickup. Besides, I’m sure that Grandma Zeek and Aunt Sis would have helped with the cooking. I remember that both sets of grandparents were there. Now days that might seem strange since families are so often hundreds of miles apart and getting both sides of the family together would be near to impossible and perhaps a bit controversial. At any rate, we were all there and Grandpa Nolting had brought along the traditional spirits. These were not the ghosts of relatives past but rather the bottled kind. Drinks were served before dinner and apparently Grandpa buckled under my pitiful pleading to let me have one. The clandestine activity was accompanied with the admonition to not tell Mom or Dad. I’m sure that the ratio of Old Crow to 7-Up was miniscule, but it was enough to make me more than just a little bit silly. Before we sat down to eat, Grandpa took me aside and warned me that if I didn’t ‘settle down’ he would take me outside and stick my head in a snowdrift. I suppose it was partly because I was giggling all the way through the mealtime prayers. Grandpa excused himself, rose from his chair, took me by the hand and escorted me to the front door. I’m sure that by this time I had ceased to find anything funny about the situation. Grandpa held my hand as we walked to the south end of the porch where a considerable drift had accumulated while the northwest wind had swirled snow around the corner of the house. I stood, unresisting, at Grandpa’s side as he gripped the collar of my shirt in one hand and the leather belt around my waist with the other. Then, tipping me up by my backside, he unceremoniously stuck me headfirst into the snow. No one said a word when we returned to the table. Mom smiled at me, over the upraised legs of the glazed turkey, nodded her head and winked. Dad was sitting at the head of the table, elbows resting on the edge with hands still folded as if prayers were not yet finished. My conditioned reflex was to wince when Dad stretched his hand toward me, but he only wiped a bit of melting snow from my cheek. “Pass the potatoes please,” Grandpa said as the murmur of conversation began and forks and spoons clattered on china plates being heaped with candied yams, green bean casserole and the annual serving of cranberry sauce. It seems to me that the most memorable Thanksgivings were those celebrated in the home where I grew up. Preparations were begun days in advance. The house would fill with the fragrance of fresh baked pies, pumpkin, mince, cherry and apple. And the night before Thanksgiving Day, the smell of roasting turkey would creep up the stairs to my room and pique my appetite for the feast to come. As family began to arrive, coats were piled high on the table in the mudroom. Snow covered boots and overshoes were lined against the wall and hats covered other hats on pegs too few to accommodate the crowd. Conversation began with the unbuttoning of coats and a cheerful greeting while each newcomer would huddle close to the pot bellied stove, rub their hands briskly then spread their fingers wide in the wave of heat that rippled out from the stove. Cattle, crops and kids were the most common topics with weather, politics and the preacher, crowding in at a close second. And always came the predictable comment, “Something sure smells good.” After dinner, the table was cleared and scraps of leftovers were fought over by the dogs on the porch. The ladies would begin the chore of doing dishes while whispering the latest gossip between the washing and drying and putting away. The older men would find comfortable chairs in the living room or pull a kitchen chair close to the stove and continue with whatever conversation had been interrupted by the meal. The younger guys bundled up, grabbed their shotguns and headed for windbreaks, stubble fields and grass-choked waterways for pheasant and quail. Although the hunting was always good and bag limits filled, it was more about the camaraderie of the hunt and the pleasure of watching a good bird dog at work. There have been many Thanksgivings between then and now and the memories of them are of the family that was there to share the celebrations of another year of blessings, another year of bounty regardless of the yield, another year of living and another year of passing on the tradition. Grandmas and Grandpas are gone now though their memories remain clear and constant. The house where I grew up is no more and its likeness cannot be found in any family scrapbook. However, the image and memory of my home remains locked away in my head and in my heart. The old pot bellied stove, that warmed us all, has rusted away in some washout ditch along with the tangled remains of discarded scrap iron, barbed wire, spring tooth harrows and outdated dump rakes. But the stories that were told when we gathered round its welcome warmth will be retold in lifetimes yet to come. This year, the Nolting family is scattered from coast to coast and border-to-border. We were all together at Dad’s 90th birthday just last month and but a few months earlier we came together for Mom’s funeral. For some, that’s a lot of travel and so not everyone made it back for Thanksgiving this year. But those who were there did their part in passing on the tradition. We spent the holiday with Deb’s mother and her family in the home where Deb grew up. I listened to the stories of her family and shared the traditions that they have built over the years. Our son-in-law, Juan, and I hunted deer and successfully bagged a couple to add to our winter stores. Jessica joined us as ‘official’ family photographer and recorded the hunt. Later, Deb and I joined Jamie for a vigorous hike over the pine covered hills and the deep cut limestone canyons on the family ranch. We covered ground that both Deb and Jamie tramped in their childhoods and retraced their own memories in Spring Canyon. Perhaps that too will become a tradition. And so, in this season of thanksgiving, to Grandmas’ and Grandpas,’ to Mom and to Dad, to my wife, my daughters and sons, to in-laws and out-laws, to family and friends, for 30 days of thankfulness and for the days that have long since passed, ‘Thanks for the Memory.’ |
| My Thanksgiving prayer 2012-11-22 By Pastor Mike Mead |
| No one can deny this has been a difficult year. We have had drought out west, and an over abundance of rain in the east. War is still raging in many parts of the world. We had to endure a particularly harsh election season. Terrorism strikes at the innocent. Slavery, especially sex slavery, continues to steal men, women and children from their homes. In the middle of all that, pastors are supposed to preach about being thankful. Every year I face this same struggle. It would be so much easier if "thankfulness" were something that could be demanded. Of course it isn't. Although tyrants have tried to enforce thanksgiving throughout history, they have always failed. How can we focus on being thankful in trying times like these? As a pastor, I find my main inspiration in the pages of the Bible. An account from Luke 17:11-19 helps explain to me how to attain the right attitude of thankfulness. In this passage, ten lepers come to Jesus to be healed. Jesus sends them away. As they are going they are healed of their disease. Only one turns back to thank Jesus. Even though Samaritans are disdained by Jewish society, it's a Samaritan who returns. He comes back and thanks this Jewish teacher, and is told that he has great faith. On the surface, it is easy to understand his being thankful. He had just been healed of a terrible disease. But remember that all ten were healed. What is it that makes this man so much more thankful than the others? First, we need to be aware. True thanksgiving is spontaneous and genuine. It grows out of our awareness of what is occurring in our lives. We recognize the blessings in our lives and we thank God for them. This man, when he became aware of what had happened, turned around and gave thanks to Jesus. More often we are not aware enough to notice the good things that are happening to us. We get so caught up in the everyday circumstances of life that we miss our blessings. It was after the Samaritan had given thanks that he was blessed by Jesus beyond this instance of healing. Many times, it's while recognizing the many gifts from above that we stop feeling sorry for ourselves and become truly thankful. Second, when we realize that we have so much to be thankful for, we should model that thanksgiving. The Samaritan man returned to Jesus. I'm sure that if you asked the other nine, they would have said they were thankful. They had been healed! But their thanks became nothing more than lip service. The Samaritan modeled his thanksgiving by going back to Jesus. Too often, we are like the nine. We talk about being thankful, but no one really knows it because we go around with downcast looks on our faces. Part of thanksgiving is showing an attitude of gratefulness. "Thanks giving" should become "Thanks living." In 1863, President Lincoln called a nation divided to come together and find reasons to give thanks. He signed a proclamation asking for everyone to set aside the fourth Thursday in November as a time of remembrance. Even though our nation had been embroiled in conflict for two years at the cost of thousands of lives and millions of dollars, he encouraged this nation to remember their blessings. In the same way, my prayer this Thanksgiving is that we put aside our differences, the pain of war, the disillusionment of politics, and choose to both give and live thanks. To remember the blessings of our great nation. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, "For each new morning with its light, For rest and shelter of the night, For health and food, For love and friends, For everything Thy goodness sends." A beautiful reminder of what we can be thankful for. God bless you this Thanksgiving season. |
| A Stray Moment: Ready for the storm 2012-11-22 By Doug Harris |
| Thanksgiving. The origins are debatable but all seem to agree from time immemorial people have gathered to celebrate the passing of one season to the next. The autumn solace carries a heavier weight than the others as it is based upon planning and practicality over the simple prayers of springtime hopes that summer labors and fair weather will bless us with bounty. Now that the harvest has been reaped and set in store, the feeling of momentary excess declares it appropriate to set aside a moment to enjoy the fruits of the labor; to offer thanks and set before ourselves a splendid table. And to this table we invite God, our family, and our friends, to share before settling in to brace another winter. It is different now, mostly, with all our modern trappings and technological tools. We aren't fretfully counting the number of stored potatoes or bundles of ground rye or eying the clouds as we conserve carefully to fend off starvation as our pioneer settler ancestors did. We don't have to wonder if the milk cow will provide daily milk or temporary meat if the winter snows refuse to fade. But the collective memory seems to linger within us. Are we ready for the storm? From those who once embarked on to the winter camps of only a few generations ago to the rest who stayed home protecting their meager hoard of provisions. All were designed to see us through even if the hardest rains or deepest blizzards came calling as the skies drew long freezing breaths and days grew ever shorter. The recent storms our far off neighbors in New Jersey and New York are recovering from serve as a reminder that for all our cleverness and planning, Mother Nature often has another agenda. She who treats us so kindly in the glowing days of Indian Summer can be fickle with her blessings causing us to second guess the wisdom of every other fallow field. It is an old story told in many voices and in many lands. The fear of want creeping in before the long shadows of rebirth again offer new promise. My grandmothers kept root cellars filled with canned fruits and vegetables. Some of the old Mason jars looked as if they had sat upon the neat dirt rows for decades. I wondered if a time would come when we would pry them open, cut the gelatin with grandpa's thick knife and see what ancient food within could be salvaged. The prospect of eating such odd root sprouted unidentifiable yams or blackish plums inspired in me some unnamed fear; a dread that echoed in my mind towards some lost stern Biblical sermon about a harvest of dust, empty bellies and gnashing teeth. Visions of the poor grasshopper who fiddled away the sunny days while the industrious ants stockpiled food anticipating the coming barren lands. How the grasshopper wept so piteously at their doorstep, starving and weakly confessing his folly. And how the door remained closed. Knowing nearby, out there, the Big Bad Wolf was lurking just at the edge where the darkness met the light. When I was young I remember my mother sealing up various jars of apples, berries, tomatoes and peaches, awaiting, anticipating, some black catastrophe that never came. I have been blessed in this world. I have never known true want or need. The luck of my situation of birth, the fertile soil of our nation, the work ethic of my community, my parents and their parents before them, all have gifted me to live upon strong sure ground. Where the wind and snow and even hurricanes could shake me and chill me to my bones, the rock-solid foundation beneath my feet did not move or even shudder. There was always a warm bed, hot food, and the comforts of easy leisure in books, toys or other amusements. Was I ever truly thankful? To try to see it from the eyes of another was difficult. It seemed impossible to me that kids living across town might face privations, hunger and cold, when mere blocks away carefree children sat down to roast beef and turkey dinners complete with a choice of pumpkin or pecan pie (or a half slice of both if you prefer, topped in rich real whipped cream). Was I living in an illusion? Perhaps. But a happy one to a certain extent. Sheltered both from the elements but also from the cruel realities of suffering and want that still persists among us. Not that I was raised to be selfish or to believe I was special or rich. I was none of those things. Or so I thought. It is all relative in the mind of child. We would dutifully fill the relief boxes set up at church, dropping off cans of tuna or boxes of cereal. My parents and brothers would volunteer to staff a soup kitchen or unpack a commodities truck. I remember the grateful faces of those standing in line for Thanksgiving or Christmas supplies. So many children. Some of them I even knew from school. Clambering up and down the aisles with double-lined brown grocery bags collecting garden cucumbers, turnips, stilted carrots, beets and tiny potatoes. They were cheerful in their task, helping their parents (often single parents) carry and collect what was offered. They did not seem to feel shame or embarrassment smiling over a mis-shaped melon, or stringy curl of green beans, or over a large summer squash. I must confess it was me who felt shame and embarrassment. My shallow desire for some new game or a bicycle with a banana seat were spoiled while eying fresh homegrown healthy food being handed out. God forgive me, it left an air of distaste in my mouth. I hated summer squash no matter how it was prepared. It never occurred to me hunger could ever soften anyone's palate. I still feel that shame. Who was I? The King of England? “Feed me spaghetti and meatballs, ice cream, and French fries soaked in ketchup ... take away this earthy fare, it smells of dirt.” Later I felt guilty, as I still do. Thankfully, hopefully, my tastes have matured along with my sense of humility. Yet even still I am not ready for the storm. I never have been. A character flaw that may one day have me crawling on my knees, begging, crying at the closed door just like the grasshopper. Staring frightfully into the cold night, waiting as the wolf grows bolder, sensing my fear and helplessness. Knowing this sad truth I seek to find a better reflection of myself. To draw inside a greater sense of gratitude for the sacrifices made by others that I have benefited from. I know I am unworthy; a product of my own false sense of entitlement. No matter how often I wipe the frost from the mirror it only shines back a dim reflection of my opacity. It does not show me what I want to see. So once again upon my knees, but not in despair or fear, but in supplication and surrender. To be thankful. To accept the key of grace is matchless. I cannot be thankful without action. Only words, and like faith without works, it is empty and dead. There are gray clouds forming on the horizon. I know I have fallen short. I must repay such blessings. I must. I must render myself to gratitude. I must be more thankful. Ready for the storm. |
| Life in the Rearview Mirror: Cleaning off the ‘what if’ shelf 2012-11-22 By Glenn Hascall editor@geringcitizen.com |
| It was one year ago (about this time) that something shiny caught my eye. It was very similar to that moment when a cat notices a laser pointer. Shiny stuff can distract people from all kinds of good things for a very long time. Yep, I’ve been distracted. Recently Lisa Betz contacted me and reminded me that significant time had passed since I last sent in something for her to publish. Her exact words were, “It's been a loooong while since you sent us any columns. We miss you!” It’s nice to be missed. I’m back. So what distracted me? Great question – long answer. From 1994-1996 (give or take) I wrote and produced an audio drama that was heard in the valley for nearly a decade (one drama pulled out every holiday season). I love audio drama. It allows your brain to imagine the scenes and it’s a great outlet for creativity. That first 30-minute drama was exceptionally hard work. I had to write, produce, mix, splice (old school editing involving grease pencil, a splice bar and really thin blue tape). After that drama was complete I chalked it up to a great experience that took far too much time (about 18 months from start to finish). That all changed last year. I stumbled across a website that was looking for writer/producers of audio drama. I revised something I had sitting on the shelf and submitted it. They liked what they read and wanted to see it developed. They provided the mixer, access to the voice talent, and an artist. Before I knew it I was chasing a laser pointer across a room. I would race on to write around 30 audio dramas over the last year. About 20 of them are fully produced and available for listening. I won a scriptwriting contest in which a script will be developed for airing on public radio, was included in a CD project with one of my dramas, and then came Lisa’s reminder that I’ve been out of the loop too long. So what did I learn from the last year (apart from missing out on communicating with you)? Well, I think I learned that it’s never too late to revisit old dreams. My first experience in writing and producing this kind of material is about 17 years old. Yet, when the time seemed right I was able to take that dream and do something with it that wasn’t really possible more than a decade ago. Sometimes dreams just take time to be realized. Have you given up on something you always wanted to do? Maybe taking a few risks can help move you to a place where you can see a dream fulfilled. Big dreams rarely come easy, sometimes they don’t come at all, but if you don’t try you can be sure they will simply sit on the “What if” shelf of your mind. It won’t be long before a new year graces life’s stage. If you have some time to spare maybe you can invite your dream to drop by for a visit. Get reacquainted. Perhaps a new partnership can be developed. Even in difficult days – never be afraid to dream – never be afraid to try. “Never let the fear of striking out get in your way.” - George Herman “Babe” Ruth |
