The day after St. Patrick's Day 2022

I don't have a hangover, that's the main thing. Many prior St. Patrick's Day holidays involved drinking and then hangovers. Some stray guilt feelings. Calling in sick to work.

But not this time. I attended a family-style party last night. Wife stayed home with a sick daughter. We recited Irish poems. Remembered trips to Ireland -- friendly people but kissing the Blarney Stone is a rather disgusting ritual. Devoured Irish Stew and a delicious Guinness chocolate cake built to look like a pint on an Irish pub bar. I drank one Irish Ale made in Kansas City. Stayed away from the Writers' Tears Irish whiskey as I have enough of my own. We sang along to "Zombie" by the Cranberries and remembered Dolores O'Riordan who died too young.

Calm as these things go. Someone asked if they celebrated St. Patrick's Day in Ireland. Apparently, it's a religious holiday there. They ratchet up the festivities for American tourists. The Irish seem bemused by American spectacle. I've never been to Ireland so haven't had the chance to embarrass myself in person. But apparently the American idea of drinking green beer and singing fake Irish songs is not appreciated. U.S. tourist money is. 

I've blogged before about my mixed views on the holiday. Read those here and here and here. My grandfather from Roscommon Martin Hett (no, not O'Hett or McHett) never returned to the old sod. As a teen, I was pontificating about the legendary cruelty of the Brits to the Irish and my grandfather interrupted. "The English treated me better that the Irish ever did." That shocked me due to the fact that I was 16 and knew everything there was to know about the world. Grandpa went on to explain that his evil stepmother kicked him out of the house at 12. He made his way to England and worked in the coalfields until he saved enough money to sail to the U.S. at a 15-year-old. He worked hard in America and ended up in Denver where my mother was born and later, me. He liked being an American more than he liked being Irish. 

What, exactly, is an Irish-American? There is no easy explanation. We come in all shapes and sizes and all political persuasions including Trumpian which is disgusting -- recall how many wackos with Irish surnames served Herr Trump -- Flynn, Bannon, McCarthy, etc. Most of us mark St. Patrick's Day in some fashion. Corned beef and cabbage is a family favorite not always enjoyed by everyone in the family. My mother didn't like it probably because she ate a lot of it growing up. When she had food, which wasn't always the case during the Great Depression. One Christmas, she woke up to an orange in her stocking. That was the only present. I'm not sure if this is true because the Irish embellish almost everything.

I like to think that my proclivity for storytelling was passed on to me by my Irish ancestors. None of my immediate family are writers. Readers, yes. Writers, no. No aunts and uncles or cousins are writers. I am probably the only English major they know. We are known for our cutting humor, which seems to be an Irish trait. And my siblings and I all look Irish and our DNA attests to it. My red hair and freckles earned me lots of ridicule and a few fights. "Red on the head/like the dick on my dog." That's one taunt I remember. Red, Freckle Face, Rusty. They're all good. Shows some creativity. I don't think I sustained any permanent damage growing up white and freckled in America. 

As we read poetry at last night's party, I noticed it was rather light-hearted. I wanted to read something by Eavaan Boland ("The Lost Land") or Yeats ("The Second Coming") but never got the chance. Good Irish writing seems to balance the horrible and the humorous. Roddy Doyle is a great example. So is Flann O'Brien, whose satiric novel "The Poor Mouth" is one of my favorites. Flannery O'Connor too, who combined Irish-American wit with Southern Gothic grotesque to create her unique style.

Go read an Irish writer today. You will probably be glad you did, although it's hard to say.  

"The Weight of a Body" collection now available in print version

The print version of my book is now available to order on Amazon. "The Weight of a Body: A Collection of Short Stories" features 12 stories set (in no particular order) Wyoming, Colorado, and Florida. The collection was originally published by Denver's now-defunct Ghost Road Press and I decided earlier in the year to republish it as an e-book and now a print version. Here's the cover:

The act of republishing on KDP Amazon entails formatting, design, and editing. I formatted my MS Word files on Draft2Digital (D2D). I then brought that over to KDP to transform it into an e-book. It took me awhile to read an e-book on my Kindle and even longer to make one. My guide through the process was writer and critique group colleague Liz Roadifer. Read her books here. 

Here's a teaser from the opening story, "Roadkill:"

The shapes grew out of the smoke and fog -- three pronghorn antelope, running hard. Matthew Kincannon mashed the car's brakes and swung the wheel hard left. He missed the first two, collided with the third on its white-tufted rump which rose like a balloon before its rear legs smacked the windshield, its hooves scraping the glass like sharpened fists.

This won't be my only project on KDP. Stay tuned for news about my second collection later this year. Most of those stories are set in Wyoming and Colorado. 

Sunday morning round-up: Legislature weirdness, online publishing, and "The War on Powder River"

Russia invaded Ukraine this week. Putin does not want a democracy on its border. The Ukrainians are fighting back. The U.S. knows what joining the fight would bring. So we work with sanctions and what’s left of our free press. We also send war materiel to help Ukrainians fight the despot’s hordes. Any student of warfare knows a declaration of war would bring disaster. So what do we do?

I hope to have the print edition of my book of stories up on Amazon this week. The e-book is already on the site. Working with Kindle Direct Publishing can be a challenge. A traditional press would do most of this work. Formatting the text, deciding on a book cover, overseeing the printing process, sending out proofs, publicity. It’s all up to me now. Not sure if I’m going to put my second book of stories on KDP. I just want to have books in hand instead of taking up space in the Cloud. This blog is more of a journal than a publishing platform. Wish me luck.

The Wyoming State Legislature is in town. They will do plenty of damage in 20 days. We now experience first-hand what gerrymandering and voter suppression can do. Also Trump. And right-wing social media and TV. The nuts are out in force to suppress mask mandates, UW’s gender studies curriculum, American racism discussions in K-12 classrooms, gender equity, party-switching at election primaries, voting access, and any talk about Medicaid expansion for the state’s working poor. I’m sure more ridiculous proposals will emerge from the muck in the next two weeks. Wyoming voted overwhelmingly for Trump in 2016 and 2020. We now live in a Trumpist fiefdom.

I did not expect a nonfiction account of the Johnson County War to be shot through with irreverent humor. But that's what I got when I picked up Helena Huntington Smith's “The War on Powder River: The History of an Insurrection.” The book was published in 1966 as a Bison Books imprint from the University of Nebraska Press. This 1890s event is often referred to as the Johnson County War. It pitted the rich owners of large cattle herds against the little guy who owned a few head or a few hundred. The cattle cabal wanted to keep the open range in WYO. The little guys wanted to keep the maverick cattle that they found, stragglers from massive herds brought to Powder River Country by rich Easterners and Brits with the hope of amassing beef fortunes. Smith did an amazing job at taking a jaundiced view of an 1890s event that many people outside of Wyoming know little about. Smith’s research is impressive although this non-historian cannot vouch for all of the details. She cracks wise when describing the gentry founded ranches in Powder River Country which they enjoy in summer and desert once the first snow flies. Cowboys remain behind to watch the herds. While the winters of 1884-86 were balmy by WYO standards, the winter and spring of 1986-87 was a whopper. Many thousands of cattle froze to death on the overcrowded prairie. When the beef barons returned from the south of France, they left the round-up of strays to cowboys and got pissed off when small landholders rustled a few cattle. They got their payback in 1892, and also their comeuppance. It is easy to see the hubris of 1892 in Wyoming’s present.

Smith was an Easterner who spent some time in WYO. The TA Ranch south of Buffalo has named one of its dude ranch accommodations for Smith. The TA has the last surviving structures from the range war. Smith was a combat correspondent for Crowell-Collier magazines (Collier’s, Victory, Woman’s Home Companion) during World War II. In 1957, American Heritage magazine republished her account of the Battle of the Bulge. She recounts the breakout of Panzer divisions and how rear echelon soldiers, mechanics and engineers, were issued bazookas and ordered to stop Nazi tanks. Some of them were surprisingly successful and earned medals. Smith’s account has all the battlefield dark humor one finds in a good soldier’s memoirs. She brought that same humor to her account of the Johnson County War. I couldn’t find a full bio online but discovered she was a Smith College grad and wrote for magazines and wrote several books. The UW Heritage Center and State Archives probably has some good info on her. She obviously loved a good story.

