The accountants who got us to the moon, July 1969 -- Part 1

Over 400,000 people worked on the Apollo Program. – From the end credits of Richard Linklater’s Netflix film “Apollo 10½: A Space Age Childhood”

My father was one of them. Unlike’s Linklater’s Houston-based father, mine worked closer to Cape Canaveral, in an office in Daytona Beach, Fla. Thousands joined the Moon Mission, most of them answering JFK’s call although he was no longer around to cajole and promise. Lyndon Johnson would be president when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon on July 20, 1969 after being launched from the Cape on July 16. Johnson was glad for a bit of good news after the battles of the 1960s which weren’t over yet. Camelot a distant memory. On this hot July day in Florida, hundreds of thousands of space-age lunarnauts and millions more around the world rooted for U-S-A!

July 20 always brings footage from the lunar event. It seems like yesterday that I watched it in black-and-white telecasts beamed from the lunar lander. I am 72 and retired. I look through veils of nostalgia. I sometimes share my memories with my two 30-something children. They are mildly amused. At least they believe that we landed on the moon. I think they do but it’s difficult to know for sure. All of us carry different memory-loops through life and they change as time passes.

What do I remember from this time? Some things I know for sure. Others are a bit foggy so I conjure what seems closest to the truth. I have not made up anything that follows but I may remember it imperfectly. That’s life.

I was 13.67 years old in August 1964 when our family of 10 moved to Florida. I was not pleased to be moving to the third state I would live in during the past eight months. In January, I’d been yanked out of St. Francis Grade School in suburban Wichita in the midst of basketball season and the wooing of classmate Patty Finn. In February, I was walking to the bus stop in snowy Denver to attend the split session at a junior high packed with Boomer kids and the site of at least two knife fights and a teacher mugging during my short time there. In June, my father came home from work to announce his new job with G.E. and our Florida move. He had finished the task of hiding nuclear missiles among the sagebrush of the West. The space program needed his accounting skills and our family was going along for the ride. Dad moved immediately. We sold our house, packed our goods, said goodbye (again), and off we went.

Next: Night Swimming in the Sunshine State

The story of the dead sculptor's homecoming in Sand City, Kansas

Great article in the Nov. 12 edition of Flatwater Free Press: How a 101-year-old linked to Willa Cather altered a small town's future. Talks about Antonette "Toni" Willa Skupa Turner, a resident of Bladen, Nebraska, just down the road from Red Cloud. Toni Turner died at 101 in August. She was the granddaughter of Anna Pavelka, the real-life inspiration for Willa Cather's "My Antonia." Turner spent her life talking up Pavelka and Cather, a dynamo who helped turn Red Cloud into one of the most vibrant locations dedicated to any American author. More than 10,000 Cather fans journey to Red Cloud annually. Turner was the local literary celebrity everyone from Cather scholars to rabid readers wanted to meet. Cather based so many of her books and stories on Red Cloud and its people. Cavelka, a Czech immigrant, and Cather, intelligent girl of the town doctor, were from different worlds but forged a friendship that gave birth to a famous novel. 

My interest in Cather goes back to high school when I read "The Sculptor's Funeral" for American literature class. It was on of the classics in the typical 1960s lit anthology with all of the usual suspects: Hawthorne, Twain, Dickinson, Hemingway, Faulkner. Nary a writer of color in the batch. But Cather's story spoke to me. I couldn't pin a name to it. A famous sculptor's body is transported back to his Kansas small town on Sand City. Turns out the sculptor was a weird kid who got the hell out as soon as he could. He died young from TB and his final arrival causes much talk among the populace, most of it negative. Jim Laird, Harvey Merrick's childhood friend who is drunk, hears their snarky comments and confronts them:

Harvey Merrick wouldn't have given one sunset over your marshes for all you've got put together, and you know it.

Laird leaves in a huff. The final paragraph wraps things up:

The thing in him that Harvey Merrick had loved must have gone underground with Harvey Merrick's coffin; for it never spoke again, and Jim got the cold he died of driving across the Colorado mountains to defend one of Phelps's sons, who had got into trouble out there by cutting government timber.

