Introduction (2.3.10): Coming Home
Ahhhh ….the Wood River Valley ….it’s home to me, but some might say I’ve been fickle over the past few years. I’ve been traveling and living in far-flung coordinates, drinking in exotic cultures with each morning’s coffee. Max Rudolph here, checking in after a decade of wandering. I grew up here. I went to high school here. I skied, hiked, biked and played here until I set my sights on broader horizons.
I’ve spent my days walking among strangers, observing landscapes and faces I’d never imagined I’d see. Pyramids, palaces, the Dead Sea, the Northern Lights, caravans, savannas … all contributing to a heady combination of nature and man that has finally satisfied a kind of restlessness in me that was bred by growing up in a small, familiar place. They say you can never go home again, but I’m out to prove that wrong.
Working on a graduate degree, focused on anthropology and history, sent me on a series of amazing social and cultural trips. I’ve wandered across Asia, China and Europe, connecting urban dots with strings of university stops to unload the information aimed at earning a few more letters after my name. My travels have strengthened my simple personality, early on steeped in Ketchum’s brew of rugged outdoor adventures, and given it global perspective.
Now ready to share that perspective with students in my newly assigned classroom here in the Valley. I’m hoping I can give as much back to this place as it has given me. My guess is, however, that I’ll learn as much or more from my students and neighbors than I will be able to offer them.
I’ve packed up my music and my memorabilia, my pets and my passions, and moved from nomad to local adventurer. My dog is loving the snow. My cockatiel is a little confused., and may be finding the climate a little chilly. He’s been my constant companion for the past couple of years though, and has learned an interesting dictionary of foreign and domestic words that always provide colorful comment, if not objective insight, so he’s staying.
Can’t wait to get outfitted in some new gear, get back out on the mountain, spend some time in the back country, meet some new friends and figure out how to make my life count. I’ve made the choice. Now I need to make it work. There are some questions and challenges that I cannot wait to find answers to. Will I be a good teacher? Can I be happy with a smaller sphere of reference? Should I sell my condo in California and buy a piece of my future here in the Valley? And, will the girl follow?
I invite you to come along with me as I re-engage, taking in as much of the people and the culture here as they will allow. Looks to be a fun ride that I will enjoy sharing as details of my life unfold through a different writer each week in theweeklypaper. Look for me on Facebook as well. Always interested in what‘s going on and where, so drop me a line if you’ve got a suggestion for events or people that you think I’d enjoy. Nice to be back home. See ya’ around town! MTR
Max Rudolph’s adventures will be chronicled in theweeklypaper every Wednesday as he moves from student and traveler to local teacher and adventurer. A different local writer will relay details about Max’s life in the Wood River Valley each week.. For details on Max, check out his Facebook info page.
I’ve spent my days walking among strangers, observing landscapes and faces I’d never imagined I’d see. Pyramids, palaces, the Dead Sea, the Northern Lights, caravans, savannas … all contributing to a heady combination of nature and man that has finally satisfied a kind of restlessness in me that was bred by growing up in a small, familiar place. They say you can never go home again, but I’m out to prove that wrong.
Working on a graduate degree, focused on anthropology and history, sent me on a series of amazing social and cultural trips. I’ve wandered across Asia, China and Europe, connecting urban dots with strings of university stops to unload the information aimed at earning a few more letters after my name. My travels have strengthened my simple personality, early on steeped in Ketchum’s brew of rugged outdoor adventures, and given it global perspective.
Now ready to share that perspective with students in my newly assigned classroom here in the Valley. I’m hoping I can give as much back to this place as it has given me. My guess is, however, that I’ll learn as much or more from my students and neighbors than I will be able to offer them.
I’ve packed up my music and my memorabilia, my pets and my passions, and moved from nomad to local adventurer. My dog is loving the snow. My cockatiel is a little confused., and may be finding the climate a little chilly. He’s been my constant companion for the past couple of years though, and has learned an interesting dictionary of foreign and domestic words that always provide colorful comment, if not objective insight, so he’s staying.
Can’t wait to get outfitted in some new gear, get back out on the mountain, spend some time in the back country, meet some new friends and figure out how to make my life count. I’ve made the choice. Now I need to make it work. There are some questions and challenges that I cannot wait to find answers to. Will I be a good teacher? Can I be happy with a smaller sphere of reference? Should I sell my condo in California and buy a piece of my future here in the Valley? And, will the girl follow?
I invite you to come along with me as I re-engage, taking in as much of the people and the culture here as they will allow. Looks to be a fun ride that I will enjoy sharing as details of my life unfold through a different writer each week in theweeklypaper. Look for me on Facebook as well. Always interested in what‘s going on and where, so drop me a line if you’ve got a suggestion for events or people that you think I’d enjoy. Nice to be back home. See ya’ around town! MTR
Max Rudolph’s adventures will be chronicled in theweeklypaper every Wednesday as he moves from student and traveler to local teacher and adventurer. A different local writer will relay details about Max’s life in the Wood River Valley each week.. For details on Max, check out his Facebook info page.
Chapter 1 (2.10.10): 29 and Holding
I woke up bad, the painful sound of my alarm clock jerking me into wakefulness from my dream skis and the fresh powder that hadn’t actually covered the mountain in weeks. I crushed it with my fist and put it back to sleep. The morning wasn’t near as bright as it should have been, at least for a Saturday. The blinds were closed and only bar stock sunlight slanted in across the room.
I sat up and threw my legs to the floor, felt my head just to make sure it was still there, then stood up just to make sure I still could. My head was there all right but it felt like a keg of salt water and my legs were still rubber with sleep. I shook it off and thought about the one too many celebratory drinks I’d had the night before, and the one too few hours I had slept, as Bud nuzzled up to my knee, tail wagging and eyes bright.
I stared at the ceiling and watched the frilly patterns talk and grin and wave at me. I pulled on my jeans and got up, the roar of the neighbors snow blower howling. I threw some water on my face and looked in the mirror at Maximilian T. Rudolph. He was a pretty good guy, but a little rough this morning, unshaven with a few drab blotches beneath his clear green eyes, his mess of unkempt hair hanging down over his forehead like a cluster of punctuation marks.
Twenty-nine this upcoming weekend, with my girlfriend planning to visit, friends toasted me heartily this past Saturday night for the mile-marker, reintroducing me to the Valley at night on Ketchum’s Main Street. Good for me. Made it this far. Brushed my teeth, shaved, and wandered into the kitchen where a stack of half-graded quizzes on the table awaited my judgment. Sheila, my cockatiel, and sometimes confidante, crunched a few seeds and greeted me with a ”bula-bula, sailor … awwrrrkkkk.” I pulled three eggs out of the fridge and cracked them into the pan, their yolk-eyes winking at me as they sizzled against the cast iron and butter.
Yup. Twenty-nine. One year away from thirty. That meant one of two things. Either it was time to grow up, or I had one more year to play. One more year to wear Converse tennis shoes. One more year to sleep in on Saturdays.
I walked to the door and opened it, only to be pulverized by snow with flakes the size of fists. It was dropping violently down from a frozen white sky like an army of paratroopers, stacking and filling my driveway. I stepped outside and remembered my dream along with some vague plans made last night for a heli-ski trip. Then I thought about school on Monday and about the reaction of the rowdy class of high schoolers to the quiz I would hand back.
I admired the patch of blue that had formed above Baldy, anxious to try out my new skis for the first time on a powder day. The smell of something burning, and Sheila squawking from her perch near the scene of the crime turned me on my heel and sent me running back to the kitchen where I quickly shut off the burner. Dousing the crispy eggs in the sink with all the rest of my thoughts, I decided suddenly that I wasn’t hungry, and that Monday was a whole weekend away. I leapt to the telephone and dialed up Richey, my ski buddy.
“mmm-hullo.” He said, his voice thick with sleep.
“Look outside you nut!” I screamed, “Two words. First chair!”
Twenty-nine. It seems I still have a whole year to play.
About this week's author, Noah Abner Bowen:
“I wish I could tell you my umbilical cord was a typewriter ribbon, but Irish as I am, not even I could pull that one off. I’ve been writing a long time. I’m a dreamer, I walk against the traffic, and you’ll never meet any quite like me in your entire life.”
I sat up and threw my legs to the floor, felt my head just to make sure it was still there, then stood up just to make sure I still could. My head was there all right but it felt like a keg of salt water and my legs were still rubber with sleep. I shook it off and thought about the one too many celebratory drinks I’d had the night before, and the one too few hours I had slept, as Bud nuzzled up to my knee, tail wagging and eyes bright.
I stared at the ceiling and watched the frilly patterns talk and grin and wave at me. I pulled on my jeans and got up, the roar of the neighbors snow blower howling. I threw some water on my face and looked in the mirror at Maximilian T. Rudolph. He was a pretty good guy, but a little rough this morning, unshaven with a few drab blotches beneath his clear green eyes, his mess of unkempt hair hanging down over his forehead like a cluster of punctuation marks.
Twenty-nine this upcoming weekend, with my girlfriend planning to visit, friends toasted me heartily this past Saturday night for the mile-marker, reintroducing me to the Valley at night on Ketchum’s Main Street. Good for me. Made it this far. Brushed my teeth, shaved, and wandered into the kitchen where a stack of half-graded quizzes on the table awaited my judgment. Sheila, my cockatiel, and sometimes confidante, crunched a few seeds and greeted me with a ”bula-bula, sailor … awwrrrkkkk.” I pulled three eggs out of the fridge and cracked them into the pan, their yolk-eyes winking at me as they sizzled against the cast iron and butter.
Yup. Twenty-nine. One year away from thirty. That meant one of two things. Either it was time to grow up, or I had one more year to play. One more year to wear Converse tennis shoes. One more year to sleep in on Saturdays.
I walked to the door and opened it, only to be pulverized by snow with flakes the size of fists. It was dropping violently down from a frozen white sky like an army of paratroopers, stacking and filling my driveway. I stepped outside and remembered my dream along with some vague plans made last night for a heli-ski trip. Then I thought about school on Monday and about the reaction of the rowdy class of high schoolers to the quiz I would hand back.
I admired the patch of blue that had formed above Baldy, anxious to try out my new skis for the first time on a powder day. The smell of something burning, and Sheila squawking from her perch near the scene of the crime turned me on my heel and sent me running back to the kitchen where I quickly shut off the burner. Dousing the crispy eggs in the sink with all the rest of my thoughts, I decided suddenly that I wasn’t hungry, and that Monday was a whole weekend away. I leapt to the telephone and dialed up Richey, my ski buddy.
“mmm-hullo.” He said, his voice thick with sleep.
“Look outside you nut!” I screamed, “Two words. First chair!”
Twenty-nine. It seems I still have a whole year to play.
About this week's author, Noah Abner Bowen:
“I wish I could tell you my umbilical cord was a typewriter ribbon, but Irish as I am, not even I could pull that one off. I’ve been writing a long time. I’m a dreamer, I walk against the traffic, and you’ll never meet any quite like me in your entire life.”
Chapter 2 (2.17.10) One plus one = four
It’s been a wild, busy week. I’ve settled into my digs in Hailey. I’ve made it through my second week teaching,, and have survived another big weekend. Valentines Day. And my birthday.
Lana came to visit. It had been three weeks since we’d seen each other. She helped me pack up for my move. from She didn’t really understand why this was so important. Even though we talked, I think she may still be taking this new physical distance personally.
It might be that you have to have grown up here to feel this way. To call such a special place home. To fish up memories of playing in the Wood River as a kid. To love Idaho the way I do. I hoped Lana would see it through my eyes, I wanted her to fall in love with the place. With the idea of moving here. And maybe, with me, just a little more.
Driving up to the airport parking lot at Friedman, I parked and headed into the terminal, picking up the newspaper on my way to check again for any event that would impress Lana. Anything that might sway her vote., convince her to move.
Oh yeah, we’d do the gallery walk, dinner with friends, a nightcap to close the evening. We’d ski on Saturday, have cocktails at Roundhouse, attend a little dinner party at my parents’ house, then take a tour of Ketchum at night. Sunday would be a relaxing day, breakfast out, a little shopping. If all goes well, a trip to the hardware store to pick up a little something shiny to dress up that empty ring finger, Valentines Day and all.
As the plane landed and Lana’s face emerged, I knew I must have been smiling a little too big, a little too goofy, but didn’t care. Finally within reach, I wrapped my arms around her. I leaned down to kiss her and got her cheek. She had turned to the left to see who was calling her name. Someone I didn’t know. A friend from San Francisco, it turned out, visiting another friend. Everyone knew everyone else but me. This seemed it could change my plans a little. It did.
We visited galleries, ate great food., danced, drank and chatted up a storm. We skied, shopped and took pictures. The four of us. Not exactly how I had planned it. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought Lana was avoiding time alone with me. Maybe I didn’t know better. Maybe she was.
Not usually one to second guess myself, I replaced the trip to the hardware store for shiny stuff with one to the chocolate shop. I took a step back, watching reactions a bit more critically. With measured, cautious Valentines Day and birthday celebrations now history, I’m looking forward to the rest of the week with Lana optimistically, even though I’ll be working all week. What will she be up to? Will let you know how it works out.
About this week's author, John C. Ryan: John is a waiter, a skier, and a lover of all things Wood River Valley, even though he’s only been here one season, working two jobs to support his writing. Originally from Seattle, John is a big Hemingway fan, and history buff. He appreciates the opportunity to contribute to this new genre, and looks forward to writing more fact than fiction, but enjoys both. A graduate of U-dub, John is a quiet environmentalist, creative mind and all around good guy. Kinda like Max.
Chapter 3: (2.24.10): Divided Attention
Max is doing a balancing act this week, trying to entertain and spend time with his girlfriend Lana, visiting from California, and attend to his teaching responsibilities. While he's busy imparting knowledge into the heads of his students, Lana is joining a group of three other friends visiting Sun Valley from San Francisco, seeming to enjoy their company a little more than she should, especially the handsome and flirtatious Jack. Meanwhile, back at the school, another scenario is taking place, as Max gets back into his groove in the Valley, running into an old friend. Here’s what was going through that friend’s head while recounting her recent, spontaneous re-introduction to Max…
Imagine my complete and utter surprise when Max Rudolph came strutting into the teacher's lounge at the beginning of the trimester. I almost dropped the cup of coffee I'd just poured myself and I'm certain he could hear my heart pounding when he came up to me and said hello.
"Max, what are you doing here?" I thought maybe he was going to lecture on his famed world travels to the kids on their first day of school, as a special treat, or maybe give some pertinent advice on bones or something to a biology class. I couldn't figure out any their reason he'd be at the school that day. Besides, he was wearing a navy blue corduroy blazer with suede elbow pads, a starched white shirt, a blue and red striped tie, khaki trousers and a pair of brown leather topsiders with no socks. He didn't dress like the rest of us. He looked good. Too good.
"I'm teaching physiology. What are you teaching, Amy?"
"I've been teaching 8th grade English here for the past few years. Wow, you're the last person I expected to see in the Valley, especially teaching a high school class. This is your first, right?"
"Sure is. Oh, there's the bell. I hope we can talk more later. Maybe do some catching up!" And off he dashed to begin his first day of classes. His enthusiasm was palpable.
The blueprint I imagined of my life did not include teaching in the Wood River Valley. After graduating with a bachelor’s degree in education from Boise State, my plan was to travel and explore awhile, kind of like Max. You know, there's a saying 'If you want to make the gods laugh, tell them your plans for the future.’
My mother waited until after my college commencement to tell me she had colon cancer. Of course, the only right thing to do was to come home and at least spend the summer with her while she recovered. She didn't.
After Mom passed away I applied for a teaching position that came available mid year. I got the job and I haven't had the energy to leave town or do much of anything else except eat and show up for work every day. I look older than my twenty-nine years due to the fifty pounds I've packed on and a hairstyle that looks like a brown football helmet. Frankly, since I have no social life, none of this mattered until the morning Max Rudolph walked back in to my life.
About this week's author, Patty Lewis: Patty is an eleven year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country. Many thanks to theweeklypaper.
Imagine my complete and utter surprise when Max Rudolph came strutting into the teacher's lounge at the beginning of the trimester. I almost dropped the cup of coffee I'd just poured myself and I'm certain he could hear my heart pounding when he came up to me and said hello.
"Max, what are you doing here?" I thought maybe he was going to lecture on his famed world travels to the kids on their first day of school, as a special treat, or maybe give some pertinent advice on bones or something to a biology class. I couldn't figure out any their reason he'd be at the school that day. Besides, he was wearing a navy blue corduroy blazer with suede elbow pads, a starched white shirt, a blue and red striped tie, khaki trousers and a pair of brown leather topsiders with no socks. He didn't dress like the rest of us. He looked good. Too good.
"I'm teaching physiology. What are you teaching, Amy?"
"I've been teaching 8th grade English here for the past few years. Wow, you're the last person I expected to see in the Valley, especially teaching a high school class. This is your first, right?"
"Sure is. Oh, there's the bell. I hope we can talk more later. Maybe do some catching up!" And off he dashed to begin his first day of classes. His enthusiasm was palpable.
The blueprint I imagined of my life did not include teaching in the Wood River Valley. After graduating with a bachelor’s degree in education from Boise State, my plan was to travel and explore awhile, kind of like Max. You know, there's a saying 'If you want to make the gods laugh, tell them your plans for the future.’
My mother waited until after my college commencement to tell me she had colon cancer. Of course, the only right thing to do was to come home and at least spend the summer with her while she recovered. She didn't.
After Mom passed away I applied for a teaching position that came available mid year. I got the job and I haven't had the energy to leave town or do much of anything else except eat and show up for work every day. I look older than my twenty-nine years due to the fifty pounds I've packed on and a hairstyle that looks like a brown football helmet. Frankly, since I have no social life, none of this mattered until the morning Max Rudolph walked back in to my life.
About this week's author, Patty Lewis: Patty is an eleven year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country. Many thanks to theweeklypaper.
Chapter 4 (3.3.10): All downhill from here
You’ve heard that saying, indicating an easy ride. I thought that’s how it might be, returning to the Wood River Valley. In many ways, it has been easy and fun to get settled back into the routine here. In others, though, it’s been more like an uphill battle. Take Lana, for instance.
We had spent a good deal of time together in California, dating off and on for about two years. I was a little uncertain about how our relationship would stand up to the distance when I moved back to Ketchum. I was pretty sure, though, that I could get her out here and make her love it like I do. I’ll never really know, though, if I could have done that, since plans for this visit kind of got strangled.
Three of Lana’s friends from L.A. just happened to be out here visiting the same week she was. Some of my most important plans were hijacked, forced to follow their busy tourist track rather than my plan for some time alone together. Now she’s back in L.A., we didn’t have the time to talk about plans for the future, and I don’t know if I’ll ever convince her to come back for another visit. I could almost feel her slip from my life as she boarded the plane back to California.
