Impressions 1989 by Dickinson State University

Contents *Flashback by Roger Klusmann •......•..... . ..... 3 In the Wings by Margaret Barnhart . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Charcoal Sketch by Mary Ellen Nelson .... ... ... 9 +The Railroad Bridge by Teresa Brumley ........ lO Aids and the Bubonic Plague by Mary Ellen Nelson ........ 14 +Photo by Carmen Dolen ...... . •. . .... . ... .. . . . . 16 Entertainment Rural Style by Eric Arntson ..•....•.• . .. 17 Zen and the Art of Geophysical Logging by Mark Spitzer .........•... 19 +Changes by Cornella Schmitt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 25 *Charcoal Sketch by Pegs Johnson •............. 27 One Christmas in Africa by Waldemar Dietrich ........ 28 Photo by Waldemar Dietrich .. .... . ..........•• 39 Untitled poem by Jackie Hope . .. .. . . . . . ......• 40 *The Change of All Seasons by Geri Dvorak . . . .. . ...... .. 41 The Human Condition by Charice Palmer . .... . .. 42 +The fallen leaves by Constance Walter ..... . .. 43 Getting Serious by Mark Spitzer .. .. . . . . . . .. .. 44 The Critic by Margaret Barnhart .. . . .. . ..•..•. 46 +One Fine Day by Mark Schaar ...•....•..... . .. . 47 +Monoprint "Cows" by Lori Ziemann ....... . . . .. . 48 Drought by Dave Solheim ..•............. . .. ... 49 Untitled poem by Jackie Hope . .•.............. 50 Desolate Stranger by Geri Dvorak . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Winter's Window by Charice Palmer . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Four Oranges by Constance Walter . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Photo by Carmen Dolen ....•....•.•............ 55

* Denotes first place winners in the student contest. + Denotes runners-up in the student contest .

impressions

Editorial Staff Charice Palmer Margaret Barnhart Mary Ellen Nelson

Editorial Advisor--Dave Solheim

Cover Design--Gary Link

Copyright ÂŠ 1989 by the editors of Impressions . All future rights to material published in this journal belong to the individual authors, and any reproduction or reprinting of this material may be done only with their permission .

Flashback by Roger Klusmann He stopped in mid-stride, slowly lifting the rifle to his shoulder while easing his foot onto the decaying trunk of a fallen cottonwood. Adrenaline pumping, he scanned the area for movement. It would not be much movement, perhaps a flick of a tail in the blink of an eye. It could be a snort, and then the brief glimpse of the white flay of the tail floating through the heavy brush. "Damn, this was a wily old buck," he thought to himself. Three hunting seasons he has been tramping around this chunk of woods trying for that one clear shot. Even the horrors of the jungle warfare had not dimmed the joy of perusing the brush for that brief, exhilarating moment when prey was in sight and stillness exploded into action. Peering ahead, he slowly brought his other foot up to the log. Out of the corner of his left eye he saw a branch snap back into place. Twisting left and centering the scope crosshairs on the bobbing white tail, he started to put steady pressure on the trigger. Letting his breath out with a whoosh, he eased the safety back on and slowly lowered his rifle. "Run runt," he called after the fleeing cottontail. With the rifle hanging loosely in his hand, he watched the rabbit disappear into the heavy brush. Relaxed now, he was caught completely off-guard by the loud snort and heavy crashing in the underbrush behind him. Turning, he had one brief look at the heavy antlers as the buck leaped a small bush and was gone. "You son-of-a-bitch," he yelled, "run." 3

All year he had planned the hunt for this buck, even trying to guess where he would be. Now it would be a rare piece of luck if he saw him again this season. "Maybe Dad will get a shot," and he decided it was as good a time as any to take a smoke break and regather his concentration. Leaning his rifle against the old grey tree trunk, he sat down taking deep breaths of the brisk fall air. Lighting up, he thought about the cottontail and drifted back in time to his first deer hunt. Then, too, it had been one of the little animals that had drawn off his attention. A red squirrel high up in the cottonwoods had been barking at him angrily for invading his territory. He had been just itching to shoot his new rifle, and he wondered what a .270 caliber rifle slug would do to a squirrel. Dusk was just starting to settle in the woods and he had not had a shot all day. He hated the idea of going home empty handed. Noticing the fallen trunk of the tree in front of him, he had decided to step up on it and scope the woods overhead for the chattering squirrel. The buck had been laying next to and partially under the trunk. The buck was old and wise in the ways of concealment, and he was all stretched out with antlers flattened against his shoulders and his nose pushed out in front of him. He never got off a shot then either, but stood with his mouth hanging open and his heart pounding like a jackhammer. Blinking away his shock he said to himself, "Wow he was huge." "What a great rack." So that was what "buck fever" was about . He had not missed a season since then, except for the two years in Vietnam . The morbid thought of that, too, being a hunting season entered his mind, hut he quickly shook the thought. It was too nice of a day and those memories were best dead and buried, like some of his buddies. "Enough of that bull," he thought. "Where did

that buck head for?" Leaning over, he scraped an opening in the leaves and buried the cigarette butt in the cool, moist ground, carefully covering it with leaves. No sense advertising he was around, and maybe, just maybe, the buck would use this trail to go to the river from where he bedded down for the night . It was definitely worth a check later on. Perhaps tomorrow morning he would slip in at the first dawn and just wait by the trail. Good idea, he mused, but it is time to check on Dad and have a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Three steps, stop, listen, and look around . Behind you as well as in front of you. It was sudden movement that spooked them into their mad dash for safety and sometimes looking back you could catch them sneaking away through the brush. Down so low it was hard to believe their bellies were not dragging. Perhaps they were. Nothing was stirring, even the leaves lay quiet and the only sound to be heard was a crow cawing far away. A flash of orange and the smell of coffee brought him into full stride. Calling out to his dad, he asked the first question all hunters ask . "Did you see anything?" They both sat drinking the coffee and enjoying the companionship, while they talked about the buck. His dad told him about a neighbor who had seen the buck over by his feedlot. The neighbor had said the buck had "withers like a horse . " Hunting had not always been like this, but somehow that just seemed to make it better. His father had just started deer hunting four years ago at age sixty-two. That first year they had both had their deer field-dressed and loaded in the pickup an hour after the season had opened . Since then, the first day of the season they had hunted as a pair . Tomorrow the rest of the hunting party would join them, but the first day they enjoyed with each other.

