Memorial Day 2017


Back when I “was a tender and callow fellow” in a small town in Central North Dakota, I was called upon three years in a row to render my reading of “In Flanders Field” on Memorial Day observances.

For some reason, the indoor portion of the observance was held at the Federated Church, and there I read the brief poem written by a Canadian physician Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae.

I did not know the history of the poem, back then. What I knew then was that they were solemn words written during WWI. What I would find out later was the words were written after the Second Battle of Ypres, Belgium by McCrae who had presided over the funeral of a friend and fellow soldier.

I still remember the words, every year Memorial Day comes around, and with the passing years they come to mean more and more.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

—-John McCrae

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It Was The Summer of 1976.

Gather around children, it’s time to open Uncle Bob’s Story Time Vault.

For you adults, you might want to pour a glass of wine, and sit back to take in this story. I started out shorter than it ended up, but that often happens with stories. This one is true, and no names have been changed. So if you have the patience, I hope you will not be bored.

Sit back now, and let me take you back to the year of 1976. It was the summer to be precise, and the place was New York City. That’s right kids, the Big Apple, and it was the year of our country’s Bicentennial Celebration.

It was also the year that the Democrat Party had their national convention in New York, and that was the reason I was there.

You see, ole Uncle Bob was a reporter back then, and he specialized in covering government and politics as he had done for many years.

At that time, I was working as a free-lance reporter. I had lost my job at KXJB-TV in Fargo in April of 1974, and was working as a stringer for United Press International (UPI), Newsweek Magazine out of their Chicago Bureau, and for the convention, I had contracted with a couple of radio and TV stations to report on the North Dakota delegation to the national convention. I was also writing for some weekly newspapers in ND, and had published an ill-fated monthly newsletter on ND government and politics.

So, now here I am, flying to New York City, with my TV gear furnished by one of the TV stations I was stringing for, heading for the Taft Hotel in Manhattan, where the North Dakota delegates and alternates to the convention were staying, and so was I.

The Taft Hotel by 1976 had seen better days. The hotel was located at 152 West 51st Street and 7th Avenue in Manhattan, and when it opened in 1926 it was the largest hotel in Times Square.

(Cue the Flashback: That’s a cinematic term for cutting back to scenes that have little to do with the main story, but are connected somehow. )

This wasn’t the first time I had stayed at the Taft. When I got off the boat at Fort Hamilton in New York on May 16th, and got discharged, there were several of the guys I had served with in Germany for over 2 years decided to spend a couple of nights in Manhattan. The year was 1962, and they didn’t even refer to New York City as “The Big Apple,” yet.

We got our rooms, which by the way to be had for the grand sum of $9.25, plus .45 cents tax, and on the advice of one of our number got a couple of bottles so we could have cocktails before we went out to sample the night life of the U.S. for the first time since we had left in February of 1960. Since prices in Manhattan night life were relatively pricey, the thought was we wouldn’t spend as much when we went out.

Sample we did, and one of the spots we headed for was The Peppermint Lounge where Chubby Checker, he of The Twist fame, was performing. The joint was on West 45th Street, between 6th and 7th Avenues not far from the Taft.

It took us a while to get past the doorman, but when we did we found a crowded, noisy and expensive place to drink while listening to Chubby Checker. It wasn’t till many years later that we learned that the Peppermint Lounge was reputedly owned by the Genovese crime family, but was still visited by celebrities galore during the heyday of the Twist. I think the club closed in 1965 when they lost their liquor license.

The next day, contrary to our plans, my friends all decided they wanted to get home, and so I was left alone. My plan had been to surprise my parents on their anniversary, May 25th by arriving home on the very day. It was now the 17th of May, and I stayed one more day, then began my homeward journey via stops in Boston, Chicago and Minneapolis before flying into Jamestown to be picked up by my friends Don and Mary Kay Klocke and then onward to my surprise to see the parents I hadn’t seen since Christmas, 1959.

Before I left the Taft that day, I had called for the bellhop to come for my bags so I could check out, but I left a pair of almost new combat boots in the closet. I had no further need for them, and when the bellhop saw them he asked me about them, and I told him if he wanted them he could have them. He took’em, and I left.

End of flashback, and back to the main story.

It was 1976, and Mayor Abe Beame wanted to make a good impression on the thousands of Democrat delegates, alternates and press who would be descending on his city. Times Square was a pretty seedy place in the mid to late 70’s, and since that would be a focal point for all who came for the convention the word went out that as of midnight the day before the convention was to gavel in, all of the hookers, pimps and other seedy denizens of the night would be off the streets in the area of Times Square. I remember getting there, and on the night before, looking south on 7th Avenue towards Times Square, there was evidence they had not yet been moved to some other area of the city, but the next day and the nights to follow, they were gone.