That same week I ran into an old friend. An old flame, kind of, that I’d always watched from the sidelines, but never stretched out there to ask for a date. She’d had some tough luck over the past few years, but was still pleasant, pretty, and definitely interested in spending a little more time renewing our friendship. Funny how that kind of thing always seems to wedge itself into the most complicated of situations, rather than coming at you when there’s nothing else going on.
With Lana gone, and most of my friends here married or dating someone, I found myself looking for company to join me for some dinner and live Saturday night music. I love music, but really I love reggae. It’s simple and relaxing. It’s steady, yet makes you think about the most basic privileges life offers. But I can’t dance to it. I can’t dance to anything. I wish someone had reminded me of that before I asked Susanne to join me for dinner at one of Ketchum’s newest spots and a little Marley in the Mountains after.
I had skied all day Saturday, stopped for a couple of beers with some friends at Roundhouse on the last run, and was running a little late to get home and clean up. In the rush I didn’t check messages, didn’t check the mirror, and didn’t feed Bud. Well, almost didn’t feed Bud. He wouldn’t let me out the door without reminding me. I didn’t know there was a Dear Max message blinking at me. Or that there had been an accident in the backcountry that involved a friend. I suppose sometimes it’s better not to know these things. Saturday night was probably one of those times.
About this Week's Author Michael Wilton: Michael is a 32-year-old auto mechanic and computer geek who has lived in, sung about, written about and loved Idaho for three years. While he lives just out of bounds of Blaine County borders, his life is centered here by work and friends. Born in Boise, he has lived in several cities throughout Idaho, including a four-year stint in Moscow, where he learned a history degree doesn’t owe you a living. He just earned respectable GRE scores and is considering a move to go to graduate school, but does not want to leave the Valley.
We had spent a good deal of time together in California, dating off and on for about two years. I was a little uncertain about how our relationship would stand up to the distance when I moved back to Ketchum. I was pretty sure, though, that I could get her out here and make her love it like I do. I’ll never really know, though, if I could have done that, since plans for this visit kind of got strangled.
Three of Lana’s friends from L.A. just happened to be out here visiting the same week she was. Some of my most important plans were hijacked, forced to follow their busy tourist track rather than my plan for some time alone together. Now she’s back in L.A., we didn’t have the time to talk about plans for the future, and I don’t know if I’ll ever convince her to come back for another visit. I could almost feel her slip from my life as she boarded the plane back to California.
That same week I ran into an old friend. An old flame, kind of, that I’d always watched from the sidelines, but never stretched out there to ask for a date. She’d had some tough luck over the past few years, but was still pleasant, pretty, and definitely interested in spending a little more time renewing our friendship. Funny how that kind of thing always seems to wedge itself into the most complicated of situations, rather than coming at you when there’s nothing else going on.
With Lana gone, and most of my friends here married or dating someone, I found myself looking for company to join me for some dinner and live Saturday night music. I love music, but really I love reggae. It’s simple and relaxing. It’s steady, yet makes you think about the most basic privileges life offers. But I can’t dance to it. I can’t dance to anything. I wish someone had reminded me of that before I asked Susanne to join me for dinner at one of Ketchum’s newest spots and a little Marley in the Mountains after.
I had skied all day Saturday, stopped for a couple of beers with some friends at Roundhouse on the last run, and was running a little late to get home and clean up. In the rush I didn’t check messages, didn’t check the mirror, and didn’t feed Bud. Well, almost didn’t feed Bud. He wouldn’t let me out the door without reminding me. I didn’t know there was a Dear Max message blinking at me. Or that there had been an accident in the backcountry that involved a friend. I suppose sometimes it’s better not to know these things. Saturday night was probably one of those times.
About this Week's Author Michael Wilton: Michael is a 32-year-old auto mechanic and computer geek who has lived in, sung about, written about and loved Idaho for three years. While he lives just out of bounds of Blaine County borders, his life is centered here by work and friends. Born in Boise, he has lived in several cities throughout Idaho, including a four-year stint in Moscow, where he learned a history degree doesn’t owe you a living. He just earned respectable GRE scores and is considering a move to go to graduate school, but does not want to leave the Valley.
Chapter 5 (3.10.10): Max pauses to reflect
I had some difficulty visiting my friend in the hospital, since the administrators had initiated a temporary lockdown. She had experienced a serious crash in the backcountry and the communications delay exacerbated her poor condition. St. Luke’s physicians had performed another miracle though; and she was probably going to be okay. However, with the local hypnotherapist absent, the high dosage of pain medicine they were required to treat her with made it prudent to keep our visit a brief one.
With this in mind; plus, my still being emotionally torn between Susanne and Lana, it felt like a good time to take the dog for a long reflective walk in the desert.
After we parked at the desolate Picabo turnoff, Bud yipped with delight, as I tied on my hiking boots. We headed east, under cool crepuscular skies, and journeyed to one of my favorite reflecting spots: Chalk Cave. I hadn’t been there since I was a young lad, though I often had thought of this sacred spot during the course of my world travels.
As we walked along, I noticed several baseball-sized orbs of dark gleaming obsidian. In younger years, I might have pocketed one or two of the glass spheres, but my time invested in far-flung anthropological field pursuits, had instilled in me a new degree of respect for indigenous artifacts. Soon; after we passed by what was still a temptation, Bud began digging around the rusted remnants of an old cowboy camp, unearthing a tin of chewing tobacco from 1919. Remarkably, when I cracked open the can; the ancient weed still seemed fresh! To make sure, it felt best to soak it in a thimble of Old Overholt, and then sample a taste.
Boy Howdy! This tobacco was definitely perfect. The spirited buzz started kicking in right as we approached the cave entrance. Showing respect for the bats (this was no place for a cockatiel) I rolled out a high-tech canvas for Bud and me to perch on, outside the small lava tube opening. There was some dry sage around, and I gathered enough for us to warm ourselves near the windy cave entry. As a thankful offering, I tossed a small pinch of tobacco into the modest campfire, and it instantly popped back, with some blue and green fiery sparks. Then, a small smoke cloud, leisurely wafted off the fire, over to the east facing cave wall, where I noticed some uninterpretable petroglyphs above a shelf of crystals. These mysterious writings brought me back to my extensive studies in Asia, where I remembered discovering that, in Chinese, the written symbol for ‘quarrel’ is two women standing under the same roof: Not only that, but the Chinese glyph for ‘gossip’ is three women grouped tightly together.
Why were my ears buzzing? I knew it wasn’t from the fortified tobacco. Now was supposed to be the appointed time for me to sit down and weigh the important decision about what to do regarding Lana and Susanne. But I felt so stuck. Should I let indecision be a defense mechanism for a short span, or must I break cave protocol and enter the womb to keep my ears from buzzing, out here in the cacophonous atmospheric elements? Who were the girls talking with right now anyway? And what about? And what of my injured friend, slowly recovering at the closed ward?
About this week's Author, Jim Banholzer: Jim is a real man who performs real work. As a sideline, he is an itinerant Idaho newspaper commentator, transmogrifying into a blogger. He has not tasted or smoked ancient tobacco this decade, but enjoys writing about it; as well as taking pleasure in unearthing other offbeat Idaho items of interest - imagn’d or not.
With this in mind; plus, my still being emotionally torn between Susanne and Lana, it felt like a good time to take the dog for a long reflective walk in the desert.
After we parked at the desolate Picabo turnoff, Bud yipped with delight, as I tied on my hiking boots. We headed east, under cool crepuscular skies, and journeyed to one of my favorite reflecting spots: Chalk Cave. I hadn’t been there since I was a young lad, though I often had thought of this sacred spot during the course of my world travels.
As we walked along, I noticed several baseball-sized orbs of dark gleaming obsidian. In younger years, I might have pocketed one or two of the glass spheres, but my time invested in far-flung anthropological field pursuits, had instilled in me a new degree of respect for indigenous artifacts. Soon; after we passed by what was still a temptation, Bud began digging around the rusted remnants of an old cowboy camp, unearthing a tin of chewing tobacco from 1919. Remarkably, when I cracked open the can; the ancient weed still seemed fresh! To make sure, it felt best to soak it in a thimble of Old Overholt, and then sample a taste.
Boy Howdy! This tobacco was definitely perfect. The spirited buzz started kicking in right as we approached the cave entrance. Showing respect for the bats (this was no place for a cockatiel) I rolled out a high-tech canvas for Bud and me to perch on, outside the small lava tube opening. There was some dry sage around, and I gathered enough for us to warm ourselves near the windy cave entry. As a thankful offering, I tossed a small pinch of tobacco into the modest campfire, and it instantly popped back, with some blue and green fiery sparks. Then, a small smoke cloud, leisurely wafted off the fire, over to the east facing cave wall, where I noticed some uninterpretable petroglyphs above a shelf of crystals. These mysterious writings brought me back to my extensive studies in Asia, where I remembered discovering that, in Chinese, the written symbol for ‘quarrel’ is two women standing under the same roof: Not only that, but the Chinese glyph for ‘gossip’ is three women grouped tightly together.
Why were my ears buzzing? I knew it wasn’t from the fortified tobacco. Now was supposed to be the appointed time for me to sit down and weigh the important decision about what to do regarding Lana and Susanne. But I felt so stuck. Should I let indecision be a defense mechanism for a short span, or must I break cave protocol and enter the womb to keep my ears from buzzing, out here in the cacophonous atmospheric elements? Who were the girls talking with right now anyway? And what about? And what of my injured friend, slowly recovering at the closed ward?
About this week's Author, Jim Banholzer: Jim is a real man who performs real work. As a sideline, he is an itinerant Idaho newspaper commentator, transmogrifying into a blogger. He has not tasted or smoked ancient tobacco this decade, but enjoys writing about it; as well as taking pleasure in unearthing other offbeat Idaho items of interest - imagn’d or not.
Chapter 6 (3.24.10): Staycation all I ever dreamed of?
I remember when spring break meant just that. A break. From everything. School, work, responsibilities, routines. It meant sun, fun, traveling with too many people and too much stuff in small cars to beaches packed with thousands of kids in the same vaycay mode.
I can’t say I don’t miss those carefree days. At the same time, I’m happy to be in a more settled spot. Satisfying work. Good friends. A relatively solid, predictable future. Still, this past spring break left me in neutral, not wild fun, yet not altogether a disappointment. I did what I thought I’d never do. A staycation.
It started with a great ski day, followed by several perfect bluebird mountain days. New spring snow, no lift lines, a little sun and some good friends. I’d have to say that a home-based vacation here is still one-up on about 90 percent of any other destination. I spent the week exploring backcountry trails with my best four-footed friend, testing restaurants with friends and great success. And the live music scene here? Pretty impressive for a little ole ski town.
Most mornings started slow, with a bachelor breakfast, maximum coffee, and ridiculous conversations with Tweet. For a bird, he’s pretty good company. I do wish he hadn’t learned such colorful Spanish, however. What was funny in college has lost a little of its appeal. I’m still amused, though, by some of the cooperative tricks he does with Bud, like riding around on his back while waiting for their own grub to be dished. And I have to laugh whenever Tweet does his own version of the “shuffle.”
Pets and good friends, great skiing and awesome music, a world-class resort at my feet, I should have felt nothing but gratitude. I easily spent the week going from one activity or event to another, one invite to the next, acting like a tourist, although a very savvy one, and loving every minute of it. Something was missing though. I snuck a peek at the silent phone laying on the table. No new messages. Was I really that disposable? Did I really deserve this kind of a dump? Was I even really dumped?
Maybe I was being too critical of the whole thing, making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe Lana was wishing for a call from me, wondering when she’d hear my voice again beckoning her to head back to Idaho for another visit. Well, no way to know unless I call, right?
I picked up the phone, slid my index finger down the list and got to Lana’s name. I lifted from the touchscreen just in time to avoid a send. Think about this one, buddy. Do ya’ really want this?
As I was staring down the app of the Baldy trail map, in the last, quiet, reflective morning of the break, the phone jazzed up and danced to the Dave Matthews ringtone. Not Lana. But a number I’d not seen in a very long time.
“Hullo?”
About this Week's Author Amelia Linkhart: Amelia is a student at the University of Colorado and an aspiring writer in the environmental journalism program at Boulder. Her family has been spending vacations in Sun Valley since she was seven. She’s met Max, or at least someone like him, dozens of times, and falls in love with him, and the Valley, all over again, each and every trip.
I can’t say I don’t miss those carefree days. At the same time, I’m happy to be in a more settled spot. Satisfying work. Good friends. A relatively solid, predictable future. Still, this past spring break left me in neutral, not wild fun, yet not altogether a disappointment. I did what I thought I’d never do. A staycation.
It started with a great ski day, followed by several perfect bluebird mountain days. New spring snow, no lift lines, a little sun and some good friends. I’d have to say that a home-based vacation here is still one-up on about 90 percent of any other destination. I spent the week exploring backcountry trails with my best four-footed friend, testing restaurants with friends and great success. And the live music scene here? Pretty impressive for a little ole ski town.
Most mornings started slow, with a bachelor breakfast, maximum coffee, and ridiculous conversations with Tweet. For a bird, he’s pretty good company. I do wish he hadn’t learned such colorful Spanish, however. What was funny in college has lost a little of its appeal. I’m still amused, though, by some of the cooperative tricks he does with Bud, like riding around on his back while waiting for their own grub to be dished. And I have to laugh whenever Tweet does his own version of the “shuffle.”
Pets and good friends, great skiing and awesome music, a world-class resort at my feet, I should have felt nothing but gratitude. I easily spent the week going from one activity or event to another, one invite to the next, acting like a tourist, although a very savvy one, and loving every minute of it. Something was missing though. I snuck a peek at the silent phone laying on the table. No new messages. Was I really that disposable? Did I really deserve this kind of a dump? Was I even really dumped?
Maybe I was being too critical of the whole thing, making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe Lana was wishing for a call from me, wondering when she’d hear my voice again beckoning her to head back to Idaho for another visit. Well, no way to know unless I call, right?
I picked up the phone, slid my index finger down the list and got to Lana’s name. I lifted from the touchscreen just in time to avoid a send. Think about this one, buddy. Do ya’ really want this?
As I was staring down the app of the Baldy trail map, in the last, quiet, reflective morning of the break, the phone jazzed up and danced to the Dave Matthews ringtone. Not Lana. But a number I’d not seen in a very long time.
“Hullo?”
About this Week's Author Amelia Linkhart: Amelia is a student at the University of Colorado and an aspiring writer in the environmental journalism program at Boulder. Her family has been spending vacations in Sun Valley since she was seven. She’s met Max, or at least someone like him, dozens of times, and falls in love with him, and the Valley, all over again, each and every trip.
Chapter 7 (3.31.10): Max and the Keys
212. I hadn’t seen that area code in a while, but the name associated with it struck a chord of laughter, followed by more than a little fear. This was bound to be an interesting conversation.
“Hey, Clark, long time there, buddy,” I answered, expecting his challenge of the day, whatever it would be, to come roaring back at me after months of silence.
“Max, it’s Tricia,” the voice corrected uncertainly.
“Trish! Well, then, how are you and that crazy friend of mine getting along these days?” sort of knowing there must be something less than pleasant waiting for me in the next response.
Oh, Clarkie. Turns out, my best buddy from undergraduate years had played his last card. He’d had a pretty good hand dealt him, but had a gambling problem. He seemed to have trouble turning life’s gifts into winners. Still, he was a stand up kind of guy, no matter what the circumstances, and I was steeling myself, waiting for Trish to drop the other shoe.
“Max, he left you some things …” Trish led off into a weird tone.
“Trish, I really don’t need anything,” I injected, but she interrupted with a little more confidence.
“It’s nothing that has significance for me, Max. He left you the keys.”
Silence. What could I say? 80s-style, Technicolor clips of the Clark and Max show loaded in my subconscious, rich with drama, laughter and detail. I could already feel the hole ripped in the future by this loss.
Decades ago Clark and I took a trip to Vegas where he experienced a rare win. In a weekend adventure that makes “The Hangover” look like high school play rehearsal, Clark ended up with the keys. Keys to a ranch in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada, equipped with an old Ford pickup and a handful of prairie dogs, jackrabbits and howling coyotes. No water. No electricity. No reason to keep it. No reason to sell.
“Trish, I really don’t need …” I began, but again she interrupted.
It’s yours, Max. I don’t want it and no one else here even knows about it. He wanted you to have it,” she announced firmly. There’s something about a dead man’s request that demands honor.
“All right, love, but how are you holding up?” I asked, kind of hoping for the polite response. She complied, “I’m fine, Max. And don’t worry, everything is O.K. We’re not doing a public ceremony, but I’ll send you an announcement.”
Clark. Big, brash, loud, hilarious, flawed, Clark. The crazy man had gone on ahead without me, leaving me to figure out the rest of the plan by myself.
As I showered, dressed, and headed out the door to a Pio dinner and a night at the Dollar Mountain Rail Jam, I considered my new possessions. Suppose I should plan a trip to assess the situation. Or should I leave old dogs lie? Speaking of old dogs, maybe I should gather a bunch together for one last party at the ranch. Maybe even bring some new Ketchum dogs with me. I dunno … reunions can be tricky.
About this week’s Author
Josh Beeson is a wayfarer, traveler, troubadour and sometimes writer, who also knows how to make fearsome sandwiches and put killer edges on skis. He lives Max’s life, with the exception of the coveted teaching job, but hopes to get hired for more than minimum wage someday. This is Josh’s first public reveal, as he usually keeps his notes for personal reference. If you like it, great; if you don’t, well, it’s kinda like the orange slice on your sandwich plate. Take it or leave it, but don’t make noise about it. Thanks for reading.
“Hey, Clark, long time there, buddy,” I answered, expecting his challenge of the day, whatever it would be, to come roaring back at me after months of silence.
“Max, it’s Tricia,” the voice corrected uncertainly.
“Trish! Well, then, how are you and that crazy friend of mine getting along these days?” sort of knowing there must be something less than pleasant waiting for me in the next response.
Oh, Clarkie. Turns out, my best buddy from undergraduate years had played his last card. He’d had a pretty good hand dealt him, but had a gambling problem. He seemed to have trouble turning life’s gifts into winners. Still, he was a stand up kind of guy, no matter what the circumstances, and I was steeling myself, waiting for Trish to drop the other shoe.
“Max, he left you some things …” Trish led off into a weird tone.
“Trish, I really don’t need anything,” I injected, but she interrupted with a little more confidence.
“It’s nothing that has significance for me, Max. He left you the keys.”
