We remember our brother Tommy

Tommy Shay and his dog Duke

In Memoriam: Tommy Shay 

Thomas Gerard Shay (“Tommy”), age 65, passed away peacefully after a short illness on Christmas Day, 2025, with family at his side.  He was an organ donor and willed his body to medical research. He was born in Denver on Jan. 28, 1960, and grew up in Wichita, KS, Moses Lake, WA, and Daytona Beach, and was a long-time resident of Palm Bay where he worked as a machinist for 30 years at Winchester Interconnect, Melbourne. He is survived by brothers Michael Shay (Christine) and Timothy Shay (Jen) both of Ormond Beach, four sisters Molly Shay Shakar of Decatur, GA, Eileen Shay Casey (Brian) of Winter Park, FL, Maureen Shay Martinez (Ralph) Ormond Beach. and Mary Shay Powell (Neill), Tallahassee, and his significant other, Tani Hopkins, Decatur, GA. His brothers Daniel Shay (Nancy) of Ormond Beach and Patrick Shay (Jean) of Palm Bay preceded him in death, as did his parents, Anna Hett Shay and Thomas Reed Shay. His family meant everything to him and he will be mourned by his nephews and nieces: Kevin, Annie, Meghan, Connor, Ryan, Bryce, Thomas, Michael, Katie, Maggie, Erin, Katie, Olivia, Finn, Mayzee, Sean, Maddie, Olivia, Morgan and his many great-nieces and nephews. Tommy grew up surfing in Daytona Beach and was a founding member of the “Hartford Heavies.” The family dog, Shannon, was his constant companion while he surfed.  As an adult, he spent Sundays surfcasting with friends on Melbourne Beach. He lent a helping hand to family, friends, and neighbors who looked forward to ripe avocados and limes from Tommy’s backyard orchard. He camped with his dogs Ophie and his hound Duke who passed away in 2023. He was proud of his stamp and coin collections. Tommy was a metal detector hunter and tossed foreign coins on the beach for other hunters to find. “He looked out for everyone,” said his surf-fishing buddy.  Tommy loved dogs and requested donations be made to Riley’s Rescue of Brevard County, 215 Krefeld Rd. NW, Palm Bay, FL 32907 or FL Aid to Animals/Palm Bay, 3585 Bayside Lake Blvd. SE, Palm Bay, FL 32909. Tommy was a spiritual person but at his request, no service will be held. His family has tentatively scheduled a Paddle Out on April 4, 2026 at the Hartford Avenue approach in Daytona Beach; details to be determined.

The family welcomes comments and remembrances. 

https://www.news-journalonline.com/obituaries/psar1368055

Your stories will survive you -- write or record them while you still can

I was thinking about this today as I went through some tests at the local hospital.

I like the idea of a National Service Program for 18-21-year-olds. Not a military draft – that didn’t work so well – but a program that puts youth to work doing good deeds. As a college dropout, I found jobs in hospitals. I was called orderly and not nursing assistant or CAN. I was a guy wearing a white uniform that nurses and patients called on when they needed a strong body to perform various tasks: scoot a patient up in bed or turn a patient so a nurse could get at the malfunctioning part of the body, transport patients to X-rays, take temps and BP and fill water pitchers. 

This was Florida so listening to old folks was also a keen skill. Young folks aren’t so good at listening to old people. Too bad – therein those aging bodies are many great stories. So why not put youngsters to work listening to old people’s stories while they also help them get around. Welcome to the Corps of Willing Listeners! They’d get paid a decent wage to push wheelchairs and hear stories. 

If they want to write some of those stories down and turn them into novels, so much the better. Maybe some of them can be made into memoirs for the family, something to remember grandpa by when you see that old face in a photo but can’t really place him. “That was grandpa: he was wounded at the Battle of the Bulge.” “There’s grandma: she raised 10 kids in a house without running water and an outhouse out back.” “There’s Uncle Jack – he was funny when he had a few drinks.” And so on.

Young people are energetic and smart and impatient. Old people tend to be tired and smart and patient and sometimes impatient because they know they are on the downward slide to the grave. I am 72 and that’s my reality. I love a good story but I can tell when the listener isn’t listening. Today a tech in his 20s took me to X-ray and took pictures of my chest. He saw my High Plains Arboretum vest and we talked gardening while the machines hummed. We talked about the difficulties of raising plants and veggies in our climate. I could tell he's had mixed results and I suggested he drop by the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens and ask some questions of the horticulturalists. 

Writing skills are a key element in storytelling. It's good to be able to tell a story on a blog or written on paper or told in a podcast or any of the myriad other ways we relate info. I have some writing skills so I can tell stories to those people in the future who see my e-photo online and wonder about me. Who is it? Why is he in the photo? What did he do for a living? Was he nice? Did he love someone and did someone love him? How did his kids turn out? I’ll leave behind some stories to inspire or bore to tears but I won’t care, will I? I will be stardust. I hope a few of my stories survive.

Saying goodbye to a friend, Dick Lechman

A eulogy for a friend from a friend: 

Books, books, books.

Dick Lechman had thousands of books at one time at his Old Grandfather Books in downtown Arvada. He had books in the store, books in a garage, and a few in his apartment and his car. I loved going into the Arvada store because I could always find something I didn’t know I was looking for. A history of World War I, a coffee table book of Colorado maps, an unread early novel by one of my favorite writers. If I couldn’t find anything, Dick would always suggest something. His interests centered on spirituality and religion as befits a one-time practicing priest. But his imagination wandered far and wide. My daughter Annie, Dick’s goddaughter, liked the bookstore too. She was little and liked to get lost in the stacks to discover intriguing books about dinosaurs and unicorns, sometimes in the same book. I never met with Dick that he didn’t have a book for me. I might be interested in it or maybe not. But someone who will gift you a book is someone to spend time with.

After Dick and his wife Mary bought a house in Arvada, I sometimes journeyed down from Cheyenne to play ping pong in his garage/office. Books lined the shelves there too. Dick usually won the games and then we retired to the garage’s book section. Dick also built and installed a Little Free Library in his front yard. I like those and usually stop to peruse the library when I see one. It’s like hidden treasure – there could be anything in there. And often was.