| Teen Voice: Outbreak of the Gamers 2012-11-22 By Kendall Uhrich |
| I hate Walmart. I only go there when there is something extremely necessary for me to purchase and unfortunately, last night there was. Writing a story for my journalism class about the Wii U and all of its hype I had to get quotes for my story and I figured Walmart would have the most knowledgeable and large staff available to answer all of my questions. But, oh, I was wrong. To give the establishment credit, there really was a large and knowledgeable staff on duty. It is too bad that my sweatpants and hair tied self couldn’t get even a glimpse of their attention. “Excuse me sir,” I asked one of them. No reply. I watched as he continued booking it down to the game section where a herd of teenage boys anxiously awaited the return of the sales associate. “I just want help,” I whined to myself while I watched him open the glass case for the boys. “I know that my outfit is one that makes me look like I just hopped out of bed, but despite my mismatched socks and slippers, I need answers and I want them now.” I grew antsier with every thought and I looked around the entertainment section hoping that some other dark blue shirt and khaki pants worker would come to my assistance, but I noticed that just about every teenage boy in the county was in that section and all of the workers were bending to their every whim. “Alright Walmart,” I huffed. “You may have low prices always, but you are not going to have a happy Kendall always.” I was starting to get the feeling I was cast to the side, so in my moment of close defeat I snuck over to the cases they gathered around. I heard low laughter and finally the answer to what all the commotion was about was answered. Call of Duty: Black Ops 2. I knew as soon as I heard it, I could be a Victoria’s Secret Angel in a red carpet dress and high heels walking into our Scottsbluff Walmart and I still wouldn’t get even a slight head turn. For the unfamiliar to gaming, this game is the raging excitement of every teenage boy, even a few girls and yes, even adults. It has consumed hours of their lives and so many conversations that would bore people like me to death. Call of Duty is the main talk of all these video gamers and finally a second one had been released to take their gaming to a whole other extreme. Meaning that girlfriends are going to take a backseat, hygiene will go out the window and beds will be abandoned because sleep won’t even be a question. So, many may be wondering, “Kendall, what is the point of this column? To tell me how much you hate Walmart? To tell me how uninformed you are about new video game releases? To warn me that I will see you in your sleepwear in public places?” Well, yes. But, that’s not the main reason. It’s to prove that video games are one of the most rising and popular trends in America and that means this Black Friday will be blacker than ever. Combining this popular new game release and the Wii U is like combining two highly explosive chemicals into a tiny jar. It will be the closest thing to the Big Bang than any other could achieve. Many people will be rushing to the back of Wally World just to find this game and even to get the new Wii U that was released on November 18, conveniently just in time for the holiday season. The lines will be longer, the store will be crazier and sales will be bursting. There have been talks about people getting trampled to death on this scary shopper day, and although that is not likely in our small town, it is highly likely to see fights over merchandise. As ridiculous as they may be, they still happen. So, if anyone is Black Friday shoppers like me, put on the best sleepwear, grab those catalogs and be prepared for some crazy soccer mom fights. And if anyone is looking for anything in the entertainment section, I suggest waiting until after the holidays, because it is surely a jungle in there. |
| Observations Only: A strange Thanksgiving 2012-11-22 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| Six months passed between the time Hazel and I began e-mailing each other and her decision to visit North Powder, Oregon. She felt a sense of urgency to search for our family before our mother's elderly relatives died and the information was lost forever. The importance of this connection with our brother Jerry and his children would not become clear until several years later. Three months after our visit to Oregon, my husband began stumbling and slurring his speech. He was diagnosed with a brain tumor; which meant that I needed to care for him and manage our construction company at the same time, thus, I didn't have time to pursue a new family connection. He died nine months later in August, without meeting my brother and his family. Lloyd and Hazel couldn't come for his funeral but thought it would be a good idea to bring the different families together by spending Thanksgiving at a condo near Glenwood Springs, Colo.. This included Lloyd’s adult son and daughter who were raised in New York City; his wife's sister and adult daughter, and his wife's brother and his two adult children. Jerry’s children were shocked to find out about their father's early life. They had already met two aunts and an uncle they did not know existed, and were unhappy at the prospect of meeting a cousin and two step-cousins. Jerry told them that it was a command performance and they were going to Colorado with him. Lloyd's daughter Robin had a pale complexion with jet black hair, and dressed entirely in black the whole vacation. She announced that she brought her ex-boyfriend along because she needed someone to carry her luggage. Hazel told me privately that it was because she wanted to annoy her father and have someone to do her bidding. Robin evidently didn't tell him about his duties because he didn't hang around her very much, to her dismay. Her brother Lloyd Jr. sulked the whole time and refused to speak to the rest of us. Since we didn't expect to meet either of them again, it was of no real concern. Jerry arrived with two grumpy, unsociable young adult children the day before Thanksgiving and began complaining about Lloyd flashing his money around because he wasn't allowed to pay for anything. Jerry doesn't say much under the most delightful circumstances, and said even less to Lloyd that weekend, creating a few awkward moments. Lloyd was happy that Hazel and I found each other and thought of the vacation as a gift that he wanted to give us all. I thought it was kind and generous of Lloyd but insisted he take some money to offset the expense of meals. The three young women didn't like each other very much. Robin avoided Lisa and Brandeth by disappearing for hours at a time, causing her father to worry about her and delaying everyone's meals while waiting for her to join us. Lisa reminded her cousin of the prissy girls she didn't like in school and barely spoke to her, although Lisa made a good effort and they discovered that they both spoke Spanish. They made plans to backpack through Mexico and Guatemala the following summer. After five weeks of traveling together they were calling each other the sister they had always wished for. Hazel and Lloyd had recently vacationed in New Zealand, where Hazel had fallen in love with lambs, thus she decided that she couldn't eat food with a face, which caused a few difficulties at mealtime. Lloyd and I ignored the mini snits and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Throughout the weekend, we all referred to the gathering as a family union. Sadly, for reasons I will explain later, that was the first and the last time we were ever together as a family. |
| Across the Fence : November 1864: Pole Creek, Politics and Patriots 2012-11-22 By M. Timothy Nolting mtimn@aol.com |
| In 1863, shortly after the Battle of Gettysburg, several companies of Union soldiers from the Seventh Iowa cavalry were dispatched to the frontier instead of reinforcing Union troops fighting in the south. Their orders were to protect the flocks of civilians, traveling west along the Great Platte River basin, from depredations of the Cheyenne and Sioux who futilely attempted to staunch the flow of emigrants across their native lands. Additionally, the Seventh Iowa was expected to counter the supposed tactical plan of the Confederacy to stir up trouble among the Indians in an effort to draw Union troops away from the battlefields of the bloody Civil War. The Seventh Iowa was charged with patrolling the Great Plains region from Omaha, Nebraska to Fort Laramie, Wyoming. To establish a presence in this vast and largely uninhabited region, the Seventh was ordered to construct a suitable fortification and military post at a place known as Cottonwood Springs. Although the troops stationed there most often referred to the post as Cottonwood Springs, the official military designation was Fort McPherson. After fortifications were completed the several companies of the Seventh Iowa maintained a fairly constant patrol from Cottonwood Springs to Julesburg, Colorado and from Julesburg, along the Pole Creek Basin (Lodgepole Creek) all the way to Fort Laramie. One of the officers of the Seventh Cavalry was Captain Eugene F. Ware. Captain Ware kept a detailed personal diary of his experiences with the Seventh and but a short time before his death, in 1911, published a remarkably thorough account of the actions of the Seventh Cavalry titled, “The Indian War of 1864”. In addition to Captain Ware’s accounts of military activities, the book is an equally interesting account of Nebraska history during that time. Years ago I ran across a portion of his narrative that has captured my imagination for a long while. And during my many forays into western history I am always hopeful of finding additional clues to the mystery. So far, I have not been able to find any. Captain Ware gives an astonishing description of the Pole Creek Valley. He describes it as being wide enough to contain the Mississippi River at St. Louis, flat as a floor for as far as human sight can see and devoid if shrub, brush or trees. During the month of November in 1864, Cpt. Ware observed that there was absolutely no water to be found in the dry creek bed. To find water, troops had to dig pits in the sand that would slowly fill with the water that flowed beneath the surface. However, wagonloads of firewood were easily found along the crooks and bends of the creek where dead, dried and tangled masses of branches had accumulated from long ago floods. It was early November when Cpt. Ware rode out, from the Julesburg crossing, on the Jules line, in advance of a small detachment of soldiers to intercept a detachment from Fort Laramie with a log train. Cpt. Ware rode in a northwesterly direction, which following Lodgepole Creek, would take him near the Sidney post. After a while, he observed a rider approaching and determined it was the advance scout of the patrol he was to meet. When they met, the soldier asked Capt. Ware if he would accompany him to a location where a strange discovery had been made. The scout wanted the Captain’s opinion on what might have occurred at that place. Following the scout back up the Lodgepole, they arrived at a place far off the trail and about 35 or 40 miles northwest of the Julesburg crossing. Back against the bluffs was a circle of sixteen abandoned wagons. The prairie winds whipped the remaining shreds of canvas cover that clung to the bows of the wagons. Gathered together in a circle, common for making camp or building a defense, the wagons were positioned such that the right front wheel touched the right rear of the wagon ahead and the tongue of the wagon was turned to the inside of the circle. Across the tongue of each wagon a set of harness for a four-hitch team was carefully draped and ready for use. And prairie grass grew up and around the spokes of the wheels. How long they had been there, Cpt. Ware was unable to determine. Due to the harsh conditions of the region it may have been ten years or perhaps few more than three. Several of the wagons were scarred with what appeared to be bullet holes but there were no other obvious signs of battle. There were no skeletons of man or beast. There were some trunks in a few of the wagons but they contained little more than scant articles of clothing. There were no arms or ammunition, no scraps of paper or hidden diaries, no heirlooms or family treasures save a single wooden lap desk with an empty ink well, an ivory penholder and pen. Speculation was made as to what had happened and ranged from Indian attack to abandonment due to harsh weather conditions that had forced the emigrants to take a few wagons and leave the rest. Despite numerous inquiries, research, news stories in the Denver papers and other newspapers throughout the region, no one had heard of the abandoned train or responded with any knowledge of what had happened there. As far as I’ve been able to determine, the truth remains a mystery. Cpt. Ware returned to camp and dispatched a group of soldiers, with sixteen horses, back to the sight of the abandoned wagons. Selecting four of the best wagons and an equal number of sets of harness, the Seventh Cavalry acquired four additional outfits. When the company arrived at the crossing, the log train had already left for Julesburg and so the remaining troops, with their new wagons continued south, reaching Julesburg on November 6, two days before the scheduled National and State elections on the 8th. Cpt. Ware makes no apology for his staunch and unwavering commitment to the Union and the Republican Party. His disgust with the ‘Copperheads’ (the terminology then used to denote the Democratic Party) is made obvious by the disparaging remarks he makes toward their politics. Abraham Lincoln was then running for a second term and was challenged by George B. McClellan. The political fight made on Lincoln was exceedingly bitter and Cpt. Ware was exceedingly vocal in his dislike for McClellan as evidenced with the following quote: “McClellan the "ever unready," ambitious, and incompetent, was the idol of every man who did not want to see the Union saved.” At the time, a considerable campaign was on to persuade soldiers on the frontier to support McClellan and the Confederacy. At that time, there were many Confederate soldiers who had been captured and given the option of either going to a Union POW camp or joining the Union Army and serve on the frontier. These Confederate soldiers were called ‘Galvanized Yankees’ and if found out, were very much despised by the Union troops. While the Copperheads made no bones about pressuring the troops to vote for McClellan, the Union officers were equally bold in making stern, persuasive arguments in favor of a vote for Lincoln. Barrels full of campaign mailings were sent to soldiers on the frontier in support of McClellan. Much of it came from a prominent newspaper editor from Wisconsin who “…wanted to see Lincoln in hell, playing poker with [the devil]…” Cpt. Ware assisted his commanding officer in the accumulation and incineration of the offensive literature. Captain Ware officiated over the voting of the troops and noted that at least one-half of the men refused to vote. The final tally for those soldiers who voted there in Julesburg on November 8th, 1864 was twenty-six for Lincoln and fourteen for McClellan. I can understand Cpt. Ware’s unwavering support for his party and his president and his dogged determination to save the Union and his country. No doubt, his blood was stirred by the solemn words of his Commander in Chief, just one short year past, when on November 19, 1863 President Abraham Lincoln addressed those assembled at Gettysburg with these words: “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal." Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us – that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion – that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain – that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom – and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.” |
| From the Superintendent's Desk: NePAS – State Accountability 2012-11-15 By Don Hague |