It's a sad story. Lots of sadness in Cather's work and moments of triumph. She draws distinctive characters and it's hard not to be moved. When I read the story at 16, I knew something significant had happened but didn't exactly know what. Artists are different -- everybody knows that! -- and Merrick's differences made him an oddball in Sand City. Jim was an educated guy, a good guy who died helping out one of the town's worthless sons.

Why are all of these stories so damn sad? Cather's sculptor, Hemingway's soldier home from the war or the old man and his fish,  Algren's young punk who just wants a bottle of milk for mother, Dorothy Parker's big blonde. I thought I knew what sadness was but did not. I do now. I write sad stories because life is sad. The story is in the telling of the sadness lightened up with wit.

Cather changed her identity when she went off to the University of Nebraska. She dressed in men's clothes and went by Willie. She excelled in writing and journalism and worked her way out of Nebraska. But she escaped the sculptor's fate. She is celebrated in the town that inspired so much of her work. Not everyone is a fan. Her struggles with sexual identity make some Nebraskans nervous, even some of those in Red Cloud who reap economic benefits from the writer's legacy. 

I've read the novels but I keep returning to her stories especially the one about the dead sculptor coming home to a hometown that never knew him.  

The story of the only 1960 Renault Dauphine in Daytona Beach

An April issue of UK’s Autocar featured the Renault Dauphine in its list of "22 Totally Charming Cars." It showed a still life photo of a powder blue Dauphine parked by the ocean. The car looked as if it had just left the 1960s showroom. I contrasted it with the sad photo of a derelict Dauphine in another issue of Autocar and the article "The Haunting Abandoned Wrecks of Rural France.," It showed a rusty shell of a Dauphine being swallowed up by undergrowth in "a remote field in the French Alps."

This tells the story of our family's 1960 Dauphine. I first saw it parked in our Wichita driveway in 1962. My father needed a car to commute to his job as a civilian accountant at the local air force base. That left our 1960 Ford Falcon station wagon at home with my mother who needed it to get us to school, haul us to doctor appointments and run off to the grocery store. I still can see the look of horror on the faces of grocery clerks as Mom hauled her eight children, two of them babies, into the store. My father went to the Totally Charming Yet Obscure Cars dealership and returned with Renault. It was an oddity in a world of Olds Cutlass Supremes and GTOs. Big powerful rides were the thing. The Dauphine was tiny looked almost the same from the front as it did from behind. The engine was in the rear and looked like something that might power a lawnmower. If it didn’t start, you could wake up the engine with a hand crank.

My father’s not around to ask but I do wonder why he chose such an impractical car when he headed a family of 10. He might have seen Renaults on the streets of Paris on leave during the war. He might have liked the two-tone horn (loud for city, soft for country) and the fact you could wind it up like a toy car if it refused to go. He never said. But they are some of the Dauphine traits I admired when I was gifted the car in 1967. 

The previous year, I had learned how to drive in it on Daytona's deserted winter beaches. I failed my first driving test in it when I arrived at city hall on Dec. 18, 1966, with a bum fuse. The DMV man asked if I wanted to take the test using hand signals or return on another day, fuse replaced. It was my birthday. I had a date that night with a girl I fancied as my girlfriend. I took the test and failed. I did OK with left and right turns but forgot to gesture down for stop. I was devastated. It was a long slow ride home with my father and am embarrassing phone call to my date. 

My father was transferred from Daytona to Cincinnati early in '67. The Dauphine had many miles and he didn't want to drive it north so he put it in my hands. The idea was to take my brothers and sisters to school and anywhere else they wanted to go. My mother still had toddlers and a baby (No. 9) to care for. We would finish the school year, sell the house, and then join our father in Cincy. My brother Dan and I had been most resistant to the move. We were surfers, for God's sake, and there was precious little surf in Ohio. I played JV basketball for the Father Lopez Green Wave and had high hopes of making the varsity in my junior year. And I had a girlfriend, sort of. 

I did OK bossing around my siblings. I was also OK with having a car. It was no prize after seven years of hard use and three years of assaults by rust spawned by the salt air. It had really earned its rusty-red color. My classmates began to know me as the guy with the French car which sounds pretty romantic until you got a look at it, especially after I ripped off a rear door backing out of the garage and could only find a powder-blue replacement at the junkyard. It looked like a high school kid's car but that was OK as I was a high school kid with a car.

