James M. Redwine

bison

Thanks A Lot Noah

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In his book Letters From The Earth, Mark Twain has Noah making an extra trip in the Ark so he could save the housefly that spreads typhoid fever. I could not find any reference to scorpions in the Book of Genesis nor in the account of the Great Flood that also appears in the Quran. However, Noah, or in Arabic, Nuh, must have heroically preserved the “creature with the burning sting” as I stepped on one in our cabin at JPeg Osage Ranch last night. If Satan had stepped on a scorpion with bare cloven hoof, I bet he would have sent a scathing letter to heaven from his temporary banishment on Earth. Perhaps then either St. Michael or St. Gabriel, the Devil’s correspondents, might have pointed out to the Creator that His creation of the scorpion was a bust.

The Latin name, scorpion, given to the eight-legged arachnid with the pinching front claws and the stinging tail aptly describes the menace that apparently has no value except to encourage one to wear shoes in the house. Except for me, scorpions have few natural enemies other than lizards and tarantulas; choose your poison.

What I want to know is whom did Mother Nature put in charge of species extinction and why hasn’t She extinguished scorpions? Scorpions have been around for 435 million years and, I humbly suggest, that is long enough. According to Google (who else are you going to rely on), extinctions are a normal part of evolution. They occur naturally, periodically and somewhat regularly. We Homo sapiens would not be here if millions of other species, dinosaurs for example, had not gone extinct before we came out of the primordial ooze two to three hundred thousand years ago after two to three million years of genetic iterations of hominids.

I submit it is fair to ask Mother Nature, “What were you thinking?” Much like the White-Tailed Hornet of poet laureate Robert Frost’s poem, it appears to me whoever designed the scorpion should have gone back to the drawing board, or better yet, file thirteened the whole thing. The white-tailed hornet (or scorpion) might be viewed romantically by nature lovers who assume infallibility or even lovability in all of nature’s creations. But Frost (1874-1963) watched in disillusionment as a white-tailed hornet in search of a fly to eat repeatedly attacked both the head of a nail and Frost’s nose. As Frost concludes about nature and life in general, once we begin to see the fallibility of the natural world “reflected in the mud and even dust” we can no longer convince ourselves we humans are only a little lower than the angels and are probably no higher than creepy crawlers on the floor.

 

The White-Tailed Hornet

The white-tailed hornet lives in a balloon (nest)
That floats against the ceiling of the woodshed
…
Verse could be written on the certainty
With which he penetrates my best defense
Of whirling hands and arms about the head
To stab me in the sneeze-nerve of a nostril
…
I watched him where he swooped, he pounced, he struck;
But what he found was just a nail head (not a fly).
…
Won’t this whole instinct matter bear revision?
To err is human, not to, animal.
Or so we pay the compliment to instinct.
…
’Twas disillusion upon disillusion.

 

In much the same manner as Frost’s hornet, did that scorpion on my cabin floor mistake me for either dinner or a possible mate? Why bother me at all? When it should have been gainfully employed in more reasonable pursuits it was not using any reason and we both suffered for its frailty.

The Greek astronomer Ptolemy identified the constellation Scorpius in the 2nd century A.D. Why didn’t Mother Nature take that as a clue to make scorpions extinct 2,000 years ago? Even Nancy Reagan with her reliance on astrology for advice to her husband on affairs of state might have used her influence to have “Scorpio” disappeared from our existence by bringing the power of the federal government to bear. After all, our federal government killed off generations of eagles and other more cuddly species than scorpions with DDT. Why did scorpions escape?

I am glad the bison somehow miraculously survived mankind’s slaughter but do wonder what if any reason exists to preserve the scorpion. I guess it comes down to “Only the good die young” and we humans have been around about 430 million fewer years than the scorpion. We will probably be gone long before scorpions pass.

On the other hand, perhaps I can convince Jeff Bezos and Amazon to help me market scorpions to the public as pets. Hey, entrepreneur Gary Dahl got rich back in the 1970’s by convincing people a rock could be a loving pet. Maybe a slogan such as “Get Your Zing Avoiding a Sting” could be catchy. Or maybe I could sell them as a great gift idea for misanthropic people or dry them out and make necklaces from them. I see all kinds of people sporting plastic human skulls on their belt buckles or as tattoos.

Of course, if I were able to get such an enterprise going the government would just regulate it out of existence or tax it to death. Well, at least I could get rid of some of the crunchy little crustaceans that way. In the meantime, I guess I’ll just need to wear my shoes and watch my step.

 

Last Of The Buffalo Hunters

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Barbed Wire Fence in “The Osage”.                    

Before he served our country in Viet Nam my friend Jimmie Reed worked on his dad’s ranch in Foraker, Oklahoma. Jimmie and Bill Moon and I played football for the Pawhuska, Oklahoma Huskies and graduated together in 1961. The summer between our junior and senior years Jimmie’s father, Phil Reed, needed some fence built and Jimmie volunteered Bill and me to help. Mr. Reed paid us $7.00 per day plus a hamburger at lunch time at the old Foraker store.

