The New Guy at the CrowMac Creek Chronicle

       

         Howard sat down at the desk, moved some pens around, tore a page from a tablet, and then looked at me.
“You’ve been missing around here.” Howard scanned my face, then continued. “A lot has been happening here and you have been missing in action.” Howard stopped, stood and turned so that he could look out the window. He seemed to be drawn away from his conversation with me, and did not speak.
After a lengthy silence, Howard announced, “Isaiah and Michael left the paper.”
“What happened, Boss?” I had known that Howard had given them an assignment where Michael and Isaiah would address an issue from two sides, Michael from the left and Isaiah from the right.”
I could guess what had happened. Though Michael was a moderate, he still wouldn’t be able to discuss many of the hot issues that have been tearing our country apart. I had never been at the Chronicle when Isaiah and Michael were discussing their assignment, but I knew it would be an explosive environment.
“Michael met with Isaiah in his office to discuss, not only the issue, but what would be needed to steer a course toward reconciliation. At first there was discussion, but that discussion turned loud, then ugly with Isaiah screaming. Michael broke away and out of Isaiah’s office and into mine. Then he quit the paper.
Howard looked to me to see if I was following.
“What did you do then?”
“Well, I’d have enough of Isaiah and his bent anyway. Michael was not the first person who had been the target of Isaiah’s wrath, and the other employees were beginning to enter into verbal jousting as well. That had to stop, so I fired Isaiah.”
I just sat there mesmerized by what Howard was telling me, but my thoughts returned to what Howard was going to do with me after my dereliction of my duties, and Howard returned to that too.
Howard picked up his note tablet and placed it back on the desk, then he moved his pencil and pen so that they gave the look of balance to his desk. Then he looked at me.
“You’ve been AWOL for the last few months. No one heard of you, about you or from you, and that leaves you lacking in professionality. I know that I won’t be able to rely on you to get anything done, and that’s a problem for me.” He looked to me to assure himself that I was listening. “But,” he continued, “I got to thinking about running with you in Cross Country. I wasn’t as good as you. You were always winning, or at least finishing in the money. I never placed any better that fourth. But without me, Nick Miccio, or Frank Love, we would have never won a race.
I struggled with what he was saying and wished that he’d get to the point.
“This paper is very much a team, and you for all of the grief you’ve given me, are a valuable part of the team. I want you to continue to write, and continue being an advocate for improved writing in schools. At the same time, much of what you write is interesting, and well thought out. There is a fledgling market for the CrowMac Creek Stories you write, and I want you to continue with that. So I have decided to make you an editor for the paper. I did fill your position with another writer though, a new person in town. He says he knows you. You want to meet him?”
“Sure!” I felt great. The stress that had built up in me had subsided and now the curiosity of who Howard had hired as the new Entertainment and Events Reporter had grown to take its place.
Howard knocked on an office door and then threw it open. The person sitting at the desk was Gary Heil.

Back To Work At The Chronicle.

It’s been hot here is CrowMac Creek. The temperature peaked at 96 humid degrees and the sky was unusually overcast. The previous high of 90 degrees occurred in 1995. I have to admit that I’ve been grumbling to anyone who will listen about the warming trend, and that I’m angry about what our politicians are doing about it, which is nothing. But in CrowMac Creek, there are many who still do not believe that humans have anything to do with this, and they grumble more loudly than I can, so as it is said, the 
I started my day, as usual, walking Cheyenne. When I got off the roads, I unleashed her, and she  bounded up the trail, down the trail, and then, busting through the brush, she found that old skunk who responded by giving her a good shot. She ran back wildly, snorting and pushing her snout through the sand and dust.
I let her know just how I felt, which was just the same as in the past. On went the leash, and we didn’t communicate the rest of the walk. There was no fetch, no stick, nothing, and as in the past, she was broken hearted. When we arrived back at the cabin, I tied her to an outside faucet, sprayed her down, rubbed in some detergent soap, and rinsed her. She was ashamed and she hung her head, dropped her and it moved just enough to indicate it was still attached. I worked on her, but that gooey brown skunk spray remained. I tried tomato juice, but no dice.  I brought out the Arm & Hammer baking soda, which helped, but not enough. She was therefor held in solitary confinement on the porch the remainder of the day.
After that fiasco, I was a mess. I smelled my hands and I smelled skunky. I repeated everything I had done with Cheyenne with the same effect, but I had an appointment with Howard at the CrowMac Creek Chronicle, and I needed to leave, so I gave up, hopped into the cab of my old Nissan truck and took off.
  I was nervous about seeing Howard again. I knew that our longtime friendship had helped in the past when I had been derelict in my responsibility, but it has been months since I had checked into the Chronicle and I was nervous.
As I walked through the door, I noticed that I could smell myself, and as I traveled up the aisle to Howard’s office, I noticed others could too.
Howard stood menacingly in the doorway to his office stepping back only to allow me in. He closed the door, directed me to the chair, walked back behind his desk and sat. He looked directly at me in a way I had not seen before and stated, “Cheyenne found that old skunk again!”