It was time to start moving again, sunset came early in November and he was fairly sure that the buck had not gone far. This early in the season they were not too jumpy and no shot had been fired to spook them. They worked out a strategy to try and push the buck into a small clearing where one of them could get a clear shot. He started walking while his dad took a stand near the clearing. It is worth a try, he thought, as he started to circle. He was jerked to a halt by four shots very close. Every year they posted the land, but it seemed like some people could not or would not read the signs. It was or could be a dangerous situation. But it was also possible that the shot came from across the creek channel which divided their land from their neighbors. They probably had. His dad waved him on and he continued the circling maneuver, hoping those shots would frighten the buck into exposing himself. There was a sudden rush of air and the feeling of damp ground on his back. "They are right," he thought. "You don't hear the shot." He did not feel any pain, only a deep lethargy and a growing anger which quickly developed into rage. There was a shout and steady crashing in the brush coming closer, fast. "You bastards are never taking me," he grunted as he rolled over, picked up the rifle and fired at the figure running through the brush at him. It was quiet then, with no movement to be seen, the only sound to be heard was a crow cawing far away.

In the Winqs by Margaret Barnhart It is dark in the wings, and silent. The silence has power. It makes me aware of sounds I've not heard until now . I listen to the mad pounding of my heart; the blood courses through my veins with a rhythmic roar; my own breathing is a noise that frightens me . I must escape this awful, deafening silence! Pacing helps . Ten steps forward, ten steps back . Eleven steps forward, nine steps back. I am drawn, in spite of the nervous fear that clutches at my stomach, to see what awaits me. From the dark safety of the wings, I peer through a very narrow gap between two masking flats. Unseen, I watch a crowd of people gathering in the theatre seats. Some of them peer at the stage, examining details of the set. Others read through their programs . A sudden vision flashes in my brain and I see a disappointed mob descending upon the stage--r am near panic . Who are these people who will be my judges? What do they expect to see? What do they expect of me? I turn away. I dare not know their faces. Why do I do this to myself? Over and over again I subject myself to this enervating fear . I place myself before a faceless multitude that expects--no--demands to be entertained. How can I, despite weeks of tedious rehearsals, live up to the demands of eo many? How I hate the theatre! I turn back to the security of the darkness. "Places! " the whisper of urgency and

authority startles me. It is too late to seek the support of my fellow actors, each of whom is battling his or her own fear. I take my place . The pre-curtain music ends. What if I fail? Every typical pre-show nightmare haunts my consciousness. I'll miss my entrance! Even if I remember my entrance, I'll forget my lineal Even if I say my lines, I'll---oh Godl What play are we doing? What if I say the right lines from the right play at the right time, only to find---oh no! I have forgotten my costume! I stand naked--!

The houselights dim. Suppose I do succeed? What have I gained? It is only a passing success. At best, it will be remembered for a little while. When that memory fades, it will take my art with it and my name and success will again be strangers. The stage lights come up. Soon now I will hear my cue. The fear is at its peak and I am suddenly at war with myself. "I can't go on. I'll fail." I can't turn back." "I must go on . " I don't know my first line." "I can do this." "I hate this! This is awful! I'll never do this again---oh God! It's time--- " â&#x20AC;˘ Come you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts! Unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe

t o p full Of direst c ruelty; make thick my blood, I have come alive!

How I love the theatre!

The Railroad Bridge by Teresa Brumley Everything would have been okay if it hadn't been for the bridge . We were riding between the highway and the railroad . The ditch was wide, with ample room to rein in a horse when trains or traffic on the highway spooked him. It had been mowed, and only a few tangles of barbed wire needed to be avoided to ensure us as much safety as was possible, given the temperament of Luke's horse. He rode a rangy blue mare . Luke had bought her at a horse sale . It wasn't a production sale, where breeders showcased the offspring of prized studs, but a trash sale where ranchers unloaded their culls and the bulk of the horses went to the killers. Since horses at these kinds of sales sell mostly by the pound, someone with a good eye can occasionally find an excellent horse for a low price . The blue mare appeared to be just such a bargain . She came into the ring after fifty or sixty head of swaybacked, spavined, or windbroken wretches, and she moved with a p r ide and grace that none of the others could have claimed, even in their best days. Luke shifted beside me, and I knew he was going to bid. ! shook my head. The white spots on her withers were a warning--she had been saddled before, and ridden hard. No one rode her now . But Luke only paid attention to her athletic body and the flow of her movement ; if he noticed the white spots , they didn't bother him the way they did me.

Luke bought her. The next morning, he saddled her up and got her in the round pen. The first time Luke turned her into the fence, she blew up. Somewhere in her six-year history, she had learned to buck hard, and although Luke was a good rider, she tested him with every jump. In time, she tired. Luke turned to me with a grin, and asked if I wanted to go for a ride. "Don't you think she's a little rank for that?" I asked. "She won't be forty miles from now," he replied. Everything would have been okay if it hadn't been for that bridge. It lay between two hills, so that it was impossible for a rider to see traffic from very far off, and a rider on a bronc might find himself taking swimming lessons if he met a semi on that long and narrow bridge . It wasn't possible to ford the stream. From where the mowing ended, the sawgrass, rank and thick, grew higher than my stirrups, and the abrupt banks of the stream wouldn't allow a horse footing in or out of the water. And the water? Who knows what lay beneath its scummy, opaque surface? "Luke," I said pointing, "maybe we could lead our horses across up there." His eyes followed my finger to the railroad bridge, banked up some thirty or forty feet above the stream. "Now there's an idea," he said. "We could see a train coming better from up there than we can see a truck from down here, and if we lead our horses, we should be safe enough." We dismounted, and led our horses up the steep bank to the trestle. The blue mare balked, and didn't want to step inside the tracks, but with Luke pulling from the front and me applying persuasion from behind with the end of my catch rope, we got her between the rails. I waited while Luke crossed. I could see the mare was nervous; she moved with short, stiff steps, and