Dick was a writer too, a poet with philosophy in mind. He always emailed or mailed me his poetry. I usually commented on it because I know, as a writer and writing teacher, that every written thing deserves attention. In his poetry, Jesus played baseball and so did his disciples. Amazing flights of imagination. I liked the way he always worked friends and family into his poems – that made it very personal. I didn’t understand all of it but appreciated that he spent time and energy writing it down.

Dick was a conscientious godfather. He always brought Annie books and wrote her poems. He went out of his way to help her when she was in a variety of mental health treatment centers, in Colorado, Wyoming and a few neighboring states. It’s sometimes hard to know what to say to a loved one with mental health challenges. Just being there in a big deal. Yourself, listening. Chris and I always appreciated Dick’s attention to our little bird trying to fly.

Dick was one of the first people Chris and I met when we decided to abandon traditional Catholic churches for something different at 10:30 Catholic Community. Some of us gathered together in a men’s group and it turned out we had a lot to share with one another. We went on jaunts to the mountains. I moved away from Denver, first to Fort Collins and then to Cheyenne, and some of the guys went down to Arizona for Rockies’ spring training. Dick liked his Rockies and so did Mary. We all were committed fans and one of my great memories was attending a Rockies-Dodgers game with Dick and Mary and Dick’s brother and sister-in-law. Summer night at Coors Field. Sure, you might get heartburn from the hot dogs and the Rockies relief pitching. But always the best place to be in summer.

It's sad to say goodbye to Dick. The memories remain. He was a good guy with a big heart. And a fine friend.

Dick was always learning. This is some of his commentary on an Easter poem he sent me in April 2022: Remember that is just Dick's two cents/And each of you have your two cents/So it seems this Easter is better than last Easter./Cuz I didn't understand the resurrection of the spirit till/I was 83 years old.

He was 85 when he passed from this life last week. 

2022 was Dick’s final Easter on this planet. He also commented on the afterlife, saying that he hoped there was no paperwork there. By that, I'm guessing he meant PAPERWORK, you know, the kind we all hate to fill out. He didn't mean the paper of books because that meant so much to him. I do believe there is poetry and books, lots of books, in the afterlife. What would heaven be without them?

Dick loved sports and especially the Colorado Rockies. If there's room for books in heaven, there must be be a snowball's chance in Hades that the Rockies can find consistent pitching and go on to win a World Series. We can all keep praying for that. 

In Memoriam: Stevon Lucero

Sad news arrived from Denver today. Stevon Lucero, the Chicano artists who I profiled in a Oct. 29  WyoFile story and linked here, passed away Nov. 28. He was 71. 

Lucero was a mentor to generations of Latino artists in Denver and around the West. He grew up in Laramie, attended UW, and then moved his family to Denver to pursue and art career. He helped found the Chicano Humanities and Arts Council in Denver. CHAC was instrumental in transforming Denver's Santa Fe Drive from a downtown shortcut into a certified Colorado Creative District lined with galleries, museums, and studios.

CBS Channel 4 noted Lucero's death with a feature today. In it, Arlette Lucero says this about the husband:

"He would take young artists under his wings and tell them the beautiful things about themselves, to bring them into the fold."

Poet and performer Adrian Molina (a.k.a. Molina Speaks), another Wyoming artist now living in Denver, teamed up with Lucero to build one of the immersive exhibits at the new Meow Wolf arts outpost in downtown Denver. Called the "Indigenous Futures Dreamscapes Lounge," it brought to life dreams and visions Lucero experienced over the years. Lucero painted the dreamscapes, and Molina recorded the soundscapes and videos. It fit right in with Meow Wolf Denver's theme of Convergence Station, "the convergence of four different dimensions." 

Family members have started a GoFundMe page to help defray funeral expenses.

Molina, quoted in the Channel 4 piece, said this: 

“Stevon became one of my best friends. A humble genius, a visionary. He’s an elder who’s deeply respected, and he taught me so much about life and about art over the last few years. His mission was to put God back into art, to bring the spirit and that was his meta-realism.

“It was a joy to paint with the master, and be in his presence every day."

R.I.P. Stevon.

Remembering my mother on another birthday we can't celebrate with her

My mother's birthday is today. Anna Marie Shay would have been 95 had she lived. She died in 1986 at 59, 11 years younger than I am now. Ovarian cancer was the culprit and it was discovered too late to give her much hope. She was a fighter. I was able to get my family to Daytona to see her in February of that year, less than two months before she died. She got to meet my one-year-old son, Kevin. I'll always treasure the photos I have of the two of them together. She's looking out for him which is a good thing as he's needed a lot of looking-after. My daughter, Annie Marie, is named for her and her other grandma who also was born Anna Marie. 

Anne, Ann, and Anna are all English derivations of the Hebrew name, Hannah. It means favor or grace. English, French and Russian queens have been named Anne. One Anne (Boleyn) met a gruesome end at the hands of Henry VIII. Anne of Green Gables is a wonderful literary character. Novels feature many Annes. The name is featured in three Shakespeare plays: Henry VIII, Richard III, and The Merry Wives of Windsor. Almost as popular as Elizabeth, Margaret and Valentine. Valentine?

My mother was a nurse. She mothered her hospital staff by day and her nine kids at night and weekends and in her sleep. I was 35 when she went to the hospital for the last time. That's half-a-life ago. My youngest sibling, Mary, was 20. It was hard on all of us but maybe most on Mary as she was still a kid. 

Mom's birthday always fell around Mother's Day, sometimes on Mother's Day. Chris and I were married on the Saturday after her 52nd birthday which we celebrated with a birthday party and rehearsal party in my parents' backyard. Coincidentally, Mom's2021 birthday is on a Friday just as it was in 1982, our anniversary is on a Saturday, followed by Sunday's Mother's Day. 