CrowMac Creek and Summer’s End

Ever since Gary arrived in CrowMac Creek, I have been overwhelmed with friends wanting to visit, and I am very happy to have the company. There are so may things to do around here. We can head up the Mogollon Rim for hikes to overlooks, drive to Strawberry for a nights of entertainment, or even to the Natural Bridge just south of here. Sometimes I wish my father had purchased a larger cabin for my mother, but this is my home and it always will be.

       This is a story, very much fiction, but a happy tale about Gary coming to CrowMac Creek. All family and friends of Gary are invited to visit and to leave their thoughts. I will, as long as I can, share news and events of Gary and others at CrowMac Creek. In CrowMac Creek, anything is possible.

Magic At CrowMac Creek

It was in mid July of 2018 that Jim Haynes sent a messenger text to me informing me that Gary Heil had passed away. The immediate feeling of sorrow washed over me like a wave, and I knew that a large part of my life had been lost in its sweep. I couldn’t have been more shocked, as after countless unsuccessful attempts of finding him, he finally showed up on Facebook. I had shared some posts with him, and he had responded with hearts and thumbs up icons, but that was all that I had seen.
Then, two days ago, Gary Heil showed up at the cabin, and I’m sure I saw him, saw something, I’m not sure which. My thoughts were reluctant and I just watched whoever it was walk up to the porch. Now his appearance at my porch defied any type of logic.
It was Gary, but a much younger Gary, and when I pushed him a little for an explanation, he just said, “Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated, and he laughed.”
At that, I stared at him for a moment, and not finding the words for any further interrogation, I flatly stated, “Thank you, Mark Twain,” and gave up. How did he know about CrowMac Creek?  Before I could mouth the words he answered my question.  “I have a friend who watches over you, and he knows your heart and your thoughts. He recommended that I see you.”
Gary told me that he had found a place to live, and showed me on an old yellowed map. I knew the location and I shook my head. “That’s a nice area, but of all of the places you could have found to live, why here?,”I asked.
“Well, I liked it here when we used to ride up to the Mogollon Rim together, and besides,  CrowMac Creek is magic.” He seemed to ponder what he had just said.
I was still perplexed at his response. It was more than my feeble mind could fathom, so I kept my mouth closed, waited and watched. Time gave me no further clues as to what was happening; nothing that would clear and untangle my thoughts and emotions. Instinctively, I reached out and touched his shoulder, and it was solid, so this was no hallucination.
The next morning I called Sue and Jim and tried to tell them what had happened, but I couldn’t find the words to explain what I had seen and heard. It didn’t matter to them and they arrived at the cabin before noon. Gary had agreed to come over for dinner, so we were busy in its preparation. Sue and Jim prepared a roast, fresh bread, two vegetable side dishes, and a strawberry desert. Me, I just made sure that there was enough beer and chocolate chip cookies.
We completed everything and sat down to relax before the 6:00 dinner. We shared old memories, and talked about what had transpired the week before. It’s not everyday that someone who was thought to have died shows up at your door step.
Just as in the past, Gary was late. As we waited, Sue was sharing old memories, I was alternating between trips to the front porch to see if Gary was driving up the road and pacing around the living room. Jim just sat back and listened to the music.
Then I heard the sound of a Harley and saw him riding up the dusty road and into the driveway. He arrived in the usual Gary style an hour and a half late. As he stepped onto the porch, everyone witnessed changes in him. His hair was still long in the sixties and seventies fashion, but he had no gray. His beard was longer and tied neatly at its end. He walked upright and seemingly without pain, demonstrating the movement a very young man, but it was his skin that caught everyone’s attention. It was as pale as cream, smooth and as delicate as that of a newborn child. He had this indescribable glow about him. His eyes were as blue as the CrowMac Creek sky on a crisp fall morning, yet it was indeed, Gary. There was a brief moment of silence as Gary entered the living room, then smiles, and plenty of hugs were shared.
We’d already set the table for dinner, so that’s where we started the evening. The meal was wonderful, and we conversed as we ate. Sue, as usual, was full of questions, but Gary wasn’t entirely forthcoming. To some of the questions, his response was only, “You will understand more this evening.”
Time passed quickly with conversations about memories, current status, and updates of friends and family. Then Gary told us that he had spent time with Dan Beach, Gary’s childhood friend from Iowa.  At that, the conversation stopped. Dan Beach had passed in the early 1980s. And under any other circumstances, that couldn’t be true. But Gary had never been a liar, or had he been known to wander far from the truth.
At this point in the conversation, Gary’s demeanor changed from jovial to quite serious. His seemed to look right into each of us. Our eyes darted from one person to the other to see if each of us shared this perspective, then he spoke, calmly but with authority.
“I told each one of you that I have a friend who intimately knows each of you. He knows your thoughts, your desires, where you’ve done the right things and where you haven’t. But each of you has the desire to live their lives with integrity and honesty. He then turned to Sue, and his eyes seemed to illuminated her face.
“Sue, you have had doubts about Him, but he has never left your side. He has watched you and has enjoyed seeing you grow in spirit. He knows that you have turned away but he has great faith in you. You are favored among his flock and He knows that when you leave this world, you will recognize Him and he has a special place for you. You will not join Him soon though. You have many years to teach and spread spirituality that has helped you grow.”
Then he turned to Jim and spoke. “Jim, you are an honest and good man. You are patient, and your undying love has given Sue the support that has enabled her to grow. You have been a mentor to many and a friend to all who know you. You have many years to live and you will find open arms when you pass.”
Gary’s focused his eyes on me, and I expected no good news. I began to think of the flames of Hell and brimstone. My face felt hot and flushed, and my pulse raced.
“Do you remember when I wanted to date Sandy?” His eyes were lazer rays drilling right through my heart. I nodded, and in an instant I began to sweat. Sandy was my first wife and the mother of my only child. She had been my best friend and most staunch supporter, but I trashed the relationship. I had tried, years later, to reconnect, but Sandy did not want a do-over. I looked back to Gary, and focused on what he was to say.
It was then that Gary’s stare softened and he began to laugh. I was just playing with you. You and the man upstairs have a good relationship. His only gripe is that you are always coming to him a bag full of guilt and pain and asking that he takes that burden from you, then you turn around and take it back with you. There’s nothing between my friend and you that a little more faith couldn't fix. No, you are good with Him.”
Gary, Sue and Jim all had a good laugh, on me, but my desert was a large serving of relief. The rest of the evening was wonderful. We talked, shared stories and lived a kind of friendship that we’d never known before. At the end of the evening, we said good night and Gary left for home.
Sue and Jim decided to spend the night, and it was Sue’s idea to pick Gary up the next morning, and go to breakfast at Edna’s Café in CrowMac Creek. I was fairly sure where Gary’s new home was but not entirely. I glanced over at the Orange chair, and saw that Gary had left the old yellowed map on the side table.
“What luck,” I announced. “Gary left the map that shows where he lives now!” So we piled into Sue’s and Jim’s Mustang and headed through CrowMac Creek, and
turned right on the road that was shown on the map. We pulled up in front of the house.
“Who are those people sitting on the porch?” asked Sue
We stepped out of the car and the people waved and invited us onto their porch.
“Hello! We are here to see Gary Heil,” I announced.
“Gary Heil? We don’t know a Gary Heil, do we Donna?” Donna shook her head.
I showed the couple the map Gary had given to me.
“That’s our house, but we don’t know anyone named Gary Heil, and we have lived here since 2003.”
        Perplexed, we walked to the car. None of us spoke a word, and we headed back to the cabin.  This was one of those times that would never be explained.

