The Mt. Rushmore Quartet
If you have Facebook, take the time to watch and listen to this.
Here’s a little context from the mid-1930s – a photo taken on a honeymoon trip….

Mt. Rushmore, 1930s
If you have Facebook, take the time to watch and listen to this.
Here’s a little context from the mid-1930s – a photo taken on a honeymoon trip….

Mt. Rushmore, 1930s
I noticed that the President made a visit to my home state of North Dakota and neighboring South Dakota right before July 4. Best I can gather, he flew into Bismarck, probably helicopter to Medora ND and the new Teddy Roosevelt Presidential Library; thence back to Bismarck, to Ellsworth Air Force Base near Rapid City SD and helicopter for a major event at Mt. Rushmore.
It is nice to have an Air Force base nearby to land a 747, and convenient connecting flights to the back country which is western Dakota…. Geographically it is a short trip – less than 300 miles – from Medora to Mt. Rushmore.
Because I’m a North Dakota native, I know the territory and have “been there, done that”, both Medora and Mt. Rushmore. Teddy Roosevelt gave lots of credit to North Dakota for his preparation for the White House. It is an appropriate place for his library albeit very remote for all but a few who will be able to actually visit it.
Teddy Roosevelt is no stranger to ND, plus he is one of the four Presidents memorialized at Mt. Rushmore.
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My Grandpa Bernard spent a year of his life – 1898-99 – in the Philippines in what was called the Spanish-American War. Grandpa Bernard’s North Dakota Army regiment – Co C 2nd Battalion from Grafton ND was Grandpa’s unit – arrived in Manila almost on the same day as the Spanish surrendered, so most of his and his colleagues year in the Philippines was engaged against the native Filipinos who were happy that the Spanish were vanquished, but simply wanted the Americans to go home. There have been books written about the following years. Grandpa was very proud to have served the nation, and Teddy Roosevelt was, I would guess, quite revered by North Dakotans.
Teddy is also on Mt. Rushmore. For perspective here’s an overhead view of the area, thanks to google maps. https://maps.app.goo.gl/MR7hQJHhRxhwmnEv8. Of course, I have no information on precisely what the trip itinerary was. Air Force One came to Bismarck; the President helicoptered to Medora, likely back to Bismarck. Air Force One flew him to Ellsworth Air Force Base near Rapid City, and another helicopter trip to Mt. Rushmore, then home….
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The trip had a couple of real world memories for me, in addition to having been to the places of interest.
My first memory of Air Force One was about 1954 above Minot ND. I would have been about 7th grade at the time, and we lived maybe 40 miles from Minot. President Eisenhower came to town probably to take a look at the brand new construction of Minot Air Force Base, one of the Cold War fortresses to defend the country against the Soviets. It and other bases had another function, to supervise missile emplacements across the prairie which probably still exist.
Ike’s Air Force One was by no means the monstrosity now in the air. Here’s Ike’s official aircraft.
On that day I saw Ike in an open motorcade in Minot, I remember watching his plane approaching Minot from the east. In those years, seeing passenger aircraft was unusual and this was a particularly unusual occurrence even for a youngster like me. I am guessing that Eisenhower had also stopped at the other new ND AFB at Grand Forks, but I don’t know that. It would make sense.
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I have one other memory of a big plane back in the day.
Earlier, sometime between 1947 and 51, I was outside our home in Sykeston ND, and I saw a gigantic airplane approaching from the northeast at a low elevation. The plane had six engines and was unfathomable to a pre-ten year old literally out in the country.
Over the years, I have come to believe that what I saw was a B36 on a training flight out of Ellsworth Air Force Base in South Dakota. It didn’t have a long life span since its development came near the era of jet aircraft, but still, what a memory.
Fred, a long-time friend, and retired teacher and active historian, sent me his part of a conversation with a friend since boyhood – they grew up as schoolmates together. The two men have different points of view and retain close relationship with each other, ‘across the divide’ so to speak.
