Tag Archives: History

Armistice Day 2024

Over the course of the last 100 years, Armistice Day evolved (things evolve, it’s okay) into the November 11 day that is called Veterans Day. I really do enjoy re-centering Veterans Day by returning to the sort of pieces of the past that pulls from its origins as Armistice Day. Earlier today, I texted this to a friend:

…the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, the machine guns fell silent and the cease fire was put into place. The geopolitical axes would continue to grind against the sharpening wheel, as the ‘surrender’ terms were too intense and could never have been accepted by the German-speaking people. The Austro-Hungarian Empire had imploded. In its wake, all sorts of nations emerged, and with that ethnicities that started asserting themselves as having the “birthright” origins of those nations. “No, my people were here first. Here’s a history that proves it.” All kinds of insanity like that. This also gave rise to internal political infighting, creating a power vacuum that allowed for the rise of insane political groups.

The above is where my mind drifts on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. It was the Great War (there wasn’t supposed to be a second Great War, just the First).

Of the First World War, one rather particularly good monograph (and recent) that I’ve gotten into the first couple introductory pages is John Connelly, From Peoples Into Nations: A History of Eastern Europe (Princeton University Press, 2020).

An excerpt below:

“War broke out in Europe in 1914 because of a deed carried out in the name of a people no one had previously heard of. That June, after years of internecine turmoil and armed conflict in southeastern Europe, a Bosnian Serb named Gavrilo Princip shot and killed Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Habsburg throne, in Sarajevo. The assassin said he was acting to defend the interests of the Yugoslavs, or South Slavs, who were seeking independence from the Austro-Hungarian monarchy.”

Connelly pulls the reader paragraph after paragraph through the decades following 1914:

“When the war ended in 1918, statesmen and revolutionary activists made a new Europe, drawing on the impulse that had taken hold of Gavrilo Princip and his friends: that peoples should govern themselves. Clothed in the words of national self-determination, this impulse was raised as a high political standard by both Bolshevik leader Vladimir I. Lenin and US President Woodrow Wilson, denoting socialism for the first, liberal democracy for the second.”

Ideological lines, whether they existed in reality or not, were drawn in the geopolitical sand. Here’s another zinger from Connelly:

“…nationalists are no more resistant to understanding than any other actors in history. They are guided by motives that are open to reconstruction and analysis. What seemed rational to one side of the nationality dispute usually seemed irrational to the other, and in fact their deeds confound any attempt to divide reason from unreason. Take Gavrilo Princip. On one hand, his act is easy to understand. When Austrian authorities apprehended him, he said he knew ‘what was happening in the villages.’ Thanks to education provided by the Austrian regime, which had ruled Bosnia since 1878, he knew that Austria had done little to alter traditional patterns in the countryside according to which poor Christian sharecroppers — like his parents — worked on properties owned by Muslims and were condemned to second-class lives. He was one of nine children, but five of his siblings had died in infancy. His father worked several jobs, one of which was lugging heavy bundles of mail up and down mountains, even at an advanced age.”

It just goes on and on like this, unpacking the late 1910s until he pulls us up into the 1970s. Get Connelly’s book on your shelf. Or in your local library shelf. Each reader gets to kind of tease out how to bring it from the 1970s into the 2020s.

During Armistice Day, my brain also (invariably) wanders toward The Pogues rendition of “Waltzing Matilda.” It poetically unpacks the global scope of the Great War. Lyrics of it all below:

“When I was a young man I carried my pack
And I lived the free life of a rover
From the murrays green basin to the dusty outback
I waltzed my matilda all over
Then in nineteen fifteen my country said son
It’s time to stop rambling ’cause there’s work to be
Done
So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun
And they sent me away to the war
And the band played Waltzing Matilda
As we sailed away from the quay
And amidst all the tears and the shouts and the
Cheers
We sailed off to Gallipoli…”


Clellification for Halloween, 2024

I’m currently working on a project with Bill Caraher who is the pilot of The Digital Press at University of North Dakota. For a year, or beyond a year now, Caraher and I have been thinking about Clell Gannon, and Gannon’s 1924 publication, Songs of the Bunch Grass Acres (SoBGA). I’m working on revisions from a first draft submitted to The Digital Press, and after letting editorial comments sit with me for a while, I have decided to recalibrate a bit of the original narrative. Like it is the case with many texts, the more you read, revisit, and think about SoBGA, the more the text starts speaking to the reader in different ways. The recalibration of the first draft will look something like this:

  1. Clell Gannon intellectually situates (indirectly and directly) his 1924 SoBGA into the current of Romanticism. And not the romanticism that you’re thinking about. Like he’s not poeming (poem is now a verb) the reader to go pick flowers and let your feelings rather than your brain dictate your moment to moment actions. Rather, in the original intellectual vein of Romanticism (which was a counter balance to the, ahem, Enlightenment), he’s saying (I’m paraphrasing here), Hey, this northern plains and Great Plains and Western Americana place we all live in: this place is completely worth living in. And not only is it worth living it, it deserves our contemplation, and this place is deserving of a sustained relationship with us.
  2. Who else did Clell Gannon roll with at this time? He was a mover and shaker. Also one who was a joy to be around. Thoughtful. And nothing that is in his writings, or others who have written about him, suggests he was a chest thumper. He was friends with Russell Reid and George Will (son of Oscar Will and his vegetable seed empire). The same Russell Reid who acted as secretary of the State Historical Society of North Dakota for decades: when it evolved from the basement of one of the buildings on the State Capitol Grounds eventually to the building that today houses the State Library. Clell would likely lose his mind (in a good way) if he saw the geothermal-heated footprint of today’s State Historical Society of North Dakota, and in-motion expansion of the Military Wing.
    • Clell was unable to physically make the requirements to be mustered into World War I. I do wonder what contributions he might suggest for interpretive exhibits in the 21st military wing following the Great War of the 20th century? Might they have read something along the lines of what Willa Cather spoke of in 1922? “…the world broke in two in 1922 or thereabouts…” In 1922, Cather had seen veterans return from the Great War, and as returned veterans, they were told (not even really told) to navigate the ascent of the industrial capitalistic roaring 20s.
  3. In conversations with Shadd Piehl (ahem, recognized poet of the American West, cowboy poet, teacher, listener, encourager of the written and spoken word, and former bronc rider, etc), Piehl noted that Clell reminded him of the poem American Names that Stephen Vincent Benét set down in 1927, or 3 years after publication of SoBGA. So the revisions of this draft will take into greater account a couple other datum points, including Willa Cather and Stephen Vincent Benét.
  4. Clell Gannon’s introduction (very short) of SoBGA is good.
    • In the first paragraph he sets out his flag of love of regional place. Not nationalistic love. But of the regions within this nation: northern plains. Great Plains. American West.
    • The second paragraph is on about poetic structure, meter to be exact, and with a sampling of how a west of the Mississippi River person pronounces “coyote”: say ki’ot, Clell instructs, as two syllables. Don’t get all sophisticated and say “ki’ot’eee.” Don’t do that. Nobody would ever do that. Use two syllables to say coyote, and the meter of the poems will flow.
    • The third paragraph calls out Florence Harriet Davis, librarian in 1924 of what would have been the beautiful Carnegie Library in Bismarck (it was completely razed in the 1970s or 1960s for progress. Poetically, a parking ramp is located there today.). Who is Florence? In a word search in the Library of Congress searchable newspaper database, she surfaces here and there in Bismarck Tribune articles.
    • Clell’s final poem in SoBGA is to Hazel Dell Gannon, who at 17 years old passed away in what Clell describes as Grand Valley, South Dakota. Maybe she was preparing to attend teachers college? Or something? I Google’d Grand Valley, and the closest thing that surfaces is place names in Lincoln County, southeastern South Dakota.
    • Clell signs off on his short introduction with “Bismarck-by-the-river, North Dakota.” Today, in 2024, this is another great reminder to readers to recenter their view of North Dakota’s capital city as one that is a river city as well. Clell understood the importance of the Missouri River to the early history of the region and, eventually, to the state.

Okay, that’s all the Clell-ification I have for the moment. Gotta get after the other items for this Thörsdag, October 31, 2024, Halloween Day (the pumpkins were carved last night).


Landscape Memory of Dill: Baltic Sea and Central North America

This early morning, while in the kitchen, I was cutting the leafy hats off the strawberries (jordgubbar) to make a larger bowl for the family breakfast (frukost). I opened the little lid to the compost Tupperware vessel we keep on the countertop. Once open, a waft of dill ran up my nose and into my brain, activating my mental hard drive.

I was at once in farmor’s kitchen. She was standing at the sink, back always to us as all single filed through the entry door opposite of the kitchen that led us past and into the efficient dining area. “Hello!” she would greet us with, smiling.

I text messaged this memory to a couple friends, one living in the desert southwest. And another who spends time in the Atlantic World, a large chunk along the eastern Baltic Sea and the United States.

