My first winter solstice on the Florida coast

This solstice I awoke to lawnmowers, just one, the riding mower Brian pilots as he mows my yard and the ones adjacent and across the street. It’s winter solstice and in Wyoming I didn’t wake up to lawnmowers. Snowblowers sound similar but the pitch is different, closer to a screech than a roar. And the mowers move quickly as they crisscross the salt-air-resistant St. Augustine grass that is like a weaving rather than the upright bluegrass or fine fescue of Wyoming. Yes, bluegrass, a lawn type suited more for the green of Kentucky racehorse pastures than the brown of the high prairie. When bluegrass matures, it feels fine on bare feet. Not so the Florida varietal; its runners poke feet. It keeps growing after summer and Brian is here every other week in December instead of every week in June. The Florida rains arrive and you can almost watch the grass grow.

Winter solstice announces the rough part of winter and the beginning of longer bouts of sun although we barely notice it day by day. Summer solstice announces the glorious days of summer and the slow passage of the sun across the sky or so it seems when you live in the Sunshine State and you work mowing lawns or pounding nails or laying down roofing shingles. Brian finishes the big front law and moves to the back. He makes three passes in my tiny yard and then he’s on to Number  70 or Number 66 or motors across the street to Number 67. I hear him most of the morning and it’s odd is what it is, this summer sound at Christmastime. Soon the leafblower erupts and it’s more akin to snowblowers and I wish I found comfort in it but don’t.

In Florida and Wyoming, the sounds of December 21 mean one thing: summer is coming. In Wyoming, it takes its own sweet time. In Florida, well, it’s already here.

Long, hot summer is the perfect time to explore an active Hawaiian volcano in "Eruption"

I just finished “Eruption” co-written posthumously by Michael Crichton and prehumously by best-selling author James Patterson. It’s a wild ride to the imagined 2025 catastrophic eruption of Hawaii’ s Mauna Loa. I learned so much about volcanoes and about Hawaii. The book includes a map of the big island but I kept a big Hawaii map handy so I could follow the action. I looked at many videos of volcano eruptions around the globe that are mentioned by volcanologists in the book.

I have read some good books on volcanoes. Simon Winchester’s “Krakatoa: The Day the World Ended, Aug. 27, 1883.”  This is a nonfiction thriller about the world’s worst eruption witnessed by humans. Curl your toes it will. “Rising Fire: Volcanoes and our Inner Lives” by Colorado’s John Calderazzo explores the physical and spiritual aspects of volcanoes. He also wrote a companion children’s book. There are dozens of children’s books on the subject. Also, Harry Turtledove writes alternative histories and this one explores a future Yellowstone eruption: “Supervolcano: All Fall Down.” The map on the cover makes it clear that Cheyenne, Wyoming is toast. Thanks, Harry. We have a forest of nukes on one side and a supervolcano on the other. Yellowstone was in the news this week about a dramatic steam eruption not far from Old Faithful. Nobody killed or hurt but it left one hell of a mess.

While the volcano is the center of the action in “Eruption,” a slew of interesting characters move the story along. Dr. John MacGregor  (“just call me Mac”) is the crotchety focus of the story. Mac kind of loses his starring role when army generals show up to manage the toxic weapon cache stored in Mauna Loa’s ice cave. Sorry, this is a bit of a spoiler but a key element of the story.  It’s worth reading the book just to find out what kind of doomsday weapon the U.S. could devise if they had Dr. Strangelove as the designer.

The book is organized into short scenes – there are 109-plus chapters. They are short, punchy chapters. This rhythm kept me reading even though the narrative sometimes got bogged down into arcane details of vulcanology. That’s OK by me but some readers may be tempted to skip over the middle chapters to get to the eruptions.

Almost as interesting as the novel’s proceedings in its back matter. Michael Crichton was just 66 when he died from cancer in 2008. He was an author, screenwriter, and filmmaker who, according to his very long bio was “the only writer in history to have a #1 book, #1 film, and #1 television series at the same time, and he did it twice.” I might be a bit skeptical had I not participated in the reading, moviegoing, and TV watching of Crichton’s work. I read his first novel, “The Andromeda Strain” in 1971, ate up “Jurassic Park,” and now it is 2024 and I have read his last one, or at least the last one to carry his name. He left behind a mountain of research on volcanoes and the people who study them. Also, neat details of Hawaii’s volcano-carved islands. It was up to family members and James Patterson to piece together his notes and plan for the book. “Eruption” the movie is in the works and the web is buzzing with the casting of Keanu Reeves in the lead role. The acting and special effects should be spectacular.

We prepare for take-off

June normally would see me outside coaxing my tomato seedlings. But this year, I’ll leave the gardening to others. We are giving our house, both in and out, a thorough sprucing up. Plants are being selected for color, enough color to lure someone to buy our house. I keep looking for “A Planting Guide for Guaranteed Home Selling” but can’t even find it on Amazon. My bulb plants have already bloomed and faded into obscurity among  the asters, coneflowers, and four o’clocks. It was good while they lasted, these brave perennials braving spring’s snow, cold, and wind to present their colors to my part of the world. I have two big pots that flank the porch and I will probably fill them with hardy petunias. They are fast-growing and stick around most of the summer. They are annuals and need to be replanted every year. You can’t kill them, although drought and h-a-i-l have tried. Add this to the yard work being done the next few weeks and you have a house ready-to-sell. So says our realtor.

Visitors streamed into the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens this past weekend. A must-see destination as Wyoming warms up. We have the Conservatory with its tropical gardens and a Children’s Village to keep the kids occupied. Nine acres of gardens bloom outside. The most color comes from the crevice garden just outside our entrance which showcases Rocky Mountain plants, the kind you can spy on any hike in the Snowies, Wind Rivers, or Big Horns. The gardens will not reach their peak until late July or early August and on through fall’s beginnings. A short growing season with lots of pizzazz. The first freeze usually happens in September although last year it was mid-October. It’s sad, really, when the colors fade. I will not be experiencing that in my new home in Florida. Gardens grow year-round and always need attention which is fine with me. I can go into the Conservatory’s main floor and see many of the tropical and sub-tropical plants that grow in my new yard.