clamped her tail between her legs . Her nostrils flared, and sweat streamed down her flanks. Luke got halfway across. Just when I was beginning to relax, her instincts took over. She jerked away from Luke, bogged her head and came undone. From where I stood, slightly downhill, she appeared silhouetted against the sky. The empty stirrups flapped, and she looked like a large ungainly bird, trying to escape gravity. Still bucking , she turned on the narrow bridge, and came back towards me. When she was within ten feet of the end of the bridge, she leaped for the bank. Her front feet hit land, then slipped, and her hind feet caught between two crossties . She hung for a moment, then r olled, tumbling head over heels down the embankment. Unhurt, she got up . She stood still for a moment , then unleashed again. "Goddarrunitl" Luke screamed in my ear. "You have a horse . Catch her before she runs off . " He ran down the bank , his spurs tangling in the creeping jenny . I didn't say anything. I led my horse down the hill and stood quietly with my gelding between me and the frenzied mare. sure enough , when she calmed down , she circled around and rejoined my horse . I picked up her reins and handed them to Luke . He mounte d , and circled her a few times in the ditch . She was quiet now, chastened by her experience. Luke headed her up the embankment to the railroad tracks. "I'm going to ride her across this time , " he said. " She won't want to lead . " "She might," I said . "Or else we could try the highway bridge." Luke didn't reply; he merely shot me a glance that reminded me that he , by God , finished what he started . I caught up to Luke at the tracks . "Lead your gelding in front of me," he said. "My mare will follow . "

"Luke , " I said, intending to plead with him to use some caution, but he cut me off midsentence . "She doesn't want to fall any worse than I do . She won't buck this time . " Then, with me leading the way, mindful of the murky water beneath us, of the fragility of human flesh when confronted with the coils of barbed wire and mangled car bodies that I was certain lay at the bottom of the stream; mindful of how a neck could be broken or a rider pinned beneath a horse and drowned in slimy black muck, we started across the bridge.

Aids and the Bubo nic Plaque by Mary Ellen Nelson They are as different as night and day; as alike as two sisters . They are mysterious, painful, and deadly; but their causes, symptoms , and length of illness vary greatly. I am talking about the Bubonic Plague which spread death throughout Europe from 1347 to 1350, and the plague of the 1 980's, AIDS, which is terr orizing many modern countries. The Bubonic Plague of the 1300's was first felt in Asia Minor, and Europeans felt isolated from its threat. Then sailors brought the plague, or black death as it was called, to Messina, Italy. The Europeans wer e no longer safe; the black death sped across Europe leaving one-fourth to one-half of the population dead in its wake. AIDS originated in Africa, and like the Europeans of the 1300 ' s , who felt safe from the black death, we felt far away and safe from the threat of AIDS . Even when we heard that AIDS had reached our coasts, most of us still felt secure, knowing that it was confined to homosexuals and drug users. But now reality is coming into focus as AIDS is spreading into every segment of society. Both the black death and AIDS cause agonizing deaths, but AIDS victims usually suffer far longer than those of the black dea th. When people developed symptoms of Bubonic Plague, they usually suffered and died within five days . People can be carriers of AIDS for up to ten years befor e symptoms first appear, and can

suffer for several years after the symptoms appear, before they gain the relief only death can provide. We have advantages today that European counterparts of the 1300's did not have; we have the potential to find a cure, drugs to at least relieve the suffering, and we know how AIDS is transmitted. Perhaps the drugs currently being used in AIDS treatment will prolong life for some, until a cure is found. While the Europeans of the plague era had only despair and hopelessness, we have hope and we have preventive measures that can be taken . Because we know how AIDS is transmitted, we also know some ways to avoid it. AIDS is spread primarily through sexual contact, so to avoid contracting it one must be selective in choosing a sex partner. Monogamy is not a guarantee, but monogamous couples stand a better chance than promiscuous lovers in avoiding this dread disease. The only sure way to know that your partner is not a carrier is to insist on a blood test; one can carry and transmit AIDS without knowing he has it, for up to ten years. Condoms have also been suggested as a precaution against AIDS, but their effectiveness is uncertain. Since this is a sex-related disease , the preventive measures are also sex-related . They sound simple and basic; but love-making is an emotional and spontaneous act which makes these precautions less effective. People don't usually plan ahead for love-making, but given the alternative risk of contracting AIDS, one would be wise to keep one's senses and let caution prevail. The only innocent victims of AIDS are babies who get it prenatally, and people who get it through blood transfusions. The victims of the black death were all innocent. We have the advantage of knowing how to get AIDS, and how not to get AIDS. We can choose .

Entertainment Rural Style by Eric Arntson Across the road from where I lived at age seven or eight, was a business that is now nearly extinct. The butcher shop with meat for sale and custom slaughtering was a needed and familiar part of our rural community . In addition to the ground on which the shop stood, Butch had fenced land adjoining (perhaps an acre) which usually held livestock which we assumed were for slaughter. I remember one particular time when the enclosure held three sheep, one of which was a large and mean ram. Butch, when entering the area, usually carried a large stick and usually had to use it. When a group of youngsters gathered near the fence it attracted the ram's attention, and he stood ready to do battle to protect what he considered to be his territory. One of the favorite ploys of the braver boys was to sit on the sagging fence. The ram usually accepted the challenge and after much pawing of earth and bleating he would back up another twenty feet and with all his might charge head down toward the offending figure. At just the right moment someone would holler "jump" and the intended victim scurried off the fence and the hapless ram dived into the fencing stretching it about six feet and rebounding about the same . He would pick himself up, shake his head and wander off to more sympathetic company. we roared with delight. One day , at the beginning of our teasing this animal, I was hailed to the site by two of my friends, Andvick and Allen Clemenson . The showed how this particular ritual worked and talked

about how some of the kids were chicken and didn't dare to sit on the fence to attract the ram's attention . They absolutely couldn't believe that some guys were babies all their lives and would I like to sit on the fence and fool the ram? Indeed I would . I wasn't afraid and I certainly didn't want to remain a baby all my life. They made a racket that attracted the ram's attention, sat me just so on the fence, and warned me to jump as soon as they gave the shout. The ram was in position and backed up for the charge. When he came, they shouted, "Hold it, don't move yet . " I glanced at their smirking faces and knew I had been sold out--just as I went sailing through the air with a great pain where I usually sat down . As I picked myself up, the smirking stopped and they quickly applauded my courage and stamina, indicating that it took real guts to do what I did. They assured me that they, too, had been bounced off the fence and invited me to join them in securing other suckers to be butted by the ram. I joined them in time to see David come walking down the road. "Hey, Dave, you oughta see this dumb buck . You just sit on the fence and get off when we say "jump" and watch â&#x20AC;˘â&#x20AC;˘. " Having gone from persecuted to persecutor, I played the role well .

zen and the Art o f Geophysical Logging by Mark Spitzer "One fundamental problem in the application of geophysical logs is that the interpretation of many logs is more of an art than a science. The numerous environmental factors causing log response are difficult to analyze quantitatively . " (Application of Borehole Geophysics to Water-Resources Investigations. Book 2: Chapter E1 . USGS: 1976.)

