OH FRANK LITTLE WHAT DID THEY DO? MERCY FOR THEIR DOLLAR SACKS

Repost from Elitewriters.org

Frank Little was an American labor leader, who, on August 1st,1917, who was lynched in Butte, Montana for his anti-war and union activities.

In the early hours of that day, six men wearing masks broke into Nora Byrne’s Steel Block boardinghouse where Frank Little was staying.

Initially they broke down the wrong door and when confronted by Byrne, they declared themselves  police officers.

Frank Little was beaten in his room and abducted in his underwear.

He was then bundled into a car which then sped away.

Little was later tied to the car’s rear bumper and dragged over the granite blocks of the street. Photographs of his body show that his knee-caps had possibly been scraped off.

Little was taken to Milwaukee Bridge at the edge of town where he was then hanged from a railroad trestle. The coroner found that Little died of asphyxiation. It was also found that his skull had been fractured by a blow to the back of the head caused by a rifle or gun butt.

No one was apprehended or prosecuted for Little’s murders but there were speculations as to the culprits.

‘Oh the Company, only name it wielded with ever clever accuracy , did not like it when the bees begun to buzz around excitedly, riling up the other bees, to tell them to strike, that they, not The Company, controlled the gears of the machine.

They wished, in honesty, that they would not make a sound, keep working for the Company pulling that ore from the ground.

And when they could, and they would, they would make sure the troublesome bee would not buzz for long, and quickly he’d be hung, or shot, or even just disappear without a trace to this date, a cold case file sitting in a box.

“Slain by capitalist interests for organizing and inspiring his fellow men.” his grave marker reads, why was he killed, for being a noisy bee?

“Who killed him?” said the workers, trying to find the reasons.

Crickets still chirp, even to this day, though a few names begin to surface when you dig, but alas it’s only speculation that the police chief did skattle off for a few weeks, scratches to his face, time for them to heal.

A note with the words “First and last warning” was pinned to his thigh, a throw back to early days of vigilante justice, in the old west days of yonder,

To Butte’s workers, an estimated 10,000 workers lined the route of Frank Little’s funeral procession, which was followed by 3500 more, a record still proudly unbroken in the old mining town.

To read more about Frank Little, click here.

Down into the Mines - A Poem inspired by the history of Butte, Montana

Repost from Elitewriters.org

Note: I’m not sure where these words came from, maybe the spirit of my grandfather who worked in the mines here in Butte, Montana.

He was a union man who apparently, in his actions, made the Company a little mad.

He fought for the workers’ rights, to the tooth and nail, and in the process, an “accident” down in that god damn mine, lost his sight but never his spirit.

This poem is dedicated to him and to my hometown of Butte, Montana, who though is still roughed up and bleeding, is still a fighter!!

Into the deep mines we went,

To break our backs,

Our bodies

And our souls,

To bring up that goddamn ore.

Into the mines we went,

For the ore,

To keep the Company’s bottom line,

To keep their wallets fed,

Our own sprouting off moths instead.

The Company owned the land,

The bodies and the souls,

The homes, the stores, even the goddamn air.

Each of us into the mines we went.

The whistle blew and down we went, into the darkness,

To mine the Mother for her ore,

Gold, silver, copper.

We tore.

We ripped.

We dynamited.

Every stroke of the pick, the drill, our brows full of sweat,

We swore,

Down into the mines we went.

Some of us would not see the end of shift,

Accidents,

Deals,

Company didn’t care,

John,

Tom,

Rollings,

hundreds others in other accidents,

They say their souls still going down into those goddamn mines.

My own story was I lived,

They blew out my eyes,

To try to calm the beast,

But I still stung, like a angry bee,

I wrote,

I swore,

And to my boys I told them they’d never go down into those goddamn mines.

Recipe from Butte, Montana: Lydia's Meaderville Ravioli

RECIPES FROM BUTTE, MONTANA: LYDIA’S MEADERVILLE RAVIOLI – FROM GRANDMA’S BOOK OF COOKING

(AKA WOMAN’S GLORY – THE KITCHEN)

A VERY BRIEF HISTORY OF MEADERVILLE, MONTANA AND LYDIA’S

Repost from my blog at Elitewriters.org

My dad was born and raised in Butte, Montana, specifically Meaderville, Montana which was an mostly Italian-American suburb of Butte.

