The Holt Hotel Sign. Photo by R Carter.

Transcription

The Holt Hotel Sign. Photo by R Carter.
Wichita Falls Literature and Art Review
Volume II, Number 1: Roots
Founding Editor Elizabeth Bourland Hawley
Editor Richard Carter
Founding Consultant Lynn Hoggard
Sales Representative Kyle King
Correspondent Photographer Torin Halsey
Correspondent Writers Jason Byas, Billie Hall
Cover Design by Frances Knowles
Cover Photography by Elizabeth Bourland Hawley
Book Design by Dallas Sauceda
The Wichita Falls Literature and Art Review is a publication that showcases the work of the
authors and visual and performance artists in the North Texas, Southern Oklahoma region, and regions
abroad. The WFLAR publishes bi-annually original works of art and writings in English and translation.
We wish for this publication to reward authors and artists for their labor of love upon acceptance
of their submissions. Terms of payment will be decided upon acceptance of work. Authors and artists
retain copyrights for their work.
We welcome submissions all year round online and by post. Please allow two weeks for a
response, and do include a self-addressed, stamped envelope for your reply. Word of acceptance will
follow within a two month period. WFLAR welcomes critical reviews, and commentary of original works.
WFLAR reserves the right to edit, condense, or correct typographical errors. Contributors under eighteen
years of age must complete a parent/guardian release form before final publication.
We welcome financial contributions (not to be confused with submissions) now and anticipate
that future donations will be tax-deductible, pending establishment of non-profit status.
Send correspondence, orders and submissions to WFLAR at the World’s Littlest Skyscraper, 511
Seventh Street, Wichita Falls Texas, 76301, or email them through http://wflar.org. Subscriptions cost
twenty dollars per year for two issues, or twelve dollars per issue. WFLAR selectively publishes reader
responses and welcomes suggestions.
To advertise in the WFLAR, phone Kyle King at (940)613-8868, or email him at [email protected].
Our advertisers defray the cost of publishing the WFLAR. Show your support to the WFLAR
and the community by visiting their stores.
Volunteers devote their time to the WFLAR as a labor of love. High school and college students
interested in volunteering for credit should ask their professors to contact us.
WFLAR ASSOCIATES
Nancy Steele-Hamme
Joe Bauer
Todd Davenport
Glenda Tate
Daniel Barton
Contents
Commentary
Water under the Bridge
Elizabeth Bourland Hawley
Frances Knowles
Littlest Skyscraper
Richard Carter
Recollections of Downtown
Jim Pettyjohn, in collaboration with Richard Carter
The Texas Zephyr: A North
Texas Town’s Love Affair
With the God of the West Wind
Steve Allen Goen
Memories of the Texas Zephyr
Steve Allen Goen
Lucille Doran
The Day of Reckoning: A
North Texas Murder Mystery
The Execution of Private Garcia:
Court Martial in Brownsville
1
4
7
14
19
Richard Carter
22
Bob Balch
29
Michael Collins
30
Artistic Photography Mixtures of Textures and Materials
Sculpture and Metals
Patterns and Colors
Mythos: Convenient Lies We
Live by
Gary Goldberg
Stacy Tompkins
Suguru Hiraide
Cathy Drennan
32
36
38
42
Jim Henson
44
All You Need . . . is a Rock Star
and a Camera The Scene
Thirty-yard Dash
Trapeze
When I Fix her Car
Fire Back
Richard Carter
Hershel Self
Richie Bates
Ali Holder
Paul Shults
Abbey Laine
46
51
54
55
56
57
The Hamilton Brothers: Saving the
Empire, One Film at a Time
Music Man
Jason Byas
Billie Hall
58
61
Interview with Amelie Nothomb
Richard Carter
Richard dans le métro
Richard Carter
63
66
Downtown Pool Hall
Snow and Steel
Richard Gaines Frances Knowles
67
68
Dark Drifting Clouds
First Freeze
Ben Ficklin Flotsam
Sirena of Salado
James Hoggard
James Hoggard
Alan Lee Birkelbach
Karla Morton
70
71
72
72
During a Cool, Late Night Drive
On Wide-Open Highway 287
Old Ford Grill
triangle city Why I Am Not an Inventor
Questions in the Wind
I Still Travel Like a Comet
KII8
Encounter
Frog Girl’s Debut, Pomegranate
Wars Are Like That
Oh, it’s So Cold Out on those Streets
Riding on Music
Alan Lee Birkelbach
Karla Morton
Steven Schroeder
David Breeden
Nathan Brown Inara Cedrins
Debra Davis
Roberta Sund
Stephanie Parsley
Charles Elmore
Chapman Reed
Sarah Percy
73
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
Woodcarvings
Jim McGrath
84
The Fear of Darkness
She Captures my Soul
Particular Movement
Chad’s Room
Ed Harvill
Vicki Powell
James Tritt
Cynthia Sample
86
88
89
95
Breaking Out of Papua New Guinea
Photography
A Letter to an Editor in Winter (written
in stream of consciousness)
Karl Kilinski II
Angela Bacon Kidwell
96
104
Joseph Reich
106
Biographical Notes
107
Elizabeth Bourland Hawley
Commentary
In wondering about which
factors we may consider while attempting
to understand the art and culture of a
region, we watched WFLAR’s founding
consultant Lynn Hoggard toss the seed of
an idea toward the ground; and so grew the
concept of “roots” as a theme for our spring
issue of the Wichita Falls Literature and
Art Review. Art and culture, historically
known as rich in Wichita Falls, took root
shortly after the city was founded in the
late 1800s. With thanks to people whose
names we still hear today – Kemp, Kell,
Carrigan, Barwise, Akin, to name a few
– art and music began to thrive. Wichita
Falls became known internationally
for its sophisticated culture, attracting
artists such as Ernst Katz, Erno Daniel,
and others who continued to foment
the cultural momentum that had begun
before they arrived in town. Reflected in
this issue, with several pages devoted to
historical buildings and trains, we show
the infrastructure around which great
personages – whom I call great because
of their contributions to their community
– lived while doing their part to develop
the arts and culture in this area. Around
them, artists found fertile ground. One
such artist, for example, was Floyd Earl
Ard, Jr. (1910 - 1964), about whom we
now know very little. We would like, with
this issue, to re-introduce personalities and aspects
of our roots by sharing with our readers some of
the glimpses we have seen of the past during the
preparation of this issue.
Today, our everyday lives may have become
tempered by the current downturn in the economy,
yet positive feelings for our future may winnow
their way into our attitudes. In looking forward,
though, we might also continually glance behind
us, toward periods during which events and people
influenced our present time. Someone may contend
with me by indicating that the greater benefit lies
Water Under the Bridge, Frances Knowles
not in a glance, but by a full turn that would enable
one to take a studied look in order to assimilate the
consequences of events and the actions of people
who lived in the past; for now, let us take a look
at art and culture begun in the early 1900s in the
city of Wichita Falls. Before continuing, though,
I must touch upon an interesting side-note: It is
known that the Wichita Indians, after camping
along the Wichita River, left behind several items
of everyday living, including a musical instrument
Viper’s Den, Miguel Lechuga
Spring 2009 O WFLAR 1
Floyd Ard, Jr., classical pianist.
Photo courtesy of Victor Brown.
similar to a fife, indicating that art and music were
already in North Texas, which one might perceive
as a precursor to the melting pot. “Perhaps,” a friend
in Long Island said, “it’s something in the water,”
as we mused together about the high cultural level
in this area.
One of the enduring characteristics of the North
Texas region, most notably Wichita Falls, is its
renown garnered throughout time. Its fame, its
reputation in regard to culture, art, and music, all
stem from the actions of its people ever since the
Scott family pounded the first stake into the ground
in the late 1800s to form the layout for the city,
and ever since Joseph Hudson Barwise saw, in his
imagination, “the smoke of the great locomotive,
that messenger of civilization, gliding over the hill,”
as he stood on the ledge of the former waterfalls on
the Wichita River. (As a treat, read more about this
story, and that of the fife, in Steve Wilson’s book
Wichita Falls: A Pictorial History, ISBN 0-898265-0.)
2 WFLAR O Spring 2009
Art and culture developed with the momentum
created by passionate people such as Frank Kell,
Flora Anderson and her husband J. A. Kemp; Irina
and Frank Pal, Ernst Katz, Wilhelmina Ziegler, and
Erno Daniel (among many others), and Tom L.