The latter texted me back, noting how the Baltic Sea area is replete with dill and the landscape. Lots of dill on new/small potatoes and herring.

Dill. Ancient Mediterraneans noted how rosemary was and remains an herb of memory. But so is dill, the memory herb of the steppes, the Baltic Sea, and central North America.

A photo below of the dill growing in our own backyard garden. This dill was a starter early this season from Forager Farm. It has produced many delicious cold potato salads and cucumber salads already this summer.


Meditations Between 1st and 2nd Sleeps

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Mow Backyard Memories

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Second Wave Established – 1920s Great Plains

Yesterday (03/07/2024) on the social media platform Facebook, the Herodotus of the Great Plains, Professor Tom Isern, posted a note of and a link to Willa Cather’s 1923 essay in The Nation called, “NEBRASKA: The End of the First Cycle” (The Nation, 117, September 5, 1923: 236-238). Recapturing Isern’s post here, he said,

“Cather’s 1923 essay is a redefinition of the Great Plains historical identity. Writers such as Owen Wister despised immigrants. Walter Prescott Webb set them no place at the table. Great Plains history was being written by Anglo-Americans, and they owned it. Well, Cather flipped that scenario. She gave immigrants not just a place, but the place of honor. They are the best of us, Cather argues. This she says based on her personal experience and acquaintances; the immigrant presence infuses her Nebraska novels. Literature matters. Cather’s 1923 essay is required reading in my NDSU course on the Great Plains.”

Some more notes on that are below from Isern’s prompt above:

This 1923 essay got me thinking about the larger regionalist movements during this period that are sometimes book-ended (handily) by the two big ones in the first half of the 20th century (WWI and WWII). It seems like if you’re alive, reading this or anything today, props to your ancestors for figuring out how to survive the first half of the twentieth century. And that’s after their ancestors figured out how to navigate the long nineteenth century prior.

Of the 1923 essay, Cather’s following statement smacks thematically of Clell Gannon who, also in the 1920s, asserted his own version of northern plains historical identity into the soil. This phrase by Cather, here:

“When I stop at one of the graveyards in my own county, and see on the headstones the names of fine old men I used to know: ‘Eric Ericson, born Bergen, Norway . . . died Nebraska,’ ‘Anton Pucelik, born Prague, Bohemia . . . died Nebraska,’ I have always the hope that something went into the ground with those pioneers that will one day come out again. Something that will come out not only in sturdy traits of character, but in elasticity of mind, in an honest attitude toward the realities of life, in certain qualities of feeling and imagination.”

Willa Cather, The Nation, 1923

Clell Gannon was doing this sort of literature, art, and history place-making (I have heard the phrase “place esteem,” too) just a couple chess moves north on the northern plains. Either by way of his boat ride with George Will and Russell Reid down the Little Missouri River then the Missouri River (from Medora to Bismarck) in 1925. Or by way of his interior mural paintings in the Art Deco Burleigh County Courthouse in Bismarck, North Dakota. And other such elements.

Another thought from this 1923 essay by Cather is this: we (historians and those consumers of history) are in need of much more research and narrative building with how tribal citizens used their own agency to navigate these decades from the 1910s, 1920s, 1930s and 1940s — really the tinder and prologue to the needed American Indian Movement of the 1960s. Today, Phil Deloria is carving out published research and narrative from this era. In the 1910s and 1920s, Anglo-American historians often overlooked or didn’t include (all but with a sentence or a subordinate clause) Native America in its infinite dynamism during this period. If you get closer to the regions where the regionalists operate, though, Anglo Americans such as Aaron McGaffey Beede start emerging from the research.

In broad brush strokes, Beede advocated for his Anglo-American readership to 1) stop talking (what a concept) and; 2) start listening to and learning the Lakota language. I don’t have the verbatim quote in front of me, but from memory Beede says things to the effect of this: if you want to witness the divine amongst the Lakota, then stop and deliberately learn their language. Once you learn the language, you will hear the creator within that language.


The Bunny and the Egg

It is Easter Sunday, which means over the last couple days I have been eating chocolate eggs and chatting with friends over the best ways and methods to prepare and eat PEEPs (some friends prefer the dry age PEEP, as it changes the resistance a bit). This afternoon friends and family will gather so we can grill (with cowboy charcoal) the t-bone steaks and chicken. Holidays are good and important that way: gives us all another reason to get together.

