These are four attributes many claim to have, but, if all were revealed, may not be the case. It is easy to give “lip service” to these and, unless someone sees what you do when no one is looking, many may believe what you say and take you at face value. Action—action gives evidence when words die away. Do we claim honesty, but bend a little on taxes? Do we claim integrity, but work diligently only when the boss is looking? Do we do only what is asked and see no reason to go an extra step because there is nothing in it for us personally? Do we claim generosity and compassion, but turn a blind eye to the plight of others within arm’s reach?
We can say what we want. We can lay claim to all these favorable attributes and toot our own horn, but without actions as proof our words mean nothing—perhaps, if that is the case, our lives means nothing as well. If, by our actions (not our words) others label us with these attributes then it may be we are on the right path.
Do those who truly possess these attributes fall short of the text-book definition of them? Absolutely—we all have good days and bad days. Don’t let a missed opportunity lay waste to your intent. If you miss a chance to display one of these attributes, then try again. The only time we truly fail is when we stop trying.
If we took all of our good deeds and put them on the left side of a scale and put all our bad deeds on the right side of the scale, the scale would not only tip right, but would violently roll off the right side of the table and land on the family pet. Fortunate for us, the Almighty does not grade us by our deeds, but rather sees our heart and from that vantage point, rallied together with a heaping portion of His grace, sees our worth.
Honesty, integrity, generosity and compassion should be what we strive for. Will we always succeed? Most assuredly not, but we should not let a repeated failure defines us or dissuade us from trying as many times as it takes.
Got word that a friend of mine is riding from Florida to Moonshine, IL for the Annual Moonshine Lunch Run. After eating at Moonshine he is headed back to Florida. Most are probably unfamiliar with Moonshine, IL. It is literally in the middle of nowhere and if you are not sure where it is then it is very difficult to find. It has a whopping population of 2 registered residents and a single building. In this building you can get the best burger of your life.
But Moonshine and the fact that you can get the best burger is not what I’m going to talk about—beyond what has already been mentioned.
Why would anyone ride over a thousand miles to eat a burger? Are there no burgers in Florida? Well, that’s not the point and if you fail to see the point, then much of what follows will be beyond your comprehension. It is not the destination, it’s the ride.
Writers have exhausted the thesaurus trying to find the right combinations of words to adequately describe why long distance riders do what they do. To be a long distance rider you must:
Enjoy solitude – Even when you ride in a group you ride solo.
Tolerate pain – Riding long distances, regardless of how comfortable you think your seat is, is painful.
Turn a blind eye to inclement weather – Any long distance ride will ultimately come in contact with intense heat, cold weather rain, hail, dust storms and/or high winds. Often times your ride will include many (if not all) of these climatic conditions in a single day. Ride through it and come out the other side.
Look danger in the eye – Riding is inherently dangerous. The longer you ride the higher the potential for an unwanted encounter. Live with this fact and do not let it dissuade you. You can hide in fear if you like, but by doing so you rob yourself of accomplishment.
Be not disturbed by the wrong turn – A wrong turn is nothing more than an opportunity to see something you would have otherwise missed.
Expect the unexpected – Every ride, whether short or long, often has unexpected events that may alter your plan, your day or your life. If you are not comfortable with the unexpected then long distance riding is not for you.
Enjoy the little things – I have yet to be on a ride when something did not happen that made me smile. Often it is a little thing—the look of a small child from the back seat of a car, the unexpected encounter with an old friend, the sunrise or the sunset… any of these can brighten your day and enhance the ride. The little things make it all worth it.
These and other attributes are required to be a long distance rider. If you are fearful of the unexpected, bow to intimidation, back away from discomfort then you will never understand the long distance rider. And we don’t expect you to. Words cannot define what we do and we have long since stopped trying to define what we do—we just do it.
To my fellow long distance riders. Enjoy the road, ride safe, and if you happen to pass through Moonshine on a Saturday morning, stop in and get the best burger of your life.
