Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Old Georgian Script on a Church in the Caucasus Mountains

Old Georgian Orthodox Church
Although Georgia is a small country, it has its own unique language and script (alphabet) that are unrelated to the major alphabets/scripts now in use (e.g., Latin, Cyrillic, Persian, Hindu, and a handful of others). The alphabet, likely originally influenced by Greek script, has evolved from its origins in the 4th century -- some say it was created much earlier -- to its present day form.
Old Georgian Script on Ancient Church

Probably about five to six million people speak Georgian, including most of the four million or so who live in the country.

The picture to the left and below show an early version of Georgian script that was chiseled onto the exterior wall of the old Georgian Orthodox church pictured above, located on Military Road, not too far from the border with Russia. The church is in the Caucasus Mountains, overlooking a large lake, a peaceful and beautiful setting.

This Georgian Orthodox church building is no longer in use, and is in a state of disrepair.  It was constructed out of locally made brick and at one time was likely quite impressive inside.  Some remaining rements of frescoes on the inside cupola are still visible, but have graffiti (in Russian) written on them. (See the last picture.)

A visit to this area, about 60 miles from Tbilisi, gives a small taste of the interesting elements of isolated Georgia settlements scattered throughout the Caucasus mountains, each with their old  fortifications that no longer serve a purpose and stone churches. The living conditions in the mountains are sometimes harsh and difficult, a throwback to another time. In return, residents have the self-sufficiency and distance from the troubled world that have always attracted mountain people.
More Old Georgian Script

Graffiti on Fresco in the Church

(Photos by Dan Durning)

Merry Mat Loses His Clothes: Pioneer Tales of Arkansas' German Immigrants

Pioneer Tales, Arkansas Echo, November 10, 1893
Part 2

[The first part of this story told of Mät's decision to leave Arkansas to move to the Washington territory and his disappointment upon arriving there.  The second part is a vignette about how poor Mät and his friend Joe lost all of their clothes and had to travel naked to get to their homes.]

Now I would like to relate, as well as possible, an amusing story that happened to Mät.

In our first days here, the settlers naturally did not have as much clear land as they could have used. Most of the land had to be cleared and prepared for cultivation. Therefore, many settlers rented cleared land for themselves somewhere, either for money or for a specific share of the crop. That is what Mät did also. 
White River by Batesville from Arkansas Echo, 1893

One year he leased, with his neighbor Joe, a piece of bottomland about 4 miles from their houses. When they wanted to get to this bottomland, they had to cross over a creek. The creek was usually not too bad or deep. However, after a hard rain, it could become wild and inhospitable.

Joe did not have an animal for transportation, but Mät had bought an old mule, Rosi was her name, and the two prepared a plough together. Now, Rosi was a very tame and stopped when ordered. 

One day as they were again working on the land, a terrible storm suddenly approached and quickly they quit their work and retreated to their small hut which they had thrown up as a precaution. It rained so hard that it poured. As they consumed their lunch, it began to rain harder, so much that poor Rosi had to also be brought into the hut. And it wasn't about to stop.

Mät didn't worry too much about it, but to Joe things weren't right, especially as it grew increasingly darker and there was little possibility of returning home. "Console yourself," Mät said, "we are sitting here comfortably in a dry place. Beautiful weather will return by early tomorrow morning and then you will soon be home again."

"Yes, but what about the creek," sighs Joe.

"So what, the creek?" says Mät. "We will drive Rosi into it and we swim behind her , if there is no other way."

"Sure," answers Joe, "you can swim. But me?"

"That doesn't make any difference," says Mät. "I will put you under my arm and take you across to the other side. Now let's sleep a couple of hours and then we will see what is to be done."

Soon Mät was sleeping the sleep of the just. But Joe couldn't keep his eyes closed the entire night.

The next morning, the rain still didn't want to stop until around 10:00 o'clock when things started to clear up and the sun began to shine again as beautiful as if nothing had happened. The two took off for home since they were badly tormented by hunger. Soon, they were at the creek,

What a scary sight! It was overflowing and the foot log was gone. Joe started moaning again. "Ach was," says Mät, "get out of your clothes fast."

After a few sighs, Joe does just that. Then Mät binds their clothes, puts them in the saddle on Rosi, and drives her into the creek. Soon the loyal animal is on the other side, looks around once, and trots merrily away despite the "Oh, oh!" that Mät calls loudly after her.