Farewell P.J. O'Rourke: The best humor illuminates hard truths

Satirist P.J. O'Rourke passed away this week. His humor writing, especially during the National Lampoon era, influenced my writing. National Lampoon gave us Baby Boomers something to read that was as cantankerous as we were. O'Rourke was at the center of the mag for most of the seventies. Then he set off to be a freelancer and author, referring to himself as a "Republican Lounge Lizard." I was entranced by his 1988 essay collection, "Holidays in Hell." I laughed out loud at his misadventures in war-torn Beirut and in Managua during the Contra War. His takedown of the Sandalista Liberals giving aid to the Sandinistas was hilarious and heartbreaking. 

The year of the book's publication, I spent Super Bowl Week in Nicaragua delivering supplies to Habitat for Humanity projects. My Liberal self was accompanied by a group of Habitat volunteers from Denver and my Republican brother Dan from Florida. The most fun Dan had that week was setting off with a couple other gringos in a gypsy cab to find a place to watch Super Bowl. He saw about five minutes of the Super Bowl (Denver was wiped out by Washington) but got wildly drunk. I stayed back at the motel and watched (sober) most of the game on a tiny TV. 

The oddest moment happened when my brother get hauled out of a so-called informational meeting with Sandinista cultural ministers. I thought we had lost our one GOPer to the gulag but he returned 15 minutes later and said he'd been asked a bunch of questions such as whom had he voted for in the most recent U.S. presidential election. Reagan was the answer, probably the wrong answer, but Dan survived the trip.

He might not be so lucky now. The current government, headed by former revolutionary Daniel Ortega, specifically targets those people who openly criticize Daniel Ortega. In September, the U.S. State Department placed Nicaragua on its highest Level 4 alert with this warning: 

Do not travel to Nicaragua due to COVID-19. Reconsider travel to Nicaragua due to limited healthcare availability and arbitrary enforcement of laws. Exercise increased caution in Nicaragua due to crime.

On the other hand, the waves are bitchin'. 

O'Rourke pointed out the ridiculousness of the human condition. You could hear him at his best on NPR's "Wait Wait Don't Tell Me." I sometimes bristled at his comments on Bill Maher but I think the iconoclastic host was delighted with the humorist because he kept bringing P.J. back. He had the Irish in him, the likes of Jonathan Swift and Flann O'Brien. He also had the English in him, some George Orwell from his "Homage to Catalonia" days. Orwell had his own holidays in hell during the Ethiopian War and Spanish Civil War. Later, he was at his satiric best in "Animal Farm." 

My writing has been influenced by O'Rourke, Woody Allen (his books), and Alan Coren. Monty Python, too. But the biggest influences were New Yorker humorists S.J. Perelman, Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker, and Ring Lardner. These city slickers knew how to turn a phrase. This suburban kid, whose only NYC experience was "just passing through," loved this work. I see it also in Grace Paley's stories. Humor transcends the telling of jokes to enter into some hard truths. And then we laugh.

Satire is not for the timid. You are often misunderstood and not understood at all by the Blunt Skulls. 

Nevertheless, he (O'Rourke) persisted.

Wyoming Tribune-Eagle reports on racist behavior in Cheyenne

It was a cringe-worthy headline above the fold in Saturday's Wyoming Tribune-Eagle: 

Air Force base leaders speak out against COMMUNITY RACISM

Yes, that last part was all caps and for good reason. Cheyenne's Warren AFB is home of the 90th Missile Wing and scores of nukes. Like most military bases, it’s self-contained to a certain extent but its airmen and airwomen and civilian employees interact with the community. 

Those interactions, lately, have been nasty. Missile Wing Commander Col. Catherine Barrington called for a meeting with community leaders after Black Air Force families reported racist incidents.

USAF dependents attend K-12 schools located around the county. Many are African-American because, well, it's the United States Air Force and not the Wyoming Air Force. As such, it is made up of young men and women from all over the U.S. and the world. Many have experienced multiple overseas deployments to far-flung bases and war zones. Some have been called racist epithets and discriminated against because of their color in Cheyenne, the place I call home.

The worst local offender reported in the article seems to be McCormick Junior High. This doesn’t surprise me as our daughter was terribly bullied when she attended McCormick. Its students tend to be white and from the mostly prosperous north side of the city where I still live. This doesn’t prevent them from being bullies and racists. 

[Col.] Barrington explained that multiple students have been bullied and called racial slurs at McCormick Junior High. A ninth-grade girl got off the bus the first day of the school year and was immediately called the N-word more than one time.

The girl opted to attend Cheyenne Virtual School rather than to be in this nest of vipers. Others were bullied and called racial slurs which led to fights where black students were suspended and fined. 

One wonders where these 13-year-olds might have learned such behavior. Look to the racist behavior of parents, those people you see at Trump rallies and ranting about Critical Race Theory and face masks at school board meetings. There are consequences for such loathsome behavior.

It's not only school children. One uniformed Black airman bought a gun at a local shop. When he returned in civvies to get the gun serviced, the proprietor said she didn’t have time to serve him.

“Other airmen have also experienced this,” said Warren's Command Chief Master Sergeant Nicholas Taylor. “And when they went in to buy ammunition, they would not sell ammunition to airmen of color at all. So they had to ask their Caucasian counterparts to go in and buy ammunition on behalf of them.”

Let’s be clear – in Cheyenne, we live at the intersection of Guns & Ammo. We have a couple dozen stores and pawn shops where you can buy shootin' irons. We have at least two outdoor firing ranges and one indoors. On Sundays, you can hear the Warren security detachment’s firearm drills. I would venture that everyone in my neighborhood owns at least one firearm. It’s not unusual to see gun stickers on front doors that read “This home protected by Smith & Wesson;” similar four-wheel-oriented stickers adorn pickups. Lest you think only conservatives own guns, you obviously don’t know any Wyoming Democrats. The Second Amendment is religion here, even among heathen Liberals.

So, when you hear that a Black airman cannot buy bullets in a Cheyenne shop when his latest deployment may have placed him armed with a fully-loaded taxpayer-funded weapon in a war zone, you have to say WTF or something similar.

James Peebles also spoke at the public meeting. He’s the director of the Sankofa African Heritage Awareness, Inc., in Cheyenne. His organization conducts seminars about systemic racism, the history of slavery, and the civil rights struggles. All things we desperately need to know about if racist behavior is to stop. Timely subjects during Black History Month.

Peebles described watching the social dynamic in Cheyenne change, with Black families leaving after experiencing racism. There also has been pandemic-driven anti-Asian rhetoric in the past five years.

After a recent ugly incident, Peebles added that “the last year was the first time he even questioned his safety here after living in Cheyenne for 12 years.”

Thanks to reporter Jasmine Hall for covering this meeting and a big thanks to the Wyoming Tribune-Eagle for featuring it so prominently. We need our newspapers to show us when our neighbors behave badly.

A salute to those books that taught me humor, satire, and the absurdity of being human

All this book-banning makes me think of all of those books I read that might meet disapproval now from the GOP Know Nothings. 

When I was in the fourth grade, my father told me I could read any book in his library. I tackled the war books, first, Guadalcanal Diary by Richard Tregaskis, Brave Men by Ernie Pyle and Up Front by Bill Mauldin, which included his Willie and Joe cartoons. He had some boys' adventure books from his childhood, Treasure Island and Ivanhoe. But I was more interested in the WWII books, as my father had been a radioman with an infantry unit in France, Belgium, and Germany. They seemed like boys' adventures to me. I read all of the Life magazines that my grandparents had saved for my dad while he was overseas. I watched war movies with my dad, as did my younger brother. We played war with our friends. 

None of my teachers ever assigned books on 20th century wars. They reached into the heroic past. The Revolutionary War had spawned books such as Johnny Tremayne and tales of Paul Revere and George Washington. The Civil War was acceptable reading as we all grew up knowing that the Yankees were the good guys and the Rebs the bad guys. This was way before we moved to the South and heard the term War of Northern Aggression. So many of the books I read as an English major and later were by writers of the American South. Their Southern Gothic tales owed their existence to the region's tortured history which included the Civil War, whatever you want to call it.

Now in my 70s, I look back on my reading as nostalgic. I also know more about the workings of the world. War can be heroic. It's also nasty, brutish, and final. Soldiers carry their experiences into old age, if they make it that far. There are brilliant antiwar books told from the warrior's POV. And books by observers, such as Red Badge of Courage and Dispatches, Michael Herr's wild book about life among the grunts in Vietnam (Herr got writing credits for Apocalypse Now and Full Metal Jacket). 