Silence. What could I say? 80s-style, Technicolor clips of the Clark and Max show loaded in my subconscious, rich with drama, laughter and detail. I could already feel the hole ripped in the future by this loss.
Decades ago Clark and I took a trip to Vegas where he experienced a rare win. In a weekend adventure that makes “The Hangover” look like high school play rehearsal, Clark ended up with the keys. Keys to a ranch in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada, equipped with an old Ford pickup and a handful of prairie dogs, jackrabbits and howling coyotes. No water. No electricity. No reason to keep it. No reason to sell.
“Trish, I really don’t need …” I began, but again she interrupted.
It’s yours, Max. I don’t want it and no one else here even knows about it. He wanted you to have it,” she announced firmly. There’s something about a dead man’s request that demands honor.
“All right, love, but how are you holding up?” I asked, kind of hoping for the polite response. She complied, “I’m fine, Max. And don’t worry, everything is O.K. We’re not doing a public ceremony, but I’ll send you an announcement.”
Clark. Big, brash, loud, hilarious, flawed, Clark. The crazy man had gone on ahead without me, leaving me to figure out the rest of the plan by myself.
As I showered, dressed, and headed out the door to a Pio dinner and a night at the Dollar Mountain Rail Jam, I considered my new possessions. Suppose I should plan a trip to assess the situation. Or should I leave old dogs lie? Speaking of old dogs, maybe I should gather a bunch together for one last party at the ranch. Maybe even bring some new Ketchum dogs with me. I dunno … reunions can be tricky.
About this week’s Author
Josh Beeson is a wayfarer, traveler, troubadour and sometimes writer, who also knows how to make fearsome sandwiches and put killer edges on skis. He lives Max’s life, with the exception of the coveted teaching job, but hopes to get hired for more than minimum wage someday. This is Josh’s first public reveal, as he usually keeps his notes for personal reference. If you like it, great; if you don’t, well, it’s kinda like the orange slice on your sandwich plate. Take it or leave it, but don’t make noise about it. Thanks for reading.
Chapter 8 (4.7.10)
Have you ever woken up and thought to yourself, “Today’s going to be a great day”?
That’s how I felt this morning. My friend Clark’s death kind of poked me in the back and nudged me toward doing some things I had been putting off. Yes, today was going to be really something.
Fridays are usually a little hectic at school, the kids getting ready for the weekend and all. First period was pretty quiet since they were probably still waking up, but by second period they were wired, whining about weekend homework and cracking jokes. By third period things were just less than chaos that called for some strategy. I started a discussion about a bucket list for the first 25 years of their life. I was pretty surprised by how they dug into the question, and by their thoughtful answers.
Mixed in with notes that ranged from going to medical school to climbing the world’s great mountains, one student responded that she wanted to return to Mexico. She felt that was where her roots were even though she lived with her immediate familyin Idaho. She wanted to meet the culture her ancestors had come from in person, not in books and stories told by people she didn’t know.
It seems there’s always a connection to that family tree. Her answer led to a conversation about who might return to Idaho at some point in their lives and who didn’t. I asked them all to write down their answers in a note to themselves, saving it to read in ten or twenty years.
I knew lots of notes would end up in the garbage, or getting washed in the pocket of a pair of jeans, or lost in a locker. A few notes might make it to a safe spot in a shoebox and become an important memory. Those surviving notes might even bring a few students to remember Mr. Rudolph and what happened the day they wrote the note.
By the end of the day I was really ready for the weekend myself. Heading out to the parking lot, I thought about the drive to Clark’s ranch in Nevada. It was going to be long and boring, but I was looking forward to seeing the group of friends that I invited. I thought about the differences in everyone’s heritage.
If you pinned strings from all our hometowns and connected them together at Stanford, then ran them back out to where we were now on the map, it would be a pretty bizarre tangle of lines. Knowing that a spot on a map doesn’t necessarily say much about your heritage, hopes or desires, it seemed like there was something Clark was trying to tell me from the grave. I would try to listen really hard. It would be interesting to see if any of us were anywhere close to where we thought we’d be at this age.
About this Week's Author: My name is Sheila Detheridge and I live in Shoshone, Idaho with my aunt and two nieces. I don’t write much, but I think if people did, they would find it tells them things about themselves that help them to understand other people. Max is fun to write about because he can do anything and because he’s smart. It’s fun to imagine being him and planning his adventures. Writing this has made me think about returning to school next fall at CSI.
That’s how I felt this morning. My friend Clark’s death kind of poked me in the back and nudged me toward doing some things I had been putting off. Yes, today was going to be really something.
Fridays are usually a little hectic at school, the kids getting ready for the weekend and all. First period was pretty quiet since they were probably still waking up, but by second period they were wired, whining about weekend homework and cracking jokes. By third period things were just less than chaos that called for some strategy. I started a discussion about a bucket list for the first 25 years of their life. I was pretty surprised by how they dug into the question, and by their thoughtful answers.
Mixed in with notes that ranged from going to medical school to climbing the world’s great mountains, one student responded that she wanted to return to Mexico. She felt that was where her roots were even though she lived with her immediate familyin Idaho. She wanted to meet the culture her ancestors had come from in person, not in books and stories told by people she didn’t know.
It seems there’s always a connection to that family tree. Her answer led to a conversation about who might return to Idaho at some point in their lives and who didn’t. I asked them all to write down their answers in a note to themselves, saving it to read in ten or twenty years.
I knew lots of notes would end up in the garbage, or getting washed in the pocket of a pair of jeans, or lost in a locker. A few notes might make it to a safe spot in a shoebox and become an important memory. Those surviving notes might even bring a few students to remember Mr. Rudolph and what happened the day they wrote the note.
By the end of the day I was really ready for the weekend myself. Heading out to the parking lot, I thought about the drive to Clark’s ranch in Nevada. It was going to be long and boring, but I was looking forward to seeing the group of friends that I invited. I thought about the differences in everyone’s heritage.
If you pinned strings from all our hometowns and connected them together at Stanford, then ran them back out to where we were now on the map, it would be a pretty bizarre tangle of lines. Knowing that a spot on a map doesn’t necessarily say much about your heritage, hopes or desires, it seemed like there was something Clark was trying to tell me from the grave. I would try to listen really hard. It would be interesting to see if any of us were anywhere close to where we thought we’d be at this age.
About this Week's Author: My name is Sheila Detheridge and I live in Shoshone, Idaho with my aunt and two nieces. I don’t write much, but I think if people did, they would find it tells them things about themselves that help them to understand other people. Max is fun to write about because he can do anything and because he’s smart. It’s fun to imagine being him and planning his adventures. Writing this has made me think about returning to school next fall at CSI.
Chapter 9 (4.21.10)
The drive from Ketchum to Red House, Nevada, was deceptively short on the map. The actual trip seemed forever across the barren landscape. That was OK. It gave me time to try to connect all the dots that Clark had plunked down, without explanation, in his final letter to me about this parting gift.
The town of Red House was, as expected, a dusty, tiny clutch of old, stick-built structures in need of repair sporting an odd variety of commercial names. Without road signs and a GPS that was directing me to turn where there was no road, I opted to stop into the only place showing signs of life.
The bar was the happenin’ place in Red House, but there were few friendly faces. All seemed dazed and confused, staring into their brew like it might provide some answers. To what, I have no idea, but the place was so quiet I hesitated to change the volume.
Almost inaudibly, I ordered a beer and a burger, then asked directions. All heads turned toward me as I spoke my piece. Apparently, Clark was well known in these parts. Well, his house was, anyway.
“How’d a fella like you get mixed up with a weird bunch like ‘at?” the barkeep whispered. I whispered back, “Clark’s dead. He left it to me.”
The bartender slowly looked up, scanning faces that showed a mixture of interest and alarm. “Ya know,” he said slowly, “there’s something a little off ‘bout that place. Might take some company with if yer headed there.”
An amply built burger slid its way across the bar to me. I ate in silence, wiped my mouth, took a last swig of beer and made my final appeal for directions. He obliged my request as I made a few notes on a napkin. Falling into the jargon, I punctuated my exit with a “much obliged,” and walked from the dim enclave into the sunlight, hearing my phone buzzing from my pocket.
“Max, where the heck are you? We’ve been here for over an hour,” the message began. I hadn’t even heard a call, but was more amazed by the fact that my buds that flew into Reno beat me to the ranch. I quickly returned the call, betting on their directions over the cold-shouldered bar version.
“Hey, Max. You’ve got yourself one helluva piece of land here. A true Clarks-ville kinda place,” Aaron yammered as he answered my call, continuing, “It’s the most god-forsaken spot I’ve ever seen. There’s something a little Stephen King about it. I think someone’s living here. Or some ‘thing,’ can’t tell which.”
“Have another beer, Aaron, and tell me how to get there from here,” I urged. With urbanized directions and a GPS that was finally picking up the pieces, I hightailed it out of Red House and hurtled toward what we had affectionately renamed “Clarksville.” I passed carcasses of both animals and cars, with a few ramshackle hovels in between, and some really different-looking cairns in some very unusual geology. I also noticed a plume of dust paralleling me off to the west.
About this week's author: Kathleen Turner is a freelance writer, wine and sailing enthusiast, and environmental monitor, with five years of Wood River Valley knowledge in the rearview mirror. Mainly focused on research and technology, she lives in the Valley but follows the work to other coordinates. Writing fiction is a nice complement to an otherwise rigorous ‘to do’ list.
The town of Red House was, as expected, a dusty, tiny clutch of old, stick-built structures in need of repair sporting an odd variety of commercial names. Without road signs and a GPS that was directing me to turn where there was no road, I opted to stop into the only place showing signs of life.
The bar was the happenin’ place in Red House, but there were few friendly faces. All seemed dazed and confused, staring into their brew like it might provide some answers. To what, I have no idea, but the place was so quiet I hesitated to change the volume.
Almost inaudibly, I ordered a beer and a burger, then asked directions. All heads turned toward me as I spoke my piece. Apparently, Clark was well known in these parts. Well, his house was, anyway.
“How’d a fella like you get mixed up with a weird bunch like ‘at?” the barkeep whispered. I whispered back, “Clark’s dead. He left it to me.”
The bartender slowly looked up, scanning faces that showed a mixture of interest and alarm. “Ya know,” he said slowly, “there’s something a little off ‘bout that place. Might take some company with if yer headed there.”
An amply built burger slid its way across the bar to me. I ate in silence, wiped my mouth, took a last swig of beer and made my final appeal for directions. He obliged my request as I made a few notes on a napkin. Falling into the jargon, I punctuated my exit with a “much obliged,” and walked from the dim enclave into the sunlight, hearing my phone buzzing from my pocket.
“Max, where the heck are you? We’ve been here for over an hour,” the message began. I hadn’t even heard a call, but was more amazed by the fact that my buds that flew into Reno beat me to the ranch. I quickly returned the call, betting on their directions over the cold-shouldered bar version.
“Hey, Max. You’ve got yourself one helluva piece of land here. A true Clarks-ville kinda place,” Aaron yammered as he answered my call, continuing, “It’s the most god-forsaken spot I’ve ever seen. There’s something a little Stephen King about it. I think someone’s living here. Or some ‘thing,’ can’t tell which.”
“Have another beer, Aaron, and tell me how to get there from here,” I urged. With urbanized directions and a GPS that was finally picking up the pieces, I hightailed it out of Red House and hurtled toward what we had affectionately renamed “Clarksville.” I passed carcasses of both animals and cars, with a few ramshackle hovels in between, and some really different-looking cairns in some very unusual geology. I also noticed a plume of dust paralleling me off to the west.
About this week's author: Kathleen Turner is a freelance writer, wine and sailing enthusiast, and environmental monitor, with five years of Wood River Valley knowledge in the rearview mirror. Mainly focused on research and technology, she lives in the Valley but follows the work to other coordinates. Writing fiction is a nice complement to an otherwise rigorous ‘to do’ list.
Chapter 10 (4.28.10)
“Hello, this is Amy.”
“Hey Amy, it’s Max.”
I was thinking that this was the call I had been waiting for—Max Rudolph was FINALLY going to ask me out! Not the case. He was calling me to ask me to take care of Bud, his dog, and Sheila, his cockatiel, while he was on a weekend road trip to a funny little town called Red House, Nevada. Yeah, I know, it sounds like something out of one of those old Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns. Of course, I agreed to. Why wouldn’t I? It’s not like I had a date or anything!
Since he was going to be leaving town immediately after school on Friday afternoon, he invited me over Thursday evening for a glass of wine and a little synopsis on how to keep Bud and Sheila happy and content during his brief absence.
I had hoped by this point in the school year Max and I would have managed to get to know each other a little better, that our friendship would have progressed even just slightly further than it had, but, alas, it had not. Usually at least once a week we would have coffee together in the teachers’ lounge before classes started. Generally this happened on Monday morning, so I got to hear a recap of his weekend adventures, which included issues with his girlfriend, Lana (I’m thinking she may be his ex-girlfriend by now, but that could just be wishful thinking); his skiing adventures with his ski buddy, Ritchie; his one date with an old high school flame, Susanne; and, of course, hikes out to one of his favorite ‘reflecting spots,’ Chalk Cave, where Bud (his dog seems to have an aptitude for anthropology, like his owner) dug up an old can of chewing tobacco. Thankfully, the first bell usually rang before it would have been my turn to share MY weekend with Max. I’m afraid my weekend recap would have put him to sleep!
Even though I obviously wasn’t an important part of Max’s life, his presence had already improved mine. He made me want to be a better person. Since the beginning of the school year I had lost almost twenty pounds by taking better care of myself through exercise (I may walk only two miles a day, but it’s still two miles a day more than before Max came back), and by being more conscientious about my diet. I know, these aren’t really BIG things, but it’s a start, and I DO feel better about myself. Fashion has become more fun and I’ve actually enjoyed buying clothes for the first time in a few years. A couple of the other teachers on the staff have noticed my weight loss, but Max is probably too polite to say anything.
When I went to Max’s house on Thursday evening, one glass of wine lead to another, while Max told me the whole story about his friend Clark, dying and bequeathing him a dilapidated ranch he’d won in a poker hand in Las Vegas. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to the trip to Red House, but he had decided to invite a few of his and Clark’s buddies to join him there to assess the situation.
The good news is, he said that when he got back we would go out for dinner and he would tell me what kind of shape the place was in. Yeah! A carrot.
About this week's author, Patty Lewis: Patty is an 11-year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country. This is her second contribution to ‘Second Time Around.’
“Hey Amy, it’s Max.”
I was thinking that this was the call I had been waiting for—Max Rudolph was FINALLY going to ask me out! Not the case. He was calling me to ask me to take care of Bud, his dog, and Sheila, his cockatiel, while he was on a weekend road trip to a funny little town called Red House, Nevada. Yeah, I know, it sounds like something out of one of those old Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns. Of course, I agreed to. Why wouldn’t I? It’s not like I had a date or anything!
Since he was going to be leaving town immediately after school on Friday afternoon, he invited me over Thursday evening for a glass of wine and a little synopsis on how to keep Bud and Sheila happy and content during his brief absence.
I had hoped by this point in the school year Max and I would have managed to get to know each other a little better, that our friendship would have progressed even just slightly further than it had, but, alas, it had not. Usually at least once a week we would have coffee together in the teachers’ lounge before classes started. Generally this happened on Monday morning, so I got to hear a recap of his weekend adventures, which included issues with his girlfriend, Lana (I’m thinking she may be his ex-girlfriend by now, but that could just be wishful thinking); his skiing adventures with his ski buddy, Ritchie; his one date with an old high school flame, Susanne; and, of course, hikes out to one of his favorite ‘reflecting spots,’ Chalk Cave, where Bud (his dog seems to have an aptitude for anthropology, like his owner) dug up an old can of chewing tobacco. Thankfully, the first bell usually rang before it would have been my turn to share MY weekend with Max. I’m afraid my weekend recap would have put him to sleep!
Even though I obviously wasn’t an important part of Max’s life, his presence had already improved mine. He made me want to be a better person. Since the beginning of the school year I had lost almost twenty pounds by taking better care of myself through exercise (I may walk only two miles a day, but it’s still two miles a day more than before Max came back), and by being more conscientious about my diet. I know, these aren’t really BIG things, but it’s a start, and I DO feel better about myself. Fashion has become more fun and I’ve actually enjoyed buying clothes for the first time in a few years. A couple of the other teachers on the staff have noticed my weight loss, but Max is probably too polite to say anything.
When I went to Max’s house on Thursday evening, one glass of wine lead to another, while Max told me the whole story about his friend Clark, dying and bequeathing him a dilapidated ranch he’d won in a poker hand in Las Vegas. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to the trip to Red House, but he had decided to invite a few of his and Clark’s buddies to join him there to assess the situation.
The good news is, he said that when he got back we would go out for dinner and he would tell me what kind of shape the place was in. Yeah! A carrot.
About this week's author, Patty Lewis: Patty is an 11-year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country. This is her second contribution to ‘Second Time Around.’
Chapter 11 (5.5.10)
If there was an entrance to ‘Clarksville,’ it would be difficult to figure out at which end of the homestead it was. There was a main house and three outbuildings, or sheds, all of which where at the extreme edge of dilapidation. If any of the structures had ever been painted or cared for in any way, there was absolutely no sign of it now.
It appeared the guys had already emptied out their vehicles and set up camp in front of the main house, and by the time I pulled on to the property, they were each into their third or fourth beer, swapping stories while sitting around a blazing fire. The sun was setting fast and the fire would both keep us warm and hopefully deter anything or anyone we weren’t yet ready to meet.
I don’t know if it was the beer, the cool night air or our spooky surroundings that was fueling us, but none of us felt sleepy. We managed to stay awake all night, reminiscing about Clark and his antics, all wondering how one guy could cram so many adventures into such a short life. Each one of us had at least one story to share about him, most of which included some form of gambling, alcohol or a near-death experience, and sometimes all three, yet, each of us miraculously survived. We all decided that Clark was one of those unique individuals that could turn any negative into a positive… eventually.
It was too dark and too late to share Clark’s letter with the other guys, so I decided to leave it stashed in my backpack until morning. Hopefully they would be able to help me decipher Clark’s painkiller-induced ramblings. The first half of the letter was a pretty straightforward ‘goodbye,’ but the second half was cryptic and confusing to me as it outlined what appeared to be a sort of treasure map surrounding the ranch and then somehow ending up in the Wood River Valley. I was almost certain that the piles of rocks I had passed on my way out to the ranch were clues to an enigmatic puzzle Clark had designed for us to solve.
As the sun started to peek at us over the horizon, we had finally hit the wall and each of us, at long last, dropped off into an exhausted slumber.