Early in the morning, sleeping on the ground in my back yard with a friend about a month ago, I was awakened by the feeling of subterranean rumblings. The muffled explosions I felt were recently planted vegetables bursting out of their carapaces. Suddenly the new sprouts thrust themselves up from the ground, hurling clods of earth through the air as though they were mere clods of earth . Then slapping their new-born leaves together and drumming them on the soil, they raised a din like the surf at high tide. We struggled from our sleeping bags and shoveled them out of the dirt. The vegetables turned to me and with barely audible voices said, "Mark, time to get up; hoe us . "

"You ask me to plow the ground. Shall I take a knife and tear my mother's breast? Then when I die she will not take me to her bosom to rest .

You ask me to dig for stone. Shall I dig under her skin for her bones? The when I die I cannot enter her body to be born again. You ask me to cut grass and make hay and sell it and be rich like white men. But how dare I cut off my mother's hair?" (Smohalla, Nez Perce Indian: 1850's.)

"Spitzer! Wake up; are you going to log this hole or sleep all day?" "Hey, I'm ready. Just get that drilling rig out of the way. How deep?" "Ninety feet, and a lot of gravel." "Well, that figures. Gonna core it?" "That depends on what your log shows. I hope not, with all that gravel." Lyn, a dark and wiry man in his thirties moved his drilling rig about ten feet ahead, and I backed my suburban into position, swung the boom over the hole, and lowered in the probe; which is an electronics package one and a half inches in diameter and twelve feet long, and connected to the truck's instruments by four wires embedded in a steel cable. "Hey, Lyn, nice mess you've got here. Your rig hands forget how to use a shovel?" He smiled.

"'Mine mine mine mymon-- ey; mine mine mine mymon-- ey.' This, of course, is the famous self-hypnotic chant taught to all children by the capitalist pig-dogs. It is sung in a 6/8 time signature, monotone on G." (Conversations . Mohammed Cohen O'Riley: date unknown.)

There are times in life, strange euphoric

moments, when one experiences an ecstatic state of calm . For me these most often occur when I invite into my home a friend or stranger, and he, perhaps by instinct , locates some special treasure of mine , or a favorite book. And as I watch him lovingly handle the item, a nimbus of hot and cold magnetism permeates my scalp, a deep tingling strikes at the roots of my hair, and with a shudder, a feeling of deep well-being overtakes me. These moments don't come now as often as they did in my youth, still â&#x20AC;˘ . . I was working in New Town, North Dakota, and staying at the Four Bears Motor Lodge which overlooks Lake Sakakawea, under which lies the ancient Missouri river bed. One evening an Indian y outh of frightening, almost hideous features and I shared the lounge of the motel between us, and in time we began to talk. After an hour, his lady, a girl of startling beauty, joined us and presently we adjourned to my room to enjoy some beers in private comfort . A congenial good humor and friendly warmth flowed through the air and the strangest electricity swirled about us. My very best friends, they were. Days and nights and months and years have passed, and I have not seen them again.

"There is as yet no ethic dealing with man's relation to land and to the animals and plants which grow upon it . . . The land-relation is still strictly economic, entailing privileges but not obligations." (A Sand County Almanac. Aldo Leopold: 1949 . )

I T . D. 'd (total depth; touch down) at eighty nine feet and fired up the probe. In regular

order I engaged the chart recorder, turned on the ink pens, removed their rubber pads, released the brake, and adjusted the winch speed to a rate of fifteen feet per minute. The pens traced their data on the slowly moving paper; clay - sand coal stringer - sand - thick coal - carbonaceous shale - clay - sand - gravel - ground level. Kurt, the mine's portly head geologist stuck his ruddy face in the door and asked, "How does it look?" "Well to use the technical term, it looks like you've got some pretty shitty coal here." "Well, I think we'll core it anyway ." He went to tell Lyn, who was waiting on the rear step of his rig for just such a message. In seconds, the core hole was underway; down-time earns no money. The core, when it is extracted from the ground, is a vertical column of rock which is later sent to a lab for analysis. Kurt came back and leaned into the truck once again, "Where's the top of that carb-shale start?" I shuffled through the two feet of chart paper covered with squiggly lines . "Ah, let's see; forty-two and a half feet, it looks like." Kurt leaned back out and yelled to Lyn, "Forty-two and a half." Lyn nodded.

"'Wear a blue suit to court' is a lie. Because a blue suit does not mean you're honest. Because every attorney will tell you, 'Have you got a blue suit; wear i t . ' So if you want to see the crook, just grab somebody in a blue suit. So the guy in the walking shorts and the sandals; that is the truth." (Lenny Bruce. Curran Theater, San Francisco: November 19, 1961.)

Sunsets can work magical effects on the mind .

Clouds achieve their true forms at these times, becoming mountains and valleys and meadows in their own right; in their own light . There â&#x20AC;˘ â&#x20AC;˘ is a mystic land where only minds are allowed to wander. Once we had a dog of distinguished character whom I would call to my side as I sat on the ground to watch the day's end; the crack between the worlds. HeÂˇwould sit and follow my gaze and patiently watch the clouds as I did. Much later I told my brother in a half serious manner that through repetition I had taught Mandan ( for that was his name) to watch sunsets . Then my brother excitedly told me that at times he had noticed the dog, alone, sitting quietly, patiently, facing the sun as it set; although I was weeks and miles away. I taught Mandan that . Where minds do wander.

"I vas chust followink orderss . " (A very old excuse; used by everybody for everything.)