Just about every book I ever read could be fodder for the book banners. My non-authorized reading at my Catholic high school included three oft-banned novels that influenced me more than anything I read in class: Catch-22, Slaughterhouse-Five, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. They are now considered classics and are read in some high school classrooms when Know Nothings are not disappearing books like Dunbar. They were telling me a truth that I barely knew at 18, that the world is a strange and terrifying place. 

Humor, satire, and sci-fi are great vehicles for getting at the truth. I passed Catch-22 along to my Class of '69 pals and we laughed at the absurdities. The dead man in Yossarian's tent. Major Major Major's name. Orr's pastime of ditching his bomber into the ocean to practice for his escape from war. Hilarious. We only felt a small tremor of the earthquake beneath. We could have watched the absurdity of televised military reports from Vietnam. Body count, Vietnamization, destroy the village in order to save it. It was all right there in front of us but we didn't know. 

Reading good books gave us a bit of a head start on adulthood. Still, you have to live it to really know. You can be an absurdist and still be an engaged human. You can love satire but also fall in love. Humor makes the ride fun even when it's challenging. 

I'd have none of that without the reading.

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.

The universe of the heart is a strange and lonely place in "Bewilderment"

In Richard Powers' novel "Bewilderment," Theo Byrne’s nine-year-old son Robin may have ADHD or Asberger’s or is somewhere on the autism “spectrum.” He is suspended when he clocks a kid at school. He always says the wrong thing. Therapists try to convince Theo to put Robin on medication such as Ritalin or Concerta. Theo, an astrobiologist searching for the universe’s exoplanets, refuses to do so. He’s a single parent, his environmentalist wife Alyssa killed in a car wreck when she swerved to avoid a possum.

Father spends many hours hiking and camping with his son. Together, they travel to imaginary planets that Theo only knows through the signatures of critical elements picked up from thousands of light years away. Those are wonderful chapters, journeying to quirky planets that come right out of the scientific imagination. Their names include Stasis, Isola, and Tedia which, not surprisingly, reflect their namesakes of isolation, loneliness, and tedium. One planet doesn’t spin on its axis due to the pull of competing suns. The planet’s few living things can only exist in a narrow band of twilight because they would die from heat on one side or freeze to death on the other.

Theo the astrophysicist discusses various terms regarding the existence of life on other planets. The Fermi Paradox asks the question once asked by Enrico Fermi: Where are the aliens? Drake Equation measures the probability of exoplanets that support life long enough for intelligent beings to emerge. In the novel, Theo proposes other possibilities. No sentient lifeforms anywhere. Civilizations so far away that we would never meet them. Some posit the idea that there is intelligent life in the universe but those beings want nothing to do with us. So they are silent.

All of this returns to Theo’s struggle to understand his son and deal with the death of his wife. A colleague opens a research project that might have answer. It involves a kind of neurofeedback, the AI linking of a person with electronic energy created by others. Neurodivergent Robin becomes part of the study, linking up with some feedback loops his mother made when alive. He gradually gets a better grasp on his behavior and exceeds the researchers’ goals. But disappointment awaits -- and a surprise ending. Think “Flowers for Algernon” by Daniel Keyes. “Charly,” the movie based on the book, really got to me when I saw it in 1968.

Powers is a powerful writer and “Bewilderment” resonated with me for several reasons. This tale got real early on. My wife and I put our son with ADHD on Ritalin when he was five in 1990. I resisted. I couldn’t imagine my little dynamo on drugs. But he needed help. His working parents needed help. Directors of preschools and kindergarten teachers pushed us to go the medication route. Three decades later, I can still feel the pain. I had to stop reading Powers’ novel at some points because the author does such a great job of describing the pain of the bewildered parent.

“Bewilderment” also asks this question: Are we as alone in the universe as we are on Earth? The book says yes but also provides the reader with transcendent moments.

Still, loneliness may be as endemic to the universe as hydrogen and helium. We may never see intelligent lifeforms. If they exist, they are far away and the distances too great. We are early in the exploration stage. I will be stardust by the time humans leave our solar system for another.

Powers creates a world where the reader feels the weight of the universe and the weight of people’s attempts to know ourselves and our loved ones. I finished the book, sat back in my recliner, said “we are all alone,” and then grabbed a beer. I have family and friends, a wife and two grown children. They will miss me when I am gone. But the earth will keep spinning, a sunrise will be followed by a sunset. One generation will be replaced by another and another and another.

Today I am going to pretend that I am not alone. I will reach out to those important to me. What else can I do?

Saturday Morning Round-up: Snow arrives -- finally -- and "Stay Close" keeps you guessing

Saturday Morning Round-up:

I’ve been interviewing the recipients of the 2021 Governor’s Arts Awards. These are the awards given annually by the Wyoming Arts Council for "substantial contributions made in Wyoming that exemplify a long-term commitment to the arts," Recipients include intriguing artists and very interesting people running arts organizations. Sometimes the person running the arts org is an artist, That artist continues to make art while promoting the arts in their community. It’s a time-consuming task, one that pays very little. But real people keep doing it. Read the articles in the next issue of WAC Artscapes. 

Just finished watching the eight-episode Netflix series “Stay Close” from the novel by Harlan Coben. Kept my attention through all the twists and turns. Surprise ending. The murderer is a character I didn’t suspect. The series is set in an English town surrounded by lots of water which figures into the plot in ways major and minor. Coben’s novel, as are most of his works (including scripts for the "Fargo" series) is set in the U.S. It’s a funny thing to watch a murder thriller transplanted to England. It’s almost as if we don’t expect people to die gruesome deaths in the land of Downton Abbey, stiff upper lips, and way too much tea-drinking. It’s also the home of Jack the Ripper, Sweeney Todd and inventive ways to torture and kill those who have ruffled the king’s feathers. Its staid demeanor helps make throat-slitting and gang-style executions stand out. Some inventive killing goes on in “Stay Close.” Keeps you guessing. Watch it.

Jan. 6 marked the anniversary of the 2021 Capitol Insurrection. While the Democrats in Congress, the president, and TV hosts made a big deal out of it, Republicans were nowhere to be seen except on Fox and some loony right-wing outlets. For those of us in the reality-based world, the attack on the Capitol was an attack on democracy. Repubs don’t see it that way. A few do. Wyoming Rep. Liz Cheney does. Her pops too. They were the only GOPers that attended the Congressional prayer service on Thursday. I know, Dick Cheney to war criminal standing up for what’s right? It was rich in irony seeing his masked face. But Rep. Cheney is one of two Republicans serving on the Jan. 6 Commission. She’s also blasted Wyoming GOP leadership as deluded radicals leading the party down a dangerous path. I’m no fan of the Cheneys. But when people do the right thing, you have to thank them.

We’re finally getting some snow. November was almost snowless but we started catching up with the season on Christmas Eve and the ground is covered as I write this. Ski areas that delayed opening are now chest-deep in the stuff. I am closer to most Colorado ski areas than I am to Wyoming's Jackson Hole Mountain Resort. But JHMR reports some incredible snow amounts on its blog this morning:

As of January 8, since New Year's Day, we have received 63"! We received 42" in the last 48 hours. As of this morning, we received 24" in 24 hours. Total snowfall is now 240" on the year.

Damn. Most Colorado ski areas have received half of that. For the record, Cheyenne at 6,200 feet elevation receives about 60 inches of snow in an average year. Last year was one of extremes when we received half our total in one March blizzard. If we received 240 inches of snow, we would be digging tunnels to our cars and those tunnels would be pointless because the city would be waiting for the sun to come out for the its primary snow removal tactic. And waiting.

Get out there and vote while it's still permitted

A new year brings new challenges, such as how are we going to save our republic from the Trump Cult and The Big Lie? Voting is a good start. Getting involved in the process is another. I contemplate a return to serving as an election judge. Judges are trained, paid, and eat pretty well on election day as retired volunteers fortify workers with brownies, cookies, and assorted goodies. A pleasant way to spend a day.

BUT... service at a polling place may take on bigger risks in 2022. Trumpers continue to promote The Big Lie, that the 2020 election was stolen from Trump and Biden is not the real president. Reality-based Americans know this is BS but the lie continues. And state legislatures in red and contested states are working overtime to rig the election process. In Wyoming, voters must show a valid ID to vote. No big deal for most of us. I just went out to the county office at I-25 and College to renew my license and to get a new and awful photo of myself to take the place of the old awful photo. The clerk was nice enough to let me reject the first photo in favor of a second photo which made me look like an aging mobster which I am not. 