Sunlight did not reveal any improvements onto my inheritance. In the unfiltered light, ‘Clarksville’ looked even more foreboding than it had the night before.
On Aaron’s suggestion, I dug Clark’s letter out of my bag and we nailed it down on top of a fairly flat tree stump from what was apparently the only shade tree that ever existed on the property. Fortunately, one of the other guys had brought a compass along and we were able to align Clark’s map within what appeared to be the parameters of our immediate vicinity. Once we had all unanimously decided on the initial direction to head in this grown-up game of ‘treasure hunt,’ Aaron passed out several bottles of water to each of us and we proceeded on our next adventure, compliments of Clark.
About the author: Nat Churilly is a recent transplant to the Wood River Valley. He enjoys all of the wonderful activities the Valley has to offer and can’t wait for the day to come when he is referred to as a LOCAL. Writing is a way of life for Nat and he practices his craft on a daily basis. He has enjoyed reading the chapters of the other ‘Second Time Around’ contributors and looks forward to reading next week’s story.
It appeared the guys had already emptied out their vehicles and set up camp in front of the main house, and by the time I pulled on to the property, they were each into their third or fourth beer, swapping stories while sitting around a blazing fire. The sun was setting fast and the fire would both keep us warm and hopefully deter anything or anyone we weren’t yet ready to meet.
I don’t know if it was the beer, the cool night air or our spooky surroundings that was fueling us, but none of us felt sleepy. We managed to stay awake all night, reminiscing about Clark and his antics, all wondering how one guy could cram so many adventures into such a short life. Each one of us had at least one story to share about him, most of which included some form of gambling, alcohol or a near-death experience, and sometimes all three, yet, each of us miraculously survived. We all decided that Clark was one of those unique individuals that could turn any negative into a positive… eventually.
It was too dark and too late to share Clark’s letter with the other guys, so I decided to leave it stashed in my backpack until morning. Hopefully they would be able to help me decipher Clark’s painkiller-induced ramblings. The first half of the letter was a pretty straightforward ‘goodbye,’ but the second half was cryptic and confusing to me as it outlined what appeared to be a sort of treasure map surrounding the ranch and then somehow ending up in the Wood River Valley. I was almost certain that the piles of rocks I had passed on my way out to the ranch were clues to an enigmatic puzzle Clark had designed for us to solve.
As the sun started to peek at us over the horizon, we had finally hit the wall and each of us, at long last, dropped off into an exhausted slumber.
Sunlight did not reveal any improvements onto my inheritance. In the unfiltered light, ‘Clarksville’ looked even more foreboding than it had the night before.
On Aaron’s suggestion, I dug Clark’s letter out of my bag and we nailed it down on top of a fairly flat tree stump from what was apparently the only shade tree that ever existed on the property. Fortunately, one of the other guys had brought a compass along and we were able to align Clark’s map within what appeared to be the parameters of our immediate vicinity. Once we had all unanimously decided on the initial direction to head in this grown-up game of ‘treasure hunt,’ Aaron passed out several bottles of water to each of us and we proceeded on our next adventure, compliments of Clark.
About the author: Nat Churilly is a recent transplant to the Wood River Valley. He enjoys all of the wonderful activities the Valley has to offer and can’t wait for the day to come when he is referred to as a LOCAL. Writing is a way of life for Nat and he practices his craft on a daily basis. He has enjoyed reading the chapters of the other ‘Second Time Around’ contributors and looks forward to reading next week’s story.
Chapter 12 (5.12.10) Sheila flies the coop
Max Rudolph had to be the most METROSEXUAL heterosexual man in the universe. I swear, even with his two full-time roommates, Bud and Sheila, you could literally eat off the floors in this guy’s house. No kidding, every room was dusted, vacuumed, picked up—the works. His kitchen was spotless—even his microwave was clean. Really, if I wasn’t a woman, I would seriously want this guy for a wife.
I got to Max’s house at about six o’clock Friday night. I’d gone home first after school to pack a little overnight bag for my weekend stay. We’d both decided it would be in his dog Bud’s best interest if I actually stayed at Max’s house to take care of him and Sheila, his cockatiel. Turns out Bud likes to sleep on the bed with anyone who will have him, as opposed to being crated during the night. This was fine with me, as I don’t ease-in to new surroundings as quickly as some folks do. Bud turned out to be the best bed ‘buddy’ I could have chosen. He curled up in a tight little ball at the end of the bed and really didn’t move much the rest of the night. His low, faint snoring made me feel safe and softly lulled me to sleep.
“SCREEEEECH!” It was about five in the morning when Sheila decided it was time for the rest of the household to wake up. Getting out of bed I slipped my slippers on and wandered out to the dining room to ‘unveil’ Miss Nasty and see what was bothering her. Turns out nothing—she was just wide awake and had decided that Bud and I should be, too. The minute she saw Bud, she started chanting: “BAD DOG! BAD DOG! BAD DOG! BAD DOG!” until poor Bud had no choice but to look for some kind of shelter. The minute he was out of Sheila’s eyesight, trembling under the dining room table, she stopped the verbal barrage.
Max had told me that Sheila, whom he sometimes referred to as ‘Tweet’ when she was a good bird (I’m thinking she’s not called that very often), tends to get a little jealous when other females were in his house. He said the best thing to do when Sheila got obnoxious was to: 1) see if she’ll eat a slice of apple, and if that didn’t quiet her down, then 2) cover up her cage again, and if that didn’t work (this is the one I really didn’t want to do) 3) open up her cage door and let her fly around the house for awhile and, hopefully, she’ll blow off a little steam. After trying the first two ‘solutions’ with no luck, I decided to leave Sheila’s cage door open while I dashed into the bathroom to take my shower, that way I wouldn’t have a melodramatic cockatiel swooping at my head. Poor Bud was on his own.
The rest of the morning and early afternoon was pretty unremarkable. Bud followed me everywhere I went and Sheila finally quieted down and flew back into her cage. I spent a good portion of the day reading my new old book, ‘Catcher in the Rye,’ when at about five o’clock I got a text from Max that read, “You won’t BELIEVE what we just found!! Can’t wait to see you tomorrow night. Is Sheila behaving?”
About two minutes later there was a knock at the door and outside on the stoop stood a little Girl Scout who appeared to be delivering some cookies Max had ordered. When I opened the door to greet her, a SWOOSH went past my head and I realized Sheila had just flown the coop!
About this week’s author, Helen Baack. Helen who has recently returned to her hometown of Gooding, Idaho. Helen is a retired school teacher who has spent the last twenty years teaching in the Los Angeles County school district. Helen enjoys reading, writing, gardening and, most importantly, being retired.
I got to Max’s house at about six o’clock Friday night. I’d gone home first after school to pack a little overnight bag for my weekend stay. We’d both decided it would be in his dog Bud’s best interest if I actually stayed at Max’s house to take care of him and Sheila, his cockatiel. Turns out Bud likes to sleep on the bed with anyone who will have him, as opposed to being crated during the night. This was fine with me, as I don’t ease-in to new surroundings as quickly as some folks do. Bud turned out to be the best bed ‘buddy’ I could have chosen. He curled up in a tight little ball at the end of the bed and really didn’t move much the rest of the night. His low, faint snoring made me feel safe and softly lulled me to sleep.
“SCREEEEECH!” It was about five in the morning when Sheila decided it was time for the rest of the household to wake up. Getting out of bed I slipped my slippers on and wandered out to the dining room to ‘unveil’ Miss Nasty and see what was bothering her. Turns out nothing—she was just wide awake and had decided that Bud and I should be, too. The minute she saw Bud, she started chanting: “BAD DOG! BAD DOG! BAD DOG! BAD DOG!” until poor Bud had no choice but to look for some kind of shelter. The minute he was out of Sheila’s eyesight, trembling under the dining room table, she stopped the verbal barrage.
Max had told me that Sheila, whom he sometimes referred to as ‘Tweet’ when she was a good bird (I’m thinking she’s not called that very often), tends to get a little jealous when other females were in his house. He said the best thing to do when Sheila got obnoxious was to: 1) see if she’ll eat a slice of apple, and if that didn’t quiet her down, then 2) cover up her cage again, and if that didn’t work (this is the one I really didn’t want to do) 3) open up her cage door and let her fly around the house for awhile and, hopefully, she’ll blow off a little steam. After trying the first two ‘solutions’ with no luck, I decided to leave Sheila’s cage door open while I dashed into the bathroom to take my shower, that way I wouldn’t have a melodramatic cockatiel swooping at my head. Poor Bud was on his own.
The rest of the morning and early afternoon was pretty unremarkable. Bud followed me everywhere I went and Sheila finally quieted down and flew back into her cage. I spent a good portion of the day reading my new old book, ‘Catcher in the Rye,’ when at about five o’clock I got a text from Max that read, “You won’t BELIEVE what we just found!! Can’t wait to see you tomorrow night. Is Sheila behaving?”
About two minutes later there was a knock at the door and outside on the stoop stood a little Girl Scout who appeared to be delivering some cookies Max had ordered. When I opened the door to greet her, a SWOOSH went past my head and I realized Sheila had just flown the coop!
About this week’s author, Helen Baack. Helen who has recently returned to her hometown of Gooding, Idaho. Helen is a retired school teacher who has spent the last twenty years teaching in the Los Angeles County school district. Helen enjoys reading, writing, gardening and, most importantly, being retired.
Chapter 13 (5.19.10) Max's Anagram Bonanza
As our search for hidden treasure continued around the parched Clarksville ranch, we didn’t unearth any notables that first day, or the next. Soon, it was going to be time to hightail it back to the Wood River Valley and I didn’t want to return empty-handed. We were low on water and beer anyway, so for the last evening, my friends and I returned to the hoppin’ Red House bar.
Aaron picked up an old menu from the dusty table at the entrance. Why they had menus, I had no clue, because they only served burgers and beer. The atmosphere of the place could have used a “Sorry, we’re open” sign, too. Why, Dugout Dick’s caves in Salmon offered a more comfortable ambiance than here. Suddenly, I noticed on the reverse of Aaron’s menu some familiar handwriting – the same quirky handwriting style from the puzzling map we had quizzed over for days. At the bottom of the Red House bar menu, barely legible, was scrawled in green ink smudges: “Look in Arson Crick –signed Clark.” That was our answer! As usual, Clark was speaking to us through cipher and now he had left us another beyond-the-grave clue. From our long cryptic talks together, Clark knew that I had acquired a taste for snappy anagrams, as well as spicy hamburgers, in my worldly travels. I’m sure he chuckled as he calculated that I would eventually come across his clue at the Red House, Nevada bar. “Look in Arson Crick” was an anagram for “Look in Rock Cairns!”
After re-supplying some liquid provisions, we sped back to Clarksville and held my metal detector against the heart of the first cairn we approached. When I set the sensor to silver, the gauge went haywire, so I flicked it off and we carefully stripped the balanced rocks down to their foundations. Inside each jagged cairn, Clark, or some cooper, had sealed hundreds of uncirculated Liberty Dollars into dozens of cork casks. We were going to need to hire a couple of Nevadan pantechnicons to safely extract this shimmering coinage before transporting it northward. I rang Amy, who was petsitting Bud and Sheila; and with a silver smile, explained I was going to be a few days late and that I had a grand secret. I then asked if she could make arrangements for an overnight field trip for the schoolchildren. Amy and I wanted to show them a spring mating ritual, in part to celebrate my newfound wealth. This was the perfect time of year to see the male sage grouse strut their stuff near Trapezoid Lake, then afterward, we would all ambulate over to Chalk Cave where, although I had some definitive ideas about how to transform my newfound wealth into dynamic action with that land near the new airport, I was curious to ask the children that I had taught all year for their constructive ideas. This special cave would make the ideal backdrop.
About this week's author, Jim Banholzer. Jim enjoys fiction, and sometimes is astounded when discovering that some of the characters there grow to become more three-dimensional than many real people do.
Aaron picked up an old menu from the dusty table at the entrance. Why they had menus, I had no clue, because they only served burgers and beer. The atmosphere of the place could have used a “Sorry, we’re open” sign, too. Why, Dugout Dick’s caves in Salmon offered a more comfortable ambiance than here. Suddenly, I noticed on the reverse of Aaron’s menu some familiar handwriting – the same quirky handwriting style from the puzzling map we had quizzed over for days. At the bottom of the Red House bar menu, barely legible, was scrawled in green ink smudges: “Look in Arson Crick –signed Clark.” That was our answer! As usual, Clark was speaking to us through cipher and now he had left us another beyond-the-grave clue. From our long cryptic talks together, Clark knew that I had acquired a taste for snappy anagrams, as well as spicy hamburgers, in my worldly travels. I’m sure he chuckled as he calculated that I would eventually come across his clue at the Red House, Nevada bar. “Look in Arson Crick” was an anagram for “Look in Rock Cairns!”
After re-supplying some liquid provisions, we sped back to Clarksville and held my metal detector against the heart of the first cairn we approached. When I set the sensor to silver, the gauge went haywire, so I flicked it off and we carefully stripped the balanced rocks down to their foundations. Inside each jagged cairn, Clark, or some cooper, had sealed hundreds of uncirculated Liberty Dollars into dozens of cork casks. We were going to need to hire a couple of Nevadan pantechnicons to safely extract this shimmering coinage before transporting it northward. I rang Amy, who was petsitting Bud and Sheila; and with a silver smile, explained I was going to be a few days late and that I had a grand secret. I then asked if she could make arrangements for an overnight field trip for the schoolchildren. Amy and I wanted to show them a spring mating ritual, in part to celebrate my newfound wealth. This was the perfect time of year to see the male sage grouse strut their stuff near Trapezoid Lake, then afterward, we would all ambulate over to Chalk Cave where, although I had some definitive ideas about how to transform my newfound wealth into dynamic action with that land near the new airport, I was curious to ask the children that I had taught all year for their constructive ideas. This special cave would make the ideal backdrop.
About this week's author, Jim Banholzer. Jim enjoys fiction, and sometimes is astounded when discovering that some of the characters there grow to become more three-dimensional than many real people do.
Chapter 14 (5.26.10) One Problem Solved…and then the phone rang
With Sheila flying loose and terrorizing the neighborhood, it was a good thing when Max called and told me he would be a running a few days late. This gave me a little extra time to formulate a plan to find Sheila and return her to her cage before Max got back from Red House. I called our local copy & print shop in downtown Hailey and, thankfully, one of their team came in on a Sunday afternoon and helped me develop a ‘LOST’ flyer which Bud and I proceeded to post around town onto anything it would attach.
After hours of traipsing around Hailey we got back to Max’s house and perched up in the tree in Max’s front yard was that naughty bird Sheila. One of Max’s neighbors came out of their house to greet us, not too warmly I might add, to inform me that Sheila had been tormenting the poor wild birds he’d been feeding in his backyard. Apparently Sheila had gotten particularly frustrated with blameless Tanager who wouldn’t carry on a decent conversation with her.
Before I started crying from my frustration about having nearly lost a good friends’ pet, Max’s neighbor suggested that I move Sheila’ cage out to the front yard and position it under the tree with the cage door wide open and, very possibly, Sheila would return herself home. It made sense to me. In the meantime, sweet Bud had lain directly under the branch Miss Nasty was perched on and during the brief t period of time I ran into the house to get her cage, Sheila flew down and landed on Bud’s back and while she was screeching “Take me home Big Boy!”, Bud cautiously paced himself as he carried her past the open screen door and into the house. “Who’s a good boy?” I asked Bud, tossing him a treat, I never loved anything as much as I loved that dog at that particular moment!
With Sheila, Bud and I all now safely tucked into Max’s house for the evening I finally had time to start planning the overnight field trip Max and I were going to take the school kids on for their ‘end of the school year’ reward. Max wanted to take them to Trapezoid Lake next week, in part, so we could all observe the courting dance of a male sage grouse (oh boy, another bird).
With Bud curled up at the end of the bed and my eyelids at about half mast Max’s phone rang and startled me back into the moment;
”Hey Max, I thought you might call…”
“WHO’S THIS?” A woman’s voice asked.
“This is Amy, who’s this?”
About this week's Author, Patty Lewis: Patty is an eleven year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country. This is her third contribution to Second Time Around.
After hours of traipsing around Hailey we got back to Max’s house and perched up in the tree in Max’s front yard was that naughty bird Sheila. One of Max’s neighbors came out of their house to greet us, not too warmly I might add, to inform me that Sheila had been tormenting the poor wild birds he’d been feeding in his backyard. Apparently Sheila had gotten particularly frustrated with blameless Tanager who wouldn’t carry on a decent conversation with her.
Before I started crying from my frustration about having nearly lost a good friends’ pet, Max’s neighbor suggested that I move Sheila’ cage out to the front yard and position it under the tree with the cage door wide open and, very possibly, Sheila would return herself home. It made sense to me. In the meantime, sweet Bud had lain directly under the branch Miss Nasty was perched on and during the brief t period of time I ran into the house to get her cage, Sheila flew down and landed on Bud’s back and while she was screeching “Take me home Big Boy!”, Bud cautiously paced himself as he carried her past the open screen door and into the house. “Who’s a good boy?” I asked Bud, tossing him a treat, I never loved anything as much as I loved that dog at that particular moment!
With Sheila, Bud and I all now safely tucked into Max’s house for the evening I finally had time to start planning the overnight field trip Max and I were going to take the school kids on for their ‘end of the school year’ reward. Max wanted to take them to Trapezoid Lake next week, in part, so we could all observe the courting dance of a male sage grouse (oh boy, another bird).
With Bud curled up at the end of the bed and my eyelids at about half mast Max’s phone rang and startled me back into the moment;
”Hey Max, I thought you might call…”
“WHO’S THIS?” A woman’s voice asked.
“This is Amy, who’s this?”
About this week's Author, Patty Lewis: Patty is an eleven year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country. This is her third contribution to Second Time Around.
Chapter 15 (6.2.10): Courting in the Sage
Soon after secreting away one of the silver-laden pantechnicons in a remote high-desert area, I rendezvoused with Amy and the busload of eager school children she had driven down for our overnight field trip to Trapezoid Lake. By evening twilight we gathered enough dry sage for a small campfire near the wall tents, along with some out-of-this-world rabbit stew that Amy had cooked up. As nearby planets etched their elliptical orbits against the Milky Way’s silvery fog, the children’s appetites were whet for story time.
Feeling like a young Ivan Swaner spinning a fanciful tale, I recounted how we had discovered substantial silver in the cairns, aided by Clark’s anagram clue. As the sage grouse settled down in the background from their ritualistic mating dances, I announced to the children that they would soon have some input as to how we should invest the second silver wagon stuffed full of cash. I glanced at Amy across the smoky campfire, and as she leaned with Bud against the wagon, something good stirred inside me. I appreciated how she had taken care of my pets while I was on the wild, Red House, Nevada, adventure, and now she had even brought the schoolchildren down for this beautiful overnight excursion. I was starting to look at her in a brighter light, when suddenly that well-worn copy of Catcher in the Rye flashed at me from her back pocket.