| Now that all the schools in Nebraska are giving the same assessments in Reading, Math and Science comparisons of student performance within a school district and between school districts will make for some interesting news articles. The reading assessment has been in place for three years, math for two years and science for one. The writing assessment has been given for several years. However, the method of scoring was changed for grades 8 and 11 during 2011-2012 and will be changed for the 4th grade during this current year. Due to the change, only scores in grade 8 and 11 were used in calculating the NePAS. The NePAS data will not only include the current level of performance of students in those grades assessed, it will also include additional information about improvements, as well as growth. The improvement is the comparison of student performance in the grade tested compared to the same grade last year. An example would be the reading performance of fourth graders this year compared to reading performance of fourth graders last year. Growth is the measurement of how much the individual student grew from one year to the next. An example would be a student’s score in fourth grade compared to their score in fifth grade this year. With additional data received yearly, staff will analyze trends. This analysis will help drive improvement plans. Additional NePAS data will include participation and graduation rates. Participation is to make sure all students, or as close to all as possible, took the assessments. Graduation rate is based on a cohort four year rate, which really means how many of the freshman students graduated in four years as seniors. New this year will be the ranking of all school districts in Nebraska. There will be a ranking based on status (current level of performance) in reading, math, science, and writing. There will be a ranking of districts based on improvement (compares performance of students same grade one year to the next). There will be a ranking based on growth (compares score of same student last year to this year). There will also be a ranking based on graduation rates. When these rankings are released everyone will be able to see how our school compares to others in the state. This is not the main reason for NePAS. NePAS provides some very important data that staff will review very closely to see what needs to be changed to improve student performance. This data, along with other assessment data included the ACT battery (Explore, Plan and ACT) and Terra Nova, also allows us to determine our current level of student performance. Links to the state website, as well as postings on our web site, will provide more detailed information about our student performance and if you want additional information please feel free to contract Terri Martin, Director of Curriculum and Assessment for the district, your building principal and/or myself. We are proud of the improvements we have made in the past years and will continue to strive to improve student performance each and every year. |
| Across the Fence: Tomb of the Unknown 2012-11-15 By M. Timothy Nolting mtimn@aol.com |
| Edward F. Younger, of Chicago, Illinois was born in 1898. He enlisted in the Army in 1917 and fought valiantly in the trenches where he was twice wounded, decorated, and promoted to the rank of Sargent. He reenlisted in 1919 and served until his honorable discharge in 1922. October 24, 1921; Sargent Edward F. Younger of the U.S. Army 50th Infantry, stood alone inside the city hall in Chalons-en-Champagne, France. Alone except for the four coffins that sat before him. In his arms he awkwardly cradled an oversized spray of pink and white roses as he slowly walked around the unadorned pine caskets. The hard leather heels of his spit-shined dress shoes snapped loudly on the polished marble floor and echoed through the closed chamber. Above the fragrant blossoms, that he held in the crook of his arm, there dangled from the breast pocket of his uniform the ribboned testament of his valor, the Purple Heart and the Distinguished Service Cross. Reverently he circled the perimeter of the four caskets that stood side-by-side until suddenly stopping at the head of the third coffin. He paused briefly, leaned forward and gently placed the bouquet upon the smooth-grained lid then quickly stood at rigid attention and raised his hand to his brow in solemn salute. Outside the chamber, Major Harbold, in charge of the burial detail, and the five other pallbearers waited quietly for Sgt. Younger to emerge. Two days earlier, the bodies of four, unidentified American servicemen had been exhumed from four different American cemeteries on French soil. There was one soldier from each cemetery at Aisne-Maine, Meuse-Argonne, Somme and St. Mihiel. After Sgt. Younger’s selection, only one soldier would represent and honor the 1,237 unidentified U.S. servicemen that had been killed in battle. However, preparations for this day, and the historic ceremony that would follow had begun eight years earlier when on March 4, 1913 the U.S. Congress passed a bill, introduced by Judge Ivory G. Kimball, to construct the Arlington Memorial Amphitheater. Groundbreaking ceremonies occurred two years later and on October 15, 1915 President Woodrow Wilson placed the cornerstone for the historic structure. Judge Kimball did not live to see the completion of his longstanding dream and died before the memorial was completed, five years later, on May 15, 1920. In the plaza facing the amphitheater, a white marble tomb was constructed. The marble for this tomb was mined from the Yule Marble Quarry in Marble, Colorado. It was from this quarry that the marble for the Lincoln Memorial was also taken. The original tomb at the Arlington Memorial was only a three level structure. The base containing nine marble blocks and each of the upper two levels containing six blocks each. Rectangular in shape, the tomb is open to the ground below and covered with a stone slab at the top. Inside this structure, the Unknown Soldier would be laid to rest and later, a large marble monument would be placed above. In March of the following year, 1921, Congress approved the burial of one unidentified U.S. serviceman from WWI to be interred in the marble tomb and the ceremony would be held on the third anniversary of the end of the war to end all wars, Armistice Day, November 11, 1921. And so, on the 24th day of October, 1921, Sgt. Younger saluted the unknown soldier that lay in the rose covered casket before him, executed a precise about face and exited the chamber where the body would briefly lay in state. The three unidentified service men that were not selected were reinterred in the Meuse Argonne Cemetery in France. For several hours, French and American dignitaries and citizens of the City of Chalons paid tribute to the unknown American soldier. The French awarded military honors of their county and the long lines of citizens who filed past heaped mountains of flowers on the simple casket until Sgt. Younger and the other five pallbearers lifted the casket and carried it to a waiting, flag draped gun carriage. Escorted by French and American soldiers, the carriage was drawn to the local train station where the casket was placed aboard a special funeral train that would take it to the port city of LeHavre. From there, the honored unknown would be carried to his homeland aboard the USS Olympia. As the Olympia left the pier, a French Navy destroyer fired a thunderous seventeen-gun salute to which the Olympia responded in kind. In the mid-afternoon of November 9th, the USS Olympia reached the Navy Yard at Washington DC. The body of the unknown was delivered to the Commanding Officers of the Army and a solemn procession of Army, Navy and Marines escorted the body to the Capitol Rotunda. Laid in State, where Generals and Presidents had lain before, the Unknown Soldier was paid tribute by high-ranking dignitaries, government officials, military leaders and citizens from all walks of life. For all of the following day, the line of people passed by the flag draped casket of an American hero with no name. Here, I will quote from The Quartermaster Review of September-October 1963; a publication of the US Army Quartermaster Foundation of Fort Lee, Virginia. “On the morning of November 11, 1921, Armistice Day, at 8:30 A.M., the casket was removed from the rotunda of the Capitol and escorted to the Memorial Amphitheater in Arlington National Cemetery under a military escort, with general officers of the Army and Admirals of the Navy for pallbearers, and noncommissioned officers of the Navy and Marine Corps for body bearers. Following the caisson bearing the flag-draped casket walked such a concourse as had never before followed a soldier to his final resting place-The President of the United States, the Vice-President, Chief Justice and Associate Justices of the Supreme Court, Members of the Diplomatic Corps, wearers of the Congressional Medal of Honor, Senators, Members of Congress, the Generals of the Armies of World War I, and former Wars, and other distinguished Army, Navy and Marine Corps officers, Veterans of World War I, and former Wars, State officials and representatives of patriotic organizations. Solemnly through streets lined with thousands gathered to pay homage to those who died on the field of battle the procession moved on to historic Arlington. Upon arrival at the Amphitheater the casket was borne through the south entrance to the apse where it was reverently placed upon the catafalque. During the processional the vast audience both within and without the Amphitheater stood uncovered. A simple but impressive funeral ceremony was conducted which included an address by the President of the United States who conferred upon the Unknown Soldier the Congressional Medal of Honor and the Distinguished Service Cross. Following this ceremony, special representatives of foreign governments associated with the United States in World War I each in turn conferred upon the Unknown the highest military decoration of their Nation.” At the end of the ceremony, the body of the Unknown Soldier was placed within the tomb, where a two-inch layer of French soil had been placed as a memorial to the land on which he had fought and died, and the tomb was closed. A twenty-one-gun salute shattered the reverent silence and the mournful, peal of the buglers ‘Taps’ gripped the throats of stalwart men and caused salty tears to coarse down the cheeks of battle-hardened veterans. In 1926, Congress authorized the completion of the tomb at a cost of $50,000 and in January of 1931 a 124-ton block of marble was finally cut from the Yule Marble Quarry to complete the monument that would top the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Seventy-five men had worked for over a year to cut the giant block and haul it to the quarry mill where it was cut down to a hefty 56 tons. In February the ‘die,’ the main body of the monument, was loaded onto a flatbed car on the Crystal River and San Juan Rail Road and freighted to Vermont and on to Washington. The chiseled inscription on that stone reads, “Here Rests in Honored Glory An American Soldier Known But to God.” Sgt. Younger, long remembered that day in France when he chose the Unknown Soldier, “…Major Harbold, the officer in charge of grave registrations, told us, ‘One of you men is to be given the honor of selecting the body of the Unknown Soldier.’ He had a large bouquet of pink and white roses in his arms. He finally handed the roses to me. I was left alone in the chapel. There were four coffins, all unnamed and unmarked. The one that I placed the roses on was the one brought home and placed in the national shrine. I walked around the coffins three times, then suddenly I stopped. What caused me to stop, I don’t know. It was as though something had pulled me. I placed the roses on the coffin in front of me. I can still remember the awed feeling that I had, standing there alone.” NOTE: My apologies to Mrs. Herboldsheimer. Last week I wrote that she remembered her father taking her to the Gunderson mill. Actually, it was Mrs. Herboldsheimer’s mother who told her about remembered trips to the mill. Mrs. Herboldsheimer pointed out my error and remarked, “Good heavens! I’m not that old.” Editor’s note: M. Timothy Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist and freelance writer. To contact Tim, email; mtimn@aol.com |
| Completely Different: Happy Hollowthanksmas 2012-11-15 By Elizabeth Gross elizabethgross@geringcitizen.com |
| It was a crisp October day when I decided it was time for an oil change. I headed to everyone’s favorite discount store, since it was only down the road from my country home. I walked the aisles looking for fluid for my vehicle. After loading my cart with the various fluids needed to make my Grand Cherokee tick, I decided to look around at the cosmetics. The back aisles of sporting goods were silent except for the squeaking sounds of my shopping cart; when I heard it. Like a whisper in the wind my ears caught the sound of a tune; a familiar tune. I stopped in my tracks when heard the familiar husky singing of Frank Sinatra. But it couldn’t be, because it was only October. No one, especially Mr. Sinatra, should be singing about frightful weather or delightful fires. Like a slow death march, I continued my trek through the back aisles, passing the sporting goods, moving on to the toys, until I finally came to the end. As I made it to the final toy aisle, Mr. Sinatra was singing full blast. I sighed to myself, finding Buzz Light Year Operation staring at me, wondering why I haven’t moved along yet. Pushing forward I was determined not to see it, even though it was there. Curiosity got the better of me, I glanced over and sure enough the entire back portion of the store was filled with Christmas merchandise. Trees lighting up like synchronized swimmers, life-sized Santas waving at me, and boxes of fancy sausage gift sets. Then I experienced what could only be described as the five stages of grief. First, it was denial, because it was only October, there was no way Christmas stuff was out already. Then it was anger. What could possibly be achieved by bringing Christmas stuff out already? Was it marked down? Cheaper? Goodness, I hate the holidays. Followed by bargaining, with a hint of denial; one of those, if I don’t go back there then the holiday season hasn’t begun. Then the depression of wishing the holidays were like they used to be. Finally, ending with the acceptance that it’s not going to be changing anytime soon. The National Retail Federation is predicting that this year’s holiday sales will see an increase of 4.1 percent from last year. If those predictions prove correct, the retail industry will make $563 billion dollars in sales. It will also see an influx of seasonal employees anywhere from 585,000 to 625,000. Interestingly enough, if you visit nrf.com they actually tell you the reason for putting merchandise out earlier every year. According to our friends at the Retail Federation, 40 percent of consumers begin their holiday shopping before Halloween. They claim that many people begin shopping months in advance for their Christmas merchandise so they are allowed to spread out their spending. Correct me if I’m wrong but wasn’t that called layaway? It gave people a chance to seal their purchases, and make payments on them. I can honestly say I have never met a person who was planning their holiday shopping in July. The Holy Bible of Consumerism teaches us that all great sales start when the holiday season begins. Much like the philosophy of the procrastinator ‘why buy today, when I can get it 50 percent cheaper in three months?’ I don’t buy into the habit that almost half of all shoppers begin their holiday shopping before Halloween. Most of us are busy trying to pay off last year’s credit card debt from Christmas, not thinking about our next big purchase. Before I had the pleasure of sharing with you my adventures ranging from the laundry mat to Mustangs, I used to work retail. I have been on both sides of the register and there are different perspectives on holiday shopping habits. It’s a tragedy in a sense that the holidays are no longer about spending time with family but how much money we spend on goods. Thanksgiving is no longer about giving thanks but instead, preparing for the prehistoric hunt for Black Friday sales. The magic of Christmas seems to no longer be about cherishing one of the happiest days of the year but it being about whether or not Jimmy will be upset because he got an Xbox 360 instead of a WiiU. On the flip side of that coin however, it also gives the unemployed a chance to finally get some work. Many seasonal jobs can land employees a permanent job, whether it is part time or full time. I can tell you right now, that it can happen and it does happen. When starting college, I worked a job that was only meant to be a seasonal part time position. I ended up landing a permanent position with that job for the rest of the year. It is hard work but this shows employers that if you are willing to make the sacrifice during the busiest time of the year, you’re worth keeping around. This is why I don’t believe people should boycott buying things for Christmas. It doesn’t hurt the Waltons or the Daytons; it hurts the people behind the register. The high school kid, college student, and out of work parent lose out, not employers. Such a sacrifice is hard to make because you witness the Christmas spirit literally dying all around you as people fight and bicker over sales. But you smile, take it, and solider on because in the real world we all have to make sacrifices no matter what. Is there a solution to the rampant consumerism that has hijacked our favorite holidays? Well, one is to go against the claim that we start holiday shopping in October. Send a message to the delusional corporate drones on Fantasy Island that you won’t buy into their marketing plan. Don’t let the displays get you down because you have the power to change it. As the NRF website tells us, these marketing ideas are not based off of any sort of numbers but habits. Remember, it’s Happy Halloween, Happy Thanksgiving, and Merry Christmas. Because honestly, Happy Hallowthanksmas is a bit of a mouthful. |
| Teen Voice: Today’s television 2012-11-15 By Kendall Uhrich |