The ID, for better or worse, will let me vote. Newcomers may have a problem coming up with the proper documentation and may sit out the election. Voter intimidation is the Republicans' main tactic as they have no real platform of their own. Their main voter suppression targets are urban populations which include lots of liberal young people and voters of color. I live in the state's primary urban center and I am in neither of those categories. I am white, over-65, and cranky -- the penultimate Republican voter. But I'm a registered Democrat and plan to vote that way until my time expires.

Republicans regularly complain that dead Democrats vote but it has never been proven. I will be cremated thus my unearthly body will have no appendages to vote with. So there. 

A smaller voting pool works in favor of Republicans. Fewer people vote. That leads to right-wing loonies elected especially to our state legislature. We can expect a slate of bills this next session that will address such crucial topics as finding new ways to keep voters away from the polls, banning books from school libraries, prohibiting transgender women from competing in high school sports, ensuring that toddlers have the right to keep and bear arms, guaranteeing the sanctity of life unless you are an actual living person, shutting down any talk of Medicaid Expansion, quashing state employee pay and benefits, and making sure that coal will remain king until the whole world (except Wyoming) is underwater. Quite an agenda.

So Happy New Year. And get out and vote while it is still permitted. 

An email from President Joe Biden

Received a nice letter from President Joe Biden. It really was an e-mail in letter format with the White House logo as a header and Joe Biden's signature below. It was a fine letter, earnest and believable as is Pres. Biden. A stark contrast to the previous resident of the White House. He was neither. Then again, I never wrote to him. I thought it would be a pointless exercise and the response, if I got one, would also be a pointless exercise. I wish that T's four years in office had been a pointless exercise but it was a daily exercise in greed and cruelty, one not so easy to erase.

I can't find my email to Pres. Biden. I probably thanked him for signing the infrastructure bill. I would like to thank him for signing the Build Back Better Bill but I may never get that chance, thanks to one retro scaredy-cat DINO in West Virginia. I may have thanked the prez for his stalwart response to Covid-19. I really would like to thank him for zeroing out all student debt but that may not happen either. I do thank him for the payment moratorium until May 1. It is a lot more constructive that requesting another forbearance from NelNet or Unipac or one of the many student loan service companies that have ripped us off for decades. A forbearance allowed them to keep adding interest to a burgeoning principal which made the debt even larger but made millions for Nelnet, etc.

Here's the text of the president's email:

Dear Mr. Shay,

Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts with me.  Hearing from passionate individuals like you inspires me every day, and I welcome the opportunity to respond to your letter.

Our country faces many challenges, and the road we will travel together will be one of the most difficult in our history.  Despite these tough times, I have never been more optimistic for the future of America.  I believe we are better positioned than any country in the world to lead in the 21st century not just by the example of our power but by the power of our example.

While we may not always agree on how to solve every issue, I pledge to be a President for all Americans.  I am confident that we can work together to find common ground to make America a more just, prosperous, and secure Nation. 

As we move forward to address the complex issues of our time, I encourage you to remain an active participant in helping write the next great chapter of the American story.  We need your courage and dedication at this critical time, and we must meet this moment together as the United States of America.  If we do that, I believe that our best days still lie ahead.

Good stuff. I plan to keep in touch, "to remain an active participant in helping to write the next great chapter of the American story." You should do that too. 

Joan Didion and "Slouching Towards Bethlehem"

I was a bit shocked to find out that the Saturday Evening Post was still alive and celebrating its 200th anniversary. I know the Post from my youth, when it arrived in the mail with a new Norman Rockwell cover. My grandparents has copies of the Post and Life and Reader's Digest all over their houses. Required reading, and encouraging in an all-American sort of way. In 2021, for $15 a year, you can get six issues of the print magazine, a digital subscription and access to the online archive. I'd love to dig into the online archives -- that alone is worth the price. I will recognize many of the covers from the 1950s and 1960s. Display ads tout cigarettes, appliances, and shiny big cars made in Detroit.

I won't always recognize the articles. That was clear to me when Joan Didion's piece "Slouching Towards Bethlehem" appeared on Facebook with the news of Joan Didion's passing. It was a variety of journalism known as the long feature. She was among the coterie of American writers known for "new journalism" which blended reporting with fiction techniques. Some of you may know it as creative nonfiction or, in the case of Hunter S. Thompson, gonzo journalism. 

"Slouching Towards Bethlehem" was published during Didion's prime in June 1967 and republished by the Post in 2017. Didion dropped into the Haight-Ashbury scene on the cusp of the Summer of Love. The famous Human Be-in had been held in January at Golden Gate Park with lots of acid, hip speakers, and bands such as Jefferson Airplane and the Dead. Word about this Hippie Utopia spread and by summer, school was out and thousands of young people crowded into the city. Media, too, even Saturday Evening Post.

Didion, of course, was no TV talking head who dropped in to marvel and possibly be shocked at the ribald behavior. She was an incisive reporter who dug into the culture and found it wanting. She sets her tone with a quote from W.B. Yeats's poem "The Second Coming." Yeats' poem is much-admired for its stark symbols. It is also much abused. It employs Biblical Revelations-style symbols to warn humankind of what becomes of society's upheavals. He specifically addressed the Irish "Rising" of 1916 and its after-effects, which included a revolution and a civil war that involved much bloodshed. 

Didion's "Slouching Toward Bethlehem" records what she sees. Reading it now, I thank my Lucy in the Ski with Diamonds that I didn't bug out and go to the Haight. Sure, there was drugs, sex, and rock-n-roll, but also addiction, STDs, and poverty. Lots of teen runaways looking for adventure and a place to call home. I was 16, the age of some of the girls in Didion's piece. If I had read "Slouching Toward Bethlehem" in the summer of '67, it would have seemed as if it was happening in another world, which it was. My summer was spent in Daytona Beach. I surfed as much as I could. I worked evenings at the Village Inn Pancake House and KFC outlet. But I also had to help Mom with my eight brothers and sisters. My father was working at GE in Cincinnati. We thought we were going to follow him and move there as soon as we sold our house. My Father Lopez High School classmates even gave me and two of my peers a going-away party. They moved. I did not. We couldn't sell our house in a down market so Dad decided to accept a job at NASA in Daytona and forget about Cincinnati. Such good news. 

But what about the hippies and The Summer of Love? I thought the music was cool but was much more interested in the Motown sound. It was beach music, music to dance to at sock hops. I was keen on dating tourist girls from Kentucky and Georgia down in Daytona on family vacations, just itching to break away from Ma and Pa and meet some of the local hunks, or so we thought. The Catholic Church had ruled that underage sex was taboo and Catholic School girls were the first to take the edict seriously. But we boys didn't know anything either. That mutual ignorance was not a good thing. 

In Didion's essay, a five-year-old girl is high on acid. An older guy is turning a teen girl into addict and sex slave. Everyone is high. I've been on both sides of LSD, the experiencing and the observing. Have you ever been the only non-high person in a room full of acid heads? The experiencing can be fun. The observing, not so much. You might get the idea that this is cool and join them. Didion observed the scene and with a keen and sober eye described it to the world. She wasn't judgmental. She was known to have a good sense of chaos and what she saw was the "rough beast" that lurked within the frivolity. 

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; 

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, 

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere 

The ceremony of innocence is drowned; 

The best lack all conviction, while the worst 

Are full of passionate intensity.

Conservative institutions, such as the Catholic Church, along with cultural critics of the Right, blame the '60s for this blood-dimmed tide. There's a kernel of truth in that. 

I watched "Joan Didion: The Center Will Not Hold" last night on Netflix. A fine 2017 documentary by her nephew, director Griffin Dunne. I went to bed pondering what it takes to be a writer. Didion knew early on that's what she wanted to do. After college, she moved to NYC, worked for Vogue Magazine, met her future husband, also a writer, and spent her life illuminating the universal through the personal. She left a template that many writers have followed, some better than others.  

