Four years after the Day of the Widowmaker

It began with a hallucination.

Flashback, I thought, after-effects of my misspent youth.

My vision lit up with sparkles and crinkles, as if I was being wrapped in silver Christmas wrapping paper. Me, a present for someone, or maybe for myself. It should have been the ER, but I didn't realize that yet.

I had been having these visions for weeks. They didn't appear as I climbed the steps to my office and the downtown parking garage. I did have some shortness of breath but I ascribed that to lack of exercise and the ritual packing on of holiday pounds. I'm going to get back to the Y at the first of the year, I told everyone. Really -- I mean it.

Four years ago today I sat at my desk. The crinkly vision subsided, replaced by a horrible stomach pain. Uh oh, I thought. The dreaded cruise ship virus that was a plague in Cheyenne that winter, even though very few cruise ships dock at Port Cheyenne. My boss had said she'd returned home a few days earlier to find her husband curled up on a ball on the floor. He had a stomach ache. Rita got him to the car and then the ER. The docs pronounced norovirus. Sure enough, at home two hours later, the symptoms exploded in living color. I didn't have to ask for details.

My stomach ache led me to the restroom several times but no explosions. I decided to go home. I had plenty of sick hours. I was off the next day for my birthday. I didn't want to be sick for my 62nd birthday.

I was. Went to the doc. He said I had the norovirus and gave me a shot for nausea. The EKG machine was right outside his office. He could have put that to use and found the problem. But I had no history of heart problems. And a stomach ache was not one of the symptoms usually described in American Heart Association literature. I stayed home, nursing my stomach ache. The day after Christmas, I revisited my doc and complained of congestion. He sent me to X-ray. The pictures showed congested lungs. Pneumonia, he pronounced, and sent me to the pharmacy to pick up a supply of antibiotics.

A week later, I was in an ambulance screeching its way to the ER. After an EKG and series of X-rays, the results were in. I had -- and was having -- a heart attack. The cardiologist said I had a blockage of my left anterior descending (LAD) artery. I am an educated person, curious to a fault, but I didn't know that I had such an artery. The artery, of course, knew about me. Later, after surgery, I discovered that an LAD heart attack is happily referred to as "widowmaker." The surgery came two days later, after the docs and drugs took care of my congestive heart failure that had looked like pneumonia, at least to one practitioner.

Widowmaker. I was lucky. Blessed, too, as Widomaker is very efficient at its task of killing you. Once my lungs were decongested, I received an angioplasty and a big stent at the junction of my LAD. Six months later, I was the proud recipient of an ICD -- an implantable cardioverter defibrillator -- due to damage sustained by my heart muscle during my two-week-long heart attack. A bedside monitor keeps track of my rhythms and arrhythmia. I lost weight. I exercise. I eat sensibly. Take my meds. All the things I should have been doing before my very expensive heart attack.

I retired in January. I have had many fine days to write and travel and garden and read. On warm summer days, I sit on my back porch, look out over the garden, inhale deeply and thank God and medical science that I am still here.

Science geek in White House signs 21st Century Cures Act

Did you know that we had a "science geek" in the White House? For now, anyway. He points us toward the future even while the incoming administration tries to drag us back into the dark ages.

When you have dealt with a family member's mental illness as long as we have -- 10 years -- you take your good news where you find it. On Tuesday, Pres. Obama signed the 21st Century Cures Act which has improving mental health care as one of its key components. In the White House video, Obama explains some of his reasoning behind signing the bill. Letters from constituents helped alert him to the pain that families were going through as they try to get help for family members as they struggle with opioid addiction, cancer and mental health issues. A Republican grandmother pleaded for help with finding the right kind of care for her mentally ill grand-daughter. As I mentioned in yesterday's post, the mental health piece was a bipartisan effort. Let's see that spirit of cooperation continue when it comes to health care, Medicare, Social Security, and the environment, which has a major impact on our health.

More info: https://www.whitehouse.gov/blog/2016/12/12/3-letters-explain-why-president-obama-signing-cures-act

Republican Senator aids in "giant leap forward in fixing our broken mental health system"

U.S. Senators Chris Murphy (D-CT), Bill Cassidy (R-LA), John Cornyn (R-TX), Lamar Alexander (R-TN) and Patty Murray (D-WA).

We know that these senators are at odds about almost everything. However, they recently (Dec. 6) got together to push through HR 34, the 21st Century Cures Act.. This is the most comprehensive effort yet to address the country's mental health care system.

Here's what co-sponsor Dr. Cassidy, from the reliably red state of Louisiana, had to say:

“The 21st Century Cures Act marks a giant step forward in fixing our broken mental health system. It institutes comprehensive mental health care reform and makes resources available to the millions that have been previously denied treatment due to a lack of access. I want to thank all those who helped make mental health a priority in Congress, but I especially thank my colleague Senator Chris Murphy. We have been working together to fix our country’s broken mental health system since day one. Without him and the bipartisan effort he has brought to this legislation, we would not be here today. I urge the President to sign this bill and help the millions of individuals and families affected by mental health become whole.”

Said his co-sponsor, Sen. Murphy, from the true-blue Democratic state of Connecticut:

“This is the most comprehensive reform of our nation's mental health laws in a generation, and I'm so thrilled that we drafted it and passed it with support from both Democrats and Republicans. In Connecticut, I've met too many people struggling with mental illness who can't find the care they need, or can't get their insurance company to approve the care once they find it. This bill means millions of dollars in new treatment, and it creates a pathway to a better integrated, more coordinated system for people with serious mental illness. I’m incredibly grateful for Senator Cassidy’s partnership and friendship. He brought a doctor’s knowledge and a dogged determination to our effort, and a lot of people will be better off because of it.”

Sen. Cassidy is a physician. Do we know of any other medical doctor currently serving in the U.S. Senate? Just one comes to mind. That is Sen. John Barrasso of Casper, Wyoming. Both Cassidy and Barrasso have conspired with Mitch McConnell to sink Obamacare. Not sure what the tie-in is. If Obamacare sinks, so does access to health care by millions. Can you improve mental health care when people who most need help are deprived of insurance? 

Sen. Barrasso, of course, recently (Dec. 3) delivered the Republican weekly address on Republican plans to eliminate Obamacare. They see Trump's win as a mandate to return health care to the health care insurance conglomerates where it belongs. Remember how well that worked? Forty million Americans without health insurance, which meant a lot of your friends and family members and neighbors getting sicker while health care execs buy second or third homes in Dick Cheney's Jackson Hole neighborhood. Of course, Wyoming never okayed Medicaid Expansion which would have helped so many of those people that Sen. Barrasso claims to care about. 

I am taking the 21st Century Cures Act as a sign that Democrats and Republicans can work together on at least one issue. Time will tell.

The National Alliance on Mental Illness had this to say on the passage of HR 34: http://www.nami.org/Press-Media/Press-Releases/2016/-NAMI-Celebrates-Senate-Passage-of-HR-34. Also see NAMI on Facebook and Twitter.

In the waiting room at a mental health center on a sunny Friday in December

I wait. It's a waiting room so I fit right in. A mental health center in a Denver suburb. Its motto on the wall in living color is "Live Life to the Fullest." Who can argue with that? A person with mental illness may have a hard time getting into the spirit of the motto as they usually have more immediate claims to their attention. Such as --
Can I get my meds filled today?
Can you find me a place to live?
Do you have a bus that can take me home?
Things like that.

My daughter Annie is going through an intake with a therapist. She is a new resident of this Denver suburb. She has nothing to prove that, no ID or utility bill. But the staffers at the front desk don't seem to care. They want to get Annie the help she needs. She is a person with mental health issues. She is on disability and has a place to live but no job. She needs a psychiatrist so she can get her meds filled.