| Every morning I drag my groggy, morning stricken self up the stairs and pour myself a cup of coffee and eat my breakfast. On this journey I find my brother sitting in front on the television like I always do. I yell at him, “Good morning, Keaten.” But, he inevitably never hears me. He is tuned into the TV so much he could never hear what I was saying. And not only is he watching, but he is so close that his nose is practically touching the screen. If he isn’t watching the new episode of Gravity Falls or Phineas and Ferb, he is intently playing of video games on the Wii. His Mario Brothers game has been beat, nine times. The DVR is full of his shows and he knows the parental code to Netflix by heart, the code that not even I know yet. When I look at this I can’t help but notice the major difference between his television viewing hours each day compared to the few minutes I catch by just walking by. Today’s youth is heavily influenced by television. During the time that I didn’t have a car, my parents had to drag me to school and at first I absolutely hated it. This meant not only did I have to get dropped off like I was a sophomore again; I had to get up earlier, because we had to take my nine-year-old little brother to school too. Those ten minutes that I couldn’t sleep in longer felt like hours. As we pulled up to the elementary school I saw many other television-loving children filling the playground. I did not know any of these kids or the amount of TV they watched compared to my brother, but it was clear in the way they talked, the clothes they dressed in and even the school supplies they lugged around. I saw a Justin Bieber backpack, a blonde pig-tailed girl singing Selena Gomez’s “Love Me Like a Lovesong,” a short and stocky boy in a blue SpongeBob T-shirt, and light up Cars sneakers. It made it clear to me that all these kids were being seriously inclined to do whatever the famous did. Or to ask their parents to buy them whatever article of clothing had their favorite shows decorating it. They looked up to them like heroes. For me, my hero was always my dad, but for these youths it seemed as though television characters were taking the place that real role models should be. They would dress, talk and act just like the characters. But, getting to the high school was not at all that much better. When my dad dropped me off and I walked into the doors, taking a left into the commons I stumbled onto a group of sophomores gathered around the television watching Nickelodeon. I am proud to say I have never sat down to watch one of the TV’s at school, even if they are brand new flat screens. If I get to school early enough to be sitting down, I am there finishing up an assignment or studying for an upcoming test. But, for them their morning activities were totally different. I walked by their table to attempt get to the bathroom and trying to get around them whispered, “Excuse me.” But, not a single ear heard. So, I said louder, “Excuse me, please.” But, not a head turned. So, after I gave a sigh of defeat and walked the long way around the lockers, I thought to myself that not only were they ignoring me, they didn’t even talk to each other even though they were sitting right next to one another, because they were too distracted by the flashing lights of the television screen. I pondered longer about how I never even tune in at home, but they were even doing it at school. How TV is such a big deal to these students now, what would it be like when my brother’s class would be like when they got to high school. I trudged through my school day completely forgetting about what had happened that morning, but yet again found myself in another media filled conversation. Just getting the newspaper out, it was time to start new with story ideas for the next issue, and as the editor I grabbed the dry erase marker and started pouring my ideas through the marker onto the board as my staff eagerly awaited their story assignments. We had news stories, sports features, we finally decided on a center section and even a special feature for the back page. But, when I finished, one of them remarked, “But, Kendall, we don’t have any entertainment stories.” Forgetting that section needed to be filled, and out of ideas the staff all thought of what to write about. When we were done, we had a YouTube spotlight, a movie review, a television review and a story about the 007 movies. I then saw that even the people that are very close to me are also very close to the television. No, it wasn’t TV shows, but YouTube. Even was they got older, the media viewing was still an avid part of their lives. The moment a staff member even says the word YouTube the class erupts on telling their favorite videos. Then, not being able to wait until they get home to see the video another time they gather around an iPhone screen to watch the video right there. The television and media addiction that is so feared is right at the fingertips of millions of Americans. Smart phones are almost the only phones that can be purchased anymore and they all come with the capability to watch YouTube, and some can even download entire movies or television shows. I truly noticed my generation’s dependence on the colored screens available to them when they begin discussing entertainment. When I took a moment to just look at what is around me it was easy to see the effect that television really has in today’s society. In elementary schools, in our very own high school and even in the eight person journalism staff, it has taken its front seat position in our lives. My brother will continue to watch his shows, his classmates will keep on buying the celebrity inspired garments, the sophomores will tune me out to watch and my staff will always watch YouTube videos, but even because we cannot change that, we can change how aware we are of just how much television influences us. And although we may look up to the celebrities like the elementary school children, that they are just characters. It is time everyone started noticing how much television influences today’s young people and how it will affect them in the future if they continue to do so. |
| Jane’s Secret, part XVI: Fate takes a hand 2012-11-15 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| Jane dismisses Harvey from her mind and continues rubbing lotion on her hands, but pauses to consider his words. “He was laughing at me,” she says aloud to her reflection in the mirror, not the least bit pleased by the realization. If I were to suggest that we use our furniture and put theirs in storage, what would be wrong with that? It only makes sense to use the best quality, not their flimsy tables and chairs, she fumes, while smoothing a dab of Vaseline on her eyebrows and inspecting the result, feeling annoyed by the veiled slight. A touch of color and some face powder, that’s what I need, she decides after turning her face from side to side watching the light reflect on her facial bones. I just might make that suggestion, she muses, smiling at the thought of Gertrude’s dismay and inability to say no. Harvey can just go to Cheyenne and bring everything here. I don’t care if we have to take their cheap furniture to Cheyenne and store it in a warehouse; in fact we’ll let them keep our old furniture she laughs, thrilled with the idea. It won’t look right in the new house anyway and we can buy new, she decides, laughing aloud at her cleverness. My plans are coming together quite nicely, she observes. Gertrude won’t mind that I take charge of the household like I’ve always done since Pearl died. She can be as vulgar as she wishes, playing nurse, she laughs, closing her eyes and powdering her face. And as for my husband; Harvey knows that I expect him to perform socially as my escort when I entertain; that’s not too much to ask of one’s husband. After today, he can move into the bedroom where Pa’s sleeping and I won’t have to worry about his attentions very often, she assures herself; shuddering at the thought of what a baby would do to her figure and the necessity of a visit to Chicago and all the complications that would cause. A tap on the door interrupts her considerations. “Come in,” she calls. “Mr. Hogg said I was to come up,” Bridget explains. “I need my dress pressed, and be quick about it; Aggie can show you the laundry room,” she says while filing her nails. “Yes, Mrs. Hogg,” Bridget replies, picking up the dress and excusing herself. Jane allows herself a few minutes to relax against the back of her chair, imagining her blue dressing gown on the bed beside Stephen’s. “In due time,” she says aloud to her reflection in the mirror, stretching in an unladylike fashion before resuming her morning toilette. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The first streaks of dawn lighten the sky over in the copse near Jay Em, illuminating the bright green of new leaves in the cottonwood grove. Sunlight filters through the branches glittering on the dew covering everything like crystals. A lone figure takes his last heart-broken look at the camp site. Stumps and a few branches are all that remain of the sapling trees he cut to make a travois to carry his brother home. His eyes touch on the cat’s body, its fur matted with blood from the mortal struggle; blood mixed with that of the man, now staining the new grass. Rage and anger take over his mind and he yells until his heart nearly bursts with anguish. Tears seep out from under his lashes, sliding unchecked down his unshaved cheeks. The horses, eyes wild with fright at the outburst, snort and stamp their feet, anxious to be away from the smell of death and scent of a predator. “Whoa there,” he says and grabs their bridles, soothing them with his voice, sorry that he frightened them. He checks the ropes securing his brother’s body one more time before mounting up, his own clothes stiff with dried blood. Stoically, he holds the reins of the second horse, and starts down the mountain with his brother’s body as he wrestles with how to tell Molly that she is now a widow and the baby in her belly, fatherless. I’ll have to ride for Clem and her sister’s but I can’t leave her alone with the body, he considers. I could fetch Susan but I’d have to take Red’s body past their ranch to ours, and then bring her back with me, and there’s not a ranch house with a woman in it that’s any closer. There’s nothing else I can do but take him home to Molly, he decides, dreading the task that lay ahead. Sometime later, Shorty rides up to the ranch house and knocks on the door, prepared to tell Molly the bad news, only to discover that she isn’t home. Letting himself in, he reads the note left on the kitchen table, then he knows what he has to do. “Come on Red, let’s get you cleaned up and put you to bed, can’t let her see you like this,” he says, choking on the words. Feeling a sense of urgency, he unties the ropes and carries Red inside, laying him on the kitchen table. Pulling out his pocket knife, he cuts off the bloody clothes and washes the blood off the face and neck, doing his best to hold the slashed edges of his throat together. Then he notices Red’s hair sticking out every which way, stiff with dried blood and decides to wash the hair with soapy water. “There, that’s better,” he says aloud, combing the hair back from the face, letting the lock of hair drop over his left eye. He applies lather to Red’s face and shaves off the stubble, splashing on some toilet water. “Now for a nightshirt,” he says, going into the bedroom and rummaging around in the drawers before finding what he is looking for. After considerable effort Shorty, gets Red into the nightshirt and lays him in bed, pulling the covers high under his chin to hide the torn flesh. Then he sits down beside his brother to wait for Molly to come home. Suddenly, the realization hits him, “I forgot to clean up the bloody mess,” he says aloud, hurrying into the kitchen. Wadding the clothes up into a bundle, he ponders what to do with them, finally deciding to stuff them into a saddle bag to be burned later. He brushes the flakes of dried blood off the table into his hand and opens the kitchen door, releasing them to the wind. After a last check around the kitchen, making sure there’s not a trace of Red’s blood in the sink or on the floor, he goes back to the bedroom and prepares to wait for Molly to come home. His eyes are drawn to Red’s face, and he marvels at how serene he looks; almost like he’s dreaming. “How am I going to help Molly raise your son and my own children, and manage two ranches without you little brother?” he asks Red, despair settling in his chest. The rumble of horse’s hooves and the sound of a motor break the stillness. He wipes his face on his shirt sleeve, steeling himself for the coming storm. |
| Observations Only: The meeting 2012-11-15 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| Hazel returned home to Indonesia and we continued e-mailing each other daily, speculating about the information we discovered in Baker, Oregon. We found our parents’ marriage license and obituary notices for deceased relatives, including our grandparents Joseph and Nina. Hazel’s next opportunity to come home was the following April and I was pleased that they planned to spend several days visiting me. A major goal was to meet our brother Jerry in Casper, Wyoming. As it turned out we not only met him but also his two children, Brandeth and Jordan. Aunt Hazel was correct, he taught biology and chemistry in high school. It felt strange to look at this tall blue-eyed man who resembled me in coloring, and was also my brother. Brandeth strongly resembles Hazel in stature with blue eyes and red hair, while Jordan is tall and thin with blue eyes and dark hair. In the exchange of general information that occurs when people meet for the first time, I was surprised to learn that people’s tastes and tendencies really do connect them through blood. Although I had no memory of Jerry, he knew of my existence; but we had had no connection other than being born of the same mother. He and his children have a fondness for books and a desire to travel around the world seeking new experiences just as my daughter and I have. Traits not shared with my adopted family, nor even my daughter’s paternal family. During subsequent visits I learned about Jerry’s early years which were very different from mine and Hazel’s. Leta left her son with Nina and Joseph while she went to Portland, Ore. to work in an airplane factory. There she met our father. Jerry had traveled with us and our parents for awhile. When he was 6 years old he was living like a wild boy in the mountains without schooling or supervision. Nina became blind from diabetes and uncle Douglas moved she and Joseph to North Powder and adopted Jerry. He told me how he loved running barefoot in the Blue Mountains and playing in the woods, and the next day being told to get up and dress because a man and lady were coming to take to him home with them. They bought him new clothes and shoes, and made him go to school. He explained how hard it was because he didn’t know his colors or days of the week; or anything else a 6-year-old should know before beginning school. Jerry said that he was rebellious and refused to take baths and wear shoes, and generally made life difficult for Douglas’ wife Jaunita, who had the primary care of him, while her husband was out on tours of duty. Jerry’s life with uncle Douglas took him to Japan during the occupation and other Army bases. Uncle Douglas kept in touch with Leta, helping her financially. Jerry and Uncle Douglas visited her once when he was about 21. Her health was poor with complications from uncontrolled diabetes. She didn’t seem very interested in him or ask him any questions about himself; nor did she ask if they knew anything about her other children. I thought about what I would do if she had turned up at some point and wanted to see me; what could we say to each other that could possibly matter. Hazel thought that abandoning us was the only way Leta knew to save us from the man we were traveling with. According to Social Security records Leta married him and was using his name when she died of liver cancer in 1989. It has taken me a long time to be able to say, I’m grateful to have been adopted. I know Hazel was grateful, but I’ve never asked Jerry his thoughts about it. |
| From the Superintendent’s Desk: Accountability 2012-11-08 By Don Hague |
| In the next couple of articles I will be sharing information to help you understand data which is going to be released to the public in late November. The Nebraska Department of Education has been developing an annual state report card. The report card is available for every school district as well as each school building within a district. Improvements have been made to make the report card more user friendly as well as provide more information about schools each and every year. The report card contains profile information about each district. There is a section covering student characteristics available for the 2011-2012 school year as well as trend data. Examples of various demographics include enrollment, percentage of students on free/reduced priced meals, percentage of Special Education students, percentage of English Language Learners, race/ethnicity numbers, and mobility rates. Normally you will see a state average for each of the categories as well so you can see how a district compares to the state. The majority of the report card is focused on student performance. Up until a few years ago each district developed their own assessment program to measure student performance based upon state standards in reading, math and science. There was a lot of criticism from those outside of the education community as they did not believe any comparisons could be made between districts with respect to student performance on these assessments. The past three years the state has gone through a transition to common state assessments referred to as NeSA. This past school year we completed the third year of the language arts assessment, second year of math, and first year of science. The writing assessment scoring methods were also modified recently. Now that common state assessments are given to all students in the state, comparisons can be made between student performances. The development of NeSA was a result of legislative action as well as complying with requirements from the Federal Department of Education. The report card will show the performance of all students as well as performance of subgroups of students. If subgroups have enrollment of less than 10, their data will not be displayed for privacy reasons. There is also student performance information on national assessments. Gering Public uses the ACT, EXPLORE, PLAN and Terra Nova for national assessments. These are assessments that districts are using to develop a picture of their student performance compared to other students throughout the nation. Other data available at the high school level includes graduation rate and dropout rate. |
| A Stray Moment: It's a dog's life 2012-11-08 By Doug Harris |