Mrs. P has a problem and needs some help

The opener for one of the stories in my collection, The Weight of a Body, now available as an e-book on Amazon. The story was inspired by a real incident, one that I've taken great care to turn into fiction. Poetry wiz and literary lion M.L. Liebler liked it enough to include it in the anthology, Working Words: Punching the Clock and Kicking Out the Jams, published by Coffee House Press. It features poetry, fiction, and nonfiction by and about America's working class. Contributors include Philip Levine, Diane di Prima, Willa Cather, Jack White, Quincy Troupe, Li-Young Lee and a host of others. Find a copy at your favorite bookstore. Read on...

The Problem with Mrs. P 

First problem: nobody was home to help. Not her two daughters, off to school. Not her husband Robbie, who hadn’t been home for weeks, probably right this minute at that whore Gloria’s house.

Second problem: she was seven months pregnant and bleeding like crazy. She pressed a cream-colored towel against her crotch; it bloomed with a red chrysanthemum of her own blood. She stood in the bathroom doorway, eyes sparking, knees shaking.

Third problem: her damn husband had the car. Not that she was in any shape to make the seven-mile drive into Cheyenne, a few more if you factored in the hospital which was downtown.

Fourth problem: the telephone was dead, thanks to Robbie not paying the bills like he was supposed to. She had her own cell phone with a few minutes still left on it. But it was downstairs on the kitchen table. Just the thought of negotiating the stairs brought a throbbing to her abdomen.

Fifth problem, or maybe it was the first: she and her baby boy might be dying.

To be continued...

In "Ridgeline," a Wyoming tale of Hubris vs. Nemesis

Casting about on the new book releases during the summer, I came across "Ridgeline," a new novel by Michael Punke. He's the author of "The Revenant," an historical novel about Hugh Glass, a bear attack in the wilderness, and Glass's long journey to get revenge to those in his hunting party who left him behind. Leonardo DiCaprio played Glass in the movie which did for grizzly bear attacks what Jaws did for swimming with sharks. Seemed like a realistic depiction of what was the western wilderness in the 1840s. 

In "Ridgeline," Punke tackles what's now called the Fetterman Fight at the foot of Wyoming's Bighorns. On Dec. 21, 1866, a contingent of warriors from Plains tribes, led by Crazy Horse and Red Cloud, lured a U.S. Cavalry contingent from their new fort and ambushed them. Indians died but so did Fetterman and his 81 troopers. Next Tuesday will mark the 155th anniversary of that day. The author depicts the battle so realistically that it's easy to feel the heat of battle on that first day of winter so long ago. Anyone who has visited Fort Phil Kearny, the Wagon Box Fight site, and any of these contested lands in what is now Johnson and Sheridan counties. At the end, I was able to revel in the Indians' victory while still feeling empathy for the soldiers. They were guilty of that classic trait of hubris. They considered the Indians ignorant savages and learned otherwise. Funny how history keeps repeating itself. 

I reviewed the book for WyoFile and you can read it at https://wyofile.com/punkes-new-novel-shines-light-on-fetterman-fight/. Punke is a Wyoming native who grew up in Torrington and served as a living history interpreter at Fort Laramie National Historic Site. He's a UW grad and served as a U.S. trade representative overseas before returning to the West and now lives in Missoula. 

Here's the review's opener:

A good historical novel should be a ripping yarn, one that keeps us turning pages long after bedtime. The writer makes this world so interesting that we want to dash off to the library or the Internet to find out more. The novel’s historical facts should also be solid. Nothing like sloppy research to ruin a good read.

It’s a lot to ask. And into this mix comes the red-hot topic of the year: Which history should we teach our kids? Conservatives wax apoplectic about the New York Times “1619 Project” and its stated goal to tell the real story about slavery. Many prefer the history we learned in fourth grade during simpler times, that America is the greatest nation on earth, by jiminy.

Enter Michael Punke’s new novel, “Ridgeline,” published by Henry Holt and Co. It’s a story about what is known as Red Cloud’s War, which began in 1866 along the Bozeman Trail in Wyoming’s Powder River Country. 

Humans -- can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em!

In the film "The Day the Earth Stood Still," versions one and two, an intergalactic diplomat comes to earth, tells humans they are a clear and present danger to the universe and must be destroyed. That gets put on hold once the space envoy experiences the kindness of its people. But it's only a temporary hold. As Michael Rennie (Klaatu) tells humankind at the end of the 1951 film: "Your choice is simple: join us and live in peace, or pursue your present course and face obliteration. We shall be waiting for your answer". Then he and his big-ass robot Gort fly off in their saucer. A similar warning is repeated by Keanu Reeves in the 2008 remake.

But in English author Matt Haig's 2013 novel, "The Humans," earthlings get still another chance. Hotshot Cambridge physicist Andrew Martin unlocks the secret of prime numbers, a discovery that will kick humanity's future into overdrive. The Vonnadorians find out about it and send an hitman from a galaxy far, far away to kill the scientist. Earthlings can't be trusted with big secrets, only small ones, such as nuclear fission and the formula for Kentucky Fried Chicken. If the prime number mystery gets solved and humankind experiences the Great Leap Forward, the universe is doomed. The Vonnadorians are an advanced peaceful race and kill only when necessary, much like Gort does when threatened by the U.S. Army. The alien replaces the scientist in his body. Also, he must eliminate anyone who knew anything about the discovery. That includes Martin's colleagues, beautiful wife, and troubled son.

At first, Martin thinks of the humans as hideous with grotesque features and habits. The more time he spends with them, the more he finds to appreciate: their dog Newton, Emily Dickinson's poetry, songs by David Bowie and the Beach Boys, love, and wine. Through his eyes, the reader gets a chance to see the world anew. It's funny at first -- must humans wear clothes? -- but grows more serious as Martin the Alien abandons his quest and goes over to the other side. There's a hefty Godfather-style price to pay and I won't spoil it by spooling it out in detail.

It's a wonderful novel. I was ready for something humorous and hopeful after reading a series of serious books. Make no mistake -- this is as serious as it gets. Who are we and why do we do what we do? 

Klaatu barada nikto! 

Klaatu issues these orders to Gort. As a kid, I thought it meant "If anything happens to me, kill the human scum." It really meant "if anything happens to me, come and retrieve me and I will decide what to do next." Gort does his duty and Klaatu is freed to issue his warming to Earth. Then they fly off.

Martin the Alien receives telepathic orders from Vonnadoria. He does eliminate the scientist's collaborator. It's just a simple matter of putting his hand on him to make his heart stop. In his left hand are "the gifts," those powers that allow him to travel and communicate vast distances, speak with animals, and accomplish his mission. He briefly contemplates killing the annoying teen son, Gulliver, but saves his life instead. He befriends the dog and takes a liking to Mrs. Martin. Then all hell breaks loose.

Haig caused this reader to look anew at my humanity. Strange creatures we are. Loveable and awful. But it's all we got. For now.

"The Weight of a Body" can be measured in stories

Opening of the first story in my collection, "The Weight of the Body," now available as an Amazon e-book. 

Roadkill

The shapes grew out of the smoke and fog -- three pronghorn antelope, running hard. Matthew Kincannon mashed the car’s brakes and swung the wheel hard left. He missed the first two, collided with the third on its white-tufted rump which rose like a balloon before its rear legs smacked the windshield, its hooves scraping the glass like sharpened fists.

Kincannon wrestled the car to a stop on the wrong side of the state highway. He had a vision of a huge logging truck red-balling down the road, smashing him like he’d smashed the antelope. Tapping the gas, he swerved back into the north-bound lane, and eased his car to a stop on the road’s shoulder.

Read more...

Welcome to e-book land w/update

Friend and writing colleague Liz Roadifer is my mentor to the e-book world.

She has formatted five of her titles and they are featured on Amazon. To access, write Liz's name in the Universe of Amazon search box and there you are. The books are in five different categories: suspense, fantasy and young adult. I have read them all in manuscript form because Liz and I are members of a local critique group, Cheyenne Area Writers Group or CAWG. You won't find a listing for us on or off the Internet. We're not so much a secret organization as a nondescript one. Members are five now and we meet via Zoom every two weeks to critique one another's fiction projects. Members have come and gone over the past 20 years. But all of us, past and present, are published thanks in part to the good graces and fine eyes of CAWGers.

Most of my colleagues write what's labeled as genre fiction, a category MFAers are taught to loathe. Silly MFA programs. I wrote a suspense novel back in the day which never sold even though I had an agent I met at a writing conference. It taught me a lot mainly that I wanted to be a better writer. So I left the corporate world for the academy and the rest is history. I now write better than I did in my 20s and 30s. How much of that is due to maturity and voracious reading and how much is due to writing workshops is hard to say. Let's say 50/50. 