Was that really Gary we spent the evening with?  It had to be.

Magic At CrowMac Creek

       It was just two days ago that Gary Heil showed up at the cabin, and I’m sure I saw him, saw something, I’m not sure which. It was Gary, but a much younger Gary, and when I pushed him a little, he just said, “Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated," and he laughed. At that, I stared at him for a moment, and not finding the words for any further interrogation, I flatly stated, “Thank you, Mark Twain,” and gave up.
Gary told me that he had found a place to live, and showed me on an old yellowed map. I knew the cabin and I shook my head. “That’s a nice place! But of all of the places you could have found to live, why here?,”I asked.
“Well, I liked it here when we used to ride up to the Mogollon Rim together, and CrowMac Creek is magic.” He seemed to ponder what he had just said.
My thoughts ceased at what he had just told me. “How did he know?” Before I could mouth the words he answered my question.  “I have a friend who watches over you.”

A Miracle At CrowMac Creek

        It had been a long time in coming, but my old friend Gary Heil appeared on Facebook. Soon, we became virtual friends as well as the old friends we were since 1971. Then, in what seemed only a moment, I found he had passed. The intensity of the loss was more than I could bear. I was in profound need for a trip to CrowMac Creek. So I packed what I needed and took off.  I barely remember the trip up to the cabin and when I arrived, I stepped from the car. Instantly, the thin dry air washed over me and I immediately began to heal.
      I pulled the keys from my pocket, unlocked the back door, and I was home. I walked slowly, taking everything in, then sat in the orange chair I ran my hands over the fabric and smiled, thinking that Gary had once sat there eating chocolate cookies and drinking a beer. I wondered if any of Gary's cells were still in the chair and mused with the thought of reconstructing him by using the DNA from what cells were left behind. .
       I fixed a sandwich and sipped on a beer. My raging emotions as well as the drive up the mountain had taken its toll and I went to be early.
       I awoke to someone pulling into the driveway. It was a red Harley trike. A young man pulled his helmet off, looked to the front porch, and seeing me, waved. He walked to the porch and I was reluctant to let him in, then I'll be damned if it wasn't Gary. He was a young man, with black hair. He walked upright and did not reveal any signs of the osteoarthritis he had suffered from for so many years.
       I stood motionless, mouth open, and he smiled. We hugged and he walked directly into the cabin carrying a paper bag. Sitting down in the orange chair, he smiled again as he took a six pack of beer from the bag, and then a package of chocolate cookies....

