A Sad Tale

Cherries are legend here in these valleys. Back at the turn of the century, and when I say that, I still mean the one before last, the cherries grown here were reported to be as large as plums and equally sweet and juicy. They were famous for being the best in all of North America, even better than the Okanagan which now grows many of our cherries. They were famous right across the country. J.T. Bealby, a Nelson fruit rancher, was quoted as saying:
"One of the most wonderful sights in a British Columbia orchard, and more especially a Kootenay orchard, is the cherry-trees when laden with their snow-white blossoms. Every branch, from its divergence from a large limb or the main trunk, right away to the outermost twig, is thickly feathered with clusters of blossom, and tufts of bloom cling even to the main trunk and large limbs. This is true of every variety of cherry alike, sour as well as sweet. The crops are, as a rule, enormously heavy -- so much so that the trees, and this applies to apples, pears, and plums, as well as to cherries -- have to be well supported with props to prevent them from breaking down under the loads they carry, and even then it is not an unusual thing for one or more branches to split off before the fruit can be gathered."

Indeed that bit about props is true. My parents have two very old apple trees in their yard (well over 100 yrs by now...they were put in shortly after the house was originally built) and last year that is essentially what happened. One of the branches on one of the trees was so heavy with fruit that the branch broke and my father had to prop it up and mend it hoping to save the apples on that particular branch long enough for them to ripen. But it is an old tree, so some years it takes a rest, but then there are years like last where there is a real bumper crop. Not bad for an old tree whose trunk is almost completely hollow that it totally baffles us that there is any fruit at all. But back to the story of the cherries.

Unfortunately, about 1933 a mysterious cherry disease hit destroying the thriving industry. The first symptoms were noticed at Willow Point, just around the bend from where I live. At the time, it was called, "Little Cherry Disease." Most disheartening was that infected trees only became obvious about two weeks before harvest. By this point, the damage was done, the cherries were small, lacked taste and sweetness, and were for the most part wormy. Once a tree was infected, there was nothing to be done but to cut it down, as the cherries from then on would be as such. By about the 50's the disease had decimated the industry and all cherry trees were ordered to be cut down to try to stop the spread which by now was determined to be transmitted by infected insects.


At the time, the source of the outbreak was not known, but it has since been determined that Japanese Ornamental cherries were carrying the disease in symptomless form. There were three specimens of these trees growing not far from the original outbreak on the property of Selwyn Gwillym Blaylock, the rich vice-president and general manager of a mining smelting company which later became known as Cominco (this property is just a ways down the road in the other direction from me). He had a passion for gardening and had beautiful grounds surrounding his estate. The grounds purportedly featured one of every species of tree native to Canada as well as many other ornamental trees and flowering shrubs. Blaylock encouraged frequent guests, including foreign dignitaries to bring gifts of trees and shrubs from their native land to add to his collection. But this was not how he had acquired the particular trees in question. They had been imported by Blaylock himself. He had officially inquired about the importation of Japanese Ornamental Cherries and had been told that the trees were diseased and not to be imported. He decided to smuggle them in anyways.

So thus is the story of cherries in the Kootenays. Infected trees were to be removed, but it was tough as there were and still are so many wild cherries growing out in the woods which of course, by this point has probably also been diseased. Cherry orchards have since been re-established around Creston, the far end of Kootenay lake, and indeed the cherries are good. But the industry has never gone back to what it once was.

The Visitor

This cute, thieving little bandit decimated my tulips a couple weeks ago. I apologize for the photo...but dusk had already fallen when I took the snap, so I had to lighten it, giving it a rather grainy texture. Animals are quite abundant at this time of year. As soon as spring hits, they make their way down the mountain side looking for some tasty morsels after the bland winter fare. One evening I came home to find three in my yard, or rather on the outskirts. This one was a loner who was quite startled when I opened the door to try to get a shot...shot with my camera that is. He immediately took off at a trot, but not before he had bitten off almost all of my tulip heads. Tulips are apparently quite sweet. Ironically, they never touch the daffodils. I have a ton of them. Deer aren't the only beasts lurking about in the spring. Last week a bear took apart my compost box trying to find a good feed. I didn't actually see the spectacle as occurred, but witnessed the mess later. Luckily a kind neighbour put the box back together for me. There was a Grizzly just this past week who was wandering about a neighbourhood just a few miles out the lake. A conservation officer had to be called in as apparently nothing was scaring this fellow off. These aren't overly common occurrences, but do occur regularly in the spring.