The therapist, a young white man who, in an alternate universe, could be making big money in the corporate world, comes out and introduces himself to Annie and me. He explains the process and we listen. They go to his office and I sit again to wait among the other people who wait. There is a young Hispanic women and her two kids. A bearded, tattooed white man. A young black man wearing a black jacket. Others. A young Hispanic staffer comes out and tells me that I can go up to the Medicaid office on the fourth floor and see how I can get Annie enrolled in Colorado Medicaid because they can't accept her Wyoming Medicaid. I have to pay a co-pay for her visit with the therapist this morning. Earlier, I heard a young black man speaking to a family member on the office phone. He needed someone to pay the co-pay because he had no money. The family member obliged and have the clerk a credit card number. I pass a security guard at the security desk and he looks bored. I would think that on some days he isn't so bored. The mental health care system can be daunting. Especially for those hearing voices in their heads. Or someone so manic that they've been awake for seven days and can't think straight. A big sign on the front door says, "No Weapons." A good policy here in the Wild West, where guns abound.

On the fourth floor, a woman in her 30s introduces herself as Sara and attempt to help me get started with Colorado Medicaid. She is a black woman from somewhere in Africa. I am a typical American in that I cannot tell one African from another. I wish that my wife Chris was here with me, as she lived in Africa as an Army brat and traveled extensively there. Sara could be from Ethiopia or Uganda or Somalia. It doesn't really matter but I wonder. She speaks with a heavy accent. She lives in Colorado now. She is trying to help this white retiree from Wyoming and his daughter. It turns out that I don't have the proper paperwork and IDs and I can't remember Annie's Social Security number, which is the gateway to all things bureaucratic. I wonder if Sara was on my side of the desk recently applying for a visa or food stamps or a place to live. If I was on the other side of the desk, would I be helping her or putting roadblocks in her way. She tells me that I can apply online and gives me a card with the URL address. She also gives me her card in case I have questions. I return to the first floor waiting room. It's lunchtime and it has emptied out. One Hispanic boy sits in a chair in the corner. I sit and wait, going through Annie's Social Security file that I brought with me.

A burly bearded white man and a petite Hispanic woman emerge from the backroom. They are young and wouldn't look out of place striding to a Lumineers concert to Red Rocks. They sit next to the 10-year-old black boy. They ask him what he's doing. He says he's waiting for something to eat. His mom and brother have gone to get it. The male therapist tells him to eat while the food is hot and then they will decide the best place for him. The adults are kind and not condescending. They chat for awhile and then leave, telling the boy they will be back when he's finished eating. As soon as they disappear, Mom and brother arrive with sacks of burgers and fries. The two boys take their food to the other side of the room and eat. The 10-year-old asks Mom is she bought any mayonnaise. She says no. He eats the burger. Between bites, thee trio converses in Spanish. I wish I knew more than a few words of Spanish. Not just to listen in but because it would help me understand other cultures that are our neighbors. Also, I could read Pablo Neruda's poems in their original language.

Annie eventually reappears with the therapist. He tells me that they covered everything necessary for a first visit and that he will be in touch early in the week to go over details of IOP, possible living arrangements, Medicaid, etc. He asks us if we had any questions and we say we didn't. We leave, passing a young white man having some difficulty pushing his walker through the door. He is young and disabled. I hold the door for him. Outside, a black woman wearing a long dress and a colorful head scarf paces up and down the sidewalk. A young Hispanic man spoke on his cell phone. The sun shone and it was warm for December, much warmer than it had been the past two days.

You know why I'm writing this. don't you? Meanness and ugliness is all we hear from President-elect Trump and his allies. Here in this mental health center waiting room pass the the people the Trumpians are saying all of those mean things about. The disabled. The mentally ill. People of color. The homeless. Immigrants. When the Trumpians take over on Jan. 20, all of these people will be targeted by regressive policies. Meanwhile, the rich will get richer and the nation will be turned into Trumplandia which will resemble the dystopian future of "Idiocracy" the movie.

Trump and his minions have made the world ugly in 2016. It's about to get even uglier.

Blood, Water, Wind, and Stone anthology reading tonight in Laramie

Some fantastic writers will be reading tonight in Laramie. I won't be one of them, as I am here in Denver helping my daughter Annie. As you see from the list, I was originally scheduled to read from this new anthology but family called. See you next time. Meanwhile, anthology editor Lori Howe sends this announcement:

This gala opening from 6-7:30 p.m. at Night Heron Books & Coffeehouse, 107 E. Ivinson in downtown Laramie, features readings by Alyson Hagy, Erik Molvar, Art Elser, Mike Shay, Sunnie Gaylord, Jason Deiss, Birgit Burke, Autumn Bernhardt, Celeste Colgan, Edith Cook, and many others. The reading is upstairs, and will be followed by a book signing. Refreshments served; free and open to the public. A generous percentage of profits from this anthology go to support writing conference scholarships in Wyoming. Come down and join us, and support the arts in Wyoming! 

Refreshments! Night Heron has some great ones, as well as scads of books.

Denver tries to solve its traffic problems in Trump's alternate universe

Despite what you hear via mainstream media, Denver is a mess. Traffic is backed up everywhere and it's getting worse all of the time, By 2030, motorists can expect to be tied up in traffic 30 percent of the time compared to 20 percent now. Light rail helps some, when it works. The Union Station to DIA train has hit some snags. My wife recently took the A Train to Transylvania Station and loved it. During the 2008 Democratic National Convention, I took the train from Hampden to downtown and never had a problem, despite crowds of rapid-transit-loving Dems.

People keep moving to Denver to smoke pot and ogle the hipsters and attend concerts at Red Rocks. This has to stop.

But it won't.

To remedy the traffic situation, Denver is working on a plan that matches ride-share companies (Uber, Lyft, etc.) with rapid transit schedules. The problem is that there are many people who would use rapid transit if they could get to it. People with transportation needs find themselves moving further out to find affordable rents. The further out you go, the more spread out the bus stops and light rail stations. People with means, it seems, want to live in or near downtown. Developers are building studio apartments and condos like there is no tomorrow, betting on the idea that Millennials will rent anything that is close to a brewpub and coffee shop. So the move is on to the inner-city that their parents and grandparents fled many moons ago. Meanwhile, the inner suburbs are filling up with people of color which leads to the Little Vietnam you find in Westminster and the mercados along East Colfax Avenue in Aurora. The outer suburbs, like those in Louisville and Castle Rock, are filling up with white Republicans and any day expect Trump to drop by and deliver a wheelbarrow filled with cash.

I learned all of this after spending ten days in Denver waiting for my daughter to receive ECT treatments at Centennial Peaks Hospital in Superior, which butts up against Boulder and Louisville. In other words, I know very little and am eminently qualified to be the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development if Know Nothing Ben Carson finds another job, such as Secretary of Silly Walks.

I have been stuck in traffic about half the time I've been in Denver. Today I saw scores of CDOT plows and plows of many municipalities on the streets, which made me thankful for governmental services that soon will be sold to the highest bidder, probably Halliburton. Remember the bang-up jobs they did in Iraq and Afghanistan? Enjoy the snow-free streets while you got 'em, folks.

Remember that Colorado is a blue state and went solidly for Hillary Clinton despite Republican voter suppression, scary fake news stories and the many fundies in Colorado Springs that believed Trump was doing the Lord's work. Perhaps ye recall Matthew 6:24 in the King James Bible:

No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.

Mammon, of course, is money, as in the huge Scrooge McDuck-style vault of riches that Donald Trump goes home to every night.