I should be reading up on Florida. Instead, I am sorting my books for departure. We are giving the furniture to our kids and taking a few bins of books and journals. Our new place is furnished so we don’t need much. Moving is never fun but this time Chris and I are retired and want some time to ourselves. The beach is two blocks away, so that doesn’t hurt.  Also, family and friends live nearby. It’s odd how you can be away for decades and return to your growing-up place and feel at home. We will be scouting the horizon for hurricanes. The crackerjack meteorologists at CSU, my alma mater, predict a record number of hurricanes this year. Who knows – they may all batter other places and leave us alone. That’s probably what everyone says in Florida. Cane cane, go away/I hear that Galveston and Charleston are nice this time of year. The rhyme is strained but you get the idea.

The lateness of my cherry tomatoes and other Wyoming gardening tales

On May 29, I wrote about Eudora Welty’s garden in Mississippi, prompted by a post from another Mississippian and musician Jason Burge. In May, hope is in the air and in the ground. My daffodils and tulips were fading away, replaced by a mass of asters that took it upon themselves to reseed my front garden. Asters are tough. I’ve been deadheading them all summer, taking care not to grab a blossom currently occupied by a bee. Bees love my asters, whether purple, blue or pink. Such a beautiful little flower from such a spindly stem. They’re a wildflower and you can find them out on the prairie. Wonder how much of our locally-produced honey can be credited to astrum which is the Latin name for star. They are shaped like stars in the sky and they are stars of my garden. Aster is in the sunflower family, Asteraceae. Sunflowers also grow wild in Wyoming. I planted a variety of sunflower in my big flower pot, now surrounded by transplanted petunias. My sunflowers have not yet flowered and they probably shouldn’t be in a pot but at least I know what they are. I took tons of Plant ID photos and had it identified as everything from knotweed to a large variety of poison ivy. At one point, they were identified as Jerusalem artichokes. I dug some out by the roots hoping to find a Jerusalem artichoke that is neither an artichoke or from Jerusalem. I just found a tangled mass of roots that were wrapped into a batch of petunias which also came out of the pot. Petunias, of course, are the workhorses of a garden, blooming all summer, attracting bees and the first hummingbird moth I had ever seen. Such a creature. It buzzed me and sounded exactly like a passing hummingbird. I have grown tons of pink four-o’clocks or I should say that the four o’clocks grew themselves. I had them in a pot last summer and when they died with the frosts, I took the twigs and stuck them in the ground. There was no sign of them for awhile and then boom, there they were and the plants are about three-feet high and festooned with pink. Also sprouting nearby were three deer tongue plants which are odd grasses and sprout sprays of tiny flowers. The sprouts actually look like corn. No surprise, corn is also the grass, Zea mays. Deer tongue are considered an invasive species which I can see because they are propagating themselves. One final word on my 2023 garden. I planted only one veggie this year -- a red cherry tomato whose name I can’t recall. I grew them from Seed Library seeds and they got a late start that curtailed pollination and led to some late-appearing cherries that may not have time to ripen on the vine. My bad. I usually get plantlings about four- to five-inches along. They need the head start.  They didn’t get that this year. Frost will be here within the next couple weeks. Lesson learned.

 

Donuts that are pretty as a picture

Donuts!

Haven’t given them much thought the past couple decades. They once were a regular morning feature, coffee and donuts. You know it was a good day -- or a long meeting was ahead -- when greeted with a box of donuts when you walked into work. Sugar and flour never tasted so good. Therein lies the problem. Carbs and sugar are not on my diabetic wife Chris's menu. Carbs, butter, and cooking oil led to my heart attack in 2013.

But I ate a donut this morning. They were cooked by The Donut Shop in Cheyenne. Most people know it by its pink exterior paint festooned with multicolored donut varieties. Daughter Annie, the artist, was so taken with the place’s color scheme that she created a painting in the place’s image. When it was finished, she framed it and we trundled it over to the Southside shop. There’s a café on one side and a Dollar General across the street. Donuts are in the display cases when it opens at 5 a.m. This means that the owners are up earlier to cook. Chris worked at a donut shop for a brief time. It was one of her three jobs. She was in the shop at 5 a.m. and the cook had already been there for hours. She worked the morning rush and then went home.

The Donut Shop won a 2022 “Best of Cheyenne” award and the framed plaque hangs in the dining room that has a half-dozen tables.  Bonnie the owner says she will hang Annie’s painting for all to see. We ordered a dozen donuts. Bonnie wanted to pay for them but we insisted on paying our own way. Many struggling artists have traded their work for food. Those times could be ahead for Annie. This was not one of those times.

The golden glazed donut I ate was delicious. Nostalgia in a box. Annie and I each took one and brought the rest downtown to the PrideFest committee readying the plaza for the afternoon event. Son Kevin is on the committee and built the stage. He’s also on the security team that’s a must for any Pride Month event this year what with all the right-wing loonies on the loose. Donuts might be a great peace offering in tumultuous times. This might be one of those times.

Donuts!

A change in the Wyoming weather

It happens fast. One afternoon in September you sit in the easy chair, fan blows the sweat off your body. Next morning, you reach for a blanket against the chill that you haven’t felt since May. The heat had been getting to me. Our portable AC broke just when the August-September heat wave settled on us. Those long days, 85, 90, 95. Our house built without AC in 1960 because that was what you did, post-war building boom still roiling the prairie. It changes quickly. I turn on the furnace, open all the registers which is a funny name when you think of it. Spiders crawled through the open vents. Nothing poisonous, as far as I could tell. A Daddy Long Legs. A small brown spider (not a Recluse). Chris was concerned. “The spiders are coming! The spiders are coming!” We gave them little time to rejoice. The first burst of heated air carries with it Halloween and Christmas and those long nights of January and February. The gas jets click on and then the fan blows. I lay awake at night listening. Many nights, the heat challenging 45 and rainy. Summer is over. I am glad.