The years pass. Memories remain and many are painful. I retired five years ago and vibrant memories are part of every day. I am a writer so I invite those memories but as I write, they appear more real than the event itself. I remember moments with my grandparents, my parents, brothers and sisters, old friends. It's as if they were whispering in my ear. Mike, do you remember this? Your first dog, a surly Chihuahua named Pancho. Your first bicycle, a surprise from your grandparents. Firecracker wars in the neighborhood, the day you blew up all of your Mom's clothespins because Black Cats go so much farther when weight is added. All those great times with your cousins, back when everyone lived in Denver. The long winter drive from Denver to Washington state when Dad was transferred. I'll never forget the view of Wyoming's lonely wastes through the fogged-up window of a Ford Falcon station wagon. My first kiss. My first lonely day at college. My wedding. And now our 39th anniversary.

I remember Mama.

In memoriam: John Clark Pratt

I called him Dr. Pratt because it seemed appropriate. John Clark Pratt possessed a deep voice, military bearing, steely gaze. No surprise after 20 years in the Air Force, some of those in Vietnam (and neighboring countries), and then a stint teaching at the Air Force Academy.

At Colorado State University, he taught creative writing. He was the only writing prof hanging around the Eddy Building as I prowled around on a summer day in 1988. I dropped in. He gave me some of his time and, when I left, thought I had found the right place to get my M.F.A.

I was right. Dr. Pratt conducted one of my first writing workshops. He helped me fine-tune a sci-fi story that he thought was pretty good. You don't read too many sci-fi pieces in writing workshop. It's mostly dysfunctional family minimalism (DFM). No surprise, since most of the students are in their 20s and fresh out of their undergraduate experience and not too far away from their tormented youth. I was older, late 30s, fresh from a corporate PR gig and before that, years as a journalist and then a free-lance writer. If I had a tormented youth, it was way behind me.

I wasn't a better writer than my younger peers. I just wrote different stuff. I was used to being edited and revised and wasn't upset when others took a hand to it. So I published and kept writing, going through critiques, stopping to chat with Dr. Pratt along the way. He had published two great books about the Vietnam War, The Laotian Fragments and Vietnam Voices. In the latter book, he put together a pastiche of poets and writers, veterans and peaceniks. He had helped start the CSU Library's Vietnam War special collection. Nosing around in that collection, partitioned like a bunker in the basement of the old library, which in the late 1980s still had its card catalog and a new but rudimentary computerized system. While hanging out in the bunker, I discovered its future wars section. My first novel manuscript rests in that collection. It's the only way you can read it, if you're interested.

Dr. Pratt passed away Jan. 2 in Fort Collins after a long and gallant battle with cancer. We'd been in touch a few years ago when he was looking for a publisher for his new novel. Still writing, even as he battled the Big C. He wondered if my Denver publisher might be interested in the book. I asked. They were, but I don't think it worked out as the press vanished shortly thereafter. It felt good to do him this small favor. Then two weeks ago, I found out from a writer friend that Dr. Pratt had passed away.

Last week, I received a call from a woman whose club was preparing Dr. Pratt's household for an estate sale. She said she found in Dr. Pratt's library my business card and letter in a copy of my short story collection. She invited me to FoCo for a preview of the estate sale. I went.

It's too bad I no longer am accumulating books. My shelves are full, I have many boxes of books in the basement and I am retired. But I thought it might be a way to help in some way, maybe use it as a way to say farewell to Dr. Pratt.

My friend John met me there. He taught with Dr. Pratt and he too is retired. Linda showed us into the room containing Pratt's research books. The director of the Vietnam War collection had already been out to sort through the material. John and I found some collectible books that hadn't been priced as well as well as some wonderful early editions, especially of books from the 1960s. A row of Joseph Heller's books, including early hardcovers of Catch-22. John Updike, Ken Kesey, Kenn Babbs, Timothy Leary. Pratt knew them all, and was interested in all of the voices of the sixties. I thought, "Wouldn't it be great to have books that a mentor cared enough to keep?" The answer was yes. But I resisted. John and I found excellent copies of 1984 and Sinclair Lewis's It Can't Happen Here, both of which we turned over to Linda for pricing. I found a first edition of James Burke's first novel,The Lost Get-Back Boogie. It was an LSU Press original and back before the author became Best-Selling NYT-Author James Lee Burke. English majors would like the fact that an excerpt of the book was first published in CutBank, University of Montana's excellent litmag. I found a big box of Vietnam War research material, including a Look Magazine cover with the header, "We're Winning in Vietnam." It was fall of 1967, just a few months before Tet.

I attended Dr. Pratt's funeral at Spirit of Joy Lutheran Church. His adult children recounted their memories and we had a few laughs. The Poudre River Irregulars, minus its banjo player, played a few tunes, closing out with "When Those Saints Go Marching in."

I am thankful that I had Dr. Pratt as a mentor. He saw things in my writing that I did not. He encouraged me when I needed encouraging. You never know what kind of impact people will have on you. It's important that you give them a chance and see what happens.

Wish we were memorializing Prince in 2036 instead of 2016

Symbol for the opioid formerly known as Oxycodone.

News of Prince's death rocked music fans. I'm not a big Prince fan, but do admire his creativity. The soundtrack of my life is more Sgt. Pepper's than Purple Rain. I remember well Prince's videos airing on the early days of MTV. Remember music videos on Music TV? Yes, I thought that you would. A new public TV station in Boulder also aired music videos at night. That was Colorado Public Television Channel 12, which now is based in Denver's LoDo. I remember videos by Prince and Pat Benetar and the "Roly Poly Fish Heads" song by Barnes & Barnes and the late great band The Call with its subversive lyrics and sneaky Biblical references. I was thirtysomething then, and music videos were new and quirky. We talked about them at work. Didya see...? Yeah, weird, eh? Yeah. Weird, Weird, and cool. 

The videos have moved to the web. And Prince is gone. The most disturbing aspect of the tragedy are the allegations that he was hooked on opioids for pain. Prince spent his adult life dancing across stages. He jumped from platforms and did the splits, all while wearing his trademark high-heel shoes. When you get to be 57, no matter your physical prowess, gravity takes a toll. Prince had hip replacement surgery and back problems. What does a performer do about chronic pain? Painkillers. And Percocet offers some wonderful painkilling properties. Better living through chemistry, eh? Problem is, that opioid high is addicting and ya wanna keep poppin' those pills.