"Everything will be o.k.," maintains Mät, "if we can get quickly over to the other side." Then he takes the straps from the plow and ties one end around his body and ties Joe to the other end. Thud, he jumps into the water and Joe, like it or not, must follow. As I have already said, Mät was a good swimmer and without too much, effort, he soon had swam across. Joe had quickly lost his breath and it took him awhile to recover his wits.

There was no trace of the disloyal Rosi. "Well, well, " said Mät, "We are in quite a fix. If only we were in our clothes by the sides of our mothers!"

Unfortunately, they had to march at least a whole mile through cleared bottom land with not even shrubs or trees, only a small woods at the end of the bottom land. Therefore, it was most important to reach this protective woods and thereby escape the damned heat.

Now I must temporarily interrupt my story and see how things in the meanwhile have been going at home. There, Barb, Mät's wife, had thought nothing about Mät not coming home that evening. That was really nothing extraordinary for him. But it was different with Marie, Joe's wife. She couldn't go to sleep the whole night.

As it approached noon the next day, and Joe still had not come home, she was overcome with fear and ran over to see Barb. Since she also still had not seen or heard anything of them, Marie began to sob and was sure that something had happened. Barb comforted her as well as she could. Then suddenly, neighing is heard, and Rosi stands at the door of the stall and bellows. "Thank God," says Marie. "There they are!" And she rushes outside. "Oh Heavens, what is that? Rosi alone and a bundle of clothes in the saddle." She lets go a wretched cry, a shriek, such that Barb, very shocked, springs outside. The way things appear there, she also loses her self-control. 

 "Man of my life!" she also screams. "What has happened to poor Mät? He has certainly been killed in the creek. Oh God! Oh God! Dear, poor Mät. I will not be able to find such a good man again for a long time." And the two produce such a concert that even a rock would have felt pity.

"Now," says Barb, "quickly to the creek, we must see how it came about."  And as fast as they can, they make their way toward the creek.

Now let us return quickly to our two heroes. The two have moved boldly onward and have almost reached the protective wood. Oh no, trouble. They suddenly see a man and a women ahead coming toward them. Fortunately, it appears the couple has not seen the two. Quickly, they throw themselves onto the ground and crawl on all fours to the nearby cotton field which is just tall enough that a person can, if need be, hide in it. They wait for the couple to pass by.

More trouble! The couple reach the vicinity, and they can hear everything the couple says to each other. "Dear," says the woman, "I definitely believe that I saw a couple of calves in front of us. Certainly I must have made a mistake." And they began diligently chopping cotton.

In the meanwhile, Mät and Joe lay there in the cotton, in the burning, hot son, and sweated; in the truest meaning of the word, misery. That couldn't be endured for long and Mät soon said, "Damn and blast it! This is pure agony, and if the couple do not soon move on, then we will break free, come what may. One side of me is already burned to a crisp."

Very fortunately, the couple was soon finished -- it was still too damp -- and they returned home. As soon as they had disappeared from eyesight, the two were on their feet and had soon vanished into the woods. "So," said Mät, relieved, "Now we have survived the worst. We can hide in the woods during the trip, if need be." And courageously they moved onward without meeting anyone ahead.

Now they must go around a sharp curve and cannot see far ahead on the road. Then, as they are just about around the curve, they suddenly are facing a couple of women who are terrified by the strange sight and want to shriek and flee.

Mät had immediately seen who they were, and he shouted passionately, "Barb, Barb!" Then she quickly recognized him. And with a "Thank God!" she took Mät into her arms. Marie did exactly the same with Joe.

"Let's go home fast," said Mät. "This is a terrible place to chat and hug each other." And after they had put on the petticoats of Barb and Marie, they took off quickly for home and made it without further encounters.

Mät happily had a good drink in the house and then crawled into bed, and after he ate like a wolf and had slept his fill, he was again alright.

Joe had picked up a common cold and felt the horror and worry in his limbs for a long time.

If that had only been the end of it! "Keep your mouth shut!" It wasn't three days until the whole county knew about it, and what annoyed Mät the most was that he had to put up with a lot of kidding.  And that confounded old nag was responsible for all of this.