The Magic and Memories of Route 66

       We first began our family road trips along Route 66 in the summer of 1958. We’d pile into our car at about 4:00 in the afternoon surrounded by blankets and pillows. First we’d drive through the Angeles Forest, past Lancaster and on to Victorville. By the time we reached Barstow, it was getting dark. That’s when the peace broke and the family vacation began to be tested.. When do we eat? Steve’s teasing us! Are we there yet? I gotta go to the bathroom. These first complaints were answered with polite, yet increasingly frustrated responses. As the trip continued, all of us kids were rotated throughout the car to avoid more serious complaints and bad behavior, but hair pulling, name calling, teasing, biting, kicking, and crying were increasingly answered with a backhand, and my mother could effectively reach each of us, no matter where we were seated. By the time we reached, Needles, California, bad behavior was replaced by sleep, and our mother was able to rest her left arm.
It was while driving through Arizona at night the was magic to me. The red highway, a steep winding road through Seligman, then on to Williams, and Holbrook. But my favorite part of the trip was at dawn, as we dropped down from the Chuskas into Gallup, New Mexico. The sight of sandstone cliffs and ancient basalt outcroppings felt like an invitation, and something from my past reached into conscientiousness. It felt as if I were home.
       I am planning a Route 66 adventure this summer through Missouri, a little of Kansas and Oklahoma. I will photograph points of interest and refine my writing voice as I go. Maybe I can visit my friend,John (Garvald Murray) Turbayne in Oklahoma City as well.

CrowMac Creek: A Dream or a Reprieve From Reality

     There are times when life hits below the belt, when a relationship seems to tug at inner peace, stretching the emotional sinew that holds two people together. Belief in old friendships breaks like  thirsty twigs on a dusty trail. Faith fails and falls with the evening sun. No one needs CrowMac Creek any more than I do, but I have forgotten how to get there. 

Back to CrowMac Creek

No one has ever needed to get to CrowMac Creek more than me. Howard has allowed me to take care of some financial details as long as I keep my hand in writing. I haven’t done that either, but fifty-three years of friendship has its privileges. Never-the-less, I want to check in at the Chronicle and desperately need to spend some time at the cabin. I think I’ll invite Sue and Jim Haynes for a visit. It will get them out of Phoenix and I can share some of the crazy story I’ve been writing. Maybe I can run up the trail to Strawberry with Cheyenne. I know she’ll enjoy that.

CrowMac Creek Op-Eds

            Though I have been unable to get back to CrowMac Creek, The CrowMac Creek Chronicle has been running in high gear. With everything that is happening in politics, a newspaper must meet a host of challenges, acquiring new, fresh and honest news, writing articles, editing, printing and
delivery.
            Howard certainly has his hands full, so he asked Michael Kangi, his US and regional reporter, and Isaiah Renkin, the local writer into his office.
      Michael, Isaiah, come in here for a minute.
            The reporters walked cautiously into the office, and Howard motioned to close the door. Isaiah and Michael took the two chairs in front of the desk and waited nervously. Howard took the time to give each reporter a two second glare and began.
      “What do you think of our news lately?
      This was obviously a rhetorical question, so the reporters waited for Howard.
      “Do you think what you write is as good as the Phoenix Gazette reporters?”
      “Our stories are usually pretty good, Boss. As good as any newspaper.”
             Howard studied each reporter and frowned. “That’s what I thought you’d say, and you are right. Have you any idea what is happening to newspapers, nation wide?” Profitable newspapers are seeking new methods of distributing quality news.
      Both Michael and Isaiah nodded in agreement.
          “We need to become an online news and information provider. We can’t become online only because we will lose our advertisers as well as those readers who are accustomed to having a paper delivered to their driveways each morning. They enjoy the feel of the paper and the smell of ink. They are not texting and taking selfies. They read the paper and watch the news We need to continue with delivering these newspapers but we need to up our game. Most vital is that we come up with a news format where we print the news, and op-eds based upon facts. As Linda Taylor said, we need to look at what is happening from multiple perspectives, and if we can find that approach, we will deliver something fresh; something new.
“So, what do you suggest?” Isaiah inquired.
“Here’s where we’ll start. As you know, this country has bifurcated with one population, supporting the president, and the other against. Neither group is communicating with the other. We need to begin pulling these two polarized populations back together for discussion. Politicians on both sides of any issue are resorting to the use of propaganda. We need to teach the average reader the value of dialogue. So each of you will be responsible for two op-eds a week based upon two news articles. Isaiah, you will write for the conservative, pro-president readers, and Michael, you will write for the progressives. Now listen to my words. I want you to base your position on facts, nothing but facts. Do not use the work of other network’s reporting without verification. And don’t steal anyone’s work.
Michael Kangi frowned and shook is head. He had a negative and visceral response to the division he’d been seeing in the United States. He had witnessed many town halls and was fearful of what he was seeing. It was odd to see a person who had the ability to unify a rowdy crowd and promote such hatred simply by the  mentioning of a name. Michael wanted none of this.
Michael had seen this before. Fifteen years ago he’d escaped Sudan where he had been torn from his home and family by the Sudan People’s Liberation Army. He was forced to fight for his life in countless battles. He lost his family in the revolution, and with nothing left, he escaped Sudan to find freedom in the United States. Now he was truly fearful that the nation would lose the freedom that had drawn him to the U.S.and he prayed that he wouldn’t have to move his family to safety. He would not allow his children to live the life he’d lived.
   