I revel in all of the fun we had. We crammed into the car and rode The Loop around Tomoka State Park, turning off the headlights to admire the darkness and tempt fate. I bought a surf rack and we wandered up and down A1A searching for surf. Girls thought my car was cute and liked to ride. Meanwhile, I tried to find a girlfriend with a muscle car so I could feel like what it was like to drive American. I dated Darlene for a year and got to drive her canary yellow Chevy Chevelle SS 396 and later her canary yellow Pontiac GTO. She had a thing for yellow. Her father bought her a new car every year. She didn’t mind riding in my car and but liked it better when my father returned from Cincy and bought a white Plymouth Barracuda that he occasionally let me drive.

During high school graduation summer of 1969, my Dauphine died. Kind of a drag as I worked two jobs getting ready for college and had to bum rides. I sold my car cheap to a guy who planned to turn it into a dune buggy. I imagine my car’s stripped chassis blasting through the beachside sand dunes before they were replaced by condos. I can also imagine my two-toned car with the two-toned horn abandoned in a “remote field” somewhere in the Florida scrubland.

I am 70 now. I am always 16 driving my Renault down The Loop’s dark road. Sometimes the headlights are on and sometimes they are off. I am happy.

Part II: The Way Mike Worked -- The Paperboy and the Bully

The Smithsonian exhibit, "The Way We Worked," arrives in Cheyenne later this month. I thought about my jobs during 55 years, from neighborhood newspaper delivery to arts administration. That history tells me a lot about myself and about the changing workplace.

I didn't have a paid job until I was in sixth grade. I helped my buddy Bill deliver the afternoon Wichita paper. Not sure how much I made. Some of it went toward buying Boy Scout uniforms. I probably spent the rest frivolously. Bill did most of the collecting, the most odious part of the job. I sometimes accompanied him on his rounds.

Let's harken back to the days of two-newspaper towns. Remember those? It's not ancient history. Denver was home to the Post and the Rocky Mountain News. When I moved from Florida to Denver in 1978, the tabloid News was the morning paper and the Post was delivered in the afternoon. They both went to morning delivery in the 1980s. The News no longer exists. The Post is held captive by a hedge-fund group and is rapidly shedding its editorial staff in favor of fat profits.

I am old enough to remember the golden age of newspapers, an era that ended with the Internet although its death knells could be heard with the advent of network TV news and, later, the dawn of the personal computer.

Newspapers were big employers in every city. Reporters gathered the news, photogs shot the pictures, and editors edited. In newsrooms of 1978, you could call for a copy boy or copy girl to come get your typed (in triplicate) story and take it to the editors' desk. Hot copy was set by typesetters who wore boxy paper hats. Route Men delivered papers and paperboys (and a few girls) threw them on porches. Each paper had a physical clip morgue and a staff to do research. Advertising fielded a big staff to keep subscribers happy. There were ad designers and artists. The Post building was located where the convention center hotel is now. Hundreds of people worked there. All those hungry people patronized area restaurants. You wouldn't be surprised to learn that local saloons did a booming business. The same was true at the News with offices on Colfax.

In 1962 Wichita, Kan., the early risers delivered the Eagle in the morning and my friend Bill and I delivered the Beacon in the afternoons after school. Trucks delivered the papers to Bill's house and I came over to fold and deliver. On most days, the papers were not huge. Most days, Bill and I folded the newspapers without using rubber bands. You would think that the package would be become undone as we tossed them to anxious customers. But they didn't. At least, that's how I remember it. I remember Bill and I sailed them like mini-Frisbees onto porches in the tree-lined College Hill neighborhood. It was a given that papers must land on every customer's porch. Sometimes, the elderly asked us to put it inside their front door or in the milk box that sat under the mail box. That was a wooden box that held the milk delivered by the milkman at about the same time early-rising paperboys were delivering the Eagle. Milkmen finished their rounds by the time the sun rose. They often had a friendly relationship with the woman of the house. This gave rise to a joke about some kids looking more like the milkman than their daddy. Sixth-graders liked these type of teasing jokes, put-downs if you will, throwing shade as the kids say now, or they did last week, anyway. Sometimes it was the mailman, and it was always a man back then. Sometimes it was the handyman or the furnace man or the repair man. The women were at home. The men were there to take care of the home's various needs. Sounds quaint, now, doesn't it? A well-ordered universe, one that conservatives dream about. If only it were that simple.