Botanist Trevor Bloom doesn't like what he sees in Wyoming's early wildflower blooms

This April 6 WyoFile post brings us more good news about global warming:

Wyoming botanist Trevor Bloom spotted his first springtime blooms of the year on March 28. Bloom, while tracing the footsteps of famed ecologist Frank Craighead at Blacktail Butte in Grand Teton National Park, saw the orogenia linearifolia, or snowdrop, wildflower. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wildflower, besides a dandelion, flowering in March,” Bloom said. The snowdrop bloom was nearly a month earlier than Craighead had recorded in the 1970s. “It means we’re probably going to have a very early spring this year. It probably means that we’re going to have very low water levels, and we’re probably going to have an increased risk of wildfire this year.”

So, early spring, lack of snow, low water levels, and more fires. Ah, summer in the Rockies, 2022.

Seems as if we are ahead of schedule as far as bulb plants. Some of mine already are flowering. The Cheyenne Botanic Gardens show some early blooms in its “Hero Garden” of native plants. Not sure what effects the wild winds have had. Most plants seem to be deciding if it’s safe to raise their heads or if we will have our usual spring of snow and wind and cold punctuated by 60-degree calm and sunny days.

My home gardening will be limited this year. During The Covid Year, I commandeered the kitchen table to sprout my seeds. When June arrived, the containers on the porch were filled, absorbing the sun and hiding from hail. It felt normal, as if a plague wasn’t decimating the globe. We all had our survival; tactics. Some gardened, some baked sourdough loaves, others watched endless video loops on YouTube and TikTok. I gardened and read and wrote. Also, Netflix and Hulu.

I will buy some seedlings and plant seeds. I need to grow something. Call it a celebration of summer’s arrival. It may bring drought and fire. But I’m going to grow flowers and cherry tomatoes beneath my rooftop solar array. The pensive William Wordsworth, wanderer of England’s Lake Country, loved to conjure daffodils when resting on his couch.

They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Meditation after another trip to the dermatologist

Angel Kisses

The sun’s first ray taps the crown of my head. I’m the tallest creature on the ocean, me, a young man bobbing just outside of the breaking waves. Light from 93 million miles away cascades over my torso, lights up the many colors of my surfboard, paints my body with freckles that will only become visible when winter comes. Soon all the surfers will be illuminated, their multi-colored boards, the stripes on their baggies. The sun will crawl over the beach and the early-bird walkers and houses perched on the dunes and the town and Florida entire. It will unleash the heat, fire up the humidity of a July morning.  Decades later, a Wyoming dermatologist talks about his family’s Colorado ski vacation as he scoops skin from this young surfer turned old man. Cancer may have been there all of this time, a remnant of the sun’s touch during hundreds of mornings in the semi-tropical sun. My crown, my nose, my ears have all been biopsied, scraped and sown. Nothing awful, nothing like melanoma that killed my brother. I wonder if the dermatologist slaps on sunscreen before he negotiates Steamboat runs named High Noon, One O’clock, Two O’clock for the prime meridian times that January sun reaches the west-facing mountains. If sunscreen had been a thing in 1967, I would have used it. Maybe. I know one thing – I would never trade one second of those mornings for blemish-free skin. Every scar a dance with sun and ocean, every freckle the kiss from the heavens. “Freckles are angel kisses,” my mom told me when I believed in angels. I now know the science behind melanin and derma, ephelides and solar lentigines. But during my seventieth year on the planet, angel kisses seem exactly right. Just perfect.

A prelude to fall this weekend at Cheyenne Botanic Gardens Harvest Festival

I'm volunteering Saturday afternoon at the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens front desk. The place will be hopping with the annual Heirlooms and Blooms Harvest Market from 10 a.m.-5 p.m. (noon to 4 on Sunday). This is the Gardens' first big event since the advent of Covid. Supposed to be a nice day. The farmers' market and the Shawn Dubie Memorial Rodeo happens Saturday at Frontier Park so it should be a lively day in the neighborhood. Drop by the front desk between noon and 3 and say hi. 

From the CBG press release:

CHEYENNE – Don’t wait for the chill of the holiday season to start shopping for your loved ones or yourself! 

Join the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens, 710 S. Lions Park Dr., for an expanded indoor/outdoor harvest market at the most bountiful and beautiful time of year at the Gardens! This two-day event, on Saturday, Sept. 11, from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. and Sunday, Sept. 12 from 12 p.m. to 4 p.m., will have a variety of regionally made gifts from artists and craftsmen selling everything from home decor, woodworking, art and jewelry, dog treats, baked goods, apparel, and so much more! 

Make it an outing for the whole family and enjoy some delicious food from our food vendors, and activities for the kids! Admission is free, so come and enjoy the lush surroundings of the Gardens as you get ahead of your Fall decorating and Holiday shopping! 

Additional free parking is available across the street in Frontier Days Lot C. 

FMI: Aaron Summers, 307-637-6458.

P.S. Cheyenne writer Barb Gorges will be on hand from 11 a.m.-1 p.m. Saturday and noon-4 p.m. Sunday to sign her books, "Cheyenne Garden Gossip" and "Cheyenne Birds by the Month."

That summer day in Wyoming, that was some wonderful day

One of my favorite loop tours for visitors is Cheyenne to Saratoga via the Snow Range. And then back again. For me, this 300-mile round-trip is no big deal. During summer, the obstacles on this route are construction, poky RVers, and hailstorms. During winter, you have to add in "slick in spots" hazards along I-80s Elk Mountain route. 

My wife Chris and sister Eileen joined me in my car. Brother-in-law Brian, daughter Annie and sister Mary rode in the rental. We first drove to Laramie. Annie wanted to show off her future campus. We parked in the War Memorial Stadium lot. Our visitors were impressed with the "breaking through" monumental sculpture and the big motto writ on across the stadium wall: "The world needs more cowboys." I really didn't want to get into some of the blowback the phrase caused. What about cowgirls?  Will this turn off Native American and other minority students? And what cowboys, exactly, are you speaking of? Cowboy Joe? John Wayne? The drovers in "Lonesome Dove?" The thousands of UW grads who couldn't find jobs in their home state and fled to non-cowboy states such as Illinois and Florida? Who? What?