So here I am, formatting my first book of stories for Kindle Direct Publishing. Rights for the book reverted back to me after my press folded. I have a few print copies flitting about but have resisted the e-book world. I have written another book of stories and a novel, still unpublished. I am putting them all online. I've been writing on Blogger for 16 years, having signed up on a whim in 2001. I've posted almost 3,600 blogs. I used to be part of Blogger's AdSense program but never made any money. It requires you to have ads on your site and I found some disturbing and others stupid. 

So now I am signing on to the largest corporation in the known universe, the people who gave us spaceships, delivery drones, and free shipping. The KDP program is easy to learn and widens the audience. What's not to like? I'm almost finished with the formatting stage and ready to release it into KDP's care. It would be wrapping it up right this very minute but I am blogging instead. I spend too much time on my blog but it does give me a platform for promotion that not everyone has. Platform, of course, is the thing that all writers must have these days. Writers you see on TV usually have a platform or they wouldn't be on TV. I saw an interview with George Saunders on Stephen Colbert a few years ago and went out and bought "Lincoln in the Bardo" and his wild story collection, "CivilWarLand in Bad Decline." I love those stories. It was fantastic to see a real author on the airwaves. We need more of that.

So back to e-booking. Kudos to Liz for her persistence and patience. The book should be available soon, just in time for Christmas and the next Covid lockdown. 

UPDATE 12/6/21: "The Weight of a Body" Kindle edition now available on Amazon.

In Memoriam: Stevon Lucero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

R.I.P. Stevon.

Just what are the origins of that tuna casserole my Mom used to make?

CBS Sunday Morning was all about food and drink. An historic Mexican cafe in San Bernardino, a Yemini coffee speakeasy, the origin of Ranch dressing, the rise and fall of NYC Automats, the art of making Italian Orecchiette pasta, the refined tongues of taste testers, and so on.

It caused me to think about my food traditions. I have none. I cook Mexican enchiladas, Asian stir-fry, Kansas City-style barbecue, U.S.-style Thanksgiving dinner. Typical American diet, right -- a sampler of cuisine from elsewhere. Or a smorgasbord, a Swedish type of cafeteria that was a thing back in the 1950s. Because Americans come from everywhere, so does our food. 

I should have Irish-American foodways. If only I knew what those were. Corned beef and cabbage? Irish oatmeal? Irish Stew? Rashers? Soda bread? Guinness-infused desserts? Irish coffee? 

No idea. My mother passed along recipes for Jello molds and tuna casserole. My father made his Scots-Irish mother's spaghetti and meatballs. One could live off of that I suppose, but would you want to?

The anti-tuna-casserole stance involves a bit of food snobbery. I began to think of my Mom in the kitchen, faced with the hungry stares of her many children, and I realized that a couple cans of tuna, a can of cream of mushroom soup, a dash of milk, and a handful of corn flakes for crunchiness made dinner for eight for a few bucks. All she needed was a can opener and a stove (no microwaves yet). Many "homemakers" of the 1950s faced the same challenge. Bless you Mom. Sorry I made such a fuss. 

I Googled tuna casserole recipes and there are thousands. Still. Heather Arndt Anderson wrote a witty "Brief History of the Tuna Casserole" for Taste Magazine. In it, she traces the origins of the dish to a traditional German noodles and fish casserole. The first recipes in the U.S. show up in the 1930s. It started in the Pacific Northwest and then migrated to Middle America. Modern conveniences such as COMS and canned Charley the Tuna was all that was needed to feed hungry groups of fledgling Baby Boomers. That led eventually to Tuna Helper and a recipe for tuna casserole that's "not for wimps." 

As an American, I come from nowhere and I leave no food traditions for my offspring. A sad state of affairs. My daughter Annie will help me cook Thanksgiving dinner. The recipe is a 16-pound roasted turkey, mashed potatoes and turkey gravy, stuffing, green bean casserole, and pumpkin pie. I bought cranberry sauce but use it on my turkey sandwiches. I like sweet potatoes but the family does not. I have a childhood memory of my Aunt Ellen's sweet potato casserole topped with marshmallows. It was a revelation -- marshmallows on taters? What wondrous world is this? I brought the recipe home to my mom but she never made it. I never have either. 

My parents and my wife's parents were meat and potato people. Who could blame them? Growing up in the 1930s, they were lucky to eat regularly. The Depression cast a pall on my parents' generation. That's why food companies found a willing populace for beef roasts, hamburgers, hot dogs, and, eventually, TV dinners. What miracle is this, an entire meal in an aluminum tray? Mystery meat, whipped potatoes, green beans, and an apple crisp dessert hot enough to burn away the roof of your mouth. We loved them. Mostly, though, we lived on casseroles, macaroni/cheese, hot dogs and burgers. Cereal for breakfast. Baloney sandwiches for lunch. 

I continue these non-traditions. Sure, I try new things from other cultures but keep returning to the tried-and-true. We eat a lot of stews and chilis in the cold months, many kinds of salads in the summer. But if I was asked about traditional foods, I would draw a blank. Why do I cook chicken on the gas grill? Why do I use a certain marinade? When I make Irish stew, how Irish is it really? Research shows that stew is a catch-all for whatever you have around the house. Hobos cook Irish stew from veggies they scrounge in the fields. Who invented the chili  make and why? I cook Italian sausages made in Boulder, Colorado. How Italian are they anyway? The Tex-Mex dishes I make are not the same ones you find in El Paso and Mexico City. I do not like corned beef and cabbage and have no ideas about its origins. The most Irish thing I imbibe is beer, usually stouts like Guinness which is made in Dublin and now in a Baltimore brewery. 

Now I'm rambling. But the same question remains: what am I eating and why? One of the reports on CBS today was about the rise of plant-based diets. Vegan and vegetarian restaurants have been a thing for awhile but there's a rise in popularity. You can assemble a vegan meal at most restaurants in Cheyenne but there isn't an all-vegan one. Closest WYO vegetarian restaurant is Sweet Melissa's in Laramie and quite a few in Fort Collins.

I do not want to go vegan but I do grow vegetables and eat them. Fruits, too, but all of mine comes from Colorado, California, and Texas. I eat less red meat but I eat a lot of chicken. There's a company called Daring Foods making veggie-based chicken and I plan to try it if I can find it in Wyoming stores. Tabitha Brown grew up in the meatcentric South but now is vegan and wrote a vegan cookbook, "Feeding the Soul." Her reasons for changing her diet is to stop chronic pan and fatigue. A very good reason. My heart condition makes it crucial to cut down on bad cholesterol and its tendency to cause inflammation that upsets the heart. 

My goal is modest. Replace a few meat-based meals with plant-based. Some practice Meatless Mondays which sounds reasonable. Alliterative, too. I also want to track the origins of the food I eat. I like to lose myself in the maze of research. It's habit-forming. Like bacon.

India press picks up Ken Waldman's first novel

I received a head's up notice from friend and traveling writer/performer Ken Waldman. He has a new Kickstarter project for his 20th book, a first novel, "Now Entering Alaska Time." I will contribute, as I usually do, because Ken is a good guy and he always finds new and interesting ways to get his work into print. He also has been a burr under the very large saddle of Donald Trump since Inauguration Day, 2017. He is eight volumes into his "Trump Sonnets" series. Other writers have plagued Trump with poetry but none quite like Ken. See a sample and some performance videos here. 

As I wrote in 2019, the books are shelved in my presidential library. Ridgeway Press in Roseville, Michigan, printed all of the Trump Sonnets titles. 

What will future generations make of them and us?

Ken's novel is being published by Cyberwit.net Press located in Prayagraj in India. I checked out its web site and the press boasts a big stable of writers from all over the world. As far as I know, Ken has not yet traveled in India. But soon will, I expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two Chicano artists from Wyoming tell their stories at Meow Wolf Denver

There's a story here.

That's what I said to myself when I found out that two Chicano artists with Wyoming roots were charged with installing their artwork in the trippy Meow Wolf Denver.

WyoFile agreed and published it today. Go read it here.

Adrian H. Molina (a.k.a. Molina Speaks) is "an artist, performer, master of ceremonies, and human bridge." He grew up in Rawlins, earned his undergrad and law degrees at UW, and then departed to Denver to pursue not law but art.

