Whiteclay

I spent some time at Whiteclay when I was stationed at Cheyenne Bottoms, but found myself visiting the village, itself, regularly after I had been transferred to Fort Omaha. This was before I went to Kansas City to work at a government station as an on the air radio personality. Whiteclay is infamous on the Great Plains because you've got a dry Indian Reservation (Pine Ridge) right next to this small, Northwestern Nebraska town, the merchants of which who are only too happy to sell beer to anyone, including residents of the reservation as they journey to town for whatever reasons. It makes for some number of problems, and you've definitely got free enterprise up against social values for sure. There are some who want to close down the town, or at least those businesses who sell alcohol. On what basis? Because Indians can't hold their liquor? Wow, is that an age-old stereotype! That's part of the problem.

A Tribute

I just wanted to take a break from Cheyenne Bottoms and Fort Omaha to acknowledge the passing of Kurt Vonnegut. I loved most of what he wrote and I'll miss his presence on the planet.

Fort Omaha in the Heartland

Donald Seger

Leaving the Bottoms

I left Cheyenne Bottoms ( http://radio.weblogs.com/0135050/) down in Kansas with mixed feelings, of course. The country wasn't really in much better shape than it had been, that's for sure. But things were changing at the Bottoms, and I wanted to move on. I thought about leaving the service, but it turned out that was not an option. They were going to hold onto me five more years, as I was told. So, wanting to stay in the area and be able to see Mary down in Missouri, I asked for and was granted a transfer to Fort Omaha, to the north and back east a bit.*

*Cheyenne Bottoms was a government sponsored domed and gated city located near what had been Great Bend Kansas, in Heartlands National Park -- a place with very few people and a whole lot of wildlife. Surrounded by a moat and isolated from the old and new Americas, that city housed very important people, we were told. I was assigned there as one of a few hundred guardsmen who rotated in and out in the early 2030’s, with our mission being described as protecting those who resided within the city. Readers may know that Mary Turner, my girl, was working in Branson, Missouri at this time, as a hostess at a couple of the theaters down there. Branson at that time was a place where wounded soldiers were taken for treatment, convalescence, and hopefully a few days R and R. I also met Johnny Ray Murphy at the Bottoms, White Buffalo, The Farmer and Cleo, and others as well.

I Arrive in Omaha

I arrived in Nebraska in the fall of 2034 and was immediately assigned the duties of tourism director for the Fort Omaha region. This was a big surprise to me as I had been basically a military policeman in Kansas. And I had no idea of what exactly, a military post would need a tourism director for. Of course, I didn't really know much about Omaha at any rate. I had just transferred there because essentially I had three choices: I could have stayed at the Bottoms (which I didn't want to do for a variety of reasons), gone to somewhere in the Southwest, I think New Mexico(didn’t really pursue that because I'm not a hot weather kind of guy), or go to Omaha. I chose Omaha as you know.

Heartlands National Park

Well, it was stretching it a bit, but it turns out that the New Republic in its infinite wisdom had decided that Fort Omaha would be the headquarters for the Northeast region of Heartlands National Park, despite the fact, really, that Omaha was more in the hilly country along the Missouri River than the plains that began maybe 150-200 miles to the west. Still I knew that before I transferred. What I didn't know was that all the military police positions were filled and Command had assigned me to an office job, since I had been a teacher years before and had a formal education of sorts. Tourism Director sounded nice to them, so that's what I became. Besides, the Rangers were here as they were at the Bottoms, and they were more or less in charge of policing the area anyway. A lot more on this later.

History of the Fort

There wasn't much left of the old Fort itself, although there were a couple of brick buildings still around that dated back to the late 1800's. The grounds, and new and old buildings, had most recently served as the campus for a community college -- in the early 2000's, before the government dropped its entitlement programs for the Great Plains*, started moving people out, and began bringing buffalo, elk, and wolves back in. As with the Bottoms, no one much lived in and around Omaha any more. And the few who did were either sanctioned by the government in any of a variety of capacities, or existed in violation of government edict.

*Check out the Cheyenne Bottoms Neighborhood Compound Journals (http://radio.weblogs.com/0135050/) for more details.