Lots of paperboys delivered by Schwinn. We walked our paper route. The bungalow-style homes were built at the turn of the last century and were closely spaced. Often, they were perched at the top of a six-foot rise. It was easier for us to walk the route, taking shortcuts along the way. Out in the suburbs, developers were building ranch homes with breathing room which caused many a paperboy to deliver via bicycle. And porches? There might be one, but usually it was a concrete slab that led up to the front door. Most family activity was moving to the big fenced-in backyard.

We sometimes delivered papers to porches where the occupants were out front, maybe watering the flowers or catching a breeze on a hot day or just waiting for the news of the world or, at least, Wichita. We were obligated to hand deliver then. Old folks, then and now, were anxious to chat as they might be alone all day and anxious for human contact. We had to make it quick, as papers had to be delivered on time. The old folks who wanted to chat were usually those who complained if the paper was late. As a 12-year-old, I only had a vague idea of the lives of the elderly. I was a kid. These people were born in the last century, before airplanes and TV and Elvis. What could I learn from them?

I had one challenge. A bully circulated in our neighborhood. His name was Jack Weird. I didn't make that up -- that's how I remember the name. Maybe my memory has clouded, he may have had the nickname Weird Jack which is entirely possible. But Jack was gunning for me and I never knew why. I would be walking don the street, papers stuffed in my canvas Beacon bag, and around the corner came Jack. Sometimes he was with a bully friend. Other times he was alone. I knew what was coming but just kept on making my rounds. Bill was on the other side of the street or the next block. That was a shame because Bill had a rep as a fighter and Jack Weird never bothered him. Jack closed on me and I could see his evil leer. When he got even with me, he shoved aside my bag, punched me in the stomach, and kept walking. Now, I have to admire his economy of movement. No time wasted on verbal abuse or actually pounding me into the ground, which would take time and effort. Just one punch -- Bam! -- and on he went. Until the next time he saw me walking down the street, on the way to school or a Scout meeting. But only if I was alone. If I was with anybody, he walked on by. If he was with someone, he punched me and kept on walking. Odd what you remember. I often wonder what happened to Jack Weird.

I served a year as an assistant paperboy. Our family moved that summer, 1963, to the suburbs, closer to the air force base where my father was a civilian employee. I had no paper route. I transferred to a Catholic school, St. Francis. I had a crush on a neighbor girl. I began playing basketball because, for the first time, a coach asked me to go out for the team. I knew so little about the game. One blustery winter day I wore my long johns to a game. I rolled them up so they would be invisible under my shorts. As I jogged down the court, one of the long john leggings unraveled, much to the delight of the other team. I made a quick repair but my teammates teased me about it the rest of the season. I put up with it, I suppose, because that's what teammates did. You could be bullied, teased, cajoled, punched. That's the way it was. It's a different world now.

My only job in the 'burbs was to take care of my brothers and sisters. My mom had delivered twins in June and was more than busy with them. I made my siblings sandwiches. Took them outside to play. Fixed their cuts and scrapes. My brother Dan helped with the first aid. We were both Scouts and proud of our lifesaving skills. We could rescue a careless swimmer. We could make splints and tourniquets. We knew what to do in case of rattlesnake bite. The Shay kids were the safest kids on the block.

JFK was murdered in November 1963. In the new year, Dad was transferred back to Denver. We lived in a motel while waiting for renters to move out of the house we left in 1960 when Dad hauled us off to Washington state and then Kansas. Again, my job was watching my siblings. I was going to get a job, maybe a paper route, but fate intervened when my dad was laid off by his aerospace conglomerate. He found a job with GE in Florida. Florida? Jeez, we were moving all over the damn place. Snakes and alligators! Hurricanes! But, we were mostly excited to live by the ocean. Mostly.

Next: Teen jobs in Florida.

In "Interstellar," the future is as corny as Kansas in August

Imagine that humankind gives up its dreams of space travel to farm corn in Kansas full-time.

