Thursday December 17, 2020

Although I had slowly walked a quarter mile through trees and brush on my way to Marty’s deer stand, I had built up some perspiration by the time I had climbed its tall ladder and got inside. I slipped off the bulk of my hunting jacket and backpack, and let them fall quietly to the floor. The coolness of the enclosed unheated stand felt good as I was warmly dressed for the early December temperatures. I wore insulated knee boots, wool bibs, an insulated vest, a baclava for around my neck and face, and a lightweight cap. I planned to stay in the stand until after dark when the temperatures would start dropping precipitously, and would need my hunting jacket again. My backpack contained my old digital camera, a headlamp, two pads of yellow ledger paper and two cans of Cwikla beer. My two pens were in a bib pocket where they wouldn’t freeze. Sub-freezing temperatures play havoc with Pilot Rolling Ball pens I’ve learned, and so have left a stain upon my consciousness as well as my clothes and numerous fingers. All were things unnecessary for deer hunting -- even the headlamp -- as the moon was waning gibbous, and with the light snow we had, trails were easily seen and followed; what I was really hunting was inspiration to write.

I haven’t had the impetus to write for a long time. I have just been using old material to fill a blog space than generate anything new in which I could take a little pride (until last week, December 3). I have tons of written pages; years of writing ‘something,’ ‘everything,’ and ‘nothing,’ so I know when there’s something irregular with me. And, it’s not like I don’t have anything to write about really. Okay For example, the wife has been after me for twelve years to write a book about our walk with the Orlin Ostbys, formerly of Gatzke, and their ox cart during Minnesota’s Sesquicentennial in 2008, but I don’t ‘feel’ it. She inferred I let Orlin down by not writing a book, whereas I insist I was urged to write a story, and I did. With Jackie’s professional graphic arts help and labor we printed, folded, collated, bagged, mailed and published, several hundred copies of my story titled, “Minnesota’s Sesquicentennial Stroll,” in the 2010 Volume 10 Issue 1 Special Edition of our self-published magazine THE RAVEN: Northwest Minnesota’s Original Art, History & Humor Journal.

It was twenty-one pages of over 165 full-color digital images and a voluminous narrative of easily over 10,000 words about Orlin Ostby’s family project, Red River ox cart trail history (including a map used with permission by its author), Ostby’s trip in which Jackie and I participated, walking, from Pembina, North Dakota to St. Paul, Minnesota on foot and ox cart, experiencing our arrival at the Minnesota State Fair in 2008, and participating in the fifty-first Rollag Steam Threshers Show in 2009. This was in addition to working full-time at the toy factory in Roseau; so I think I’ve done my bit. Besides, who would be interested in reading a book about it now?

"Starting out" Jackie Helms, Pum the ox, Orlin Ostby, Catherine Ostby July 1st, 2008, Pembina State Museum, Pembina North Dakota The late Jerry Solom, and his wife Marion, wrote and published three books and published them through Amazon, with technical assistance by their daughter, Sarah Bouchard. He sold quite a number too. He gave numerous talks at various public venues around the state once people learned of his sailing accomplishments. He was valued for his work as a weldor, steel fabricator, and machinist -- and for being an all around good humble guy. But that was him, not me, (except for the all-around-good-humble-guy part). As far as being published, I’ve been published many times, though not internationally, nor in science or medical research. No political diatribes. No financial consultant volumes, social work papers, court reviews -- although I did make a splash during a jury selection one time, “I want to assure you,” the attorney said after all the other potential jurors had been told to leave the room, “this isn’t picking on ‘you’ day, but we have some questions to ask you concerning your answers to our inquiry.” Did I mention I’ve not been published in Readers Digest? I did write a toy factory-affiliated Roseau Times-Region newspaper column for almost a year. I’ve helped fill some local county history books; written tons of handwritten letters to family and friends (some I sorrily regret); a few kilos worth of typewritten pages, and emails. I’d almost forgotten, that years ago numerous email correspondences cemented some beautiful friendships, if but briefly. Back in December, I think it was of 2007, such an email correspondence illuminated my public recognition as a writer, if only to a group of scholars at the UM/Crookston, by a very well known regional columnist whom they had invited and awaited imminent arrival. I had been invited to join the project by the chairman who arrived, but immediately prior to the columnist’s grand entrance. Unknown to anyone else present, I was questioned numerous times by the staff who were apparently nervous that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. “Are you looking for the radio-controlled airplane club meeting?” “Are you sure AA isn’t meeting across campus?” “That post-divorce counseling meeting is at Owen Hall, I’m pretty sure.” I’ve often not dressed appropriately to functions, as I’m not very sophisticated type. I had always thought writers were laid-back people, comfortable in their own skin; blue jean sweatshirt/sweatpants wearin’ individuals who begrudgingly left their desks and dens to attend a public gathering in which they’d feel out of place -- or somehow violated. I wasn’t aware of the rules in this part of the state. When the columnist arrived she was greeted warmly and respectfully as though a sitting-President of the United States. I recognized her at once. Everybody stood to attention, and reached out to warmly grasp her hand, and that of her sister who had accompanied her that afternoon. I didn’t join the fray. She seemed a bit overwhelmed by the pretentious attention of her arrival, so I decided to wait my time. I was equally glad to see her because although we had corresponded for about two years we had never met in person. So once we sat down and I learned they would sit in the two chairs adjoining mine, nearer the head of the table, I waited until they got settled in their space with their notebooks, purses, and coats before I gently tapped her sister’s arm, smiled, and asked her to get her sister’s attention. Reaching my hand toward her, I said quietly, “Hi, I’m Steve Reynolds. Good to meet you, finally.” “STEVE REYNOLDS?” she replied quite loudly, turning toward me to warmly grasp my hand with both of hers. “Good to meet you too!” The three of us laughed heartily as everyone else in the room stared with wide eyes. Hoo yah! Instant street cred! She may have done it only to break the tension in the room, or give it some levity or something, but she made my day for sure. So as darkness came on in that deer stand twelve years later, I could think of something to write again. I’ll have to peruse my archived emails.