My first inclination was to snatch this cursed book and thrust it toward the sputtering campfire. But then, I caught myself, and remembered how this book has some redeeming qualities, once you learn how to read between the lines. Plus, there was no sense in making a scene in front of the schoolchildren, and tarnishing the sage grouse courting ritual we had brought them down here for. I could tell that they were into this natural ceremony, too, as, when I went into the wall tent to check my e-mail before retiring, I noticed that the group had posted the video of the wildly fluttering grouse they had filmed onto my Max Rudolph Facebook wall.
As the children began drifting off under the dancing stars, I delicately reminded them that tomorrow would also be a big day for our group, as we planned to explore that sacred cave area, near where the new airport would be built. I wanted them to envision how this proposed project would play a large part in their futures, as well as letting them have an actual say on its impact. Before retiring, Amy and I drew near, and held each other close by the campfire, with the grouse romantically murmuring in the background, among the drifting scents of desert sage. Like the book in her back pocket, it slowly dawned on me that there was much more depth to Amy than I had initially recognized, and that in this awakening spring atmosphere, I suddenly wanted to learn everything good about her earthly nature…
To be continued…
About this week's author, Jim Banholzer: Jim, like Holden Caulfield, wishes that he could scrub off every bad graffiti expletive from the world’s walls, so his little sister would not have to face its terrible ugliness.
Feeling like a young Ivan Swaner spinning a fanciful tale, I recounted how we had discovered substantial silver in the cairns, aided by Clark’s anagram clue. As the sage grouse settled down in the background from their ritualistic mating dances, I announced to the children that they would soon have some input as to how we should invest the second silver wagon stuffed full of cash. I glanced at Amy across the smoky campfire, and as she leaned with Bud against the wagon, something good stirred inside me. I appreciated how she had taken care of my pets while I was on the wild, Red House, Nevada, adventure, and now she had even brought the schoolchildren down for this beautiful overnight excursion. I was starting to look at her in a brighter light, when suddenly that well-worn copy of Catcher in the Rye flashed at me from her back pocket.
My first inclination was to snatch this cursed book and thrust it toward the sputtering campfire. But then, I caught myself, and remembered how this book has some redeeming qualities, once you learn how to read between the lines. Plus, there was no sense in making a scene in front of the schoolchildren, and tarnishing the sage grouse courting ritual we had brought them down here for. I could tell that they were into this natural ceremony, too, as, when I went into the wall tent to check my e-mail before retiring, I noticed that the group had posted the video of the wildly fluttering grouse they had filmed onto my Max Rudolph Facebook wall.
As the children began drifting off under the dancing stars, I delicately reminded them that tomorrow would also be a big day for our group, as we planned to explore that sacred cave area, near where the new airport would be built. I wanted them to envision how this proposed project would play a large part in their futures, as well as letting them have an actual say on its impact. Before retiring, Amy and I drew near, and held each other close by the campfire, with the grouse romantically murmuring in the background, among the drifting scents of desert sage. Like the book in her back pocket, it slowly dawned on me that there was much more depth to Amy than I had initially recognized, and that in this awakening spring atmosphere, I suddenly wanted to learn everything good about her earthly nature…
To be continued…
About this week's author, Jim Banholzer: Jim, like Holden Caulfield, wishes that he could scrub off every bad graffiti expletive from the world’s walls, so his little sister would not have to face its terrible ugliness.
Chapter 16 (6.9.10): S'more than friends?
When the kids were at last asleep, Max asked me what possessed me to read ‘Catcher in the Rye’ and was I enjoying it. It seemed odd to me after the interesting and exciting day we’d all just spent together that he would focus on my current reading material.
I explained to Max that I had decided to read the book after I’d heard its author, J.D. Salinger, had died earlier this year. I was aware of the book’s existence, I had just never considered reading it before now. I was fortunate in that I’d found a used copy of it at Iconoclast Books in Ketchum. Since I was only about halfway through it, I wasn’t exactly sure what I thought about it, except that I enjoyed the way it felt, as if Holden Caulfield was speaking directly to me through Salinger’s style of writing and that his ‘voice’ really did sound like a fifteen-year-old boy. It also seemed to me as if Holden was struggling with life and his perception of the innocence of youth as opposed to the phoniness of adulthood. Max seemed satisfied with my answer although he didn’t respond to my book review.
I should have been as exhausted as the kids were, but I wasn’t. A year ago I couldn’t have imagined a scenario that put me at Trapezoid Lake under a wool blanket sitting next to Max Rudolph gazing into a dancing campfire under a million and one stars. As the two of us sat side by side, each submerged in our own thoughts, I couldn’t help but reflect on how Max and I had become (if nothing more) good friends over the past school year. Although I truly enjoyed teaching, having Max Rudolph to look forward to every school day was an added bonus I would surely miss with school letting out for summer vacation soon. While I was wondering, privately, how the summer interim would affect our friendship, Max leaned over to me and just as it appeared he was going to kiss me, his Jeep shattered the quiet with a, “BEEP, BEEP, BEEPING.” Max had accidentally sat on the ‘panic’ button of his car keys.
Needless to say, every last child was now abruptly awake and poor Bud didn’t know what to do but bark along with the annoying BEEPING until Max finally dug the car keys out of his pocket and hit the panic button again to make the annoying racket stop. Once silence had been restored, I looked around the campfire at about two dozen pairs of wide-awake eyes lit with a ‘what’s next’ light of anticipation, to which I could only suggest, “How about some s’mores?”
About this week's Author, Patty Lewis: Patty is an eleven year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country.
I explained to Max that I had decided to read the book after I’d heard its author, J.D. Salinger, had died earlier this year. I was aware of the book’s existence, I had just never considered reading it before now. I was fortunate in that I’d found a used copy of it at Iconoclast Books in Ketchum. Since I was only about halfway through it, I wasn’t exactly sure what I thought about it, except that I enjoyed the way it felt, as if Holden Caulfield was speaking directly to me through Salinger’s style of writing and that his ‘voice’ really did sound like a fifteen-year-old boy. It also seemed to me as if Holden was struggling with life and his perception of the innocence of youth as opposed to the phoniness of adulthood. Max seemed satisfied with my answer although he didn’t respond to my book review.
I should have been as exhausted as the kids were, but I wasn’t. A year ago I couldn’t have imagined a scenario that put me at Trapezoid Lake under a wool blanket sitting next to Max Rudolph gazing into a dancing campfire under a million and one stars. As the two of us sat side by side, each submerged in our own thoughts, I couldn’t help but reflect on how Max and I had become (if nothing more) good friends over the past school year. Although I truly enjoyed teaching, having Max Rudolph to look forward to every school day was an added bonus I would surely miss with school letting out for summer vacation soon. While I was wondering, privately, how the summer interim would affect our friendship, Max leaned over to me and just as it appeared he was going to kiss me, his Jeep shattered the quiet with a, “BEEP, BEEP, BEEPING.” Max had accidentally sat on the ‘panic’ button of his car keys.
Needless to say, every last child was now abruptly awake and poor Bud didn’t know what to do but bark along with the annoying BEEPING until Max finally dug the car keys out of his pocket and hit the panic button again to make the annoying racket stop. Once silence had been restored, I looked around the campfire at about two dozen pairs of wide-awake eyes lit with a ‘what’s next’ light of anticipation, to which I could only suggest, “How about some s’mores?”
About this week's Author, Patty Lewis: Patty is an eleven year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country.
Chapter 17 (6.16.10): Max's map irregularities
I slept a bit uneasy after setting off the car alarm, right when the time seemed perfect for Amy and me to share our first sweet kiss by the romantic sage grouse lek setting. The next morning we awoke to a warm sun at the Trapezoid Lake campsite and when I glanced over at Amy, for a fleeting moment I saw a million stars still reflecting in her twinkling eyes. Then, as we watched the remaining grouse fly off in pairs to a northern place of wisdom, one of the students remarked it didn’t look as if they soared very high and wondered how the new adjacent airport would affect this magnificent bird migration. Our own decampment would be a short one, too, and, after dousing the smoldering fire, Amy helped me hitch our camp gear up to the silver pantechnicon. Then we navigated, along with the children in the school bus, up the isolated desert road, over to nearby Chalk Cave.
We pulled through an ancient wooden arch to a clearing in the tall sage and came to a loud popping halt. A sharp obsidian spear point sticking out of the gravel had punctured one of the dually van’s rear tires (but at least it was at the same spot where we wanted to park). We would deal with the flat later; for now, we were at today’s destination. And although we were within 50 feet of the cave, it took several minutes before any of the students noticed the jagged mouth opening. Behind the schoolchildren, I squeezed Amy’s hand tight as we clambered down past a juvenile owl pecking at a pile of brown rattlesnake eggs in the hot rocks. After cautiously passing the guardians, we felt a cool breeze emerging from the tiny lava-stone entrance. This desert quietude held a dissimilar vibe than the Wood River Valley and, as we listened closely, it sounded uncannily as if the cave mouth was whispering a message for greater mankind. It was almost celestial noon and though our shadows were small, the barely detectable voice singing from somewhere in the cave depths had everyone’s hair on edge.
Two of our tech students set up an elaborate portable antenna they had invented, and spiked it into the rough terrain above the cave. This new-fangled device would enable us better communication throughout the cavern and not only that, but it also had a recording mechanism attached. Then, the same young braves volunteered to spelunk headfirst into the darkness. Meanwhile, since Amy had been observing our schoolchildren through rosy Holden Caulfield filtered glasses lately, I wondered how she would react when she discovered that Lana and I had previously stashed, a mile within the lava tube, a rare copy of Salinger’s Ocean Full of Bowling Balls. Although this great unpublished work is not supposed to be released until fifty years after Salinger’s death, the preceding year I had visited Princeton’s tightly-controlled Firestone Library, where the only public copy available is kept, and then, through several fortnights of burning the midnight ethanol, I rigorously committed the fine work to memory before meticulously hand-scribing a second copy. This uncommon duplicate now rests in a wooden box eight furlongs deep within the climate-preserving walls of Chalk Cave. And, as an added bonus within this good medicine box, are a series of parchments—several official maps that indicated some unclaimed land, somehow overlooked all these years by various government agencies. Moreover, this unspoken-for tract of free land lay smack-dab between Chalk Cave and the proposed airport taxiway’s south perimeter!
About this week's author, Jim Banholzer: After mostly conquering his claustrophobia, Banholzer has shyly done spelunking in several Virginia and Idaho caves. Only once has a Guardian rattler struck at him, but its wicked bite merely pierced the jeans and not the flesh. Someday he would be curious to peep through the wormhole of a mysterious ancient desert arch.
We pulled through an ancient wooden arch to a clearing in the tall sage and came to a loud popping halt. A sharp obsidian spear point sticking out of the gravel had punctured one of the dually van’s rear tires (but at least it was at the same spot where we wanted to park). We would deal with the flat later; for now, we were at today’s destination. And although we were within 50 feet of the cave, it took several minutes before any of the students noticed the jagged mouth opening. Behind the schoolchildren, I squeezed Amy’s hand tight as we clambered down past a juvenile owl pecking at a pile of brown rattlesnake eggs in the hot rocks. After cautiously passing the guardians, we felt a cool breeze emerging from the tiny lava-stone entrance. This desert quietude held a dissimilar vibe than the Wood River Valley and, as we listened closely, it sounded uncannily as if the cave mouth was whispering a message for greater mankind. It was almost celestial noon and though our shadows were small, the barely detectable voice singing from somewhere in the cave depths had everyone’s hair on edge.
Two of our tech students set up an elaborate portable antenna they had invented, and spiked it into the rough terrain above the cave. This new-fangled device would enable us better communication throughout the cavern and not only that, but it also had a recording mechanism attached. Then, the same young braves volunteered to spelunk headfirst into the darkness. Meanwhile, since Amy had been observing our schoolchildren through rosy Holden Caulfield filtered glasses lately, I wondered how she would react when she discovered that Lana and I had previously stashed, a mile within the lava tube, a rare copy of Salinger’s Ocean Full of Bowling Balls. Although this great unpublished work is not supposed to be released until fifty years after Salinger’s death, the preceding year I had visited Princeton’s tightly-controlled Firestone Library, where the only public copy available is kept, and then, through several fortnights of burning the midnight ethanol, I rigorously committed the fine work to memory before meticulously hand-scribing a second copy. This uncommon duplicate now rests in a wooden box eight furlongs deep within the climate-preserving walls of Chalk Cave. And, as an added bonus within this good medicine box, are a series of parchments—several official maps that indicated some unclaimed land, somehow overlooked all these years by various government agencies. Moreover, this unspoken-for tract of free land lay smack-dab between Chalk Cave and the proposed airport taxiway’s south perimeter!
About this week's author, Jim Banholzer: After mostly conquering his claustrophobia, Banholzer has shyly done spelunking in several Virginia and Idaho caves. Only once has a Guardian rattler struck at him, but its wicked bite merely pierced the jeans and not the flesh. Someday he would be curious to peep through the wormhole of a mysterious ancient desert arch.
Chapter 18 (6.23.10): Team efforts and seed ideas
After the first two braves shimmied through Chalk Cave’s teensy rock mouth opening, we sent in three more pairs of well-equipped students each succeeding hour. I had mixed feelings about bringing communications into the cavern, as caves are well known for being hallowed sanctuaries from the powerful bombardment of our communication spectrum. However, since our tech students had invented this novel antenna, which they had spiked into the soil above Chalk Cave’s elongated passageways, this would be a good means for us to test and fine-tune their new underground radio transmission system.
Meanwhile, Amy and I climbed back up the ridge and over the dually van to discuss what to do about its flat tire. I was hesitant to hoist it up on a jack, since it was bulging with the extra weight of heavy silver; when Amy observed that since it was only one of four rear tires, we could still operate the pantechnicon by shredding the rest of the ruined tire clean off. Seeing no better tool than the spear point, which first caused the flat, we used it to slice the remaining rubber remnants away. Next, I shot a Polaroid of the spear point’s black mirror face, and posted it to my adventurous Max Rudolph Facebook page. Then we used the same weapon to burrow a hole in the hard earth to return the artifact where it belonged—hopefully burying it deep enough so nobody else would experience a flat tire there for another five hundred years.
The afternoon was turning late, when we received communication that the first group had discovered the Salinger and mysterious map parchments Lana and I had hid in the lava tube last year—and they would soon be returning with it. They also reported that the strange luminous humming was continuous throughout the cave depths and they couldn’t pinpoint the exact source from where it stemmed. As Amy and I waited along with the remaining schoolchildren, we studied the vast landing where our community’s wise elders had rallied together as a cohesive team and slated the new airport to be. Here we marveled over some of its pros and cons. Then we popped the question to the children: what they thought if we were to work out a unique deal with the authorities whereby our class could have a supporting role with the new airport. “What do you mean, like a de-icing/car wash for airplanes or something?” quizzed one of the kids.
What the children didn’t know was that since last year, after coming into possession of the enlightening maps that our crew was about to extract from the cave, I had worked out a legal claim over the forty untaken acres. Standing under the ancient wooden arch gave a better perspective, as from the light there we could see that the lava terrain of our new land clearly held a darker color then the surrounding sun-parched earth did. I remembered hearing that during the Borah earthquake of ’83 there were some heavy rumblings in the Picabo desert and I wondered if the earth here at the time had expanded unnoticed with a small lava flow, thus giving birth to this uncharted land. Later on, an INL seismologist confirmed this to be true and right now beautiful Amy’s star-struck eyes practically popped out when I formally announced that this land ripe for claiming next to the new airport would soon be ours and the silver safely tucked away would fund whatever positive foundation we wanted to construct upon it…
About this week's author, Jim Banholzer: Twice, when Jim has taken Polaroid photos of indigenous artifacts, unusually colored swirls, not noticed before, have inexplicably appeared in the background. He lives in an old dynamite shack, where he feels fairly safe from the over-bombardment of outer-communication influences. Not turning the TV on much, except for baseball or The Discovery Channel, helps this mood. At this stage in his life, Banholzer feels like his man-cave is a good energy spot, somewhat conducive to productive writing.
Meanwhile, Amy and I climbed back up the ridge and over the dually van to discuss what to do about its flat tire. I was hesitant to hoist it up on a jack, since it was bulging with the extra weight of heavy silver; when Amy observed that since it was only one of four rear tires, we could still operate the pantechnicon by shredding the rest of the ruined tire clean off. Seeing no better tool than the spear point, which first caused the flat, we used it to slice the remaining rubber remnants away. Next, I shot a Polaroid of the spear point’s black mirror face, and posted it to my adventurous Max Rudolph Facebook page. Then we used the same weapon to burrow a hole in the hard earth to return the artifact where it belonged—hopefully burying it deep enough so nobody else would experience a flat tire there for another five hundred years.
The afternoon was turning late, when we received communication that the first group had discovered the Salinger and mysterious map parchments Lana and I had hid in the lava tube last year—and they would soon be returning with it. They also reported that the strange luminous humming was continuous throughout the cave depths and they couldn’t pinpoint the exact source from where it stemmed. As Amy and I waited along with the remaining schoolchildren, we studied the vast landing where our community’s wise elders had rallied together as a cohesive team and slated the new airport to be. Here we marveled over some of its pros and cons. Then we popped the question to the children: what they thought if we were to work out a unique deal with the authorities whereby our class could have a supporting role with the new airport. “What do you mean, like a de-icing/car wash for airplanes or something?” quizzed one of the kids.
What the children didn’t know was that since last year, after coming into possession of the enlightening maps that our crew was about to extract from the cave, I had worked out a legal claim over the forty untaken acres. Standing under the ancient wooden arch gave a better perspective, as from the light there we could see that the lava terrain of our new land clearly held a darker color then the surrounding sun-parched earth did. I remembered hearing that during the Borah earthquake of ’83 there were some heavy rumblings in the Picabo desert and I wondered if the earth here at the time had expanded unnoticed with a small lava flow, thus giving birth to this uncharted land. Later on, an INL seismologist confirmed this to be true and right now beautiful Amy’s star-struck eyes practically popped out when I formally announced that this land ripe for claiming next to the new airport would soon be ours and the silver safely tucked away would fund whatever positive foundation we wanted to construct upon it…
About this week's author, Jim Banholzer: Twice, when Jim has taken Polaroid photos of indigenous artifacts, unusually colored swirls, not noticed before, have inexplicably appeared in the background. He lives in an old dynamite shack, where he feels fairly safe from the over-bombardment of outer-communication influences. Not turning the TV on much, except for baseball or The Discovery Channel, helps this mood. At this stage in his life, Banholzer feels like his man-cave is a good energy spot, somewhat conducive to productive writing.