| I wrote about a cat recently. It was a true story but was used as an allegory or metaphor. I sometimes confuse the meanings of those two words. Allegory – a story in which people, things or happenings have another meaning, as in a fable or parable. Metaphor - a figure of speech in which one thing is likened to another; an implied comparison. Let’s move on. After writing an allegory (or whatever) about a cat I thought it was only fair that I write about dogs. They do capture hearts, don’t they? Being a bird person who has kept various parakeets over the past 15 years I sometimes fail to appreciate the relationship and responsibilities of dog ownership. My little birds have given me great comfort and happiness and I’ll be the first to tell you that their intelligence and empathy is vastly under-rated. I owned Sparky the parakeet for almost ten years. Which is like a centenarian in ‘human years?‘ He (she? I never knew) was my pal. He would sing with me when I played my guitar. In our weekly Dungeons and Dragons sessions Sparky would always get excited when the various table top adventures started to get tense or dangerous. Like a clarion call Sparky would start to screech and jump about as if to say, “Be careful geek boys ... there might be a dragon or a mind-flayer on that mountain top.” But I digress as I often do. I wanted to write about dogs. I have never owned one nor has one adopted me. As I wrote a couple of weeks ago a few cats have charmed me over the years. One once learned to find her way under my house and climb up via the hole in the floorboard under the kitchen sink. On the first few visits I wondered if it were some sort of hallucination or dark omen, like a black cat just wandering about my living room. A friend noted “Nice cat. I didn’t know you had a cat.” I replied, “I don’t.” But there she was wandering the room pleased as punch. A sleek pretty one too; black as jet. I took many months to figure out how she got in and out. But...I digress again. I promised to write about dogs. Dogs have had a rough go of it in our Valley lately. The now infamous case of the Gering German shepherd “Ike” who was, as two veterinarians have surmised, so badly abused by some savage human in our midst that he had to be put down. The details don’t need to be outlined. Those who cared or were curious know enough about this troubling unsolved case. Or the recent story of the Lyman Rottweiler “Bos” that was shot and killed by a police officer. I saw the video clip on the Big Machine. I have no insight on what happened. I wasn’t there. But the clip was disturbing. After watching it I felt mildly guilty. Like rubber-necking at the scene of an accident. But I also thought it was valid for the owner of the dog to share it. Even the big, loud, and possibly frightening dogs are often deeply loved. And then we have this recent flap brought before the Gering City Council to revise or amend city codes regarding dogs. Not all dogs, just certain breeds that have a bad reputation. We’ll see what happens on that one. I follow the actor Wil Wheaton on Twitter and Facebook. He is best known for his portrayal of Wesley Crusher on ‘Star Trek: The Next Generation.’ Among his lively social media commentary he defends dog breeds and advocates for responsible ownership. Wil has two benign pit-bulls. They have been around him and his wife and children for years. In little clips and pictures he shows how loving and gentle they can be. I have never owned a dog. What do I know? I have met dogs I love, dogs I am apathetic about, and dogs that have downright terrified me. I was bit by a dog about a month ago. It was superficial but it made me very angry. It came upon me, unleashed, barking and growling. Its owner was nearby. She said, “Did he bite you badly?” Badly? That he bit me at all is what mattered. I had some choice words for her which can’t be repeated here . . . but I did find my outrage really wasn’t focused on the dog but on the irresponsible owner. The dog didn’t know any better. He wasn’t guided to be civil or safe. It seems a big task to raise a canine friend. Not only all the training, feeding, walking, and housing are needed, but also the ability to patiently teach it how to live in a human world. A dog can’t be expected to observe the social nuances of human society, at least not without proper guidance. When I was a child my older brothers had a Dachshund named “Leo.” I recall this little dog drove my father crazy. Leo seemed to constantly be in trouble. Leo was great at tearing things up, messing the floors, and nipping at us. But my brothers loved this little mutt. He had a tragic death too. He was run over by my father in our driveway. Both my brothers were in the car. I was spared that trauma but it was a dark day for the Harris family. My brothers knew in their hearts our father didn’t kill Leo on purpose, but they were just little boys; painful accusations were made. Even almost 45 years later I feel sorry for dear old dad. But I suppose that is just another lesson dog ownership offers. We’ve heard it said when a beloved pet dies this can prepare children to the reality that there will one day be more significant grief to bear. I believe that is true. And especially true when it comes to dogs. They are so empathetic and happy and silly even if you don’t own one they can still become your friend. My favorite dog in the world is named “Rocky Mosley.” His master didn’t really give him a last name, but that’s what I call him. Rocky is a German shepherd who lives in Laramie. Rocky is probably the dumbest dog that ever lived. The type that will eat his way out of chain-link kennel so he can attack a bag of charcoal. I love him deeply. I even sometimes send him messages on Facebook. I enjoy “Charley the Newspaper Dog” as well. He frequently curled up under my desk at the paper. His tendency to growl at any strangers who walk through the door can be a little irritating, but he’s learning. And the Dungeons and Dragon dogs named “Elsa,” “Sophie” and “Charlie” (a different Charlie, this one is a girl). Sophie has a gift for always being underfoot, especially when we are trying to walk downstairs or take something hot out of the oven. Elsa likes to jump around in the same sticker patch before limping if poked. Charlie is getting old. She mostly just lies around looking pretty. I recently saw a picture on the Internet that speaks of the canine character. It was of a very sad looking dog lying on top of a gravestone. The caption read: “In the past six years, a German shepherd called Captain has slept next to the grave of his owner every night at 6 p.m. His owner, Miguel Guzman died in 2006. Captain, the dog, disappeared while the family attended the funeral services. A week later relatives of Guzman were visiting the cemetery when they were astounded to find the dog next to the owner’s grave. The cemetery director says that the dog comes around each night at 6 pm, and has done so for the past six years!” That is an expression of love and loyalty that surpasses the human heart. Could you imagine a cat doing that? “She’s dead? Oh, so sorry. Who is going to fill my feeding dish now? Meow.” |
| Teen Voice: Sit back and enjoy YouTube 2012-11-08 By Kendall Uhrich |
| I could not think of what to write about. I sat at my computer desk wanting to pound my head against the keyboard hoping that somehow that act of stress relief would turn out to be a beautifully written motivational story that will change lives and guess what happened… nothing. I decided instead of motivating others I was going to de-motivate myself in the best way possible, by watching hours of unnecessary videos on YouTube. But through this I actually found what I needed to tell my readers. So, today instead of telling my readers how to get up, I’ll say how to sit back and enjoy the fine videos on the Internet. I love listening to covers of popular songs on YouTube and in doing this I have found a few artists who aren’t yet famous, but their talent is so strong they are on the verge of getting there. One of these is Conor Maynard. This British pop star got his start from YouTube and has spring boarded into a music career, even landing a spot in the US top 40, with Vegas Girl. But, his covers are just as good as his singles that he wrote himself. He does a version of Katy Perry’s ET and it is one of my favorite songs. He also covers Drake’s Marvin’s Room, a ballad that showcases the young star’s brilliant voice. His CD is due to come out in the US in January and I am well anticipating the release. Because it is currently on the shelves in the UK the songs are available to listen to with hits like Can’t Say No and Breathe. Maynard’s music would be enjoyed by those who also like Jason Durulo or Chris Brown. Zelda fan and cover artist is Christina Grimmie is another that is rising up on YouTube. This popular songstress has her own album available on iTunes, and has helped with American Idol and has given performances with Selena Gomez. Her new songs are fabulous, but I advise to tune into her covers first. She is known to belt out her alto voice and play piano to many top 40 songs. She has done hits such as Price Tag by Jessie Jay, Poker Face by Lady Gaga, and Crazier by Taylor Swift. If anyone enjoys singers like Adele and Christina Aguilera then Grimmie is definitely one to check out. Being an avid news reader, I am always interested in hearing about the latest hot button topics and YouTube even offers videos to give news information. SourceFed is a news broadcast channel that puts on five videos a day to show the news, and to be more entertaining to viewers they often put in their own comical twist. Not only is the viewer hearing necessary information, but they are laughing at the same time. If more news channels were like that one it would be easy to tune in and that is what keeps the channel going strong. But, the new videos aren’t just coming from amateurs but, popular celebrities have videos worth watching as well. I discovered this one day while looking for a Taylor Swift song, and stumbled upon one I had never heard. Many artists put out deluxe CDs with a few extra songs at the end, and even if one did not purchase the more expensive option, they can view the other songs on YouTube and even songs the artist didn’t release. And I also discovered that concert’s get recorded and the videos are often posted. Even if one didn’t get to see the concert they were dying to see, viewing it is just a few clicks away. But, if any readers actually wanted motivation tune into zefrank’s channel. He talks about subjects like friendship, love and even this trip to France. His videos are known to be thought provoking and personally when I watch one I leave thinking about life more than I would have before I watched and it makes me thankful for the thing surrounding me. All coming from just one famous YouTuber. It is nice to see people changing the world, and their lives by simply putting up videos. YouTube is a melting pot of all Internet videos and should be taken advantage of. Even if it is to de-motivate or just to relax. I advise all readers to check out the channels I subscribe to. I give them all five stars out of five. |
| Observations Only: Blue chip stock 2012-11-08 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| My intention for this column was to introduce you to my brother, Jeremiah Hand; however, on Facebook this morning a friend posted that she was grateful for her children and praised them for being such fine adults. I posted about my only child, and said that I couldn’t improve on her and didn’t need to have more children. We congratulated each other, pleased with the result of our diligent parenting. On Saturday, my friend and I visited the craft fair at the civic center and poked around throughout the afternoon. As mothers do, we shared a few stories about our adult children and their antics when they were small. She related a story about her son when he was about 2 years old. She and her husband were at a card party and while the other children laid down with a blanket and went to sleep, their son cried and refused to be consoled. They gave up and took him home. Their sacrifice of personal pleasure for the well-being of their son is an example of countless episodes in the life of a child and his parents. An individual whose name I can’t recall, once likened babies to blue chip stock or a twig on the family tree that needs years to mature with very little return. Compensation such as a heartfelt thank you, an “I have the world’s best mom” statement made to friends when we’re not listening, honest measurable effort to correct thoughtless words and behavior, can take 18-20 years to achieve, more in some cases. Childish hugs and kisses at bedtime, while precious, are not the same reward a parent hopes to see in his adult child. The realization of real dividends such as patience with others, gratitude, tolerance, responsibility for themselves, and ownership of their actions, should be the ultimate goal of every parent. I was reminded of a conversation I once overheard between two young women. One had a tiny baby and the other appeared ready to give birth at any time. The one, little more than a girl herself, said she wanted a baby that would love her and belong to her. I felt sorry for the infant, saddled with the heavy responsibility and lifelong job of making its mother feel loved enough. This is an impossible task for a child of any age, to constantly show enough gratitude for its life in order to satisfy a mother’s wounded inner child’s need for love. This young mother’s confusion about what her child is capable of giving, and her responsibility toward the child, is so sad it makes one want to weep for the pain that will be their lot; weep for the child whose first message about himself is that of an ungrateful brat, after all that his mother has given him. Circumstances that force a mother to raise her child alone are sometimes unavoidable but too often young women believe that having a baby is a valid way to hang onto a man; only to be left with an infant to raise alone when the relationship doesn’t work out. Understandably, she puts herself back on the market to search for a new partner, but her responsibilities have changed. Her first focus should now be on her child the next eighteen years, but that isn’t always the realization a young mother makes. Infants grow into strong, emotionally healthy children and become balanced, well-adjusted adults through the careful development of self-worth as reflected in their parents’ eyes. This is not through possessions or praise but through the minutes and hours, months and years of the parents’ time spent tending to his person and carefully nurturing his mind and his heart. |
| Across the Fence: Places near forgotten 2012-11-08 By M. Timothy Nolting mtimn@aol.com |
| In the autumn of 1885 through the spring of 1886 long caravans, from the east, lumbered westward in canvas covered wagons pulled along by plodding teams of oxen. Among those who traveled were grangers searching for new lands where crops could be grown, livestock raised and families could prosper. Alongside the Great North River, the ribbon of wagons followed the shallow tributary on a trek that stretched from St. Louis, Missouri to Oregon, California and all points in between. One can only imagine the monotony of the countless miles of trail along the expanse of sameness through Kansas and eastern Nebraska. Mile after mile they traveled with eyes shielded from the sun by raised hands or the protective canopy of cotton bonnets. As they traveled westward they searched for something other than the flat, endless horizon that lay ahead and blended unremarkably, into the sky, day after weary day. At long last, after topping a subtle rise, they dropped into an unexpected oasis called Mud Springs. A little further on, Jail and Court House Rock jutted out from the prairie floor and one family in particular chose to head their wagons due west beside a little tributary called Pumpkin Creek. While the rest of the train headed northwesterly, past Chimney Rock and toward the towering Scott’s Bluff, the Ashford family followed the southern wall of the Wildcat Hills and watched the valley unfold ahead of them. It was Nelson Ashford, along with his son William and his family and a daughter, Gertrude, who arrived at a spot near Wildcat Mountain in the autumn of 1885. Gertrude was one of the first women to settle in this area. Nelson’s wife, Mrs. Ashford, would follow in the spring. Recorded in the ‘History of Western Nebraska,’ Grant L. Shumway describes a stirring scene that captures the excitement of Nelson’s son William. “As he was coming down Long Springs hill, he got a glimpse of the beautiful virgin valley where Harrisburg was later planted, and at the bottom of the hill was a creek, and the tops of green trees were to be seen. Will let out a bray, like a homecoming mule, and startled the silent watches of the wilderness. Out of the canyon there scurried in all directions wild animals that had been down to drink. There were wild horses, deer and antelope.” Apparently, it was at that location where Ashford, Nebraska was founded. I recently ran across the mention of the town of Ashford while doing other research about the people and near forgotten places in the area of my neighbors to the north. One reference described Ashford as a ghost town in Banner County, Nebraska with no known location or remains. However, the location of Ashford was not that difficult to find. Section 9, Township 19, Range 55 is the location of what was once the town of Ashford. At one time, Ashford boasted a population of 8 and was located on Pumpkin Creek on the Stage Road. It was temporarily the county seat of Banner County in 1889 and had a post office from 1887 until 1902. There was even a newspaper, ‘The Ashford Gazette’ which was printed and published in Gering. It was near Ashford that one Leonidas Leach settled and brought into the area the first Morgan horses that had ever been seen in this region. Mr. Leach’s wife, Emma, planted a large grove of trees on the hill south of the town site and William Ashford planted a grove on the flats to the east. A few miles south, a settler named Daniel Stauffer planted an orchard that supplied abundant fruit for the community. The old, dead, rows of trees can still be seen alongside highway 71 to the east. I have identified where I am fairly certain that the little town stood. To the east of Highway 71, just south of where Pumpkin Creek flows under the highway near the county road, there is a fairly large expanse of level ground. I believe that it is at that place where Nelson Ashford settled. In 1887 he established a post office at that location and was named postmaster of Ashford. The Star mail route, at that time ran from Kimball to Gering on the Stage Road and Ashford was its intermediate stop. The town was approximately 7 miles south of the pass through the Wildcat Hills. On January 29, 1889 Banner County was officially formed and an election was held to