Category Archives: Gypsies

You Can’t Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd

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“Ole,” I yelled from the back of the bike.  “What in heaven’s name (I used different words but won’t print them here) are you doing?” as I grabbed onto him for security.  He was weaving back and forth on the road dodging piles of buffalo poop.  Obviously, there had been a recent crossing of a good-sized herd of buffalo and I think every one of them had left a large deposit on the asphalt.  Believe me, you don’t want to drive through one of those piles because 1) they’re large, 2) they’re slippery, and 3) they STINK!  So as a result that old Roger Miller song came to mind, You Can’t Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd, and you shouldn’t be driving a motorcycle through one either.  That was a couple of days ago, and I still can’t get that darn song out of my head!

We arrived in Medora on Sunday evening, and after setting up camp we took a spin through the park.  Apparently life has been very good for the buffalo herd as it seems to have become quite prolific over the last year.  There were buffalo ALL OVER.  We didn’t see much else other than prairie dogs and a few wild horses.  Sorry, Gang, no pictures on this leg of the trip as over the years I’ve taken so many pictures of the wildlife in the Badlands I certainly don’t need any more. 

You see, I have a looooong history with Medora and the Badlands.  Ole and I make it a mandatory stop every year on our way home from Sturgis and wherever else we decide to go after Sturgis.  It’s always nice to kind of wind down with some easy rides in a place you know well and are comfortable in.  We don’t do the musical anymore and we don’t do the shopping thing – just the scenery thing – and never get tired of it. 

I remember very vividly the first time I ever saw the Badlands.  I was a little girl of about 4 or 5.  As I’ve written in previous blogs I grew up as “trailer trash” http://oleandlena.areavoices.com/2011/03/27/life-as-a-gypsy/  (please no one take offense if you live in a mobile home, it’s just an expression) and lived the life of a “gypsy.”  (Here again, please don’t attack me for being a racist.  Those of you who’ve read me for a while know about my run-in with a college student a while back because I used the term gypsy.)  http://oleandlena.areavoices.com/2011/03/29/life-as-a-gypsy-part-2/ (Make sure yo read the “comments” on this post).   My father was a road construction worker and we moved about following the work.  We were in the process of moving from one location to another and the Badlands just happened to be on the way.  My father, who loved to travel and explore new areas, decided to drive through the Badlands instead of around them.  He had a 1953 Hudson Hornet at that time, a large heavy car, and was pulling our house with it, an 8 x 32 foot trailer house.  The road through the Badlands at that time was very narrow and covered with scoria, a red rock that’s found in the area.  My mother was terrified as he pulled this trailer house around all the curves, up and down the hills, and hung onto the passenger door handle with her right hand and the edge of the front seat with her left.  She would gasp for breath each time we made a turn around a sharp curve.  Me?  I just placed myself on the floor of the backseat and hid my head under a blanket so I wouldn’t have to look, although curiosity got the best of me periodically and I peaked.  Times are different now – the road is wider and asphalted, although the curves haven’t been straightened out.  But that just makes it all the more fun on a Harley. 

Following our ride we decided to stop at the Little Missouri Saloon for a toddy and possibly some summer.  Two drinks came to $15.50 – WOW!  I guess we won’t do that again.  I think they’re charging New York prices or something.  Dinner was delicious – $45 for 2 burgers, one with onion rings and one with hash browns.  We decided that the next day we would eat what we had in our fridge in the RV. 

We spent Monday dawdling around town taking in a few of the tourist traps – I’m not much of a shopper but went looking for some polished agates.  Medora used to be full of stores that had polished rocks for sale, but none to be found this time around.  The shops seem to be catering to a classier type of clientele than me and carry lost of high end clothing and household goods.  The town is full of specialty stores and sadly, I only found one good old “junk” shop that had the old cheapo tourist falderol.  But of course, no polished agates.  Oh, well.