My work is done here for today. Not sure what it was. But that's it.

Studio Wyoming Review makes first appearance on WyoFile

Studio Wyoming Review debuted this week on WyoFile, Wyoming's online news source that covers  "people, places and policy." And now, the arts.

Camellia El-Antably wrote the first SWR "guest column" last week about Touchstone Laramie. This every-other-year exhibit, now in its sixth iteration, is unique in that it features many of Laramie's artists during a weekend-long event (Nov. 11-13) at a local motel. It may be Wyoming's first pop-up gallery and it does pop-up in a big way, by clearing an entire floor of furnishings and replaces them with art and artists. I won't tell you any more. Best to go read Camellia's column.

Camellia and I worked together for many years at the Wyoming Arts Council. There's a new crew at the WAC and they have come up with some innovative programs the past year, including the Wyoming Independent Music Initiative and Health and Wellness in the Arts. If you have any involvement with programs with health and wellness components, go fill out the WAC survey. You will feel better for it. I did. You might say that every arts program supports health and wellness, especially mental health. I agree, but I was an arts worker for 25 years and had the privilege of seeing that in action. And promoting it. Now I'm retired and get to enhance my mental health by writing every day. I may show up on the e-pages of Studio Wyoming Review. You never know...

Searching for 1919 Denver

The lakeside promenade in Denver's City Park, 1919. From the Colorado page on the Penny Postcard web site. 

After driving around Denver for five days, on an errand of mercy, I have to ask: "What was this city like in 1919?"

Not many people can supply first-hand answers. They would have to be more than 100 years old, a rarity even in this era of increased life spans.

Even though we now live in a post-factual country, I must turn to the facts for some perspective.

Denver's population in the 1920 census was 266,491, roughly the 2015 population of Greeley, a sister city with Cheyenne along the Front Range Urban Corridor or FRUC which has led to more than one wag asking: "Who gives a FRUC about Denver?"

Denver does. It cares very deeply about itself. During the past decade, it has ended up on every "best cities to live in the U.S." list, sometimes along with neighboring FRUC cities of Boulder, Colorado Springs and Fort Collins. Sometimes Cheyenne makes the list. but only for those reporters who fail to notice the city's infamous nine-month winter with accompanying hurricane-force arctic winds. Not to mention the loony far-right Wyoming Legislature that parks its retro-ass in Cheyenne every winter.

Suffice to say, Denver has a big head, abetted by mass quantities of Purple Haze bud and daily infusions of Trippel-Dubbel Imperial Black IPA with 17% ABV.

But what was it like in 1919-1920? I ask because I'm writing a novel set in Denver during those years. All of my grandparents migrated to Denver then. This fascinated me as it seems oddly coincidental. It seems to be one of those waves of in-migration to Colorado, such as 1859 gold-seekers, the post-World War II infusion of veterans and the 1960s-70s invasion of the Baby Boomer hippies for Rocky Mountain High in Colorado. In 1919, World War I was over and veterans were restless, having left the Iowa farm for Paree and gas attacks in the Meuse-Argonne. Prohibition was on its way into law as was universal suffrage. Cars were replacing horses and buggies. Jazz was in as were flappers and their beaux. The Ku Klux Klan found a welcoming audience in a Denver concerned about an influx of Mexican workers and the plague of marijuana.

Doesn't sound too different from 2016. Except for the people and the traffic. Car has always been king in Denver and remains so, even though the city is beginning to build mass transit and invest in higher-density living spaces. Downtown is in after the post-war rush to the suburbs has died down. But flying into Denver, with lights twinkling as far as the eye can see, you might wonder about the so-called death of the suburb. The burbs are alive and well in the Denver metro area.

I can read Westword to get a snarky take on present-day Denver. Or scores of different blogs. But I am looking for info on 1919. I want to know why my ancestors came to Denver and what they brought to the city. I knew my grandparents but never heard them utter one word about why they came to Colorado. They might have been from Iowa or Maryland or Ohio or Ireland but were damn glad to now be Coloradans. They worked hard, loved the mountains, had kids and fought the good fight when it came time to die. Only one kept a journal, my maternal grandmother. It began and ended with her service as a nurse in World War I. Since I am a fiction writer, I am only using my relatives as a jumping-off point to a bigger story. Not sure what that story is. I will find out as I write.

Meanwhile, this Wyoming retiree will try not to be a burden to Denver's go-go motorists. I am looking forward to conducting research at Colorado History and the Denver Public Library downtown. I would welcome any comments from my loyal readers, or even not-so-loyal ones. I might even preview chapters-in-progress on these pages or on Facebook. Never done that before.

First time for everything.

In the Denver Public Library, remembering a Florida Thanksgiving

Convened with family on Thanksgiving and nobody mentioned Trump. Maybe it was Trump Fatigue Syndrome (TFS). Maybe we all were cognizant that if the subject came up, it would be like venturing out into the ocean in a too-small boat searching for Jaws. All hell would break loose. Trumpmania would batter the boat, eat one of the crew and close in for the kill.

It didn't happen. Maybe that's because my niece Erin, who was getting married on Nov. 21, urged all of us not to talk politics anywhere near the wedding. She had witnessed the post-election bloodletting on Facebook, Twitter and real life and wanted no part of that on her special day. We were all good do-bees that day, and it carried over to Thanksgiving Thursday at Disney.

The truce is over. But I will save my good shots for later as I have to catch up with the last two weeks. When last I posted, I was in the midst of Trumplandia in Kissimmee, Florida, the strip of Hwy. 192 that circles Disney World and leads into it. It's an endless array of  motels, fast-food joints and timeshare hucksters. Chris and I survived it, although there were doubts along the way. Once we got over to Daytona Beach, our old hometown, life took a turn for the better. We saw people we knew, imbibed some drinks, watched the ocean and eventually got into the wedding groove. My assignment, one that I had gladly accepted a year ago, was to fill in for my dear departed brother Patrick and give the bride away. I took the honor very seriously, even breaking the tuxedo out of mothballs for the occasion. I walked the bride down the aisle and handed her off to the groom, Michael. I did this in the name of all of my brothers and sisters, Pat's siblings, who were all in attendance, save for Pat and brother Dan, both deceased. I felt Pat's presence. He would have loved to be on hand for this day. He drank himself to death or, more accurately, drank himself into bad health and then caught a virulent strain of pneumonia and that's what killed him. We loved Pat. We also are angry at him. That sums up family life. Angry one moment, glad the next. My brothers and I had some of the craziest fights. But when challenged from the outside, we responded like the 300 Spartans at the Gates of Fire.

Pat's spirit was there. I look at some of the old photos, such as the ones we have from a backpacking trip we took to Colorado in 1975. He is young and happy and long of hair, and so am I. Over time, he changed. His brothers, for the most part, were able to leave the heavy drinking behind. He did not. He grew more aloof and somber. We talked often but saw one another seldom due to physical distance. I have nothing else to say about that.

I spent Thanksgiving with family at Disney's Fort Wilderness. Many of them camped while I went home to my sister's condo at night. I may have more camping experience that anyone else there. But it's a different kind of camping. We were always tent people. Sleeping bags on a pad on the tent floor. Cooking by campfire. You know, camping as it exists in the Rocky Mountain West.

Disney camping is more like Celebrity Camping. My friend Dave in Denver insisted that Celebrity Camping was camping out of the back of a car or truck. You might sleep on the ground. But you were equipped by coolers and beer and ice and music and food easily dispensed from a package or a can. This sort of camping was done in lieu of real camping, which involved planning and carrying things and erecting tents or other shelters. That kind of camping took time and patience. For Celebrity Camping, you just had to grab your stuff, throw it in the trunk and go, baby, go -- get out of Denver!

