But Nobody Died!

Our youngest son, Rafael, moved with his family to New Jersey last night. We don’t know how long they’ll be there. We don’t know why they moved.

Neither of their excellent jobs requires the move. They have a beautiful house here that they renovated just 5 years ago to their exact specification. Their garden is flourishing, as are their kids. All four kids have many friends and are happy here. They have an active social life with friends and with their siblings/cousins. The other grandparents live a 15-minute walk away, are retired, and are always happy to have the kids over, pick them up, and take them places.

The given reason is that they get itchy when they’re in one place too long. They seek adventure (in New Jersey? 😂) They seek a challenge when things are too settled and smooth. Our son fears getting stodgy (he’s 42). At 40, having made partner at the most prestigious law firm here, he quit to do something else. He didn’t want to get stuck in a rut.

I sort of get it. I was that way myself. But once we had kids, I reframed my need for change into something more compatible with having first one and then, within 7 years, five kids. I changed professions six times; just about every 2 or 3 years. I wrote a few books. Once the kids were a bit older we traveled…a lot.

And, of course, the biggie – we moved from the US to Israel.

Rafael and his family moved to the US once already. They spent 5 years in Silicone Valley. He’s a hi-tech lawyer so that made sense. It provided him with the lift he needed to become one of the younger partners in his law firm. We missed him. The 10-hour time difference and 16-hour flight were brutal. But it made sense. And once was enough.

This move makes less sense to us.

Of course, we’re ten years older.

My in-laws were devastated when we moved our own young family to Israel. My mother-in-law literally keened and wailed when we parted at the airport. But, we felt, we were moving toward something. It was an ideological move. It was living our dedication to Zionism. We still feel that way.

What kind of ideology could possibly warrant a move to New Jersey – the state Americans love to mock? Clearly (to us) they are moving away from something and not toward something.

I get that, too. Living in Israel is not for the faint of heart.

Although it has one of the strongest, most stable economies in the world, wages are relatively low, real estate is ridiculously priced out of most young families’ reach, and many families struggle to get through the month. None of this applies to Rafael, who is blessed with financial stability.

Israel has been at war from the moment the state was established in 1948. Sometimes the war is more volatile and sometimes less, but it’s a constant threat. Our neighbors make no bones about hating us and have consistently made clear their goal of destroying our state and killing us all. The past two years, since the atrocities of October 7th, have been traumatic for every single family in Israel, and continue to be so.

Hard times, however, seem to strengthen Israelis’ resolve, not weaken it.

The divisiveness in Israeli society over politics and religion seems to be more of a factor in people leaving Israel than the war. The exaggerations and fears on each side lead to a lack of tolerance that feeds on itself.

For those of us who left comfortable lives in the US (or other Western countries) to live in Israel, we take a dim view of those who leave. It would be more accurate to say that many of us look upon it as betrayal of an ideal; betrayal of the country. In addition, given the current ugly anti-Semitism in the world, we believe that Jews should be aware today more than ever that Israel is the place for Jews to live.

We worry about our children and grandchildren’s safety. We worry about our grandchildren being taken out of a place where they are like most everybody else – it’s not an issue – and put in a place where they are ‘the other’.

We believe that our son and daughter-in-law have a tremendous amount of talent and skills to give to our country, and that our country needs people exactly like them.

And, perhaps most of all, I’ll miss being able to drive an hour whenever the spirit moves me and enjoy a good cup of coffee and great conversation with my youngest son. He’s the best! I’ll miss all the many special things about each and every one of those four delicious children. And, yes, sometimes, of course, I feel that strong twinge of sadness and loss in my heart.

Tisha B’Av is the day that our first two holy temples were destroyed. The date is commemorated with a 25-hour fast and special prayers. When tragedy strikes and someone is very sad we might say she has on her Tisha B’Av face.

That’s the face I see on many of our friends lately when considering our son’s departure with his beautiful family.

And, ironically enough, I want to console them.

“But nobody died! They’re only going to New Jersey!”

As hard as it is for us to imagine, they’re off on what they see as an adventure for their family. We made our choices. Some of them were great and some not so great, but they were ours to make. And if they turned out to be not so great, we readjusted and reframed and began a new adventure. Or at least I hope you all did, because we sure did. Why be stuck when life is so fleeting?

I, personally, believe they’ll be back in a couple of years. After all…New Jersey. And in the meantime, how fortunate that in this day and age there’s Facetime and WhatsApp and convenient flights.

They’re a happy, successful, healthy couple with four amazing, funny, quirky, interesting, healthy kids. We’ve had them near us for five blessed years and, G-d willing, we’ll have them near us again one of these days.

So chin up, friends, no Tisha B’Av faces, please.

Not Agreeing to Disagree

We live in an age where so-called enlightened people (you know who you are) are reluctant to stand up for their beliefs. Where the words “right” and “wrong” are taboo, “evil” is an archaic term, “good” is a question of perspective, and regarding all disagreements people prefer to politely agree to disagree.