We toured the big welcome center named for a rich donor. This is how it is on college campuses and I have no problems with it. Inside, I saw names of patrons who also support the arts and that made me happy as UW has great arts facilities and faculty. 

I noticed the library in the fireplace room and settled in to read through some of the old UW annuals. I was taken with the 1954 volume. Its first eight pages were photos of campus and Wyoming scenes that looked like blueline prints of 3D film. There is a pocket in the book's inside front cover that once held 3D glasses. How fun is that? 3D movies had hit the market in the early 1950s and they were all the rage when UW students assembled the annual in 1954. "It Came from Outer Space" (1953) and "Creature from the Black Lagoon" (1954). I was also surprised by some of the other 3D titles listed on IMBD, "Kiss Me Kate" and "Hondo" among them. I don't have a real good feeling about Richard Burton/Elizabeth Taylor and The Duke coming at me in three dimensions. "They called him Hondo -- hot-blooded as the Plains that bred him. silent as gunsmoke, a stranger to all but the surly dog at his side." OK by me, but the dog better not die.

We ate lunch under the trees and toured the UW Art Museum, one of my favorite places. Some exhibits were closing down to make room for the fall crop of artists. But the ones still up were fascinating. I really got a kick out of  David Bradley's 2001 panoramic and satiric painting of the Santa Fe Indian Market (going on now). I was entranced by Collin Parson's "Light Ellipse" at the entrance to the galleries. The 12-feet-high ellipse is made of PVC panel and backlit by LED lights and changes colors as you watch. Parson's exhibit is one of the museum's fall highlights which includes visits and talks by the Denver artist. "Blind" by Holly Roberts was part of the museum's horse exhibit. This was one of the more experimental works in "The West on Horseback" exhibit that included paintings by Hans Klieber and black-and-white ranch photos by Elsa Spear Byron.  

After a quick tour of downtown we headed for the mountains along Route 130 through Centennial. The high prairie seemed very green for the first week in August. It's usually lightly-browned as beach sand, sometimes as brown as the Wyoming Brown you see all across the UW campus. A summer squall cut into our sightseeing. Also, there was that brown cloud that has found its way here from Oregon and California. The rain let up when we reached Lake Marie so we released our visitors into the wild, now with that fresh post-rainstorm scent. Lake Marie probably one of the most photographed site in Wyoming outside our national parks and the country's first national monument. Sometimes you can catch it as still and mirror-lake and, if the light is just right, you can shoot a fit-for-framing reflection of the surrounding mountains. Laramie's Doc Thissen once showed me such a photo, one of his.

On the way downhill we passed Brush Creek Ranch and I thought about C.J. Box's novel "The Disappeared" in which some nefarious goings-on happen at a guest ranch eerily similar to Brush Creek. Other fictional nogoodniks are haunting the Wolf Hotel in downtown Saratoga, a place where Game Warden/Sleuth Joe Pickett bellies up to the bar on a frigid winter evening and sips a Black Tooth Saddle Bronc Ale. Eileen, Brian, and Mary toured the Wolf and the rest of the town. 

"So who lives here?" I've asked myself that question many times, usually when passing places such as Hanna and  Jeffrey City. I know writers from Hanna and people in Jeffrey City who kept its arts council alive even when the town was dying. These towns also house coal-miners, wind-farm workers, retirees and meth heads. Just like any place in the Rocky Mountain West. As I drive back to Cheyenne, I look out on the landscape and marvel that anyone can make a living in this place. It inspires -- I think of Linda Lillegraven's wonderful landscape paintings -- and it also causes people to lose their minds, as happens in real life and in Annie Proulx's short stories (Proulx spent many years in WYO and once lived in Centennial). 

The setting sun ignites the clouds over the Laramie Range as we drive the last miles to home. It occurs to me that nobody in our two-car caravan sees Wyoming as I do. We all see and experience life differently. Some of us translate it (or try to) in the work we do. For others, it is memories and stories, a photograph that they unearth decades later and remember that August day in Wyoming spent with family. 

That was some day. 

Meadowlarks, cabbage burgers, and Pine Bluffs experiences a nuke boom (the good kind)

So this is Nebraska

So this is Nebraska. A Sunday

afternoon; July. Driving along

with your hand out squeezing the air,

a meadowlark waiting on every post.

Third stanza of a poem by Ted Kooser of Nebraska, one-time U.S. Poet Laureate to the Library of Congress. To hear him read the poem, prefaced with a short description of why he wrote it, go to  Poetry Foundation. To read in full, go to So this is Nebraska

I heard Kooser read this poem aloud along with other work at a Wyoming Writers, Inc., conference a few years ago. He's a short and unassuming man. You can't say the same adjectives for his poetry. His work tells stories of life in the Great Plains, Nebraska mainly. The poems are simple in construction but you can find worlds in "a meadowlark waiting on every post."

I traveled from Cheyenne to Nebraska last week, my first visit since before Covid-19 struck. It was a short visit. Family visitors who had never been to Nebraska wanted to see it, step foot in a foreign place. I told them Nebraska stories, how Chris and I got trapped in Kimball during a spring blizzard when lightning veined the sky and I skidded through mushy snow a foot deep on I-80 before snagging the last hotel room barely 60 miles from home. I gathered my family one spring break day and met friends from Lincoln in Red Cloud, Nebraska, home of Willa Cather. An odd choice for spring break if you're not an admirer of Cather and her work. But our friends got into the spirit of the day. The kids played in the playground while we toured Cather's old home undergoing restoration (I snagged a 100-year-old board) and poked around the library which checks out books, videos, and cake pans. Chris and I walked the quiet autumn streets of Lincoln, campus lights twinkling in the distance. I remarked that it took a victory by the visiting CU Buffaloes over the Mighty Cornhuskers to bring the silence of a graveyard to the capital city. 