Burnett and R. E. Shepherd, both voted as the most
“useful citizens of Wichita Falls.” Just imagine
yourself living a long time ago – ignoring the lack
of air conditioning and the dust, or mud – in Wichita
Falls before the Kemp Library was founded, or
before the Wichita Opera House opened its doors
or the Holt Hotel advertised a live orchestra every
Saturday led by Ernst Katz, and all you see are vast
grasslands with an occasional fife left behind by
passing peoples. Passionate people conceived and
built the libraries, the theatres, and the hotels, which
give a town the opportunity to grow economically,
and culturally, which in turn attract more people,
who then make further contributions.
In a short time, Wichita Falls attracted others
from afar. Lucille Doran, the highly regarded dance
teacher, moved to Wichita Falls in the late 1930s
and established several dance studios. Her devotion
to excellence influenced the thousands of students
who studied with her over five decades. Another
beloved pedagogue who arrived from afar was a
former minstrel from Vienna, Ernst Katz, who with
his own sense of passion fomented the music culture
by establishing a popular orchestra, and by giving
lessons to young musicians, such as Floyd Earl Ard,
Jr. Born and raised in Wichita Falls, Ard has become
one of many performance artists of our past whose
names have become obscure or forgotten. In his day,
word had it that Ard jammed with André Segovia,
was considered the next Ignacy Jan Paderewski,
and that he would have become wealthier if he
had continued to play as a concert pianist, rather
than turn to the oil field in search for an income
– a compliment as big as Texas in its implication.
One of the stories I heard about Ard indicated that
he was tall and looked like Charles Lindbergh, so
much so that people at New York Harbor stopped
him to congratulate him for his accomplishment.
He must have let them know gracefully he had
not recently flown an historic first solo across the
Atlantic, but that he had just returned by ship from
Vienna, having received lessons in piano from
Emil von Sauer. Ard returned to his hometown of
Wichita Falls in 1927 and began a life as a concert
pianist. He played at the Kemp Hotel, among other
places in town, and he played in Dallas, too, at least
once at Whittle’s Recital Hall, compositions by
Beethoven and Chopin that showed “the virtuosity
of the pianist,” according to the critic who wrote
for the Dallas Morning News. At least once, Ard
traveled to New York City searching for an agent,
yet, ultimately, he felt drawn to Abilene, Texas, to
spend the rest of his life, as he put it, pumping his
“own strippers and playing [piano] all night without
neighbors bringing in the police.” Let us remind
ourselves of Ard and his colleagues every once in
a while, for in our memories they will continue to
embellish our culture, and make us aware of our
own contemporary artists.
Let us also keep in mind that in our times passionate
people continue to contribute to the art and culture
in this area. People who are predominantly modest,
hard-working civic volunteers such as Joe, Kay,
Elizabeth, Jeannette, Jim, John, David, Jo Ann,
Richie, Ali, Jane, Lynn, Ellen, and many more, are
our own passionate contributors. They make sure
that art and culture in this area remain ensconced
in the buildings, organizations, galleries, museums,
and spirit of the town and its people, with roots that
run deeply enough, and remain strong enough, to
provide a life-sustaining base upon which future
generations may find the support to make their own
contributions.
In this issue we attempt to portray the
support that passionate people of the past – and
of our present – have built
for us and for our future,
and upon which our artists
have thrived, such as Floyd
Ard, his contemporaries,
and today’s artists. Editor
Richard Carter collaborated
with Jim Pettyjohn, along
with Torin Halsey, to
enlighten us with the history
of this area, both about its
people and their buildings
– ours now – that stand
by the railway downtown.
Throughout his work for the
WFLAR, Carter shows that
Wichita Falls began on Seventh and Ohio, where
the sale for city lots was held. In a short story based
on fact, Carter gives us an example of how life
might have been many years ago through the eyes
of a fellow who stayed in the building now known
as the World’s Littlest Skyscraper. We publish
photographs by Torin Halsey of Jim McGrath’s
meticulous woodcarvings. In addition, we include
a story prepared by Jason Byas about the Hamilton
brothers and their films; we show work by Gary
Goldberg, lyrics by Richie Bates and Ali Holder,
and other creative works. Bob Balch and Michael
Collins refer to the serious, tragic side of life of our
culture, while James Hoggard’s thoughtful poems
remind us of the power of a nature that can halt
a culture’s development. Frances Knowles, artistic
photographer, transformed a photograph into a
colorful, artful image, which we chose as the cover
of the Spring 2009 WFLAR. Steve Goen contributed
to this issue an essay pointing to the train, the
“great messenger of civilization,” as essential in
the growth and development of the city. From many
miles away, poets Alan Lee Birkelbach, Steven
Schroeder, Joseph Reich, and others also contribute
to the WFLAR. Artists and other contributors, near
and far, embrace the cultural momentum, as did
Katz, Daniel, Doran, and many more, nurturing our
roots. I hope you enjoy this issue. Write to us to let
us know whom we have missed.
Floyd Ard, Jr. (left, in Vienna, circa 1927) studied music with
Emil von Sauer. Digital image by E B Hawley of a photograph
courtesy of Marsha Ard.
Wichita Falls from the top floor of the World’s Littlest
Skyscraper. Photo by R Carter.
Panoramic by Dallas Sauceda.
Littlest Skyscraper
As told to Richard Carter
I am descended from English sailing stock, which
explains why I sit here day after day in an old
lighthouse that oversees rows of railroad tracks in
an old Texas prairie town.
It all began with Pink Gin — a dash of
Angostura bitters for seasickness and a splash of
gin for flavor.
It was the cocktail of choice for my limey
ancestors. Not that sailors ever got seasick, or
drunk, for that matter.
My parents drank it all the time, until my
father’s ship was lost.
Traveling to America to live with her older
sister and her family, my pregnant mother was
enroute to Denver one evening when, as her story
went, the train stopped dead on the tracks in Wichita
Falls.
Exhausted and seasick from the swaying
motion of the railway cars, she called outside to
a woman for a Pink Gin. A large glass later, my
mother stumbled out of her railroad car into a safelooking lighthouse overlooking the tracks.
Her grandfather had been a lighthouse keeper,
and she must have felt like she‘d be home there.
It turned out the Pink Lady that the raggedy
old woman gave my mother was not the gin-based
cocktail she thought it was.
It was Prohibition, and a Pink Lady around that
part of town was Sterno and water. Sometimes they
called Sterno “canned head” because it was used to
heat food and people outdoors.
But around the railroad tracks, Sterno was
popular for other reasons.
The rail riders and hoboes filtered the canned
heat through day-old bread (from late afternoon
giveaways from the Cream Bakery down Seventh
Street) to extract its methanol.
A powerful and addictive drink like gin, a
steady diet of Pink Ladies and its residual methanol
eventually led to blindness and death.
My mother found a job at the café in front of
the lighthouse, and the owners let us live on this
very top floor. It was the McMahon building back
then, and they say he was a nice man.
I never met him.
They said it was the Pink Ladies and a broken
heart that eventually did my mother in.
An orphan at the age of six, the owners gave me
the top floor and sent their eldest daughter, Eileen,
to look after me, to make sure I ate and to look
after my homework. Each day, I climbed up and
down a shaky old wood ladder and walked across
the tracks to Washington Elementary.
It was there that I read about the first lighthouse
in an old book called the “Seven Wonders of the
Ancient World” by Antipater of Sidon.
Built in the mid Third Century BCE, the
lighthouse of Alexandria (on Pharos Island) stood
nearly 500 feet tall and was one of the world’s
tallest structures until an earthquake toppled it.
My lighthouse home had not been built until
about 1918 or 1919. It stood alongside the tracks
ridden by the Fort Worth and Denver City railroad,
which back in 1882 had largely brought Wichita
Falls into being with a town lot sale.
The day and a half sale was held on what is
now the corner of Seventh and Ohio, a hundred feet
or so across the street from my west window.
My home, “the world’s littlest skyscraper,”
stood as a modern lighthouse to the trains that fed
the community with people and supplies, and the
tracks that separated the east side and white part of
town.
When I got to Booker T., my history teacher
told me that my lighthouse was really a skyscraper
that was built as a confidence trick. Supposedly,
someone from Philadelphia came to town, sold
local investors on a skyscraper idea for $200,000
with plenty of office space and then ran off with the
money.
But where the plans for the building should
have read feet, the symbol for inches has been
substituted. When the structure was built, the
promised huge building turned out to be much
smaller and shorter.
I always liked that story because it made me
laugh. But, small or not, the skyscraper had once
hosted six offices on its four floors.
Other people said that McMahon built the
lighthouse as an add-on to the large three-room
structure (now the Antique Wood shop), which was
originally called the Newbie Building.
Supposedly, land was at a premium downtown
during the oil boom, and office space was
expensive.