Disney Camping during Thanksgiving is part real camping and part Celebrity Camping. It takes planning to reserve a campsite a year in advance, put down a deposit on a gigantic camper and then actually plan the meals. Rent a golf cart, can't forget that, as each campsite has a charging station. You'll need decorations, too. One of my sisters said she often wondered who buys those giant inflatables at Wal-Mart. Wonder no more -- it's my friends and family from Volusia County, Florida. Also the guy from New York who comes down to Fort Wilderness every year with dozens of holidays inflatables, including a big one that recreates a scene from "Frozen" in a giant snow globe. He spends three months at Disney with his inflatable phantasmagoria. It even has a lighted walkway that encircles the exhibit. A group of campers come every year from Georgia and South Carolina to erect a teepee village. They are not Native Americans but former Scouters who got bit by the BSA's pseudo-Native mythology and practices, such as Order of the Arrow. The teepees, patterned after those used by the Cheyenne, were gorgeous, I have to say. I also wondered what the Standing Rock Sioux might think of them.

Many creative campers. Many Disney inflatables on display. Also, many banners and displays for favorite sports teams. Many FSU Seminoles and Florida Gators, as the two teams were set to square off in the upcoming Rivalry Weekend. I saw entire sites given over to University of South Carolina Gamecocks, University of Mississippi (Ole Miss) and other assorted large southern public universities whose main function seems to be sports merchandising. Some of you may believe the stories about big-time college football and the NFL are on their way out due to mothers who won't let their babies grow up to be linebackers because they might dent their blunt skulls. Au contraire, mes amis. I personally witnessed the FSU/UF match-up. Each team fielded about 500 players and a quorum of coaches. UF itself arrived at Doak Campbell Stadium with a fleet of team buses, escorted by police. This annoyed swarms of tailgaters who were delayed, sometimes by minutes, from reaching their favorite keg. Tailgating is religion in the South. Actually football is religion and tailgating is a sacrament, if I may use a Catholic reference. The food and booze flow freely. Many toasts are made to the old alma mater. Many games of cornhole are played as it, unlike big-time SEC football, can be played successfully drunk. I myself witnessed several bean bags go into the cornhole when the thrower was imbibing.

My sister took me to the football game. She is a dedicated Noles fan, as FSU Seminoles fans refer to themselves. I am a dedicated fan of the Florida Gators, although I haven't attended a game in person since 1977.  The Gators lost that game too, also to FSU. If this keeps up, I may have to skip the 2055 game. They may be playing it on Mars by then.

I covered a lot of territory during my Florida trip. I sojourned to Kissimmee and Winter Park and downtown Orlando and Daytona Beach and Ormond Beach and Gainesville and Tallahassee. If you get a chance, visit the Proof Brewing Company's beer garden in Tallahassee's Railroad Square Art Park. Great beers, fun atmosphere and (of course) a cornhole court. I certainly liked Proof's La La Land IPA and its Mango Wit. Met the brewmaster, too, a big galoot wearing Florida Gators colors while he tended his vats. "Most of the beer here is brewed by Gators," he told us. I also recommend the Osceola County History Museum. Great displays and it's free. The beach, as always, is invigorating. Family is worth seeing again, especially if they buy the football tickets. Writers Block is a great bookstore in downtown Winter Park.  I would not recommend driving in Orlando during peak times, which seems to be from 12:01 a.m. until 11:59 p.m. Florida's voters don't believe in rapid transit so they are stuck with extremely slow transit from one place to the other. I did look longingly at the sleek Sunrail train as it pulled into the station. You can take the train a few miles in Orlando, and Amtrak runs up and down the east coast. But the Republican Congress has starved rapid transit in the same way it did Obamacare.

Right now I'm writing this in Denver's cool downtown library. I look over Civic Center Park. I'm waiting for the Christmas lights to flicker on at the Civic Center. We always liked that when we lived here. They have the Parade of Lights this weekend but not sure I want to venture down into the maelstrom to watch it. It's a family outing kind of thing. The Griswolds may be there.

See you soon.

Welcome to Trumplandia

Greetings from somewhere to the south and east of Trump's America.

Florida went for Trump. One of the Nov. 8's first disappointments, In the beginning, Florida goes for Hillary Clinton and then for Trump and then to HRC and then.....

I'm in Central Florida, home of Disney World and Wide World of Sports World and Camping World and Universal Studios and Sea World and all the rest. The Holy Land Experience, alas, has gone out of business. This weekend they are having a big garage sale to get rid of Biblical relics such as couches, statues, fountains and a Harley. Not sure which Holy Land saint rode a hog, but he doesn't need it anymore.

Kissimmee in Osceola County is where we're staying. It used to be home to cattle ranches and cracker cowboys. Last night I learned a bit of history as I quaffed a can of Cigar City Florida Cracker Belgian-style White Ale. The story on the label says this: cracker "relates to the whip these 'cow hunters' used to herd cattle in Florida's Palmetto Prairies." This used to be one of those prairies. Kissimmee was home to cow hunters and ranches and one of the South's largest rodeos.

That was before Walt Disney bought up 43 square miles of palmetto prairie and forest and swampland at $200 an acre. The rodeo still exists. Tough to spot a cowboy along Hwy. 192 on a November afternoon. in post-Trump America. You see some pedestrians braving the six-lane stretch of asphalt that leads to Disney in one direction and, in the other, a seemingly endless line-up of strip malls and motels and dreary resorts.

Let me stop for a second and insert a caveat. I love Florida. Many of the people I care about live here. Old friends live here. The schools that I care about -- Father Lopez Catholic High School and the University of Florida -- are here. I spent hundreds of hours in the Atlantic Ocean off of Daytona Beach, surfing and swimming and just walking in the sand.

But I'm pissed off about Trump and Florida's role in electing this person as president.

Not that Wyoming did us a favor. But WYO has three electoral votes and Florida has 29. WYO helped elect Trump but wasn't crucial to the debacle.

This area is every new urbanist's nightmare. Suburban sprawl. Too many cars. Ugliness everywhere. Disney's planned community, Celebration, is also in the vicinity. It should be a new urbanist's dream -- walkable neighborhoods, tree-lined streets, quaint cafes, pleasing architecture -- yet it seemed weirdly lifeless, a "Stepford Wives" feel. Kind if like a theme park version of a real neighborhood. Not many sentient beings about, although a few older folks sat at cafe tables near the waterfront. I don't think they were droids.

Chris and I went to a pitch session for nearby resort properties. When in Florida, you feel obligated to hear a sales pitch. Think of Trump clones everywhere. I wandered over to the 7-11 to buy some snacks and a guy met me at the door and asked if I needed tickets.

"Tickets to what?"

"Disney, other attractions."

"I just want some cashews."

The man named Doug was not deterred. He looked and acted a bit like Freddy Prinz in the 1970s sitcom "Chico and the Man." He asked if I was interested in a resort, and would pay me $150 to listen to a sales pitch. I told him I already had a pitch session scheduled. That animated him. "I can tell you exactly how to act." He went on to say that I should say very little, don't be friendly and don't ask questions.

"Can I smile?" I asked.

"Don't smile."

I told him I would take him up on his offer if my session didn't work out.

Later that day, Chris and I went to our resort pitch session. Randy The Pitchman told us that he wasn't selling timeshares, which had gone out of fashion. He talked about points that can be used for week-long stays at properties all over the globe.

"In Antarctica?"

"Not Antarctica." He looked slightly annoyed. Think Dustin Hoffman in "Death of a Salesman." "Where's your dream vacation," he asked.

"Ireland," Chris and I said in unison.