We drove through Pine Bluffs and past the border into Nebraska. "Looks a lot like Wyoming," Eileen said.

We pull off at Bushnell. I glide to a stop on the paved road which probably morphs into a gravel road. Next to the sign for Bushnell (No Services!), with farm equipment clattering down the road, prairie grass waving in the hot wind, I read them Kooser's poem. Looking back, I should have dialed up the poet reading his work. His voice matches the scenery.

I hear traffic zipping down the interstate. Thousands pass this way every day bound for somewhere else. Those who do get off at this interchange take bio breaks and tend to a crying child. No need to seek succor in Bushnell (No Services). Winter winds or weather might cause high-profile vehicles to pull over. But a truck stop is just seven miles away across the border so why stop here? I can easily conjure a winter day near Bushnell because I have experienced them near Torrington and Muddy Gap and Sinclair and Meeteetse. 

But today it is summer and it's beautiful.

We get back in the car and stop for lunch at Sadie's. A big weekend ahead for the town with Texas Trail Days. A parade, rodeo, concerts and a mud volleyball tourney. I order a cabbage burger because I never see that on any restaurant menus. Only time I've eaten one was at Germans-from-Russia events that feature the Dutch Hop Polka. 

We tour the Texas Trail Museum and find out that we just missed the brief stop of UP's rebuilt Big Boy steam locomotive as it began its cross-country travels. We tour the gigantic Virgin Mary statue at the east end of town, and then the archaeological dig site on the way back to Cheyenne.

A school teacher tending the info booth at the rest area tells us that there isn't a single apartment or house to rent or buy in Pine Bluffs. The town expects an influx of workers set to begin the first phase of the renovation of the area's nuke missile sites. This is part of a multi-year $3 billion project to bring our "nuclear deterrent" up to 21st century requirements. Nobody ever talks about the "peace dividend" anymore. That's so late-20th century. Not sure what the nukes can do to help the Afghans about to regress into the 5th century. The Taliban, it seems, are not impressed with our nuclear might lurking in burrows on the prairie.

Behind a shelterbelt of cedars, 

top-deep in hollyhocks, pollen and bees,

a pickup kicks its fender off

and settles back to read the clouds.

Watching the robins like a hawk

Robins are good parents. Both mom and dad brings food to the chicks. When the adult robin alights on the nest, the movement prompts sightless hatchlings to reach for the sky and open their beaks. They cheep, too, a tiny sound but one that the parents recognize. The adult robin regurgitates a diet of worms and insects into the outstretched mouths. They make the trip from nest to great outdoors back to nest up to 100 times daily. They seem insatiable, these young ones. They grow as big as their parents within a month. They are klutzy when they try to fly and this is the most dangerous time in their young lives. A fall can be fatal because parent robins can't boost the kids back into the nest. They fall prey to cats and foxes and raptors. Humans are told not to pick them up and put them back in the nest because the human scent will cause the parent to shun the offspring. Not so, say the experts. Mom and dad know their kids by sight and sound and not smell. To catch falling birds, Chris draped a blanket over a trash can three feet below the nest. Our robins' nest is accessible but most are not. It was built on top of our porch's solar control box. It's just out of my reach if I wanted to reach it. The adults buzz us humans as we water the plants or barbecue a steak. Unlike blue jays, robins seem content on close encounters. Blue jays peck at the heads of interlopers. The shock troops of the bird world. The time from robin egg to hatchling to fledgling is a short one. Humans take note. Thirty days for robins. Thirty years for the process in the typical human nest. Robins should be glad they don't have basements.

Hunkered down at the pop-up drive-in on a May Wyoming evening

Our first public outing of the COVID-19 era was to a combination drive-in concert and movie. It was held in a pasture on the Terry Bison Ranch south of Cheyenne. It had a gentle slope so cars could park and most of us could see the inflatable screen and the covered bandstand. 

When we arrived about 7:15 p.m., a line of cars, trucks and SUVs stretched out of the ranch onto the I-25 service road. Chris said it was a sign that everyone is just aching to get out and do something normal and fun. I agreed. A great idea that entertains and keeps us safe. Kudos to the ranch and Blue Pig Productions. They planned for everything including the rain squall that swept through just as the headliner band started playing. We had seen the storm front assembling as we drove to the event along Terry Ranch Road. A typical one for late May. A black swatch against the sun lowering over the Rocky Mountains. Pretty and ominous. But these storms are hit or miss. Sometimes you get missed and sometimes you get hit. 

This one hit us just as we got settled into our space. The sounds of the warm-up band came over the car radio at 90.7 FM. Raindrops speckled the windshield as Sean Curtis and the Divide took the stage. As the band played the rain fell harder, swamping our windshield and the band. But they performed uninterrupted until the lead guitarist's amp shorted out and he had to flee. The rest of the band members played on, wet and cold. "I can't feel my fingers" said the bass guitarist after one of the songs. But they played on. Good stuff, too. A C/W band with a touch of alt-country and Americana, a sound a bit like Drive-By Truckers or Turnpike Troubadours. 

The emcee, Dominic Syracuse, had prompted us to applaud by honking our horns. We did. By the time the band wrapped up their last song, the sky was clearing and the sun colored pink the retreating clouds. 

We picnicked in the car. Daughter Annie joined Chris in a preemptive strike at the port-a-potties. Annie returned with some chicken nuggets and fries from the snack stand. I ate ham and cheese and crunched chips. Cookies for desert. I drank sparingly because I didn't want to face the trip to the johns with my walker. I would have felt silly, all those people staring at the poor cripple poking along on the prairie. I don't know why I should care but I do. More my problem than anyone else. 

Everyone returned to the car and the movie started after some of the staff adjusted the screen that kept tilting in the post-storm wind. Wyoming not the place for anything inflatable. We're seen inflatable Halloween and Christmas decorations flying down our street. Unanchored bounce castles have gone airborne in summer gusts. A brisk wind came through the annual Superday event a few years back and blew tent awnings and brochures and hot-dog wrappers to Nebraska. 