Chapter 19 (6.30.10): School's Out for Summer
There were many things I admired about Max Rudolph prior to the ‘overnight’ field trip with our school kids, but after spending the last two days with him, I held him in even higher esteem. It was easy to see why his students loved him so much—he had a way of making each one of them feel important. He was the perfect teacher in that he had a way of recognizing the potential each student possessed. Plus, Max’s complete absorption in all things ‘Wood River’ and the surrounding territory was exciting. His intent to invest his silver inheritance from his friend Clark into our community was indeed admirable and the potential was invigorating.
However, not being the quintessential ‘outdoor girl’ I’m convinced Max would want me to be, by late afternoon our second day out I was ready for a hot shower and a splash of Chanel No. 5 perfume, which I’m positive would make me feel human again. I was both looking forward to being done with our field trip and dreading it. If the chance had presented itself for me to tell Max that A, his cockatiel, Sheila, had escaped (and returned, fortunately) and terrorized his neighbors while under my care, and B, Lana had called his home and interrogated me while I was ‘pet-sitting’ for him, I had ignored it. We were having such a great time together and with the students I just didn’t want to bring up any negative issues.
Every one of the kids fell asleep on the bus ride home, and if I hadn’t been driving, I would have, too. We all had that ‘good tired feeling’ one gets at the end of a project that was intense, exhausting and fun. As I thought about how attached I now was to these great kids and Max, and knowing that I wouldn’t be seeing them on a daily basis for the next few months of summer, a huge lump grew in my throat and I could barely see the road for the tears in my eyes. This was the first time in my teaching career I wasn’t looking forward to summer vacation.
After all the kids were safely picked up by their parents, I parked the bus in the school bus barn and took my time picking up any trash they might have left behind in the vehicle. I put the bus keys in my backpack and walked the several blocks home knowing that tomorrow morning I would return them to the bus maintenance manager with a thank you and a big box of donuts.
Summer was officially here and it was time for me to make a plan as to how I was going to enjoy it. With or without Max Rudolph.
About this week's author, Patty Lewis: Patty is an eleven year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country.
However, not being the quintessential ‘outdoor girl’ I’m convinced Max would want me to be, by late afternoon our second day out I was ready for a hot shower and a splash of Chanel No. 5 perfume, which I’m positive would make me feel human again. I was both looking forward to being done with our field trip and dreading it. If the chance had presented itself for me to tell Max that A, his cockatiel, Sheila, had escaped (and returned, fortunately) and terrorized his neighbors while under my care, and B, Lana had called his home and interrogated me while I was ‘pet-sitting’ for him, I had ignored it. We were having such a great time together and with the students I just didn’t want to bring up any negative issues.
Every one of the kids fell asleep on the bus ride home, and if I hadn’t been driving, I would have, too. We all had that ‘good tired feeling’ one gets at the end of a project that was intense, exhausting and fun. As I thought about how attached I now was to these great kids and Max, and knowing that I wouldn’t be seeing them on a daily basis for the next few months of summer, a huge lump grew in my throat and I could barely see the road for the tears in my eyes. This was the first time in my teaching career I wasn’t looking forward to summer vacation.
After all the kids were safely picked up by their parents, I parked the bus in the school bus barn and took my time picking up any trash they might have left behind in the vehicle. I put the bus keys in my backpack and walked the several blocks home knowing that tomorrow morning I would return them to the bus maintenance manager with a thank you and a big box of donuts.
Summer was officially here and it was time for me to make a plan as to how I was going to enjoy it. With or without Max Rudolph.
About this week's author, Patty Lewis: Patty is an eleven year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country.
Chapter 20 (7.7.10): Puzzles and lovebirds
After the children emerged from the depths of Chalk Cave, we placed the series of collected map parchments on the pantechnivan lift-gate and blew the old dust off. Half of the children crowded there with me, while the other half stood with Amy under the ancient desert arch and pored over the rare Salinger book with great interest.
I knew these maps well, but even after studying them into the wee hours many nights, I still had a hard time fathoming how the ancient ones were the most accurate; especially when considering that the ground here expanded with a new lava flow, a mere 27 years ago. How in the world could the oldest maps in the group, hundreds of years old, have known about this future event and been delineated with such fine matching detail? Could it have something to do with the ancient arch and what local indigenous people sometimes whisper about? After all, there are transformative wormholes in the universe; so why not one here in our stunning Picabo desert, next to the future airport?
Meanwhile, I had more pressing earthly needs to attend to. As Amy and I caravanned separately back to the Wood River Valley, I sensed that she would want to know where my relationship with Lana stood. Amy already knew that I much preferred love over war; but now I would have to gently break her news that I’m polyamorous. As I parked the van in the drive, I saw that my cockatiel Sheila was still outside, pecking at the living room window. This was puzzling to the max, because twenty minutes ago, while emerging from Timmermans dead spot; I saw that Amy had texted me about Sheila’s great escape and return. When I pulled the door open, Sheila streaked straight for the cage, where there was another cockatiel locked inside. Wait a minute now - which one was the real Sheila and which the pseudo-Sheila? The two birds resembled each other so well that they could have functioned as each other’s Doppelgangers. Fortunately, I had methodically trained Sheila to respond to my prompts in meaningful anagrams. So when I called out “Drunken Sailors!” from inside the cage the real Sheila immediately squawked back “Darkens oil runs!”
At this juncture, I unlatched the birdcage to let the two Sheila’s become better acquainted, while swapping out the bottom lining for some fresh newspaper. Soon, the birds made it clear that the second Sheila was not another female and that they would make a good mating couple.
As I ambled over to the map table to grab a large magnifying glass, I noticed that the real Sheila’s song was less discordant than usual, which made me believe that it would be a nice change, to listen to her fulfilled melody enhance the library background. Then, as I set down to study the esoteric map information closer, Amy rang my phone and I asked her if she had any good names for a strutting male cockatiel.
About this week's Author, Jim Banholzer: Banholzer is mostly a quiet hermit; but he could surprise you with an occasional glint of hope.
I knew these maps well, but even after studying them into the wee hours many nights, I still had a hard time fathoming how the ancient ones were the most accurate; especially when considering that the ground here expanded with a new lava flow, a mere 27 years ago. How in the world could the oldest maps in the group, hundreds of years old, have known about this future event and been delineated with such fine matching detail? Could it have something to do with the ancient arch and what local indigenous people sometimes whisper about? After all, there are transformative wormholes in the universe; so why not one here in our stunning Picabo desert, next to the future airport?
Meanwhile, I had more pressing earthly needs to attend to. As Amy and I caravanned separately back to the Wood River Valley, I sensed that she would want to know where my relationship with Lana stood. Amy already knew that I much preferred love over war; but now I would have to gently break her news that I’m polyamorous. As I parked the van in the drive, I saw that my cockatiel Sheila was still outside, pecking at the living room window. This was puzzling to the max, because twenty minutes ago, while emerging from Timmermans dead spot; I saw that Amy had texted me about Sheila’s great escape and return. When I pulled the door open, Sheila streaked straight for the cage, where there was another cockatiel locked inside. Wait a minute now - which one was the real Sheila and which the pseudo-Sheila? The two birds resembled each other so well that they could have functioned as each other’s Doppelgangers. Fortunately, I had methodically trained Sheila to respond to my prompts in meaningful anagrams. So when I called out “Drunken Sailors!” from inside the cage the real Sheila immediately squawked back “Darkens oil runs!”
At this juncture, I unlatched the birdcage to let the two Sheila’s become better acquainted, while swapping out the bottom lining for some fresh newspaper. Soon, the birds made it clear that the second Sheila was not another female and that they would make a good mating couple.
As I ambled over to the map table to grab a large magnifying glass, I noticed that the real Sheila’s song was less discordant than usual, which made me believe that it would be a nice change, to listen to her fulfilled melody enhance the library background. Then, as I set down to study the esoteric map information closer, Amy rang my phone and I asked her if she had any good names for a strutting male cockatiel.
About this week's Author, Jim Banholzer: Banholzer is mostly a quiet hermit; but he could surprise you with an occasional glint of hope.
Chapter 21 (7.14.10): A Tale of Two Max's
A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens was originally published (one chapter at a time) in a weekly periodical/journal owned, published and edited by Charles Dickens himself. The debut issue of ‘All the Year Round’ featuring the first installment of A Tale of Two Cities was distributed on Saturday, April 30, 1859.
Similarly and yet differently, Second Time Around is an original novel being written one week at a time by varied and enthusiastic contributors. Each week is a surprise to the readers as well as the writers.
While Jim Banholzer and Patty Lewis have done many of the chapters, The Weekly Paper (and Jim and Patty) encourages other fiction writers to participate in this fun and on-going novel about Max Rudolph and his life and loves in the Wood River Valley. Second Time Around can be read in its entirety online at theweeklypaper.biz. Thank you for reading The Weekly Paper and ‘Second Time Around’.
This week’s chapter finds Amy a little disturbed by Max’s apparent lack of interest in her.
It’s funny how things work out. Here I was all concerned about Max’s cockatiel, Sheila, and at the same time afraid to tell Max that she had escaped while in my care. It turns out I’d actually caught the WRONG cockatiel and Max found Sheila himself. Max is SURE it’s a male bird and he’s convinced that the two birds are in love. Great, now that nasty bird actually has a boyfriend and I don’t. Max had reassured me that Sheila had, on more than one occasion, escaped from the house and I was not to take it too seriously that she had done so again on my watch. Max had also asked my help in thinking of a name for the new bird and the best I could come up with was Joe.
The month of June passed quickly even though it was a particularly soggy one. Max called me a couple of times from his cell phone while he was out jogging or hiking with Bud, but he never got around to suggesting we get together. I just figured he was preoccupied with his maps and the rare Salinger book he had retrieved from Chalk Cave. When it comes to women, men tend to move in ‘dog years’.
The Independence Day celebration in Hailey has always been a favorite of mine. My friend Nancy and I decided to stake out a spot on Main Street in front of McClain’s Pizza for the huge 4th of July parade. It was the perfect spot in that we could grab a beverage if we wanted one and, at the same time, view the parade in its entirety. After we had settled in to our lawn chairs and said “Hi” to practically everyone we knew in the whole town, I happened to glance up at the marquee on top of The Mint and there, surrounded by a group of his friends was Max Rudolph holding hands with his old girlfriend Lana.
As Nancy observed me watching Max and Lana ka-noodle very publicly in front of The Mint she reluctantly conveyed to me that she believed that Lana had moved in with Max, at least for the summer. This, of course, would explain his random phone calls to me from OUTSIDE his house and why he hasn’t bothered to ask me out.
If Nancy could sense the pain I was in she wisely chose not to mention it.
This week’s contributor is Patty Lewis a resident of the Wood River Valley.
Similarly and yet differently, Second Time Around is an original novel being written one week at a time by varied and enthusiastic contributors. Each week is a surprise to the readers as well as the writers.
While Jim Banholzer and Patty Lewis have done many of the chapters, The Weekly Paper (and Jim and Patty) encourages other fiction writers to participate in this fun and on-going novel about Max Rudolph and his life and loves in the Wood River Valley. Second Time Around can be read in its entirety online at theweeklypaper.biz. Thank you for reading The Weekly Paper and ‘Second Time Around’.
This week’s chapter finds Amy a little disturbed by Max’s apparent lack of interest in her.
It’s funny how things work out. Here I was all concerned about Max’s cockatiel, Sheila, and at the same time afraid to tell Max that she had escaped while in my care. It turns out I’d actually caught the WRONG cockatiel and Max found Sheila himself. Max is SURE it’s a male bird and he’s convinced that the two birds are in love. Great, now that nasty bird actually has a boyfriend and I don’t. Max had reassured me that Sheila had, on more than one occasion, escaped from the house and I was not to take it too seriously that she had done so again on my watch. Max had also asked my help in thinking of a name for the new bird and the best I could come up with was Joe.
The month of June passed quickly even though it was a particularly soggy one. Max called me a couple of times from his cell phone while he was out jogging or hiking with Bud, but he never got around to suggesting we get together. I just figured he was preoccupied with his maps and the rare Salinger book he had retrieved from Chalk Cave. When it comes to women, men tend to move in ‘dog years’.
The Independence Day celebration in Hailey has always been a favorite of mine. My friend Nancy and I decided to stake out a spot on Main Street in front of McClain’s Pizza for the huge 4th of July parade. It was the perfect spot in that we could grab a beverage if we wanted one and, at the same time, view the parade in its entirety. After we had settled in to our lawn chairs and said “Hi” to practically everyone we knew in the whole town, I happened to glance up at the marquee on top of The Mint and there, surrounded by a group of his friends was Max Rudolph holding hands with his old girlfriend Lana.
As Nancy observed me watching Max and Lana ka-noodle very publicly in front of The Mint she reluctantly conveyed to me that she believed that Lana had moved in with Max, at least for the summer. This, of course, would explain his random phone calls to me from OUTSIDE his house and why he hasn’t bothered to ask me out.
If Nancy could sense the pain I was in she wisely chose not to mention it.
This week’s contributor is Patty Lewis a resident of the Wood River Valley.
Chapter 22 (7.21.10): Compound Whippersnappers
I must have still had some spelunking left in these aged bones because when Lana showed up unexpectedly to visit for Hailey’s Fourth of July celebration, I escorted her to The Mint, and from an underground room there felt compelled to reveal to her the secret subterranean chamber that webs beneath Hailey’s Main Street. As we spryly passed by the remnants of an old Chinese opium den, I joked that this would make a fitting place to set up a closed meeting to relax the fossils who are paranoid about shifting the airport to a safer position.
While showing Lana the underground door that exits into the Hailey Museum, suddenly some penny candy dropped from one of the overhead vault openings and we realized that the popular parade had begun. We hustled back to Bruce’s basement, where an undercover Allen & Co. agent assisted us out of the black hole and over to a prime vantage point above The Mint’s balcony. Although we were surrounded by old friends, Lana appeared nervous, and every time a firecracker popped, she jumped an inch closer. Soon we were holding hands and some of those strong sentimental feelings I had toward her started racing back.
At the high point of the procession, an unscripted fight broke out between two members of the shootout gang. Since they had already performed earlier, this made it difficult, momentarily, to distinguish what was real and what was fiction—until a noble mechanic single-handedly dispersed the actual fisticuffs, moments before local authorities arrived at the surreal scene.
After the heat of this explosiveness that evening, Lana and I strolled out Quigley to witness the fireworks. Although it lasted barely twenty minutes, it was a fine presentation, and there were a few sizzlers I hadn’t seen since Love, American-Style. Equally notable was the small number of walkers who had hiked this short distance as, even though the weather was fine, most of the rocket-watchers had driven over in a second slow parade.
The next day Lana flew out of town like a blissful comet. Meanwhile, I had been thinking quite a lot about Amy and the inspiring way she interacts with people and pets. For some reason, though, we’d been having a difficult time reconnecting. During a long squawk around the library, my cockatiels Sheila and Joe had become entangled in the landline, yanking the wire from the wall. Since the walls are 18-inch-thick cement, it requires a special drill before I can fix the phone. In addition, the solid cave-like properties of the house create weak cell reception, so the only time I can reach Amy is when I’m out walking Bud. For the last two weeks we’ve been mostly misconnecting. Maybe I should suggest that we meet together in person sometime again soon, perhaps for a nice slice at McClain’s.
About the author: After waking from last winter’s long hibernation, Jim Banholzer realized that he had incurred a mild case of Dunlap’s disease, whereby his belly had ‘done lapped’ clean over his belt. For treatment, he skipped pizza for forty long days, and now, since the belt has returned to its old healthy notch, he’s strongly dreaming about a scrumptious pepperoni/pesto pie!
While showing Lana the underground door that exits into the Hailey Museum, suddenly some penny candy dropped from one of the overhead vault openings and we realized that the popular parade had begun. We hustled back to Bruce’s basement, where an undercover Allen & Co. agent assisted us out of the black hole and over to a prime vantage point above The Mint’s balcony. Although we were surrounded by old friends, Lana appeared nervous, and every time a firecracker popped, she jumped an inch closer. Soon we were holding hands and some of those strong sentimental feelings I had toward her started racing back.
At the high point of the procession, an unscripted fight broke out between two members of the shootout gang. Since they had already performed earlier, this made it difficult, momentarily, to distinguish what was real and what was fiction—until a noble mechanic single-handedly dispersed the actual fisticuffs, moments before local authorities arrived at the surreal scene.
After the heat of this explosiveness that evening, Lana and I strolled out Quigley to witness the fireworks. Although it lasted barely twenty minutes, it was a fine presentation, and there were a few sizzlers I hadn’t seen since Love, American-Style. Equally notable was the small number of walkers who had hiked this short distance as, even though the weather was fine, most of the rocket-watchers had driven over in a second slow parade.
The next day Lana flew out of town like a blissful comet. Meanwhile, I had been thinking quite a lot about Amy and the inspiring way she interacts with people and pets. For some reason, though, we’d been having a difficult time reconnecting. During a long squawk around the library, my cockatiels Sheila and Joe had become entangled in the landline, yanking the wire from the wall. Since the walls are 18-inch-thick cement, it requires a special drill before I can fix the phone. In addition, the solid cave-like properties of the house create weak cell reception, so the only time I can reach Amy is when I’m out walking Bud. For the last two weeks we’ve been mostly misconnecting. Maybe I should suggest that we meet together in person sometime again soon, perhaps for a nice slice at McClain’s.
About the author: After waking from last winter’s long hibernation, Jim Banholzer realized that he had incurred a mild case of Dunlap’s disease, whereby his belly had ‘done lapped’ clean over his belt. For treatment, he skipped pizza for forty long days, and now, since the belt has returned to its old healthy notch, he’s strongly dreaming about a scrumptious pepperoni/pesto pie!
7.28.10: Second Time Around is on a 1 week vacation, check back next week for more.
Chapter 23 (8.4.10): Something to Chew On
I had tried not to watch Max and Lana interact on top of the Mint during the Independence Day procession, but morbid curiosity prevented me from looking anywhere else. It appeared that Lana had a deep-rooted fear of the sound of firecrackers and clowns throwing candy to the little kids lining the parade route. Max looked to be completely captivated by her feigned helplessness and aversion to anything that made a pop or a bang.
My friend Nancy was disappointed, yet understanding, when I explained to her that I wanted to go home after the parade. My favorite all-American holiday had taken a bad turn and I was convinced I wouldn’t be very good company for the rest of the day. So, when the last of the pooper-scoopers had gone by and picked up the ‘road apples’ deposited on Main Street, I grabbed my lawn chair and backpack and walked home, destined to spend another lonely night watching television or a movie all by myself on one of the most social holidays of the year.