I know someone who has decided to not regard himself as a member of humanity because of all the terrible things people do to each other.

Is that really a possibility?

While I don’t believe so, I don’t close my eyes to the terrible things happening in the world or my part in them as a member of humanity. But I also refuse to see all actors and all actions as a question of perspective.

I don’t agree to disagree.

I acknowledge that I am not knowledgeable about every conflict around the globe. I am too lazy or busy with other things of more importance to me to educate myself about most of them. I accept that my opinion about those conflicts, should I be foolish enough to insist on an opinion, is of little value or accuracy. I don’t agree to disagree with those who have an opinion. I simply confess my ignorance.

I accept that unfortunately it is no longer possible to trust news sources as accurate and unbiased. Lacking a simple alternative, I concede that my opinion can only be superficial, uninformed, and speculative. Not to mention lacking in importance, and very likely offensive to many of those who have done the research, spent the time to form an educated opinion, or who are actually living in the conflict.

I live in an area of conflict. I live in Israel. The conflict in our very tiny country has been going on since biblical times. The names and faces of our enemies have changed over the centuries but the conflict is the same.

It’s unclear to me why so many people around the world feel the need to focus on and weigh in with an opinion about our conflict.

More than 45 armed conflicts are going on today in Africa alone. I challenge you to even recognize some of the names of the countries where these conflicts are taking place (how about Burkina Faso? I had to look that one up.) There are 21 such conflicts going on in Asia, 7 in Europe, and 6 in Latin America.

Why don’t we see demonstrations about any of those conflicts? Why aren’t there daily “news” reports about them? No outrage about them?

My friend who no longer considers himself part of humanity is right – we’re a harsh, often brutal, murderous species. Many of us would like to think of ourselves as having progressed past territorial, ethnocentric, belligerence but the facts on the ground prove otherwise.

Why, then, is Israel constantly under the world’s microscope? Why is the lens of that microscope constantly out of focus? Why is the eye looking through the microscope so willing to ignore the possibility of a resultant lack of accuracy? So sure of the hypothesis that there’s absolutely no modesty about the conclusions.

I rarely allow myself to get dragged into conversations about what’s going on in our corner of the Middle East with people who live in other corners of the world. It seems pointless to talk about reality on the ground as seen through the eyes of someone who actually lives on that ground. As the saying goes – “Don’t confuse me with the facts.”

It’s a bit disappointing to hear the same tiresome rhetoric when the rhetoric makes no logical sense and is being spouted by people who one is justified in considering intelligent.

The rhetoric of “We realize that burning babies alive, decapitating people, gang-raping women, and starving hostages is truly terrible, but surely murdering 30,000 innocent (sic) residents of Gaza is a disproportionate response.”

I can hear the echo, echo, echo from the media and Arab propaganda. Why can’t they?

I don’t intend to explain why that rhetoric is patently ridiculous and totally transparent to anyone who cares to put their preconceived notions and biases aside. I just want to put forth the question of why people are so eager to have an opinion based on nothing when it comes to Israel.

And now comes another wake-up call.

People! There is good and evil in the world. As much as we prefer to say it’s all a question of perspective, we all actually know it when we see it.

We all know in our hearts that whatever our differences may be politically and philosophically, it is evil for us to machete limbs from the bodies of those with whom we disagree (Sierra Leone), to throw gays off roofs to their death (The Islamic State – Iraq and Syria) and to sex traffic women and children (Libya and others), just to name a few of the actions of obvious evil.

We all know that it’s good to provide shelter for abused women, food for those who don’t have enough, medical care for those for whom it’s unaffordable, to listen to people in distress who need an empathetic ear, and share our resources with those who have limited access. We may not do all of it, but we recognize the good nature of those activities.

It’s not rocket science and it’s not a matter of culture or perspective.

I don’t agree to disagree about any of the above and I’m past being tired of those who are. I’m disappointed and I’m sometimes angry and, while not interested in shouting it from the rooftop, I’m no longer willing to smile when told we’ll just have to agree to disagree. I’m willing to agree to disagree about the best restaurant in Jerusalem or the most fun activity in Disneyland.

Our world is a tough neighborhood with some very evil, brutal residents. It always has been. In the past, the good guys didn’t accept evil as a given and didn’t excuse it as cultural or a reasonable response on the part of the downtrodden. There were clear rules of conduct even for the resistance of the downtrodden that didn’t include beheading and rape.

Regardless of what my young-ish friend thinks, we cannot drop out of humanity. We’re all a part of humanity whether we approve of the behavior of all our counterparts or not. So let’s get on with realizing the limitations of our knowledge, acknowledging the presence of evil actions and evil people who carry them out, and refusing to agree to disagree with uninformed opinions and evil.

Whether or not you choose to recognize this reality – Israel has restructured the Middle East to secure relative peace and quiet for a decade to come with all that entails for the rest of the world. None of it at our own instigation nor without a high price in lives lost and families without one parent home for months at a time.

We don’t expect a thank you but we could do without your slogans condemnation.