But "Back to the Future" came on with the darkness. There was only a brief period when the wind tilted the screen and the actors' heads disappeared. I forgot how much fun the movie was as I hadn't seen it for decades. I didn't think of COVID-19 for two hours. That's what it's about, right? We want it like the old days when people could venture out safely and go to concerts and drive-ins. We want to be closer to people that a car-length away but that's still in the future. 

The ranch staff cleared us out quickly. They had some cleaning-up to do and we had the trek home via the interstate. I hope the ranch does it again. This high-risk guy wants to stay safe but I also want to be back out in America again. Summertime America. It's a short season here in the High Plains. Short and glorious.

See you next time. 

Scouting report: Finding the best Wyoming spot to watch the eclipse

View from The Castle, looking west toward Laramie Peak.

The family and I drove to Guernsey State Park for Mother's Day. This is only my second visit to the park in the 26 years that I've lived in Wyoming. The first visit was in May 2008 when I joined my colleagues at Wyoming State Parks and Cultural Resources to celebrate the 75th anniversary of FDR's New Deal, which included the Civilian Conservation Corps and WPA projects for writers, artists and actors. Writers earned a buck from Uncle Sam by writing field guides of the states and conducting oral histories of residents, as Zora Neale Hurston did with ex-slaves in Florida. Nelson Algren and Richard Wright researched and wrote in Illinois. Noted author Vardis Fisher wrote the Idaho guide, still regarded as one of the best of its kind.

CCC workers built many magnificent structures in this park. Guernsey is home to The Castle, a rock-and-timber shelter that overlooks the park. A few paces down the walking path is a restroom dubbed the Million Dollar Biffy. The interpretive sign says that workers gave it that name not because it took a million dollars to build, which is a lot of Depression-era money, but that it took so darn long to build. Unemployed young men from Iowa and Tennessee hewed the timbers and cut the rock and forged the iron. It should last a thousand years, causing archaeologists of 5017 to remark, "These ancient humans certainly built quality restrooms." In 5017, the biffy and The Castle may overlook a teeming inland sea. The waves will be bitchin'.

We visited the park to see if it would serve as an outpost to watch the total solar eclipse set for high noon on August 21. We are a bit late getting started. Some have been planning eclipse activities for years. Hotels in Casper, eclipse epicenter, have been booked up for months. Campgrounds, too along the event's path in WYO, which runs from touristy Jackson in the west to sleepy Torrington in the east, with stops in Riverton, Hell's Half Acre, AstroCon 2017 in downtown Casper, the burg of Glenrock, and Douglas, home of the state fair,  Chris and I  are trying to find an eclipse-watching spot somewhere in there. We bought a Guernsey day pass for Aug. 21. We also got on the campsite waiting list. We thought that might be fun during this grand ol' party celebrating the majestic universe which can't be any older than 6,600 years, give or take.

Chris and I won't be around the next time, when Colorado gets the nod in 2045. By then, we will have experienced a total eclipse of the heart. We hope that the words of the Federal Writers Project will survive, although in what form it's hard to say. Thee printed word has gone through amazing changes since Gutenberg. Since the 1930s, books have gone from typed-and-printed form to e-books. It happened a lot quicker than that -- from the 1980s to now.

One hopes that books survive as long as the biffy.

The Wyoming wind (finally) blows itself out

It's as if I went to sleep in winter and awoke in spring.

For the past two days, hurricane-force gusts have toppled semis on the interstate and ripped roofs off of businesses. In Laramie County, we had gusts measured at 73 mph, just shy of the 75 mph that makes a hurricane. Big Horn Basin monitors measured a 91 mph gust. A weather station on the crest of Colorado's Monarch Pass, recorded a wind speed of 148 mph. Now that's a gust that could knock you down or send you flying, depending on your BMI.

Last night, for the second night in the row, wind rattled my window frames. The metal frames were installed with the house in 1960 and are not energy efficient, even with the storm windows in place. The cold greets the window and radiates inside my house, causing my furnace to kick into gear more often than it should. We replaced our 25-year-old gas furnace last winter. It went kaput. The new machine is as energy-efficient as I could afford. I looked at some fancy systems, some more than $10,000. Gas condensing furnaces, geothermal heat pumps, high-efficiency boilers, radiant floor heating, You could go totally solar, or combine wind and solar. Once you open to door to new energy, the sky's the limit.

This morning, spruce tree branches wave lazily in the breeze. The sun shines. When I turned on the TV this morning, a gardening show was on. The personalities on the Weather Channel spoke of a phenomenon called spring. Apparently, in some parts of the country, flowers and trees bloom in March. That's an odd concept at 6,200 feet in the Rocky Mountains. The arrival of spring here just means more snow and wind and cold. We get some blossoms in May, and usually delay planting until Memorial Day weekend. On the plus side, summers are glorious and often extend into October. Warm, dry days and cool, clear nights.

It takes its time getting here. But summer is worth the wait.

Sunday barbecue with the Democrats

The Laramie County Democrats held a fund-raiser and barbecue this afternoon at AB Camping on College Drive, also home to a nifty diner. The food was delicious as always. I keep telling Chris that we have to get out to the diner some evening and try the ribs. She agrees, but for some reason we haven't done it.

Lee Filer arranged the shindig. He's friends with the owners and they aren't necessarily Democrats but friendship goes a long way in these parts. They give us the space for free and only charge us costs for the food. Pretty cool. Thanks AB Camping!

We listened to a few speeches, ate barbecue and cake, drank iced tea. Rep. Mary Throne commented that her Republican colleagues in the legislature are so negative. She urged us to stay positive as we get out and spread the Democratic Party brand. I had to think. How often am I positive and how often am I negative? About equal measure, I'd say. I write often about positive trends in my community and in Wyoming. The rise of farmer's markets and locally grown food and handmade arts and crafts. The state's music renaissance. The push for equality for all. I post about great people doing great things.