That’s the kind of boring future imagined by Christopher Nolan in the film “Interstellar.”

Humans no longer shoot for the stars. An unnamed blight is killing all the crops except corn – and even its days are numbered. Dust Bowl-style storms blot out the sun and everything (laptops included) is coated with a fine layer of dust. Unemployed astronaut Cooper (Matthew McConaughey) farms corn with his two kids, an irascible father and a fleet of robotic combines. His daughter gets into trouble at school when she writes a paper contending that the U.S. did land on the moon as “corrected” textbooks proclaim that we invented our space triumphs to bankrupt the Russkis. The new reality is not to “look to the skies” but look down at the dirt as humans try to save a planet that’s beyond saving.

A fascinating conceit for a movie. We make fun of conspiracy nuts who contend that the moon landings were invented on a Hollywood soundstage. In Nolan’s universe, scientists are the kooks. Waste money on rocket ships when the earth is dying? No sirree bob -- not with my tax money.

NASA’s scientists have been driven underground. They are busily at work launching space probes to find other habitable planets to screw up. They recruit Cooper to join other astronauts to explore those likely places to resettle the populace. As we know from the Kepler telescope observations, earth-like planets exist but they are 100-plus light years away. The solution: fire a rocket through a wormhole that has mysteriously appeared near Saturn. “They” put it there, whoever “they” are (their identity is revealed by film's end).

Will the scientists find a new home for earthlings? That’s the question that involves the viewer for most of the movie. Great special effects, as befitting the CGI era (no streams of flashing lights as in “2001”). The robots are cooler than HAL, equipped with wit and sarcasm. The main robot threatens to shoot one of the crew through the airlock as happened in the pivotal scene in “2001.”

Woven through all this are complicated human relationships. In the end, that’s what motivates humans – their relationships with others of their kind. Cooper would not leave his beloved family behind, especially his daughter Murph, unless he could save them by jaunting off into space. Turns out that Cooper’s colleague in space, Dr. Amelia Brand (Anne Hathaway), has a love interest who was on an earlier space probe. It is love that motivates humans. As the Beatles sang, “love is all you need.” Not bad when you can wrap up a sci-fi epic with a sixties melody.

What else is there? What makes us distinctive among known life forms? Any big-brained chimp can plant corn or build a space ship. But it takes love for a wife or daughter or father to motivate us to reach for the stars. Humans are a mess, for the most part. But we are always offered a path to redemption that is as mysterious and complicated as the physics of a wormhole.

Love is all you need…

Mental health crisis makes the news from coast to coast

Allison Kilkenny wrote in The Nation on Oct. 21 about the rise in suicides and other mental health crises spawned by budget cuts:

Threats of sequestration in 2013 had a significant impact on people’s ability to access mental health services and programs, including children’s mental health services, suicide prevention programs, homeless outreach programs, substance abuse treatment programs, housing and employment assistance, health research, and virtually every type of public mental health support. The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) claimed it alone would be cutting $168 million from its 2013 spending, including a reduction of $83.1 million in grants for substance abuse treatment programs.

And here's the news from Chicago:

In Chicago alone, state budget cuts combined with reductions in county and city mental health services led to shutting six of the city’s 12 mental health clinics, Forbes reports.

What's the matter with Kansas:

The Kansas Department of Health and Environment recently released a startling report showing a 30 percent increase in suicides from 2011.

The Wichita Eagle reports that the largest increase in suicides in Kansas occurred among white males, who already were the segment of the population most likely to take their own lives. More than 80 percent of suicides in Kansas last year were men.

And what about Wyoming? Well, a chapter of the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) has been holding organizational meetings in Cheyenne. Look up NAMI Cheyenne on Facebook. Get more info by e-mailing namicheyenne@gmail.com

Neat staff editorial in the Casper Star-Tribune on Wednesday. It examined the sad story of a young schizophrenic teen, Sally Levin, who was killed by her father in 1937 Cheyenne. It was a suicide pact gone awry. The father shot and killed his daughter to allegedly put her out of her misery, but his self-inflicted wounds were not fatal. Once he recovered, the family moved away to California and the incident was lost to history. Almost.