What I share here, with Fred’s permission, is his point of view at this time in history;
Today promises to be a pleasant day in this area. Backyard picnic at my daughters place across the river. Family gathering of perhaps a dozen or so.
Last night watched PBS annual July 4 concert on the lawn of the U.S. Capitol. It was a flawless celebration of all of us, several thousand in the audience, fireworks from George Washington’s Mt. Vernon. I remembered the one time I visited Mt. Vernon. It was early November 2000, and our tour guide was cousin John Garney, retired from a career with US AID. John died several years ago. He would be very sad to know that the Agency he represented for many years in many places was first to be eliminated in the purge of 2025.
Enroute home from coffee this morning was listening to an old Bet Midler CD, which includes an all-time favorite song: “From a Distance“. Give it a listen.
After watching the DC concert I checked my e-mail and had a long message from long-time friend Stephanie about her Uncle’s statement after World War II. If you have any doubts about sacrifice and patriotism read this statement in its entirety. The interpretation is up to you.
from Stephanie, July 3, 2026: Stephanie was a journalist and was for many years a teacher union staff colleague with me. You can learn more about Irving Strobing by simply searching his name. Years ago, Stephanie gave me an audio cassette of a radio interview with him. I may still have it. It was inspiring.
Freedom by Irving Strobing (undated)
Freedom, it is written, is every man’s heritage. Unfortunately, too many people are daily being denied their birthright.
We who are fortunate enough to enjoy a relatively large amount of freedom in the United States are often prone to take our inheritance for granted. Too seldom do we realize that this thing we call freedom is a living, vibrant force which must be nurtured by our actions, our labor, and even by our personal sacrifices.
Those of us who have been in circumstances where our freedom, to put it mildly, has been restricted, can more readily appreciate that which once lost, has been regained.
Let me tell you of one man and his desire to be free.
I first met Harry in May 1944, at the Tokyo POW camp #14B, located at Omi, a small village in northwestern Honshu, Japan.
Harry was a corporal in the USAF. I was, at that time, a corporal in the Army Signal Corps. Both of us had served in the Philippines until the surrender of our forces; Harry on Bataan until April, 1942, and I on Corregidor until May 6, 1942. We had spent our first two years of captivity in different camps, so it was not until my arrival at Omi in May 1944 that we finally met.
Our life was a hard one with but one vision to encourage us – the day of our liberation, whenever it might come.
Harry and I worked as a team in the rock quarry, and a back-breaking job it was, especially on a meager ration of rice and soup, and only infrequent traces of meat or fish to relieve the monotony.
The strain of the heavy labor and inadequate diet had its effect on all of us, but Harry seemed to be weakening more rapidly than the rest. Early in 1945, I was transferred to the steel furnaces and Harry, because of his weakened condition, was assigned to the farming detail. This group, composed of the weakest men, tilled the terraced hillside vegetable plots just outside the village.
In March of 1945, Harry became too weak to continue working at any job, and he was finally admitted to what we called our hospital. The doctor found that there was a growth in Harry’s throat and, only two weeks later, the growth made it impossible for Harry to swallow his food. In order for him to take nourishment, we used to grind his rice by hand to a fine powder. This was cooked into a very thin gruel and fed to him through a tube inserted into his side and directly into his stomach.
Harry never complained; however, despite all our efforts he continued to weaken steadily and it seemed, even to the most hopeful of us, that it was a matter of but a few days before Harry’s name would be added to our list of losses.
I spent all the time I could with Harry and we would recount past events of our life at home and tell one another of our dreams and plans for those wonderful days after our liberation.
In July 1945, Harry’s voice was all but lost to him. He could speak only in a low, hoarse whisper, and he was so weak that only a few words would exhaust his meager reserve of strength. His most-oft words were “I know I can’t last much longer but I don’t want to die a prisoner. I want to be free.”
Eash night as I left him there was always the question: Will he last until morning?