He asked us how we would like to go to Ireland for a week for $169.

We were stone-faced. No smiles. No laughter. No convivial Irish-American banter. Randy went on to show us how we could go to Ireland for $169 plus airline tickets. If we also joined the Travel Club we also could get discounts on airline tickets.

"Go on," I said.

Randy went on. He jotted down a series of facts and figures and seemed pretty pleased with himself. I was getting hungry. He showed us the Travel Club website, He showed us the ownership units. All of it was very nice.

"In some of our units, you can see the nightly fireworks from Disney."

Wow. This property abutted Disney property and was only going up in value since everyone all over the globe wants to come to Disney World. Except for me.

We didn't buy anything. Received a $100 gift card for our efforts. Should have told him that Doug over at the 7-11 kiosk would give me $150 to listen to his pitch. But I was just glad to get out of there.

BTW, the Florida Cracker Ale is damn good. Made with coriander, which reminded me of New Belgium's Trippel Ale, although lighter. Florida may not be as well-known for its beers as Colorado but it's getting there. I had another Cigar City beer the other day. Jai Alai is an IPA aged in white oak. Not sure if I could taste the white oak but it is a great beer. Oskar Blues in Longmont recently did a collaboration brew with Tampa's Cigar City. Keep reaching out, craft brewers! We love you, especially the ones in WYO.

Now it's time to find a free arts event in Sales Pitch Land. Trump would definitely be at home here.

Calling all suffragists -- and supporters of suffragists

Democratic Women's Suffrage Celebration November 13, 2016 2-4 p.m. ~ Laramie County Library Cottonwood Room Cheyenne, WY

The Laramie County Democratic Women invite you to a Suffrage Celebration on Sunday, November 13, 2016, from 2-4 p.m. at Laramie County Library’s Cottonwood Room. The Thanksgiving Pie Social will honor women who have carried the banner of the Democratic Party by running for office locally and nationally.  This event is open to everyone. Our featured guest will be former Wyoming Secretary of State Kathy Karpan. FMI: Contact Barbara, 307-634-0309 or Jackie, 307-638-6529.

Readings begin Nov. 18 for Blood, Water, Wind, and Stone: An Anthology of Wyoming Writers

Made in Wyoming (and published here too): This new anthology from Jackson's Sastrugi Press features a great line-up of the state's writers,

Attached is the latest info on readings and book signings for Blood, Water, Wind and Stone: An Anthology of Wyoming Writers. My story, "George Running Poles," was selected for inclusion by editor and poet Lori Howe. Sastrugi Press is the publisher. Great to have a Wyoming-based press (Jackson) and a Laramie-based editor. The rest of us are scattered all over the state. 

I will read with others at the Dec. 8 event in Laramie. Not only that -- goodies will be served. And Night Heron is a great place to buy Christmas presents for those readers in your life. Order now at Sastrugi Press.

Cody Opening: Friday, November 18, 5-7pm. Legends Bookstore, 1350 Sheridan Ave. Cody, WY 82414. Ph: (307) 586-2320, website: www.legendsbooks.com.

Casper Opening: Saturday, November 19, 6-8pm. Backwards Distillery, co-hosted by Wind City Books. Hosted by Backwards Distillery at 158 Progress Circle, Mills, WY 82644. www.windcitybooks.com or www.backwardsdistilling.com, (307) 472-1275.

Sheridan Opening. Sunday, November 20, 2:30-5pm. Sagebrush Community Art Center, 201 East 5^th St. Sheridan, WY. Ph: (307) 674-1970. website: www.artinsheridan.com

Cheyenne Opening: Saturday, December 3, 3:30-5:30pm. Laramie County Library, 2200 Pioneer Ave. Cheyenne, WY 82001. Ph: (307) 634-3561. Website: http://laramiecountylibrary.org.

Laramie Opening: Thursday, December 8, 6-7:30pm. Night Heron Books, 107 E. Ivinson St., Laramie, WY 82070. Ph: (307) 742-9028. Website:  www.nightheronbooks.com.

Jackson Opening: Saturday, December 10, 5-7pm. Valley Bookstore, 125 N. Cache St. Jackson, WY 83001. Ph: (307) 733-4533. Website: http://valleybookstore.com

Those long drawn-out arguments among Baby Boomers brought us Trump

"Wow, so disappointed in America right now."

That was my daughter Annie's reaction this morning on Facebook.

I said similar things during my 65 years, even before the arrival of social media. I said it in November 1972 after Nixon clobbered McGovern. I was 21 then, even younger than Annie. I lived in Massachusetts, a little bubble of Democratic blue among all the red. We thought McGovern would stop the war and make the U.S. a kinder and more peaceful place. I worked the graveyard shift at a Boston hospital. While all of us orderlies and nurses and techs walked around like zombies, one of the physicians made the rounds and said that Nixon is the one now, suckers, and all of you lefties are in trouble. We were, but somehow we made it through. Most of us anyway. More than 22,000 more Americans and another million Vietnamese died between November's election and the declared end of the war in April 1975. Many GIs returned with wounds to the body and the soul. The rest of us moved on, or thought we did.

Despite the election landslide, Nixon won by less than 1 percent of the popular vote. As always, it was the Electoral College who clinched the win. And the southern strategy, which counted on turning all of those white middle class Democrats into Republicans. He used their hatred of civil rights and college activists to stoke the flames of hatred. Fear and hatred can work, as we just rediscovered.

Nixon went to China. He resigned, which made us lefties all warm and fuzzy. Jimmy Carter won the election over Gerald Ford. Carter was a Southerner but we thought he had warm and fuzzy feelings about America. He would usher in a new progressive era. Instead, in 1980, we go the shining city on the hill with Reagan. I lost friends over that election. Many arguments with family members. Those arguments continued into the presidencies of both Bushes.

The arguments continue. It has been important to act, to be involved. It's a life's work, not something you do for a couple weeks every four years. It helps me get out of bed in the morning. I continue to live my life as the best possible human being I can be.

One thing is clear. The arguments of 1972 continue. They will continue as long as the cohort of Baby Boomers remain upright. The scared ones will continue to be fearful and to vote those fears. Liberals like me will keep open minds and welcome the new, including those children who make up the Millennials. We've left them in the lurch. Perhaps it was the argumentative nature of our generation, caught in the whirlwind of civil rights, women's rights, LGBT rights, and the changing demographics of immigration. We never quite resolved all of those differences. And now they have emerged again with the presidency of Donald Trump.

Presente! Keep on making trouble.

ProPublica's ElectionLand project to cover Nov. 8 polling problems in real time

To update previous posts on possible voter intimidation at the polls...

ProPublica is sponsoring ElectionLand which, according to Sunday's Wyoming Tribune-Eagle,

will cover access to the ballot and problems that prevent people from exercising their right to vote during the 2016 election.  

If you have trouble on Election Day with long lines, intimidation or machine breakdowns, text ELECTIONLAND to 69866 or visit www.propublica.org/electionland to submit a report.

Data from voters across the country will be pulled together to document problems in real time. 

"Real time" is the important part of this as any violations can ostensibly be addressed while the polls are still open. ProPublica has already posted instances of voter intimidation in early voting. Some southern states, freed from Voting Rights Act laws, have decreased the number of polling places, which resulted in huge lines to vote in this year's Arizona primary. In Cheyenne, we have fewer polling places as we now go to voting centers (find one here). This enables us to vote at any of these places instead of our own precinct. So, if you live in Pine Bluffs but work in Cheyenne, you don't have to rush home from work in a snowstorm to cast your ballot (remember 1992?). You can vote in Cheyenne at the Community House in Lions Park (where I used to work as a judge) or at the Berean Church on Powderhouse where I usually vote. Poll workers are friendly and helpful, even when encountered at 6:59 p.m. and the clock is ticking.