determine the county seat. Ashford was acting as temporary seat and Harrisburg also vied for the honors. There was a town of Banner that was eliminated from the start. I gather, from the brief accounts I’ve found, that Ashford was fairly confident that the election would go their way but for some reason the vast majority of the town of Freeport cast their vote for Harrisburg and Ashford lost out to becoming the permanent county seat. It was near Ashford that some early attempts were made to divert the flow from Pumpkin Creek and utilize the water for irrigation of the adjoining land. About a mile east of Ashford the creek was somewhat higher than the surrounding area and in the winter the creek would freeze over, causing an overflow that would cover nearly seventy acres, around the town of Ashford, with a sheet of ice. In the late 1800s one F. P. Reed attempted to put in a water-powered flourmill on Pumpkin Creek near Ashford. He constructed a reservoir for a supply of ready water, but the ground was so full of prairie dog holes that the reservoir would never completely fill. It is said that the first, and only, boat ever floated in Banner County waters was on that reservoir. Mr. Reed’s mill was never completed. Reed gave up on his efforts and headed back east to Coatsburg, Illinois. There he hired on at a local mill and was tragically killed when he fell from the upper reaches of the mill, into the engine room below, and broke his neck. However, I have learned that there was a successful water-powered flourmill that did operate in this area for quite some time. In Cheyenne County, near Potter, Nebraska one Adam Gunderson, built and operated a flour mill powered by the harnessed flow of Lodgepole Creek. Mr. Gunderson was born in the village of Eskow, Norway, in 1847. He grew up a farmer and lumberjack and in 1869 left home and took passage to New York. Once on the continent he settled near Omaha, Nebraska where he farmed and was employed as a logger, on the Missouri river, for about three years. From eastern Nebraska he came west to Cheyenne County in 1872, and worked at laying track for the Union Pacific Railroad. In 1873 he married Miss Mary Rasmussen, from the railroad town of Potter, who had immigrated to Cheyenne County from Denmark. In 1886 he filed on a homestead in Cheyenne County, east of Fort Sidney. I have been told that his descendants may still own the original homestead and that the family now living there is restoring the old house. Mr. Gunderson was a successful farmer and stockman as well as the owner and operator of the flour and feed mill that he built on his property. The cut stone house was built in 1897 and in 1908 he added a generator to the mill that supplied electric power to his home. The home and ranch buildings were all built of stone and made up a quite impressive homestead. What I believe are the remains of the old mill and several of the outbuildings can still be seen from the Highway between Potter and Sidney. The falling walls of carefully laid stone serve as a testament of the determination, pride and commitment of those early settlers. They came to the Lodgepole Valley with dreams of a future for themselves and their children for generations to come. It wasn’t easy and there were innumerable risks but they met them head on and prevailed. Mrs. Charleen Herboldsheimer of Potter, recently told me that she remembers, as a child, going to Gunderson’s Mill with her father. She told me that those who brought their grain, and they came from miles around, could either wait for their own flour to be ground, or they could take some that had already been processed and leave their own. She said that as a very small child, her father would leave her with friends along the way while he went to the mill, and then pick her up on the way back home. The flurry of activity and the dangers of the operating mill was certainly no place for small children. “It’s hard to imagine that there was ever enough water in Lodgepole Creek to power a mill,” Mrs. Herboldsheimer remarked. I have passed by this place many times and I have often wondered just what the story was surrounding those old stone walls. I was sure that they represented an important part of our local history and I hope to learn more. It may well be one of those places near forgotten. Tim Nolting is an award winning Nebraska columnist and freelance writer. |
| From the Superintendent's Desk: Why so soon? 2012-11-01 By Don Hague |
| I have had a number of people ask me “Why did you announce your retirement so early in the school year?” There are a couple of very important reasons: the first being professional. The position of Superintendent of Schools is the only position the Board of Education directly hires. It is the single most important task a board is faced with and it takes time. The Gering Public Schools Board of Education began the process by hiring a consultant; Nebraska School Board Association, who will guide them through this process in August. Their goal is to have an individual hired, if possible, by the end of January. The position will be advertised state-wide and nationally. Normally, a district of Gering’s size will attract candidates who are currently serving as superintendents or central office administrators, as well as individuals who are looking for their first superintendence. In most cases, if the applicants are currently serving as a superintendent, they are under a contract which may extend beyond the current school year and normally they may have a time frame spelled out in the contract for notification to be released. This date is often around February or March. It is important to remember if the superintendent leaves his position during these months it means the school district he is leaving must go through the process of hiring a new person so they can begin work on July 1. The later in the school year, the more difficult it can be for a district to attract candidates to their position. It is a process that normally takes between three to four months to complete. It is also important for everyone to remember it is a two way process. Not only is the school district interviewing candidates, but the candidates will be interviewing the district and stakeholders. It is not unusual for a candidate to be involved in more than one search and many times top candidates have a choice of positions, therefore they are seeking the best fit just as is the board of education is looking for the best person to fit their position. Gering Public Schools has been a good experience for me and I will be finishing my 12th year in this position. Average tenure for a superintendent with a school district in Nebraska is around five years. I wanted to make sure the Gering Board of Education was given the best opportunity possible to hire my replacement. The second reason was personal. This year marks my 12th year in Gering serving as superintendent and my 24th year as a superintendent overall, as I served 12 years in Hoxie, Kansas as superintendent prior to coming to Gering. I also served as a building principal for seven years and as a teacher/coach for 12½ years. That makes a total of 43½ years in education in eight different school districts. It has been, and continues to be, a rewarding and challenging career. I have seen a lot of changes in education during this time and the single biggest change is that today we are focused on educating each and every student in the system. This is a huge shift from my early years when we really just provided opportunities to all but it really was up to the student and so often a school was judged as a good school if they produced some outstanding students because there were ample employment opportunities for those who did not seek education or additional training after high school. This is no longer the case; now all students must leave high school with the needed skills to go on for additional training because the jobs available to those without a college degree and/or additional training are limited and becoming fewer every day. There is a time in everyone’s career to pass the torch on to the next generation and for me it will come at the end of this school year. |
| Our view: Gering’s future needs your vote 2012-11-01 By Citizen Staff Report |
| We’re taking a different tack on endorsements. Rather than suggesting to our readership who we think they should vote for, we’d prefer to tell readers about the Gering we would like to see in the future. We’re going to let the candidates tell you in their own words what they stand for, based on questions we have posed to them, and trust that you will make the best decision for Gering in the voting booth. After all, do you know anyone who has ever voted a certain way because a local newspaper told them to? We don’t. We at the Citizen would like to see candidates voted onto city council who understand the importance of Gering remaining an independent town. Residents of Gering choose to live here because we like quiet, clean neighborhoods and the visual beauty this side of the river. There is also a spirit of pride in Gering as the oldest town in the Valley. If we wanted to live in Scottsbluff, we would. While council members should understand the need for neighborly cooperation with Scottsbluff, they must recognize that we are a separate town, with our own identity and personality that does not need to mirror those interests and approaches to development that Scottsbluff takes. Too many times our council has waited to make decisions until Scottsbluff decided what it was going to do. Stop this please. We don’t want to elect anyone who refuses to work harmoniously with our neighbor, but let’s keep our separation healthy, and support each other as independent neighbors with separate identities because that is what we are. Another quality we’d like to see in our elected officials is creative thinking. We need new energy, new ideas and some consideration for what younger people want in a community. We’d also like to see participation in community events. It’s a sad day when so few city council members bother to show up for the city’s 125th birthday dinner. We’d like to see folks who are involved with our city happenings, who demonstrate pride in Gering and who participate in her civic affairs beyond council meetings. We’d also like to see council members elected who view Gering as more than a bedroom community for Scottsbluff. Bedroom communities in other places are called that because they are the preferred places to live in the area. So far, so good, yet other bedroom communities boast of a nice selection of restaurants, services and entertainments that make living in those places enjoyable. City council members need to see Gering as worthy of business investment and attract more business here so that residents don’t have to cross the river to do business if they don’t want to. They also need to make it easy, not hard for businesses to locate here. The county has a special designation for being livestock friendly. Maybe Gering should make it a point to designate itself as business friendly. That would mean the city should stop dragging its governmental feet while potential business is left hanging. We’d like to see our council members use “can do” language rather than the negatives such as can’t, won’t, and never. We’re tired of hearing the flimsy excuses of, “we’ve never done that before,” “that’s not how we’ve done it in the past,” or “that will never happen” to justify their position. We need a council that says, “Let’s explore that,” a council that will actively find ways to affirm and achieve our goals if we work hard enough to make them happen. We’d also like to see council members recognize when they have a conflict of interest, and bow out of a vote when something isn’t appropriate. It would be nice to see leadership practices on the council that point out conflicts to those in the middle of them who refuse to acknowledge them. We need council to be real and honest with fellow members rather than propping up the good-old-boy network. We need council members who will express themselves professionally, who aren’t going to sling mud or refuse to work with someone’s idea just because they don’t like them personally. Other communities around the Valley look at our council sometimes and shake their heads. They have stated that they don’t want their councils to “be like Gering’s.” This is embarrassing for all of us and we’d like the immature behavior to stop. Let’s be proud of our community and its government, let’s elect those who are proud to represent us and our beautiful town with professionalism, integrity and community involvement. |
| Teen Voice: An eventful homecoming 2012-11-01 By Kendall Uhrich |
| ‘Twas Homecoming week and all through the school were children dressed in spirit and of course the crazed girls. Anyone who has attended high school knows that Homecoming means two things to girls; getting a gorgeous dress and an even more gorgeous date. But, even participating in an entire spirit week, dressing as a dynamic duo, proudly sporting my blue and gold and even getting my perfect purple dress, Homecoming night for me was not the fairy tale seen on the movie screens. I remember bright lights and noise all around me, but the lights weren’t coming from the D.J. and noise not coming from the excitement of my fellow students. I remember a scream, headlights and concerned faces, because that October night I learned the importance of seatbelts and the value of others, because I had been involved in a car accident. I remember so vividly, every feeling and the look on everyone’s faces and those few seconds are stained into my brain like a tattoo. “Make sure you guys put your seatbelts on, because the cops are out strong tonight,” my friend had warned us when we got into the car. I never wear seatbelts in the backseat, and he knew this, so I clicked on my seatbelt feeling confined by the foreign object I was being forced to wear. We all knew this is senior year and our last shot to have the time of our lives, so we put the top down of in the car and turned the radio loud enough to drown out the noise of the car and traffic around us. We softly all sang along as our senior class song It’s Time by Imagine Dragons played through the speakers. “I don’t ever wanna let you down. I don’t ever want to leave this town.” We said those lyrics louder than any other and looked at the faces around us, knowing we will all have to leave each other soon and a tear gathered in my eye, but I forced it to stop before it fell, because after all, it was Homecoming. Nothing would ruin this night. The sadness of graduation filled our hearts and we knew the song had to change, so we put on an upbeat Maroon 5 tune, but as soon as we did we approached the intersection by Maverick and Walmart, not knowing that could have been our last song, our last time to sing aloud. Sitting in the backseat and looking down at the floor I saw nothing coming, but heard the yell of the driver, “What are you doing?” he proclaimed and my head jerked forward to see the commotion. I saw the blinding lights of the white car in front of us and watched as glass spewed ubiquitously. Our headlights and theirs burst like balloons and all traffic around us came to an abrupt halt. My body shook like a rag doll out of my seat and as I swayed back and forth, my seatbelt jerked me back and I immediately looked to my best friend beside me. The only thing that mattered was her safety. “Are you okay?” She asked me with wide eyes. “Yeah,” I murmured. Because, with the fear of what had happened and the adrenaline running through my veins that is the only word I could put together in my head. I stumbled out of the car and cried on the shoulders of the three friends I had with me. I am grateful enough to have those three people there. My best friends. Selflessly, the driver offered me a jacket and another let me cry on their shoulder until I was ready to let go. And holding each other tight another friend and I told each other how much we loved each other. In those moments of generous actions by my peers I knew that I was loved and there was no doubt in my mind they were there for me. I took off my high heels, and stood amongst the glass in the middle of that intersection and saw my life come into perspective. The only thing we all said to another was, “We almost died.” We all knew that if our driver didn’t tell us to wear our seatbelts we wouldn’t have and that because the top was down in his car we would have been ejected and the chances of surviving that were slim. We denied going to the ER to get checked out, because with all the adrenaline we felt fine, just shaken up, and we went to the Homecoming dance to try to forget about the accident. But, on the way there we discussed how much we loved each other and had our luck been any less how much we would have been missed, and we all discovered our value. We are all Bulldog speakers and leads of the fall play, so we knew the play would have most likely been cancelled and how our team would miss us at meets. Smiling because we were okay, and crying because of the happiness that filled us, we embraced each other all night long. Walking into the dance an hour late, we discovered a few classmates had seen us on their way to the dance and somehow every student in the gymnasium knew about the accident, so we spend most of our time explaining that the wreck wasn’t our fault and calming them doing mentioning we were in fact okay. We danced the night away none the less and loved every second of it. Complaining that my shoulder was hurting me, I took some Tylenol and told everyone I was okay. But, the next day I went to the ER because of my pain and discovered in the accident the seatbelt had separated my shoulder. Adorned with a navy blue sling, I have a constant reminder of what happened that night and how it could have been so much worse. And I know whenever I get into a car, although the seatbelt gave me a separated shoulder, it gave me life. Seatbelts aren’t a joke. I don’t want anyone to only be in a seatbelt because cops are out like I did. It happened in a second and I couldn’t imagine if I would have been ejected out of that vehicle. There would be many columns I wouldn’t have been able to write, so many speeches I never could have given and so many smiles I couldn’t create. Value life and always treat a car ride like an accident could happen. No matter if it is a regular Tuesday or even Homecoming night. There is never an excuse to not wear a seatbelt. |