Cody Nite Rodeo

I grew up and went to school with kids who were members of the 4H club. Each one of them had a project every year so that they could enter a competition at the annual State Fair. Back then, one year it might be raising a pig from birth to market weight (300 pounds/136 kilograms or more). Another it might be growing the largest cucumber or melon.

There were pie contests at the State Fair and games and rides. But the main attraction for me was always the rodeo. I never tired of the suspense of that 8 seconds of bone-rattling ride on the back of a bucking bronco or bull ride. (the bull ride was reduced to 6 seconds this year) I always sat on the edge of my bench until the girls rounded the last barrel in the barrel race event without knocking over a barrel and cheered them on that last super fast race back to the finish. When I worked at a horse stable for a summer in my teens I imagined myself one day entering the barrel race myself.

So it’s no wonder that while making plans for our American road trip, getting tickets to the Cody Night Rodeo was high on my list of priorities. It was written right there on the site that there are always enough tickets and every ticket is good for any date during the summer. But I read it over several times to be absolutely sure. This was one event I wasn’t going to miss. More importantly, my partner wasn’t going to miss it. A New York City boy, he stutters when asked if he’s been to a rodeo. I think his not being sure is a sure sign that he’s never been. Once at a rodeo, there’s no forgetting.

The Cody Night Rodeo is held every night during the tourist season. There are thousands of people every night. People come from all over the United States and from some foreign countries. The competitors are amateurs but many are well-seasoned amateurs. There are some father-son teams for the calf roping or tie-down roping event and some siblings who compete against each other in other events. There are entries from states as far away as Texas, over 1000 miles southeast, and home-grown entries.

The American flag was flying high in numerous places around the stadium. Horses paraded around the stadium with a flag-holding rider as the stadium filled. People stood as the flag went by them. A large screen showed scenes across America as accompaniment to the poem Why We Stand by Maury Tate read with a heavy cowboy accent. Google it. It doesn’t get much more patriotic than that.

The MC called out the names of states one by one asking if there was anyone from each. People cheered when they heard the name of their state. After Californians cheered for their home state the MC said ‘ “Welcome to America, Californians!” It got a big, good-natured laugh. This was a crowd well aware of the political divide.

We chatted with the couple sitting behind us on the bleachers as we waited for the first event and in between events. They were a Minnesota farming couple; farming the land their parents and grandparents had farmed before them. Two of their 7 kids (all grown and married) work the farm with them today, and the others live close by. Turned out that the man had recently begun a process of semi-retirement so he and my partner had a lot to discuss. The women, Kim, and I shared stories of our children and grandchildren. She was used to people being surprised to hear she has 13 grandchildren and two on the way. She was just as surprised to see that I wasn’t and that we have 16 grandchildren of our own.

She talked about the degeneration of the American school system and the introduction of gender education in elementary school. All of her school-age grandchildren are home-schooled as a result of both of those issues. She expressed dismay at the schism between the woke population (which confuses her) and what she believes to be the majority of Americans who value family and remain staunch patriots.

They both expressed empathy and sorrow about the atrocities of October 7th and the war with Gaza. We’d heard that a lot so far on our trip and it sounded very genuine.

The best, most exciting bucking bronco rides are, of course, on the backs of the wildest, craziest broncos. If you’re wondering why those horses buck like maniacs, a flank strap or bucking strap is used to encourage the horses to kick out straighter and higher when bucking. The strap is about 4 inches wide, covered in sheepskin or neoprene, and fastens behind the widest part of the horse’s abdomen. But that doesn’t entirely explain why some bucking broncos are truly uncontrollable to the point where the two wranglers whose job it is to get them back in their stalls after their run struggle to accomplish the task. Some horses are just maniacs, I guess.

The barrel racing, a woman’s event added to rodeos in 1931 in Stamford, Texas, was tense. Trying not to knock over barrels and to be the fastest at it at the same time is an exact contradiction. Some of the girls were high school students. They’d probably been barrel racing since elementary school. Those girls and women could fly!

Only one competitor managed to stay on his bucking bronco for the entire 8-second ride. A clear winner. None of the competitors stayed on the bulls for the full 6 seconds. The horns on those animals are daunting. You’d think the riders would stay on just to avoid them, but it ain’t easy.

One of my least favorite events is also the one many people would like to see eliminated because it seems to be especially cruel to animals. Riding on the back of a horse or bull might be annoying to the animals or it might be a thrill for them to get back at human beings. I remember in Norway the dogs were rearing to pull the sleds – they were mostly annoyed that it took us so long to get started. Really – who are we to presume that we know the druthers of animals. But calf-roping doesn’t look like much fun for the calves. The lassoing part takes skill. I can vouch for that. The main skill of the girls’ marching group in my high school was lassoing. I never ever got the hang of it. Tying the calves’ legs as fast as you can just seems cruel.

Everyone had a great time. Lots of beer. Lots of smiles and laughter. Lots of strangers talking to each other and cheering side by side. An evening of good, clean fun. Small kids, teenagers, adults, and old folks (like us). At one point kids were invited into the ring for a quasi-treasure hunt. Dozens of them joined the game, running to and fro. The winners, a boy, and girl who looked to be about 10, couldn’t smile big enough holding up their small trophies.