I was sitting in my truck carefully labeling and preparing the log for the mine's files . These geophysical logs, when ordered and filed in the mine's archives, provide a ready source of information for the geologists and engineers who need to know the location and depths of coal and other minerals on the mine's property . Kurt jumped into my truck and I asked, "How's it going out there?" "Oh, they're fighting that gravel at the top. They might have to move and try again." "Mmm , " I said, " it looked pretty washed out on the first hole. Can you burn that stuff in the top seam?" "Well, we'll blend it with some of the higher

grade coal, and i t ' l l burn." I looked out the window down a wooded draw a couple of hundred yards to the east. There at the edge of the trees a deer and her two fawns were peering up at us in curiosity, drawn by the sound of Lyn's noisy rig , as they often are after weeks of drilling in one area. "It'd be a shame to lose this wooded draw," I said. Kurt smiled and followed my gaze. In a cynical and yet sympathizing tone he said, "Well, that's our job you know; rape the earth." "Rape the earth," I said .

It's so far away you stand that I wonder to tell you by yelling is less than poetic my dear (Cruel Shoes. Steve Martin: 1979 . )

Changes by Cornella Schmitt Everything changes, especially people . Albert woke up one morning and realized that he had grown old. , The children had gone. The farm was gone. Now he spends his time sitting in his corner chair watching the squirrels play on the front lawn. His coal black hair seemed to turn white overnight, and his once bright, green eyes don't sparkle like they use to. He sees things dimly through dirty bifocals. Cleaning them doesn't really change the haze he looks through. He can't always hear what is being said, but the thought of a hearing aid frightens him. At least he can do something about his hearing, but the shrinking just goes on . At one time he had to duck going through doorways, now they all seem so high. A look in the mirror confirms that his youth has passed. But , Albert's had a good life. Now when he looks back, even the hard times don't seem so bad. Farming did have its rough spots, but the challenge was always there, and the challenge was exhilarating. As he holds his worn, scarred hands out in front of him, he can see the mark of every challenge they met and conquered. His hands were and always will be his strength . Those hands held and reared six children. They were gentle hands, whether holding a crying child or new born calf. The were strong hands when his child's world seemed to be falling apart . He was always near, to guide and wrap his children within his strength .

Two years ago he came close to the end when his heart gave out. Lying in his hospital bed, watching his wife of forty years trying to control her tears, he knew he had to make it through . He realized he was too stubborn to die. In time, he thanked God for the reprise, the extra time to tie up loose ends, to finish, to say good-bye . Enough daydreaming. He looks at his watch, and he knows it is time to go. He may look old, but he is still young at heart with things to do. The front door closes behind him as he goes out to feed the squirrels.

One Christmas in Africa: a very personal adventure

by Waldemar Dietrich Our three car caravan--two land-rovers and a vol kswagen bus--left Nairobi, traveling south a c r o ss the rolling East African plains, first on a disintegrating tarmac highway, then on a dusty gravel road. Within a half hour, we were descending, as if in some rickety old cargo plane, to the floor of the valley two thousand feet below--the Great Rift Valley--a low, monotonous prairie, one hundred miles wide, running the entire length of the continent. It was 1968 and I was sixteen years old . My father, a home-grown North Dakotan, had changed careers in mid-life, giving up a lucrative pharmacy business in Hebron, to sign o n with an Evangelical mission organization. Eventually he would become administrator of a large hospital at Tenwek in western Kenya . But first, he and Mother were spirited off to study language at Naigarra, the mission station to which we were now traveling . My little sister, Margaret, and I had been sent to the Rift Valley Academy, a boarding school that sat on the rim overlooking the Great Valley. The missionaries fr om Naigarra came into Nairobi for food and supp l ie s only once every two mo nths . In addition t o stopping at the academy to pick up the chil d ren for the Christmas holiday, this trip meant Christmas shopping--a new adventure for our family, considering all the exotic gift possibilities. Dad's rules had been: first, keep out of the Moslem sector (which was

not an easy task considering the huge Mosque with its onion-shaped dome and high minarets dominating Nairobi's city center) and second, to stay away from the Indian quarter, especially Bazaar Street--"that dirty, marketplace filled with conniving Indian hucksters and their shady deals,"according to Dad. Unknown to my father, I had already broken both rules . Nearly every weekend since arriving at the academy six weeks earlier, I had contrived appointments in Nairobi- - doctor appointments, optometrist appointments--all for the sole purpose of securing a pass to ride the school's bus into the city. It was during those visits that I'd discovered what I assumed to be the real Nairobi--the high class British section with the mandator y afternoon tea at the New Stanley Hotel. There wa s the Moslem section-- I'd already investigated the Mosque close-up--with my Kodak Brownie •• • and, I'd already explored every square foot of the infamous Bazaar Street, that dirty, market place filled with noisy Indian hucksters and their really good deals. I even had a favorite shop--Hirji Devraj and Company was the absolute best. During this latest visit, while the missionary men took the Land-Rovers to be serviced, and the missionary wives shopped for food and supplies, I'd gone back to Hirji's to do my Christmas shopping. The dark little shop was inundated with the pungent smell of spices mingled with the odor of human sweat--a unique scent that might have repulsed many Americans, but it was wonderful to my senses. And the fast talking , fat proprietor in his long white shirt completed the picture perfectly. Hirji's store didn't sport any one specialty, but rather it carried a little of everything; spices, food stuffs--mostly Indian fair--a few dry goods, and a whole lot of curios. Wooden carvings, beaded head gear and native weaponry

crowded every corner and every spare shelf. And from the ceiling hung dozens of silver and gold foil--Hindu ornaments . I went immediately to the wooden carvings, but which ones to buy--ebony gazelles or the blonde impalas, rhinos or elephants? A pair of graceful myrtlewood giraffes caught my eye, but they looked awfully expensive. Then I saw it-not a carving, but a large, raw-hide warrior's shield, or at least Hirji said it was a warrior's shield. At any rate, it would be a terrific gift for Dad. Mother would have the giraffes and my sister could have the strange rhinoceros shaped lamp. Then on a whim, I decided, Hindu or not, the silver and gold do-dads would make marvelous decorations for a Christmas tree . At the end of the day, the missionaries assembled at the New Stanley Hotel to leave, everyone carrying his or her secret packages for Christmas--everyone except Dad . He'd always gone to great lengths to make sure his presents remained a mystery. The journey out to the mission station would take ten hours, each hour proving more exciting than the last . At one point, the sound of our Land-Rovers stampeded herds of skittish zebra and antelope, while off in the distance the impala and giraffe stood by calmly evaluating the situation. At one point, we were forced to come to a compiete stop while a lone ostrich nervously crossed the road. Four hot , dusty hours out of Nairobi, we came to a small settlement called Narok, the last point of civilization before the final fifty miles to the mission station. Nothing more than a collection of dilapidated buildings shaded by a few scrawny thorn trees, Narok served as the regional fueling station, and post office--and a place for us to water before heading out into the territory of the reputedly fierce people known as the Masai.