If you have been reading my blog you probably know I wrote a book. “Solitary – Without the Confinement.” The book went public on the 30th of January. According to the publisher (one I am quickly losing faith in—but that’s another story) the book will eventually find its way to the shelf’s of major book outlet stores like Barnes & Noble and Books-A-Million—as well as others. When I first approached the publisher about my book one of their questions was, “What type of book is it?” Meaning is it a documentary, adventure, fiction… I could not really answer their question.
They told me they would assign a “genre” when it got close to the publication date. Imagine my surprise when they categorized it as a “philosophy” book. If you know me personally then I am sure that makes you laugh as you know I am no philosopher. In fact I needed to let spell-check provide the correct spelling of philosopher.
I rolled with it in the beginning as I really didn’t think it mattered all that much, but now I think it may be a problem when it comes to book sales. I mainly wrote the book for the hard-core rider as I think only the hard-core rider will fully understand the premise of the intent. Therein lies my dilemma. First, no hard-core rider is going to go to the philosophy section of a book store to look for a book. That is not to say a rider lacks the ability to understand philosophy—I think a rider may understand it more than most. The difference is a rider (especially a hard-core rider) does not learn philosophy from a book—they learn it through life events while traveling the road less travelled. A true philosopher (by that I mean a book taught self-proclaimed philosophy guru) will buy a book and learn from reading; or rather think they learn from reading. A self-proclaimed philosopher cannot conceive of building a philosophical base from the saddle of an iron horse.
I submit building a philosophical base from the saddle of an iron horse is one of the best way to learn life’s lessons.
So, what does all that mean? I have no idea because I am not a philosopher. In fact, I’m not really sure what a philosopher is. What do they do? Is it a full time job, do they get a paycheck for their efforts?
Some will buy the book and enjoy what is between the first and last page and others will not understand. I think, I don’t know for sure, but I think if you read it and do not understand at least a little then maybe there is something missing—something you need to try and find. Of course there is the opinion that I’m a lousy writer and the thing missing is writing skill.
Not sure why I wrote this blog. It really has no point to it. If I were a philosopher I could write pages and pages on the purpose of a point and the lack thereof. But I’m not, so I won’t. When a philosopher speaks all stop to listen. When I speak people look at me funny and start to giggle. It’s true I can speak to a bunch of dogs and get their undivided attention… but that might have something to do with the bacon I carry around in my pocket.
I was going to add some quotes from famous philosophers but had no idea what they were talking about. I was afraid someone might ask me what their quotes meant which, if I tried to explain, would result in the suspicion of my lack of intelligence being removed and replaced with an assurance.
Tomorrow (February 27th) I turn 60 years old. I’m told that is a milestone. A milestone tells you where you are in relation to where you want to be or where you have come from. At the age of 20 (just prior to another milestone, which I’m told is age 21) I had already spent 3 years in the military and had no clue what I would do with my life. I never expected, based on how my life was at the time, to reach the next milestone—that being the age of 30.
Obviously I reach the 30 year mark and must say the span of the 30 years between then and now went way too fast. Given the facts I know now I would have to admit I have wasted much of my 60 years on things that were important at the time, but now mean little if anything. It’s a shame we are not born with wisdom.
A few days ago I was at a restaurant and learned our waitress had just turned 18 years old. I complemented her (and envied her) that her adventure was just beginning. Her response was, “yea, that’s what I’ve been told” and her tone led me to believe her attitude toward my comment was dubious at best. I thought of trying to enlighten her with the wisdom I had learned that life as a high school teenager is no comparison to what life will be and what your life will be is based on what you do and how you go about doing it—truly her adventure is just beginning. I decided to keep quiet as I recall as a teenager other super old people telling me the same thing and it did nothing but irritate me—how could they possibly know anything about it. I’m not so sure wisdom can be shared. You can try and share it and perhaps some take root, but I think it depends on the recipient. The vast majority of acquired wisdom comes from experience. What’s that old saying” “Good judgment comes from experience and experience comes from bad judgment” or something like that.
Mistakes, regrets, errors and missed opportunities plague my past. All these infractions are what gives us wisdom—so long as we realize our mistake and learn from them so that the next time the opportunity presents itself you do not add to your list of regrets.