Visual artist Stevon Lucero grew up in Laramie, attended UW and, in 1976 departed for Denver with his young family in tow.

The two artists are members of the burgeoning Denver Latino arts community. They still maintain ties with Wyoming but their careers now radiate from the big city to the south.

Two more members of what Grady Kirkpatrick on Wyoming Public Radio refers to as "the Greater Wyoming Diaspora." Young people grow up here, attend UW, and then depart for greener pastures. Cities are magnets for creative people where they find encouragement and audiences. Disappointment, too, as artists from rural communities find they are competing with scores of equally talented people. That may beat them down or it may challenge them to excel. One never knows.

I've worked in the Wyoming arts scene for 30 years. Creativity prospers in the expected places and ones that surprise you. Sometimes artists become part of the Wyoming diaspora but you can see the place's influence in their work. That's true of Lucero's paintings at Meow Wolf inspired by lucid dreaming about an oddball Wyoming landmark. 

Meow Wolf Denver opened Sept. 17. Some interesting articles about it have appeared. Here's one. Molina is quoted therein. 

GoFundMe for my brother, Tim Shay

My brother Tim the postman/father/grandfather is undergoing radiation treatments at the Mayo Clinic Hospital in Jacksonville, Fla. The docs successfully operated on Tim a few years ago to remove a non-cancerous brain tumor. It grew back, this time with an unwelcome surprise of "atypical cells." Tim's large family depended on his paycheck but now he's on disability and things are a bit tight. If you've a mind to, please contribute to our family's GoFundMe site

I pray for Tim daily and keep sending him goofy cards to lift his spirits. 

Weekend Round-up: Wolf says Meow, gigantic garden seed pods, and Notre Dame Cathedral visits the West

The garden has been winterized and the bulbs are in the ground. A pretty good year for tomatoes and Purple Podded Pole Beans, which I keep getting from the library's seed library because I like the name. Sounds like a crop a Martian might grow. The vines took over my container garden. Not tasty raw but can grow to incredible lengths because the beans blend in with the purple stems. There are some big ones, too. Not "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" big, but they're scary. The bigger they are, the tougher they are. Tomato varieties: Gold Nugget and Baxter's Early Bush Cherries. 

Mystery foliage still thrives in my big front yard flower pot. Looks like parsley but at first I thought cilantro since I was throwing around cilantro seeds in the spring. I used Plant ID but came up with nothing. I'll take some leaves into the Botanic Gardens and ask the experts. 

My two crabapple trees seem to be taking hold. Planted by Rooted in Cheyenne in August, they're six-feet tall and the leaves are dropping with the seasons. Must remember to water them on a regular basis. Weather Channel has mega-storms hitting the West Coast but whether the moisture makes its way to the Interior West is yet to be seen. Forecast calls for hurricane-force winds and giant waves on the Washington coast and up to eight inches of rain in California and multiple feet of snow in the Sierras. Pray for snow! Fortunately, Halloween is nigh and we all know what Halloween usually looks like around here.

I finished an article for WyoFile this week and it should appear online mid-week. It features two Wyoming-bred artists now living in Denver who highlight their work at the new Meow Wolf Denver. The four-story art outpost, wedged between I-25 and Colfax Avenue, opened Sept, 17. More than 300 artists contributed to the immersive art exhibit called Convergence Station, “the convergence of four different dimensions.” Haven't seen it in person yet but traveled there virtually through the imaginations of the artists. Look for my byline this week.

I just read "The Lincoln Highway" by Amor Towles. Color me clueless but I had never heard of this writer who has written many books. I will read more now that I blew through the latest on Kindle. The title attracted me. I live along the Lincoln Highway which was Hwy. 30 until it was swallowed up by I-80. I've researched the origins of America's first transcontinental highway for my novel. Fascinating stuff. Billy, an eight-year-old Nebraska boy in Towles novel, is fascinated by it and wants to travel it. But wanting to travel it in 1954 as Kerouac did just a few years earlier is tougher than it seems and launches his 400-page adventure. Great read. 

I'm also reading the new book of poetry by Betsy Bernfeld of Jackson and Laramie. Betsy is not only an accomplished poet but also an attorney and former librarian. I still treasure the tour of the old Jackson library Betsy led me on when I first came to work at the Wyoming Arts Council. That was the old log cabin library that smelled of wood. The new library is a work of art. I visit it every time I'm in Teton County. Betsy's book, "The Cathedral is Burning," was published by the fine Finishing Line Press in Lexington, Kentucky. It's one of the small presses that keeps literature alive in the U.S. and around the world. The book's cover features "The Mothers: Las Madres Project. No Mas Lagrimas, a public artwork about migrants in the Arizona desert at Pima Community College in Tucson. 

The other day I was thinking: how come there aren't more movies about poets? There are a few big names who have made it to the screen: Dante Alighieri, Allen Ginsberg, Shakespeare, Sylvia Plath, Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, Emily Dickinson. That's a pretty good start. 

Surfing the streaming channels, I came across a film on Netflix about John Keats. I know Keats as a suffering English poet of the Late Romantic Period who died young at 25. He excelled at odes -- you don't see to many of those these days. "Ode to a Nightingale," "Ode on a Grecian Urn," etc. I wasn't familiar with "Bright Star," a poem that speaks of mortality and youthful love. It's a beautiful poem that became the title of Jane Campion's movie, "Bright Star." Set in 1819 in a rural area just outside London, it tells the tale of a morose Keats and Fanny Brawne, a lively young woman was makes her own clothes and loves to dance. She is smitten with the scrawny poet. He eventually is smitten enough to write her several poems. His consumption gets supercharged after a night out in the rain. 

It's all over but the suffering. 

Thing is, Keats is doomed but the film is about Fanny's lovesickness. She is obsessed with Keats and she gets little in return. When he travels to London, she's in bed for five days, asking her mother why love hurts so bad. I kept hearing Nazareth's "Love Hurts" in my head. But her infatuation puts any pop song's lyrics to shame. She is physically ill when Keats goes to Rome to heal and won't take her along. She is torn asunder when word reaches her about the poet's death. They weren't married but were only informally engaged because her mother won't consent because she thinks her daughter is tetched and "people are talking." In mourning, she makes her own widow's weeds, cuts off her hair, and walks the heath for six years reciting her man's poems. That is worth a collection of odes right there. So sad to see her walking the heath reciting "Bright Star." She eventually marries and has three children but her future is also tied to Keats' gathering fame. 

Today I read a batch of Keats' poems and they are impressive. I also read some criticism that followed Keats post-mortem. I've always been more taken with Wordsworth and Coleridge and Blake of the Early Romantic Period. Later, Shelley was pretty cool although his wife was more cool. Lord Byron dies the true Romantic's death when he leaves poesy to fight a war that had nothing to do with him. Strange thing is, it seems as if Keats has a stronger legacy as the suffering creative genius. He was poor and unknown in his time. But the poet who suffers is still with us. And the poet's betrothed is the one whose suffering I felt most. 

Where does one get Micro Kale and Wasabi Arugula in the midst of ski season?

We move our lives indoors as frost and snow shuts down another outdoor growing season in Cheyenne. Yesterday, I plucked all of my tomatoes and brought them inside to finish ripening. I found some purple pod beans lurking in the foliage. I snipped off my basil, oregano, and rosemary and stored them in the freezer. I'll use them in sauces throughout the winter. 

This is usually a somber day for me. Winter is coming! October through March is when I spend more time thinking about gardening than actually gardening. What grew well this year and what am I going to tackle in 2022? Thing is, much growing has moved inside. Locals have built small backyard greenhouses. Some of us take advantage of big south-facing windows to continue the process during the dreary months, just as our rooftop solar panels reach out to the sun dipping into the southern latitudes.

Just read an Inc. Magazine article about vertical farming operations around the U.S. Former industrial sites in New Jersey and Pennsylvania have been transformed into hydroponic farms. Vertical Harvest in Jackson grows greens and tomatoes year-round in its three-story farm built on a strip of land adjacent to the city parking garage. Teton County visionaries found this unused bit of land, a rarity in Jackson, and then planned, funded, and built VH. Now, according to the Inc. article, it's going nationwide with facilities planned for Westbrook, Maine, and North Philadelphia, Penn. VH's mission from its early days was to employ people with developmental disabilities, which they are doing, a mission VH promotes on its packaged produce: "Sustainably produced by community members with different abilities." 