I caught this NPR piece on the etymology of Easter, the name. It comes from a northern European goddess, Eostra, who was an annual pathfinder for fertility and spring — life, as it is also called. The article mentions the Venerable Bede, and it has been a while since I read any Bede. About a decade to be precise. Bede was one of the many books in my graduate historiography (the history of history) seminar at the University of North Dakota-Grand Forks. We read Bede’s Ecclesiastical history of England, stories about the troubled world of Northumbria from the 5th to the 8th centuries. Those Vikings continued making inroads and eventual settlements in England. As our common narrative goes, it wasn’t until 1066 that the Norman Viking William the Conqueror finally brought the country together (it didn’t go well for Harold at the Battle of Hastings, an arrow in his eye and all).

Bede, though, also wrote The Reckoning of Time, and it is here (according to the NPR) where the bunnies and eggs start making an appearance. Again, not that I’m really going anywhere with this. But it is kind of fun conversation for the Easter grilling this afternoon.


Alzheimer’s, History, Memory, Heritage, Identity…

Here’s a quick post, something that rattled though my brain while reading Stanford University’s advancements in Alzheimer’s disease studies. I know all of us have watched Alzheimer’s disease take a close relative or friend from us, and it may have been all the more distressful because your relative or friend is taken from you even before mortality sets in: we literally watch someone’s memory die before they die. This is super-depressing. When Alzheimer’s destroys the memory banks, it destroys our ability to remember what we did, and this means we forget who we were. If we don’t know who we were, or we don’t know our history and heritage, then we do not know who we are. Again, this is troubling for infinite reasons.

Certainly there is more to be said on this, but I’m just sending a flag into the air on it here. Thanks Stanford University, and the research and development and knowledge-sharing that goes with it throughout the global, university world. Let’s all get together on this and have more public discussions. I’d like to see a panel of Alzheimer’s researchers and professional historians explore why this research is so important. I’ll add it to my bucket list.


Victorian Medallions in Downtown Bismarck

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A 2014 photo of the southwest elevation of the Bismarck Auditorium (Belle Mehus).

Yesterday I took a jaunt around downtown Bismarck to capture some images of historic buildings. Autumn has turned to winter, and this means the glorious deciduous leaves are no longer. At least until spring. This also means that it is a great time to take photos of historic buildings (or buildings in general): just like the presence of leaves gives some good angles for photography, so does the absence of leaves. I ended up sauntering around the beautiful Bismarck Auditorium, renamed the Belle Mehus some years ago during a much-needed and -deserved rehabilitation and restoration. An excellent history of the Belle is linked to here on the Bismarck-Mandan Symphony’s Orchestra’s website.

Erected in 1913 and opened in 1914, this auditorium was typical for its time, at least in the sense that opera houses provided the entertainment before the rise of television, radio, movies and iPhones. Traveling opera companies would make the rounds on railroad, stopping in one town after another (much like touring bands today). When visiting historic opera houses, take note of how close they are to the historic railroad: one can imagine an opera company arriving by rail with all the graceful bustle of offloading at the train depot, making their way to a hotel and preparing for one or three days wortOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAh of performances.

It is fantastic to see opera houses restored, or repurposed. It is literally hard to come by this type of stone and brick monumental architecture, at least today. So that’s what I did yesterday: enjoyed the rehabbed and preserved aesthetics of the Belle Mehus, the Bismarck Auditorium in historic downtown Bismarck, North Dakota. I snapped a photo of the copper Victorian medallion centered at the top of the Belle, too. Michael Gilbertson even drove by, managing to roll down his window in time to give me a drive by “Hi Aaron!”

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The large copper, shield medallion with Victorian ornamentation centered on the west elevation at the top of the Bismarck Auditorium. In winter, it is possible to get this photo due to the absence of the leaves.

 


Cyprus Footage from 2012

While Bill (Caraher) blogged a bit on Punk Archaeology and PKAP today, in a separate but related sphere (parallel trajectories I call them), I stumbled across an audio-video short that David Pettegrew recorded during the PKAP 2012 field season in Cyprus. I uploaded this to my YouTube channel, and I will share it here.

In May and June of 2012, the Pyla-Koutsopetria Archaeological Project (Dr. William Caraher, Dr. David Pettegrew, and Dr. R. Scott Moore) charged me with trench supervisor duties for an excavation unit located outside of Larnaca, Cyprus. Here in Pettegrew’s video is a wall emerging out of the excavation unit from a 3rd-century BCE Hellenistic coastal fortification. This site is contemporaneous with Alexander the Great and Zeno, the Stoic from Citium. Within the excavation unit, I am to the right, and sorting out the stratigraphic layers with a student and colleague. The student and colleague to my left continues uncovering bedrock at an industrial pace.