Forgiveness

Easter weekend I received a call from a good friend, and in the spirit of Easter, she ended our telephone conversation with, "may all your sins be forgiven." I can't recall anyone ever having said that to me before and I've never known this girl to be at all religious, so initially, I was a little taken aback. However, the more I thought about it, the real message of Easter is the hope we have of experiencing the grace of forgiveness, and certainly, there is not much that is more freeing than being forgiven and being able to forgive.

Forgiveness is a lesson that took me a long time to learn, not that I didn't want to forgive, but that I didn't truly understand it. Forgiveness is not at all for the transgressor but rather the person who is doing the forgiving. Forgiveness is the act of untying oneself from the thoughts and feelings that bind us to the acts committed against us. It is a conscious decision to let go of resentment and thoughts of revenge and to move on with one's life. It is the ability to pick up our shattered self and move beyond in a quest to find that centre of peace which makes us whole again.

Forgiveness, however, does not mean that one denies or condones the wrong committed against them or others. Forgiveness also doesn't guarantee reconciliation nor does it absolve the transgressor from restitution. Reconciliation is a much larger process of which forgiveness plays but one small part. Now that last point is probably where my confusion began. At one time, I believed my forgiveness was what was needed to bridge the chasm created by the transgressor. But alas, it was the responsibility of the transgressor to rebuild that bridge. In the process, I've learned to listen to actions rather than words, as for some, sickly lies come easy, but the body always reveals its true intent.

Undoubtedly, you have now realized that the threads of another story are quietly weaving themselves within the layers written upon this page. Now is not the time for me to go into all the lurid details, however, know that the road is never smooth when one is called upon to proclaim the truth in the shadow of her tormentor. These coming days are gray and I cannot yet see beyond the bend in the road, so if you can find it within yourself to say a prayer on my behalf or throw a positive thought in my direction, I would be most appreciative.

Wisdom

We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.

~ William Shakepeare

Period of Grace

I apologize to all for my silence. It's been a rather busy month. Busy and then company. But the worst was when my internet connection went down. I am still waiting for the technical issue to be resolved...hopefully this week. Shaw has promised to send an IT technician on Wednesday. In any case, I haven't abandoned you, nor jumped on the Facebook bandwagon. I have posts started, even if they're not completed, and I look forward to getting back online soon and catching up on all your stories.

April Fools

On April 1, 1957 the British news show Panorama broadcast a three-minute segment about a bumper spaghetti harvest in southern Switzerland. The success of the crop was attributed both to an unusually mild winter and to the “virtual disappearance of the spaghetti weevil.” The audience heard Richard Dimbleby, the show’s highly respected anchor, discussing the details of the spaghetti crop as they watched video footage of a Swiss family pulling pasta off spaghetti trees and placing it into baskets. The segment concluded with the assurance that, “For those who love this dish, there’s nothing like real, home-grown spaghetti.”

The Swiss Spaghetti Harvest hoax generated an enormous response. Hundreds of people phoned the BBC wanting to know how they could grow their own spaghetti tree. To this query the BBC diplomatically replied, “Place a sprig of spaghetti in a tin of tomato sauce and hope for the best.”

To this day the Panorama broadcast remains one of the most famous and popular April Fool’s Day hoaxes of all time. It is also believed to be the first time the medium of television was used to stage an April Fool’s Day hoax.

Chocolate-Coffee Gingerbread

This recipe is a keeper if you like a rich, moist and flavourful cake. The gingerbread flavour would be perfect around Christmas time, but since I woke up to snow this morning, I see no reason why I shouldn't be eating this now. Terrific with a cup of coffee and dolloped with plain whipped cream.