We’ve really suffered this leg of the trip – no satellite TV!!  Our camp site had several large cottonwood branches hanging in just the right location so we couldn’t get a signal.  We had to tough it out and listen to the satellite radio – one of my favorite stations carries all the old radio shows back from the 40s and 50s – My Friend Irma, Fibber Magee and Mollie, Life of Riley – I’m sure a lot of you folks don’t remember them.  But I grew up with them (so did YOU Burl, so no remarks about age, okay?) and still really enjoy them. 

We’re on the road home this morning.  Ole promised Daisy that she would be able to sleep in her own bed tonight – she showed all those big fangs and smiled!!

That’s all until next time.

Love, Lena

Blow It Up Your You-Know-Where!!

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“You are in contemp of the United States Trademark laws.  I am the ONLY person who has a current trademark on the words WINE LADY.  Nobody and no one is legally allowed to use those words as a website, in a website, in a business, etc.  I dare you to check the US Trademark section to confirm my claim!

You are hereby notified, this 4th day of February 2012, to cease and desist from using the term WINE LADY or any format of that name whatsoever.  Failure to do so will prompt an immediate lawsuit against you and your company.”

SO SUE ME!!

I received this comment regarding an entry I made previously in reference to a friend who had helped Ole make wine and pack up all his wine for moving.  Some folks just don’t have enough to do.  After doing a bit of research I found out that this woman’s name is Kathleen Adams and she’s from Oregon.  My suspicion is that she has trademarked a number of phrases and spends her time searching the internet for situations where the trademarked term is used and then threatens lawsuits.  Whether she follows through on them or not I don’t know.  But I guess this would be one way to make a few bucks.  Then again, maybe she gets her chuckles from intimidating innocent people.

I did check the trademark website, and she indeed has trademarked the term “wine lady.”  But after reading further into the rules and regs, I was in no way trying to promote or sell a product using this term – it was simply a reference to a friend and her assistance.  And Number Two – The Adventures of Ole and Lena is most definitely NOT a company in any way, shape or form.  God watch over the world if it was (chuckle).

Either I seem to have a knack for getting myself in trouble for what I write, or there are getting to be a lot of kooks out there that are looking for trouble.  If you remember a previous entry I wrote referencing “gypsies,” I was called on the carpet by some young college student who was backed up by her professor that I was being racist or some such dumb thing.  The comments on that entry got quite interesting and heated.  http://oleandlena.areavoices.com/2011/03/29/life-as-a-gypsy-part-2/

But like a true Norwegian, I refused to change my mind and most certainly didn’t change my blog.  And I don’t intend to this time either.

A couple of days ago I posted a picture on Facebook of a young man from what I assume was a Muslim country wearing a shirt that depicted the Twin Towers being hit and falling down.  Of course he was smiling and obviously someone had gone to a lot of trouble to produce this shirt, probably in large quantities, and sell it.

I made some remarks about “not forgetting” and being skeptical and untrusting of that particular religion because of their belief that the entire Christian community worldwide should be wiped out.  Instantly I was reprimanded by a very liberal ex-friend about what an uncompassionate person I am and that I really need to take the “hate” out of my life.  I could go on about that, but it’s just not worth it.

So now I’ve had my say, for whatever it’s worth, probably not much.  I’m tired of all the kooks and nut jobs in the world that are coming out of the woodwork, making all kinds of noise and influencing this country in the negative direction it’s going.  It’s time for the conscientious, intelligent thinkers to rise up and do something.  Unfortunately, I’m about ready to “hermitize” myself, move out to the far Back Woods and be one of those folks who meets you at the door with a shotgun when you drive up on my property.  If we hadn’t just bought a new house and I’m so busy “Lena-izing” it, I would just do that.

Love, Lena

Hey, Lena – I think I froze my eyeballs!

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 Scrunch, gasp, scrunch, gasp, scrunch, gasp – this is the sound of Ole walking across the pull-off area at the top of the Beartooth Pass (11,000 feet). 

“Hey, Lena,” he said, “I think oxygen is in short supply up here, what do you think?”  “Yeah,” I said, “but I’m more worried about getting frost bite than not being able to breathe.  Your thermometer says it’s 60 degrees, but with the wind chill I think it must be at least 32 below up here.” 