Returning to CrowMac Creek

     Sometimes it’s difficult to spend much time in CrowMac Creek. Finances, work, and other crises such as Laura’s time spent in hospitals: Her last stay was a full three days, and her doctor wanted her to stay longer. It doesn’t help much when each and every day I have off is overcast and cold! But I’ll get back there to CrowMac Creek, to my dream job and the old family cabin.

     Sitting on the screened in porch with Cheyenne snoozing on her old rug, watching folks enjoying sight seeing and enjoying Ponderosa Pine lined back roads of CrowMac Creek. It’s the way things could have been; should have been. But it’s okay. Give me an hour or so to prepare for my visit, and I will be back, sitting in the rocker on the front porch, Cheyenne lying on her old rug and things will be good again. I love CrowMac Creek.

Who is Linda Taylor?

     I don’t know that I have introduced Linda Taylor to my readers. I have known Linda for nearly forty years. Howard Ray and I graduated from the same high school with Linda, and she was the best student with the highest GPA. She was chosen to give the graduation speech, but on the night of graduation, Linda was noticeably missing. Since then, I haven’t known what she was doing or where she was.
     Linda had been hired by the CIA, trained as a photographer, and her work has not been overlooked. She was there when the Vietnamese Buddhist priest set himself on fire, and she shot photographs of those who were unable to board helicopters out of Viet Nam. She continued her service in the CIA until she witnessed prisoners being tortured in the cells of Guantanamo. She quit the “Company” in 2007 and has lived a peaceful retirement with her husband in CrowMac Creek. Linda gave up all of the equipment she had been using and purchased a Nikon D3200. Since then Linda has been shooting flowers, butterflies and birds, and has developed a following of people who appreciate her art.
     Last month, Howard found that Linda had moved to CrowMac Creek and invited her to work as head of Photography. Since then, she has accompanied me on my excursions, and has added quality and dimension to our articles.

A Bad Day at Loess Bluffs National Wildlife Refuge

     Last Wednesday, Linda and I hit the Loess Bluffs National Wildlife Refuge hard with nearly all of the equipment we own. We arrived shortly before the hours where birders have seen the greatest number of birds. We were prepared, but the weather was damned cold, and the birds sat well off shore. The only birds in photographic range were Canadian Snow Geese, and hundreds of black birds hiding amongst the branches of anything still remaining after this cold winter. Even Linda’s tenacity with her camera didn’t bring much if anything. With my zoom lens, I was able to get a couple of photographs of Canadian Geese but nothing of any quality. Frustrated and with a tinge of dread, I gave up shooting, packed up and warmed myself in the car. It wasn’t long before Linda gave up as well. By mid-afternoon, we were on a luckless run back to KC.
     I knew Howard at the paper would not be pleased with our results, but with the changing weather patterns, shooting birds is a crap shoot, and today we shot craps, not birds. After arriving at the hotel, I pulled the memory chips from both cameras and deleted most of my shots before I began the editing process. Out of the original 88 photographs,
only three had any potential; and those were not of the quality needed for publishing. I closed up Corel PaintShop, shut down the laptop, and thought of the conversation I’d have with Howard at the Chronicle. Dreading this, I only caught a few hours sleep. Tomorrow I would send my photos to the paper and I knew Howard Ray would not be happy.

Back to the CrowMac Creek Chronicle

     “Where the hell have you been?”
     I couldn’t help but notice the vein standing out from Howard Ray’s forehead. He motioned for me to close the door and sit down.
     “Let’s see. I sent you out on Tuesday, the 12th. Am I incorrect?
     “Yeah Boss.”
     “And what were my instructions to you?”
     “You asked me to fly to Kansas City, then to Osawatomie, a Midwest town with a population of a little more than 4,000 in the dead of winter to find entertainment? Instead, I sent you something real, a story with a message.
     “Yes, and it was a good story! A really good story” Howard’s scowl morphed into a partial smile. “We printed it in the Sunday edition. But the next time you write something like that, send a couple of boxes of  tissue. There were more tears in this office than there’s been since the election. And the comparison between the Kansas tax debacle causing a lack of funding for the hospital and what is happening nationally was a nice touch. However, I dumped that as so much rubbish. You are not writing about politics here. Our readers are largely liberals, but the conservatives are the most vocal. You understand?” Get out of here and close the door!
     I stood quietly then left the office. I guess I was lucky to have kept my position after spending an additional day to shoot birds with Linda. As I closed the door and turned away, I was met by Marsha, Howard’s administrative assistant.
     “Howard wanted me to give you this. I’ve made the arrangements for you. And by the way, here is the form I need from you before you go. You have an expense account, and I’ve no doubt you ate, and purchased a tank of gas? Well, complete this form and you will be reimbursed. You also have a $100 daily allotment for per diem expenses for your next trip. You may pick up a check for that when you turn in your paperwork. Oh, and one more thing, Howard is sending you back to Kansas to report on Spring birding and the Wings and Wetlands Birding Festival in late April in Great Bend.  That’s right up your alley, isn’t it Steven?”