In the past year, I've undergone two knee replacement surgeries. Both times, my orthopedic doctor prescribed Percocet (Oxycodone + Acetaminophen) for pain. As the weeks passed, the doc weaned me from a higher dose to a smaller one and finally to none at all. A wise man, one who has written many prescriptions for opioids -- and has undoubtedly heard many pleas for more, sir, please, more. Pain sufferers can be a pain -- and very persuasive. No wonder the pills are handed out like candy.

Patient: Doc, I'm in terrible pain.

Doc: You are a terrible pain.

Patient: Trouble right here in Magic City, Doc. I need opioids and it rhymes with hemorrhoids and it stands for pool and...

Doc: Are you high?

Patient: High on life.

Doc: Here's a prescription for a gazillion Percocet.

Patient (kisses Doc's feet, backs slowly out the door):  You won't regret this Doc!

Doc: Yes I will. 

Since I began my personal experience with opioids, I have heard scores of blood-curdling stories about opioid abuse. Fatal overdoses, lost jobs, ruined marriages, etc. Addicts will do anything (and have) to get their hands on Oxy. When they can't, some turn to heroin. Thus the heroin epidemic in the hinterland.

What are our other options when pain haunts us? It would be nice to just say no, but it's not that easy when your body and your brain are working against you. Pain screams for relief. If you are lucky, the pain in only temporary. Knee and hip replacements heal over time and you feel almost as good as new, a return to the days when you only had a bit of knee pain. Aleve can soothe the ache after a Snowy Range hike. Sure, the commercials are annoying but that's a small price to pay for 24-hour pain relief! Caution: Aleve may cause nausea, light-headednesss, heartburn, dizziness, abdominal pain. But still better than Heroin P.M.

Medical marijuana is a hot issue in many states including Wyoming. Marijuana won't kill you. It may lead to harder stuff. But what if you are already taking the harder stuff in the form of opioids? Wouldn't pot be a welcome change from the fever dreams of opioids and the threat of addiction?

We don't yet know Prince's autopsy results.He may have died from a heart attack or an aneurysm. Both can kill quickly, especially if you are alone in an elevator and have no phone to call 911. In those circumstances, you can't always think straight -- or have enough time to dial for help.

Meanwhile, let the tributes roll on. Prince deserves it. I just wish we were giving him a posthumous send-off 20 years in the future.

Happy trails, Sue Wallis

This time last year, Rep. Sue Wallis (R-Recluse) was an ally in the cause to promote a domestic partnerships bill in the Wyoming House. I was at home, recovering from a heart attack, and I had plenty of time to listen in on the proceeding of the legislature. I blogged about it, too. Read the post here.

Now it's the last day of January, 2014. It's cold and gray outside. And Sue Wallis is dead, possibly due to a heart attack that killed her at 56 (the Gillette News-Record obit described it as "natural causes"). She was alone in a Gillette hotel room, spending the night in town to attend some legislative committee meetings on Tuesday. Later in the day, she was going to fly out to Elko and the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, an event she helped run back in the 1990s.

That's just one of the scary things about heart attacks. You can be alone and then you can be dead. Or you can be alone and passed out of the floor, gasping for air. You could be calling 911 on your cell phone, if you're able, and then just hope that the EMTs arrive in time.

Wallis was a rancher, cowboy poet and Lynne Cheney supporter. She advocated for humane horse slaughter and food freedom for farmers. She didn't like Barack Obama or the EPA. She stood up for abortion rights and the LGBT community. A real Wyoming mix. The Campbell County Republican Party will try to find a replacement but she can't be replaced.

After I heard the news, I went to her blogs and read some of her poetry. It tells you a lot about her. Go there and see.

And get that heart checked.

Saying farewell to Daniel my brother

Paddle out for my brother Dan in Ormond Beach, Fla. Photo by Marcus Stephen. 

Hundreds of people gathered at the Salty Church Nov. 23 in Ormond Beach for the final send-off for my brother Dan. Wife, sons, daughter, brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces, nephews, friends. All the seats were filled and people stood along the back wall.

I sat in the front row next to Nancy, Dan's widow, and her children. My sisters and brothers and their kids surrounded us. A slide show portraying Dan's life played across the dual screens that flanked the altar/stage. I was raised Catholic, so the space at the front of any church is an altar. As a Catholic, of course, I can't sing, and am used to aging priests mumbling in English or, when I was a kid, in Latin. I still am startled when people play electric guitars in a place of worship.

Chris Breslin, one of Dan's nephews and a divinity school grad, conducted the service. He opened up with a prayer, followed by a rendition of "Danny Boy" piped in from the P.A. system.

Dan's eldest son Ryan spoke first.

I was next up, there to say a few words on behalf of my brothers and sisters. Here are those few words:

I'm Dan's older brother, Mike. I grew up in Daytona and now live in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Dan meant everything to his brothers and sisters. Let me name them: They are me, Molly, Eileen, Tommy, Timmy, Maureen and Mary. [I name them all and point them out to the crowd]. They all are here today except our brother Pat, who passed away three years ago. Dan and Pat are surfing together now.

One thing about Dan -- you could talk to him. Now I know what you're thinking, Dan could debate politics and religion and philosophy for hours. When I say "debate," I mean "argue."

But when you wanted someone to listen, really listen, Dan was your man. I'd call Dan and say I was going through a rough time and I could count on Dan to listen, really listen. I did that more than once, as did all of his brothers and sisters. It meant a lot to us.

Dan's house in Ormond Beach was the central gathering place. Back in the 1980s, Dan found a job as an air traffic controller in his home town of Daytona. It's a job he did for 25 years, 22 of those in Daytona and three in Fort Lauderdale.