One of the Fort's claims to fame from the past (early 1900's) had been as a training base for military observation balloonist crews. Yeah. At one time, particularly during that first World War we've all read about (1917-19), if you were on duty as a balloon observer on the war front, you probably got your training at Fort Omaha. On the banks of the Missouri River. On the far eastern border of what would become Heartlands National Park a century later.

That was kind of neat, I thought.

I Begin Work

My office for the first three months I spent at Fort Omaha was a tent, army surplus for sure, GI cot and all. But that was okay, you know. At Cheyenne Bottoms, whatever shelter we guardsmen had was pretty much what we improvised. Yeah, Omaha was a lot more comfortable.

And then they moved me into what had been known as Building #4 -- the old guardhouse from the days when one was needed I guess. I had electricity, running water -- yes, running water, only a dream in Kansas at that time, and welcome. I was in luxury.

Why a Tourism Director?

Well, it turns out that the economy of Fort Omaha pretty much depended on the tourist trade -- folks who were bused into the area from points back east and south. Of course we had the casinos nearby -- as we had at the Bottoms -- and the Fort was expected to do its part in extracting the largest amount of money possible from our visitors. (Remember that we were located in a National Park, so the Fort was actually able to keep a certain percentage of money we took in for our operating expenses.)

So, they needed a tourism director, and that was me. And mostly what we did out of my office during my tour of duty at Omaha was to sponsor tours of the area and I must say that a lot of this was fun to me, and I think we had some fairly neat tours that people enjoyed. I hope so, any way.

And the Lottery, etc.

Part of my responsibilities as they were first described to me was that I was in charge of the regional Powerball lottery, and that turned out to be quite an assignment. And we had a half dozen or so special events every year there at the Fort for the tourists, mostly, and I was also in charge of those and procuring entertainment, and of course I relied on Mary and the Branson connection for the singers. Mostly country music clones from the theaters down there: Willie, Johnny, Merle, and Waylon were the most popular, and these guys could sing, let me tell you. I particularly enjoyed that part of being Tourism Director.

Looking Back

You need to know that I wrote these journals as a younger man, often in the dead of night while on guard duty, and mostly for myself. The decision to post them on a blog for others to read was  — as you may know — based on the government’s refusal to give us much help when we began planning a reunion for those who served at Cheyenne Bottoms in the Heartland.

I’ve been  reading through these entries again and I’m not sure if everything I wrote is understandable or creates the feeling that I wanted my readers to have as they progress through these postings, so — for a time at least — I’m going to go back and explain further some of the events and situations that arose there in 2030 and beyond. Remember that this will really be Part Two of these journals.  You can still find almost all of Part One at Radio (see previous entry for the URL), and when I’ve finished up with this new direction, we’ll get onto Part Three.  Thanks for your interest in these journals, and e-mail me any time at MyWay (email address also found in the previous entry.)

Welcome to the Neighborhood

Welcome to the Cheyenne Bottoms Neighborhood Compound Blog. Stay awhile and read some of the latest materials I've posted. This blog will normally have about two dozen of the latest entries, but you can always go to http://radio.weblogs.com/0135050/ and click on The Story So Far... to read these journals in book form. Comments welcome at cheyennebottoms@myway.com

Farmer and Cleo Moving On

The Farmer and Cleo moved on shortly after that weekend, but we'd see them again ever couple months or so, mostly for just a visit. Getting to know them was actually a great experience and the truth of it is that I never had to issue them a ticket again, and they never had to find a way to pay it off. That was the basis of a good friendship.

White Buffalo Vanishes

White Buffalo didn't need that money, or the animosity -- and of course he could only really spend it with us in some manner any way (or trade it), because it came as a certain amount present in an Uncle Sam Card (or simply an Uncle Sam), the term we used to designate those small plastic cards that carried a certain amount of value in them, placed there electronically by -- who else? -- Uncle Sam.

So White Buffalo disappeared for a few weeks, just vanished. And did our beer supply ever suffer during his absence! But a month or so later he turned up again, wanting to trade with Johnny Ray for something or other, and the beer and maybe even more importantly, the wine flowed again. We had to sanitize that muddy water some way.