On Aug. 16, 1945, the rumor ran through camp – “There was going to be an armistice!” One week later, on Aug. 23, four Navy carrier fighter planes appeared over our camp and we carried Harry outside on a litter, that he might see them for himself. That afternoon he was taken outside again in time to see a flight of B-29s dropping supplies and leaflets to us. The leaflets began “The Japanese government has surrendered. You will be evacuated by the Allied Nations as soon as possible.”
Harry died on the morning of Aug. 24, 1945, a free man. The next morning I was one of a group of six liberated POWs. We were making our way through town, carrying our burden on our shoulders. My thoughts were of Harry, whose determination and willpower brought him through to the day when he was once again free. Soon we came to the outskirts of Omi and turned to enter a building. We climbed the steps of the crematorium and bore into it the body of Harry.
These are hard days for free men for there are still those who would oppress others.
May you never be called upon to make the supreme sacrifice in defense of your freedom. However, the same freedom which grants you those privileges you enjoy here today at the same time imposes certain responsibilities. It directs that not only must your actions and your work contribute to the preservation of your own freedom, but that these efforts must be exerted in an attempt to bring freedom to those less fortunate.
Your freedom requires your participation in the affairs of your government – local, state, and national. It demands a knowledge of conditions – social, economic, and political – and of your neighbors throughout the world. It calls for thought, energy, admiration, action, and sacrifice. It demands of you all these things and more, and requires them not only for a day or a week or a month or even a year. No, it takes much longer than that to meet your obligations in the cause of freedom. For, you see, it is not until the blood no longer flows through your veins, not until you have drawn your last breath, not until your heart is, at last, stilled, then and only then can it be said “You have paid the price of your freedom.”
What follows are personal reflections on relationships that built the United States of America. Included here are a few others who sent some reflections of their own. Yours will be gladly added if you wish. The other reflections so far: Jim, Larry, Lois, Nancy, Jane, Brian. Yours? See also, Stephanie, and July 4, 2026, and Fred, July 5. and Doug
Directly relevant to this post is one on Canada and the Revolution which I published July 1, here. It includes some very interesting commentary.
If your interest is in the history of the events immediately prior to Independence Day in 1776, here is Heather Cox Richardson’s description of events at the time.. I strongly suggest subscribing to Dr. Richardson’s daily journal of our nation’s history.

5 1/2x 8 1/2 wall plaque found at the Busch farm in ND, likely predating the admission of Alaska and Hawaii as states (1959).
The 250th Birthday is July 4, 2026. For me, after thinking a lot about this. tomorrows birthday is specifically for those in their 20s. As has been true for all of our history, the youngest adult generation is ultimately accountable for the future our nation and our world will see 50 years from now. This years birthday is by no means like all the rest; what we do has major consequences for those who are beginning their adult lives.
This isn’t ‘passing the buck’, what is ahead matters a great deal. An exercise for elders: tHow did your road of life matched what you thought might happen? What would you have done differently if you knew. Trace your own experience from when you turned 18 (or 21). it’s acknowledging the reality those of us who are older has experienced ourselves or seen through our elders experiences.
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Following is part of my story as I have learned it over the years. I gave others an opportunity to share whatever they wished of their own stories. The first responses lead this post. How about adding your own even if not on the printed page? More responses are welcome.
pdf of blank U.S. map: US Map

I am weighing in on history on the last day of 250 years, rather than at the beginning of the next year which begins our future legacy should we be so fortunate as to figure out how to survive this crucial juncture at this point in American history.
There has been much change in the first 250 years. The original 13 colonies had about 2 1/2 million population in 1775 (including slaves but not native Americans). The estimate for today is 349 million in the U.S. Of course, this likely translates into more than a billion humans added over all in the 250 years.
I’ve had the opportunity to look back on history through the lens of the average and ordinary citizen, of which I am one.