A fun respite from phone screens and politics.

If you can find a rodeo to go to, do it! You might be surprised how much you enjoy it.

The big winner of the evening by far was this guy…

The Winner

The Wild Wild West circa 2024

Moving on from the Battlefield of Little Bighorn, still under the influence of the drama of the Native American tragedy, we pulled into the town of Cody, Wyoming, population 10,224, home of the Cody High School Broncs and Fillies.

Still the wild west, home of the American Cowboy.

We found our B&B easily and were immediately enchanted by the deer in the neighboring yard who stared at us for a minute and returned to munching on someone’s lawn, and the cheerful Black Eyed Susan flowers winking at us from the yard of our B&B.

We knew we weren’t in Kansas anymore (or maybe we WERE in Kansas – another Great Plains state) upon entering the Robin’s Nest B&B. It turned out that the hosts were long-time transplants from Colorado. Robin herself greetied us.

On the wall in a strategic spot was a plaque stating clearly the values and beliefs of the couple. There were also anti-abortion bumper stickers in a pile on a shelf by the door and various books of scripture on just about every flat surface.

Robin was chatty – in a good way – and cheerful, abounding with good things to say about her adopted town and her experiences as a b&b host. She had all sorts of recommendations for our brief stay in Cody, all of which were on our to-do list. It was helpful to receive tips, though, such as devoting two days to the Buffalo Bill Center of the West Museum (we did and you really need 2 days), and parking near the exit to the parking lot at the Cody Night Rodeo.

Our room was crowded with memorabilia and equipment from the Old West. The big bed was very comfy. It was hot in the room when we arrived. The lack of air conditioning in this part of the country was something we’d have to get used to during our trip. Robin insisted that the desert cooler would suck the hot air out of the room making the room sufficiently cool for sleep. I was skeptical but she proved to be totally right.

Anyone who’s been to a classic B&B knows that breakfast is often the big attraction. Most hosts make a big effort to prepare elegant and special breakfast food. It’s a point of pride. Robin’s Nest was no exception. There were homemade pancakes with a cream cheese filling, a refreshing, thick berry juice, plenty of toast with fresh butter and homemade jams, and freshly cut fruit. What made this breakfast stand out, though, were the 2 minutes before the meal. Once the food was on the table Robin’s husband asked all six of us to bow our heads in prayer. A first for us. It was quite a nice prayer of thankfulness. The last sentence was in reference to Jesus – we could’ve done without the last part – but it was so genuine on his part, with total cluelessness and lack of concern for political correctness, and absolutely no malice – that it was like a breath of fresh air.

In general, we repeatedly ran into an unabashed love and commitment to family, country, and God during our travels in this part of the country.

Later he mentioned to my partner that they’d had two guests from Israel the previous month. He was shocked to learn that they didn’t believe in God. I wasn’t present for that conversation. I would’ve loved to have known if he thought all people in Israel believe in God or all people in the world. I think it’s the former but it could be the latter. Living in Cody one can be forgiven for thinking that everyone in the world believes in God because I venture to guess that everyone in Cody does.

And, yet, not everyone in Cody is totally as one would expect in the town of Cody we mostly experienced. We ended up in a coffee shop that was right out of California culture. Run by aging hippies, they keep laid-back hippie hours. They open mid-morning and close in the early afternoon. Dogs sleep on their floors. They serve coffee with alternative milks and offer non-gluten pastries. The coffee was great and the pastries were even better. Local artists were given prominence on the walls and the bookshelves.

The Buffalo Bill Center of the West Museum was a huge surprise to us snobs of the big cities of America. Our expectations were low but the reality equals some of the best museums we’ve explored. There are five distinctly different wings to the museum –

  1. Natural History of the West
  2. History of the West
  3. History of Guns
  4. Art of the West
  5. Native American History

We both learned a lot of new information about the American West; the pioneers’ way of life, the difficulties and accomplishments of rugged individualism, and a more in-depth knowledge of the lives of the famous (and infamous) people memorialized in tv series, movies, and songs. The central figure, of course, is Wild Bill Hickok (even the accurate spelling of his name was news to us) -Bill Cody.

We were surprised to learn that Wild Bill, a stagecoach driver, lawman, spy for the Union Army during the Civil War, scout, actor, and professional gambler, was a proponent of women’s rights and compassion for Native Americans.

As a result of learning so much about Wild Bill, we took a bit of a detour later in our trip to Deadwood, South Dakota, to see the place where he was shot and killed by an unsuccessful gambler, Jack McCall, during a poker game. The hand he was holding at the time – two pairs; black aces and eights, is known to this day as the ‘dead man’s hand’.

The first day at the museum I chose to go to the wing with art of the west while my partner, a water ecologist, chose to go the natural history wing. We were both tired and ready to leave after our three hours at the museum, each having only seen two wings. Both he and I were super enthusiastic about what we’d seen separately. We decided to take Robin up on her recommendation and come back the next day. We got there bright and early the next day and spent an additional two hours there.