I tear down the opposition with regularity. They deserve the snark.

Or do they?

A hot day -- we don't get to 90 degrees very often. But the good conversation and great food make me forget about the heat. I keep thinking about how my reactions to hot weather has changed. I used to play softball all day and drink beer all night during central Florida summers. Went to the beach, too. Spent many hours in bodies of water, salt and fresh. I feel at home in the water and on dry land.

I'm a Democrat on dry land Wyoming. Outnumbered and -- obviously -- outgunned. I've been in that boat in other states, too. Florida. Colorado, although it helped that I was a Denverite. There's a cachet to being a minority liberal in a majority conservative state. Election days are always tough, but hope abides. We work hard for our issues and candidates but the "R" Know Nothing factor is tough to beat at the polls.

I read a NYT article this morning that Pres. Obama will announce a new energy plan tomorrow at the White House. It places restrictions on coal-burning power plants and stresses renewable energy sources. The Republicans will scream bloody murder, as they always do. King Coal will be around for awhile yet, but its days are numbered. All the Republicans can do is whine and obstruct. They have no new ideas. The presidential candidates keep trying to out-crazy one another. That's what seems to get votes on the Republican side. Thursday night's first so-called debate should be a hoot.

May showers bring August tomatoes -- we hope

During my recovery from April's knee replacement surgery, my friend Liz brought me a Roma tomato seedling. I placed the sprout in my kitchen's south-facing window. If I lived in a more temperate climate, I would have marched the plant outside and put it into the ground. But I live in Wyoming, where April is still winter. Many of us have turned to the use of high tunnels or cold frames or other sheltering devices to ensure an adequate harvest. But not me. I continue to wait for those frost-free days of late May. Very late May, or even early June.

Two weeks ago, on a rare sunny day, I bought some flowers. I sat out on the porch, repotted them and set them out to enjoy the sun. While I was at it, I repotted the Roma and two cherry tomato plants brought over by my neighbor.  The dirt had a calming effect on my throbbing left knee. The sun, a welcome visitor. Still, I knew I was tempting fate to ignore the first commandment of High Desert gardeners: "No outdoor planting until Memorial Day."

True to form, rain and snow and frost arrived in southeast Wyoming this week. I could have hauled the potted plants inside, as I'd already done once. Instead, I pulled out my trusty tarp and covered them. It traps heat and moisture, and keeps snow and frost from the leaves. It's a big tarp -- I can cover the entire garden plot adjacent to my back porch. There was no need as I had kept to the letter of the law and not planted anything in the ground. I did cover the strawberries, But there's really no need, as my strawberries are hardy varieties cultivated at the Ag Dept.'s old High Plains Research Station. These babies can take the snow and ice and, to prove it, keep coming back year after year.

The tarp covered the plants four days and four nights, through a light snow and two overnight frosts and days of rain. I uncovered them Thursday evening after work, the moment I glimpsed the first ray of sun. The weathercasters assure me that the frosts are over, with low temps going down to 40 degrees but no colder. Soon, the usual warm, low-humidity days of summer will take over and I can put away the tarp.

This morning, the sun is out. Soon, so shall I be.

Summer arts events flourish in Wyoming communities

Looking for something to do this summer?

You don't have to look very far.

The Wyoming Arts Council and the Wyoming Humanities Council have teamed up to chronicle "125 Days of Arts and Humanities." Why 125? Because this summer marks the 125th anniversary celebration of Wyoming statehood. The official big day is July 10. On that day, the Wyoming Territorial Prison State Historic Site holds a Statehood Celebration Day. That same weekend, you  can view Chinese artist/activist Ai Weiwei's sculptures in Jackson or groove to sounds of Marty Stuart and His Superlatives at the Big Horn Mountain Festival in Buffalo or ogle the art at Jackson Hole's art fair or talk mountains at the international climbers' festival in Lander or travel to the powwow in Ethete. Everyone should attend at least one powwow, Interesting and instructional, especially for us white folks who think we have all of the answers.

And that's just one WYO weekend.

On any weekend, you are almost certain to find a beerfest. A beer festival addresses the basic necessities of a summer weekend: craft beer, BBQ and music. Craft beer continues to make waves in WYO. We have some award-winners at Melvin Brewing/Thai Me Up in Jackson and Alpine. Snake River Brewery in Jackson has been brewing up Pako's IPA and a whole host of specialty brews for decades. They were among the first in the region to can their output. A new brewpub, Cheyenne Brewing Company, opens in early June in Cheyenne. You can get a more comprehensive list of craft brewers in Wyoming at

The Wyoming Brewers Festival is set for Cheyenne June 19-20. One of the interesting things about this festival is that its proceeds go toward rehabbing our city's historic train depot. The brewfesr culminates with a Saturday night concert by the Taylor Scott Band. Scott grew up in Cheyenne. There was a time when you could see the teen-age Scott and his band perform for free downtown. He's gone on to bigger and better things, his voice and musical skills honed from constant touring with his new band. Don't miss it.

Some final words. I've been working in the arts in Wyoming for 24 years. I continue to be amazed by the scope and variety of summer events. Many of the festivals on the list have arisen in the past 10 years. This is especially true of the brewfests, most of which feature music and some have art exhibits. Local food is a major element. At the Wyoming Arts Council, we joke about the fact that our small staff couldn't possibly attend all of the summer arts offerings. We could try, but who would be left to shuffle the state paperwork? But all of you can get out and support these events. That's what keeps these events going -- the sweat equity of local organizers. And your attendance.  

My future as a Wyoming dandelion wrangler

The last Saturday in April. Windows thrown open. Breeze riffling curtains.

I hear a lawnmower.

This is transition season between the sounds of snowblowers and those of lawnmowers. There's no clear-cut demarcation line in Wyoming. On April 17, the snowblowers were out, shooting a foot of heavy wet snow into The Big Sky. On April 25, it's lawnmower time, at least for one neighbor. I took a gander at my backyard and it could use a trim. It's unruly. Nice crop of dandelions add a yellow splash to the yard. The common dandelion, taraxacum officinale. As is true with most owners of lawns, I shout out, "Death to all dandelions."