In 1980 I was given an assignment to learn about my forebears. I was in a Family of Origin workshop. I was 40 and hadn’t been much interested in my roots. I got hooked, and still am. My general history is here in two books; much more in the archives of the North Dakota State Historical Society, including hundreds of Photos at the History Center website, and even more in assorted boxes in my garage. More on the Collette and Bernard family history accessible in Series 29 of the IF Midwest collection at the University of North Dakota Chester Fritz Library.
I’ve learned that family history is an endless river once you dive in….
When I started my project in 1980 I focused on the roots of my four grandparents. (Bernard, Berning, Busch, Collette). This rapidly exploded, of course. I had two parents, they both had two parents. 8, 16, 32…. Don’t forget siblings, aunts and uncles…. This is true for everyone.
In the society from which I descend – white European – going back to ancient history the legal footprint defining family was almost always the man, the “breadwinner”, who “brought home the bacon”. The woman – mom, homemaker etc – was “the Mrs”, the person who had the children and held the household together and rarely got the glory. (One of my photos has about 15 women, probably a church group n the 1940s, and on reverse everyone is identified by name as “Mrs, ____”. Not one is identified with her first name. I asked an elder who knew the women. One, also “Mrs”, apparently didn’t have a husband.)
In my family, it seemed more likely that the girls received more school education than the boys. I think this was more a function of role differences – the male was the person who plowed the ground, and such. The “woman’s work” was every bit as hard – maybe even harder – but the girls possibly spent more time in school.
Grandpa Busch was apprenticed to a blacksmith, and personally earned three U.S. patents fashioned in his shed workshop. He apparently went to 6th grade.
Grandpa Bernard, with a first grade education, came to ND as a carpenter and became chief engineer in a flour mill, and was a very active volunteer Fireman in Grafton and he “brought the first fire truck to Grafton, a marked improvement over the horse drawn vehicles of the past.” (Grafton. Centennial History 1982 p. 79), He was youngest child in his farm family. He’d worked in a sawmill, as a miner and as a lumberjack before coming to ND.
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My first French-Canadian ancestor came to Quebec in 1618, and his first known child, Euphrosine Nicolet, was from a union with a Nipising native in what is now Ontario. Euphrosine was educated in a French school, married and became part of my family tree perhaps 14 generations back. So far as I know, she’s my only native ancestor.
My last French-Canadian ancestor came to Quebec about 1757, two years before the British defeated the French at the Plains of Abraham 19 years before the Declaration of Independence. (The 13 colonies had in mind Quebec as #14, which didn’t work out.)

Clotilde Blondeau and Ocatve Collette, St. Anthony (later Minneapolis) MN 1869. The earliest family photo I have.

Marguerite Blondeau Guion (undated but before 1832 in St. Louis MO) (see note at end of post)
Marguerite and Clotilde Blondeau (photos above) had the same Blondeau ancestor, though about 100 years apart in age. Still they were blood relatives. (The painting of Marguerite is in the Smithsonian collection, unsure of date. It is conceivable, though probably not provable, that it was done sometime about the time of the Louisiana Purchase and Lewis and Clark Expedition (1804-06).
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My first German-American ancestor came to the United States in the 1850s to Grant Co, Wisconsin (territory near Dubuque Iowa). Both paternal great-grandparents came from northwest Germany, near the Netherlands. Their home communities (near Heiden and Rheine) were perhaps 50 miles apart, but they likely didn’t know of each other until meeting in America. Most of my German ancestors came to the U.S. in the mid-1860s to early 1870s. They were rural people.

Ferd and Rosa Busch with Lucina 1907

The Busch farmstead 1907. From left: Frank Busch, Ferdinand’s brother; Lena Berning, Rosa Busch’s sister, Ferd Busch (27 years), Wilhelm Busch, Ferd’s father, Rosa Busch (23) with daughter Lucina.
Their offspring, my grandparents Ferd and Rosa, homesteaded in North Dakota in 1905 during a vigorous wave of settlement in “teenage” North Dakota.