Once I arrived home, I dropped my chair and backpack in the entryway, grabbed the TV remote, plopped down on the couch and began searching for something on television that would take my mind off the Max and Lana affair. The only thing on TV that seemed even slightly entertaining was the one hundred and fifteenth rerun of ‘The Wizard of Oz’, the story of a young woman who accidently gets whacked in the head by flying debris in a tornado and wakes up in another universe. How convenient that would be for me right about now!
Apparently heartache can be exhausting. It would appear I had fallen into a deep sleep–until a little past 2 a.m.–when a pounding on my front door abruptly awakened me. My first irrational thought was that the fireworks had somehow caught the side of a hill on fire and that the police were going door-to-door evacuating the town. As I cautiously approached the front door, my mind returned to the dream from which I had just been roused: Max Rudolph had me by the hand and we were floating above the Wood River Valley and watching the fireworks from above instead of from the ground. Bright colors were bursting everywhere around us, and while I’m usually afraid of heights, as long as Max had a tight grip on my hand, all I could do was smile from the blinding beauty of it all.
I flipped on the front porch light only to look out and see Lana standing on the stoop. Before I had a chance to wonder what she’d be doing at my house at this extreme hour of the morning, she screamed at me, “Listen, you stupid witch, if I ever hear of you hanging around Max again I will find you and knock your front teeth out, got it?”
I just turned off the light.
About the author: Patty Lewis is an eleven-year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country
My friend Nancy was disappointed, yet understanding, when I explained to her that I wanted to go home after the parade. My favorite all-American holiday had taken a bad turn and I was convinced I wouldn’t be very good company for the rest of the day. So, when the last of the pooper-scoopers had gone by and picked up the ‘road apples’ deposited on Main Street, I grabbed my lawn chair and backpack and walked home, destined to spend another lonely night watching television or a movie all by myself on one of the most social holidays of the year.
Once I arrived home, I dropped my chair and backpack in the entryway, grabbed the TV remote, plopped down on the couch and began searching for something on television that would take my mind off the Max and Lana affair. The only thing on TV that seemed even slightly entertaining was the one hundred and fifteenth rerun of ‘The Wizard of Oz’, the story of a young woman who accidently gets whacked in the head by flying debris in a tornado and wakes up in another universe. How convenient that would be for me right about now!
Apparently heartache can be exhausting. It would appear I had fallen into a deep sleep–until a little past 2 a.m.–when a pounding on my front door abruptly awakened me. My first irrational thought was that the fireworks had somehow caught the side of a hill on fire and that the police were going door-to-door evacuating the town. As I cautiously approached the front door, my mind returned to the dream from which I had just been roused: Max Rudolph had me by the hand and we were floating above the Wood River Valley and watching the fireworks from above instead of from the ground. Bright colors were bursting everywhere around us, and while I’m usually afraid of heights, as long as Max had a tight grip on my hand, all I could do was smile from the blinding beauty of it all.
I flipped on the front porch light only to look out and see Lana standing on the stoop. Before I had a chance to wonder what she’d be doing at my house at this extreme hour of the morning, she screamed at me, “Listen, you stupid witch, if I ever hear of you hanging around Max again I will find you and knock your front teeth out, got it?”
I just turned off the light.
About the author: Patty Lewis is an eleven-year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country
Chapter 24 (8.11.10): Pink Rabbits & Phantasmagoric Flying Dreams
It was interesting to hear last week about Amy’s uplifting dream of us flying together over Hailey’s 4th of July Fireworks, because I had a similarly powerful dream regarding sweet Amy back at our old Petit Lake family cabin. I haven’t been up to Petit for ten years, but recently went on Google Maps and flew around the woodsy neighborhood a bit. Something I’ve always admired about my father, Rainier Rudolph; is that whenever he bought a house, it was always adjacent to some woods, giving us young rapscallions a healthy place to scamper around to release our energy.
In the dream, I awoke at daybreak on Saturday and went outside, barefoot in red pajamas to collect an Idaho Statesman from our snowy driveway. In reality, we lived on the sleepy dead end, but in the dream, cars could now connect into the forest. In fact, it was a bustling thoroughfare now; for some elaborate racecars were speeding into the hilly woods up to Alice Lake, and one or two old jalopies were pulling out to return to civilization. Even though it was snowy, I was excited to be back, and to show Amy my treasured childhood summer home. We thought we should take an encompassing stroll around the lake, while waiting for the newspaper. Still barefoot, we walked east, to see several children shouting with squeals of glee, preparing to sleigh down our cabin hill. It was a magnificent morning for sledding, and we trudged up the knoll to be closer to the enjoyment. Halfway to the pinnacle, the children deftly maneuvered around us, in figure eights on their toy-sleds. While we reached the top, we saw several more houses. The furthest yard was filled with dozens of other children, enjoying some festive event. The first few modern homes were quiet and dim, but the ancient house was where the action was. As we approached, we saw a great cauldron of stew boiling over a pit in the front yard, while the happy children continued to dart about, every which-way. It was a four-story grey house, and I tried to picture it from my past. I remembered it being an old house, even back when I was young. Then in the hub of activity, we spied the property owner. She was somebody I knew from decades ago, but she hadn’t aged much. She had some wild grey curly hair around the fringes of her head, and everyone there highly respected her. Trying to be polite, I asked in a curious voice, above the merry din, “How old is this house?” She was elusive with her answer, but smiled, and then kindly but sternly, grabbed me around the forearms, saying, “I remember your kind Max; I had to straighten you and your brother out a few times, from some of the trouble you caused out here in the woods!” I thought that this wasn’t necessarily true, but perhaps there was a small element to what she spoke. We briefly conversed some more, I then asked what her name was. She spoke a name so peculiar that I knew instantly Amy and I would be incapable of remembering it.
To be continued…
About the author: Once in the middle of an incredibly lucid dream Jim Banholzer tried to leave a phone voicemail to the waking world. He strongly felt like it went through, but when he awoke to check his messages he was disappointed to find massive nothingness.
In the dream, I awoke at daybreak on Saturday and went outside, barefoot in red pajamas to collect an Idaho Statesman from our snowy driveway. In reality, we lived on the sleepy dead end, but in the dream, cars could now connect into the forest. In fact, it was a bustling thoroughfare now; for some elaborate racecars were speeding into the hilly woods up to Alice Lake, and one or two old jalopies were pulling out to return to civilization. Even though it was snowy, I was excited to be back, and to show Amy my treasured childhood summer home. We thought we should take an encompassing stroll around the lake, while waiting for the newspaper. Still barefoot, we walked east, to see several children shouting with squeals of glee, preparing to sleigh down our cabin hill. It was a magnificent morning for sledding, and we trudged up the knoll to be closer to the enjoyment. Halfway to the pinnacle, the children deftly maneuvered around us, in figure eights on their toy-sleds. While we reached the top, we saw several more houses. The furthest yard was filled with dozens of other children, enjoying some festive event. The first few modern homes were quiet and dim, but the ancient house was where the action was. As we approached, we saw a great cauldron of stew boiling over a pit in the front yard, while the happy children continued to dart about, every which-way. It was a four-story grey house, and I tried to picture it from my past. I remembered it being an old house, even back when I was young. Then in the hub of activity, we spied the property owner. She was somebody I knew from decades ago, but she hadn’t aged much. She had some wild grey curly hair around the fringes of her head, and everyone there highly respected her. Trying to be polite, I asked in a curious voice, above the merry din, “How old is this house?” She was elusive with her answer, but smiled, and then kindly but sternly, grabbed me around the forearms, saying, “I remember your kind Max; I had to straighten you and your brother out a few times, from some of the trouble you caused out here in the woods!” I thought that this wasn’t necessarily true, but perhaps there was a small element to what she spoke. We briefly conversed some more, I then asked what her name was. She spoke a name so peculiar that I knew instantly Amy and I would be incapable of remembering it.
To be continued…
About the author: Once in the middle of an incredibly lucid dream Jim Banholzer tried to leave a phone voicemail to the waking world. He strongly felt like it went through, but when he awoke to check his messages he was disappointed to find massive nothingness.
Chapter 24, Part II (8.18.10): You know, I'm a dreamer
(Continued from last week)
It was as if the strange woman had cast a spell upon her obscure name, rendering it impossible to recollect, although, I do remember her long singular name had four “i’s” in it. She released us and we trotted a little further down the wet and rocky Petit Lake trail. As the snow melted in the late morning forest sun, I came upon two more houses that I remembered from childhood: the last one an old blue Victorian, facing Toxaway Loop. I vaguely recalled some sort of strange happenings there too, but couldn’t penetrate the decades-old memories to put my finger on it yet.
Suddenly, as I spun around in the wet mud, I realized that I was able to fly again. I grabbed a hold of Amy and we flew feet-first with our bare toes sticking out straight ahead of us. Remarkably, the fact that we were able to fly felt quite natural, as it usually does with such triumphant flying dreams. This incubated a thought that I would like to twist our bodies to face forward and fly like Superman and Superwoman to show the Petit-Lakeians what their prodigal son had learned, while gone ten years on vast Indiana Jones adventures. They will love this! -I thought in a powerful inner celebration, and they will talk about it for decades! The plan was for Amy and me to float slow-motion past the children’s clamor and their holiday cauldron, while giving them the broadest smiles we could possibly manage. However, when we tried to spin about, to fly face-first like Superheroes, something went off kilter with our inner gyroscopes. A queer anti-gravity force led us to a higher altitude, and unexpectedly we were soaring in fast motion clouds, directly behind four space pilots and four astronauts. Those high-flyers were all relying on spacesuits and other backup technologies, so we laughed at them, as we took wing on mind-power alone! It all felt quite fearless, but for some reason, Amy and I were unable to switch our inner gears back down to earth, no matter how hard we tried. Then finally Amy showed me the secret—that is, we could regulate our altitude by taking deep breaths, just like with scuba diving in Petit Lake.
Abruptly awakening to present-day reality, I lay there motionless for several minutes, lightly buzzing about the powerful flying dream. Then, as the dreamscape partially melted, it occurred to me that those uncanny houses in the woods were never actually there, but rather had been places imagn’d from childhood dreams. Vivid places I occasionally revisited over the decades, where many events had taken shape and form – enough to record a small history deep in my subconscious. These made me wonder if this all was merely in my mind, or are our minds potentially more powerful than what our instructors taught, in earlier schools of thought? When we dream, do we somehow mysteriously connect to otherworldly dimensions, where ongoing ethereal events persist in parallel fashions?
Then I realized that I had been sleeping on a sofa with a cushion that Amy had specially embroidered for me. She emblazoned it with some cute animals, most notably some pink rabbits dancing on the pillow, which had been pressing softly against my dreamy head…
About the author: Once in the middle of an incredibly lucid dream Jim Banholzer tried to leave a phone voicemail to the waking world. He strongly felt like it went through, but when he awoke to check his messages he was disappointed to find massive nothingness.
It was as if the strange woman had cast a spell upon her obscure name, rendering it impossible to recollect, although, I do remember her long singular name had four “i’s” in it. She released us and we trotted a little further down the wet and rocky Petit Lake trail. As the snow melted in the late morning forest sun, I came upon two more houses that I remembered from childhood: the last one an old blue Victorian, facing Toxaway Loop. I vaguely recalled some sort of strange happenings there too, but couldn’t penetrate the decades-old memories to put my finger on it yet.
Suddenly, as I spun around in the wet mud, I realized that I was able to fly again. I grabbed a hold of Amy and we flew feet-first with our bare toes sticking out straight ahead of us. Remarkably, the fact that we were able to fly felt quite natural, as it usually does with such triumphant flying dreams. This incubated a thought that I would like to twist our bodies to face forward and fly like Superman and Superwoman to show the Petit-Lakeians what their prodigal son had learned, while gone ten years on vast Indiana Jones adventures. They will love this! -I thought in a powerful inner celebration, and they will talk about it for decades! The plan was for Amy and me to float slow-motion past the children’s clamor and their holiday cauldron, while giving them the broadest smiles we could possibly manage. However, when we tried to spin about, to fly face-first like Superheroes, something went off kilter with our inner gyroscopes. A queer anti-gravity force led us to a higher altitude, and unexpectedly we were soaring in fast motion clouds, directly behind four space pilots and four astronauts. Those high-flyers were all relying on spacesuits and other backup technologies, so we laughed at them, as we took wing on mind-power alone! It all felt quite fearless, but for some reason, Amy and I were unable to switch our inner gears back down to earth, no matter how hard we tried. Then finally Amy showed me the secret—that is, we could regulate our altitude by taking deep breaths, just like with scuba diving in Petit Lake.
Abruptly awakening to present-day reality, I lay there motionless for several minutes, lightly buzzing about the powerful flying dream. Then, as the dreamscape partially melted, it occurred to me that those uncanny houses in the woods were never actually there, but rather had been places imagn’d from childhood dreams. Vivid places I occasionally revisited over the decades, where many events had taken shape and form – enough to record a small history deep in my subconscious. These made me wonder if this all was merely in my mind, or are our minds potentially more powerful than what our instructors taught, in earlier schools of thought? When we dream, do we somehow mysteriously connect to otherworldly dimensions, where ongoing ethereal events persist in parallel fashions?
Then I realized that I had been sleeping on a sofa with a cushion that Amy had specially embroidered for me. She emblazoned it with some cute animals, most notably some pink rabbits dancing on the pillow, which had been pressing softly against my dreamy head…
About the author: Once in the middle of an incredibly lucid dream Jim Banholzer tried to leave a phone voicemail to the waking world. He strongly felt like it went through, but when he awoke to check his messages he was disappointed to find massive nothingness.
Chapter 25 (8.25.10): A butterfly emerges
After the July 4th fiasco and that ‘nut-case’ Lana showing up at my front door in the middle of the night, I decided it was time to switch my focus away from Max Rudolf and direct my energy on my own self-improvement.
I began by changing my diet and eating fewer processed items. The weekly farmers markets in Hailey and Ketchum have become my favorite places to shop for fresh local produce in addition to the huge organic section of the neighborhood grocery store. I now make my own fresh-baked breakfast muffins (instead of snack bars) and focus on a more vegetarian-centric diet. (No, I have not cut meat out of my diet; I’ve just added more vegetarian entrees.) My second improvement involved the ‘E’ word. Yes, I’ll admit it, I started exercising! Every morning since July 5th I have walked no fewer than two miles a day and some days when I’m feeling particularly energetic I’ve added an extra mile or two. I found that the very act of getting out and moving in the fresh mountain air puts me in a better mood. I’ve actually considered adopting a dog or, at least, borrowing one from the Animal Shelter so I have a hiking companion by my side on the mornings I walk out Quigley or Colorado Gulch.
Surprisingly, it didn’t take long for my friend Nancy to point out that my clothes were getting a little baggy on me and suggest that we take my new ‘figure’ to North & Co. for a little ‘back-to-school’ shopping. You can imagine my amazement in that I had actually dropped two sizes in as little as six weeks. After making a significant investment in my new fall wardrobe, Nancy and I proceeded to Cari’s and got our hair and nails done simply because we could. In my opinion, few things put a girl in a better mood than a perky pink coat of paint on some perfectly pedicured toes.
It was late Friday afternoon when Nancy and I were finished at Cari’s, so I suggested that she and I go to diVine Wine and have a glass of Chardonnay while we decide what we’ll do with the rest of the evening/weekend. Nancy said she’d just received a text that her brother, Chance, had landed at the Hailey airport a few minutes ago and would I mind if he joined us. Of course I wanted to meet her brother and I was pleasantly surprised when Mr. TallDark&Handsome walked into the wine bar about twenty minutes later and joined us.
In no time at all Chance had the rest of our weekend planned, including an overnight Saturday at Pettit Lake to stay at his friend’s family cabin. What a perfect way to end a less than perfect summer.
About the author: Patty Lewis is an eleven-year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country.
I began by changing my diet and eating fewer processed items. The weekly farmers markets in Hailey and Ketchum have become my favorite places to shop for fresh local produce in addition to the huge organic section of the neighborhood grocery store. I now make my own fresh-baked breakfast muffins (instead of snack bars) and focus on a more vegetarian-centric diet. (No, I have not cut meat out of my diet; I’ve just added more vegetarian entrees.) My second improvement involved the ‘E’ word. Yes, I’ll admit it, I started exercising! Every morning since July 5th I have walked no fewer than two miles a day and some days when I’m feeling particularly energetic I’ve added an extra mile or two. I found that the very act of getting out and moving in the fresh mountain air puts me in a better mood. I’ve actually considered adopting a dog or, at least, borrowing one from the Animal Shelter so I have a hiking companion by my side on the mornings I walk out Quigley or Colorado Gulch.
Surprisingly, it didn’t take long for my friend Nancy to point out that my clothes were getting a little baggy on me and suggest that we take my new ‘figure’ to North & Co. for a little ‘back-to-school’ shopping. You can imagine my amazement in that I had actually dropped two sizes in as little as six weeks. After making a significant investment in my new fall wardrobe, Nancy and I proceeded to Cari’s and got our hair and nails done simply because we could. In my opinion, few things put a girl in a better mood than a perky pink coat of paint on some perfectly pedicured toes.
It was late Friday afternoon when Nancy and I were finished at Cari’s, so I suggested that she and I go to diVine Wine and have a glass of Chardonnay while we decide what we’ll do with the rest of the evening/weekend. Nancy said she’d just received a text that her brother, Chance, had landed at the Hailey airport a few minutes ago and would I mind if he joined us. Of course I wanted to meet her brother and I was pleasantly surprised when Mr. TallDark&Handsome walked into the wine bar about twenty minutes later and joined us.
In no time at all Chance had the rest of our weekend planned, including an overnight Saturday at Pettit Lake to stay at his friend’s family cabin. What a perfect way to end a less than perfect summer.
About the author: Patty Lewis is an eleven-year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country.
Chapter 26 (9.8.10): Summer's over
I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about Max Rudolph everyday. But you know how one day follows another and in no time at all six weeks had passed and no word from Max. I would think of him most often when I was out on my morning walks, imagining him on some fun adventure he would magically turn into a learning experience or just out for a hike with his dog Bud. When I’m feeling confident I let myself reminisce about our adventure with our students at the very beginning of the summer when Max and I came so close to kissing before I accidently hit the panic button on my car and the horn blared waking all the kids up in the middle of the night. Then I check myself and return to the reality that is; if Max wanted to be with me he would have called by now. I don’t have to read the book or see the move ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’ to figure out I have no relationship with the man with whom I believe I’m in love….