His house on Putnam Avenue became the headquarters for all Shay activities. My brother Tim and sister Maureen had their 50th birthday parties there last summer. There were many other birthday parties, anniversary parties and those memorable Fourth of July parties. Our mom spent her last Fourth of July at Dan's house, arm and arm with our father, watching the fireworks from Dan's backyard. I was up on the roof with other party-goers watching them watch the fireworks.

Not that Dan was a homebody. My sister Mary says that when they were in Houston during Dan's treatment for leukemia, they traveled all over the place. 

"We ate our way through Texas," Mary said.

Dan, Maureen and Mary took a memorable 12-hour jaunt from Houston to San Antonio to Austin and back to Houston. Family members traveled with Dan to the space center, submarine docks and lots of historic places. Molly went with Dan to Galveston. If Dan could have, and if there were any waves, Dan would have gone surfing. 

All of us traveled with Dan one time or another. In 1988, Dan and I traveled with a Habitat for Humanity group to Nicaragua. That was during the Sandinista era and the Contra war was going on. We were sitting in a meeting one day hearing from the Sandinistas about how the country one day would be a tourist attraction and a surfing paradise. A uniformed officer came into the room and removed Dan. I was a bit concerned, as Dan was conservative and a big Reagan fan. Five minutes later, Dan returned to the room. After the meeting, I asked Dan what that was all about. He said they just wanted to know his name and where he was from and what he was doing in Nicaragua. He gave them the answers and that was it. I told him that we were worried that he was being dragged off to a Sandinista firing squad.

Dan, Nancy and the kids traveled all over. During my time with Dan last week, he told me many tales of journeying to Turkey, El Salvador, Germany, Peru, etc. If you want to hear details of these travels, talk to Nancy or Ryan or Connor or Bryce after the service. They have lots of adventure tales to tell. 

As I said at the beginning, Dan meant everything to us. His departure leaves a hole in our lives. 

But as he replied to our sister Eileen when she asked if he was afraid of dying: "What do I have to be afraid of?" That was his strong faith speaking.

We miss you, Dan. There's an old Roy Rogers song, "Happy Trails." I'll spare you my singing it. I'll leave you -- and Dan -- with a couple lines from the song. I've personalized it:

"Happy trails, Dan our brother,
Until we meet again."

Others rose to speak. A friend from high school. An accomplished blues musician who went to school with Dan and had some things to say about Dan's musicianship when he was a teen bass player. An air traffic controller buddy who now works in Germany and flew over for the service. A friend who surfed with Dan the last time he ventured out into the waves.

Elton John's "Daniel" played while the slideshow recounted more of Dan's life and times. "Daniel my brother...."

When the service concluded, we walked over to the Granada approach. Police directed traffic while we all crossed A1A. In the picnic shelter adjacent to the beach, U.S. Air Force personnel conducted a flag ceremony for Dan the veteran. Four civilian aircraft did a flyover in the "missing man" formation. We then went down to the sand for a paddle out. For those of you unfamiliar with that tradition, surfers climb into their wetsuits and paddle out beyond the break. They get in a circle for a prayer for Dan and then toss their carnations into the Atlantic. We waded into the surf and did the same from the shore. I felt the sand scrape the pads of my feet, the water swirl around my toes.

The red, white and pink carnations ebbed and flowed with the tide.

Dan Shay, R.I.P.

I wanted to share my brother Dan's obituary with my readers. Over the course of the past year, I've posted periodic updates about Dan's struggle with leukemia and my tussle with heart disease. Neither chore was pleasant, but my brother fought a stone-cold killer in AML. A heart attack and its follow-up seemed easier to understand and deal with. I feel that I'm in it for the long haul, thanks to the wonders of surgery, medications and devices such as the stent and the implantable cardioverter defibrillator (ICD). It's doing its business 24/7, keeping my heart on track and standing by to kick-start my heart should it run wild. Whoa, Nellie, Whoa!

My brother's heart stopped beating today some time before 4 a.m. MST. I got one of those middle-of-the-night calls, the ones that carry bad news. Dan was gone, my Tallahassee sister Molly said. Gone. Thirteen days ago the docs gave him two to four weeks to live. They were eerily accurate.

It was only Sunday night that I sat beside his bed and watched "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly" with him and his wife Nancy. They held hands while the spaghetti western played out on the bedroom TV. I was certain that I'd seen the movie at the drive-in when it came out in 1968 but the scenes reeled by and none of it seemed familiar. It's possible that I was doing something else at the drive-in -- my algebra homework, perhaps -- and I just missed the important parts. 

At one point, I heard Dan snore and looked over at him. His pain meds were doing their job. He looked old and fragile. He gripped the TV control in his left hand and Nancy's hand in he other. She was sleeping the sleep of the dedicated caregiver, one who had been with Dan for most of 49 years. They met in the sixth grade at Our Lady of Lourdes grade school, where Mercy nuns tortured young minds and we came up with creative ways to return the favor. I remember seeing them hold hands way back when, one of those days when it occurred to me that they liked each other, they really liked each other.

That's a long time to really, really like someone. You might call that love. I do.

Here's the obituary I promised. It was a group effort:

Daniel Patrick "Dan" Shay, 60, was born in Denver, Colorado, and spent the majority of his life in Ormond Beach, Fla. He was an avid surfer, Harley rider, devoted husband and a loving father. He loved traveling to foreign countries (mainly to surf) and loved seeing his children experience different cultures. Dan was always planning for his next adventure. 

Dan was a 1971 Seabreeze High School graduate and honorably served in the U.S. Air Force as an air traffic controller for four years. He was a civilian controller at Fort Lauderdale International Airport for 3 years and Daytona Beach Airport for 22 years. In retirement, Dan started his own business, Daytona Gear, and graduated from Embry-Riddle in 2007.

Dan is survived by his high school sweetheart and love of his life, Nancy Breslin Shay, two sons, Ryan and Connor, both of Tampa, and a daughter, Bryce, of Ormond Beach; three brothers, Michael (Chris) of Cheyenne, WY, Tom (Tani) of Palm Bay and Tim (Jen) of Ormond Beach; four sisters, Molly Shakar (Jamie), Maureen Martinez (Ralph) and Mary Powell (Neill), all of Tallahassee, and Eileen Casey (Brian), Winter Park. He also is survived by 47 nieces and nephews and numerous family members and friends. He was preceded in death by his parents, Thomas and Anna Shay, and by a brother, Pat.