Money Changing Hands

Now money changed hands on The Farmer's matches. On both sides. I personally don't gamble, but Johnny Ray bet against Brown on one match and lost a 1000 government credits. But White Buffalo won some amount betting on the Farmer -- I'm not exactly sure, but it could have been about that same amount. It's almost like he and Johnny had bet against each other, but they never said.

The problem with betting on anything in a small community -- which is what we were -- is that even if you win, you lose. Resentment, hostility, anger and more eventually surface, and if you're a Native American and not generally liked simply because of that factor -- well, all the more animosity directed at you.

An Evening's Entertainment

Which, of course, is what it was all about. Cleo circled around the mat for a minute or two, hands held high proclaiming victory, and then suddenly as the Haggard sound track went silent, and the giant’s groans were more clearly heard, she turned soft and loving, approaching her man lying prone on the mat, and gently helped him up. She then lead him back to the motor home with her hero holding one hand to his head and stumbling every step of the way. All eyes were on them.

Just as they were about to disappear into the bowels of the Bago, a light went on just above that side door, and the speakers suddenly belched back to life with Haggard belting out "Okie from Muskogee".

Both performers turned around acknowledging the crowd -- he rising to his full height, grasping an old American Flag in one hand and then doing a sweeping, formal bow, and she smiling broadly and performing a lady like curtsey, and we laughed and we clapped and whistled and they were gone, emerging a half hour or so later cleaned up and dressed in leisure clothes, like some tourists who had come to the area to gamble. In a sense, maybe this is who they were.

The Plot Thickens

Farmer Brown let out a giant cry of anguish and attempted to shake Cleo loose from his body -- and we were laughing at this point, so exaggerated were their movements -- we were watching a dance of sorts, for certain, between an elephant and an insect -- but she held on, eventually tripping him over backwards where he hit his head really hard, and seemingly losing consciousness.

At this point, she threw herself fully upon his outstretched body, holding down his shoulders, and motioned to the lieutenant to get over there and count the champion out. By now the crowd was hysterical, knowing full well that they were seeing high drama, a play of sorts, and nothing was for real. I’ve told you that’s how I felt on duty at the Compound at times, and I certainly felt that way at this match.

Lieutenant Summers, caught up in it all, hesitated for a moment but Cleo yelled at him to get over there and count this SOB out. And he did, and Cleo jumped up and danced around the ring, and we yelled and applauded and screamed and were really entertained for sure.

A Battle Royale

But now the tiny Cleopatra jumped up from the mat, grabbed ahold of his suspenders from behind -- this small female effectively turning the giant around quickly and abruptly, and continued to plead with him not to take on three men at one time. (No one doubted at this point that he would have easily prevailed, but again -- the vanquished were nowhere to be seen.)

With an exaggerated and obviously fake punch to her head then with his right hand (he missed her by a mile, and I'm sure that all the spectators could see this), the Farmer immediately became contrite when Cleo reeled back from the force of this false blow and slumped to the mat. The giant immediately walked over to her apologizing, and looking at God above.

And the crowd was confused there for a moment and I believe that we were all standing at this point, but I don't remember for certain, and we knew he hadn't actually hurt her, but there she was on the mat, seemingly out. And he walked around the perimeter of the ring, looking up at the heavens and out at the crowd, asking for forgiveness and lo and behold behind his back -- the mighty midget slowly got up from the mat, quietly and quickly ran into the crowd, shoved a guardsman off his chair and took that chair and hit Brown squarely in the back with it, center stage. And he staggered around the ring, seemingly in a daze and Cleo quickly grabbed hold of one his legs, bit in, and held on.

Cleo Pleads with Her Man

And at this offer Cleo turned all worried and concerned and quickly got down on her knees and pleaded with the Farmer to go back home (wherever that was?), give up rassling altogether as he was getting older and eventually was going to get hurt, himself, real bad, and she couldn't live like that any more. And she moaned and she wailed and she pleaded and she cried what looked like genuine tears, and White Buffalo, Johnny Ray, and I all exchanged glances -- was this for real? Lieutenant Summers was shuffling nervously over at the edge of the mat.

And the Farmer turned away from her, making some derisive comment about women in general, as I recall, and walked away in disgust, hands held out palms up as if to say what can you do about women any way? I’m sure Merle was singing about something or other at this time, but I don’t remember.