Nonstick vegetable oil spray
2 cups all purpose flour
2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp ground cloves
1 tsp ground ginger
1 cup sugar
1 cup molasses
1 cup mild flavoured olive oil
3 large eggs
1 cup freshly brewed coffee
1 cup chopped bittersweet chocolate (60% cocoa)
1/4 cup chopped crystallized ginger

Preheat oven to 350 ˚F. Generously butter a 12 cup Bundt pan (or two smaller Bundt pans), then spray with nonstick spray. Dust pan lightly with flour. Whisk 2 cups of flour and the next 5 ingredients in medium bowl to blend. Combine sugar, molasses, olive oil, and eggs in large bowl; whisk until well blended. Add dry ingredients and stir to blend. Mix in hot coffee, then chocolate and crystallized ginger (most of chocolate will melt). Transfer batter to prepared pan.

Bake cake until tester inserted near center comes out clean and cake begins to pull away from sides of pan, 55 to 60 minutes. Transfer pan to rack; cool cake in pan 20 minutes. Turn cake out onto rack and cool at least 1 hour.

Life Over 100

Perhaps some of you have already read this, but it is too beautiful not to share. This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers large and small and president of NBC News.

In 1997, he won the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing. I hope you laugh as much as I did.

---------------------

My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car.

He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.

'In those days,' he told me when he was in his 90s, 'to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it.'

At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:
'Oh, bull!' she said. 'He hit a horse.'

'Well,' my father said, 'there was that, too.'

So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.

My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.

My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. 'No one in the family drives,' my mother would explain, and that was that.

But, sometimes, my father would say, 'But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one.'

It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first.

But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown.

It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts,
loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.

Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother.

So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. 'Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?' I remember him saying more than once.

For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.

Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.

(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)

He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.

If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests Father Fast ' and 'Father Slow.'

After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: 'The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored.'

If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along
to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, 'Do you want to know the secret of a long life?'

'I guess so,' I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.

'No left turns,' he said.

'What?' I asked.

'No left turns,' he repeated. 'Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic.

As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn.'

'What?' I said again.

'No left turns,' he said. 'Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three right s.'

'You're kidding!' I said, and I turned to my mother for support 'No,' she said, 'your father is right.. We make three rights. It works.' But then she added: 'Except when your father loses count.'

I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.

'Loses count?' I asked.

'Yes,' my father admitted, 'that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again.'

I couldn't resist. 'Do you ever go for 11?' I asked.

'No,' he said ' If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week.'

My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.

She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.

They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)

He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.

One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.

A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, 'You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred.' At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, 'You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer.'

'You're probably right,' I said.

'Why would you say that?' He countered, somewhat irritated.

'Because you're 102 years old,' I said.

'Yes,' he said, 'you're right.' He stayed in bed all the next day.

That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.

He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said:

'I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet.'

An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:

'I want you to know,' he said, clearly and lucidly, 'that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have.'

A short time later, he died.

I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.

I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, Or because he quit taking left turns.

Life is too short to wake up with regrets.

So love the people who treat you right.

Forget about those who don't.

Believe everything happens for a reason.

If you get a chance, take it.

If it changes your life, let it.

Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it.'

Waiting

Winter just doesn't want to release its hold this year. Sure, we've had a few sunny warm days, but then the north wind blows in our direction leaving a trail of frost in her wake. We were enshrouded in fog again today as snow angrily inched its way down the mountain side. The winter jackets and boots are safely ensconced at the back of the closet and I just haven't the heart to pull them back out again. I've resorted to wearing layers, usually about five so that I can adjust depending on what the weather decides to do and it seems to change numerous times throughout the day. I saw one lone crocus trying fearlessly to cheer up the barren yard wondering when the rest would make their debut. The whole lot of them have decided that late is fashionable and it's questionable whether they'll even turn up for Easter. Just the same, I've decided to will spring. I've hauled out my pots, filled them with dirt and various sorts of seeds. Some have been sitting on my window sills for the last week, and the rest I finished up today. It doesnt seem to matter how many times I do this, the thrill is just the same when I see them finally poking their heads through the dirt. Now if it were only warm enough that I could start working out in the yard.

Miracles

Saturday ten guardian angels floated through the mountain mist and landed upon my sandy shores.



Absolute bliss.

Hamlet as Facebook Feed

Horatio thinks he saw a ghost

Hamlet thinks it's annoying when your uncle marries your mother right after your dad dies.

The king thinks Hamlet's annoying.