Now, the nearly deserted old block may not
look like it, but there used to be a huge bank on the
southeastern corner of Seventh and Ohio. There was
also the ritzy St. James Hotel next to the bank.
All that’s left of the old bank and majestic Saint
it worthwhile.
Several years ago, the newest owners
renovated it — father and son electricians from
across the street and an architectural firm uptown.
It was then that the antique shop opened up. After
an artist rented the top floor for a year, I finally got
my first real home back.
The skyscraper’s now a historic landmark
in the Depot Square downtown historic district,
and people come from all over to see something
they’ve either heard someone talk about or they’ve
read about in Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
Me, I remember all the travelers and
townspeople that ate here or got their hair cut, or
bought numbers down the alleyway. There were
also old timers who used to hang out and talk about
all the fly-by-night oil companies and boom and
bust millionaires.
I remember all the railroad guys who came
through and the games of pool I shot across the
street at the Salt and Pepper lounge. There’s still a
pinball arcade across the street and sometimes the
guy lets people play for free.
I remember all the waitresses and railroad
people and shop clerks who looked after me. And
then there was Eileen who was like a big sister who
became my first real crush.
They talk about ghosts of people from so long
back, and they’re there. And there’s the ghosts of
old buildings now long lost like ships in the storm
of time.
People still congregate near the tracks around
the Salvation Army, but they no longer ride the
rails, and no one knows what a Pink Lady or a Pink
Gin is at the Irish pub around from the old Peterson
Building.
The littlest skyscraper still shines at night like
it did 75 years ago when my mother first saw it. I
suppose it’s been that way for over 90 years now
and it’s not going anywhere, anymore.
Short of an earthquake . . . a twister or high
water.
Jim Pettyjohn
Recollections of Downtown
Photograph by R Carter.
James is a dirt lot and a wall that became part of a
sandwich shop called Gidget’s. That same building
was a package store and a pawnshop from the 60s
until a couple of years back.
Back in the 50s, the downtown and the East
Side were the center of my world. The railroad
tracks that ran through them turned out to be a kind
of physical equator that separated them.
I never thought I was any different from the
people I went to school with, until I saw the separate
bathrooms and water fountains in downtown
businesses for my friends.
And there were the shops and places where my
classmates and their parents weren’t welcome.
Even in the Wichita movie theater, my friends
had to sit in the balcony. I still insist on watching
shows from there because they’re the best seats in
the house. Sadly, every other theater on either side
of the tracks is now gone.
The guy that has the top floor of this skyscraper
lets me use it as sort of my office. On a clear day,
you can see almost everything that used to matter
from forty feet up in the sky.
On the top floor, the new wooden stairs are too
narrow to bring any kind of table or chairs. There
are just the windows, curtains, sprinklers, a water
valve, an air conditioner unit, a couple outlets and
a throw rug over a plank wooden floor.
Hanging from the rafters is an umbrella for
when it rains. The roof leaks now, and the wood
slowly rots and the mildew spreads.
For the longest time, after World War II, people
kept selling and buying the building, but there must
have been an agreement between the old and new
owners to let me stay until I finished school.
It was only when I left for college that I
discovered other worlds that I’d read about and
seen in drawings and pictures.
There were times the city wanted to destroy my
lighthouse to build a convention center. Someone
smart enough must have realized that not
enough people would ever use one enough to make
Street Car on exhibit at the Wichita Falls Railroad Museum.
“There was a man named Mitchell who was a superintendent at night for the bus company.
So, Mr. Mitchell had to stay at the old drug store nearly ‘til we closed at ten o’clock. With
nothing else to do, with no television or things like that, and customers were pretty slim at night,
he would tell me stories. And I asked him one time, how in the world did you get to Wichita
Falls. Where did you come from?
“‘Well, Jim, I came from St. Louis,’ he said, and he was going to seek his fortune in California.
So, he went down and bought a railroad ticket coming to California. But they pushed him in the
direction to Fort Worth, because that’s where the terminal was at, and that came up through
Wichita Falls. When he arrived in Wichita Falls, this was about 1908, he said the conductor came
through the train and said folks you have time to go find yourself some breakfast and things of
this nature. But we’re going to have to water the train and put coal in it, so you have plenty of
time.
“The depot was on Seventh Street, so Mr. Mitchell said he left the train and he started across
a dirt street, and a man was opening a business right where the Littlest Skyscraper is. There used
to be some old buildings in there.
“And he said, ‘Good morning, how are you?’ And Mr. Mitchell said fine, and he thought that
was kind of odd. So he walked on down the street to a bank on the corner, the old City National
Bank, and a man was unlocking the door. He said, ‘Good morning, it’s going to be a beautiful
day, isn’t it?’
“‘Yes, I suppose so.’ So he stepped up on the old wooden sidewalk and he was standing there
and looking both directions and a black man came across the street, and he said, ‘Boss, are you
lost?’
“‘No, I’m looking for a place to eat.’
“And he said, ‘Go across the street there to the Senate Café. Mr. Pinky there has the best
food in town.’ So he walked across the street to the Senate Café and opened the old screen door,
it squeaked, and the lady said good morning to him.
“And he said, ‘Why are you making an issue of this good morning?
Here I am, I’m not supposed to be that far away from home, but I went down to Cream Bakery
because I knew where it was at. So I opened the door and walked in. There was a tile floor, it’s
still in there, and this lady said, ‘Young man, can I help you?’”
“And I said, ‘Yes ma’am, can I see you slice bread?’
“She said, ‘Oh you do? Come back here.’
“She took me to the back and got a brand new loaf of bread off the tray and put in into
a machine with a bunch of little knives and she put the bread up there and she had to push it
through. She turned the switch on, the blades went that way, and it sliced the bread so pretty. “She said, ‘What do you think of that?’
“And I said, ‘It’s marvelous, it’s great.’
“She said, ‘Have you seen it?’
“I said, ‘Yeah.’
“She said, ‘It’s time for you to leave.’
“I left. And so I got to see sliced bread right there. Now that’s a long time ago, and we take
everything for granted.”
Photograph taken from the top of the
Holt Hotel by R Carter.
‘Well, I lived in St. Louis and I never knew my neighbors next door. I never knew the
neighbors across the street and nobody ever spoke to each other. And not that I’m belittling Saint
Louis, it’s a good town. But here I come to a town and everyone is speaking to me.’
“And she quickly turned around and handed Mr. Mitchell coffee, put it right in front of him.
He said, ‘How did you know I was a coffee drinker?’ She said you just look like a good coffee
drinker. He said, ‘Well, thank you’ and he sat there for a minute and he said, ‘Is there any jobs in
this town?’
“She said ‘I dunno,’ turned around and asked Pinky. And he came out of the kitchen with his
apron on. ‘Is there any work around here?’ He said they’re hiring for the streetcar line. It went in
in 1909.
“Mitchell asked where is their office at.
“‘Go down to the end of the street there and you turn to the right and you’ll find it.’ That’s
where the Iron Horse Pub is now at.
“So he goes into the office and asks him if they were hiring. They said do you know anything
about streetcars, and he said I drove a streetcar in St. Louis. He said you’re hired. He worked
until they stopped the streetcar in 1927 and drove busses ever since.
“‘I got here,’ he said, ‘because people were friendly and the people had something to tell me
and they made me feel at home. I tell that to boys and girls. You don’t know who you’re going
to meet. Be nice to everybody.’”
Pettyjohn also remembers the old popular Cream Bakery down on Seventh Street where his
family got doughnuts and pecan rolls. One day, dad came in, Pettyjohn said, we were living on
Lee Street at the time, and he said they have something new at Cream Bakery.
“‘What’s that?’
“‘They got a machine and they slice bread,’ his father said.
“That kind of stuck in my craw. We used to have to take bread and slice it with a bread knife.
The north east corner of Seventh and Ohio where Wichita Falls was born Sept 27, 1882
Happy Birthday, Wichita Falls
“They had square dances for the first city birthday (1883) at Warrant Hall where Defoor’s
is now. All of those buildings were wood for many years before they started building with
masonry. They finally put a brick plant in on Flood Street. Before that, they brought brick in from
Weathorford and other places on train. They celebrated the second birthday on the hill where the
First Baptist Church is now. They brought Indians in from Oklahoma to do war dances. People
were having such a good time that the governor came in on the train and nobody met him. All of
a sudden, a northwestern came in, and it rained ninety miles an hour. People jumped under the
buggies and for five days they were digging women’s shoes from out of the mud.”
The tiles of the old Cream Bakery on Seventh Street. Photo by Torin Halsey.