“Yes,” Ole said.  “I think I may have got frostbite on my eyeballs.”

You can imagine how a couple of flatlanders feel trying to just walk at this altitude when we’re used to breathing that “thick” air that we have down at 900 feet.  We have to breathe three times as fast to get the same amount of oxygen.

We started out this morning to ride the Beartooth Pass, Ole and me on the Harley and Daisy and Big Brother in his truck.  Daisy got to ride shotgun and was very happy about it as she didn’t have to stay home while we were out having all the fun.

 

We have ridden the Beartooth Pass a number of times on the Harley and I’ve always said it’s a road that I’m comfortable riding on the back of the Harley, but I don’t know if I would be comfortable in a vehicle.  Big Brother and a buddy drove it back in the early 60s in his 1949 Nash.  That must have been quite an adventure.  I asked him if he had any brakes left by the time he got to the other side.  His response was that he couldn’t remember that far back  (dementia, snicker). 

There were a ton of bikes on the road this morning and afternoon, and numerous cars.  But I can’t figure out who, in their right mind, would take this road in a motorhome.  We saw several, some on the rather large side.  At one point we watched a Class C working its way up the road very slowly.  Then we watched it get to the top of a grade that had a turn-off and watched it turn around and start working its way back down.  When we met this vehicle on the road he was going downhill VERY slowly along the inner edge of the road.   I could almost see the indentations in the dash where his wife was hanging on for dear life.  I guess he finally realized that he was in over his head trying to make this pass in an RV. 

 

The road was full of switchbacks and hairpin turns many of them without any kind of a guardrail.  If you ever went over the edge they’d never find you.

We made it safely to Cooke City and made a stop for lunch.

And then it was back over the top and down to warmer temperatures. 

Love, Lena

The Hornet’s Nest

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My goodness, but I seem to have stirred up a hornet’s nest when I referenced gypsies in a couple of my previous entries.  BZZZ-BZZZZ – STING!!!  This will be my last entry regarding this issue as first of all, it gets OLD, and secondly, Ole made me promise not to get in a battle of wits with someone who is not well equipped.  But first I have a couple of points I want to make.

I did a bit of research on the internet after receiving comments from a Melissa Hughes and an Elizabeth Strom.  I was able to determine that Ljorna is a student at the University of New Orleans and Melissa Hughes is her Sociology instructor who gave her class an assignment to monitor blogs for the use of racial slurs.  Ljorna became so upset with my response to her comment where she informed me that I know nothing about gypsies and that I was racist and insulting, that she forwarded all this information to her instructor.  She also sent the links to Elizabeth Strom, who, from what I can derive, lives in New York City and is a singer/musician and a Jewish activist.  The following statement is taken from her web site:  “In addition to her ongoing commitment to klezmer and Yiddish music, Schwartz has a new project with Yale Strom, Salman Ahmad and Samir Chatterjee called “Common Chords”, which explores harmony, peace, understanding and great music between traditionally different cultures (Jewish, Muslim, Hindu).”   I was able to determine that Melissa Hughes is a supplemental instructor in the Sociology program at the University of New Orleans and her graduate thesis was entitled The Romani Place in Kosovar Space: Nationalism, Citizenship and the Roma in Kosovo.

All this because I wrote a story about when I was a little girl and my family moved from place to place – Life as a Gypsy.  It’s my opinion that these three people need to start worrying about things that are truly important – like abortion, sharia law, Middle Eastern dictators, etc.  And Ms Hughes and Ms Strom couldn’t understand why I was receiving so much support from my commenters.  Maybe they all think like I do and deal with the realities of the world instead of searching for drivel to develop a cause. 

Anyway, Ljorna thought she was sending the Big Guns after me, I guess.  Sorry, Ljorna, but I won’t change the title to my post.  It remains Life as a Gypsy.  Not to be mean, but you read WAY too much into it.

Fun things to come tomorrow.  All for now.