Foolish homo sapiens. Dandelions preceded us and will no doubt outlive us. While clever humans have one way to propagate, dandelions have many. On the About Home web site, writer David Beaulieu opens his article on "how to control dandelions" with this caveat:

What makes dandelion removal from lawns so difficult? Well, dandelions enjoy the best of both worlds. Above-ground, their seeds ride the wind currents, poised to drop into the slightest opening in your lawn to propagate the species. Meanwhile, below-ground, they strike down a taproot up to 10 inches long. Pulling the taproot as a means of removal is problematic. Thick but brittle, the taproot easily fractures -- and any fraction of the taproot that remains in the ground will regenerate.

Before you get out the weed killer, you might want to contemplate some of the culinary and medicinal benefits of dandelions. From Wikipedia:

Dandelions are harvested from the wild or grown on a small scale as a leaf vegetable. The leaves (called dandelion greens) can be eaten cooked or raw. They are probably closest in character to mustard greens. Usually the young leaves and unopened buds are eaten raw in salads, while older leaves are cooked. The leaves are high in vitamin A, vitamin C and iron, carrying more iron and calcium than spinach. 

Dandelion flowers can be used to make dandelion wine, for which there are many recipes. Most of these are more accurately described as "dandelion-flavored wine," as some other sort of fermented juice or extract serves as the main ingredient. It has also been used in a saison ale called Pissenlit (the French word for dandelion, literally meaning "wet the bed") made by Brasserie Fantôme in Belgium. Dandelion and burdock is a soft drink that has long been popular in the United Kingdom. 

In Poland, dandelion flowers are used to make a honey substitute syrup with added lemon (so-called May-honey). This "honey" is believed to have a medicinal value, in particular against liver problems. Ground roasted dandelion root can be used as a non-caffeinated coffee substitute. 

Historically, dandelion was prized for a variety of medicinal properties, and it contains a wide number of pharmacologically active compounds. Dandelion is used as a herbal remedy in Europe, North America and China. "Empiric traditional application in humans of dandelion, in particular to treat digestive disorders, is supported by pharmacological investigations. It has been used in herbal medicine to treat infections, bile and liver problems, and as a diuretic. Dandelion root is a registered drug in Canada, sold principally as a diuretic. Dandelion is used in herbal medicine as a mild laxative, for increasing appetite, and for improving digestion. 

The milky latex has been used as a mosquito repellent and as a folk remedy to treat warts. A recent experiment shows that đandelion leaf extract can reduce the spread of tumor cells. Although these researches are still on beginning stages, but many scientists believe that it can be used as an effective treatment in many types of cancer. With very low or even no toxicity at all, taraxacum can be used as a drink like tea on a daily basis. 

Contrast this with the many uses of the ornamental lawn. This is my own list, compiled with the assistance of a growler of home-brewed Pissenlit:

1. Pretty to look at it.
2. Playing field for softball, croquet, volleyball, etc.
3. Good place to lie down on a summer day and stare up at the clouds.
4. Cool grass feels good between the toes.
5. Bathroom for dog.

The most dangerous trait of dandelions may be the fights they cause with neighbors. If I decide to do nothing about my crop of taraxacum officinale, you may view this as a threat to your bluegrass lawn. You would be correct, of course, and you might ask your neighbor: "What are you doing with a bluegrass lawn in the middle of the high desert of Wyoming?"

But you, of course, also have one of these lawns. I've been tempted to kill off my lawn since I inherited it when I bought my house in 2005. But if you kill off a lawn, what do you replace it with? Xeriscaping? Rock gardens? Pavement? Weeds? Vast vegetable gardens? Overflow parking lot for Cheyenne Frontier Days?

Current trends favor veggie or rock gardens over lawns. Entire urban neighborhoods from Boston to L.A. have been converted to tomatoes and cucumbers. In Denver, where I once protected my garden from invading slugs with a minefield of Miller Lite, front yards have been given over to berry thickets and twisted clumps of zucchini plants. My old Platt Park neighbors have opened farm-to-table stands on their front porches. Chickens lay eggs in the garage and Bessie the cow yields gallons of raw milk which is shipped to Wyoming along with fresh buds of Boulder's Best. All that's needed is a couple dozen cookies. Homemade, of course.

Dandelion cookies anyone?

Sunday round-up: Retirements, departures and Sturgis season

Rita Basom, my colleague for the past 23 years, retired on Friday. We enjoyed a gala week of farewell lunches, a smashing retirement party and an art gallery reception. I will miss her. Funny how well you get to know someone when you work and travel with them 40 hours a week over the course of two-plus decades. Enjoy your retirement, Rita. See you at the theatre.

Javier Gamboa, communications guy for the Wyoming Democratic Party, is leaving Cheyenne for Austin, Texas. He's the new social media guru for the Texas Democrats. Javier's been a dynamo for the WyoDems and we wish him well in at his new job. A farewell party for Javier is being held on Friday, Aug. 8. Go here for more details.

As I write this evening, I hear Harleys roaring north to Sturgis. The sounds if Harleys remind me of my late brother Dan, who had a lifetime love of motorcycles. My only trip to Sturgis was six years ago when I drove up to meet Dan and our old friend Blake. They drove from Florida to South Dakota in a camper hauling their bikes. Dan invited me to ride as his bitch on the back of his bike, which I readily accepted, knowing that I may not be a bitch but I was pretty bitchin', even in my advancing state of aging. We rode around Sturgis, gawked at motorcycles and motorcyclists. I came out of a vendor's tent to find myself walking behind a young woman whose very tanned behind was visible out of a pair of backless leather chaps. It was hot out, so I'm sure she was thankful for the breeze. We drank a bit of beer that day. Dan paced himself as the designated driver. I witnessed my first belly shot at One-Eyed Jacks Saloon. It gave new meaning to "belly up to the bar." I miss you, Dan! You can read my posts from Sturgis 2008 here and here.