Tomorrow I turn 60. Not sure what that means because it is not like there is a significant change in who I am. However, if, on the day I turn 60 I am able to adequately apply some of the wisdom I have gained over the past 59 years then it will be a good day.
I’ve gained all this wisdom, but too tired to use it.
If you have not yet heard that I have a published book then I am not surprised because I do not really know how to self-promote my book. I have a Facebook page specific to my book and I even have a few followers, but I suspect they followed for no other reason than the entertainment value of watching me flounder. I’ve added a page to my personal website (www.stevebriscoe.net) about the book, but again, the numbers of people who visit my website over a period of a week has yet to go past double digits-more often than not the daily number of visitors are all single digit hits. I’m thinking people who actually hit my website are looking for either the actor or artist who go by the same name.
I’ve never been a “limelight” guy so for me to step out and shout my name to strangers is nowhere in my character—prefer instead to stand in the shadows and watch others shout; it’s more entertaining.
I’m not an overly educated man. My 4th grade education comes in handy from time to time but it has its limitations. I can’t write a paragraph without having to stop and do a google search on a word to make sure it means what I think it means. Case in point; I looked up the word limelight to make sure I was spelling it correctly. Imagine my surprise when I learned the origin of the word came from the light that came from a lime filled cylinder after applying some heat—used mainly in theaters back in the day.
So, how would a person self-promote when the only available tools stem from a 4th grade education and a desire to accomplish things while residing in the shadows? Therein lies the dilemma.
Some have taken the time to write a review of the book on Amazon and others have made comments on Facebook and those comments are greatly appreciated. But how do I let the world know that the greatest book (OK, maybe the second greatest book) is available and that this grand opportunity should not be missed? I’ve thought about sending a copy to The Five on Fox News but how would I know it was not thrown into the trash can with all the other books mailed to them. I’ve thought about writing a review of my book and sign it Stephen King, but what would happen if Mr King took exception to the inappropriate use of his name. I might be the topic of his next horror novel. I could be the guy who buys a possessed vintage car that can start fires on a whim while running away from the Walkin’ Dude and end up getting buried in a pet cemetery after being humiliated at the high school prom—suspect I would not like that, but at least I would be famous.
Any suggestions on how to self-promote while hanging in the shadows would be helpful.
Not sure I can isolate my first memory of my grandparents. I can say all the memories I have of them bring a warmth to my heart that can only be described as… well, I’m not sure there is a word that can describe it. Any bad memory I have, that is associated with my grandparents, stem from my own actions; certainly not theirs. I am ashamed to admit I lost the opportunity to create memories with them on a regular basis. As I got older (by “older” I refer to the expanse of my teen years) I thought time spent with them was a waste and better spent doing childish things. It did not become clear to me how wrong I was until much later and sadly after they had left this life. There was so very much I could have learned from them had I been mature enough to realize what stood before me.
My Grandparents – Lilly & Dale Butt
As a child my Mother would take us to visit her parents on a regular basis—often times spending the whole weekend with them. Also, during the summer, each of us would stay a week alone with them. During all of those visits I do not remember my grandparents saying anything bad about anyone. My grandmother’s favorite saying (or at least I believe it was her favorite) was, “If you can’t say anything good about someone then don’t say anything at all.” I can remember only one time when my grandmother was angry with me and she had every right to be angry—maybe more on that. Or maybe not as I am still ashamed of what I did.
My grandparents were in constant motion. My grandmother had a small garden in the front yard and if she was not in the kitchen canning fruit or in the living room sewing she was in that garden. My grandfather was the same way. I do not recall how many acres he had, but he worked them all daily and did so with an old tractor. He had cows to milk and pigs to tend to and more chickens than one child could count—I tried a number of times but could never get them to line up properly.
I recall a batch of piglets my grandma had and assume they were a litter from one of the sows in the large pig pen behind the house. I do not recall how many there were but do recall at night they would wake me up as their tiny feet pattered across the wood floor to get closer to the heat stove in the living room—yes, she kept them in the house due to the harsh winter cold of the midwest.