(Translated by Dan Durning, all rights reserved) 

Sunday, May 29, 2011


R.D. (arm raised), Nov. 1969



Speaking to Students




The “legend” begins with this story:


This account of R.D.’s arrival does not square with the story told by George McGill (owner of the McGill Insurance Agency in Forth Smith) as part of his University of Arkansas-Ft. Smith commencement address on December 18, 2008 (see http://www.thecitywire.com/print/2309 ). He said in his speech:

Finally, Morgan summed up the Rucker legend like this:

Likely the stories about his financial difficulties are factual. He was the tenth child of Kirk and Demora Rucker, born in Swifton, Arkansas. Unless the family was rich, they likely lacked the resources to pay for all of his college studies. (See item in this link: https://list.uiowa.edu/scripts/wa.exe?A3=ind0404&L=UI-NEWS&E=quoted-printable&P=253399&B=--B_3165481495_790407&T=text%2Fhtml;%20charset=US-ASCII&XSS=3&header=1 ; Family information is from the Newport Independent, Febuary 13, 2004, "Black History Month Tribute to R.D. Rucker: a man who made a difference", available for purchase through the newspaper archive). 






Abraham Lincoln’s Social and Political Thought,


Eros and the Sexual Revolution,

Jesus Christ and the Origin of Christianity,





R.D. Marching in MLK Parade, 1969


Tuesday, May 24, 2011




Northwest Arkansas Times, Dec. 4, 1969



Northwest Arkansas Times, December 4, 1969 


Northwest Arkansas Times, Nov. 26, 1969







Northwest Arkansas Times, Dec. 5, 1969





<revised May 29, 2011>

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Merry Mat Moves to the Washington Territory: Pioneer Tales of Arkansas' German Immigrants

Pioneer Tales, Arkansas Echo, November 10, 1893
Part 1

[This Pioneer Tale is about Merry Mät, a German immigrant in Arkansas who, after he settles in one place, has an urge to move to another. The first part of Mat's story is about his move from Arkansas to the Washington Territory, which, Mat has heard, is a paradise with easy living.  Much of the tale is in the form of a poem with rhyming couplets. The translation does not attempt to match the rhyme, but instead is intended to convey the meaning.]

Ad for handkerchiefs, Joe D Back & Bro., Little Rock

Who could not have known, at least in our county, Merry Mät, also known as the Primeval Poet. Mät was always a happy, merry brother, and he could not only use a lathe to carve all kinds of nice things, but he also knew how to carve verse in his spare time. Often this came out somewhat rough, and certainly his verse could hardly be compared with that of Schiller and other greats. Well, in truth, it was plain fare, and jolly Ernst Pope, then editor of the paper in Fort Smith that we were happy to have, the Volksblattes, was always ready to serve it up to his readers.

Mät was a carpenter, farmer, owner of a furniture store; he was agent for a half-dozen companies; and, lastly, he was a photographer. He wasn't too lucky with photographs because they didn't turn out too good.  Incidentally, he made good money in his various businesses and had a good and comfortable life.

Mät was affected by one weakness that never allowed him to really amount to much. This was a sickness that was, so to speak, in his blood. When he had settled in somewhere, he was immediately struck with a fever to travel, and he had to move. Then he would sell off and get rid of everything, and would take off to another region. In that way, he had moved twice out of Arkansas, but had always returned again.

So it happened the last time, a few years ago, that he got the fever to change, and he traveled away, this time to the Washington Territory, where in his opinion, he would find a real paradise. In reality, he found something different and, if he had been able to, would have immediately returned. For the pleasure of, perhaps, many readers, we want to present his journey here in verse:


Mät, who wanted to see the world again,
Wanted to go to Washington.
To Washington, the beautiful land
Where snow and ice are unknown.
Where there is plenty of wine and beer,
And honey has such an odor.
A person drinks milk there like water here.
There are no German-haters there.
The sun does not burn as hot
And therefore no one sweats.
Sure it rains, but not often for the fun of it,
Then follows continuous
Beautiful weather like never before
And forage for the beloved animals.
And money there is not as rare
as here.  All year long
There is money there like hay and straw.
It lies on the street like that there.

So Mr. Primeval had read one time.
Oh poor Mät, you poor man,
How one can miscalculate!