So, onward and upward I must go. This Saturday morning I’m picking up my friend Nancy and her handsome and single brother, Chance, and we’re going up to a friends’ family cabin at Petit Lake to relax and chill out for the final three-day weekend of the summer. As much as I love my Wood River Valley it does get a little claustrophobic on occasion. An excursion into the mountains with good friends is the perfect remedy. Besides, next week the new school year begins and I will no doubt be seeing Max Rudolph on a daily basis. That will present me with a whole new set of circumstances. Summer’s over Amy, I tell myself, time to grow up and move on!
About the author: Patty Lewis is an eleven-year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country.
So, onward and upward I must go. This Saturday morning I’m picking up my friend Nancy and her handsome and single brother, Chance, and we’re going up to a friends’ family cabin at Petit Lake to relax and chill out for the final three-day weekend of the summer. As much as I love my Wood River Valley it does get a little claustrophobic on occasion. An excursion into the mountains with good friends is the perfect remedy. Besides, next week the new school year begins and I will no doubt be seeing Max Rudolph on a daily basis. That will present me with a whole new set of circumstances. Summer’s over Amy, I tell myself, time to grow up and move on!
About the author: Patty Lewis is an eleven-year resident of the Wood River Valley. She enjoys painting and writing and has had her writing rejected by some of the finest publications in the country.
Chapter 27 (9.15.10): Measuring Amy's mood
It was great to be back at school instructing, and the first day was an emotional one for many of the parents, dropping their children off and snapping Polaroids for posterity. Some of my science class students had participated in the Chalk Cave spring field trip, so after we held a discussion about improving cave communications, half the class decided to work on a project for developing the newfangled underground antenna to further refinement.
After class, I walked down the quiet hall, carrying one of the multi-pronged antennas out to the van, when Amy suddenly whipped around the corner and one of my metal tentacles snagged on her golden hair. It took a few minutes for me to untangle her, and while brushing against Amy, I remembered the sensual flying dream we had experienced. Then as she looked at me with an unsettled gaze, I realized that I had absent-mindedly forgotten to tell her about the soaring dream! I guess it was so vivid that I subconsciously assumed she already knew about it. But now with reality back on the radar, I folded the transmitter up, grabbed Amy’s hand in the hallway, and started to recollect the dramatic dream, demonstrating how we steered in the sky by using each other’s wrists as joysticks.
Amy smiled a few times as I went on with the tale. At the part where she showed me how to control our altitude through breathing, she said it felt like a fantasy straight out of Hesse’s Demian. Then, as I tried to ask Amy how her classes were going, she shot out, “Why haven’t you called me for three weeks, Max Rudolph!” I was left speechless, and after we parted ways, all the way home with the antenna annoyingly rattling around in the back of the pantechnicon; I realized that I should find a way to make it up to her.
While cruising north, the new speed limit of 45 mph gave me some constructive time to plan how to make things right again with Amy. The antenna bouncing around in the back reminded me of various other unseen communication channels. Then it dawned on me that I should travel up to Hollie Jewelers to find Amy a pendulum so she can read my true intentions. As I walked into the jewelry store, its high vibration reminded me of a holistic healing center or perhaps a church. While Leanne laid out a small array of pendulums on the counter, I immediately saw which one was Amy’s. It was the sage-green one—earthy, with tiny specks of starshine glittering from its outer-edge cuts. Leanne kindly allowed me to test the pendulum, and when I asked if it was right for Amy, it spun wildly in an affirmative direction.
I left Hollie Jewelers with a secure feeling of joy in my heart. The gift-wrapped pendulum would be a unique way to open the door for Amy to accept my apology. I even remembered to charge my cell phone this time and, as I drove the 45 mph back down-valley, I called and asked if she could meet me again over at McClain’s Pizza, where I would surprise her with the dynamic gift.
About the author: Jim Banholzer has been practicing driving his pantechnicon at 45 mph in anticipation of the healthy new speed limit reduction.
After class, I walked down the quiet hall, carrying one of the multi-pronged antennas out to the van, when Amy suddenly whipped around the corner and one of my metal tentacles snagged on her golden hair. It took a few minutes for me to untangle her, and while brushing against Amy, I remembered the sensual flying dream we had experienced. Then as she looked at me with an unsettled gaze, I realized that I had absent-mindedly forgotten to tell her about the soaring dream! I guess it was so vivid that I subconsciously assumed she already knew about it. But now with reality back on the radar, I folded the transmitter up, grabbed Amy’s hand in the hallway, and started to recollect the dramatic dream, demonstrating how we steered in the sky by using each other’s wrists as joysticks.
Amy smiled a few times as I went on with the tale. At the part where she showed me how to control our altitude through breathing, she said it felt like a fantasy straight out of Hesse’s Demian. Then, as I tried to ask Amy how her classes were going, she shot out, “Why haven’t you called me for three weeks, Max Rudolph!” I was left speechless, and after we parted ways, all the way home with the antenna annoyingly rattling around in the back of the pantechnicon; I realized that I should find a way to make it up to her.
While cruising north, the new speed limit of 45 mph gave me some constructive time to plan how to make things right again with Amy. The antenna bouncing around in the back reminded me of various other unseen communication channels. Then it dawned on me that I should travel up to Hollie Jewelers to find Amy a pendulum so she can read my true intentions. As I walked into the jewelry store, its high vibration reminded me of a holistic healing center or perhaps a church. While Leanne laid out a small array of pendulums on the counter, I immediately saw which one was Amy’s. It was the sage-green one—earthy, with tiny specks of starshine glittering from its outer-edge cuts. Leanne kindly allowed me to test the pendulum, and when I asked if it was right for Amy, it spun wildly in an affirmative direction.
I left Hollie Jewelers with a secure feeling of joy in my heart. The gift-wrapped pendulum would be a unique way to open the door for Amy to accept my apology. I even remembered to charge my cell phone this time and, as I drove the 45 mph back down-valley, I called and asked if she could meet me again over at McClain’s Pizza, where I would surprise her with the dynamic gift.
About the author: Jim Banholzer has been practicing driving his pantechnicon at 45 mph in anticipation of the healthy new speed limit reduction.
Chapter 28 (9.22.10): Dog in the Manger
Back in Los Angeles, Lana was trying to sort out exactly how she felt about Max Rudolph. Although their relationship had not always been the smoothest, they had always managed to kiss and make up after an altercation. But it was different now—Lana had not been prepared for Max to fall for that doe-eyed ‘goody-two-shoes’ Amy. There had been no argument or misunderstanding between Max and Lana; Max was just drifting farther away with every day he remained in the Wood River Valley. Without even talking to Max, Lana knew she was losing control of their affair and, although she had never been in love with Max, she was NOT prepared to walk away from their ‘friendship’ quite yet.
As far as her relationship with Max was concerned, Lana considered it a success in that she had cheated on Max fewer times than she had any of the other men with whom she’d been with, long-term. However, Lana’s extended future plans included marrying into significant cash and, even though Max was fairly well off, he just didn’t have, and probably never would have, the kind of currency that could keep Lana happy over the long haul. Nevertheless, he was still the best-looking and most challenging man she’d ever been with; Max Rudolph was definitely ACWB (Arm Candy With Benefits).
Lana’s immediate concern was the call she’d received earlier this week from a friend in Ketchum who reported to her that she’d run into Max at Holli Jewelers making what appeared to be a pretty significant purchase. This friend divulged to Lana that she didn’t know exactly what Max had bought at the jewelry store, but it was in a very small box with decidedly elegant wrapping paper. Lana’s friend further reported that when she had tried to press Leanne at Holli Jewelers as to what Max might have purchased, being the professional that she was, Leanne refused to ‘spill’ that information.
Since Lana and Max had no significant plans to get together soon, Lana had to assume that whatever Max had bought had to be for Amy. Lana decided she didn’t want to sit around and wonder what was going on, so she immediately booked a one-way ticket to Sun Valley so she could confront Max and find out exactly what his plans were.
“…for they are like a dog sleeping in the manger of oxen, for neither does he eat nor does he let the oxen eat.”
About the author: Patty Lewis is a longtime resident of the Wood River Valley who enjoys writing, painting and needlepoint.
As far as her relationship with Max was concerned, Lana considered it a success in that she had cheated on Max fewer times than she had any of the other men with whom she’d been with, long-term. However, Lana’s extended future plans included marrying into significant cash and, even though Max was fairly well off, he just didn’t have, and probably never would have, the kind of currency that could keep Lana happy over the long haul. Nevertheless, he was still the best-looking and most challenging man she’d ever been with; Max Rudolph was definitely ACWB (Arm Candy With Benefits).
Lana’s immediate concern was the call she’d received earlier this week from a friend in Ketchum who reported to her that she’d run into Max at Holli Jewelers making what appeared to be a pretty significant purchase. This friend divulged to Lana that she didn’t know exactly what Max had bought at the jewelry store, but it was in a very small box with decidedly elegant wrapping paper. Lana’s friend further reported that when she had tried to press Leanne at Holli Jewelers as to what Max might have purchased, being the professional that she was, Leanne refused to ‘spill’ that information.
Since Lana and Max had no significant plans to get together soon, Lana had to assume that whatever Max had bought had to be for Amy. Lana decided she didn’t want to sit around and wonder what was going on, so she immediately booked a one-way ticket to Sun Valley so she could confront Max and find out exactly what his plans were.
“…for they are like a dog sleeping in the manger of oxen, for neither does he eat nor does he let the oxen eat.”
About the author: Patty Lewis is a longtime resident of the Wood River Valley who enjoys writing, painting and needlepoint.
Chapter 29 (9.29.10): Lana's midnight shadow factor
Although I’ve long been infatuated with Lana, something about her had been bothering me, ever since the Fourth of July when she and I explored the subterranean tunnels that web beneath Hailey’s Main Street. Throughout the festive holiday, she kept pressing me to disclose the secret location of the second silver-laden pantechnivan. Then, right before we celebrated the fireworks, I noticed Lana leafing through my personal journal in the library. That wouldn’t get her very far, though, because I’ve written most of my notes in cryptic code. The thing that niggled at me the most was that when Lana and I embraced close on The Mint’s deck during the parade highlights, I noticed that she didn’t cast a shadow.
By having no shadow, I mean that as we hugged, I only saw one small silhouette on the north ground between the two of us. Granted, the parade ends at the same time the sun is near its zenith, but still, right when I noticed this strangeness, Lana made an excuse to dash inside The Mint, where the design of the lively dance hall makes it difficult to distinguish individual shadows. That evening, too, as we walked out Quigley, it was too dark to say for sure, but every time a skyrocket went off, I noticed the same fleeting phenomena. Thinking back on it now, Lana chose a path so we wouldn’t walk past any mercury vapor streetlamps. She seemed utterly determined to not reveal anything to me about her darkness.
What was I to make of this? Actually, I hadn’t thought much about it since the holiday, and even less recently, now that sweet Amy had become a larger part of my life. Still, though, there was something irresistible about Lana, and if she wasn’t way down in L.A., I would probably be more obsessed with her. Meanwhile, Amy graciously accepted the sage pendulum I had purchased from Holli Jewelers. After determining which way indicated ‘yes’ for her, Amy made it swing in a positive direction over dozens of queries. Finally, I asked her to focus on something to make the pendulum sway another way, and when she did, I sensed that she was asking the universe about Lana.
Since it was a school night, and I still needed to conduct some tests on the antenna in my home lab, Amy and I parted ways at McClain’s. After a few hours in the lab, I felt as though I was making some progress on the underground project, when suddenly both cockatiels started squawking up a storm. I laid down my earphones and heard a squeak at the front door. When I tried to flip the porch light on, it was burned out. By the light of the waning moon, I saw an unfamiliar car in my driveway—an expensive-looking pink Porsche with shaded windows. To show I was unafraid, I thrust open the front door with great force and knocked the perpetrator to the end of the porch and head over heels into the birdbath. Lo and behold, it was Lana! And she was dressed to the T there to surprise me. Now all soaked, I tried to yank her out of the birdbath, but it was unstable, and when I grabbed her wrist, we both came crashing down onto my obsidian mirror sundial. Lana said, “You’re all wet, Max Rudolph, and about as clumsy as Maxwell Smart!” The water was warm in the nice evening as we lay together, catching our breaths, with the cockatiels cooing in the background. It was amazing how fast my old feelings started rushing back again in Lana’s alluring presence, and suddenly I suspended my earlier criticisms, making myself blind to those silly questions about her elusive shadow.
About the Author: Jim Banholzer once visited the Enola Gay warplane at the Smithsonian Institution, where he noticed that the lighting of the museum was such that no shadow was cast beneath the bomb bay doors from where our first nuclear bomb exited.
By having no shadow, I mean that as we hugged, I only saw one small silhouette on the north ground between the two of us. Granted, the parade ends at the same time the sun is near its zenith, but still, right when I noticed this strangeness, Lana made an excuse to dash inside The Mint, where the design of the lively dance hall makes it difficult to distinguish individual shadows. That evening, too, as we walked out Quigley, it was too dark to say for sure, but every time a skyrocket went off, I noticed the same fleeting phenomena. Thinking back on it now, Lana chose a path so we wouldn’t walk past any mercury vapor streetlamps. She seemed utterly determined to not reveal anything to me about her darkness.
What was I to make of this? Actually, I hadn’t thought much about it since the holiday, and even less recently, now that sweet Amy had become a larger part of my life. Still, though, there was something irresistible about Lana, and if she wasn’t way down in L.A., I would probably be more obsessed with her. Meanwhile, Amy graciously accepted the sage pendulum I had purchased from Holli Jewelers. After determining which way indicated ‘yes’ for her, Amy made it swing in a positive direction over dozens of queries. Finally, I asked her to focus on something to make the pendulum sway another way, and when she did, I sensed that she was asking the universe about Lana.
Since it was a school night, and I still needed to conduct some tests on the antenna in my home lab, Amy and I parted ways at McClain’s. After a few hours in the lab, I felt as though I was making some progress on the underground project, when suddenly both cockatiels started squawking up a storm. I laid down my earphones and heard a squeak at the front door. When I tried to flip the porch light on, it was burned out. By the light of the waning moon, I saw an unfamiliar car in my driveway—an expensive-looking pink Porsche with shaded windows. To show I was unafraid, I thrust open the front door with great force and knocked the perpetrator to the end of the porch and head over heels into the birdbath. Lo and behold, it was Lana! And she was dressed to the T there to surprise me. Now all soaked, I tried to yank her out of the birdbath, but it was unstable, and when I grabbed her wrist, we both came crashing down onto my obsidian mirror sundial. Lana said, “You’re all wet, Max Rudolph, and about as clumsy as Maxwell Smart!” The water was warm in the nice evening as we lay together, catching our breaths, with the cockatiels cooing in the background. It was amazing how fast my old feelings started rushing back again in Lana’s alluring presence, and suddenly I suspended my earlier criticisms, making myself blind to those silly questions about her elusive shadow.
About the Author: Jim Banholzer once visited the Enola Gay warplane at the Smithsonian Institution, where he noticed that the lighting of the museum was such that no shadow was cast beneath the bomb bay doors from where our first nuclear bomb exited.
Chapter 30 (10.6.10): Amy takes a post-dinner twilight walk
After meeting and having dinner with Max at McClain’s, I felt a little more secure in the direction our relationship was heading. Naturally, I was a little surprised when he pulled out the beautifully wrapped SMALL gift box and presented it to me over the green-olive-and-Canadian-bacon pizza he had ordered for us to share. We sat and talked and laughed for at least two hours about the strange twists and turns our summer had taken for us both, together and separately.
After our ‘talkative’ dinner, Max offered to drive me home, but I assured him that I didn’t mind walking… I could tell he had a project he was focused on and wanted to get home to work on it a bit more before he retired for the evening. Reflecting over the last few hours we’d spent together, I couldn’t help but feel that our relationship/friendship was back on track. Besides, the pendulum Max had given me had indicated to us we had a future together.
There’s nothing more beautiful than Hailey at twilight, especially in the fall. As the full harvest moon began its presentation over the Pioneer Mountains, a warm orange glow began to fill the valley and I was overwhelmed with a feeling of well-being. Walking home, I could see into the front windows of the cottages that lined the streets of our village. I found comfort observing happy little families going about their evening rituals, oblivious to the fact that a contented local school teacher was minding their lives from the sidewalk in front of their homes.
As I turned the last corner to my street, I couldn’t help but be delighted by all the Halloween decorations twinkling in the bushes and porches of my neighbors’ homes. Corn stalks, pumpkins and colorful fall gourds added a welcome shock of color to some of the otherwise plain entrances that would soon enough beckon the bands of ‘trick-or-treaters’ to their doors.
The sense of comfort I was enjoying carried me all the way to my front door… as I reached out to turn my own doorknob, there was a shocking shift in my body chemistry and a sensation of hostility tickled the back of my neck. As I grabbed the door handle, I was thrust backward from a jolt that jumped from the knob and vibrated up my arm and seemed to explode in my chest. My front door then proceeded to open on its own and for the first time in my life I was hesitant to enter my own home.
About the author: Patty Lewis is a longtime resident of the Wood River Valley.
After our ‘talkative’ dinner, Max offered to drive me home, but I assured him that I didn’t mind walking… I could tell he had a project he was focused on and wanted to get home to work on it a bit more before he retired for the evening. Reflecting over the last few hours we’d spent together, I couldn’t help but feel that our relationship/friendship was back on track. Besides, the pendulum Max had given me had indicated to us we had a future together.
There’s nothing more beautiful than Hailey at twilight, especially in the fall. As the full harvest moon began its presentation over the Pioneer Mountains, a warm orange glow began to fill the valley and I was overwhelmed with a feeling of well-being. Walking home, I could see into the front windows of the cottages that lined the streets of our village. I found comfort observing happy little families going about their evening rituals, oblivious to the fact that a contented local school teacher was minding their lives from the sidewalk in front of their homes.
As I turned the last corner to my street, I couldn’t help but be delighted by all the Halloween decorations twinkling in the bushes and porches of my neighbors’ homes. Corn stalks, pumpkins and colorful fall gourds added a welcome shock of color to some of the otherwise plain entrances that would soon enough beckon the bands of ‘trick-or-treaters’ to their doors.
The sense of comfort I was enjoying carried me all the way to my front door… as I reached out to turn my own doorknob, there was a shocking shift in my body chemistry and a sensation of hostility tickled the back of my neck. As I grabbed the door handle, I was thrust backward from a jolt that jumped from the knob and vibrated up my arm and seemed to explode in my chest. My front door then proceeded to open on its own and for the first time in my life I was hesitant to enter my own home.
About the author: Patty Lewis is a longtime resident of the Wood River Valley.