Jim Pettyjohn holds a key to the Holt Hotel. Photo by Tori Halsey.
Jim Pettyjohn holds an old key from the Holt Hotel.
Photo by R Carter.
Holt Key
“I was doing some work in the hotel
and I found that key and throwed it in
my toolbox and forgot all about it. My
wife pulled it out and showed it to one of
the ladies in the Heritage Society and she
went ape over that.”
Looking down Seventh Street
Main Street Moving from Seventh to Eighth
Penny Coat Hangers and a Bucket of Beans
“The Littlest Skyscraper was our place to play shoot ‘em up and cowboys and Indians.
That was in 36 to 39 or so. We knew everything down here. We used to pick up wine bottles to
sell and coat hangers and Coca Cola bottles to get a penny. We didn’t have much money. The
City National Bank had a hole in the wall restaurant and it was called Wimpy’s, and he served
beans in a bowl-a pasteboard tub he called it – and it was a nickel a tub. When we sold enough
stuff, we could come eat beans. There used to be an old candy wagon on the corner – a caramel
corn type popcorn wagon and Creator’s made those wagons. An old man sold popcorn and candy
out of it, because people would walk to the ballpark – Spudder Park – and he would sell them
popcorn. He was there for years.”
“Back in the day, Seventh Street was the key street in town, and no one knows that. In 1911, look
at all of the people and businesses who were in the Seventh and Ohio area. The Katy Railroad wanted to
come in here with passenger service, and they said when they came to look that they would need a bigger
depot than the one on Seventh Street. When they moved the train depot in 1910 to Seventh it moved
the main street from Seventh to Eighth Street. That’s why all those buildings were built on Eighth – the
Staley, the Holt, the City National Bank, the Kemp Hotel, the First National and so forth. Well, after the
war, with the automobile being manufactured as fast as possible, it really stopped train travel. There were
still busses that traveled to little towns and there used to be a bus company in the Holt Hotel and an office.
Now a lot of people wished the trains were back. In fact, our new president said we need to update rail
traffic. In many places they are double tracking. We have thirty-two trains a day through here. They are
all freight, but if they were double tracked, passenger service could run from here to Denver and it would
be a good connection for Amtrak.”
The Guggenheim (right, on the corner), the Cream Bakery (in
the gap to the left of the Guggenheim), and the Holt Hotel (in
the background). Photo by E B Hawley.
Jim Pettyjohn, the key, and the Holt Hotel. Photo by Torin Halsey.
Watching Parades from the Second Floor of the Guggenheim
(Muehlberger’s)
“The top floor of the Guggenheim used to be vacant and some ladies put in a mission. So we went
up there looking to see a parade about to come along. And there was a woman there who used to play the
piano for silent movies, so she played us the piano and showed us how she made rhythms for the horses
running and the rain and the wind on the piano. She entertained us ‘til the parade started. Whenever I look
at that building, I think of her.”
A Bird Dog and a Clean Close Shave
“We had an old dog, a bird dog. He had a split down the middle of his nose and he had two noses. It
appeared in Robert Ripley’s Believe It or Not, and we believed it because we had one. We used to dress
him up and put a shirt on him and knickers on him (that I used to wear) and a tie and we had a hat we
fastened to his chin and we took him to the Hamilton Building and the City National Bank Building and
men would put dollars in his pocket. They thought he was a cute dog. When we started home, we would
always split the money and we would always buy the dog a dollar worth of hamburger meat. And we did
that for years. At the Hamilton Building, it was at the main floor where you caught the elevators. That was
where all the men were at.
“There was a barbershop on the Lamar side (David Farabee’s office) where you could get your shoes
shined. The place to get your shoes shined was the basement of the Kemp Hotel (where the old Holliday
Inn stood) where the restrooms were at. Two black fellows had stands set up and that was the place to go.
They shined more shoes than anyone. Billy B, I always remember, and they were always happy guys.”
Jim Pettyjohn
Born in Wichita Falls in 1925, Jim Pettyjohn grew up around the downtown area doing fun things
like watching medicine shows and sneaking into movies and ballgames and buildings like the Littlest
Skyscraper to play cowboys and Indians.
He worked at Miller’s Drugstore (across from the Holt Hotel) as a kid, sold papers, picked up bottles
and coat hangers to sell for pennies and even dressed up his birddog so men would put dollars in the dog’s
pockets.
Professionally, Pettyjohn worked as an electrician and did wiring for many of the downtown’s
buildings. Now retired, he restores old fire trucks and streetcars. He also gives tours at the Museum of
North Texas History.
Pettyjohn remembers the early days of Wichita Falls like they were yesterday and has a world of
colorful stories about them. Anything from being an original member of the knothole gang at Spudder Park
to the day in 1933 when his father got robbed by Bonny and Clyde while selling them white lightning.
Pettyjohn not only brings the past to life with his acute eye for people and historical detail, he also
makes the past relevant to today.
Steve Allen Goen
The Texas Zephyr
A North Texas Town’s Love Affair With the God of the West Wind
C & S 9952, last train in Wichita Falls (1967).
Located at the junction of six railroad lines,
Wichita Falls naturally saw its share of passenger
trains during the 20th Century, especially after
the development of oil fields at Burkburnett,
Electra and Petrolia. During its heyday as a vital
rail terminal, the city was served by no fewer than
twenty trains each day, all of which made stops at
Wichita Falls Union Station -- located at the foot
of Eighth Street. Prior to the construction of paved
highways, which ultimately led to the decline of
passenger trains nationwide, Wichitans had almost
an endless choice of directions in which rail travel
was available.
The Wichita Valley Railway operated a daily gaselectric “doodlebug” (Trains #111-112) southwest
to Seymour, Munday, Stamford and Abilene until
October 29, 1949, and the Wichita Falls & Southern
allowed passengers traveling south to Olney,
Graham and Breckenridge to ride aboard cabooses
until the WF&S was abandoned in 1954. The Katy
provided passenger service between Wichita Falls,
Altus, Elk City and Woodward, Oklahoma (Trains
#53-54) until March 31, 1954, and operated a
daily roundtrip (Trains #11-12) from Denison,
Gainesville and Nocona until May 15, 1959. But
perhaps the best known passenger train to have
ever served North Central Texas was the TEXAS
ZEPHYR operated by the Ft. Worth & Denver.
Prior to the Zephyr’s inauguration on August 22,
1940, the FW&D had operated several older, steam
trains through the city, the most notable being the
GULF COAST SPECIAL (southbound Train #7)
and the COLORADO SPECIAL (northbound Train
#8), which ran between Dallas-Ft. Worth, Amarillo
and Denver. Jointly owned and operated by the
FW&D and the Colorado & Southern, the two
trains offered Wichitans a variety of connections
at Fort Worth, as well as a direct route to Colorado
and the Pacific Northwest. However, these trains
were of heavyweight construction, and as railroads
across the nation were beginning to jump on the
new “streamliner” bandwagon, the FW&D began
to look at ways to modernize its aging passenger
train fleet.
Being the Texas subsidiary of the larger Chicago,
Burlington & Quincy (Burlington Route), FW&D
management watched as the Burlington’s first
ZEPHYR broke all previous rail speed records when
it traveled 1017 miles in 785 minutes, non-stop
from Denver to Chicago on May 26, 1934. With the
new lightweight train’s successful trip covering the
front pages of newspapers everywhere, it was just
a matter of time until an entire fleet of ZEPHYRs
were placed in operation all across the Burlington
system. Among these would be the TWIN CITY
ZEPHYR between Chicago and Minneapolis-St.
Paul, the DENVER ZEPHYR between Chicago
and Denver and the MARK TWAIN ZEPHYR in
service between St. Louis and Burlington, Iowa. In
Texas, it would be the SAM HOUSTON ZEPHYR
which was inaugurated between Ft. Worth, Dallas
and Houston on October 1, 1936 that would become
the Lone Star State’s first modern streamlined
train.
Although it would not be until the summer of 1940
that Wichita Falls would finally be put on the route
of a ZEPHYR, the FW&D and C&S were already
planning for the new TEXAS ZEPHYR as early
as 1937 when six new lightweight chair cars were
purchased from the Budd Company. Constructed
with exteriors covered in fluted stainless steel, the
FW&D’s four new fifty-two seat cars were named
Silver Fox, Silver Bow, Silver Ore, and Silver Top,
and were a vast improvement over the older (1922)
equipment. The next additions for the proposed train
came in March 1940 when the railroad purchased
a pair of 2,000 horsepower E-5 diesels from the
Electro-Motive Corporation. Also constructed of
matching stainless steel, the new passenger diesels
were numbered FW&D 9980A&B and were
specially named Silver Chief and Silver Warrior in
honor of the Comanche Indians who once roamed
the same territory that the TEXAS ZEPHYR would
travel. Similar pair of diesels, the Silver Racer
and Silver Steed, were ordered for the matching
C&S train. At the same time, the FW&D’s shops
in Childress, Texas were busy rebuilding and
modernizing three older Pullman sleeping cars for
the FW&D train, the Castle Range, Lariat Range,
and the Spanish Crest.