It was shocking to experience the professionalism, original and well-thought-out approach, and depth of presentation exhibited in the natural history wing of the museum. Going to natural history museums all around the world is a must for us. My partner spends many hours of enjoyment in each while I bail after two hours tops and indulge my love of museum shops and coffee hangouts. This museum, located as it is, nevertheless rivals all the natural history museums we’ve seen around the globe, including Manhattan (clearly there’s less on display but the quality and presentation are equal). Someone or several someones with deep pockets must have had a special place in her/his heart for the topic and the location.

We had purchased tickets for The Cody’ Night Rodeo almost seven months earlier. It was that important to us. I grew up in Texas where state fairs and rodeos, 4H competitions of pig raising and pie baking, were common and always lots of fun. My partner grew up in Brooklyn and then Long Island. The closest he’d ever come to a rodeo was watching Stoney Burke on t.v in the early 60s. We knew that no matter what else we did in that part of the United States, we were going to a rodeo. Cody’s Night Rodeo is famous. We actually chose to be in Cody, which turned out to be my partner’s very favorite town we visited, because of the Cody Night Rodeo.

But more about that in my next post.

Life in The Great Plains

The Great Plains of the United States is a vast area with few people and beautiful vistas. You can drive on the open roads in Montana, North and South Dakota, Wyoming, Nebraska, and Kansas for hours and see only a handful of cars. The houses are few and far between and without exception have an American flag flying in front. Each town’s population sign boasts between 29 and 1500 residents.

On our way from the Battlefield of Little Bighorn to Cody, Wyoming, where we’d be spending the night before heading into Yellowstone Park, we stopped in for some lunch at a small diner in the town of Lovell, Wyoming, population 2320.

During our travels, we’ve come to expect quirky, odd people and sights, but so far in this part of America what’s stood out the most is the utter normalcy of the people and towns. The diner was quite ordinary. Plain tables and chairs. Around one table were four middle-aged women having a girls’ lunch. Otherwise, we were alone. The menu was also nothing special. Hamburgers, french fries, pizza, tuna salad sandwiches.

And then there was this sight –

No one seemed to think it strange. I guess man and bird are regulars.

Our teenage server was a fresh-faced, blonde girl. No tattoos. No piercings. No make-up. Just a few freckles and a friendly smile. I found myself wondering about her life. Being a teenager in a town of 2000 people in the Great Plains. The nearest city, Cody, boasting 10,000 residents, is an hour away.

After we’d eaten our sandwich and were waiting for coffee, I approached the girl and asked if she’d be open to talking about her life. She nodded with a respectful ‘yes’ and a shy smile. I started with an easy question.

“What do kids your age do for fun around here?”

She didn’t hesitate. She told me the obvious – there’s nothing to do in Lovell – but went on to say that, as a result, kids make their own fun. They sometimes build a campfire and sit around talking and telling stories. They go fishing. Most teenagers work in the summer and often after school during the school year.

I mentioned that I’d noticed the lack of tattoos, piercings, and make-up and asked if that was the norm. She replied that most families in Lovell are Mormon (she’s not), and have been brought up not to find those kinds of things attractive. There’s a strict dress code at her school, which is fine with her, but she wishes they were allowed to wear leggings. (that was her only objection)

I asked if she saw herself settling down in Lovell after school or moving to a bigger city. With a mischievous smile, she said that her dream was to go to New York City and become a cosmetologist but added that she’d likely get married and settle down in Lovell, or maybe as far away as Cody.

Interestingly enough, her parents divorced when she was 10 and after a year living with her mother in Denver, Colorado, she chose to move to Lovell to live with her father. Of course, the explanation may lie simply in a troubled relationship with her mother, but I wondered later if it was the siren call of a simpler life surrounded by stark natural beauty.

There are undoubtedly inconveniences living in a tiny town with limited options. But in the towns of the Great Plains states, there’s also the inspiration and peacefulness of being surrounded by natural beauty. The rush and tension that people love to hate in the big population centers are absent. There’s virtually unlimited space. Zero crowding on the roads, in the restaurants; no long lines in the grocery store or the post office (which each town has!). From our limited experience, no one is in a hurry. They have time for conversations with the neighbor ringing up their purchases and the customers in the diner.

At our server’s age, I was also a server in a restaurant. I worked in an Indian restaurant, wearing an elegant sari, where the choices on the menu were exotic and expensive. The restaurant was on the river that ran through the tourist area of San Antonio and was constantly packed with people. Without a reservation, people were out of luck. I saved my tip money to get the hell out of Dodge. San Antonio, a city of over a million people, was too familiar. I wanted nothing more than to strike out, on my own, for more interesting pastures.

It took me 50 years to reach the point that our server reached by 16. The point where I appreciate the empty open road, the farms where the closest neighbor is at least a kilometer away. When I can often think of nothing better than sitting in a wooden chair looking out at a calm lake for an hour or two with an unopened book on my lap.

