We'd like to add our congratulations to Bill Dawson and Mary Ulbrick for the awards they received the other night at the Cornhusker Recognition banquet in Lincoln.
You really have to put in a lot of volunteer hours in scouting to get such high awards as the Silver Beaver for Bill and the District Award of Merit for Mary.
The late Henry Flau, our own "Mr. Scouter" would have been extremely proud of you.
Thanks to Noel Bissell, the district scout executive, for keeping us up to date on the honorees.
There were a number of other individuals who received awards the past week. The Jaycees and Jaynes recognized Mrs. Carl Zimmerman, Ron Brunken, Jerry Gilliland, David Guhde, Jerry Hall, Mrs. Paul Stevenson and Mrs. Ray Noyes.
Congratulations to the honorees. The awards were for distinguished service and as outstanding individuals in work and business for the community. Who can say more . . . you are the greatest.
The Pack
With the end of the school year and the graduation of Bret Harpster, the question came up — will The Pack be published any more?
The Pack is a "home" publication of a group of boys at NCHS and prints such serious things as who messed up the parking lot, the top 10 girls at the school, and random surveys conducted by a group of reporters known as the Pack Rats.
Well the editor, Bret, has completed high school and the life of The Pack now comes up. We are told that the newspaper will continue to be published and that a new staff will take over just like it did when "the founding father", Steve Braye, graduated.
The Pack, by the way, has no connection with the Otoean which is written by a student staff supervised by Mrs. Lois Berger. The Pack is a fun organ, while the Otoean is a newsy newspaper and its reporters are bent on good reporting and being the first with the news.
The hills of Thurman — at night.
Dan Hall who farms near Thurman is a true horseman — day or night. We found that out on a visit to the Hall home the other evening.
Dan has four or five horses, a colt and a Shetland for his grandchildren. "Nancy" is his mare. The other night we mounted the black for an evening.
The invitation from the Hall home was extended seriously and in fun (you don't want to play jacky-jacky with Ivie).
"Come on over. I want to show you the hills of Thurman. There's no pollution, only the smell of horseflesh and saddle leather."
Dan was in the field when we arrived so we sat in the kitchen and talked with Mrs. Hall and daughter, Marguerite, while the pork chops were on the stove.
In a short time he pulled into the farmyard on his tractor, rarin' to dig into the evening meal and round up his mounts.
When's the last time you heard someone "call" his horses? Dan has his own call . . . sort of a "Hey-yah . . . heh!" The horses came out of the hills and into the corral.
As we mounted, I admitted it has been some time. Marguerite was serious. "Don't fall off." Dan laughed, Nancy lurched and I proved once and for all, the greatest thing man ever did for the horseback rider was manufacture a saddle with a horn.
(By the way, the saddle is one formerly owned by Clarence Rankin. Betcha I've seen that before back in the old NC Saddle club and Walnut Creek school days. Remember, Clarence?)
"Come on, Stranger," Dan called.
"I'm coming," I answered.
"No, not you — the dog."
"That dog?" I pointed. "He was sitting by the door. I thought he was your dog?"
"Nope," Dan answered. "He's a stray . . . came to the place the other day. I just named him Stranger."
Dan's mount was faster paced. Nancy had to trot to keep the pace.
"You u u . . . know ow ow what at . . . at?" I asked.
"What?" he answered.
"I I think . . . nk . . . nk we we . . . should . . . ld . . . ld whoa, Nancy . . . should have shortened these stirrups."
"Tomorrow, you'll remember you went riding. Ha!" he laughed.
Meanwhile, Stranger kept his distance. Close, but far enough away from the hooves.
By this time it was dark. Dan had taken along a flashlight to watch for holes.
The ride went into the back roads of the Thurman hills. It was true beauty. It was quiet. Spooky quiet. The only sound was the rhythm of the hooves, an occasional snort and the creaking of saddle leather.
"Sure is peaceful here," I said.
"Yeah," Dan answered. "I ride in here all the time. I really like it. See that windmill there?"
He pointed to the side of the road where erosion had done its damage over the years. The road was narrow and the banks stretched 12 to 15 feet above the roadbed.
"Yeah, what about it?"
"When I was a kid there used to be a pipe across here and drinking water, for man and horses," he recalled. "Just an old windmill now. Pretty though."
We had to agree.
Suddenly, his mount spooked.
There were a few words from the rider to the mount and control of the reins.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Deer spooked her. She's okay now." He looked up at the high banks along the road and the heavy foliage. "Sure wouldn't be any fun if an ole' grizzly popped out of there."
It was dark, man dark.
As we came out of the draw and topped a hill we could see the lights of Nebraska City.
"Sure is pretty," I said.
"Yeah, I really love this place."
The trail ended on the main road and we headed for home stopping to take a look at Mones Zach's bull penned at a nearby farm.
As we entered the drive, the ears of the horses perked. They knew they were home. Dan put the saddles, blankets and bridles away and turned the horses loose in the corral.
"What time is it?" he asked.
I looked at my watch. "Omigosh,it's past 10:30."
"Oh, that's not late. I've ridden a lot later. I'd do this every night if I had someone to go along with me."
We had another glass of iced tea, visited a bit and I "mounted" my BMW 750cc motorcycle and headed across the Iowa bottpms for home . . . saddle sore but soothed with the thought of a pleasant evening with a friend.