Although the TEXAS ZEPHYR’s final pieces
of new equipment-a baggage-mail car Silver
Messenger, a baggage-dormitory car Silver Peak,
and a dining-lounge-observation car Silver Tray
would not arrive from the builder until August
1940, the FW&D decided to go ahead and cash in on
that summer’s vacation traffic by instituting a new
train in June 1940 called the ADVANCE TEXAS
ZEPHYR. Operated between Dallas and Denver on
the same proposed schedule as the future TEXAS
ZEPHYR, the temporary train showed Wichitans
the Burlington’s eagerness to provide first-class rail
service to the area.
August 22, 1940 would be a banner day, not only
for Wichita Falls, but also for other surrounding
towns, as the TEXAS ZEPHYR arrived from Ft.
Worth for the first time. Wichitans lined the tracks
east of town just to see the shiny streamliner speed
past, and hundreds of others waited downtown
as the ZEPHYR arrived at Union Station. The
ZEPHYR was unlike anything that Wichitans had
seen before. With the Texas sun reflecting brightly
off the ZEPHYR’s stainless steel exterior, the
train was a stark contrast to the somber shades of
Pullman green and black which had been used on
the FW&D’s previous trains. As beautiful as the
train was on the outside, it was just as beautiful on
the inside. Its triumphant entry into Wichita Falls
that afternoon signaled to many that perhaps the
hard times of the Great Depression were finally
over. While it may be hard for younger readers
to understand the importance of such an event by
today’s standards, the arrival of the first TEXAS
ZEPHYR on that hot afternoon was perhaps the
most newsworthy event of the year.
Service provided by the new train was impeccable.
The modern lightweight equipment provided
faster train speeds and smoother operation. All
cars were air-conditioned and no trip on the train
was complete without a meal served aboard the
new fifty-five seat diner-lounge-observation car
which brought up the rear of each train. All meals
were served on the railroad’s beautiful “Violets
and Daisies” pattern china, expertly prepared by
chefs in the kitchen. Menus and linens wore the
distinctive TZ markings, and all silverware bore
the initials BR for the Burlington Route. Sleeping
accommodations were available in the modernized
Pullmans, with cars offering a choice of eight
sections – five double-bed room combinations, or
ten sections – one drawing-room, one compartment
floor plans. Named for the God of the West Wind,
the TEXAS ZEPHYR was appropriately called the
“Train of the Future” by the railroad’s passenger
department.
Although the train’s schedule would be slightly
altered through the years, it originally called for
southbound Train #1 to depart Denver at 12:30
PM, arriving at Amarillo at 11:00 PM, stopping at
Wichita Falls at 3:33 AM, Ft. Worth at 6:00 AM and
finally arriving at Dallas at 7:15 AM. Northbound
Train #2 departed Dallas at 2:00 PM, arrived at
Ft. Worth at 2:45, stopped at Wichita Falls at 5:10
PM and arrived at Denver at 7:30 the following
morning. If both trains were running on time, the
ZEPHYR’s were scheduled to pass each other
each evening at Tascosa in the Texas Panhandle.
Because of the train’s schedule through Wichita
Falls, many local businessmen could catch Train
#1 early in the morning for a quick business trip to
Ft. Worth before returning on northbound #2 later
that afternoon.
Even though the railroad originally intended for
the ZEPHYR to be diesel operated over its entire
835-mile run, a number of early engine failures
on the new E-5 passenger diesels were quickly
determined to be a result of the railroad not having
enough time for routine maintenance during the
train’s turnaround time at Dallas. As a result, the
ZEPHYR made Texas history once again when the
FW&D decided to re-institute steam locomotives
on the Ft. Worth to Dallas segment of the run. With
the diesels now being pulled off of the train at Ft.
Worth each morning, the maintenance problems
were solved and the TEXAS ZEPHYR became the
last Texas streamliner to be regularly scheduled in
and out of Dallas Union Terminal each day behind
steam.
Several major changes took place with the
ZEPHYR’s operations during the 1950’s. First,
as additional passenger diesels were acquired
by the FW&D and C&S, the Ft. Worth to Dallas
steam operations were dropped in 1954. Then in
June 1957 the C&S purchased the two, twelve car
ex-DENVER ZEPHYR train sets from the parent
company (CB&Q) for use on the Dallas to Denver
run. As a result, the original TEXAS ZEPHYR
equipment was re-assigned to FW&D mail and
express Trains #7 and 8, while the ex-DZ cars were
substituted and re-lettered for use on the TEXAS
ZEPHYR.
The purchase of the ex-DENVER ZEPHYR
cars was somewhat unique in that by the time that
they were acquired in 1957, a large number of U.S.
railroads were already attempting to downsize or
drop passenger operations altogether. By continuing
its positive role in the local transportation market,
ridership on the FW&D continued to prosper, well
past the decline of other passenger trains in the
region.
Although the ex-DZ cars were actually several
years older than the FW&D’s 1940 equipment, their
use on the Dallas to Denver run marked the pinnacle
of what was being promoted by the railroad as
“Finer and Faster” TEXAS ZEPHYR service. With
the train now offering lightweight sleepers, dinettechair cars, full-length dining cars and parlor-loungeobservation cars, the FW&D passenger department
instituted an all-out advertising blitz, promoting
special summer vacation packages to Pikes
Peak, Royal Gorge, and the Grand Tetons, or to
Yellowstone National Park. Boy Scout troops were
also encouraged to travel via the ZEPHYR, enroute
to Scout meets held near Colorado Springs. During
the Christmas holidays the FW&D often operated
two sections of the northbound ZEPHYR, with the
second section operated as a “Ski Special,” bound
for the slopes of the Colorado Rockies. The FW&D
even managed to cast the ZEPHYR in a cameo role
in the movie, HUD, starring Paul Newman, as well
as a Texas Bank & Trust TV commercial shot at
Bellevue. All of this was good news to Burlington
President, Harry C. Murphy who was quoted many
times saying, “Take away the passenger train, and a
railroad is nothing more than a truck company.”
As mentioned earlier, the FW&D also operated a
pair of secondary passenger trains between Dallas
and Denver (Trains #7-8), which not only served
Wichita Falls, but also stopped at many smaller
towns along the line that were not scheduled stops
for the ZEPHYR. Southbound Train #7 was perhaps
the most familiar passenger train on the line, since
it traveled across North Texas during daylight
hours. Arriving at Union Station each afternoon
at 1:10 PM enroute to Dallas, Train #7 handled
almost all of the city’s mail and express shipments.
In comparison, its northbound counterpart, Train
#8 was the least used train on the FW&D, arriving
at Wichita Falls at 1:02 AM.
Train speeds on passenger trains were governed
by timetable and were limited, at least on paper, to
a maximum speed of 79 MPH. However, engineers
of the day had an exceptionally good knowledge
of the excellent track conditions that existed on the
line at the time and many were known to exceed
the limit whenever a train was running late and
needed to make up time. Since many of the curves
on the line were banked (super elevated) for high
speed operation, the TEXAS ZEPHYR was known
to have hit speeds in excess of 100 MPH on many
occasions, especially between Wichita Falls and
Childress where the line was relatively straight.
All good things began to come to an end in
1965 when Louis Menk succeeded Murphy as the
President and CEO of the Burlington Route. Whereas
Mr. Murphy actively promoted passenger trains
and the Burlington’s positive role in community
relations, Menk on the other hand believed in
the immediate elimination of passenger service
from all Burlington mainlines. On his very first
inspection trip through North Texas, Menk angrily
told FW&D General Manager M.G. Monaghan
that he felt that the FW&D’s track conditions were
too good, reflecting an overall waste of money. His
suggestions from that trip . . . immediately lay off
many of the line’s employees, and cut back, and
eventually eliminate services currently provided by
the four remaining FW&D passenger trains.
As a result of this philosophy, the TEXAS
ZEPHYR traded its equipment one last time in
February 1965, when the ex-DZ cars were removed
from service and placed in storage in Denver. This
move forced the passenger department to once
again use the ZEPHYR’s original 1940 equipment
on Trains #1 and 2, with Trains #7 and 8 once again
receiving the railroad’s aging fleet of 1922 vintage
C & S 9950 arriving in Wichita Falls on October 22nd, 1940.
heavyweights. The railroad’s commissary in Ft.