Lubec, Maine

I used to think that living in the city provided more opportunity for connection to other people. I imagined living in rural areas to be isolating. Living in a small community of 5000 people created doubt in my mind and observing people and talking to people in The Great Plains sealed my recognition of my faulty reasoning. I now think that, while it clearly depends on the individual, living among fewer people may very well encourage kinder, more intimate connection than living in a city.

As the miles rolled by, we were finding the sheer size of the open, empty plains comforting. Neither my partner nor I being particularly stressed out or hyper people, we were, nevertheless, experiencing an inner loosening in our very souls.

I often thought of travel from Wisconsin, where I was at university for more years than I care to think about, to San Antonio, as boring. Lots of wheat fields. Lots of cornfields. they go on and one and…on.

The boredom of the 70s through the 90s is today’s meditation.

Deadly Clash of Cultures: the Sad History of the Native American

The Z Bar Motel in Buffalo, Wyoming, is a great place for a family vacation. Yes, it’s in the middle of nowhere, but very convenient for our travels, halfway between Mt. Rushmore and the Battlefield of Little Bighorn. It’s a motel made up of small (and larger) cabins. The two men in the cabin next to ours were from North Carolina. They come every year to escape the heat. Very friendly, they sat on their front porch schmoozing for large parts of the day, happy to chat with other guests of the motel as they pass by.

Our cabin had a fridge and everything else we needed. Unfortunately, it also had a flooded bathroom later in the evening. Luckily, the water didn’t escape into the room proper. We debated whether we should ask for a discount upon check-out the next morning but decided against it. It can’t be easy trying to make a living from tourists there. There’s really not much around there for many miles in every direction.

The decision was taken out of our hands the next day when the owner told my partner that he would be refunding our payment in full. (I checked later and he had, indeed, issued a full refund) Only three cabins were affected by the plumbing problem, ours being one of them. When traveling – and in life in general – we’ve learned that the best attitude is one of kindness and flexibility. We also benefit – not always financially – but always in our hearts.

An hour and a half up the road we pulled into the Battle of Little Bighorn memorial.

Many years ago, on a whim, I purchased a $10 senior pass for life to all US National Parks for myself which included other passengers in my car. At the time one of our sons still lived in the States and I figured we might even get some use out of a lifetime pass. It was the ranger’s idea in the John Muir forest in California. It came in handy on this trip. We saved ourselves over $100 and had a feeling of satisfaction. It included the Little Bighorn memorial, though not Crazy Horse since that’s a private endeavor. It would be just too cynical for a monument to a warrior betrayed fatally by the US government to be a national park.

We’d been listening to Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown, anticipating our visit to Little Bighorn. The book is written primarily from the point of view of and in sympathy with the Native American Nation. Having been brought up on the opposite perspective, it was interesting to learn the history of Native American/settler relations from this point of view. What became clear was that aside from the excitement, enthusiasm, and greed of the settlers, and the often apparent disregard for Native Americans as human beings by the US Army, it was a tragic clash of cultures that led to cruelty on both sides and horrendous misunderstandings with terrible consequences.

Before the explorers and settlers invaded Native American lands, the primary conflict was between Mexicans and Native Americans. Mexicans often kidnapped Native American children for use as slaves and Native Americans retaliated by stealing horses. Odd perhaps but with none of the butchery and cruelty that was eventually representative of the settlers, the army, and the Native Americans. The Mexican and Native American cultures, while different from each other, had more in common.

It took years for Native Americans to grasp the concept of hunger for ownership of land that precluded the use of that land by others. They’d always had free access to vast tracts of land – virtually any land they wanted or needed for hunting or growing food for their needs – and considered all of the land as their home, belonging only to the holy spirits. They saw no reason not to share it with the settlers, though they were certainly territorial between tribes and there were consequences when tribes didn’t respect the non-verbal, non-contractual rights of one tribe to the land on which they hunted. The White settlers and army utilized these tribal conflicts to their advantage by allying themselves with one or more tribes against others. It would be years before Native Americans realized that the rules of the game had changed. As a result, they were slow in reacting.

Once they caught up they were no less cruel than their White counterparts. Taking the worst from their experience with the Mexicans, they kidnapped women and children. Taking the worst from their experience with US troops, they butchered their enemy with vehemence and carried out indiscriminate atrocities.

Beginning in the 17th century, settlers and soldiers came well-equipped with the weapons of their time; sidearms, shotguns, rifles, muskets, and infectious disease. The Native Americans initially had bows and arrows, tomahawks, and little resistance to the diseases of the Europeans. It would be years before Native Americans obtained rifles to arm themselves. By that time their numbers had been decimated by disease and warfare. It is estimated that 80% of Native Americans were dead by the 1he middle of the 19th century as a result of White colonization. It is estimated that no more than 2000 colonists, settlers, and US soldiers were killed during the so-called Indian Wars.

(As an aside, the so-called Vietnam War is known as the American War in Vietnam. I have no idea what Native Americans call the Indian Wars. I couldn’t find such a reference. But surely they have a different name for that part of their history.)