Poll watchers may be on hand, too. Sometimes these are precinct committeemen or women, sometimes they are assigned by the county party. Not just any Tom, Dick or Harriet can show up to observe. If you see any shady characters lurking about, report them to the head election judge.

Along with two of my fellow Democrats, I will be giving free rides to the polls on election day. I would like to say that I will drive you in style in my stretch limo. Alas, I have but a modest gray Nissan Sentra. I do provide door-to-door service. I will not harangue you about your vote, although I have strong opinions on the liberal side of things (see previous post). Leave a comment here with address and/or phone number and I will give you a ride. Or call 307-241-2903.

On encountering a clueless Trump supporter at the grocery store

I wasn't going to let one nasty Trump supporter ruin my day with my daughter Annie.

Annie had wandered over to the King Soopers service counter searching for a bus pass. We were trying to get her situated on her first day in Denver or, I should say, Aurora. When I lived in Denver in the 1980s, Denverites were always clear about the demarcation between their city and Aurora, which is not exactly a city and not exactly a suburb. It's crowded, just the same.

I waited in the check-out line behind two gray-haired white women. They were nattering about the election. I wasn't aware that they were Trumpies until one of them plucked one of the weekly rags from the news rack and pointed at the cover story labeling Hillary a liar and a racist.  Then they started to talk to the cashier about the election and the cashier was trying to shake her head and nod at their comments while still doing her job. This has been a common sight the past couple months. People trying to get on with their jobs while customers fling their political opinions at them. I was in the Cheyenne King Soopers a few weeks back and the cashier flung his Trumpisms at me and I vowed never to go to that cashier again.

These two women finished up their order and made way for me. I exchanged pleasantries with the cashier as she scanned my order. One of the gray-haired women returned and told the cashier she had forgotten her cash. The cashier said she'd have to wait until she was finished with my order and she seemed pleasant enough. While I bagged a few of Annie's groceries, the Trump supporter again started talking to the cashier about the election. The cashier said, "I don't know," and I looked over at me and said, "What do you think?"

"About what?"

The customer said, "Is that woman going to win the election?"

"You mean Hillary?"

She nodded.

"Hell yes."

The customer shook her head and said one of the usual tired Trumpisms about how Hillary should be in jail.

I replied that we can't have someone like Trump at the wheel, we need someone with experience like Hillary.

The woman sputtered and fumed. Or maybe she fumed and sputtered, Not sure which. Looking back, I know one thing -- we all get comfortable with our opinions when sharing with like-minded folks. Then we sputter and fume when someone has a dissenting opinion.

The woman got upset. "I'm surprised someone hasn't shot her."

I told her that was a horrible thing to say and she should be ashamed of herself. Assassination is an abomination.

"I didn't mean..."

"I know what you mean. I've heard that before from Trump people."

"Well we are military and that woman..."

"I don't care. Trump will send your sons and grandsons and granddaughters off to fight a stupid war. He's a nutball."

The adjacent cashier turned to me and raised her hand. "Here's a high five."

I returned the remote high five. I could see that my cashier was flustered. Why did I have to ask this old guy from Wyoming about the election? Wasn't this old lady bad enough? She got busy bagging the groceries and the woman customer sputtered and steam poured out of my ears. Other customers looked at us with a mixture of revulsion and perplexity. It was time to wrap this up. I paid my bill and the woman got her cash and scurried away.

"That's the last time I bring up the election," the cashier said, handing me the receipt.

Just make sure you don't ask me, I thought. What I said was, "Tuesday will be here soon enough."

She grinned, sort of, and moved on to the next customer. I moved on with my daughter's groceries. Annie joined me at the door. I told her what had just happened.

"I missed the drama," she said.

I wanted to say that she was plenty good about stirring up her own drama but I let it go. I wanted to be in the moment and away from Trump people whom I have vowed not to call crazy because it demeans people who struggle with mental illness, people like Annie. Besides, the Nov. 4 air was warm and the sun was out. It was Friday afternoon. Everyone we dealt with on this day in Denver/Aurora had been friendly and helpful. Everyone except the Trump supporter. She'll have plenty of time to be miserable once the results come in on Tuesday.

Lincoln Court: From old-fashioned motor court to "intentional urban community"

This 1939 auto window decal for Lincoln Court conjures the city's rodeo and Marlboro Man traditions.

Cheyenne native Alan O'Hashi is always cooking up something interesting. 

He's a fine filmmaker. His documentary short "Aging Gratefully: The Power of Community" recently was named one of the International Award of Excellence winners at the International Film Festival for Spirituality, Religion and Visionary. He now lives in Boulder, Colo., which is but 99 highway miles from Denver but light-years away in attitude. 

Alan has come up with a plan for an "intentional urban community" for Cheyenne. Here's a description:

The LINCOLN COURT is an ambitious mixed use intentional urban community. The project is a collaboration among Wyoming Community Media, Caddis Architects, Wonderland Hills Development and Dozzer LLC.

In addition to the innovative mixed uses, including affordable and universally-accessible housing and cohousing is a higher purpose around creativity -- creative aging, nurturing artistic entrepreneurs, cultural exhibits and performances in residence.

Lincoln Court once was a motor court that was part of the legendary Hitching Post Inn. Alan worked at the Hitch as a teen, as did so many Cheyennites who now find themselves in the "creative aging" category. Find out more at https://www.facebook.com/LincolnCourtCheyenne/about/

My brother Tom has accused me of promoting Agenda 21 with this project. In case you don't know the term, it's a United Nations effort to get countries to adopt smart growth development that encourages walkable communities that will reduce carbon use and possibly slow global warming. This effort has caused conservatives, especially those in energy-producing states, to misconstrue this as a plan to take away our cars and trucks and make us live in Hobbit homes instead of sprawling McMansions. At 6-foot-2, I am as unsuited as Gandalf to a Hobbit home, although my tiny wife and cat probably would fit quite nicely in Frodo's house. Lincoln Court, alas, will not feature Middle Earth dwellings but those more suitable to our high and dry western climate and landscape. It also will feature live-work spaces for artists, retail stores (coffee shop is a must) and offices. Alan has a rough plan for the property that will be anchored by the new multipurpose sports facility that's on next year's Sixth Penny Tax ballot and adjacent to the old site of Lincoln Court off of Lincolnway,

I like this project for several reasons. For one, it has a story. I am a storyteller. Maybe I will end up as Lincoln Court's resident storyteller, spinning tales from past and present. There already is an excellent book about the Hitching Post Inn by my state gov colleague Sue Castaneda. You can find "The Hitching Post Inn -- Wyoming's Second Capitol" at local bookstores, including the State Museum store, and probably the library too.  

But there are always more stories to tell. 

The first organizational meeting for Lincoln Court will be held Dec. 6 in Cheyenne. Details to follow. Or keep track on the Facebook page (see link above).  

What do the Wyoming Election Statutes have to say about behavior at the polls?

I just finished eating all of the leftover Halloween candy so had the energy to read the Wyoming Election Code, all 343 pages. Actually I skipped over most of it to get to the meaty parts about behavior on election day, a follow-up on my 10/31 post about possible voter intimidation. I bring some experience to this, a life-long voter who has served as both a poll watcher and election judge in Laramie County. I am reprinting applicable parts of the code here, for your convenience. I was struck by how much time and effort went into crafting 343 pages of election guidelines. As a professional writer and editor, I have composed more business-oriented documents than I care to think about.  I know how much work it takes.