The Osawatomie Insane Asylum (Kansas State Hospital)

     I woke up this morning at the Comfort Inn, showered, shaved and made ready for my trip to Osawatomie. The drive didn’t seem too long, perhaps because I enjoy the trip south from Kansas City. There’s not much traffic, and I can think and prepare a bit before I reach my destination. There is, however, one frustration. It seems that one raptor (hawk) sits atop every three or four telephone poles, just hoping that I will stop, jump from the car, prepare my camera for a shot, and just prior to my fine focusing, the damned bird will fly off to another telephone pole and wait. He’ll do it three or four times, then I give up, and move on. He’d do it more, but I have limited patience. If raptors can smile, I’d bet he’d have a big one for me.
     The sign says three miles to the exit for Osawatomie so I’m close. Osawatomie is a small mid-western town with a main street and two or three cross streets. The population in 2016 was 4,308, just 89 less than 2015. I suspect that as kids grow up here, they migrate to larger metropolises like Ottawa, but, at the surface it looks pretty good to an older guy like me. Yet I like the mountains and CrowMac Creek.
     I found the location of the Battle of Osawatomie, the old church, and..., and.... a movie theater. The gas station is in the suburbs.
     It turned out that I needed to go back to the highway to find the hospital, so after ten minutes or so, I found the road that guides me in. Along the way, I find a cemetery. It’s a dank and dreary place, and the headstones are all alike. They all stand about 25 inches tall, are rounded at the top, and have only a number on them. They are pitted by wind and weather and have black mold in the pitted areas. I tried to count them, but kept being distracted by an intense feeling of a deep dark sadness. And I just couldn’t shake it.
     There they were; the remains of lost and broken lives. They didn’t have families. If they did, their families just left them there to rot. These family members didn’t even bury these patients, leaving that to the hospital..
     If these patients dreamed, their dreams drifted away in the Kansas wind. And this was what was left. One hundred tombstones identified only by a number. Fathers, daughters, aunts sons, mothers? Just forgotten. I took a few shots, and drove off. I didn’t take the time to photograph any buildings or anything else. I couldn’t take any more, and I drove back to the hotel.

P.S. The Osawatomie hospital has been a fairly good place for those who cannot afford a private hospital. In the last two years, the hospital lost its accreditation in some areas. There were many changes, and it is fully accredited now. I’ve no doubt that funding has been an issue, and that is the story I will give Howard at the CrowMac Creek Chronicle.

Preparing for Osawatomie

     Howard had his secretary arrange my airline reservations and I needed to travel to Sky Harbor in Phoenix to make a 2:00 PM flight. At least I had enough time to make my flight without driving like a mad man. At my desk, I looked for events, if any in Osawatomie, about which I could report.
     “Damn!!! Mid winter, Mid Week? And I need to report on something happening in a no-where place like Osawatomie, Kansas. I lowered my head onto my hands, rubbed my temples and released a loud sigh. As I glanced up, I noticed everyone in the room watching me. Taking a deep breath, I opened Firefox, typed Osawatomie in Google Search, and began my research.
     I found the official Osawatomie website, and looked for anything of interest. First I checked to see what was happening this week, and there was nothing but a Legislative breakfast, and that was last Saturday. Then I looked for events in March.
     “Hmmm. Nothing,” I thought. “Well, I’m not going to say anything, and I’ll go anyway. It will just serve the old fart right.”

   Then I focused on Osawatomie History, and found a couple of items that interested me. August 30, 1856: When John Brown’s son was shot, he heard that Ruffian (Pro Slavery) forces numbering between 250 and 400 had planned to loot and burn Osawatomie to the ground, then move on to Topeka and Lawrence to do the same. John Browns 40 men held out for a volley or two, then were forced back.
    “Maybe there will be John Brown Days in August and citizens will burn the town to the ground.
     “Thats’ not even funny, I mused.” Then something else caught my eye.
     The Osawatomie State Hospital: I remember Dwayne Joe telling me something about that. Yes, it had been on the cutting edge of psychiatry early in the 20th century. I read on: It had first been called the Kansas Insane Asylum when it opened in 1859. Then my mind drifted to visions of men and women for whom families could no longer provide care, people who would be warehoused for the remainder of their lives. They were simply abandoned, left to rot. I looked away from the computer screen and felt a little sick. I had hardly moved for some time when Isaiah Renkin walked over and placed his hand on my shoulder.
     “You okay?”
      My eyes moved slowly toward his. “Yeah, Isaiah. I was just thinking about something.”
     I looked at my watch and saw that it was after 4:00. I packed my things, and moved slowly to the front door. I had images of men, women, and children in my mind, wearing white hospital garb, just walking in circles, over and over. As I opened the door, the fresh mountain air revived me somewhat, but I couldn’t shake those images.
     I swung into my car, started the engine, headed up Hardscrabble Mesa Road, turned right at Edna’s Café, and then left onto Ute Trail. It felt good to be home. The cabin was cool and smelled of sweet Ponderosa Pine and last night’s Chili. Cheyenne trotted out of the bedroom with her tail swinging lightly. She pushed her head against my leg. “It’s good to see you too girl.”
     I pulled some ice from the fridge, poured myself a double bourbon, opened the front door, and found a chair on the porch. I began to relax and felt the peace I had missed for so long in Kansas.
     I knew I needed to pack and ready myself for my trip, but not right now. No, not right now.
                         