One typical Osage County July day Mr. Reed and Jimmie came into Pawhuska at 6:00 a.m. and picked up Bill and me to work. If you have never had the experience of building barbed wire fence across a pasture of unyielding Osage County sandstone where shade is illegal, may I advise you to maintain your current status. We were equipped with bales of barbed wire, wire cutters, wire stretchers and, surprisingly to me as a town boy, sledgehammers and long iron pikes. Oh, we had manual post hole diggers but they shrank in fear when encountering two inches of top soil over two feet of rock.

About the only way to drive a metal fence post deep enough to hold stretched out wire was to first stand on the tailgate of a pickup and make a hole by driving down an iron pike with a sledgehammer. Then we had to drive a post into the hole.

That particular bucolic summer day on the prairie as I dodged the zooming grasshoppers and wondered how I was going to pay Jimmie back later by beating him at snooker at the local pool hall if we made it to dark, a cowboy from the nearby Boots Adams ranch drove up and spoke to Mr. Reed. Mr. Reed who was usually calm and laconic got agitated. I overheard him tell the cowboy something had to be done right away. Mr. Reed used a couple of emphatic words I had never heard him utter before.

Gentle Reader, you are probably wondering why Mr. Reed and Boots did not simply discuss the matter via their cell phones. Well, in 1960 a pickup was the cell phone. Anyway, the cowboy took Mr. Reed’s comments back to Boots. Here’s what it was all about.

Boots Adams, who was once the president of Phillips Petroleum Company headquartered in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, used to regale eastern dude money men with the great golden west by introducing them to cowboys, horses, cattle and the small herd of buffalo he kept at his ranch. We called them buffalo before the Nature Conservancy opened shop and made us say bison.

Buffalo/Bison

It turns out bison and cattle are kind of like Democrats and Republicans. They generally do not play well together. So, Mr. Reed told Boots’ cowhand something had to be done when the cowhand said seven of Boots’ buffalo had broken out and were causing havoc among Mr. Reed’s cattle.

Well, Boots’ cowboy hurried back to Boots with Mr. Reed’s concerns then returned. I heard the cowhand say, “Boots said to just shoot ‘em”. Actually, Boots used somewhat more colorful vernacular. As for the cowhand he produced several rifles and ammunition and told Mr. Reed that Boots was sending a flatbed truck with a wench to meet up with us where the buffalo were roaming.

Mr. Reed, Jimmie, Bill, the cowhand and I jumped into the two pickups and flew off to hunt buffalo! It was not long before we found the burly beasts ambling around Mr. Reed’s pasture as though they belonged there. And just as the politically incorrect buffalo hunters who used to kill herds of buffalo from a train’s flatcar, we removed the seven marauding behemoths.

Please do not castigate us, the last of the buffalo hunters, for protecting the cattle. It was a job that had to be done. And it sure beat building fence. I wish Jimmie and Bill, and Mr. Reed too, were still here to fill any gaps in my recollection. On the other hand, I know wherever they are they are cooler than in The Osage in July and are perhaps still chasing after some mystical buffalo instead of pounding down fence posts.

It Would Be An Honor, However …

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Jim Redwine July 4, 2019

Peg and I and several members of the Redwine family were fortunate to have been included in last week’s New Harmony, Indiana Fourth of July Celebration. It was a community effort with fine music, an excellent reading of the Declaration of Independence by our friend and neighbor Chuck Minnette and copious amounts of hot dogs and ice cream. I was honored to be included as a speaker.

Reporter and photographer Lois Mittino Gray of the Posey County News did an excellent job of capturing the essence of America’s Birthday celebration and I truly appreciated her kind remarks. I also understand how someone named Redwine who was born on the Osage Indian Nation in Pawhuska, Oklahoma and who wore an Osage inspired patriotic vest could be assumed to be a member of the great Osage Tribe. While such an honor would be a source of great pride for me, alas, while I have numerous Osage, and other Indian tribe friends, I am not a tribal member.

Growing up in Osage County I played sports with and against Osages. I attended church and public schools with Osages. I count Osages among my best friends and treasure our memories and current relationships. I have always felt accepted and respected as a friend, teammate, schoolmate and competitor by my Osage friends. But the great privilege of being an actual Osage must remain in the realm of desire, not reality.

Gentle Reader, should you wish to encounter a culture where the Osage Tribe and several other justly proud Indian peoples will welcome you as they always have me and my family, I recommend you plan an excursion to Pawhuska, Oklahoma. You will find buffalo (bison), miles of virgin prairie on the Tallgrass Prairie Preserve, the Osage Tribal Museum, the Osage County Historical Museum, Woolaroc Museum, cowboys of the non-drugstore type, rodeos and the Pioneer Woman’s Mercantile among just some of the fun and enriching things to experience. You may even encounter Peg and me and other members of the Redwine family as Osage County and Pawhuska may not officially designate us as Osage, but we all have always proudly claimed the culture and heritage of that special place.