Grandpa was very active in the ways that people could be active in those rural communities. Grandma was, too, without any fanfare.
The above Busch photos may hold an untold story of their own. Ferd’s sister, Christina, and Rosa’s brother, August, married and had a farm near to the above home place. They came about a year after the Busch’s. The family history notes that Christina and August’s first child, Erwin, died at six months, and this may be the reason for the visit from Wisconsin, and the Busch’s in ‘dress up’ garb. At this time in history there was no nearby church, and it is unknown where the baby was buried.
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On the other ‘side’ the oldest grandparent, my grandfather Bernard, was born in Quebec in 1872 and came to North Dakota in the 1890s. His brother preceded him. Their (thus my) roots go back to the early 1630s in Quebec. The rest of Grandma Bernard’s family (Collette) came to the U.S. starting in the 1860s. Grandma was born in 1881 in what was then Dakota territory. ND became a state in 1889.

Josephine Collette (20) and Henry Bernard (29) wedding photo 1901 Oakwood ND. Henry (Honore) was born in 1872 in Quebec and the oldest ancestor that I actually knew. He died when I was 17.

Grafton ND ca 1920 Henry and Josephine Bernard and their three children, Henry, Frank and Josie, and visitors from Winnipeg. Also in picture their 1901 Oldsmobile and Fosto, the family pet.
Grandpa Bernard was chief engineer in a flour mill where his brother was chief miller. He was said to have a first grade education. His background included life as a lumberjack, a miner, and a carpenter. He had a knack with machines, and he was well respected in the community.
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All of my parents and their siblings were born at home. Almost everything we take for granted today were unknown or primitive in their time. The families were like virtually all families. One hesitates to make any judgement of the whole or the parts.
Best I can make out, they were basically hard-working and productive citizens. They survived the punches of WWI, the flu pandemic, the Great Depression, WWII and all the rest. There was lots of military service in the families, both sides. Many served in the military and civilian service like the Peace Corps. They were pretty religious, Catholic, and lived in communities where you could survive knowing only the ancestral language.
All of them from my parents generation back are now part of history. We are left to carry on.
POSTNOTE ABOUT MARGUERITE BLONDEAU GUION: Marguerite was a latecomer to my personal family history, and was not ‘fleshed out’ until 2026 with great thanks to my cousin Remi Roy.
Marguerite Blondeau Guion was reputed to be the first white woman to set foot in what is now known as St. Louis MO in 1764, born about 1740. She had a direct ancestral connection to my Blondeau roots, beginning with my great grandmother Clotilde Blondeau Collette born 1847. Their shared ancestor was Lambert Blondeau.
Marguerite’s husband, stone mason Amable Guion, is elsewhere in another branch of my French-Canadian family tree. He was killed in a battle with the British and Indian allies at St. Louis in 1780. At the time St. Louis was Spanish territory.
Around 1800, Napoleon and France took control of the area, and very shortly thereafter sold the huge parcel known as the Louisiana Purchase to the U.S., which later became famous through the Lewis and Clark expedition, 1804-06. My stories about Marguerite Blondeau and Amable Guion can be read here and here.
They didn’t realize at the time how they both fit into the complicated history that evolved into present day United States.
No one knows who painted Marguerite Blondeau’s visage, nor when, but it was in St. Louis and likely came about sometime after the Lewis and Clark expedition when it became part of the lore of the new western territory of the United States.
COMMENTS:
from Dick: Jane has updated her comment (link at beginning of post. I have a new post on July 4, and will continue there. Link at beginning of this post.
from Jim: Best wishes today, and much hope for the next 250,
from Dick: Thanks Jim. We’ll see if we’re up to the task ahead. “We” is a great number of citizens of the U.S. Don’t give up on us.
from Jim: Well, Dick, if were I inclined to, I would never give up on you folks.