This violent and tragic history of Native American-European relations is littered with misunderstanding of cultural differences, broken promises and treaties, and the racism of those centuries when many Whites simply did not regard people of color as human beings. Whoever does not recognize that fact cannot possibly understand the murder of unarmed Native American women and children such as the 1864 Sand Creek Massacre, ostensibly in retaliation for the murder of a family of White settlers. Verbal and written descriptions of Native Americans as being like savage dogs (Andrew Jackson), savage as the wolf (George Washington), and calls for the total extermination of all Native Americans abound (too many to list).

History has shown that the inability to see an entire population group, in this case Native Americans, as human beings, is always the precursor to insensitivity at the least and unspeakable cruelty at worst.

Which brings us to The Battlefield of Little Bighorn, also known as Custer’s Last Stand.

In 1875, after gold was discovered in South Dakota’s Black Hills, the U.S. Army ignored treaty agreements and invaded the region. This betrayal, one of many, led many Sioux and Cheyenne tribesmen to leave their reservations and join Chief Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse in Montana. By the late spring of 1876, more than 10,000 Native Americans had gathered in a camp along the Little Bighorn River.

In mid-June, three columns of U.S. soldiers lined up against the army. A force of 1200 Native Americans turned back the first column. Five days later, General Alfred Terry ordered George Custer’s 7th Calvary to scout ahead for enemy troops. On June 25, in arrogant and reckless disregard for opposing opinions, including his Indigenous guide, Mitch Bouyer, Custer decided to press ahead rather than wait for reinforcements. Many historians believe he was more interested in increasing his reputation for a run for President of the United States than in the cautious advancement of his troops.

In any case, by mid-day on June 25, Custer’s 600 men entered the Little Bighorn Valley. Word had quickly spread of the impending attack. The older Sitting Bull rallied the warriors while Crazy Horse set off with a large force to meet the attackers head-on. Custer and some 200 men in his battalion were attacked by as many as 3000 Native Americans. Within an hour, Custer and all of his soldiers were dead. According to Cheyenne oral history, Custer himself was killed by Buffalo Calf Road Woman.

Standing at the many marked locations above the Little Bighorn Valley, reading descriptions of the battle that happened 50-100 meters away was an intense experience for me. I could smell the blood, feel the sweat, hear the war cries, sense the exuberance of the Native American warriors and the terror of the soldiers. I don’t know why it affected me so strongly, just that it was one of the fiercest reactions I’ve ever had in a historical location. Standing on the steep bluffs, I could feel the thrill of the Native American warriors – finally, finally, reigning victorious. After just one hour, 268 US soldiers lay dead, and no more than 100 Native Americans.

The feeling of accomplishment, justified revenge, and taking back control, was short-lived.

The battle at Little Bighorn reinforced popular opinion as to the savagery of the Native American Nation and served as a rallying point for the United States to increase the efforts to force native peoples onto the reservation lands. Within one year of the battle, most Native Americans surrendered and the Black Hills were taken by the US government without compensation to the Lakota.

Sitting Bull was later killed by Indian agency police on the Standing Rock Indian Reservation during an attempt to arrest him at a time when authorities feared that he would join the Ghost Dance movement. He was 58 or 59 at his death.

Crazy Horse was killed by a bayonet-wielding military guard after surrendering to U.S. troops at Camp Robinson in northwestern Nebraska. He was 37 when killed.

A trail of broken treaties and US government promises, Christianity meeting Spiritualism, tribal life and nomadic life versus settlement life, differing social structure, and visions of authority all led to the tragedy of Native American/settler clashes. It might have served as a cautionary tale for other disastrous clashes of culture in far-flung locations but as George Santayana wrote, “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

Humankind has shown repeatedly that we do not learn from history.

Today there are approximately 326 Native American land areas in the U.S. administered as federal Indian reservations (i.e. reservations, pueblos, rancherias, missions, villages, communities, and others). The largest is the 16 million-acre Navajo Nation Reservation located in Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah. While there are an estimated 9.7 million Native Americans, only about a quarter live on reservations or other trust lands. The others are scattered to the winds.

On to new adventures in Cody, Wyoming.

And So It Begins – America Summer of ’24

After seven and a half months of planning and reserving flights, cars, hotels, and activities, we were on our way to our month-long road trip in America. Ten-month-long war in Israel notwithstanding, flight cancellations all around us, our El Al reservations held firm, and we woke up in Boston at a hotel near the airport on July 16th.

We reserved Premium Economy seats for every flight; something we never would’ve done even as little as five years ago. With age comes compromise. We arrived in Boston well-rested and likewise in Rapid City, South Dakota, after two flights; Premium Economy on all. Worth every penny. Of course, if you don’t have it, you can survive Economy, even in your 70s, and if you’re addicted to travel as we are, it becomes a moot point. But the extra comfort meant starting our vacation without needing a rest day after each flight. In fact, minutes after we landed in Rapid City we were at the Alamo Rental Car counter to pick up our comfy Hyundai Elantra and hit the road.