This wood stove heated the majority of the house.
On one particular morning I walked from the living room toward the kitchen and saw grandma carrying one of the piglets out and it was obvious to me the pig had died during the night. I asked her, “Is it dead?” She nodded her head and said “yes.” I recall feeling bad for the little pig but do not recall it making me feel so bad that I cried—not sure how old I was, but I was quite young. The cold hard facts did not become clear to me until much later in life as I recalled that incident. The death of that little pig probably equated to a month’s worth of income. Certainly had that pig lived then life that year would have been at least a bit better. Life on that farm was hard I’m sure.
I think my grandfather tolerated me as I followed him around the farm—watching and wanting to help. I’m sure I was more trouble than I was worth. I recall helping him replace a corner post on the fence that surrounded my grandmother’s garden. I don’t recall who, but someone backed into it then sped off. Actually, I think I do remember, I just don’t want to throw anyone under the bus. I helped him set it up straight and recall pounding in the nails to get the pig fence back in an acceptably secure position. That memory stuck with me for a long time. All the while thinking I had been a big help that day. Many years later, perhaps in the late ‘90s I was driving down Route 121 between Sullivan and Bethany and decided to stop by the old property. Of course the house, shed and barns were long since gone. I walked around a bit and reminisced and envisioned where the shed was, how the house was angled on the property and where the barns were. I tried to find the fresh water spring that seeped from the side of the hill that was a perpetual supply of fresh water for the horse trough—but I never found it. I also plotted where grandma’s garden had been. It was then I spied the remnants of a broken down old pig fence and there, in the corner of that remembered piece of ground, was a post laying on its side. I walked over and picked it up and saw an assortment of old nails half pounded in and all crooked—so much for being a great help that day. With my mind’s eye I envisioned the look on my grandfather’s face as I pounded those nails in. I’m sure he was amused and in fact I was amused with what my mind conjured up as the expression on his face. I dislodged the post from the rusted remnants of the pig fence and threw it in the trunk of my car. That post still holds a prominent space at my house. As a continued to walk around the property I found an old rusted horse shoe—which resides today with that post.
I recall waking up early one morning and seeing my grandfather sitting in his chair—but will hold onto that memory for a bit. Perhaps I will divulge that memory later, but more likely than not if you want to hear this particular memory you’ll have to read my book, “Solitary—Without the Confinement.” I also recall the 6:00am train that woke us up almost every morning with the smell of coal. Even today when I smell coal burning I feel a sense of security and safe haven; as if nothing can harm me.
When privileged enough to spend the week with them during the summer I recall going with my grandmother to the market. Someone would come by and pick us up because grandma didn’t drive. We would hit the grocery store then the meat market and maybe one or two other shops—this was before the days of the Super-Wal-Mart. I knew, before we headed home, we would stop and she would buy me an ice-cream cone. Again, it did not dawn on me until much later that she could not afford to buy me an ice-cream cone, but she did anyway.
I recall two oval pictures hanging in the living room and I believe they were of my grandfather’s parents. I often wonder what happened to those pictures. I do have a picture that I believe is a portrait of either my grandmother’s parents or perhaps my grandfather’s; not sure which. Who we are, at least in part, is molded by those who pass before us. By their actions my grandparents tried to show me the right way to live my life. I thank them for that and one of my regrets is I did not thank them in person when I had the chance.
My grandfather with my oldest sister and not sure who the other baby is.
The more I think on this the more recollections break free of my obscured memory. Memories of my grandparents filter through my mind like a mist. Some memories are very clear and others are faint and hard to discern. I suspect some memories are patched together based on multiple memories mixed together. My grandparent’s farm was a perfect example of a menagerie and included pigs, horses, cows, dogs, cats, chickens and pretty much any other animal that might be associated with a farm.
As children we would go to the pasture and stand on the end of the wagon and wait. After a bit ol’ Red would wonder by and stop at the end of the wagon and let one of us climb on. Red would walk around the pasture once or twice then return to the corner of the wagon to let the next child ride. Red would continue to do this as long as there was a kid waiting on the corner of the wagon.