Love, Lena

PS:  None of you better be telling Ole and Lena jokes now – I just might get insulted – and that goes for you people down at the University of New Orleans too.

The Dreaded Bum’s Jungle

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In yesterday’s post I invited Ljorna to educate all of us about Gypsies.  And she did.  You can view her comments attached to this post.  I would truly love to know what your background is, Ljorna.  What is your ethnic heritage and have you actually lived the things you spoke of in your comment?  As the next commenter said, Folks who don’t have a sense of humor shouldn’t go to a comedy. 

On to more important things – like my life.  That’s what this blog is supposed to be about, isn’t it?  Anywa – yesterday Ole decided to move the motorhome up to the house in preparation for getting it off the property prior to the high water that is still predicted to arrive.  He ran into just a wee bit of trouble – like getting a 23,000 lb. vehicle stuck.  Now just how do you go about getting something like that out of the mud.  Farmer Neighbor Dave to the rescue with his big John Deere tractor. 

 

 

His tractor grunted and snorted a bit, and poured just a bit of black smoke out of the exhaust pipe, but the ole’ JD popped that RV right out of the hole and off it went on up to the house.  Ole said he had the greatest urge to just keep on going, out the driveway and down the highway – but he thought it was in his best interests not to leave me behind (snicker).  Yah, you bet, Ole, that would not have been a good thing!!  I took a video of the JD pulling the RV with the idea of posting it to this site, but for some reason I can’t get it to upload.  It had sound on it and everything.  Oh, well, you’ll just have to use your imagination. 

Took a little tour of the countryside a day or so ago, trying to keep watch on the rising and falling of the water level.  This is what we found a couple of miles from where we live.  It’s a common sight at this time of the year – water over all the little township roads.   If you happen to hit it lucky you just might see a beaver or two swimming around in the icy cold water. 

 Enough about all this Water Stuff for now.  There will be plenty of that to talk about within the next couple of weeks.  So let’s talk about Bum’s Jungle instead. 

I was about four or five years old when my father decided to settle down and quit living the gypsy-life  (there’s that word again – shame on me)  on the road construction crew that he worked for.  He bought a piece of property on the edge of the little town that we had settled in, (population 275 at that time) and proceeded to set up residence there.

I remember very vividly that one morning in the fall of the year when I headed for school, I was told that when school got out that afternoon I should go home to the new location instead of the old one. Four o’clock came, the dismissal bell rang and I went happily skipping down the road headed for home. Little did I know that my father had purchased a piece of property adjacent to the dreaded BUM’S JUNGLE!!

Now I had no idea what a Bum’s Jungle was, but all my friends, who were skipping down the road with me by the way, were eager to fill me in on the horrible and terrible things that happened there. My Dad’s Half Acre of Paradise was bordered on one side by the railroad track that went through town, on one side by the gravel road that went a mile down to the country church, on the third side by an open field, and on the fourth side by a heavily wooded area known to all the local kids as Bum’s Jungle. At that time the railroad was still using the big black steam locomotives that shook the Earth making the dishes in the cupboards rattle when they went roaring by, and spewed black ashes and stinky smoke all over everything.

Of course there were times when the engines wouldn’t roar by, but would stop to take on a load of something or to switch to a siding track until another train went sailing past. That’s when the inhabitants of the Bum’s Jungle would take advantage of the slower pace and hop on or off the boxcars and take up residence in the wooded area behind our house. Periodically we could see men moving about back in the woods, campfires at night, etc. The camp would be occupied for a few days and then would be empty for a long period of time. Then Big Brother and I would go carefully exploring back in the woods to see what we could find – empty whiskey bottles, cigarette packs, snoose cans, remnants of meals cooked, etc. As the years went by the occupancies became fewer and farther between. To my knowledge there never was any trouble from any of the inhabitants – they were just itinerant men moving from one location to another in a manner they preferred.

And to this day that piece of property is still known in the local community as Bum’s Jungle.

So that’s your history lesson for today.

Love, Lena