Laertes thinks Ophelia can do better.

Hamlet's father is now a zombie.

The king poked the queen.

The queen poked the king back.

Hamlet and the queen are no longer friends.

Marcellus is pretty sure there's something's rotten around here.

Hamlet became a fan of daggers.

Polonius says Hamlet's crazy ... crazy in love!

Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Hamlet are now friends.

Hamlet wonders if he should continue to exist. Or not.

Hamlet thinks Ophelia might be happier in a convent.

Ophelia removed "moody princes" from her interests.

Hamlet posted an event: A Play That's Totally Fictional and In No Way About My Family

The king commented on Hamlet's play: "What is wrong with you?"

Polonius thinks this curtain looks like a good hiding place.

Polonius is no longer online.
Hamlet added England to the Places I've Been application.

The queen is worried about Ophelia.

Ophelia loves flowers. Flowers flowers flowers flowers flowers. Oh, look, a river.

Ophelia joined the group Maidens Who Don't Float.

Laertes wonders what the hell happened while he was gone.

The king sent Hamlet a goblet of wine.

The queen likes wine!

The king likes ... oh crap.

The queen, the king, Laertes, and Hamlet are now zombies.

Horatio says well that was tragic.

Fortinbras, Prince of Norway, says yes, tragic. We'll take it from here.

Denmark is now Norwegian.

Mmmmoooo

When I was a child, I remember my mother drinking buttermilk. She said it reminded her of the fresh milk she drank as a child, the milk you get straight from a cow. It's tartness made my lips pucker and I never fully appreciated its tangy flavour...that is until traveling in southern Germany. I can't say precisely what triggered this new found appreciation. Perhaps it was the fresh mountain air, seeing the cows grazing on the hillside, the abundance of food that flooded my mind with childhood memories, food that felt like home. Whatever it was, I felt compelled to give buttermilk another chance. I don't know why I didn't appreciate it sooner, I had always loved everything else dairy (even though I try to limit it in my diet these days) and there really isn't much of a jump from yogurt to buttermilk. In fact, it's kind of like drinking Yop, although much more economical. I simply throw some buttermilk in my blender along with some fresh or frozen berries (today the feature fruit was blackberries, gathered fresh last summer and lovingly stored in my freezer). Sometimes I add a little maple syrup if the fruit is especially tart, and voila...instant meal chalk full of nutrients. I guess tastes change, because I love the stuff now. Or perhaps the appreciation was there all along and I just didn't know it. Is this sort of stuff hard wired into us?

Poor Marie

The guillotine drops.

I fall into a deep abyss.

Darkness envelopes
My aching head.

Kootenay Kritters

Gerhard and Gunda have, as of late, become semi-permanent fixtures in the neighbourhood. When they first started frequenting the premises, they would waddle hurriedly across the yard throwing angry honks in my direction if I showed up unexpectedly. They have since become more accustomed to my comings and goings at odd hours. They mainly sit upon the berm, Gerhard puffing up his chest surveying his realm, Gunda more interested in what yummy morsels she can find to fill her tummy. She casts a glance in my direction, proudly displaying her morning find dangling from her mouth before slurping it down. I was once told that the Canada Goose mates for life. Gerhard and Gunda do seem mighty fond of each other. Where there is one, the other is never far behind.

Buttermilk Blackberry Muffins

2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 tsp salt
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
1/2 cup sugar
1 Tbsp grated lemon zest
1 1/2 cups buttermilk
2 Tbsp fresh lemon juice
1 large egg
1 Tbsp vanilla extract
4 Tbsp melted butter
1 1/2 cups frozen blackberries (or other frozen fruit)

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Lightly grease 10 muffin cups.
   
2. Combine flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, and lemon zest in a medium sized bowl.
3. Measure (into 4 cup liquid measure) buttermilk, lemon juice, egg, vanilla. Beat gently until smooth.
   
4. Slowly pour this mixture along with the melted butter into the dry ingredients. Stir using a rubber spatula until dry ingredients are moistened. Carefully fold in blackberries. Don't over mix.
5. Spoon batter into the prepared muffin tins.
   
6. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until lightly browned on top and a toothpick insered into the center comes out clean. Remove muffins from pan and place on a rack to cool.
   