Anyone who knew my Grandparents knew who Ol’ Red was.
I recall a particularly rainy Saturday afternoon when grandpa led one of his ponies into the enclosed front entry of the house. Of course we kids were ecstatic about having a horse in the house but grandma was not amused. Exasperated or not grandma allowed it because it brought such joy to the grandkids. Grandma may have given grandpa an ear full after we left but I really doubt that happened. I think grandpa enjoyed the fact that he excited the grandkids and I suspect grandma felt the same way.
I tihnk there was a side to my Grandpa I was too young to understand. He apparently enjoyed the little things of life as seen by this picture when grandpa put a dog in the saddle.
As a very small child I was climbing around on an old rusted combine in the pasture. I suspect in my mind I was scaling a large mountain trying to reach the cold rigid peak. Being so enthralled with my adventure I did not see the multitude of cows who decided to congregate around the base of the combine. As a small child I was rather frightened of cows—I saw them as mean animals. Sometime prior to this I saw one of the cows in the barn step back and squash the head of a small feral cat … that head was squashed as flat as a penny. The cow could not have cared less about that poor little cat or the artistic design of a flattened kitty-cat head. If a cow could squash the head of a cat then go about eating as if nothing was wrong it made perfect sense to me that a cow would take great pleasure in squashing my little head. Long story short—I was afraid to come down from the combine. I’m not real sure, but I think I may have conjured up enough courage to pee on one of them from my secure position—I might have made that part up but my memory tells me it happened. I do not recall the exact amount of time but memory tells me I spent three or four days up on that combine waiting for those cows to leave. Perhaps my memory is not all that clear about this particular bit of the story—might have been up there for an hour or so before grandpa saw my predicament and climbed the great mountain to rescue me.
Pigs and chickens were a different story. We would chase the chickens and try to ride the pigs—emphasis on try. We would stand on the fence and wait for a pig to venture into our trap and once they were close enough we would jump off the fence, pounce onto the back of the unfortunate pig, and ride it for as long as we could. I do not think we ever reached the rumored eight second requirement prevalent in rodeos, but we tried many, many times. Grandpa would stand by the fence, gesture with his hand and shout, “you darn fool kids are gonna break your neck” but laugh out loud and pound on the fence as he watched the mayhem.
I recall grandpa hitching up the wagon to the horse and allow us to lead the horse around just like those cowboys on TV. I do not believe we ever got the talent of leading a horse to any level of efficiency. In fact I recall my youngest brother Tim being flipped out the right side of the wagon as the wagon wheel hit a large tractor tire at the edge of the lane. Not sure which one of us got a spanking over that one but I suspect someone did and it would be anyone’s guess if the recipient of the administered punishment was actually the one steering the wagon. I guess, if the truth were told, we all got a quick swat after which we all scurried off to enter into other forms of mischief.
My grandpa’s skill at ringing the neck of a chicken was legendary in the region. He would reach down, snatch up a chicken, and in less than two shakes of his hand the chicken was dancing headless on the ground—that chicken didn’t see it coming. On the flip side of that story we see me chasing a chicken for what seemed like hours and once I had one in my grip I would shake that poor chicken by the head like a mad man putting out a fire. The chicken would always get away and run off never knowing what it had done to deserve such treatment. I’m sure my attempts at imitating Colonel Sanders were an amusement to both grandma and grandpa.
My grandma or my mom would take the headless body of the chicken—the product of my grandfather’s execution—and dip it into boiling water. It was the job of any adolesent in the area to pluck all the feathers and get the convicted chicken ready for dismemberment. Execute a defenseless chicken, watch it dance headless until all the blood spurted out, dunk it in scalding water, pluck the poor thing of its feathers, hack and dismember it into pieces and … well, what better way to get ready for a nice Sunday afternoon family dinner.
A little ways down the road was a creek that winded its way east and west through their farm. I’m sure it has a name but it eludes me. It had on old rickety bridge that announced anyone approaching from the north. I would go there to skip stones and try my hand at cane pole fishing—I don’t think I ever caught anything. Back then a child could wander around the country side and not have to worry about that car approaching. The occupants of the car were likely gracious and wonderful people just like my grandparents.