After ten more miles of dust, the lead car pulled off the road and headed into the rugged hills just north of the great Seringeti Plain. Our road ended here . The remaining forty miles would be negotiated over trails known only to those who had forged them two years earlier. In places, the landscape looked uncannily similar to the North Dakota Badlands I knew so well. Actually, had I been in Kenya fifty years earlier I might have seen Teddy Roosevelt himself stalking game in these badlands as well. The then ex-president and big game hunter had been on safari here in 1909 and 1910, and in fact, had laid the cornerstone of the very same Rift Valley Academy my sister and I attended. Hours after dark, we bumped and jumbled into a shallow, moonlit valley with the missionary compound up and to the right--Naigarra, "the windy place." We were immediately met by a foul, though strangely familiar, stench- -the kind a good missionary pretends not to notice. No one said anything . While the first missionary family noisily unloaded into their spacious ranch style house, the station nurse, Anna, retreated to her own two bedroom home . Our family of four settled into what would someday be servant's quarters, a tiny, two room cinder block building that fortunately for us had the luxury of an indoor bathroom, and hot water--that is if one went outside and built a wood fire under the water tank. Since this was to be only temporary quarters for my parents while they studied language, Mother had few qualms . "Well," she chimed as we followed her into our new home, "it's at least bigger than the pick-up camper we had before we were missionaries." Since our belongings hadn't yet arrived from America, the little house lacked decor save one eight by ten picture on the wall--a black and white photograph of my parents posing with a 31

Masai warrior . Mother was wearing a pretty flowered dress and Dad, his usual khakis. The young, almost naked Masai knelt over a lioness he'd killed . And there in his hand, a bloodied spear . The young Masai warrior, a boy no older than me, had slain the lion with nothing but the spear! "He was protecting his cattle," Dad explained , then pointing to the picture, "Notice this spear is nearly all wood--only the ends are metal. As a reward for his bravery, the tribe awarded him with a new spear--see almost all steel ." That night , as I lay on the top bunk in the small crowded bedroom, I tried to imagine what it must have been like--a boy my age killing a lion by hand. I finally fell asleep, wondering if I might meet him . The next morning was warm and sunny . From the bedroom window, you could see the entire neighborhood . Down in the center of the little valley, about a quarter mile away, were two cinder block buildings--the medical dispensary and the church. A half mile beyond, on the far side of the valley, stood a crude barricade of dead branches and thorn trees encircling a dozen reddish brown huts--igloo shaped, but definitely not made of snow. "It's a manyata--a Masai village," Dad said, then quipped, "early Mud and Cow-dung Gothic." Then I noticed the odor, the same one we'd noticed the evening before. It was the smell of the livestock yards back home. There was no barricade around the missionary station. About the only intruders were the impala and the gazelle that ventured in at night to jump the garden fence and forage--and the donkeys the Masai allowed to roam freely. Every morning it would be my responsibility to shoo the donkeys out of the station . To me, the missionaries' western style houses looked pretentious and terribly out of place.

All three houses faced out, overlooking the little valley--not a particularly pristine valley--arid, with a few dried up bushes. The only trees were the few thorn trees surrounding a spring down near the dispensary. The mission houses may have seemed out of place, but in a way they were also fitting. I secretly referred to the head missionary as "reverend bwana" because he seemed the epitome of what I'd always envisioned a bwana would be-tall, with a stubborn jaw and a silly looking pith helmet. Undeniably, the bwana--the boas. Two days after our arrival at Naigarra, Reverend Bwana announced that we'd be going on safari--a justifiable safari, of course--the missionaries did eat meat. In my short lifetime, I'd experienced plenty of excitement; I'd been bucked off feisty, outof-control quarter horses, flown in my dad's stunt planes; I'd even seen the whole world from atop Harney Peak . But nothing could compare with the exhilaration of standing in the open rack of a Land-Rover while chasing across the African plain after a giraffe . What was that giraffe afraid of? We weren't going to shoot him; I only wanted his picture. The giraffe, a full size male, galloped along ahead of us, then beside us, almost as if in slow motion. Had it not been for the speedometer in the cab, we'd never have known he was actually racing along at forty miles per hour . With my leg hooked around a steel post, I hung on with one hand while brandishing my trusty Kodak in the other. In my young mind, I was certain of two things; first, if I didn't get this picture of a giraffe on the run, I'd never live it down, and secondly , if Reverend Bwana hit just the right bump at this speed , I'd fly off the back of that Land-Rover, only to be eaten alive by some ferocious beast . I got my picture-as a matter of fact, I took the whole roll.

Later, as we tracked on foot, we accidentally walked into the middle of a large troop of Baboons--a dangerous mistake on the part of Rev. Bwana. These animals were not the cute little organ grinder's monkeys, they were big, dog-faced apes with large, vicious teeth--exactly like that ferocious beast that might have devoured me. One of the locals hunting with us said the worst thing to do was run, so we stood still--and waited. Finally after fifteen tenuous, agonizingly long minutes, the baboons wandered away, seemingly unaffected and unimpressed. Later that afternoon, we bagged a wildebeest, a large cow-like antelope which tasted a little like beef, but more like venison. The warthog we shot tasted much like it looked--greasy and disgusting. Safaris were the absolute best, but with only a few weeks until Christmas, I had important things to do. We hadn't yet visited the Masai manyata and we still needed a Christmas tree. As a family project, we decided to complete both tasks in one pass. At the manyata, I met the Masai boy from the picture. Exactly as I'd expected, he was indeed naked but for the soiled red blanket he wore draped over one shoulder. He stood about six and a half feet tall and smiled with surprisingly bright teeth. He said very little and except for the way he flaunted his new spear, seemed almost languid. I began to doubt all the stories about these people being a fierce war-like tribe, then Rev. Bwana reminded me of the young warrior's lioness. As the man in the pith helmet explained it, the Masai were, for the most part, seclusive and benevolent, until someone touched their cattle. To the Masai, their cattle were their very source of life--hence their pride. Their reputation did not stem from their aggression, but from the fierce way in which they defended their pride. When greedy neighbors, or even a