This fascinates me. I am a gardener and cook. My daughter has "different abilities." I volunteer at the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens. Botany is not my trade -- writing is -- but I've always been interested in growing things. I'm moderately tech-savvy but am intrigued with ways that tech can change ways we grow our food. Computers, efficient L.E.D. lights, and robotics are feeding what Inc. calls "the future of the $5 trillion agriculture industry." Outdoor gardening has its thrills but also drawbacks in hail, pests, and diseases. So-called urban farming impacts all of this. It also addresses climate change variables: hurricanes, deluges, drought, massive wildfires. In southeast Wyoming, we look forward to this week's snow because the summer and early fall have been so dry. Meanwhile, Northern Italy last week was swamped with almost 30 inches of rain in a 12-hour storm. 

The Inc. article wraps with mention of a book by botanist Stefano Mancuso, "The Revolutionary Genius of Plants." Mancuso posits that not only have humans been nurturing plants for some 10,000 years, but "plants have brought us along on their evolutionary journey, employing us as a means of transportation." Now we bring them inside, away from most of their pests and plagues, and refine them along the way. A photo in the article shows Irving Fain, Bowery Farms founder, behind a crop of wasabi arugula. Some diners already consider arugula pungent, but a wasabi mix? Holy moly. Some crops are brand new and some are being resurrected from the dustbin of history. 

Tech and business brainiacs are in the mix with Micro Kale and Beet Greens. Lots of start-up dough is going into these projects. "Geeks and quants" are involved, says Inc., and I think I know a geek when I see one but a quant? That's what the Internet is for. According to Investopedia, it comes from "quantitative (quant) trading" which "involves the use of algorithms and programs to identify and capitalize on available trading opportunities." Quants do this. They read pubs such as Poets and Quants which, as far as I can tell, has more to do with the latter than the former. Bowery's Fain might be a quant as he says this: "The question for me is, can tech generate scalable opportunities and an exponential increase in outcomes." 

It's a good question. There's another way to put it:

Salad on table/Where to find arugula/That inflames the tongue

Just asking for a poet friend.

Book banning in Gillette: A Wyoming story

The American Library Association wrapped up Banned Books Week and now there are no banned books in the land.

Wishful thinking. Know Nothings keep intruding into our book-reading lives. The most recent and newsworthy attempt comes from Gillette in Campbell County. The first salvo came when a few crackpots decided that the library should disinvite an LGBTQ author slated to give a children's workshop. The library received threats. The author received threats. For safety's sake, the author cancelled her appearance and the library moved on to other things. That included fielding challenges for various books, most with LGBTQ subject matter. As staff sorted through the complaints from a cabal of Christian Nationalist zealots, they celebrated Banned Books Week. The county commission held a hearing in which the following exchange occurred (as noted in an Oct. 4 Casper Star-Trib article):

On Sept. 27, during a meeting between the library board and commissioners, Commissioner Del Shelstad suggested cutting the library’s funding.

He said the library shouldn’t come asking the county for more money because in his opinion, “we shouldn’t fund you at all.”

Commissioner D.G. Reardon, who had called into the meeting, asked if he’d heard Shelstad correctly, and if Shelstad meant he wanted to close down the library.

Shelstad said he wanted to cut funding to the library, and ”if that means closing it, then we close it.”

Shelstad received a salvo of complaints and a few days later he back-tracked, sort of:

“I didn’t mean 100% of their funding,” he said. “I said cut their funding. That comes in a lot of shapes and sizes.”

A threat is a threat. He obviously supports and/or is threatened by the naysayers in the county. We know who those people are. Trumpsters. People who go to extremes to “own the libs.” The see any diversity initiative as a threat to their ignorance, which it is. There is a voting bloc of these people and their influence is felt every day at the library, in the media, county commission meetings, and at the polls.

Gillette parent Matt Heath, who spoke up for the library at the commission meeting, summed it up: "hypocrites and bullies need to be stood up against."

Amen, brother. These dogged bullies have always been with us. Trump unleashed them. It is too much to hope they go back into their hidey-holes. We must out-vote and out-talk them. Support your local library. Read a banned book today. And vote, as our complacency as people who value democratic principles have allowed this to happen. Far-right politicians and legislative bodies continue to suppress voting rights and gerrymander the hell out of our states. Misinformation spreads freely.

So get out there, go do that voodoo that you do so well. 

Custer's ghost asks: Where have all the flowers gone?

Last week, the Wyoming Public Media page featured an article by Kamila Kudelska about a new book, Wyoming History in Art, compiled by the Wyoming State Historical Society. The book showcases paintings by Osage, Wyo., native Dave Paulley, who passed away in 2020. The paintings were commissioned in 1989 to celebrate the state's centennial. Historian Jeremy Johnston wrote the narratives that accompany the paintings. To buy a book, send an email to linda@wyshs.org

The WPM feature story showed one of the paintings, "Custer's Troops in Floral Valley, 1874." It shows troopers picking flowers and making bouquets. In the background, a wagon train rolls. At first, I thought it was a fanciful scene. "How interesting. The troopers killed at the Little Bighorn are picking flowers." I thought it might be some metaphor to what was to come two years later in another valley.

I hadn't yet read the book so I didn't know that it was a recreation of an historical scene. The soldiers are some of the 1,000-some that made up Custer's Black Hills Expedition. More than 100 wagons hauled supplies from Fort Abraham Lincoln near present-day Bismarck, N.D., down through northeast Wyoming and into the Black Hills. They encountered a flowered valley along the way. After weeks of barreling through the treeless plains of N.D., they were entranced by the wildflowers and stopped to pick them, make bouquets, and fashion wreaths for their mounts. 

I've lived in Wyoming 30 years and never heard this wonderful story. History is so filled with oddities. We see the echoes of those events down through our times. Custer was charged with exploring the area that hadn't yet been properly mapped by white folks. As an aside, Pres. Grant's staff mentioned that if he finds any gold, be sure to let The Great White Father know before telling anyone else.

Custer found gold among the wildflowers and all hell broke loose. A gold rush commenced and lands sacred to Lakota and other Plains tribes were invaded by rough men with demonic gleams in their eyes. Treaties had insured that the Black Hills wound remain in Indian hands. The Plains War erupted in earnest. It led to the pillaging of the Black Hills and the enmity of the tribes. Some 200 of the flower gatherers followed Custer into an ambush at what Native Americans call the Battle of Greasy Grass. 

It eventually led to the killing and atrocities that culminated at Wounded Knee. And the beat goes on.

The painting deserved a poem. So I wrote one, a prose poem. It was be a prose poem or it may be flash fiction. There doesn't seem to be a clear dividing line and maybe that's a good thing. 

Custer Botanicals

Custer’s Troops in Floral Valley, July 1874. It’s beautiful this painting by David Paulley. Oil on canvas, 24 by 16 inches. Mounted troopers on the Black Hill Expedition pick wildflowers under an azure sky of a Dakota Territory summer. A bearded trooper on a black horse clutches a bouquet of Goldenrod, Blackeyed Susan, blue flax. He looks behind him, over his bedroll, sees his young love back home run to him through Floral Valley. She wears a yellow dress, looks just as she did when her lover left for the West’s Indian Wars. She wants to send him away with a final kiss. She smiles, tears streak her skin. The sun dodges behind a cloud and when it reappears two years on, his love’s shining face is replaced by the paint-streaked dusk of a Lakota Sioux warrior. He wields a stone war club and runs to the fight. A revolver replaces the flowers in the soldier’s hand. The warrior charges. The soldier fires. The warrior falls, face pressed into the field of mashed flowers. The soldier looks up and more Lakota and Cheyenne and Arapaho charge him. They scream. Why are they screaming? Seemed like only moments ago he picked flowers in a valley, surrounded by fellow flower-mad troopers. In the distance, wagons rolled north, loaded with guns and butter, trinkets and liquor to becalm the natives. “It was a strange sight,” Custer reported to Congress in 1875, “my men with beautiful bouquets in their hands, while the head-gear of the horses was decorated with wreaths of flowers fit to crown the queen of May.” In Montana, 2021, Custer’s soldiers lie beneath the prairie, reach out for the roots of tickseed and yarrow, sunflower and beardtongue. Tell us your flower secrets. Tell us what it feels like among the bees and butterflies and sweet summer rain. Let us hold you again, wreathe our horses with you, inhale the blossoms of Floral Valley on this slow march to Valhalla.