Suzanne Handler heard about her grandfather's story, investigated and recently published a book on it, “The Secrets They Kept: The True Story of a Mercy Killing That Shocked a Town and Shamed a Family.”

So has has mental health treatment in Wyoming improved over the last 76 years?

Despite the creation of treatment centers in regions of the state and school-based counseling, the need for treatment in Wyoming’s small towns can be largely unmet due to rural health care challenges.

All counties in Wyoming are geographically designated mental health services shortage areas.

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In 2011-12 the Annie E. Casey Foundation identified 22,000 Wyoming children, 18 percent, as “Children ages 2 to 17 with a parent who reports that a doctor has told them their child has autism, developmental delays, depression or anxiety, ADD/ADHD, or behavioral/conduct problems.”

We still have a long way to go.

God says: Keep those hands out of your pockets or risk an eternity in hell!

I am assuming that this is one of those fake photoshopped church signs (I pulled it off of Facebook). I do remember a seventh grade "sex ed" class in which the priests at St. Francis Catholic School in Wichita told us boys that it was a mortal sin to put our hands in our pockets. I still get illicit chills when I put my hands in my pockets, especially on a cold day.

Julene Bair in New York Times: Biggest threat to Ogallala Aquifer is corn farming, not XL pipeline

Julene Bair

Essayist Julene Bair moved away from southeast Wyoming a few years back. We still miss you, Julene!

Her words resonate, no matter where she plants herself. She grew up a farmer’s daughter in Kansas. She’s spent most of her writing life exploring that legacy, most notably in “One Degree West: Confessions of a Plainsdaughter,” which won the Willa Award from Women Writing the West. She’s won creative writing fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Wyoming Arts Council.

Julene, now living in Longmont, Colo., penned an essay for yesterday’s New York Times. The topic is a timely one – the Keystone XL pipeline. Opponents contended that any leak from the pipeline would permanently contaminate the land and water in the sensitive Nebraska Sand Hills. The Ogallala Aquifer rests beneath the sand hills and 174,000 square miles of crop and range land from South Dakota to Texas. Problem is, chemicals used for corn growing have already polluted the aquifer. In the essay, “Running Dry on the Great Plains,” Julene makes a plea for a saner dry-land farming policy:

Why haven’t viable environmental groups formed to protect the Ogallala? Because corn contributes so much to the economy that its reign is seldom questioned. Federal subsidy payments to corn growers and the federal mandate to produce ethanol underwrite the waste and pollution.

These subsidies should end. When the farm bill comes up for reauthorization next year, Congress should instead pay farmers to reduce their dependence on irrigation and chemicals. The eastern Nebraska climate is moist enough to grow corn without irrigation. That is how the University of Nebraska football team came to be the Cornhuskers. And the more arid High Plains to the west are known as the nation’s breadbasket because wheat, a drought-tolerant crop, thrives there.

Read the rest at http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/01/opinion/polluting-the-ogallala-aquifer.html

Julene’s bog: www.julenebair.com or find her work on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Julene-Bair-Author-Essays-Memoirs/309113472445879

Rural states will be hurt the most with arts cutbacks

Kansas

Wyoming

From today's article, "Arts outposts stung by cuts in state aid," in the New York Times:

...much of America’s artistic activity does not happen in major recital halls and theaters; instead it occurs in places like Lucas [KS], population 407, where the cultural attractions include S. P. Dinsmoor’s Garden of Eden historic folk art site and where smaller arts organizations are highly dependent on state grants. 

This is also true in Wyoming. The big differences between Wyoming and Kansas?

Well, Wyoming has a population of 550,000 while Kansas tips the people scale at 2,853,000 -- about five times the Equality State count.

Kansas is flat while Wyoming is anything but. Wyoming is more white than Kansas -- 91 percent to 83 percent. Way above the 50-state average of 72 percent.

One other thing. Wyoming funds the arts a lot better than does Kansas.

Wyoming Arts Council budget: $2.1 million ($1.3 million from the state legislature)

Kansas Arts Commission budget: zero.

Why the difference. Well, the Know Nothings on the Radical Christian Right have a firmer hold on Kansas than on Wyoming. Yes, we have kooky Tea Party types in our legislature. This most recent legislative session told us that. But we can't hold a candle to Kansas.