On farther down the road and west a mile or so was an old cemetery—Mitchell Cemetery I think it was called. I found wonder in looking at the old stones and trying to make out the dates. Many of the stones marked the passing of people over a hundred years prior. I wondered who they were at the time but lacking the ability at that young age I did not ponder who they were. All those people buried there were sons, daughters, parents and probably grandparents as well. Perhaps in a hundred years or so some child will stumble across the Oak Grove Cemetery and wonder who those two were with the stone depicting a white and black horse pulling a plow. I’m here to tell you they were wonderful people who toiled through life to sustain their family. They suffered loss and basked in the joy of God’s grace. They felt the pride as well as the sorrow of sending a son to fight a war in Europe and thanked God for his return—a war hero in the eyes of many. Who raised their children during the depression of the ‘30s and lived the life of a grandparent—a grandparent any grandchild would be honored to love.
My Mom as a young girl stand in the center of her Brothers
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty: Master Sergeant Woodrow W. Keeble distinguished himself by acts of gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty in action with an armed enemy near Sangsan-ni, Korea, on October 20, 1951. On that day, Master Sergeant Keeble was an acting platoon leader for the support platoon in Company G, 19th Infantry, in the attack on Hill 765, a steep and rugged position that was well defended by the enemy. Leading the support platoon, Master Sergeant Keeble saw that the attacking elements had become pinned down on the slope by heavy enemy fire from three well-fortified and strategically placed enemy positions. With complete disregard for his personal safety, Master Sergeant Keeble dashed forward and joined the pinned-down platoon. Then, hugging the ground, Master Sergeant Keeble crawled forward alone until he was in close proximity to one of the hostile machine-gun emplacements. Ignoring the heavy fire that the crew trained on him, Master Sergeant Keeble activated a grenade and threw it with great accuracy, successfully destroying the position. Continuing his one-man assault, he moved to the second enemy position and destroyed it with another grenade. Despite the fact that the enemy troops were now directing their firepower against him and unleashing a shower of grenades in a frantic attempt to stop his advance, he moved forward against the third hostile emplacement, and skillfully neutralized the remaining enemy position. As his comrades moved forward to join him, Master Sergeant Keeble continued to direct accurate fire against nearby trenches, inflicting heavy casualties on the enemy. Inspired by his courage, Company G successfully moved forward and seized its important objective. The extraordinary courage, selfless service, and devotion to duty displayed that day by Master Sergeant Keeble was an inspiration to all around him and reflected great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.
That is how the Medal of Honor Citation read for Woodrow W. Keeble that was presented to his family 26 years after MSG Keeble’s death. During his service during WWII and the Korean War MSG Keeble was awarded two Silver Stars, four purple Hearts and two Bronze Stars (with “V” Device).
There is much that can be written about this man—his honor, his integrity and his selfless service. I think it can all be summed up by three things he said after returning home:
“Before I experienced the horror of that attack, I was quick to call coward or yellow anyone who showed fear under any circumstances. Nevermore. I don’t know these things, but they speak truth to one. I am not a psychologist, nor a statistician, and less of a philosopher; but the depth of emotion, the dreads of fear, the referees of horrors, and the concentration of self that led me to make this observation, the fear impulse, or perhaps, better said, the (impulses caused) by fear, are stronger, more demanding than either that of love or hunger…”
“Fear in my opinion is a state of drunkenness. And when men are in that state when the fear impulse takes a hold…he loses all reason, sense of values, and is not liable, or at least should not be held accountable for acts perpetrated when thus possessed.”
The aftermath of combat operations on Guadalcanal
“During the 13 months (in the) almost continual and sustained combat in which I have ever participated, there were moments, and rare ones, I am sure; but they lose none of their terror or horror for which fear laid a relentless and a powerful hold on me, that the pull of cowardice was almost more than I could ward off. There were terrible moments that encompassed a lifetime, an endlessness, when terror was so strong in me, that I could feel idiocy replace reason. (Yet,) I have never left my position, nor have I shirked hazardous duty. Fear did not make a coward out of me.”