In lieu of flowers, donations may be sent for Uno Mas School, Costa Rica Church, c/o Salty Church, 221 Vining Court, Ormond Beach, FL 32176.

Dan is loved by many and will be greatly missed. Come tell your “Dan” stories at his Celebration of life on Saturday, November 23, at Salty Church at 1 p.m. There will be a paddle out at Granada approach following the service.

Recalcitrant Equality State legislators urged to come out and learn something about equality

Coming Out for Equality at the University of Wyoming

Wednesday, October 9 6:00 - 8:00 p.m. COE Library, University of Wyoming Room 506 Laramie, WY RSVP Today

On the 25th anniversary of national coming out day, full equality for LGBT Americans is closer than ever. Come learn about the progress we've made, and the steps ahead in our fight for full LGBT equality for everyone, everywhere.

Learn. Take action. Lead.

All HRC members, supporters, friends and family are welcome.

Recalcitrant Wyoming Republican legislators (you know who you are) are invited to come out and learn something.

Coco's now playing in that big pond in the sky

Coco and Annie

Our dog Coco passed today. We had her put to sleep, as the old saying goes. Put out of her misery.

We humans get to make that decision about our pets. Our family has had to make it too many times. A choice between peace and what we perceive as more suffering. Coco was too good a dog to allow her to keep hemorrhaging or suffer seizures as the cancer ate through her brain and into the skull.

She was only 7. Our previous dog, Precious, lived to 14 and, our cat, Diamond, 12. That seems about right for a dog and pretty darn good for a tom cat who spent most of his time outside. We just lost a black-and-white tom, Bubba. One night he didn't come home. He left behind his brother Teddy, who now seems a bit rudderless. 

Today was Coco's fourth trip to the vet for her persistent malady. First it seemed like a dental problem and then an immune system disorder and finally, today, we discovered the grim truth. As the vet explained the shadowy mass in her brain and the missing bone mass, we knew what decision to make. We postponed the end, taking Coco for a walk along the greenway adjacent to Avenues Pet Clinic.

While my wife Chris stayed in the office to put Coco's paperwork in order, our daughter Annie and I walked the dog to a local pond. Coco went right in, scattering the ducks, and then ignoring them. She lifted her paw, smacked it down on the water and tried to gulp the geyser that erupted into the dry Wyoming afternoon. She wasn't really a water dog. She never went farther than leg-deep. We once took her swimming in the Flaming Gorge Reservoir. The clear water was cool on that cloudless August day. We all got as wet as we could, but Coco halted before her torso touched the surface."This is as far as I go, silly humans."

Coco liked one other form of water. I put the nozzle on the garden hose and turned it on full blast. I let the water jet onto the lawn, and Coco leapt and bit it. She attacked that water, occasionally hacking as a wave of Rocky Mountain runoff clogged her throat. She did this as long as I held the hose. It could have been hours -- she always outlasted me.

Coco despised baths, and she suffered through brushing her thick brindle coat. She liked humans well enough, and she grew up with cats. But she wasn't overly fond of other dogs. She carried on a long-running feud with Tommy the Golden Retriever next door. They shared a fence. Coco would perk up when she heard Tommy moving about. She raced to the stockade fence where she and Tommy faced off separated by an inch of weathered wood. Most contests were declared a draw. As far as I know, she and Tommy never actually had a physical clash. Nobody seems to know what got them started.

Coco was a stray that was caught up in one of the Laramie County Humane Society dragnets. When Annie and I met her, she shared an enclosure with a bigger dog. When Annie approached, Coco moved to the gate, growled at her kennel mate and then jumped up, inviting Annie to pet her. She did. The sign on the kennel said half pit bull, half Labrador. She didn't look like either.

I urged Annie to move along, as had had lots of pups to consider. She wanted a little pup, while Coco's age was listed as six months. We visited all the dogs. While I was busy petting a little German Shepherd mix, Annie disappeared. I found her back at Coco's cage. She wanted to take the pup for a walk at the adjacent dog park. I could tell that she and Coco were a good match. Annie was 13 and she and Coco ran around for an hour. "I want this one," Annie said finally.
 _
Now she's 20 and Coco's no longer with us. After we all arrived home from the vet's, Annie composed a slide show of Coco photos. Coco gamboling through the snow. Coco in a pond. Coco on Annie's lap. Brief moments in our lives.

Annie will finish up at the community college soon and will be off to some university and then will be busy with other things. Coco's memory will fade. She will own other dogs and cats. Her kids may insist, as she did with us, as did her brother before her.

As for me, I may be done with dogs. I have said farewell to too many of them. But one day, I will miss the miss the cold nose pushed into my face too early in the morning. I may miss the feel of a dog's sloping head in my aging palm. I may even miss a bark erupting for no discernible reason. There's nothing for this but to get another dog, as painful as it seems right now.

Farewell, Coco. Enjoy that big pond in the sky. And don't go in too deep.

In Memoriam: Kurt Brown, poet

It was sad to read about the death in California of Kurt Brown, poet, editor and tireless poetry promoter. Kurt founded Colorado's Aspen Writers Conference in 1976 and, on a shoestring budget, brought writers to Aspen by putting them up at the homes of locals and talking restaurants into free meals. The Aspen conference is now called Summer Words and is one of the best in the nation.

As a writer and arts administrator, I worked with Kurt on a number of projects to support writers. Ideas are easy, as we like to say, but Kurt had ideas and he followed through on them -- a rare trait. We first met at a national literary conference in 1991 at the Sundance Institute in Utah. Kurt was supposed to be my roommate. He had other plans, but we did have a chance to be part of a larger conversation about supporting creative writing on the national, regional, state and local levels.