As many reading this may recall, that was the year the Democrats were going to endorse Jimmy Carter for President. That was a foregone conclusion going into the convention. The only question remaining was who he was going to pick for Vice-President. So, this convention was a pretty dull one compared to past conventions.

I realized from the start that it was going to be difficult for me to file stories every day that would be of any interest to my clients, both UPI and the radio and TV stations I was working for. I wasn’t the only one scratching for stories where there was no contest, the networks were having problems as well.

I had for a moment thought about a feature on two of the North Dakota delegation members. Eliot Glassheim of Grand Forks and Lucy Calautti, now the spouse of former Senator Kent Conrad, of Bismarck were both originally from New York City, and I thought that was interesting that two delegates to the convention from North Dakota were native New Yorkers. Their stories on how they had come from New York to settle in North Dakota piqued my interest. I had known both of them for several years and thought it would make a good feature. I never did it, for what reason I can no longer remember.

Now enters the story, Kermit Bye. Kermit wasn’t a delegate, but his wife, Carol Beth was. Kermit, an attorney, had been active in Democratic politics in North Dakota for many years, and he and I had become friends over the years. So Kermit became my assistant for the duration of the convention. Kermit, by the way, is now a retired judge from the 8th Circuit Court of Appeals, a position he held for 15 years.

Richard Ista was, at the time, the State Chairman of the Democratic-NPL party, and he arranged for Kermit and I to have floor passes every day during the convention. Under normal convention rules, I would have to spend a short time on the floor and then go back and get in line to get another pass. Ista made my life much easier, except that even having unlimited access to the floor did not make it any easier to find stories to file.

There was, on the main floor of the Taft Hotel, just off the lobby, a restaurant/bar called the Cattleman Restaurant. It was there, at the bar, one day, Kermit and I hatched a plan that would result in me having a unique feature on the ND delegation. I was lamenting the lack of substantive stories, when a though struck. The Cattleman, whose main outside door was on West 51st, had a stage coach with horses that would give patrons rides for nothing. There were also two other Cattleman restaurants in Manhattan each having a stage coach. You see where this is going right?

Kermit and I approached the manager of the Cattleman at the Taft, and wondered if it would be possible to get the other stage coaches from the other properties to give the ND delegation which included Governor Art Link and First Lady, Grace, a ride to Madison Square Garden, the site of the convention, for the evening session the next day.

The manager said he’d make some calls, and came back later to tell us we had a deal. The stage coaches would be outside the main door on the 51st Street side of the restaurant ready for loading at 4:30 the next day. Kermit and I ordered another drink, laughed and I said, “I don’t believe we are going to do this.” I also told Kermit that we should keep a lid on what was going on lest some other news outlet get wind of it. I told him I needed to get some exclusive footage for my guys back home, before it became news.

While I never condoned creating news for the sake of a story, in this case I threw that rule to the wind. I was having to much fun creating this one.

We alerted the members of the ND delegates, alternates and others connected with the delegation, and told them to assemble at the designated time, and the deal was on.

The next day, 4:30 came, and the members of the delegation began to gather, and we got some bad news. My hear sank at first, when the manager told me they could only get one of the other stage coaches for this event. That meant two instead of three. Kermit and I said, we’ll make do with two, and proceeded to cram as many of the delegation as we could on the two coaches. The close quarters on the coaches did nothing to diminish the enthusiasm of the North Dakotans about to embark on their run down 7th Avenue.

Governor Art Link and Grace got the prime spots on the first coach, and everyone else fit in where they could. The manager of the Cattleman then gave out straw cowboy hats to everyone, hats that were emblazoned with the Cattleman logo on them. Mine never really fit, but I didn’t care. Neither did anyone else.

At 5:00 P.M., the coaches and their handlers made a left turn on to 7th Avenue for the trip to Madison Square Garden. I had a spot on the first coach, and I, your intrepid reporter, would jump off and run down a block ahead so I could get good film of these two stage coaches with the ND delegation riding down 7th Avenue during rush hour in Manhattan through the heart of Times Square, the 17 blocks or so to the Garden.

The delegates were hooting and hollering and waving the Cattleman straw cowboy hats much to the amusement and bemusement of all of those who witnessed this very strange scene. I did notice one car that must have run around the block to see if it was real, for I saw him twice on the trip down. To see these two horse drawn stage coaches with cowboy hat waving conventioneers in the sea of motor traffic, in and out of the shadows and sunlight, through the concrete canyons that are Manhattan at rush hour must have been a strange sight indeed, even for New York.