Keeble returned to North Dakota after the Korean War and worked at the Wahpeton Indian School (later named Circle of Nations Wahpeton Indian School) located in Wahpeton, ND. Soon after, he was afflicted with tuberculosis, which required that he undergo long-term treatment in Minnesota. Surgeons ultimately removed one of his lungs, which triggered a series of strokes that rendered him speechless, partially paralyzed and unable to work for the remainder of his life.
Keeble fell on hard times and is said to have pawned his service medals. Nevertheless, and despite his disabilities, Keeble persevered. Those that knew him and members of his family proclaim he never lost the level of integrity, honor and selfless service that sustained him during vicious combat operations in WWII and Korea.
The Medal of Honor, well deserved on the day of the incident, was not given until 26 years after his death. Since then there have been many other honors bestowed on MSG Keeble—but not near enough. What can we, as individuals, do to honor his life—and for that matter—the lives of every other honorable person we know? The answer is easy. Imitate them. Live your life firmly grounded in honor, integrity, compassion and wisdom.
Woodrow W. Keeble died January 28th, 1982 and is buried in Sisseton, South Dakota. This short blog is but a small portion outlining the life led by MSG Keeble. His accomplishments and his demons are many.
One hundred and twenty four years ago today (DEC 29th 1890) 150 Native Americans were shot dead at Wounded Knee. Some historians estimate the number killed at twice that amount. There is little debate over the fact that regardless of the number of dead, over half were women and children. The event was originally referred to as a battle but in reality, it was a tragic and avoidable massacre. Two weeks prior to this an arrest of Sitting Bull ended in his death leading many Native Americans to believe it was an execution rather than an arrest.
During the late 1880s and into the 1890s the Native Americans believed they had been defeated and confined to the reservations because they had angered the gods—this due to an abandonment of their traditional ways. It was believed a return to their traditional ways would create a new world where all non-believers (as well as non-Indians) would be destroyed. Many Sioux believed the Ghost Dance would bring about this new world. The Ghost Dance worried the US Government which lead to the “arrest” of Sitting Bull, the Sioux Chief who they mistakenly believed was the main instigator of the Ghost Dance.
On December 29th, 1890 the US 7th Cavalry surrounded the weak and predominantly unarmed Sioux. An order was given for all Indians to turn over their weapons. It is unclear who fired the first shot, but the discharge of the first round was quickly followed by a barrage of rifle-fire from the soldiers of the 7th Cavalry.
The now iconic photograph of the frozen body of Chief Spotted Elk at Wounded Knee.
It is prudent to believe that the 1st shot was not fired by a Native American. A number of assumptions can be called upon to sustain this belief. The Indians were mostly unarmed and they had to know any adverse action would result in what transpired. It can also be surmised the Native Americans were all too weak to put up much of a fight since they had been living with no shelter or food for a number days in the very cold harshness of winter in South Dakota. It is hard to believe that this band of Indians—under Chief Big Foot after Sitting Bull’s death—would have intentionally started a fight. Many speculate the 7th Cavalry’s action was deliberate—retaliation and revenge for the regiment’s defeat at the Little Bighorn.
History is written by the victors and regardless of which version you believe it is worth noting the plight of the Native American continues today. If we fail to acknowledge this present day fact we are doomed to relive it and guilty of this continued atrocity.
This is a very short and only slightly detailed bit of history. I highly recommend you read the book, “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee” written by Dee Brown.
I was reading a lesson plan on blogging today. I think I like blogging (not sure why) so if I plan to do this right I decided I needed to learn from the pros. I must admit I have lived my life with the philosophy of, “reading the manual is a sign of weakness” and more often than not the un-instructed result showed me the errors of that mind-set.