The Rapid City airport is tiny compared to most of the mega airports we’re used to. Delhi, Chicago, Houston, Miami, Rome, Tel Aviv. The two men staffing the Alamo Rental Car desk provided foreshadowing for our entire trip. They received us with smiles and kind words. They offered us maps, listened to our plans, and made helpful, gentle suggestions. They offered basically all the cars on the lot (not all that many) at no extra charge and only reluctantly waved goodbye when we drove off.

I’m always a little surprised that there is such a thing as rental cars. Mostly brand new cars in perfect condition. I get it that insurance will cover any damage we manage to do but they don’t know us. At all. Maybe we’re the worst drivers EVER. If they’d spent a few days driving the highways in Israel they’d probably charge a lot extra for Israeli drivers. But, no, they happily waved goodbye and we were on our way.

Our first Walmart experience had me laughing at my partner. He’d actually never in his life been in a Walmart. Yes, he was born and raised in the United States. He lived there until he was twenty-eight and has been back for visits many times over the past decades. And, yet, he’d never been to Walmart. He was in shoppers’ heaven. Despite having been on two flights that day, he wandered the aisles in amazement. We stopped in to buy a cooler, ice, and basic food for the next week. We ended up checking out every aisle, from appliances to clothing, to shoes, to over-the-counter medications. Of course, being a man, we walked out with only a cooler, ice, and food for the next week, but he also walked out with a new-found respect for that American icon, Walmart. We were to visit Walmarts in several cities over the next month.

An hour later we arrived at our hotel which boasted a view of Mount Rushmore from our room Unh hunh. You know how that goes. If you walked to the end of the outside balcony and stood on tiptoe, craning your neck around a corner, you could vaguely make out the famous foursome in the distance.

No matter. We were psyched.

At the front desk, we learned that in half an hour there would be a nightly flag ceremony. Half an hour. Yikes! We’d been traveling since about ten o’clock a.m. and it was seven-thirty p.m. My partner wanted nothing more than a shower, food, and sleep. But – a flag ceremony! – come on, dude. We’d be leaving the next morning after seeing as much of Mount Rushmore as we could absorb. He’s nothing if not a great traveling companion. We were in the car quick as a flash and on our way.

If you’ve never been to Mount Rushmore: it’s in the middle of absolutely nowhere. It’s not on the way to any place you want to be unless your Great Aunt Martha lives in South Dakota. And nobody’s Tante Shoshana lives in South Dakota or any state within three states of South Dakota. For some reason, it found its way onto my bucket list decades ago so here we were.

And if you ever do find yourself there for some very mysterious reason, DO NOT MISS THE FLAG CEREMONY!!!

It was amazing. Moving is too small a word. Thousands of people every night during the tourist season, and they are all – each and every one – patriots. They’re proud Americans. They stand for the National Anthem (and seem to know all the words) and even for America the Beautiful, with hand on heart. When there’s a call for anyone who’s served in the military or has a family member who’s served in the military to come down to the stage, the stage is filled to overcrowding with people.

This is Trump Country. It’s the other America. It’s an America with which my partner and I are not familiar.

It’s an America where a teenager offered me her hand (unasked) to help me rise from the stone wall seating. Where children behave and sit or stand quietly while adults speak. Two things, sad to say, we didn’t see in Boston or Florida, later during our trip.

We both learned new information about Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and, especially, Teddy Roosevelt.

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The next day at breakfast at a diner one of the owners suggested we drive the back way into Mount Rushmore. He was as friendly, without being intrusive, as the Alamo Rental Car staff, and we took him up on his recommendation. It was one of the most beautiful, impressive pieces of road we traveled. Beautiful forest on either side of us. A quiet, windy road through the Black Hills with two short tunnels. One of the tunnels framed Mount Rushmore in the distance.

Breathtaking.

We spent another hour or so wandering around Mount Rushmore and then headed to our next stop – the nearby Crazy Horse Memorial.

A short half-hour away, we parked and climbed on a mini-bus to go up the gravel road to see Crazy Horse chiseled into the mountain. Only the head of the famous (or infamous) Oglata Lakota warrior and one of his arms – pointing ahead – is finished. Commissioned by Henry Standing Bear to be sculpted by Korczak Ziokowski in 1948, the Native American Nation refuses any financial support from the United States government on principle. Not hard to understand given their history. The constant lack of funding has made it challenging to employ enough workers to make serious progress over the decades.

Considerably larger than each of the heads of the four presidents depicted in Mount Rushmore, perhaps 4-5 times as large. It is an impressive undertaking.

Crazy Horse fought at the Battle of Little Bighorn – Custer’s Last Stand – and surrendered to US troops the following year. In yet another broken promise by the US government, he was killed by the military guard after surrendering.

It seemed only fitting to continue on from there to the Battlefield of Little Bighorn. But it was time to rest a bit so we slept overnight at a motel with little cabins in the town of Buffalo,

So far the trip had been everything I’d hoped…and more.