                                                          ....................To be continued.

My First Assignment

     Howard Ray, the owner of the CrowMac Creek Crier, called me into his office and told me to take a chair. Perplexed, I took a seat as he rattled through a stack of paperwork. As he did, I noticed that he towered over me. I felt as if someone had cut the legs off my chair, and realized that someone had. I scooted my chair closer to the desk and Howard scowled as if I had broken a cardinal rule. His gaze became more relaxed and I thought I saw the remnants of a smile that had all but dissolved.

    “What’s up boss?

    “First, I made a changed the name of the paper yesterday”

      A bit perplexed, I thought it best to stay silent. Howard had purchased the paper in 1999, and the last owner had begun publishing the CrowMac Creek Crier, an advertizing rag, in 1968. It had been a free publication, totally funded by advertising sales, and his wife’s father. And it  hadn’t grown much since then. Howard had told me that we would begin publishing online, which was one of the reasons I took the position. Well, that and I needed the cash.

     “So, what’s the new name?”

     “The CrowMac Creek Chronicle!” 

     Howard looked pleased, and I thought it sounded a bit more newspapish, even if the name was still a tongue twister.

     “Okay, Steven.” Howard looked at me as if he was measuring my level of excitement, a demeanor my genes had only sparingly provided me.

     “You will fly to Kansas, and travel to Osawatomie.”

     I jumped to my feet. “Osawatomie? What for? What is in Osawatomie? It’s the dead of a very cold winter, and, as far as I know, there are no festivals or entertainment.

     “Close the door, and sit down. First of all, You will do what I ask of you as long as you work here. If you don’t understand, read your contract.”

                                                                                                                      ...To be continued.

Sister Alyson Visits CrowMac Creek

     Last Thursday may sister, Alyson drove to from Prescott to CrowMac Creek for a visit, and it was like a breath of fresh alpine air. We hadn't talked since I told her that I wouldn't be able to make it to my father's funeral. I had been in Kansas, and my financial condition had gone to hell. Further, I was angry with myself for not being able to drive out to AZ to see him before he passed away. Anyway, we lost contact and didn't work to fix whatever had happened between us.

     A few days ago we made contact on Facebook and used Messenger to begin reuniting. I decided to move to CrowMac Creek the next day. 

     I was surprised when Alyson arrived. I hadn't seen her since my hip surgery when she flew to Kansas City to help me put my socks on. We had spent a day sightseeing and discussing life as we saw it.
     It was surprisingly relaxing to share time in the cabin where our family had spent many occasions enjoying being with each other. Our conversation was refreshing and enjoyable. I cooked a couple of burgers on the Weber, steamed some corn and Alyson found enough lettuce, carrots and tomatoes for a fresh salad. We had a nice evening and Laura enjoyed the visit because she didn't want to make dinner anyway. The sun was sinking into the mountains to the west as we all hugged and said our goodbyes. Then Alyson followed the sun toward Prescott.

     Laura and I both felt the warmth of family as we prepared for bed. Moving to CrowMac Creek was one of the best changes I had ever made, maybe the best ever. And I knew there would be more days like this.

A Dreamy Reality

      It had been a beautiful day at CrowMac Creek, peaceful and seventy-five degrees as Laura arrived at the cabin. Her 20 mile drive through the pines from Payson painted her with a peaceful demeanor.       
     She discussed her day, telling me that Pastor Sands had told her that I was the new Entertainment and Events writer for the CrowMac Creek Crier as he purchased gas for his Toyota.   
     I smiled and nodded. "I am also the newest photographer for the paper." It is good news. I finally will be where I want to be and do what I love. Tomorrow I begin my new life.