Anyway, one of the exercises outlined in this training guide directed that I write for 20 minutes with no focus, just write. The rules outlined were:
1 – Write with no focus
2 – Don’t cross out anything you wrote
3 – Don’t worry about grammar, spelling or punctuation
4 – Lose control
5 – Don’t think
6 – Don’t get logical
7 – Don’t worry if something may be offense
I reviewed these seven basic rules and came to the conclusion, “This is how I write now; I don’t need to practice writing this way.” I was told to do this every day for a week—seriously? Who has 20 minutes to spare during the day? I may have some spare time on occasion, but everyday… probably not. I guess that is kind of a lie. I could make time, but if I did that I would miss out on watching re-runs of Justified and NCIS.
I was then told to post the gibberish I wrote. Like that’s going to happen. If I immediately posted what I wrote the few followers I do have would drop my like an Ebola invested hamburger. As a rule I will write, then re-write 5 or 6 times before it gets posted and even then I’ll get a quick post from my wife pointing out a mistake; usually a misspelled or ill-used word.
The learning pamphlet provided some generic topics to write about. Ideas ranged from cooking to programming or things that happened today. My expertise in cooking does not go far beyond that which requires a toaster. If I want to get exotic with my cooking I pull out the Hot-Pockets and put them in the oven. Programming? We won’t go there. My days are, for the most part, boring. I would not want to read the boring details of someone’s life, so feel it only kind that I not bore others with mine.
I write because it relieves stress. There are other methods to deal with stress but apparently shooting at people is against the law. I guess there is another reason. It is not like I want to go public with my thoughts. I consider myself a private person. But, if a person wanted to know who Steve Briscoe is they can get a good idea by reading what goes through my mind. Consider yourself fortunate that I do not write everything that goes through my mind—it gets kinda weird in there sometimes.
When I started this blog I made a commitment to myself to blog at least once a week and preferably once a day. Well, the once-a-day thing fell to the wayside rather quickly for obvious reasons—who has time to blog daily? If you blog daily I will assume you do not have a day job that also interferes with the daily duties that come with other self-imposed projects. My self-imposed projects include my involvement with the Hoka Hey Motorcycle Challenge, work I bring home, reading and TV—as well as the ever-present “honey-do” list. I love watching TV. I used to tell myself I was not a TV addict, but I think I am. I love old movies and I thoroughly enjoy watching a good action movie and the suspenseful intrigue of a “who-done-it” crime show. To prove a point—if I were to take a week off from work and do nothing but watch every episode of every season of “24” I would not consider the time wasted.
I also have a 1946 Dodge pickup truck that I am restoring—but haven’t started that project yet so really can’t add that to the list of distracters; yet.
Most of the things I want to write about are the thoughts that roll through my head—especially those thoughts that fill my mind while I ride. But I can’t do that. I can’t do that because most of the more prevalent thoughts are outlined in my book “Solitary—Without the Confinement” and I do not want to put them here. At least not yet. I want to wait until the book is published then expound on those thoughts once the book has been in the public for a while. Who would want to buy the book if they can read it here for free?
I know I will never sell enough books to get rich (and that was never the intent) but I would like to sell enough to make my money back. As a side note, I plan to write a blog about my publishing experience as some of it was good and some of it was bad—and it was all expensive. If I “break even” on sales I will consider the project a stellar success. Actually, breaking even has never been my objective either, since I am not confident enough in my abilities to warrant a sale of over 4,000 copies—Stephen King I’m not. In fact, based on an educated guess, I will need to sell 10,000 copies to break even.
Please consider this particular narrative as a two-pronged plea. One—is to ask those select few who follow my blog to continue to do so because it will get better. Two—this is a plea to buy my book. I think you will be pleased with it and will not consider the money spent as wasted.
“Solitary” has completed the editing phase and is currently in the design phase. I anticipate the book hitting the streets before the 1st of February, but I’m guessing since this is my first published book I am really unsure of the time-line. If you like adventure, if you like facing insurmountable odds, if you take pleasure in facing an obstacle where failure is a distinct possibility, then you will love “Solitary—Without the Confinement.”
Ain’t but two things to do while riding. Think and look for State Troopers.
I would like to ask a favor. If you read my blog and find the narratives worthwhile please tell your friends and share on Facebook. I figure the more exposure this blog gets the better my odds are of selling books.