Worth was soon targeted by Menk, and on many
days dining cars departing Ft. Worth on northbound
Train #2 were inadequately stocked at his orders.
Many who were connected with the ZEPHYR’s
operations soon began to see the writing on the
wall--a good example being Burlington’s Passenger
Traffic Manager, Herb Wallace, who quit the
railroad that year to accept a similar position with
the Hertz rental car company. With company moral
at an all time low, others still employed by the
Burlington often wore “Menk is a Fink” buttons!
However, even with these changes in operations
now in effect, ridership surprisingly hung tough,
especially at Wichita Falls where ticket sales
continued at almost a constant level. Burlington
actually carried more passengers system-wide in
1964 (820 million) than it had in 1949 (758 million).
So, in an obvious attempt to discourage the public
from continued use of rail travel, the railroad
announced that it was discontinuing Train #1, and
northbound mail Train #8, effective on December
15th, 1966, just days before the annual Christmas
rush. With the FW&D now down to just two trains
remaining, Wichita Falls was faced for the first
time in its history with the immediate possibility of
losing rail passenger service altogether.
With much of US Highway 287 still a two lane
road in 1967, the TEXAS ZEPHYR still managed
to capture its share of ridership. So much so, that
both Pullman sleeping cars and dining-loungeobservation cars were still in daily operation, just
as they had been when the train was first placed in
service back in 1940. As frustrated as Menk was,
the railroad still had too many patrons using Trains
#2 and #7 to justify their annulment. However,
when the United States Postal Service announced
on September 6, 1967 plans to terminate the
passenger train’s vital mail contract, it was exactly
what the Burlington’s management needed in order
to petition its case with the Interstate Commerce
Commission.
Although heavily protested by every town up and
down the line, the ICC announced within days of
Burlington’s request that it was granting permission
to drop the trains. Somewhat shocking was the
ICC’s conclusion that the trains were no longer of
use to North Texans. Some on the commission even
suggested that rail travel would still be available
between Dallas, Ft. Worth and Denver if a person
was willing to ride the Texas & Pacific and Santa Fe
via a ridiculous routing through Ft. Worth; Newton,
Kansas; La Junta, Colorado; west to Pueblo and then
north to Denver, a route which included no fewer
than four changes of trains! Even more surprising
was the ICC’s acceptance of evidence presented by
the Burlington during the hearings which showed
the FW&D had lost thousands of dollars during
1966-1967 as a result of their lost mail contracts,
even though the US Mail contract had not yet been
annulled.
Sunday, September 10th, 1967 was a sad day for
all as the final northbound passenger train stopped
at Wichita Falls Union Station at 5:00 PM. Many
Wichitans were on hand that afternoon to say
goodbye, some even choosing to ride that last train
north to Amarillo so that they could return on the
last southbound train the following day. As large
as the crowd was on Sunday, it was even larger on
Monday when the final southbound arrived at 1:02
PM. Still a good sized train right up to the very end,
the final ZEPHYR consisted of a whopping twelve
cars, including five loaded with mail and express,
as it pulled up to the station’s brick platform for the
last time.
Although the ZEPHYR is now only a memory
to many, much of the train survives today, although
far away from its route across North Texas. Of the
nine passenger diesels once used on the train, only
one, C&S E-5 9952A, the diesel that led the last
train into town, was saved from the torch. It resides
today at the Illinois Railroad Museum, where it is
used to pull the museum’s NEBRASKA ZEPHYR
during special events. The FW&D’s dining-loungeobservation car, Silver Tray, was sent to Mexico and
the majority of the two, twelve-car ex-DENVER
ZEPHYR, ended up being purchased by the Saudi
Arabian government during the mid-1970’s for
possible operation in that country. However it must
be stated that this was a complete failure when it
was discovered that there was no way to keep the
fine desert sand out of the cars. They remain today
stored near Dhahran, completely unused but still
lettered TEXAS ZEPHYR on their name-boards.
Two cars ended up at Hill City, South Dakota and
all other equipment has since been scrapped.
When the TEXAS ZEPHYR was first inaugurated
in 1940, many called it “the Train of the Future.”
How ironic that when the future finally caught up
with the ZEPHYR, the future no longer had a place
reserved for it.
Memories of the Texas Zephyr
Having been born in Austin, Texas, my first
hands-on experience with the TEXAS ZEPHYR
came in December 1956 when my parents brought
me to Wichita Falls for the first time. Being only
four months old at the time I have no recollections
of the trip, but my mother told me years later that
I had a great time all the way from Dallas--never
once going to sleep and constantly trying to get
the attention of the Conductor and the Trainman.
My grandparents, who were waiting for my arrival
at Union Station, claimed that they spotted me
right off, as I waved to everyone through the chair
car’s window. They also swore that after departing
the train, I refused to let them take me to my
grandfather’s car until I saw the ZEPHYR depart
from the station.
Living at my grandparent’s house at the corner of
North Brook and North Lamar in the city’s Scotland
Addition offered me an excellent opportunity to
watch the trains go by. My grandmother often told
me that as a toddler, they would have to take me
out to our backyard fence twice each day, in order
to watch “the choo-choo” (southbound #7) pass
behind our house at 1:00 and to see northbound #2
leave town later in the afternoon at 5:15. As I grew
older I often talked my grandfather into walking me
up to the old North Scott Street overpass in order
to get a better view of the trains. Watching freight
trains was OK, but the day’s real treat was to watch
the TEXAS ZEPHYR as it quickly accelerated out
of town each afternoon bound for Vernon.
During the 1960s, it was my grandfather’s
standard operating procedure to take me down to
Union Station almost every Saturday so that we
could watch the southbound train come in. We
always tried to arrive at the depot around noon for
lunch at the Burlington Bean Bowl, a small grill
housed inside the station’s massive waiting room.
My grandfather, the late Clarence “C.D.” Watson,
always believed that no trip to the depot was
complete without a good fifteen-cent hamburger
and a nickel bottle of Coke. Although the burgers
served at the depot were greasy by today’s standards,
I always thought that they were just about the best
meal in town!
Grandpa always seemed to know everyone down at
the station. We would always check in with the local
ticket agent on #7’s status before heading outside to
wait for its arrival. Once outside, we always spoke
to the Red Caps or Railway Express workers. On
some days, we might walk down to the south end of
the platform in order to watch Floyd Ferguson, the
car-man, as he quickly filled the ZEPHYR’s diesels
with fuel or water. However, my all-time favorite
spot to watch the train was perched atop one of
the station’s ornate concrete flower pots which
once graced the station’s trackside entry. From this
vantage point, even a small boy like me could get a
great view of the train as it crossed Seventh Street
and arrived at the station.
Since Wichita Falls was a crew change for all
trains, the ZEPHYR normally remained in town
for ten minutes. I still remember vividly watching
all of the excitement that took place once the train
came to a stop. You could always pick out families
anxiously awaiting the arrival of their loved ones, or
you could watch as young servicemen heading off
to Vietnam and said their good-byes. As exciting as
it was to watch the dozens of mail and express carts
quickly being loaded or unloaded, I still remember
the chill that went up my spine the first time that
I saw the baggage handlers silently remove a flag
draped coffin from the baggage car. These were
indeed the turbulent times of the mid-1960s, but
watching the ZEPHYR each day helped to assure
me that not all was wrong with the world.
One of my best memories of the ZEPHYR took
place in late July 1967, less than sixty days before
the train was discontinued. My grandmother had
talked my grandpa into driving the family up to
Harrold each evening for a four-night revival held
at the Harrold Church of Christ. We would leave the
house each afternoon around 5:00, taking the new
US 287 expressway up to Iowa Park. However, in
those days 287 went back to being its original two
lane road, just past Iowa Park, and remained two
lane all the way to Oklaunion.
It was about 5:30 on the first day and we had
just passed Burnett Road west of Iowa Park when
grandpa said, “Steve, look out the rear window and
tell me what you see.” “It’s the Zephyr,” I shouted,
“and it’s catching up with us.” “Not for long,” he
said. “Let’s see if we can beat it to Electra.” And
with those few words the race was on, although
it ended up not being much of a race at all. Even
though highway speed limits in those days were
70 MPH on a two lane US highway, the ZEPHYR
caught up with us by the time we passed Fowlkes
like we were standing still. Faster and faster my
grandfather sped, 75 . . . 80 . . . 85 miles per hour, but
all to no avail as the shiny Texas speedster caught
up and passed us in a blink of an eye. Grandpa said
that we would catch up with the train at Electra,
since the ZEPHYR had to make a stop, but you
should have seen the look on his face when we sped
into town just in time to see the oscillating red light
on the rear of the train vanish in the distance. For
the next three evenings it was the same results. The
ZEPHYR would appear from behind us and quickly
overtake my mother’s red 1962 Dodge Lancer. As
hard as my grandfather tried, the 2,000 horses in
each of the train’s pair of 1940 slant-nosed diesels
were just too much to beat.
