My phone nags me to write journal entries. This is entirely my fault. I set it up to tap me on the shoulder at 8 PM, but not to lay on my bed and chew the end of my pencil and think “Dear Diary” - it’s a means to identify the SotD, or Song of the Day. I have not had one for several weeks, ever since The Edict. The Announcement of the Sunsetting, which I just adore as a term for “getting rid of something.” Even the most primitive people saw the setting of the sun as a temporary matter that would be reset the next day. I should’ve said that. You’re sunsetting my column? Does that mean I have to turn in one every day now? I can do that! Great! Always wanted to write daily! You know, all the classic columnists wrote every day, and I’ve always said that if you can’t turn out 500 words in an hour without a gun to your head, you’ve no business -

No, we mean we’re cancelling it.

Oh so it’s like it’s going nova. Or collapsing into a dense mass. Got it.

Since then I’ve not worked out at the gym to music or listened much to the Discover playlists. The other day I hit the new classical playlist and it was some bleak Nordic choral piece that spoke to the part of me that will always be standing on the edge of the empty winter plain outside Maple Sheyenne church in North Dakota, heading into another funeral. That’s the part I would like to think understands why I quit everything and we moved to the Gulf Coast, because DAMN I am tired of the empty winter plains and the inevitable finality of it all; I’d really like to sit by the water and be warm and tan.

It’s odd, finding music annoying. Get out of here with your lazy upbeat charms, I’ve things to brood about.

Anyway, the suggestion was like a rejected Tom Waits song:

I paused, thinking: okay, I have a problem. I don’t remember this. I don’t remember this at all.

When you click on the notification, you go to the thing that triggered it. Ah, whew. It was a short video of the hallway of the 50th & France professional building where my dentist is located. I had turned on the camera as I passed the Edina Liquor store.

And why was I filming, you ask? I made a resolution last year to shoot something every day. I did. So that means I have to keep it up. They’re all sorted into months, stored away, a record of quotidian things. That’s all.

Over lunch, read. I mentioned I was listening to a podcast on Custer. It drove me to the papers of the day, which yield some interesting things.

		What is that word? It isn’t a word. At least not one anyone would use today. It means “Do to the Lakota what we did to the Blackfeet,” or Piegan.

The Chicago Tribune's editorial page was rather blunt. They praised his courage and record, but then really put the wood to the guy:

He was an officer who did not know the word fear, and, as is often the case with soldiers of this stamp, he was reckless, hasty, and impulsive, preferring to make a dare-devil rush and take risks rather than to move slower and with more of cer-tainty. He was a brave, brilliant soldier, handsome and dashing, with all the attributes to make him beloved of women and admired of men; but these qualities, however admirable they may be, should not blind our eyes to the fact that it was his own madcap haste, rashness, and love of fame that cost him his own life, and cost the service the loss of many brave oflicers and gallant men.

It was a Republican paper, and Custer was a Democrat. Can't discount an element of politics here.

The podcast, if you're curious, was, and is, "The Rest is History," which comes with my heartiest personal endorsement. Two British chaps, writers, slightly different sensibilities, Anglophiles (it needs to be said these days) and just damned smart.

ANYWAY that's hardly the entirety of the day, but it was rain and meetings and the gym and a pork roast and general ploughing-through. It's always about ploughing through, but sometimes, you know? Sometimes it's about plowing through. Same thing but you tell yourself it's not because it's spelled differently.

Actually, "plowing through" isn't apt. This isn't same furrow, different day, because I feel less and less like the man behind the till. I feel myself starting to detach from life downtown, the building, the professional home, the place where I can beep my thin plastic card and ride up into the skies. It used to mean a lot. I’m not pleased to feel it wane.

On the other hand: daughter sent a text that made me literally laugh out loud - it was not just funny but perfectly crafted, witty and quick. And THAT is what I'll take away from today.

That, and the fact that the twitching light still blinks.

It’s 1890.

We are spending a lot of time with the old, old papers this year, I guess. Well, let’s see if there’s anything that resonates with our era.

Starke, Florida: that’s the place. Wikipedia: “Starke's weekly newspaper, The Bradford County Telegraph, began publication in 1879 as The Florida Weekly Telegraph (it continues to be the oldest weekly newspaper in Florida today).”

Good for them. No small achievement, that.

		That last item gives you pause. Seems as if that would be quite uncomfortable, and prone to melting.

How did she become “late”?

The 1889–1890 pandemic, often referred to as the "Asiatic flu" or "Russian flu", was a worldwide respiratory viral pandemic. It was the last great pandemic of the 19th century, and is among the deadliest pandemics in history. The pandemic killed about 1 million people out of a world population of about 1.5 billion (0.067% of population). The most reported effects of the pandemic took place from October 1889 to December 1890, with recurrences in March to June 1891, November 1891 to June 1892, the northern winter of 1893–1894, and early 1895.

Although contemporaries described the pandemic as influenza and 20th-century scholars identified several influenza strains as the possible pathogen, some more recent authors suggest that it may have been caused by human coronavirus OC43.

All forgotten.

		The matter of Interfering Horses.   Wikipedia: “Brushing in horses, commonly known as interfering, is an abnormality in the lateral gait.”

		Well, that’s a bit cold.

Luther Eggers may have exaggerated his military rank. His headstone says he was a sergeant.

A Civil War veteran, he first served at the rank of private with Co. E, 26th Pa Militia, June 17-July 30, 1863, the unit that tried to face down a Confederate force in the days before the battle of Gettysburg and wisely fled the field. He then allegedly assisted in recruiting what became Co. C, 200th Pa Inf. Although a post-war biographical sketch claims he rose to the rank of 1st lieutenant, his military records demonstrate his top rank was sergeant.

The 1900 U.S. Census shows that he is a widower, living alone in Globe, Arizona. On June 21, 1906, there appeared an article in the Silver Belt newspaper in Globe, Arizona, about the death of the wife of Col. L.F. Eggers. It is unknown how the progression of his marriages and the deaths of his potentially three wives occurred, or even where they are buried.

 

		If you want a ride to the Grand Canyon, well, you know where to find him.

In case they wander off, here’s how to know where they should go.

Don’t bring them to the post office, pls.

Local news round-up:

More to the story, of course; how did the officer perish?

And why wasn’t this page one?

That'll do. Next for you: 1951 gas. How many websites can say that.