Beauty in Unexpected Places

Perhaps some of you have already read about the social experiment organized by the Washington Post on perception, taste, and priorities of people. If you haven't, it went something like this:

A man stood at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin.

It was a cold January morning in 2009. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.

A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the case and without stopping, continued to walk.

A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.

The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried, but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head the whole time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.

In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for awhile. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

Now here is the real shocker. No one knew, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth 3.5 million dollars.

Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston with the average seat cost being $100.

This experiment leaves us with several questions. In a commonplace environment, at an inappropriate hour do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?

If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing? Today, take the time and truly look for the beauty fully expecting to see it.

The Aftermath

I feel like I'm taking a real hiatus from my blog this month. Life is a chaotic frenzy and I'm convinced that they no longer make days with the same number of hours as they once did. Like everything else, they're cheaping out in that department. I did take time on Saturday, however, to throw on my Fluevogs and a feather boa. Hey, if a girl can't wear a boa on Valentine's day, when can she? And then I went to check out Hugfest. It was definitely a feel good, pay it forward sort of event. I'm not bragging or anything, but I certainly got my share. Perhaps it's not "the magic bullet" that will solve all the world's problems, but there certainly weren't any grumpy people lurking about and smiles and laughter seemed to abound. So go ahead, find someone and give him or her a hug. Bonus points if you don't know the person. You might just make somebody's day.

Hug Fest

I feel so neglectful lately. I've hardly had a chance to drop in and say hi, let alone post anything. But today, I wanted to send hugs out there to all of you. Scientists have proven that hugging slows aging, improves sleep and increases intelligence. Pretty cool, isn't it? And if that's not enough, just think of that fantastic warm and fuzzy feeling it gives you. For any of you who feel you could use some more hugs or just simply want to come and test the theory, feel free to drop by Baker street between Stanley and Ward from 11 am to 1 pm on February 14th for the annual Inspire Nelson Valentine's Hugfest. I can't think of a better way to beat those winter blues and banish the grey away. Guaranteed to make you smile.

The Undoing

Dampness penetrates the bones. Dirt refuses to wash away. At night memory explores my skin, roaming about while I sleep. The sea comes to take me for its own, the roaring thunder deafening my thoughts. I wake, face down in a swamp, lungs burning with the smell of earth. I can't escape. Nothing releases me...not death in dreaming, not waking. This is how I become undone by a smell, a word, a place, a thought...

Tragedy

February 1897
(Herman is the one in the top right hand corner)

Seldom is there encountered a more distressing experience of accident, exposure and suffering than is reported in the case of Herman Lund, a young Norwegian freighter, who was found lying in the road 20 miles from Cold Harbor, McLean county, with one leg and one arm broken, both legs and arms frozen stiff, having lain there crippled and helpless from Saturday night until Tuesday morning without food or shelter, and not having once slept or lost consciousness. Lund is a young ranchman who lives at Coal Harbor, and he has been freighting between Coal Harbor and Velva, the nearest railroad point. On Saturday night he started for home with a load weighing 6000 pounds on his wagon, and while walking beside the wagon to keep warm, slipped and fell under the wheels of the wagon, which passed over him, breaking a leg and arm and badly crushing them. The team walked on a few steps and stopped, and Lund lay there helpless, unable to move, the thermometer nearly at zero point, his broken leg and arm swelling rapidly and causing him intense pain, while his extremities began to freeze and added to his agony. For three nights and two days he lay there, suffering excruciating pain the entire time. The accident happened but three miles from the ranch, but he lay in a little hollow which could not been seen from the ranch. The horses remained a few feet from him, but he was too badly injured to reach the wagon and was not found until 60 hours after the accident. After Lund was found, it was necessary to drive him 75 miles to this city (Bismark) for medical treatment, and an examination by local physicians discloses the fact that it will probably be necessary to amputate both legs and arms so badly are they frozen. Lund says that never once in the 62 hours he lay there did he lose consciousness. His worst pain was when his extremities were first attacked by the cold and began to freeze. After they had frozen, they were numb, and it was this fact that prevented his going insane from the agony. The unfortunate man is but 23 years of age, and it is doubtful if he survives the operations which will be necessary.