With the TEXAS ZEPHYR my most cherished
childhood friend, and with Wichita Falls Union
Station being the playground of my youth, it was a
hard thing to swallow when I learned of the train’s
pending demise in September. I would spend every
remaining opportunity I had going down to the
depot that last weekend and photographing the
final trains. During school at Huey Elementary the
week before, I always managed to need to sharpen
my pencil at the exact same time that I heard No.
7 blowing for the nearby Vermont Street crossing.
Luckily for me that old pencil sharpener in Mr.
Deitrick’s music class was right over next to the
windows. It wasn’t much of a ploy, but it worked
and offered me about a twelve second glimpse of
my old friend.
Luckily my birthday fell on Saturday, September
9th, just two days before the last run, and that
year my grandparents would give me the greatest
birthday present that I have ever received, a ticket
to Henrietta aboard the last southbound train. I
still remember that day. My mother kept me out of
school and my grandparents drove me down to the
station at noon for one last hamburger at the Bean
Bowl.
There were numerous dignitaries on hand that
day, people like State Representative Dave Allred,
Mayor R.C. Rancier, and Rhea Howard, owner and
publisher of the newspaper. But the real star of the
show that day was the ZEPHYR and in a matter
of minutes we could hear the familiar “blat-blat”
of its air horn blowing one last time for the nearby
Seventh Street crossing. As the pair of diesels led
the train slowly into the station, I looked up and
waved to the engine and my good friend Andrew
Morgan, who was in the cab. My grandmother then
helped me aboard the train, and in a few minutes
we were waving goodbye to Wichita Falls and to
my grandfather as he headed off to the car in order
to pick us up at Henrietta. Once moving, Conductor
L. “Pinky” Spillman quickly came by and punched
our tickets and handed me two copies of the classic
American Association of Railroads comic books. I
still have these today.
It was a great ride, but one all too short. With
the ZEPHYR sprinting across western Clay
County at top speed, we were in Henrietta in a
matter of minutes. We stepped off the train and
offered a quick goodbye to Mr. Spillman, who was
determined to keep his train “on time” on its trip to
oblivion that afternoon. We had known “Pinky” for
years, but that would be the last time that I ever saw
him. I later heard that when the train arrived that
afternoon in Dallas, that he had to walk down to
the Greyhound Bus Depot so he could take the bus
back home to Wichita Falls. “Pinky” retired from
the railroad that day, however, several years later
I ran across one of his conductor uniforms and his
old stainless-steel Burlington Route step box for
sale at a local flea market. Needless to say, both
items went home with me that day.
The innocent days of my childhood felt like they
came to an end that September. With the ZEPHYR
no longer serving North Texas, the railroad soon
offered Union Station to the city of Wichita Falls
for the paltry sum of one dollar; but with no buyers
or prospective uses for the depot, an auction was
then held in October where most of the depot
furnishings, benches, wall maps and baggage carts
were sold off. Even the old Burlington Bean Bowl
grill soon relocated next door. In November, our
once proud Union Station would complete its service to our city as being the display site for the Santa Fe
Railway’s traveling “Chisholm Trail Centennial” rail exhibit. Beginning in late December, the station’s
tower was taken down by a wrecking ball, with the remainder of the structure dismantled brick by brick.
By February 1968, the sale was over, providing downtown with another vacant lot.
It was the beginning of a general decline in downtown Wichita Falls that would last for the next two
decades.
The train schedule was inside the Union Station. Last day of service to Wichita Falls
was on September 11, 1967.
Richard Carter
Lucille Doran
Lucille Doran lived dance, teaching the art form for over six decades. For fifty-three of those years
until 1989, she brought proper dance technique as well as a love of dance and dancing to students and
art lovers in Wichita Falls. Doran’s legacy includes waves of teachers, performers and dance aficionados
across the country, as well as a granddaughter, now in Fort Worth, who also loves and lives dance.
Born in Two Harbors Minnesota in 1914, Lucille (Main) Doran grew up in Duluth and started tap and
ballet lessons at the relatively late age of fifteen. Her early appreciation of dance came from a creative
mother who loved dancing even though her Swedish family forbade it.
Doran’s daughter, Susan Lavallee, remembers her mother saying how her father would give her a
dime to take the streetcar downtown to take dance lessons from a Ms. Orleane Stoughton. “I still have a
notebook of things she wrote from her classes.”
After graduating from high school, Doran and a pianist friend began traveling to nearby small towns
to teach dance lessons. In 1935, she joined the Chicago National Association of Dance Masters – an
organization of dance teachers – to learn further about their pedagogical craft from dancers and instructors.
It was there that she met a woman from Wichita Falls named Ms. Jimmie Gross who owned Gross
Studios. “My mother thought it was very exciting when Ms. Gross asked her to come to Texas to teach.
She was all of about twenty-two or twenty-three years old and thought Texas was the greatest thing.” Her
daughter has photographs of her mother back then wearing cowboy boots, shorts and a cowboy hat. Back
in those days, Wichita Falls was wild and crazy, she said. It was a very exciting place where people could
stay up all night and still find a place to eat at 4 a.m.
Doran taught ballet and tap for Gross and met her husband, Alex, at a dance recital. He played
trumpet in a band that played for dances. He also played for years in a jazz band with Frank Goff who
owned Frank’s 8 Ball downtown.
After teaching for Ms Gross for four years, Doran had a son, Pat, in 1942, and her daughter, Susan,
in 1943. She opened the Doran-Beavers Dance Studio in 1944 with a friend on 1401 10th Street. A year
later, her friend got married and Doran changed the name to Lucille Doran School of Dance and taught
there until 1949.
She then moved her studio to the top floor of two-story house on 1310 Kemp (where her family
lived). Doran taught there for a while and later moved her studio to 9th St. She eventually returned to
Kemp. Later she opened a concurrent second location on Call Field.
In 1978, she purchased an old church on Lawrence Road and converted it into a much more spacious
dance studio. Boehm Ballet has that studio now. She taught there until 1989 when she moved to Fort
Worth and taught at Milam’s studio for two years.
After developing Parkinson’s, she enjoyed watching and sometimes commenting on dance lessons
until she passed away in 1995.
Doran As Teacher
Lucille Doran, age thirty.
Two of the thousands of young dancers who took lessons from Lucille Doran were her daughter
Susan and Susan’s best friend Reggie (Nacol) Milam. Milam took dance from Doran four or five days a
week from age three to 18 when she went off to TCU to pursue the art form.
“She was not a huggy-kissy teacher, “ said Milam, “but she so cared. If you ever told her anything,
she would remember and ask you about it. Some kids were scared of her because she was very northern.
She wasn’t like a southern belle. She was totally from Minnesota.”
Doran was strict and didn’t joke or goof around with students. Susan and she used to give her a
terrible time in class goofing off. “I don’t know why she didn’t kick us out,” Milam laughed.
“Lucille was the consummate teacher. She was not interested in what she looked like teaching ballet,
and she was not much to look at when you watched her dance. Now tap, yes, she could burn the floor up.
Doran’s lessons were also passed on to students across the country from her students who later
became teachers. Milam taught for her at her Call Field studio in the 60s and later in her own studios in
Fort Worth and at Dance, Etc. in Wichita Falls since 1995.
Milam approaches her students similarly to the way her first teacher had. “I want my dancers to be
great. I want them to do it right and look good. But I also want no child to walk out that door thinking less
about themselves.”
Doran taught all of the students who came to her studio and did not neglect those who may not have
appeared to be the next Cyd Charisse or Mikhail Baryshnikov.
“I grew up in a dance studio that had deaf kids, fat kids, awkward kids and poor kids,” Milam said.
“They weren’t all country club or the 5’ 5” willows or just the talented kids.”
It was really important to Doran that all of her students learned, Susan said. She spent time with all
of them.
Doran also traveled to schools in Wichita Falls and taught blind, deaf and mentally challenged
children. “She did it because she knew what a disability was,” her daughter said. Doran was born blind
in one eye and didn’t see well out of her other eye until she had eye surgery in 1963. Following the
procedure, she told her daughter it was the first time she had ever really seen her. Her poor eyesight never
hindered her teaching. Doran was always learning to be the best teacher she could be. Every year, she
traveled to Chicago or to London to study method and pedagogy from the Royal Ballet, which she taught
in combination with the Cecchetti method, to her ballet students.