| Observations Only: Surprises 2012-11-01 By Nina Betz nina@geringcitizen.com |
| The beginning of our trip took us through Wyoming and Idaho. After perusing the maps we decided to go home by the southern route which took us through Salt Lake City and Grand Junction. Hazel was tired of driving when we arrived in Canon City, Colo. The Royal Gorge National Park was nearby and we decided to take the day off and visit the park. The long drive gave us ample time to discuss all that we learned from Aunt Hazel. We decided that, although it was nice to have Michael Gillette as a cousin, he probably had no idea that we existed and aunt Hazel did not offer contact information. We had no interest in meeting him, nor did she appear to be interested in any further contact with us. We were, however, interested in knowing about our uncle and finding our brother. We were surprised to learn that our uncle was Colonel Douglas Hand in the Army Heavy Artillery Division in the Pacific Arena during World War II. Unfortunately, he had died three years before. He was the oldest of the 10 children and brilliant. As a young boy he went to a neighbor and offered to work for them for food and a bed, and the chance to go to school. They agreed and became fond of him, treating him like a member of the family; he never went back to his own family. Aunt Hazel said a fire destroyed part of the cabin, and two of the youngest children died in it. Twin boys were handicapped and spent their lives in an institution and three brothers disappeared, although she thought they were still alive. Leta (our mother) left her son with her parents, Nina and Joseph Hand, and moved to Portland, Ore. to work in an airplane factory where she met our father, Joseph Kilgore; they married and returned to North Powder while pregnant with Hazel. They followed the harvest for a few years; I was born in Coquille, Oregon and Cory was born in Arizona. At some point, Leta and Joseph met up with the red-haired man and we traveled with him in his pickup, landing in Omaha, Neb. in 1950. Hazel and I, after much thought, came to the conclusion that Leta must have thought the only way to protect us from the red-haired man was to leave us, thinking that Joseph would come back for us or perhaps she didn’t want the bother of three children, we can only guess. Intake notes from the orphanage stated that we were clean and neat in appearance, and somewhat underweight. Aunt Hazel only knew our brother’s name, that he was a teacher, and lived in one of the larger cities in Wyoming. We stopped for the night in Colorado Springs and started making phone calls information. Did they have a phone listing for a Jeremiah Hand? Cheyenne didn’t have a number but the Casper operator gave us a number for Jeremiah Hand. Hazel wanted me to call but I couldn‘t think what to say so we sat there on the bed trying to get up our courage to make a phone call to a strange man. She grabbed the phone and dialed the number. A man answered and she said, I think I’m your sister. As it turned out he was our brother and very excited to hear from us. He wanted to meet us the next day but Hazel had to turn in the rental car the next day and it was about six months before we actually met him in person. Nina and Joseph Hand brought 10 children into the world; two died in a fire, two were institutionalized, three disappeared and three escaped the poverty they were born into. To be continued... |
| Across the Fence: Building Barns 2012-11-01 By M. Timothy Nolting |
| “Get ready,” Grandpa said. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my blue and gray striped, Union brand, overalls and felt the tug of the suspenders on my shoulders. The handle of the grownup hammer, that hung in the loop on the leg of those overalls, drug on the ground beside my foot. I tolerated the banging of the wooden handle on my bony knee without complaint. We were building a barn and I was helping. I stood on tiptoe, knees locked, bent at the waist, mesmerized by the blending of cement, sand and water. I was watching my Grandpa Nolting mix the three elements in a big metal trough. The trough had been hammered out of a large sheet of metal, from an old threshing machine, that had been bent and creased, folded and riveted until it had finally achieved the shape of approximately 4 feet by 6 feet and nearly a foot deep. It was in this trough that Grandpa was mixing mortar using a long handled tool, which looked like an oversized garden hoe, with two large holes in the blade. As he pushed and pulled the tool through the mortar in the trough, it oozed through the holes and lay in waves across the top of the gritty sludge until it slowly dissipated into the gray colored mix. Back and forth he pushed and pulled, added a splash of water from a five-gallon bucket, a shovelful of sand, half a bag of cement until just the right consistency was achieved. “Just about there.” I heard him say as he jabbed the mixing tool into the sludge and leaned on the end of the handle. “Now spit in it,” he said. I looked up to see his shadowed face beneath the brim of his straw hat and squinted against the brightness of the sun behind him. “Go ahead,” he said, as he nodded toward the sludge in the trough. “Spit in it.” I squished my cheeks together and wiggled my lips from side to side until I’d accumulated a tolerable amount of spittle, then launched the thimble-full of saliva toward the huge mass of mortar. “Now it’s perfect.” Grandpa said as he stirred the tiny wad of bubbles into the mix and gave me an approving wink. I was quite proud of the fact that my meager contribution had rendered the complicated process of mortar mixing to the point of perfection. That was back when Grandpa would have said I was no more than knee high to a grasshopper. I think I was probably about 5 years old, but the remembering of that incident has stuck in my mind for more than half a century and the lessons I have taken from it are many. I remember the flurry of activity as family and neighbors worked together to build that barn. Truckloads of cinderblocks had been ordered, picked up and were piled in neatly squared stacks around the perimeter of the concrete floor that had been built. I say built, and not poured, because there was no delivery of Ready-Mix concrete. The floor was built one small batch at a time in a portable mixer and hauled from the mixer to the forms with wheelbarrows. Once it had cured it was time to lay the blocks that would make up the walls of our new, modern milk barn. Bags of cement were stacked on the ground and a sizable mound of fine sand stood nearby the mixing trough within Grandpa’s easy reach. String lines were laid out, corners squared, hod carriers and bricklayers were at the ready and the mortar was scooped into wheelbarrows as soon as Grandpa had declared it ‘perfect.’ It seemed to me that in no time at all the walls began to rise as if by magic. The scrape of trowels on cinderblock, the ping of metal on stone as the corners of each block were tamped to plumb and level, the squeak of grease-starved axles on metal-wheeled barrows and the call for, “More mud!” filled the air with a contagious excitement. I watched in amazement, as the walls grew higher and higher and waited in eager anticipation for someone to need my help. “Watch out there little feller,” “Be careful now,” “Look out sonny,” guess maybe I wasn’t that much of a help after all. By dinnertime the piles of concrete blocks were nearly half gone. Mom yelled, from the front porch, that dinner was ready and everyone laid down their tools and headed for the yard. Dad and Grandpa stood back as each man, in turn, rolled up their shirtsleeves and washed their hands and face at the washstand. Everyone sat around the big wooden table, under the shade of an ancient elm, while Mom and Grandma served up a meal of meat, potatoes and gravy, vegetables, homemade bread, butter, icy cold milk and fresh baked cherry pie. Conversation was sparse as knives and forks clanked and clattered on ironstone plates. But as last bites of pie were scraped from their plates and washed down with creamy milk, they all agreed that they should be done before dark. As the walls grew higher, windows were set in place, and at last the capstones were laid. It was near dusk when everyone finished and Grandpa had washed out the mortar trough with buckets full of clear water, that he had pumped and carried from the well. All of those who had spent the day helping with the block work, waved farewell as they drove down the lane. Each of them had already promised to come back to help build the rafters and finish the roof. No one asked for pay and none expected it. It was a barn raising and it was what neighbors did. Some months ago a carpenter, from near Burns, Wyoming stopped by my daughter Jamie’s bookstore in Bushnell. He had a number of books, from his mother’s estate, which he wanted to donate to Jamie for the store. He remarked about the uniqueness of the old barn being converted into a bookstore and congratulated her for her vision and determination for undertaking such a venture in the relative remoteness in this corner of the Nebraska Panhandle. He later contacted Jamie and said that he wanted to do something to help her, in some way, towards achieving her goal. Being a carpenter, he suggested that he would like to donate one day of labor to help with one of the many projects that needed to be done to finish the remodeling of the barn. And so, this past weekend, he came to Bushnell, on one day of his free weekend, and helped to put up most of the interior walls in the barn. When he arrived, we introduced ourselves and I thanked him for his uncommon generosity. He responded with genuine humility and remarked that he had simply felt compelled to do something to help Jamie. We worked together for the entire day and it was as though we had worked together for years. We visited briefly during short breaks and over simple sack lunches. I learned that both his father and his grandfather had been carpenters and that his grandfather had built most of the barns in this part of the country with the peaked dome style of roof. He told of how his grandfather would spend winters hand cutting and shaping the long, gently curved rafters that would form the unique styled roofline. He told of a barn of that design, built by his grandfather, a 40 by 60 structure that stands 37 feet from ground to peak and suggested that I would be able to see it if I cared to. We talked of the number of old barns in the area that are simply falling down from lack of use or repair and bemoaned the tragedy of their passing and the loss to future generations that may never have a chance to see such buildings, except in the images captured on old photographs. At the end of the day, after standing back to admire the work that we had accomplished, he packed up his tools, I thanked him again for his generosity and then he was gone. His gift of time, to help Jamie in the best way that he knew, reminded me of those friends and neighbors back in Kansas who were always there to lend a hand. From building barns to working cattle, mending fence or harvesting crops, when help was needed it came. It was called being neighborly and all that was expected was to be a neighbor yourself. I’ve pounded a lot of nails since that first barn that I ‘helped build’ when I was just knee high. I mentioned the lessons learned from my Grandpa Nolting and here are some; One, your contribution, no matter how large or small is an important part of the whole project. Two, the pride one takes in their work comes in direct proportion to the genuine appreciation of those you’re working for. And three, that little bit of spit did nothing for that batch of mortar, but was absolutely vital in making a tow-headed, Kansas farm boy feel important. |
| From the Superintendent’s Desk 2012-10-25 By Don Hague |
| Enrollment Trends The two charts in this article reflect our district’s enrollment history for the past 15 years in Kindergarten through 12th grade. The first chart identifies enrollment by grade for each year using the Nebraska Department of Education’s official count date, the last Friday in September. This chart shows that our total enrollment was 1,961 during the school year of 1997-98. Our enrollment for this year is 2,071. The second chart shows the changes in enrollment for this year’s senior class as they progressed from Kindergarten. By examining enrollment trends, we know that classes normally gain students over time. For example, the current senior class had 102 students in their kindergarten class; they now have 134. These data are used to help us plan for the future. |
| The Good Life: Leave the quilt shop and laundromat alone 2012-10-25 By Lisa Betz editor@geringcitizen.com |
| A story on the KNEB website last week really bothered me. In the story, Gering City Administrator Lane Danielzuck was reported to confirm that the current location of two businesses, Prairie Pines Quilt Shop and the laundromat, located at 10th Street and M, is being considered for a new Gering library. There are two things I believe one should always support with their vote and their good will: schools and libraries. Schools develop future citizenry and as such, cannot be valued in dollars but only by the quality of the product, which is hoped to be an annual crop of well-educated, well-adjusted, upstanding and responsible citizens. Libraries are community zones that provide safety, quiet, computer resources, and knowledgeable staff that promote a lifelong love of learning. Libraries serve as an equalizer in society. Even if one cannot afford books, Kindles, or computer/Internet access at home, a library can make the world accessible in a variety of ways to the poorest child or adult who wants to learn. Libraries can be located anywhere, but it’s best to put them in a location central to town, easily accessible from residential areas, and in a safe environment. Nobody wants to hear about a child being mowed down by a semi-truck while trying to cross the road to get to the library. Now that I’ve laid out my perspective on schools and libraries, I’ll say that what I do not support is the idea of putting a non-profit entity on main street, or in this case, Gering’s 10th Street. Those of us in Gering who love this city, are tired of these ham-fisted ideas. Why anyone cannot see that it is a terrible idea to evict two viable businesses that generate tax revenue for the people of Gering, is a mystery. What are they thinking? It is no small thing to relocate a business, even if there will be financial assistance to do so. When we moved the Citizen offices across the street, it was a major upheaval and a big hassle. Imagine what it will be for the quilt shop, their customers and the people trying get laundry done? At least at the Citizen, we don’t rely on walk-in traffic to be successful, although we do love visitors. The obstacles to overcome in any move are enough to make a tired business owner throw in the towel, and that’s exactly what Gering does not need. Build the library on the Lane Auction House site and leave the quilt shop and laundromat alone. Stop putting non-revenue producing entities on main street. We don’t have enough retail in Gering that we can afford to lose even one business, much less two. |
| Observations Only: North Powder 2012-10-25 By Nina Betz news@geringcitizen.com |
| We arrived in North Powder, Oregon mid-week and drove around this small town at the foot of the Blue Mountains. The only information Hazel had was our mother’s name and her place of birth which appeared on her adoption records. I remembered something Grandma Pansy Gering used to say, if you want to know something about a town, look for the oldest person you can find and ask them; they’ll know. When I mentioned this to Hazel she was doubtful about approaching strangers but since she didn’t have a better idea, she agreed to the plan and drove around through the older parts of town. I spotted a very old man working in his yard and made Hazel park the car. She refused to get out of the car until she saw that the man was friendly. The man didn’t know our mother’s family but he knew of a woman, Mrs. Henderson, who would know and gave us her phone number. She was happy to talk with us and knew our mother, and her parents. She had grown up about a mile from the cabin where they lived in the Blue Mountains. At first she was reluctant to talk about the family, and we soon found out why. Our grandparents, Nina and Joseph Hand, moved to the area from Minnesota. He was a cowboy who made saddles and leather ropes. Nina was a school teacher and planned to supplement the family income. As it turned out, the State of Oregon refused to recognize her teaching certificate, forcing the family into poverty. Our mother, Leta Hand, was the fourth child of ten. Mrs. Henderson said the children were either brilliant or slow because of the terrible poverty. She gave us information about two family members; an uncle living in a rest home in Baker, Oregon and an aunt living in Walla Walla, Washington. We visited uncle John and he was able to tell us about aunt Hazel and give us her phone number, despite being very ill with a weak heart and diabetes. The most striking thing about him was his vivid green eyes that are an even deeper green than my own. What surprised me was the sense of blood connection I had with this man that can’t be put into words; Hazel said she felt it too. We called aunt Hazel and were invited to visit her at two o’clock the next day, which meant we had to drive a hundred and fifty miles north. She surprised us by saying she knew for several months that we were coming to see her and was glad we obviously had nice lives. We explained about being adopted and what our lives were like, then Hazel told her about a memory she had of a woman chasing our mother with a broom. Aunt Hazel’s eyes teared up and she explained that she chased us away because if she had let us stay, we would all be poor again, living in poverty, and she didn’t want that for her children. Hazel and I assured her that we understood that she had no choice. Hazel said she remembered an aunt she liked whose name was Hazel, and that’s why she chose it for her new name. Aunt Hazel told us about her two sons, one of whom was Michael Gillette, a former Oregon Supreme Court justice, and the other son, who was a golf pro and had died of a brain tumor. Hazel also told us about an uncle and the name of our brother. We spent the next day in the Baker Public Library searching the micro fiche for family obituaries and marriage licenses before starting the long drive home. |