lion, dared to raid a Masai herd, they quickly discovered the true nature of the Masai. Fortunately for us, the Masai thought we were more fascinated with giraffes than their cattle. While the neighborhood may have smelled as bad as a stockyard, the interior of the manyata was absolutely noxious. The people not only used cattle manure mixed with mud to build houses, they expertly blended the feces with red ocher, then used it to create intricate, braided hair designs. "Dipity-cow-do," Dad called it. But if you could look past your aversion to the manure and smell and the ever present swarm of flies, you might see that these handsome people displayed a kind of quiet grace--not only in the way they so meticulously groomed themselves, but in every aspect of their pastoral life-style. Though we were reluctant to allow their unclean bodies into our shiny clean home, they happily invited us into one of their huts. With only one opening that served as door and as chimney, it was too dark to see much of anything and too smoky and malodorous to stay more than a few seconds. Meanwhile outside, Mother was eagerly learning the art of sewing colored beads to rawhide. Of course to do so, one must learn to sit in the appropriate position--on the ground. So, in her pretty cotton dress and straw sun bonnet, Mother hit the dirt. She may have been eager to learn how to fix the little beads to the skins, but she balked at the idea of preparing the hide herself. According to the Masai women, in order to make a hide soft and workable, you must chew on it. Dad was content to stand and dicker with the men. It appeared the Masai wanted to sell whatever they owned--anything and everything, except, of course, their cattle. By the time we left the manyata, we were the proud owners of several pieces of beaded leather wear, a number

of cooking gourds and an odd looking weapon made out of some root. I'm not sure what the Irish would think, but I'd say it looked exactly like a shillelagh. on our way back to our little home, we stopped at the spring and hacked down an almost green bush that almost passed for a Christmas tree. It didn't look much better draped with the Hindu ornaments, but it was Christmas, when joy covereth a multitude of woes. But how does one gift wrap a set of myrtlewood giraffes, not to mention a rhinoceros lamp? When there weren't donkeys to shoo away, or giraffes to chase, I'd walk down to visit Nurse Anna's dispensary. This svelte, yet rugged nurse cared deeply for these people, and not just for their lost souls. I'd never before seen a skin ulcer cleaned or a mother's milk checked, but I knew without a doubt such things could not have been done with more tenderness. Still, Nurse Anna was a trooper. Once, when a tall Masai warrior insisted she give him an injection in the head for what was obviously a hang-over, she simply took him by the ear and not so tenderly escorted him out of the dispensary. I didn't doubt the Masai were an intelligent people--ignorant to our ways, perhaps, but then I realized that in some ways, I too failed to understand some of the things we brought to them. For instance, every Sunday, we obediently traipsed down to the little cinder block church. While Mrs. Bwana cheerfully played her accordion and wailed verse after verse of "Bringing in the Sheaves", I'd watch the half-dozen bemused Masai standing just outside. I wanted to tell them that the idea of bringing in sheaves didn't make much sense to me either; we might have at least sung a few more Christmas carols. Two days before Christmas, there was to be a celebration for all the villages in the area to honor the opening of a cattle dip--a concrete

trough filled with insecticide through which the people would drive their bug-infested cattle. The dip was located ten miles away, so when Nurse Anna revved up her Land-Rover, she invited us all to ride along--Mother and Dad and Nurse Anna in the cab and we youngsters in the back . We traveled over rocky terrain for nearly an hour before pulling up at a large manyata. I was about to get out, when Anna came around to the back with five Masai who in turn were leading several goats. "I hope you don't mind a little company," Anna said cheerfully. "This is the Chief and his wives--and his goats." I'm not sure how we did it, but somehow the two kids, five Masai and three goats fit into the back of that little truck. Who could have imagined a teenager from Western North Dakota sitting next to a real live Masai Chief in the back of a rocking and rolling Land-Rover, not to mention, getting such distinguished dipity-cow-do smeared all over his new J.C. Penney shirt? Never have I felt as conspicuous as I did that day at the celebration . There were hundreds of people--Masai people, tall warriors, some in traditional costumes adorned with ostrich feathers, all with red ochered skin, half-naked women with squalling babies tied to their backs, and children and flies flitting and buzzing everywhere. There we were, the missionaries, the foreigners with clean J.c. Penney shirts and pretty cotton dresses and our bringing in the sheaves--and they welcomed us. After a long, unintelligible speech by some official from the government, the first cow was plunged into the milky white insecticide. A thunderous cheer went up. It was a celebration-a glorious affirmation of the Masai's pride. Following the ceremonies, the chief's goats were slaughtered and thrown whole onto a bonfire. No secret recipe here--the body JU~ces were supposed to somehow enhance the flavor of the

meat . Mother and Dad , of course, each graciously accepted a small rib and ventured a nibble . I quickly wandered off before being offered a taste . For Christmas day, all the families of our mission in Kenya planned to converge at the hospital at Tenwek. We'd have to leave Naigarra on Christmas Eve, which meant our family would celebrate Christmas early. That night we four huddled around our sad little tree, feeling as though this really wasn't Christmas at all . There was no snow, no "Jingle Bells" , no stockings hung by the chimney with care. The hoof prints out in the yard may have looked like reindeer's , but we all knew they really belonged to the impalas and gazelles--and the donkeys . Good grief, our Christmas tree was nothing but a tumbleweed covered with gold and silver do-dads-and Hindu ones at that. But petty grief soon gave way to true Christmas spirit- -to giving and sharing gifts of love. It's not too difficult for a mother to figure out that a package wrapped in the shape of two giraffes will not turn out to be oven mitts or bedroom slippers she'd come to expect. But she knew the sentiment was the same. When we'd finally finished unwrapping all the obvious packages, Dad excused himself and went outside--r assumed to experience privately his pleasure with the warrior shield we gave him. He never liked to cry openly. I was correct in part . He returned shortly, misty eyed , and handed me the blood stained spear he'd bought from the young Masai. "An appropriate gift, " he said, "for someone who seems to be pretty fond of these folks." I wholeheartedly agreed, but could not respond. I just stood there , proudly clutching the spear. A most treasured gift-- the absolute best .

The roads through reality are paved with fantasies we've dared to live.