Robert Sheldon was there. Robert was the Leon Russell look-alike who directed the literary programs at the Western State Arts Federation (WESTAF) in Santa Fe (now in Denver). NEA Director Joe David Bellamy was on hand, as was G. Barnes, the hard-traveling lit guy at the Utah Arts Council whose motto was "we don't care how you do it in New York." During a break in the meetings, I ran into Michelle Sullivan of Jackson's now-defunct Snake River Institute and then-Utah writer Chris Merrill on a trail above Sundance. I met Carolyn Forche for the first time. She was the author of one of my favorite poems, the one about the Salvadoran Death Squad colonel who liked to tease young idealistic poets from America.

I'm dropping names. They were creative people gathered together on an August weekend to talk about ways to support literary programs in the WESTAF region. We knew that the West was a distinct region with wide open spaces and lots of creativity. Kurt Brown wasn't a mountain guy by birth but knew how to parlay its values of grit and passion into something really good.

I first read about Kurt's passing on the Conundrum Press blog. Kurt helped mentor the founders of Conundrum as he did with so many presses. He was one of a group of hard-working visionaries who invigorated the West's writing scene. He helped spur the rise of many summer conferences and writers' residencies. Wyoming is home to the Jackson Hole Writers Conference, founded a good decade after the Aspen event. Our state is also home to three artists/writers residencies in Jentel, Ucross and Brush Creek, all launched in the past 20 years. Wyoming Writers, Inc., our statewide writers organization, celebrates 40 years of summer conference in June 2014 in Sheridan. This makes it another event with roots in the very creative 1970s here in the Rockies.

A new program was born at that 1991 Sundance gathering: "Tumblewords: Writers Rolling Around the West." A stylized tumbleweed was our logo. G. Barnes and Diane Peavey of Idaho and me in Wyoming formed the core of the Tumblewords program. Later, the torch was passed to Mark Preiss in Utah and Cort Conley took over in Idaho and Guy Lebeda in Wyoming during a two-year stint I had at the NEA in D.C. Corby Sklinner, the man who organizes everything in Billings, came on board for Montana. Colorado and New Mexico joined in.

In 1995, Bill Fox at WESTAF put together an anthology, Tumblewords: Writers Reading the West, published by University of Nevada Press. It included a fantastic group of writers: David Lee, Dianne Nelson, B.J. Buckley, Ken Brewer, C.J. Rawlins, Bill Studebaker, Holly Skinner, Katie Coles, Rick Kempa and many others.

State arts agencies worked with libraries, arts councils and schools to bring writers and poets to communities across a half-million square miles of the Rocky Mountain West.

And Kurt helped show us the way.

Thank you, Kurt. R.I.P.

Updated 6/30/13

In memoriam: Gaydell Collier

Gaydell Collier and her dog Maxie

Gaydell Collier was gracious and generous. She shared her expertise in writing and publishing with anyone who asked. She was also one of those people whom writers admire unconditionally: a librarian. She knew books, but people were her specialty. Gaydell passed away January 18 at Rapid City Regional Hospital, across the border from her beloved ranch in Crook County, Wyoming. Here's the obit that appeared on the Wyoming Arts Council blog:

Gaydell came from the East Coast and as a child told people she would eventually make her home in Wyoming.

She attended the University of Wyoming, and met her then-future husband, Roy Hugh Collier. While living in Laramie and the Harmony area, Collier worked as circulation manager at the UW library, and collaborated with Eleanor Prince in producing three publications: Basic Horsemanship: English and Western; Basic Training for Horses: English and Western; and Basic Horse Care.

She and her husband purchased their Crook County Ranch in 1977. Collier took over the Crook County Library Director position and was there for 14 years, while also operating her ranch bookstore, Backpocket Books.

She was co-editor along with Nancy Curtis and Linda Hasselstrom on three anthologies: Leaning Into the Wind: Women Write from the Heart of the West in 1997; Woven on the Wind: Women Write about Friendship in the Sagebrush West, in 2001; and Crazy Woman Creek: Women Rewrite the American West in 2004.

Her publications continued in periodicals, reviews, anthologies, and magazines. Her last book was the memoir, Just Beyond Harmony, published in 2012. She received a Governor’s Arts Award in 2004. She was a charter member of Bearlodge Writers in Sundance and of the statewide writers group, Wyoming Writers, Inc., as well as a sustaining member of Women Writing the West and Western Writers of America.

In memoriam: Colorado writer Ed Quillen

Freelance journalist Ed Quillen died at 61 last Sunday in Salida, Colo., a place he put on the map with his humorous, curmudgeonly columns. For decades, his columns were a must-read for me. His final piece was in the June 6 Denver Post and focused on Colorado’s rep as “home of the Red Scare,” a tradition that goes back to the 1870s, with the labeling of Utes as “indigenous communists” who must go. Big Bill Haywood and other union leaders got the commie label later and now we have the Denver Republican Party inviting Fla. Repub Rep. Allen West to speak about modern-day commies in the ranks of the Democrats. Who’s a Colorado commie in Congress? Rep. Jared Polis, millionaire entrepreneur turned public servant. Ed, We are going to miss you! Read his final column at http://www.denverpost.com/quillen/ci_20543845/yet-another-red-scare?source=pkg. Read his obit at http://www.denverpost.com/obituaries/ci_20781716/denver-post-columnist-ed-quillen-dies-at-age

In memoriam: Mary Hartman

Tonight I raise a glass to my old friend, Mary Hartman. She died last Friday, alone, which is a shame on us all. Her neighbors took her to the hospital and Mary, independent to the end, ordered them to take her home. They did, and that's where she died, home, alone.

There will be no memorial service. Mary was not religious. Still, her friends need to remember her in some way.

Words will have to suffice. Mary was a writer. Words will have to suffice.

Here is what I know. Mary left her Nebraska home as a teen and took the train to Los Angeles. Stars in her eyes. She was a looker, that Mary. Beautiful voice, too. She sang at the USO during the war years. L.A. was hopping. Here's what the California Military Museum web site says about L.A. during that time:

During World War II, Los Angeles was the boom town of boom towns. The Los Angeles metropolitan area grew faster than any other major metropolitan area in the U.S. and experienced more of the traumas of war while doing so. By 1943 the population of metropolitan L.A. was larger than 37 states, and was home to one in every 40 U.S. citizens. By the end of the war, the L.A. area had produced 17% of all of America's war production.