About a block from the Garden, the word must have reached the other news media who were hungry for a feature, and we could see cameramen running to meet these stage coaches lumbering down 7th Avenue.

When we got to the Garden, and disembarked, I saw a beaming, Gov. Link, still with the Cattleman straw cowboy had on, and his wife, Grace talking to some network TV guy, or he could have been some local New York TV guy, and I knew the story had worked.

I ran into the Garden to get my film to the folks who would overnight it back to ND for me, where it would be aired on KFYR-TV, the following day, and spent the rest of the evening basking in the afterglow of the fact that the idea Kermit and I had hatched had taken wings.

It would me months later, when I would run into Gov. Link, he would finally call me Bob. I think that event cemented my name in his mind.

The rest of the convention, outside of the question of who the Veep would be, was dull. I have another story about me and Minnesota Governor Wendell Anderson, but I’ll leave that for another time.

The last night I was in New York, after the convention was over, I joined Kermit and his wife, Carol Beth, Richard Ista and his wife and we went to the Rainbow Grill in Rockefeller Center to see the famous jazz singer, Nancy Wilson.

That night, as we got back to the Taft, I looked down 7th Avenue towards Times Square, and they were all back, and it was business as usual. The Democrats had gone home, and they had reclaimed their streets.

I flew back to Fargo the next day, satisfied that I had provided my clients with enough “news” about the convention, even if I had to create some of it myself.

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The Question of a Mattress.

So, on one of the interminable breaks for commercials today, a voice posed this question. “Do you love your mattress?” When is the last time anyone has asked you such a personal question?

Ordinarily, I would ignore such a question, deeming it beneath consideration, and all I wanted to do was get back to the golf tournament, but for some reason, I paused to reflect.

In fact, I went into the bedroom and looked at my mattress with new eyes. I walked around it, poking it, sitting on it lifting the covers, and moving pillows to further explore any unique characteristic that hitherto had gone unnoticed. After my circuit of the mattress in question, I came to find the answer to the existential question about my emotional state, and my relationship with my mattress. I did not love my mattress. But, upon reflection, I realized that I do love my pillows.

When I asked Brandy if she had any feelings about our shared mattress, she looked somewhat quizzically at me, left the bedroom and repaired to her well used towel on the kitchen counter. I took that to mean she did not love the mattress either.

Having settled that philosophical question, I went back to watching the golf tournament secure in the knowledge that while I did not love my mattress, I do dearly love golf, and I was still okay.

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Wayne’s Birthday.

I was reminded yesterday by my iPhone calendar that today is the birthday of my good friend Wayne Tanous. Wayne, as most who will see this post know, died just over a month ago, so his memory is still really fresh.


I really didn’t need the reminder, we had been observing his birthday for years, much to his chagrin.

I had occasion to mention this to Bumper, aka, Terry Baumgartner, one of his good friends who also loved him. Bumper, who expresses a disinterest in Martinis, asked me to have one for him in Wayne’s memory this evening. I am happy to oblige. I will have one for him and I will have one for myself as well. I think Wayne would grudgingly approve, though he himself preferred Crown, or Windsor water, very little ice, I like Martinis to mark such occasions.

The poem that accompanies this post is one I wrote on another occasion, and I think it still works for me as a thought about these thing we call “birthdays.”


Birthdays count years.
They are markers we use
To measure the time of our lives.

From the first to the last,
They tell the world a person was,
And how long they were.

Birthdays tell the world a person was,
But they don’t tell why a person mattered.
That’s a job for the people they touched.

It’s Wayne’s birthday today.
This is the day that marks his time
From the first to the last.

Tonight, I will have a Martini
And remember, why he mattered
To so many others, and to me.


Happy Birthday Martini from Bumper and Me.

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April 9, 2017

Please indulge me on this Sunday in April, for it is a day that brings with it the memories of a night and a time I can never forget. Since it becomes more difficult with time to find something different to say about this date, I chose to repost something I have written in the past, and it seems to me to have held up.

Today marks the ninth anniversary of the night Joanie died. All of us have dates in our lives that we can’t ignore, nor wish to. The poem that follows was written April 9, 2014, and I posted it on my blog. Some of you may have seen it before, others may not have. Anyway, as I mark this day, I decided to repost it.

Joanie Poster_edited-2

She Danced.

She danced with death

All of those clouded years.

Never asking, never knowing,


She danced, and when the music changed,

She never asked the orchestra for a different tune.

The longer she danced,

Her heart gave rhythm to the music of her soul


In the end she danced into the light

Never asking, never knowing,


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