Meaderville was named after Charles T. Meader in 1880.

Meaderville was swallowed up by the Berkeley Pit, an open pit mine, in the late 1960s, early 1970s, lost forever except in stories and fading memories of its past citizens.

Meaderville was in its own right a story upon itself with its abundance of restaurants, taverns, night clubs and specialty grocery stores. So much so, that it earned the nickname “Little Monte Carlo.”

Lydia, a world famous Italian style restaurant in Butte, began its life in Meaderville before moving to the Flats in 1946 where it is still currently operating in still much the same way it was back in its early, good food and plenty of it.

A year ago, I was going through my parents’ belongings in preparation for moving out of the house(a long story in its own right involving the state taking said house after my parents’ passing) and discovered one of the cookbooks that my grandmother had giving to my mom.

Inside it was a couple of pieces of paper with some handwritten notes, some looking like my mom’s and the rest in some hard to read script.

“What the hell,” I thought, “It’s been a few days since I wrote a blog!” and settled down into some translations.

THE RECIPE

~DOUGH~

3 Cups of Flour
3 Eggs
1/4 Cup Extra Virgin Olive Oil
1/2 Tablespoon Salt
About 2/3 Cup Warm Water

(NOTE FROM ME: No instructions on making the dough. We assume you know what to do! If you screw up, the spirit of my grandma will come back and kill you! Just kidding, she was a sweet lovely lady, my grandfather though will kill you!!!)

~FILLING~

1 Cup Lean Ground Pork
1 Cup Cooked and Ground Chicken
1 Cup Cooked and Ground Veal
1 Cup Cooked chopped Spinach
1/2 Cup Parsley
1/2 Cup Ground Celery
1/2 Cup Ground Onion
1 Cup Bread Crumbs (soaked in chicken broth)
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1/2 teaspoon Allspice
1/4 teaspoon sage
3 Extra Large Eggs
2 cloves of ground garlic

Melt in saucepan 1 cube of butter, 4 tablespoon Extra Virgin olive oil then add above ingredients except for the eggs,spices and breadcrumbs(NOTE FROM ME:Basically throw all the meat, spinach, probably the garlic in to the butter and oil. Doesn’t say this but, well. I’d throw the garlic in first, give it a nice base for the meat and such to do its thing!) and let cook for about 15 minutes.

Remove from stove and cool.

Then add soaked bread crumbs and the three eggs and mix well.

Add the spices and 1/4 cup Parmesan cheese(NOTE FROM ME: Ingredient list does not include the cheese! But who cares! Just add it! What do you mean you don’t have any cheese?! GO GET SOME!!!! I’ll wait!!!)

~SAUCE~

Place in sauce pan 1/2 cube real butter, 3 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil, 1 clove crushed garlic, 1 small onion, “ground” 1/2 pound ground beef(NOTE FROM ME: 1st ground is in quotation marks in original recipe – don’t ask me, just do it!).

Cook for about 15 minutes then add 1 can large tomatoes, 1 can tomato paste diluted in 1 cup of water. Add 1 cup dry ground mushrooms and a can of sliced mushrooms. 1/2 teaspoon of salt. 1/2 teaspoon of pepper. 1 teaspoon of oregano. 1 teaspoon of thyme. 14 cup ground parsley. 1/4 cup ground celery.

Simmer slowly for 2 hours.

~FINAL PREPARATION~

Roll out dough and place filling in mounds. Cover mounds with dough and cut around each one with a pastry wheel.

Boil for 15 to 20 minutes in salted water.

Drain thoroughly, place on platter, and cover with sauce and a heavy sprinkle of grated Parmesan cheese.

~FINAL WORDS FROM THE BLOGGER~ 

Hopefully it all works out for you.

If it doesn’t, buy a plane ticket to Butte, Montana and go to Lydia’s (ain’t too far from the airport!) and tell em I sent you.

You’ll leave stuffed.

~SOME LINKS JUST CAUSE~

LYDIA’S: A MONTANA TRADITION

LYDIA’S SUPPER CLUB

MEADERVILLE, MONTANA – FLICKR