| Completely Different: The Mind Palace Memory Technique 2012-10-25 By Elizabeth Gross elizabethgross@geringcitizen.com |
| Ever since I was a little kid I’ve had a deep love of learning. Whether it was learning to play the saxophone, studying about a writer or the history of the jazz music my hunger for learning has been a great asset in my life. I was one of those kids that absolutely loved going to school and was actually sad when summer vacation started. However my method of learning something new was always a little constrained by the structure of a school setting. It was not merely enough for me to read a play by William Shakespeare. If something grasped my attention I wanted to know every little detail about it. But how does somebody remember a load of information on a certain subject and retain it? I’ve considered myself fairly lucky, figuring that my deep love for whatever I’m reading about will stay with me forever. Alas, as I get older I realize that might not necessarily be true. So imagine my delight when I came across a memory method that would allow me to remember it all. One evening I was scrolling through YouTube searching for clips of the BBC television show Sherlock. I don’t have Netflix or internet at my house so I was limited to the few clips posted. From the clips I did view I knew that I needed to find this show because it was pretty amazing. One clip that really grabbed my attention was a video called BBC Sherlock’s “Mind Palace”. Intrigued I clicked on the video and watched it play on my phone. The video starts with Sherlock stuck on a problem of their current case when suddenly he turns around to the people in the room and tells them, “Get out I need to go to my mind palace.” From there the video shows him working out the problem with all the information floating around his head. It was only a 30-second clip but I was mesmerized. The whole sequence was beautifully done giving you a glimpse into the mind of the eccentric man. I remember sitting on my couch absolutely fascinated by what I just witnessed; I had to know more. Did such a thing really exist? How do you do it? And why in the world do I not have internet at my house? I tried to read what I could on my iPhone but quickly got frustrated by the three and a half inch screen. When I found a proper Internet source, I pulled up Google and got to work. I typed in mind palace and was brought to page talking about the method of loci. The article briefly mentions the method being recently used on the show Sherlock, so I knew I was on the right track. It turns out that such a technique actually exists called the method of loci, the mind palace memory technique, or the journey method. The theory is that you should be able to recall information using the symbols and rooms you design in your mind palace. The method works like this: Create your palace To begin, you must find a quiet and relaxing place. You can either be sitting or lying down but relaxation is key when your first starting out. Now I use the word palace but it does not necessarily have to be a great elaborate place. Visualize a place that makes you happy. This can be your current home, grandparents, vacation spot or your office. It could even be a place used in fiction like Hogwarts from Harry Potter or the Shire from Lord of the Rings. What matters is that it is a happy place that will make you want to remember it. Then visualize the layout of this place. You can mentally walk through this location or map it out in your mind. The layout is very important because it is essential in the next step of the method. How you enter, the paths you take, and how you leave are key factors in remembering where everything is located. Create a room The next step is creating a room to store information. These can be categorized as a room for historical facts, a mental library, remembering important dates etc. For example, say we want to remember information about President Theodore Roosevelt. We need to create a room where we will remember this information. From the entrance of your mind palace, try to imagine a room that will be filled with information on historical facts. It is easier to walk to this room in order to recall where the information will be located; remember how you get there is very important. Now once we find and create the room we need to find a way to sort all that information. The more you structure the room, the easier the information is to recall. So, for our Theodore Roosevelt information we create a bed on where this information will be stored. Next, we decide on a symbol that will be used to remember this information. Well, we know that Theodore Roosevelt‘s nickname was “Teddy” Roosevelt so we visualize a bear. From there we place all the information we have on Theodore Roosevelt into that bear. The bear will remain on the bed in the room to be recalled later. The method requires a great amount of mental discipline yet it works your mind in a way that has a very calming effect. I tried the method myself and have found it difficult yet very interesting to work out. Since I read so many books, I thought for starters I would create myself a mental library. When I visualized my own palace and the location of this library, I was surprised to find that my mind made this library a total mess. Books were all over the place with no since of order at all. By practicing this method I have been able to categorize these books creating order in a disorderly mind. I couldn’t help but wonder that if this method could be used with children with Attention Deficit Disorder instead of giving them pills. It’s very hard to concentrate when you have so much mental noise running through your mind. If they were able to shut off all the noise that bombards their brains maybe they would be able to focus more. Give the method a try for yourself. It is definitely a practice that does not happen overnight but the effects are quite amazing. If anything it gives you an excuse for when you’re trying to think and someone is bothering you to point at them and say “Get out I need to go to my mind palace.” |
| Miss Movies: Ten great horror flicks for Halloween, part 2 2012-10-25 By Elizabeth Gross elizabethgross@geringcitizen.com |
| As All Hallows Eve draws closer I hope that you have started to get your scare on with some great movies. Last week I gave five suggestions on great films to check out to get in the spirit of the season. Here are my final five choices of ten great films to check out this Halloween season. Shaun of the Dead (2004) Lovable loser Shaun is trying to deal with a road block in his life. His girlfriend wants him to start taking an interest in new things besides their typical day to day. Shaun just doesn’t seem to get it as he enjoys hanging out with his best friend Ed more than his girlfriend Liz. After failing to remember to book a table for Shaun and Liz’s anniversary, she’s had enough and breaks up with him. Later that night Ed takes Shaun to the pub to help him forget about his break up. The next morning the world has fallen apart as Shaun must now win back Liz while dealing with the undead. The film was written and directed by Edgar Allen Wright and actor Simon Pegg. The film is satire to classic zombie movies like George A Romero’s Dawn of the Dead. It is categorized as a zom-rom-com; a zombie, romantic, comedy. The idea sounds completely ridicules but works so well it is quickly becoming a horror film classic. This is a British comedy yet it has great fusion of both British and American humor. For a zombie film it is surprisingly not very gory until the end showdown at the Winchester. If you are a fan of zombie movies and black comedy this is a film you will definitely add to your list of favorites. 30 Days of Night (2007) If you love vampires that live up to the legend this film is for you. There is no Robert Pattinson in sight and no corny, abusive love story. Based on the graphic novel by Steve Niles, our story takes place in Alaska. It is coming close to the month where there will be 30 days of complete darkness. Many of the residents take trips to Anchorage where they are having 30 days of sunlight to escape the dark and cold. For the rest of the townspeople they stay and bundle up for the frigid month of dark. All seems to be going pretty smooth until a stranger comes to town. He is violent at a local café and arrested. There he gives a cryptic warning of a group who will come and destroy the town and its people. “You can feel it. That cold ain’t the weather. That’s death approaching…” The dark cinematography makes this not just a film with a good story but a film that engages your senses. If you watch it in the dark, it takes you there feeling the cold suspense in the air. It has a unique ability to turn you into a little kid again, afraid of the dark and the monsters that live there. Idle Hands (1999) Anton Tobias is on a murderous killing spree or is he? The lazy teenager wakes up one morning to discover that his parents have been killed while he slept. Unconcerned he goes to hang out with his two best friends who are murdered by Anton. Soon he discovers that his hand is possessed and is only finger tips away from his next victim. This movie is in no way scary. It’s more of a comedy that takes place during Halloween. There is a lot of drug humor and the sort of humor you expect to find from teens in the 90s. The film is almost unheard of because of its financial failure in the box office. I don’t think it necessarily has to do with the film itself just that the timing of the release was bad. The film was released ten days after the Colombian Massacre in Colorado. Despite that this is a funny unheard of treasure and remembers “Idle hands are the devil’s playground.” Sometimes They Come Back (1991) Based off the short story by King, it tells the story of school teacher, Jim Norman, who comes back to his hometown. For years he has been haunted by the death of his brother thanks to a local gang of thugs. When Jim was a young boy his brother and the gang got into a fight on the train tracks resulting in their deaths. Jim was the only survivor. Now many years later as Jim is settling into his new life he is haunted by the spirits of the gang that caused his brother’s death all those years ago. But ghosts can’t hurt the living, right? America loves Stephen King. Movies based off of Stephen King’s books are another story. Surprisingly there have been a least a dozen great film adaptations of the author’s books. However, with every good adaptation there is a terribly cheesy one to follow behind it. Luckily, Sometimes They Come Back does not fall into that category. Movie legend Tim Matheson gives a great performance as Jim making the viewer thinks that maybe these ghosts are in his head. This is a relatively unheard of movie as it may have been lost in the rush to adapt so many of King’s stories into film during the 80s and early 90s. The Craft (1996) Three teenage witches are trying to find their fourth in order to make a complete covet. When Sarah moves to town she catches the attention of the three girls. They believe that she is a natural witch and ask her to become their fourth. Finally a complete group the girls explore their powers and things seem to go fairly well. That is until the leader; Nancy suggests that they evoke the spirit of Manon. Suddenly the group learns that when you evoke the spirit for the wrong purposes it comes back three fold. Growing up during Halloween, all our friends use to gather around with one person in the middle. We would chant “light as a feather, stiff as a board,” trying to make our friends float. Well, that party trick came from a scene in the movie. If witches are your cup of tea during the Halloween season this film is a must see. Many of the religious views of the Wiccan religion are discussed in the film. Actress, Fairuza Balk who plays the leader Nancy is a practicing Wiccan. Though many of those beliefs are stylized for the film it is an interesting and entertaining take on witchcraft. |
| Jane’s Secret, part XV: Unrequited love 2012-10-25 By Nina Betz |
| Dogs begin barking, breaking the early morning silence. Lamps are lit in the neighboring houses and windows, open to the cool night air fragrant with the scent of hyacinth and lilac, are slammed shut against the hot metallic smell of exhaust belched by the Model T. The sleepers, rudely roused from their slumber, grumble about lost sleep, and speculate where Doc Elliott could be going at such an ungodly hour. Upstairs in the corner bedroom, Jane slides out of bed, careful not to wake her sleeping husband and crosses to the window, and carefully raises the sash to watch the activity in the street below. Her eyes, empty of the slightest curiosity about where they’re going at such an early hour, narrow with dislike at the sight of her sisters driving away in the automobile, followed by Clem and Stephen in the wagon. I don’t belong with them anymore she muses, slipping back into bed as the clatter of the Model T grows fainter. Unable to sleep, Jane thinks about the time Molly almost died and how she helped Stephen save her life; how gently he held her hands while washing Molly’s blood off her palm. That’s when I fell in love with him and him with me; then Gertrude flirted with him and turned his head with her wantonness. She was always reading ‘Miss Bottoms Passion’, getting strange ideas. Only Stephen knows what she promised him and he certainly isn’t telling. As if I would want to know those things, anyway,” she snorts with distaste, as the first twinge of pain starts behind her eyes. “I’m just reminding you of us,” murmurs the voice, as she closes her eyes. An hour later Aggie stands at the door searching through the contents of her draw string bag for the door key. “Damn, I forgot my key again,” she grumbles aloud, knocking on the door, growing crabbier by the minute. Jane glances over at Harvey and sees that he’s still asleep; reluctantly she dons her dressing gown and slippers, and goes downstairs to answer the door. “I’m sorry Mrs. Elliott, I forgot my key again…,” her voice trailing off at the sight of Jane. “Yes,” Jane says, her eyes widen at the sight of Aggie standing on the porch appearing to be dressed for church in a navy blue silk dress that’s seen better days, and her hair neatly combed and twisted on top of her head. The two women take one another’s measure; each recognizing a formidable adversary in the other. “I got my Tuesday work all planned and it don’t include being a servant to the likes of you and your bunch,” Aggie says, letting Jane know she’s not up for extras. “Well,” Aggie says, still standing on the porch. “Well, what,” Jane snaps, shocked at herself for allowing such impertinence. “Are you going to let me in?” she asks. “Just this once, after today you are to use the side door when you enter the house like a proper servant,” Jane explains, allowing Aggie inside, irritated with the way Gertrude runs the house hold. “Doctor and Mrs. Elliott went out early this morning and you will take your instruction from me. There will be four of us at breakfast this morning and I expect breakfast on the table at eight thirty every morning with luncheon served at one o’clock sharp. I will consult with you about dinner later this morning,” Jane orders, pausing to give Aggie a chance to ask questions before returning to her bedroom. “Hah,” Aggie sneers, glaring at Jane’s back as she mounts the stairs, her icy blue dressing gown flaring out around her ankles. “We’ll see about that,” she mumbles under her breath, pushing back the curtains in the parlor and dining room. Her mood darkens as she lights a lamp and carries it into the kitchen, imagining a stack of plates with dried food and dirty silverware waiting for her. “Who would have thought it,” she says aloud, her eyes taking in the tidy kitchen with tea towels stretched across the drying rack. She sets to work, humming softly to herself, fetching what she needs from the pantry to make baking powder biscuits, thinking that it won’t be such a bad day after all. Jane notices the door to Gertrude’s bedroom standing slightly ajar and slips inside, easing the door shut behind her. Her eyes examine the room, taking in the rumpled bed, the burgundy velveteen fainting sofa reflected in the cheval mirror standing in the corner. Moving further into the room she examines framed pictures in a glass front étagère that she guesses must be Stephen’s English relatives. Two plates with dried up bits of chicken and mashed potatoes set on a small table at the far end of the bedroom. Gertrude’s flannel night gown lay on the bed next to Stephen’s elegant dressing gown; Jane laughs aloud at the funny contrast made by the two garments; amazed that her sister, a married woman, still wears the virginal flannel nightgowns they wore as girls. Stephen you shouldn’t have let it happen, you can’t love her; we were meant to be together she mourns, gathering up his dressing gown and breathing in his scent. I knew it the day you drove up to the house in your Model T. Suddenly conscious of the passing minutes, Jane drops the dressing gown and hurries to her own room, just as Hazel and Bridget leave their room and go down stairs. “Where have you been,” Harvey asks, pulling on his boots, surprised that Jane isn’t dressed. “Molly and Pa, and Stephen and Gertrude, left early this morning so I went downstairs to give Aggie instructions for breakfast and lunch,” she explains, pulling a wrinkled day dress out of a valise. “Send Bridget up to me when you go down stairs,” she says, not particularly interested in the note he’s reading. “Gertrude pushed this under the door. It seems that Molly had a bad dream and thinks that Red has been hurt, and they’re taking her back home,” he says, reading it a second time. “Molly and her dreams are so important,” she says nastily, remembering them as a way for Molly to steal attention for herself. “Well it doesn’t matter since we’re living here and I’m taking over management of household,” Jane replies. “Aggie can cook but we need to hire two extra maids.” “Are you going to Cheyenne today?” she asks, sitting at the dressing table brushing her hair. “No, I need to look for a warehouse to store everything. It might be wise to leave our furniture in Cheyenne until the new house is built,” he says, his hand on the door knob. “You’re probably right, we can hardly expect Stephen and Gertrude to mo |