Pretty heady stuff for a Nebraska kid. Mary sang with a number of lounge singers and someone along the way, met up with a U.S. Marine named Jack Lummus, all-America athlete from Ennis, Texas. Soon they were engaged. He shipped out and was killed on the sands of Iwo Jima and was awarded the Medal of Honor for the sacrifices he made that day. He has a U.S. Navy ship and an intermediate school named after him.

Mary never got over it. She wrote a memoir about it and later a children's book. "Texas Granite: Story of a World War II Hero" (see photo). She was married, briefly, long enough to have a boy whom she raised alone. She was a newspaper reporter and free-lance writer in Nebraska and Arkansas. In the early 1990s, she moved to Cheyenne, Wyo., to be near her son and grandkids. As a writer, she was drawn to other writers, and that's how we met. Mary was the age of my parents, Great Depression and World War II babies. I was drawn to her for that reason and because we both wrote fiction, loved history and Liberal politics.

Mary and I and another writer formed Southeast Wyoming Writers (SEWW)  in 1992. We also were in the same writing critique group for awhile. Mary shepherded a World War II oral history project through budgets through script through filmed interviews. This video is now part of the U.S. Library of Congress World War II collection. On Veteran's Day 2002, barely a year after the beginning of yet another American war,  Mary was interviewed on National Public Radio. It was almost impossible not to be moved by her decades-old memories, still fresh after all of these years.

Mary and I had lunch together fairly often but not often enough. A few years ago, she tumbled down the back steps of her apartment building and broke both of her wrists. I visited her in the hospital. She dearly wanted to get out. She did, not quite healed but ready to move on with her life.

How do you say good-bye to some who has already departed? I'm not sure. I can see Mary, though, singing with a big band in some smoky L.A. club. The world is her oyster. Her life is ahead of her. She is a loving spirit who gets her heart broken in a big way.

Words will have to suffice, Mary. It's all we have in the end.

Farewell, my friend.

Merwin poem fitting close to Arizona memorial

University of Arizona President Robert Shelton at Wednesday’s memorial for the Tucson shooting victims:

SHELTON: I know conclude the program tonight by reading a poem that was written by W.S. Merwin who is the current poet laureate of the United States of America. Mister Merwin has a long history with the Poetry Center here at the University of Arizona.

To the New Year

With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning

so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible

W.S. Merwin
from Present Company, Copper Canyon Press

Thanks to Joshua Robbins for posting the poem at http://againstoblivion.blogspot.com

Final word on the subject

I have delivered eulogies in churches and funeral homes. I've attended too many services and burials, a hazard of aging.

I have never officiated at a memorial service on a softball field. As I think of it now, almost a week later, I realize it may have been one of the most spiritual memorials I've ever attended.

My brother Pat was remembered at a memorial at home plate of softball field number three in Fred Lee Park in Palm Bay, Fla. It was Monday, Dec. 13. The park was deserted when we arrived. Not much softball is played in December, not even in central Florida.

Pat's wishes were clear. Cremate his body. No church service. No ministers or priests. No prayers. This former altar boy and product of Catholic schools had soured on religion. He and I had many talks over the years about fundamentalist Christian crazies. We also discussed the depredations of the Catholic Church. He was tougher on the church than I was. I stayed in it longer than he did. In the end, we both agreed that it wasn't worth it.

The congregation, if you choose to call it that, sat in the metal softball stands. Pat was a coach so he was in the dugout most of the time. When attending a game, he crouched in the grass outside the fence on the third base line. He didn't like the behavior of some parents. They yelled at the refs and kids on the opposing teams. Pat hated this kind of low-rent behavior. He had a temper, and he wasn't above contesting a bad call. But he loved his daughters and he liked the girls they played with. He didn't think it was right for big burly men to yell at skinny twelve-year-old girls playing a game.

On this day at the softball field, the only voice for awhile was my own. And then Pat's daughters Maggie and Erin read their own eulogies, the cool north wind attempting to snatch their words away. Pat's friend, Coach Bill, spoke about their days on ball diamonds all over Florida. Coach Bill's daughter, one of Pat's former players, spoke. Then Roger Ross spoke. Roger was our neighbor in Daytona Beach. Pat helped him land a job as engineer at the Harris Corp. Rounding out the speakers was Pat's nephew, Ryan Shay. Ryan's a communications major at University of North Florida and it was clear he knows how to communicate.

Pat's four years in the Air Force led to his long career at the Harris Corp. The memorial ended with the folding of the flag and Taps, performed by the honor guard from nearby Patrick AFB. The bugler's notes lingered in the air as the folded flag was handed over to Pat's widow, Jean.

We then traveled to Pat and Jean's house for the wake with family and friends. We told stories around the bonfire.

These remembrances that I've posted over the past week are my way of mourning. I'm a writer. How will I know how I feel if I don't write it down? Someone famous once said that.  

Photos: Pat Shay's wake

The ceremonial tossing of the Cheerios onto the bonfire. My brother Pat was a Cheerios fan. When he was a kid, that's all he ate.

Family members at bonfire. I had to come to Florida to attend a bonfire on a freezing night.

Me and my sister Eileen at the wake.

My brothers Dan (left) and Tommy. 

Pat's daughters Katie (left) and Maggie toss the Cheerios.

My brother Tim (left) and his son Finn who rides on my nephew Ryan's Shay's shoulders.

My brother Tom shares a memory of Pat at the wake. Pat's widow, Jean, is sitting at the table on Tommy's left. Photos by Mary Shay Powell.

Photos: Pat Shay memorial

Site of the memorial service, Fred Lee Park softball fields, Palm Bay

The assembled congregation. Most of these people are family members. The woman with red hair in the front row is my youngest sister, Mary. She shot most of these fine photos.

Patrick Kevin Shay, 1954-2010

My first time serving as emcee of a memorial service at a softball field.

Honor guard from Patrick AFB. Pat served in the Air Force from 1977-81.