A few years back, I rewrote the bylaws of the Laramie County Democratic Party. I researched the state by-laws and those of other county parties. Republican Party by-laws also have to be rewritten every so often. It's a volunteer or a committee who does the work because they believe in the goals of their party. Volunteers do most of the hard work in politics, especially in a sparsely-populated-and-few-electoral-votes state such as Wyoming, where national political parties tend to be stingy with their money. 

I look at these statutes and think about my Irish grandfather, how he was so proud to vote the first time as an American citizen. I think about all the immigrants voting as citizens in 2016 for the first time. They're from Syria, El Salvador, Egypt, Ukraine, Mongolia, elsewhere. I think about all of the times I voted and worked at the polls, doing my duty as a citizen. And I think about all of the people who don't bother to vote, which is almost beyond comprehension.

Here are the applicable sections of the statute. For your reading enjoyment, you may download these and any other Wyoming statute at http://legisweb.state.wy.us/LSOWEB/StatutesDownload.aspx. For elections, scroll down to Title 22. 

CHAPTER 13
POLLING PLACE REGULATIONS DURING VOTING HOURS
22‑13‑103.  Preservation of order; privacy of voting booths and machines.
(a)  Judges of election have the duty and authority to preserve order at the polls by any necessary and suitable means.
(b)  To protect the privacy of the voter, voting booths and voting machines shall be kept clear of all persons except voters marking ballots, election officials discharging their duties and challengers acting under legal authority.

CHAPTER 15
CHALLENGING
22‑15‑101.  Right to vote may be challenged.
Registration is evidence of a person's right to vote at any election, but this right may be challenged at the polls in the manner prescribed by law.
22‑15‑102.  Repealed By Laws 1998, ch. 100, § 5.
22‑15‑103.  Repealed By Laws 1998, ch. 100, § 5.
22‑15‑104.  Grounds for challenge.
(a)  A person offering to vote may be challenged for the following reasons:
(i)  Not a qualified elector;
(ii)  Not entitled to vote in the precinct;
(iii)  Name does not appear on poll list and the person cannot meet the requirements to register at the polls;
(iv)  Not the person he represents himself to be;
(v)  Has already voted.
22‑15‑105.  Challenged person may vote; generally.
(a)  If a person offering to vote is challenged, and the challenge is not resolved in accordance with W.S. 22‑15‑106, an election judge shall offer the voter a ballot clearly marked "provisional" and which cannot be automatically tabulated.
(b)  A person challenged on any ground may vote by provisional ballot, if he subscribes this oath in writing before a judge of election:
"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I am the person I represent myself to be and that I am a qualified elector entitled to vote in this precinct at this election and that this is the only ballot I have or will vote in this election.".
.............................
Signature of voter
.............................
Signature of judge
.............................
Precinct and District No.
(c)  The oath required by this section shall be printed on the provisional ballot envelope.
(d)  A challenged voter may present information and documentation of his eligibility to register at the election or to vote to the county clerk until the close of business on the day following the election. Any information presented shall be considered by the canvassing board in determining the voter's eligibility to register at the election or to vote and whether to open and count his provisional ballot. The provisional ballot shall be counted only after the voter has, by presenting documentation required under this code to the county clerk, established he had previously registered and is a qualified elector or he was eligible to register at the election and is a qualified elector.
22‑15‑106.  Where name not on poll list.
A person challenged on the ground that his name does not appear on the poll list may vote if a judge of election obtains verification from the county clerk that the person is entitled to vote in that election within that county.
22‑15‑107.  Repealed by Laws 2002, Ch. 18 § 3.
22‑15‑108.  Duty of judges to challenge.
It is the duty of the judges to challenge electors whenever existence of legal grounds for doing so is known or apparent to the judges.
22‑15‑109.  Poll watchers; certification; qualification; authority; removal.
(a)  The county chairman of each political party may certify poll watchers prior to the day of the election to serve in each polling place.  Not more than one (1) poll watcher from each political party may serve simultaneously unless the chief judge determines that one (1) additional poll watcher from each political party may be accommodated in the polling place without disrupting the polling process.
(b)  A poll watcher shall belong to the political party he represents and shall be a registered elector residing in the county.  A poll watcher shall serve only at the polling place designated on the certificate.  A poll watcher is authorized to observe voter turn out and registration and may make written memoranda but shall not challenge voters, conduct electioneering activities or disrupt the polling process.
(c)  The chief judge may remove a poll watcher from the polling place for disturbing the polling place, or for any other violation of the Election Code.

Orange you glad the Wyoming Republicans are on the job?

I ran into my friend Pat at the grocery store. She sported an "I Voted" sticker, said that she stood in a long line in the Laramie County Building Atrium. Last count had 8,000 people in the county voting early. Pretty good numbers.

Only 8 days until the election, if you count today. We all eagerly await Nov. 8 not only because, on Nov. 9, Donald Trump will no longer be the lead on the nightly news. Or maybe he will, as we've grown accustomed to his face and his banter filling the airwaves.

Our local elections could yield some nasty surprises. They already have. The Wyoming Republican Party has sent out flyers denouncing Minority Leader Mary Throne, a Democrat. Mary, you see, wants to take away your guns -- she only gets a C rating from the NRA. Her A-rated opponent, Jared Olsen, is shown on the flyer with a rifle and a steely gaze, as if he were looking off into the canebrake for a trophy elk.

I was shown the flyer and asked, "What's wrong with the picture?"
I said: "Jared Olsen is in it?"
"No," the inquisitor replied. "He's wearing red."
"So he's a commie?"
"Maybe. But that's not the point. As any hunter knows, you wear orange out in the field. It's called hunter's orange for a reason."
"Oh," I said. "I'm not a hunter. I may be the only unarmed male-type person in the state."
"I wouldn't advertise that fact."

Linda Burt is running in my district (No. 8) to unseat incumbent Bob Nicholas. If all of the registered Dems in the district showed up to vote, and disgruntled Republicans stayed home because of The Donald, Linda could win. We need more Dems in the legislature. We need more women. Linda Burt would be a terrific rep. This district has been represented by a Dem woman before, in the person of Lori Millin, who was terrific. She followed up with a run for the Senate and lost. We've had Nicholas ever since. He often votes with the Republican crackpot bloc. His district includes many state employees and retirees, such as me. This is something he should keep in mind, whatever happens in the election. I will vote for Linda Burt on Nov. 8.

Speaking of Nov. 8... The Donald's camp has mumbled about showing up to the polls to intimidate voters, mainly those of color. That kind of thing happens often in tinpot dictatorships struggling to establish democracy. This is why the U.N. sends in election monitors. Our elections haven't seen intimidation like this since the 1960s in the Jim Crow South, when angry whites tried to keep blacks from the polls. I've served as a volunteer pollwatcher at my precinct. Part of my job is to make sure . rules are followed and some shitkicker with a rifle and a grudge doesn't try to keep Hispanics and African-Americans and East Indians from voting. What do you do if you see voter intimidation? That's a good question. You could call Democratic Party HQ. But you may not get an answer. The County Clerk? Secretary of State's office? The police? I'm going to find out and get back to you in time for the election.

As the election nears, remember America's broken mental health care system

The mental health of veterans is tied to the mental health of civilians.

I am not a veteran.  I am a civilian with mental health issues. Depression is in my DNA. I can't help it. I can, however, do something about it. A conscious choice that can only be made when I am not in the grip of a depressive episode. That's how tricky it is.

I'm always on the lookout for Catch-22 analogies.

"There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.  

"That's some catch, that Catch-22," he observed. 

"It's the best there is," Doc Daneeka agreed.”  