As do most states, Kansas has a split personality. You have your city liberals and your rural conservatives. But worse -- the state's southern half is part of the Bible Belt. Not only are they conservative. They're bat-shit crazy as is the case with so many on the literalist Radical Christian Right. Remember the battles over evolution (science) vs. creationism in the curriculum.

No Bible Belt in Wyoming. O.K., we have the LDS influence in southwest Wyoming. The most radical Right of the 2010 GOP gubernatorial candidates was Ron Micheli from Uinta County. He's indicative of the very conservative leanings of the state's LDS population.

Here's an irony for you though. Our neighbor Utah, home of the international LDS conglomerate, has the nation's oldest state arts agency, established in 1899. Wonderful ballet and symphony and arts education programs in the Beehive State. But most of the politics is conservative, even reactionary. State firearm anyone?

Wyoming, as a rule, has a live-and-let-live attitude. Not always -- Judy Shepard, Matt's mom, could attest to that. When conflicts arise over art and the funding of art, the battle can get pretty brutal. The Grand Poobahs of the state's oil and gas industry were none too pleased recently with Chris Drury's public installation at UW. Entitled "What Goes Around Comes Around," it illustrates the link between the burning of coal and forest pine beetle infestations caused by global warming. The controversy over the work began with an incendiary piece in the Casper Star-Tribune, raged around the blogs for a day or two, and then died. Perhaps our state's leaders were away fishing in the Wind Rivers or wrapped up in Cheyenne Frontier Days. The fooferaw died out and now Drury's sculpture is drawing lots of visitors.

The biodegradable piece, part of the UW Art Museum's outdoor sculpture project, was partially funded by a grant from the Wyoming Cultural Trust Fund.

During these crazy times, Wyoming will not be immune from Radical Right attacks on art and arts funding. All gubment programs and all creativity will come under attack from these Know Nothings.

This leaves me with one final question: WTF is wrong with Kansas? With a little editing, this could be a book title.

Kansas is perfect, so anti-abortion zealots come to Wyoming

Anti-abortion protesters from Kansas are demonstrating in Jackson. From Wyoming Public Radio:

The pro-life protest is being organized by a Kansas-based group called Operation Save America. They say their goal is to make Wyoming the nation's first abortion-free state, and they say the protest will continue into the weekend.

Read the rest at WPR: Abortion protestors and counter protestors clash in Jackson

Why aren't they busily making Kansas the first abortion-free state? Or maybe they could make Kansas the first hungry-child-free state. Or maybe they could make sure that the kids in their local schools always have lunches to eat. Or maybe they could lobby their Kansas reps and senators to save Medicaid from Republican budget cuts so there won't be sick and dying babies and mothers in Colby and Wichita and Topeka.

I'm a big fan of protests. But I do wonder why these Kansans are so interested in Wyoming. And I wonder why they always care so much about the fetus but care so little about the babies and children and toddlers once they are born? This has always puzzled me.

Sustainability Summit April 12-13 at UW

UW has had some bad luck of late with speakers. First Bill Ayers gets the ax and then Vandana Shiva cancels her keynote speech at the Shepard Symposium.

But this event is coming up next week and it looks like a winner:


This Sustainability Summit is intended to provide a forum for local leaders and interested citizens to learn about environmental, social, and economic sustainability. The Wyoming Sustainability Summit will provide a venue for sharing information about challenges and successes with sustainability initiatives and how to successfully address these issues in residences, businesses, and communities. We hope this summit will stimulate conversation within and between Wyoming communities. The Summit will include panel discussions, keynote presentations, and round table discussions between community leaders and citizens.

General public registration is now closed. Walk-ins are welcome on the day(s) of the conference for $25, if seating remains. Meals/snacks will not be available for walk-ins.

Contact: Jill Lovato, Co-Chair, UW Campus Sustainability Committee, and Haub School/Ruckelshaus ENR Project Coordinator, (307) 760-4149, or mailto:jillberg@uwyo.edu?subject=Wyoming%20Sustainability%20Summit.