One day he pulled up stake
With his wife and kids, small and large.
Until he got to Kansas everything went well.
Mät was in a good mood.
Soon he had totally terrible troubles.
Someone stole all of his money.
It was annexed
Before Mät noticed it.
For good reason he scratched his head,
The beautiful money was gone!

And so it went, further on:
"What is that there? Over there? Everything is white, like snow
As far as I can see!
And cold with it. Ha! I am freezing.
I am going to believe soon that I have been cheated."

"A person says 'a' and it also means 'b.
I am sitting in it. Oh, my terrible pain!
When at last I reach Washington
(We are still in Oregon)
Then the snow will disappear again,
And I will find everything green there."

So our Primeval Poet comforted himself.
Good Mät! I feel sorry for you.

Finally he reached his goal
And he became very light-hearted.
But it is a dark, dim night,
And Mät, who does not pay any attention to that,
Jumps for joy out of the wagon,
Forgets the children and wife;
He jumps head first into the snow
Such that we can't see Primeval any more.
Well, well, screamed an enraged Mät,
"Where have I settled?"

"Is this really that beautiful land
Where snow and ice are unknown?
Not a beautiful area! Why, in truth,
Snow here does not, by God, appear to be rare!"

The next day he found out
That everything was humbug, a horror.
There was no trace of wine and beer
And eggs were only 50 cents;
Butter and honey, unknown.
"And that is what is called paradise?
For such a land, no, no thanks.
I believe Barb, we'll turn around.
O dear God, what terrible troubles,
Our last money is gone.
How can I be so silly
And fall into this hole?
What should poor me do now?
How Arkansas would laugh at me."
So it goes when a person must move
When he has it good at home.
Yes. When things are too good for a donkey,
The work goes to the Devil.

So it went for poor Mät
As he began the move.
Yes, dear Mät, I feel sorry for you.
Be shrewd and thrifty
And return home again.
And if everything here really isn't as it could be,
At least you don't fall into it.

[*The verses of this poem were written in simple couplets. The translation is intended to tell the story, but not to have the same rhyme or rhythm.]

That is how things went for Mät during his last move. Recently, things have been going better for him and he is settling in, at least until he lapses into his old mistakes. I wouldn't be surprised if he steers his rudder back to Arkansas.

Friday, May 20, 2011

Coach Glaze Writes a Book!

I will always think of Tom Glaze as "Coach Glaze" and assume the highlight of his life was coaching summer baseball in Fayetteville.  He came from Missouri to the University of Arkansas to play baseball (a picture of him as a catcher on the team is in the 1960 yearbook), and while a student, volunteered his time to coach little league.  He got his undergraduate degree in 1960 and law degree in 1964, then accomplished a few things such as successfully battling for election law reform and getting elected to the Arkansas Supreme Court (1987 - 2008).

I have always assumed that much of his success came from what he learned teaching towheaded kids like me how to field a grounder.

I look forward to reading his new book from the University of Arkansas Press. He picked an excellent co-author, Ernie Dumas, who knows more about the history of Arkansas politics during the past 50 years than anyone around. The book is illustrated with political cartoons by the Great George Fisher.

Coach Glaze was on the front line of investigating election fraud beginning in 1965, when he was headed the "Election Research Council," created by Winthrop Rockefeller.  His trips to Conway (home of Marlin Hawkins), Perry, Phillips, Crittenden, and Searcy Counties were not always pleasant:  the entrenched regimes did not welcome scrutiny of their election practices.

Tom was instrumental in the late '60s, as an assistant Attorney General, in writing a revision of the state's election law, which was adopted by the state legislature.  He continued his work with election reform as head of the Election Law Institute from 1970 - 78.  After serving as a Arkansas Court of Appeals judge from 1981 to 1986, he was elected to the Arkansas Supreme Court in 1986.  He retired in 2008.

A summary of the book is found that this website link:

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

The Good Old Days? Pioneer Tales of Arkansas' German Immigrants

[Note:  the following is a translation of the first Pioneer Tale published in the German-language Arkansas Echo newspaper.  In April 1892, the newspaper's editor had asked readers to send him their stories about their lives as settlers in the state. In all, the paper published seventeen stories.]

Pioneer Tales 1:  The Good Old Days?
Arkansas Echo
November 3, 1893

All kinds of things, funny and sad, happened to the first settlers and the Echo will relate some of them to our readers. At the same time, everyone is challenged to send in his own contribution to these stories.