Somerset Ridge Vineyard & Winery

     Dwayne and I took one of our many driving tours, Sunday, January 28th and, as my friends know, I like to take off in any direction and end up where I end up. Dwayne doesn't so we headed south anyway, looking for landscape photography possibilities. In short, we ended up at the Somerset Vineyard and Winery.
     Now, I became a wine enthusiast after I graduated from Arizona State University and was transferred to Los Angeles. I became interested in wines while in Arizona and I made a trip or two to the Brookside Winery (now deceased) just south of Phoenix. In the 80s I began to explore Santa Barbara County for it's wines. I was a frequent visitor to the Firestone winery and Zaca Mesa, both presenting rich red wines. It was there I learned that great wines come from regions where there is sandy soil, and cool Fall seasons. The soil here in Kansas is composed of clay with a little dirt on top, and the temperatures are extreme: I thought not a good area for growing wine grapes.
     Driving South, we barely noticed a sign instructing us to take the next exit to Somerset Winery. As we headed toward the winery, I noticed vines looking out of place with the snow that had fallen around them. In the past, I would have dismissed this winery as a factory where Ripple might have been produced, but the reality is that Somerset Ridge Winery has selected the grapes that grow successfully in this state of extremes.
     Somewhat dubious about wines grown here in Kansas, I didn't expect much, but Somerset Ridge exceeded my expectations. They have 12 varieties of grapes and 8,000 vines, and I found that wine enthusiasts will certainly find wines they enjoy.
     The winery is located in an agricultural area outside of Kansas City Metro. The grounds are attractive and the tasting building is easily accessible from the parking lot. We bellied up to the wine tasting bar and our guide began the tasting by asking us what kinds of wines we enjoy. Both Dwayne and I enjoy dry wines, so we were presented several wines to taste. The first wine presented was their Chardonel, a wine similar to Chardonnay. Chardonel has a crisp finish of pears and green apples and Somerset suggests it be served with salads and fish.
     My favorite wine is their Norton. Somerset Ridge describes this wine as "a classic Norton dry red wine- with a wild fruit aroma (I think it has the aroma of strawberries.) and a firm acidity. It is fermented in small lots and aged in American oak barrels." Another favorite is their Citron, a desert wine consisting of one of their white wines with lemon. This after dinner drink is truly a desert wine reminding me of late harvest Gewurztraminer.
     Somerset has an attractive, indoor tasting area, as well side dishes consisting of crackers, cheese and fruits. They have tables where visitors can sip wines, while enjoying friendly conversations with friends. Somerset Ridge is open Wednesdays through Saturdays from 11:00 AM to 5:00 PM during the winter. When the weather becomes nice, there are more areas where visitors can sit and enjoy their wine and snacks. The winery has entertainment as well. If you are in the area off Highway 169, south of Kansas City, this is a place to visit. See more at: https://somersetridge.com/

     Ottawa, KS

     Yesterday Dwayne and I decided to head south to visit Ottawa. I read briefly about the history of Ottawa, and I found that the land on which the town was built had been given to the Ottawa tribe for the founding of Ottawa University. 20,000 acres was traded to the Ottawa tribe, and a school was built to educate both Ottawans and whites alike. The word Ottawa means the to trade, and they eventually traded everything and moved on to Oklahoma. 

     The idea of creating a "tongue in cheek" travelogue and restaurant. revue came to our minds after drinking a 24oz schooner of Bud Lite beer in a Mexican Style restaurant that I neglected to note.  I will name and review this restaurant and fill in the blanks in a week or two. I can say that the waitress provided great service and answered our many questions.

     Ottaway has an attractive downtown, but many of the shops were not open, probably because of a lack of mid week visitors. The video attached to this review has a crazy end to it. I promise that future reviews will include more information as well as much more insanity.

Jack Died Today

     When Laura arrived home after work, she saw him. He lay head down next to his house, motionless and stiff. He was a Beta  and had been the king of hill. He wasn't aggressive, but would swim out and warn any trespasser to keep a respectable distance away from his home. Something happened today.

     Laura was sitting in the passenger seat when I left work. As I swung into and onto my seat, and not much afterward, she said, "Jacks dead."

     To tell you the truth, I felt a sudden wave of loss and became submersed in it. Jack was one of our first fish and he was a character. He was bigger than the rest, solid black in color and I suppose that he looked pretty imposing to the others. Even the racing fish.
     At first I thought he was a bully, but he quickly became a favorite as he took what he wanted and defended it. Laura thinks it was the racing fish that killed Jack. I don't know what these fish are called, but they swim and swim, never losing their speed. They are sleek, silver and gold, and they have pronounced black stripes. And they swim, swim, and swim. "Yes. I think it was the racing fish that killed Jack.

     We'll feel the loss for a bit, but he was just a fish, and I'm just happy that I'm here in CrowMac Creek, a place where even the most difficult and challenging situations will be reborn over night as not so difficult or challenging.

      I was feeling kind of empty when Linda dropped me off at the cabin. I loaded my camera equipment up, thanked Linda for driving, and bid her adieu. I tried to stay away from the puddles as I made my way to the front porch. Cheyenne stood there wagging her tail as I opened the screen door.

     "It's good to see you too." I stroked her head, and she bounded toward the front door. As I walked in, Huey slid down from his perch, waddled across the carpet, and began climbing up my pant leg, catching the sleeve of my shirt and made his way to my shoulder.

     "Okay!" he remarked.

     For whatever reason, Huey had decided that I'd be his best friend. This was his usual way of greeting me whenever I arrived home. Cheyenne and Huey always take the edge off difficult days, and today is a day I can use their affection.

    I had spent in excess of $4,000 on camera gear and I am hoping to enhance my social security income by professional photography. Today I allowed my camera to swing into the frame of Linda's front door and though the lens is usable, much of its function has been compromised. This leaves me with a FX 50mm lens which is not appropriate for the type of photography I have been practicing. 

     I sat down at my assigned table which operates as a computer desk, and Laura walked in, kissing me, then demanding that I keep the top of the table neat. I removed the SD memory chip from the camera, and reviewed in excess of 400 photographs. Some came out good: Most didn't.

I was pleased with the few I had kept, and now all I need to do is to find the best way to have my lens repaired. Then I will need to get a FX telephoto lens, hopefully 200-600mm zoom. Opportunities are beginning to appear, and I hope to get back on track with the gear I need.