Let's See More

And then, when all three of the challengers had come and gone in various states of shock and embarrassment -- The Farmer raised his hands in the air and asked the crowd if they wanted to see more. And he grabbed a towel from Cleo as he was sweating profusely, and wiped at his head and upper body. (The evening was no more than a half hour old at this moment, and the July heat of the Kansas plains was only just starting to fade.) Haggard was singing "Are the Good Times Really Over?" about this time.

Yes, we yelled, caught up in the moment -- let’s see more. And then he made the offer to rassle all three of the challengers again, only at the same time. And the crowd was in awe. Bring them on, he said. And any other takers as well. And at this, I sensed that Johnny Ray was fidgeting and might possibly rise out of his seat to volunteer, but White Buffalo put a hand on JR’s thigh and gently restrained him just long enough for the focus to go back to center ring. Lucky for Johnny. And Farmer Brown beat his chest with his huge hands and growled like a lion. (Of course, I didn’t know where his unlucky foes had gone, probably somewhere off into the dark to nurse their wounds and their pride, but I didn’t think they were coming back any time soon.) And he continued to wipe copious amounts of sweat from his body.

No Contest

The music changed to Haggard’s "Momma Tried", and The Farmer made a quick entrance onto the mat, doing a couple of mid-air somersaults, which for a man of his size was quite remarkable -- and picked up where Cleo had left off in terms of getting the small crowd into the evening. And even though he was a bit on the heavy side, you could see the muscles rippling underneath just a bit of flesh that the years had put on. And the champion quickly dispatched each of his three challengers in turn -- using a full nelson, an atomic bomb drop (it was described in the program as one of his favorite moves), and a full body slam on the third challenger.

No contest really, with his partner moving in and around the spectators, sitting on laps, teasing and flirting and urging her man on as each short match progressed. He just tossed our fellow guards around at will -- helping them up with sportsmanship and good humor once the lieutenant had counted them out, and patting them on the shoulders and smiling. The Farmer was quite a gymnast, and politician.

Bikinis and Overalls

We were all sweating buckets that evening. And swatting mosquitoes, because even if that darn moat was poisoned, it didn’t seem to bother the insect population at all. We had set up the folding chairs we used for movies and such, and for church. Some of us were standing as there were not enough chairs to go around. And others were sitting on the half dozen or so bales of hay that the couple had pulled from a back door of the Bago. And Merle sang on about having ..."Ramblin’ Fever".

Cleo was wearing a bright red bikini trimmed in gold, which looked really nice on her tanned and slim body -- even though she was no youngster -- and which matched the Farmer's overalls (He was now standing in the shadows just outside of their vehicle, watching proudly as his woman got the crowd going by doing a few gymnastics: hand stands, mid air flips... that sort of thing. She was an athlete, too, it turns out.)

The Farmer wore big black leather boots that came halfway up his calves to round out his outfit, and Cleo wore soft black leather sandals of some sort. I'm saying he was about six feet four inches, and one of the challengers -- a young man from back east, I think -- definitely had him in the height department. But I am absolutely certain that Brown weighed at least four hundred pounds, as wide as his shoulders were. I don't think I would be too far off on that. And she would have been lucky if she had hit 100 on the scales. They were an engaging couple.

Cleo Was a Part of the Act

The loud speakers mounted atop the motor home blared "The Fightin’
Side of Me", courtesy of Merle Haggard, as Cleo came prancing out about sundown that Saturday night. She was an act all to herself as she paraded out in the audience of some four dozen guardsmen and assorted locals before the evening's entertainment, selling a program that featured her colleague's life story to date. The World Champion, it said. From Oklahoma. Yeah, I bought one.

And I shared it with White Buffalo while we were waiting for the Champion to leave his Winnebago and come onto the hastily constructed ring we had made out of some old mattresses. We laid out about ten of these in a generally rectangular configuration, and didn't bother with ropes as such. Johnny Ray had agreed to referee as opposed to challenging the traveling giant, but the lieutenant had over ruled him at the last minute and jumped onto the mats himself, with a whistle hanging around his neck, no less. I think that Summers just wanted to be a part of something. So, a disappointed Johnny Ray came over and sat down beside me to watch the matches.