Even the best of neighbours go through bad patches, and Lord knows the “we” up here are not without our flaws! Have a hot dog and celebrate all the good!
Dick, another few details of Grandpa Paulson. As sheriff of LaMoure County, he would deputize his kids at times. His sons Lester and Cleo were athletes whose football training served them well when chasing and tackling an offender running through the corn rows or whatever. He’d deputize my mother or one of her sisters when he needed to drive a woman to the mental hospital in Jamestown. He deputized my dad when he needed him to scare a man who claimed to be paralyzed into admitting he’d killed his sister at the farm where they lived.
One ancestor, Runyon C. Tunison, comes to mind as a person of interest.
Runyon married Margaret Breese in 1840, had son William, then Wallais and Ira C in New Jersey. Margaret died in 1854 of heart failure and he married Elizabeth Chandler Turner, widow of Henry B, and they had two sons – Adelbert John and Willis Wesley …residing in Buffalo NY.
During his lifetime, Runyon lost siblings, a wife, and children – health and tragedy.
In 1880 Runyon was listed on census as a boarder, widowed, in Newark. His son William was living in Union NJ. He had divorced Elizabeth and by late 1880’s was living in a County Farm home likely for veterans in Humboldt County IA where his son Ira resided. Runyon died in May of 1887.
A newspaper article in Rock Island IL in 1870 was titled “Misdeeds of R. C. Tunison” – it was about a scam when Runyon started a collection to provide funds for a man who was injured in a plow works factory, unable to work thereafter. He recorded names and amounts donated for a time until someone became suspicious, contacted the injured man, and found out he (Mr. Cook) asked R. C. to stop collecting on his behalf. Within days, “Tunison had eloped, gone – subscription paper and all with a report he had likely collected about $25. He left a letter with the watchman on the Island bridge telling him to go to his shop and secure a few scraps and keep them, also bidding him good bye, as this place would see him no more”. The closing line of the newspaper article: Good bye, Tunison, thy charities covered a mighty mean specimen of morality”.
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Researching my ancestors has been fulfilling beyond belief. My grandmother Maggie Tunison’s line and her mother’s line of Hewitt provided 400 years of insight into the lives of my ancestors in America.
ADDITION FROM LOIS July 3:
The link with your ancestor’s origin and all the facts was very interesting. A cousin published my mom’s side (German/Polish) in a book the size of an encyclopedia in 1996 almost 15 years before I started research on my paternal grandmother – cannot imagine the difficulty without the Internet and all the resources since then. Lots of surprises on the “grandmother’s sides” like being related to Humphrey Bogart. Thought of a few facts on my family and how after 185 more years we are “Midwesterners”.
My grandmother Maggie descended from English, French, and Dutch. No records of marriage on two Great GM and 4X GGM has no clues. From 1640 to 1840 my blood line of ancestors moved from Manhattan Island to Somerset County New Jersey. Without the military land grant for service of Runyon’s brother in the war against Mexico, the move to Iowa most likely would not have occurred. Hmmmmm I wonder how Runyon and his family traveled from Buffalo NY to Waterloo IA. Just noticed in the 1860 census it listed info on value of estate – Runyon had $25 which is about the amount he supposedly collected in his scam.
My own father sent me away to be raised by an uncle and an aunt who had no children. After a year or so, they sent me to my grandmother in Valley City, North Dakota, a perfect village for a child to be raised in. But I did see my father, occasionally, over the years and I admired him for a number of reasons: his occupation as a railroad telegrapher, his carving of wooden horses, and his insatiable curiosity, which I thankfully inherited. He died at 60 and now I’m 83. Looking back, I understand him better but not completely. Having raised a son and daughter, I both understand yet am somewhat perplexed as to how he could send me away at age 5. But, I remain forever grateful because of where I landed and for the care I received from my grandmother. Happy Father’s Day, Dick. I enjoyed the photos which reminded me of my own “command central.” It’s a place in my life that has always been – now, more than ever – my personal refuge.