With depression, it works like this. When you are depressed, you need help. You have to ask for it as nobody else knows you are depressed because you look normal although you may not act normal, whatever that is. If you ask for help, that is a sign that you are coming out of depression. Have some pills, the doc says and sends you on your way to recovery.

It gets worse before it gets better. It takes time for the medications to kick in. With the pills comes talk therapy with a psychiatrist or a therapist or both. This also takes time to bear results. Meanwhile, you have to get on with your life. There's work to do, soldiering to get done, families to raise, bills to pay. None of this waits on your mental health. If your job and family permits it, as mine did a few years ago, you can take a month off of work to allay your latest depressive episode. Some people would rather work through it, take their mind off the problem. But what happens if you can't?

There's a TV ad for Trintellix, a new depression medication. It shows a man trying to get involved in gardening with his wife. A thought balloon perches over his head. Inside is a jumble of colorful spaghetti strands that seem to represent the tangled web depression causes. If you take Trintellix, the word "me" magically emerges from the spaghetti. It's not magic, really, but pharmacological. Antidepressants now can be targeted to the brain's synapses a lot better than when I took my first dose of Prozac 25 years ago. I'm not sure of the science but I'm going to look it up. I'm always looking it up.

My Catch-22 analogy isn't perfect. But it does illustrate the quandary of a person with clinical depression, or with any kind of mental illness. You find yourself in an illogical, Catch-22 universe. It makes no sense. It makes perfect sense.

On my growing stack of books to read is Bruce Springsteen's biography, Born to Run. One of the best-known performers in the world has struggled with depression. Interesting, isn't it, that the man who known for rousing anthems and hour-long encores, can also be battered into submission by the blues. The real blues. The kind that's as physical as a heart attack or leukemia.

Chris and I saw Springsteen in concert during his "Born in the U.S.A." tour in Denver in the mid-1980s. It was September and it snowed at Mile High Stadium. We didn't mind. Springsteen and the band didn't seem to mind. Maybe they minded but it didn't stop them. That's kind of how depression feels. You mind that it's there but you play on. The show must go on, as theatre people say.

Springsteen might have been depressed that day. I was, until I went to the concert. I then was uplifted.

The song, "Born in the U.S.A.," focuses on the Vietnam War and the problems veterans had when they returned home. Not a whitewashed Lee Greenwood or Charlie Daniels vision of wartime trauma. War can transform you, just as childhood traumas can. Some psychiatrists say that childhood trauma can exacerbate PTSD sparked by combat. We also know that people who have been no closer to combat than Donald Trump or Dick Cheney can struggle with PTSD. It's all in your head, man! Last time I checked, my head was attached to rest of me.

It's real. That's why it's so difficult to hear someone like Trump belittle the problems of veterans. After Oct. 9's "debate," Jon Soltz sent out an e-mail call for donations. Here's his pitch:

I am filled with profound sadness after watching Donald Trump's behavior before tonight's debate.  

I started VoteVets after returning from Iraq because veterans, military family members, and those who support them need elected representation that recognizes the cost of war continues long after the last service member returns home.  

This is a presidential election. We deserve a debate on these issues. Every veteran who has ever served deserves better than what Donald Trump has done to the process of deciding our next Commander in Chief.

Contribute to VoteVets here: https://secure.actblue.com/contribute/page/defeat-trump?refcode=em161009

I am not a veteran. I state this as a matter of fact. I approach this issue not from personal experience as a warrior but as a civilian. It's academic and personal. My kids both struggle with mental health issues. So do I.

My weapons are words.

Donald Trump has no mental health plan in his platform. Hillary Clinton does.

As Jon Soltz says, we deserve a debate on these issues. We still haven't had one. All of us struggling with mental illness deserve better.

Hurricane Matthew, "Our Town," and Florida memories

Over my second cup of coffee on this beautiful Wyoming Saturday, I wondered why I still had the Weather Channel blaring from my Smart TV.

Hurricane Matthew. Matt, to his friends, which are few after he pounded the U.S, coast and the Caribbean this past week.

I do like the drama of a hurricane compounded by the melodrama of media coverage.

It gets more real when you're there. Many family members and friends were in the path of Matthew. All are fine although much clean-up to do. My brother Tom in Palm Bay has trees down in his yard -- but not on his house.

One of my first experiences as a 13-year-old Florida resident was with Hurricane Cleo in 1964. On my first full day on Ormond Beach, the waves broke big and the current was strong. Our parents warned us kids not to go out too far or we'd be sucked out to sea. My brother Dan and I listened (sort of) and waded into the surf, keeping an eye on (sort of) our younger brothers and sisters, who were many. The sun beat down and we body-surfed, or tried to. We were from Colorado and had never been in the ocean before.

The next day, Cleo brushed the coast, leaving us inside to watch the rain fall and the wind blow around the big palms. The next day, Dan and I were back on the beach and rarely left it for the next five years. By the following summer, we were surfing. Hodads, gremmies -- wannabe surfers. We moved south to Daytona and surfed with the big boys at Hartford Avenue, a group later known as the Hartford Heavies and included my brothers Pat, Tom and Tim. Hell-raisers and good short-board surfers. They ripped the waves, ditched school for good surf.

Hurricane Dora targeted Daytona in the fall of '64. The illustration on the front of the morning paper showed a swirling storm. On its landward side, an arrow pointed right at me. Our father picked us up at Our Lady of Lourdes Grade School and whisked us off in the Ford Falcon station wagon to a motel on the mainland. Ten of us jammed into two tiny rooms. We watched the rain fall and the palms sway, listened to storm reports on the radio. Dora swerved and hit St. Augustine instead, giving us a glancing blow, a little less severe than the one Matt just delivered.

I lived in Florida for most of 14 years. Those are the only hurricanes I remember. 1964 was an active season, with three of the six named hurricanes hitting Florida. Isbell was the third, cutting across south Florida on its way to North Carolina. Cleo, Dora and Isbell were all retired from the official hurricane naming list, which featured only names of the female persuasion back then.

In the ninth grade, Father Lopez High School put on Thornton Wilder's Our Town. Our director was a woman with Broadway experience. She thought Our Town was just right for a small Catholic school with no theatre budget and no theatre but a serviceable gym. This was the minimalist version, with no stage design, except for a pair of stepladders and a few chairs. And no complicated costumes. I auditioned because I had time on my hands that fall after not making the cut for junior varsity basketball. This particularly irked me after my successful season with the OLL Falcons, runner-up in the 1965 parochial league tournament. I channeled my anger into an unforgettable role as Second Dead Man in the poignant cemetery scene. It was the closest I got to the gym floor all year.

After her funeral, the dead Emily appears at the cemetery.

EMILY: "Does anyone ever realize life while they live it...every, every minute?"
STAGE MANAGER: "No. Saints and poets maybe...they do some.”

They do some. It's pleasant to think so, that poets and writers actually live life and notice it at the same time.

Maybe it helps if you're a saint.

I was dressed in an old suit and pretended to be a dead guy from Grover's Corners. The apex of my acting career. Our Town could be seen as a nostalgic look at life in a quaint New England village. What it does is rip your heart out.

I didn't know that as 15-year-old  Second Dead Man.

I do now.

Lest you deny Wilder's seriousness in this play, he often noted that it was rarely performed correctly and that it "should be performed without sentimentality or ponderousness--simply, dryly, and sincerely."

And this from Wikipedia:

"In 1946, the Soviet Union prevented a production of Our Town in the Russian sector of occupied Berlin on the grounds that the drama is too depressing and could inspire a German suicide wave."

Post-war Germans didn't need yet another reason to end it all.

Today in Cheyenne, the sun is shining, Matthew is on his way to open ocean and Trump will not be president.

A good day to be alive and noticing it.