When I reach the limits of reality I shall search for you.

Our roads were different but our fantasies do cross.

-Jackie Hope-

The Change of All Seasons Years have passed Likewise, the change of all seasons. We love you for spring Creation symbolizing entity with the dull beiges of winter Giving way to brighter hues. Just as you, through love and bonded unity have given us Life a beginning. We bless you for summer Blue skies, at times burdened with clouds of fury Your guidance and understanding "To err is human" you say; As gently you lead us down life's path. We embrace you for autumn Troubled waters soon to solidify For we have learned tranquility and strive for fulfillment Through the harvest you have reaped. We thank you for winter Earth laid barren Family tree rooted strong from the seed you have sown Its branches supported by love, compassion, and virtues that are treasured To be nurtured through generation upon generation.

-Geri Dvorak-

The Human Condition They meet at the summit, Suspicious eyes dart 'round Wary of bushwhackers in the scrub. "Pull out of my rangeland" "Your boys've been causin' trouble" They glare at each other-Sweat trickles down craggy faces As the indifferent sun beats upon heads Shaded by hats of indeterminable color. They circle uneasily--hands twitching Poised for the least sign of treachery. Jibes and innuendoes pepper the air, Gracefully as dancers they dodge verbal bullets. At last the sun reddens the horizon and With parting shots, the two ride off in opposite directions-One, his back to the sun The other blinded by it.

-Charice Palmer-

The fallen leaves were memories of a time when days were filled with bats and balls, gentle rains, and mud squishing between naked toes, where trees were ladders to the sky and playboy books in hidden nooks were studied religiously-Then God became a place to go on Sundays for a colossal dose of righteous guilt-yet hers was not to question why, only to swallow and regurgitate as she pranced to the beat of each life ritual-till her dreams lay suspended like tulips under a frozen spring. -Constance Walter-

Gettinq serious

I was Getting Serious the other day, and I had to stop in mid-sentence; and laugh . Would you like to know why? Ha Hoi It was because the emperor's new clothes would not fit me; Because they were ludicrous . Cause I was. (Because I knew that I was.) Ha Ha Hoell Because in fifty million years, (which must pass) The Books will put us in the " Early Million of Years ." And some one historian somewhere will remember one name From this thousand years. Ha Hal Because the clouds moved, and nobody noticed but me. And the sun split Âˇtheir garnet facets, Just for me . And because of the mud puddle and the banana peel , The mighty fall. And because the cat meows and the dog yip-yaps, And the stars peek-aboo . Because of the self-taught and self-believed lies of billions of smug idiots . Because of that vaporous nothing - society's norms. Becaus~ sometimes serious equals stupid, as God intended. Cause but for the Intolerant , this life is paradise enough for me.

And Twain was never bitter; but just occasionally serious, Which is deadly dangerous work for a fool. Because I'm a fool, and if Socrates was not wise, Then I'm as good a fool as Lear's. And he's smarter than your average bear; Fool. Because . â&#x20AC;˘ I hasten to laugh for fear of dying without having laughed. Ignorance and Intolerance will survive us all, And be a night to your laughing days. Labor not to create dark of the days that you have; (one more time for the kids in the hospital) Labor on to create light of the days that you have.

-Mark Spitzer-

The Critic He stood before the painting, Mesmerized by its simplicity Which he could not understand . Then it shifted--And he saw that it was the print of the sun Ascending the gallery walls . "Oh," he murmured And shuffled down the hall To appreciate art .

-Margaret Barnhart-

one Fine Day My friend and I so early rise We stomp the tall dew laden grass In anticipation of what shall pass The fly so delicately touches The quiet and still water Soon the cold water makes me totter As I swing to and fro The trout are hungry this morn My friend and I are sworn To make this day the best yet Pausing to watch the golden fist Break into the morning mist It will be glorious today Hearing the city begin to wake We know the harness we must take To bring the goods that all desire For we would not want our neighbor To think we're lazy and despise to labor So begrudgingly to shore we turn To hear a huge splash My friend and I stop in a flash And with the look of a wondering eye Again the water is touched by the fly -Mark Schaar-

Drouqht A lone cow crossing the pasture Raises a plume of dust Like a contrail scarring the sky. A farmer drops his wrench In a crevassed field And it falls eight feet below the surface. The landscape is like a plucked fowl: The dust drifts into dimples around Each solitary blade of grass and stub of brush. The sheep, disguised as boulders, Graze contentedly and drink the shade. -Dave Solheim-

Thunderstorms in the afternoon Wash the light from the air.

You can find it later Shimmering atop puddles And bouncing off ripples .

I always look at my shoes After walking through a puddle To see if I soaked up any sunlight.

Usually I find mud.

- Jackie Hope-

Desolate stranger Desolate Stranger Face of Intrusion Enter not herein For our life is now a reality --- no longer a mere image of confusion. Idle words blowing in the wind Cloaking all guilt; disguising all shame "I'm their Father" you say, yet, I need not ask you to stay For the seed you have sown has faltered by far --- for they are yours only in name. Claiming your "Rights", their's not considered Promises broken, tears being shed Little minds alienating themselves from the essence of "Father" As words remain unsaid . Waste not your time, spare us your being Your face they'll remember However, "Father" has lost all meaning For you will always remain a --- Desolate Stranger.

-Geri Dvorak-

Winter's Window Crystal shades of night Etch geometric forms Opaque against the moonlight White shadows fall and the landscape holds her breath Under the fragile caress

-Charice Palmer-

Four Oranges

They surround her . Eight eyes--two each of gray, hazel, green and brown, born in that order . The starving orbs of four plump children gaze up at her, through her, pleading, "Please kin we have them?" Four oranges--Sunkist, seedless navel-bought for her lunch, then left on the counter in a moment of premature senility. Now there are two. The others became smiley faces for four greedy mouths to slurp slowly during "Dennis the Menace." She creeps behind eyes fixed on cartoons to the fortress that will keep eager fingers from the remaining sunspheres. In the glow of bedside light she listens to the harmony of sleep, then rises softly, slipping slender hands between the

Boxspring and mattress to retrieve the treasure buried there. From behind, the slip-slide of tiny slippered feet accosts her-Too late! Two brown eyes open wide, dismissing sleep, and a sleep-husky voice croaks, "Momma, I want those oiangesl" -constance Walter-

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