When our first German settlers arrived, there was as little clear land in the state as you could have. Usually most of them followed tradition and nature and cleared their farms themselves.  Many of the old Americans did not take kindly to this disturbance of their long accustomed solitary life.

Often we hear people talk of the good old days. The thought comes to me that these people are not, perhaps, entirely wrong. One thing is sure:  People then did not need to worry and be troubled as today. And why not? At that time, the necessities of life were not as great as now; therefore, a person did not have a huge charge-account bill to pay in the autumn. He didn't need much cash. When the Americans prayed, "Give us today our daily bread," he meant it literally. When he had his daily cornbread and slice of bacon, he was satisfied, and if he now and then also had biscuits or pie or roasted chicken, then he was sitting fat, and could take things easy for a while.

With five or six acres or corn, he had enough bread to also feed his horse. The pigs did not need much corn, they always had enough acorns and nuts from the woods and the cattle had knee-high grass for the whole year.  And how was it with cotton? Well, people did not bother much about it.  Three, at most four, acres were planted.

This was enough to pay off the store since then an acre yielded as much as two or three do now, and a bale brought as much by today's prices as three. A person did not, as now, need to scratch around a cotton field until Christmas and catch a cold and fever.

And also, a person made himself comfortable in the picking of cotton. An American once told me how his parents had gathered cotton. They let the cotton bolls get ripe, and when they all had bloomed, all of the cotton plants were cut down. The parents then went into the cotton field on a beautiful day with the whole family. The wife would find a beautiful place under a shade tree and the husband would drag all of the cotton plants there. They were plucked by the wife and kids. Exceedingly comfortable, rlght?  Of course then all the cotton bolls had to be separated by hand, what in any case must have been very boring work, since there were not cotton gins on every corner as there are now.

If a person wanted then to build a house or something else, there was not as much fuss as today. All the material was fetched from the woods -- doors and windows were extraneous -- and the cost for the project was at most only for the nails for the shingles of the roof. And this cost would often be saved by laying a few cross-bars or stones on top to serve the same purpose.

The other necessities that people had, like clothes, were also not very expensive. Everyone had a few sheep, therefore wool. The sheep were sheared, the wool spun, then colored (but not with color out of the store, rather with bark from trees), then they would weave the wool into pants, shirts, and other clothes. By this means, the clothes, in addition to being inexpensive, had the advantage of lasting significantly longer because they were stronger than those which we now pay good money for.

In any case, a person had to buy a hat, a pair of shoes  and perhaps a cotton suit. The hat was such that it was usually used a couple of years and then passed on from father to son unit it finally became tattered. Similarly, the shoes would be made with nails so that they must last at least a year. Yes, there were even a few who did not permit themselves even these luxuries. I myself have known such an artist who made all these things himself.  If he needed a pair of shoes, he went into the woods and took the bark from a hickory tree and wrapped it around his feet and ankles, and the shoes, or more likely, sandals, were finished.  He had made a jacket from a piece of leather such as is used to cover the cars of a train. A hole for the head and a couple of holes for the arms and the jacket or coat was finished.
Above all, this man was an extraordinary eccentric, truly an original. He usually had an entire menagerie in his house. If in winter or during bad weather, a cow had a calf or a sow had a litter, he would carry them into his house, thereby saving the poor animals from staying out in the cold and dampness.

Such was then, in general, life in the good old days. They may have had their own attractions for the Americans, but also for Germans? I think not and I believe that most of us would happily decline such a scrubby life. All of us who began here in the woods didn't have such a bed or roses in the beginning, in fact our whole effort and endeavor was aimed at extracting ourselves from that first situation.  And after tireless work, most of us have succeeded in having comfortable, if not rich, existence.

We thank God that the prized "good old days" lay behind us, and we really do not yearn to return to them. There is only one aspect that could be taken and imitated with advantage, namely the way we handle the cotton fields. If everyone would plant not more than 5-6 acres, then soon the talk of overproduction would end and the prices would soon be at a level that the farmer would be satisfied with.

That will remain a harmless wish for a long time, increasing from year to year, and where it will all end, only God knows. I won't get any grey hairs over it; they are appearing anyway, and I will always believe: Our God has seen to it that trees don't grow in the sky and everything has a beginning and also an end.

(Signed) W. S .