Speakers:

Kick-off Speaker - Taylor Haynes MD, UW Trustee, Owner/President of Thunderbasin Land Livestock & Investment Company, and member of the Ruckelshaus Institute Board. Haynes will discuss organic beef ranching and holistic resource management.

Keynote Speaker - Bob Dixson, Mayor of Greensburg, Kansas. Mayor Dixson will discuss Greensburg's GreenTown program, which is an effort to provide support, resources, and information to residents on creating a model green building community and sustainable principles for rebuilding processes.

Synthesis Speaker - Duke Castle, The Castle Group. Castle will discuss Oregon-based the Natural Step Network, a nonprofit organization that he founded in 1997 to show business and community organizers how they can move toward creating a sustainable society while maintaining a healthy economy.

Lunchtime Speaker (April 12) Brian Kuehl - Managing Partner of the law firm, The Clark Group. Kuehl will discuss how engaging the whole community contributes to sustainability. His talk will include case studies from around the United States to explain how the act of bringing together traditional adversaries is essential for sustainability.


Accommodations:
Hilton Garden Inn and other lodging (click here). Discounted rooms ($99) are available at the Hilton until March 12, on a first-come, first-serve basis. Please indicate that you are attending the "Wyoming Sustainability Summit" when you reserve your room, or contact for Breann Tolman at (307) 721-7570.

2011 budget as corny as Kansas in August

The New York Times provided some much-needed budgetary visuals with Obama's 2011 Budget Proposal: How It's Spent

The checkerboard graphic shows blocks of spending in earthy colors. It looks like what you see flying 30,000 feet over Kansas on a clear summer day. On the upper left, is the huge field of corn that's defense. On the bottom left is the equally big swath of wheat that represents Social Security.

On the bottom right are the teeny tiny boxes for science and energy conservation programs.

The $161.3 million proposed for the National Endowment for the Arts comes in a square so tiny that it can't be seen. It's as if my summer garden were tucked into the far southeastern corner of Kansas, somewhere east of Baxter Springs. I couldn't see it from six miles high.

Check out the graphic. Very sobering.

B-ball adds zip to a cold, snowy spring

This time of year, all talk is about basketball. Sweet Sixteen, college women's hoops, NIT -- and that's all on the college side. NBA is in the midst of its season. And high school hoops tournaments are being held (or have been held) during March all across the land.

Chris and I just watched the Kansas-Michigan State men's game. Michigan State won in the final two minutes. I was rooting for Kansas. All that tradition -- Naismith peach baskets, Phog Allen, Larry Brown, Roy Williams, three NCAA men's titles, including last year. Michigan State also has a bit of tradition going for it in the form of Magic Johnson and at least one men's b-ball title. MSU is in, KU is out of the running for a repeat.

Michigan State was down by 13 points at one time tonight. But the team battled back. That's the great thing about b-ball. In a good game, neither team is ever hopelessly behind. There were a few blow-outs the past couple days (poor Arizona) but tonight's game was a battle the entire way.

There are some of you out there (Bob P!) who are happy that the Missouri Tigers made it to the Elite Eight but Kansas did not. All I have to say to you is "wait 'til next year."

And let's hope that the Florida Gators find their Sweet Sixteen stamina next year.

Bush's war makes us all vulnerable

Imagine a tornado wipes out your town. Imagine a hurricane storm surge inundates your city. Imagine a wildfire burns your town to a crisp. You need help and you need it fast. You need your local National Guard contingent.

But guess what? Guard personnel and their equipment are patrolling Ramadi and Fallujah 10 times zones away. The weekend tornadoes in Greensburg, Kansas, brings this point home. Here’s an excerpt from the Lawrence Journal-World:

During a tour of the town early Sunday evening, Gov. Kathleen Sebelius — who in December asked the Pentagon to replenish Kansas equipment left by the National Guard in Iraq — said the devastation in Greensburg shows why the state needs its equipment back.

"We’re missing about half of our trucks from the National Guard units," Sebelius said. "Clearly trucks to haul this debris away would be enormously helpful. We are missing flatbeds. We are missing Humvees, which are used to get people to safety and security and to haul equipment around. We are missing a number of our well-trained National Guard personnel. The equipment that we continue to harp on that has been sent overseas when our troops are deployed and not restored at the same level could be enormously helpful."