“She knew where her inadequacies were and filled them with adequacies,” Milam said.
She also brought in such dance luminaries like Nico Charisse and Al Gilbert to teach some classes.
Doran’s studio walls were covered with images of major dancers who had visited her studio to impart
their knowledge and skills to dancers. She lived dance and lived teaching dance. Doran taught all day,
beginning with two hours of morning classes for younger students, and often five hours of classes in the
afternoons. At night, she taught ballroom dancing classes. She also taught country and western, jazz, and
disco as they became popular.
Near the end of her life, when her vision deteriorated again, Doran sat in Milam’s studio watching
classes. “Every once in a while she would snap her fingers and call me over, ‘The girl, the third from the
end, every time she does her passé she brings her knee in. Fix that.’ She knew.”
Doran’s Granddaughter, Elise Lavallee – A Third (or Fourth) Generation Dancer
Susan (Doran) Lavallee and Reggie (Nacol) Milam in “ The Blue Danube,” 1958 Wichita Falls Civic
Ballet. Photo courtesy of Reggie Milam.
But for the ballet she taught, she may not have had a magnificent extension, but boy she knew how to get
students to do it.”
Milam is proud of her dance education from Doran. “When I went to TCU and then Dallas and other
places to study, I was always moved to the advanced class and it was because of what I learned from
her.”
Now twenty-eight, Elise Lavallee has been taking dance since the age of two – just after she began
walking. Dance is her life. “I teach it, choreograph it and I dance.” Lavallee is doing what she is doing,
she said, because her grandmother got her there. “The reason I am the person I am is that I got it from her.
I know that without a doubt that I am a lot my grandmother.”
Her mother Susan and Reggie Milam talk about how they see her grandmother in her.
“It’s the love of dance. Dancing was not even a decision (for me). I just kept doing it and kept going
with it. I love it, so I don’t even think twice. There was no plan B.”
Lavallee didn’t realize until about two years ago what her grandmother had overcome to teach and
spread her love of dance to so many people.
“She was a very strong person. The thing I’ve noticed lately is – I am not a spiritual person – I have
felt my grandmother’s presence, and it’s very overwhelming to me. I feel like she’s been leading me down
a path – watching over me. I feel her energy and it gives me energy.”
Lavallee took dance from her grandmother as well as her mother and Milam. Her last real memory of
her grandmother was in the studio watching her shout counts. Along with her education from her family,
Milam, and in Fort Worth studios, Lavallee has studied in New York, and with major teachers and dancers
such as Debby Allen (“Fame”). Lavallee teaches dance in Fort Worth for Margo Dean School of Ballet,
and also at Kids Who Care, a Fort Worth based performing arts group. She’s also taught at Dance, Etc.
She does choreography for Kids Who Care, and numerous Metroplex high schools and theatres, including
Casa Manana. Lavallee danced most recently with the Bruce Wood Dance Company, Ballet Concerto and
Casa Mañana Musicals.
Doran’s Legacy
Doran lived for dance and bringing that love of dance to others, according to her daughter and Milam.
Along with the many students who trained in her studio and grew to at least appreciate – if not outright
love dance – she brought numerous dance luminaries to visit the area and was part of many programs and
organizations that promoted and inspired the art form locally.
In the late 50s, Doran was involved with Gross and Frank and Irina Pal in forming the Wichita Falls
Civic Ballet, which served to unite the Wichita Falls dance community to stage productions such as
“Carousel” and “The Blue Danube.”
Milam has taught dance at Dance, Etc since 1985 (in Fort Worth from 1985-95). Her walls are a
repository of images of Doran and her studio as well as the colorful and stylish ballet images that once
hung in that studio. Milam also has a large 125-year-old dance mirror (from Russia) on the west wall
of her studio that hung in Doran’s studio beginning in 1945. In addition to Dance, Etc, Milam also
choreographs for area theatres and schools (like Doran once did).
Doran’s daughter, Susan, taught dance for her mother in the 70s and 80s, and continued teaching at
Milam’s studio in Fort Worth until 1993. She remains an active board member of Margo Dean’s company
and Ballet Concerto, coordinates all the costuming, and is a production consultant.
A number of Doran’s students became teachers themselves or stayed active in the profession. Of
Doran’s many students who went off
and became dance teachers, Sherri
Barnhart and Bobby Houston taught
locally. Former student Willetta
(Smith) Leonard worked in a variety of
capacities in television and the movies
and was the co-producer of Route 66
and The Naked City. It was Leonard
who gave Doran the money to get eye
surgery in 1963. Leslie Riddle moved
to New York City where she became a
Rockette. Cayce (Bradley) Wendeborn
remembers going with Doran to
Austin Elementary two afternoons
a week to teach special education
children’s music, dance, sound and
rhythm. After graduating high school,
Wendeborn continued to work with
special education students minoring in
education in college. After returning to
town and becoming a contractor, she
remains active in Special Olympics.
It was pretty amazing what Doran
accomplished during her life, Milam
said, and the knowledge and inspiration
she left behind that continues to inspire
people to learn, dance, appreciate,
choreograph, and teach the art form of
dance. Polyester Dreams, Bruce Wood Dance Company, 2003. Photo Courtesy of Sitaron Bradford.
“Memories of Frosty” Ballet Concerto 2000.
Bob Balch
The Day of Reckoning
When the foreman of the jury read the “Not
Guilty” verdict in the big courtroom before the
packed gallery of spectators, the Colonel breathed
a sigh of relief, put his head in his hands and uttered
a silent prayer of thanksgiving. It had been a long
fourteen months since that fateful day in May of
1912 when he had encountered Feller Sample in the
men’s washroom of the old Grand Hotel in Prairie.
Gunfire erupted and the cowman fell dead. Colonel
Barton had been charged with murder although no
one saw the fatal shot fired. He said it was selfdefense. The case had been transferred from Prairie
to Seyma on a change of venue. In July of 1913
after a trial lasting one week, a lengthy charge was
submitted to the twelve-man jury who came back
in only twenty-three minutes with their verdict.
Colonel Barton owned three-hundred thousand
acres outside Prairie known as the 4B Ranch, and
Feller Sample had thirteen hundred acres that
adjoined the 4B Ranch. At a cattle auction in
Fort Worth, Sample had legally purchased one
hundred head of cattle with the 4B brand and had
them shipped back to his place near Prairie. Soon
thereafter, cattle began to come up missing on the
4B Ranch. Feller Sample had the perfect cover.
A next door neighbor with legitimate 4B branded
cattle on his spread. Unless caught in the act, it
would be hard to prove that he was rustling Colonel
Barton’s cattle. In Texas, neighbors don’t steal from
neighbors.
The colonel soon suspected that Sample and
his cowboys were responsible for the missing cattle
as the losses continued to mount over about a threeyear period. The colonel put out the word, and it
didn’t take long to get to Sample. The feud was on,
and everyone knew it would end in violence.
Feller Sample was no stranger to violence and
was known to employ cowboys with shady pasts
and criminal records. His own brother fell victim
to his violence, although the authorities were
unable to gather enough evidence against Sample
to make the case. As to rustling cattle, it was easy
to push strays along creek beds and river bottoms
un-noticed by the cowboys on large spreads like
the 4B for a time, but Sample knew that Colonel
Barton was a big problem. He swore to rid himself
of this threat to his operation, which was netting
a handsome profit. He began to make threats to
kill Colonel Barton to his men and his family. He
attempted to stalk the colonel and even staked out
his headquarters to try to get a clear shot at him.
Finally, at a stockman’s meeting in Fort Worth,
Colonel Barton went to the authorities after several
men warned him that Feller Sample had vowed to
kill the old man before leaving Fort Worth. The
colonel was armed, and it would defend himself
if Sample made a move against him. After some
investigation by the authorities, it was determined
that Sample had left the city. These threats were not
taken lightly by Colonel Barton, and the episode in
Fort Worth was a precursor of things to come.
The colonel had banking business to tend to in
Fort Worth, but he would be headed back to Prairie
in the next few days to work a new shipment of
cattle arriving in Prairie. He would be on the lookout for Feller Sample. The confrontation came
quickly. By chance, the two men crossed paths in
the Grand Hotel shortly before noon on that fatal
day. Although there were several witnesses nearby,
no one could say that they saw the gunfire. Sample
was armed with a loaded .25-caliber Colt automatic
pistol, found in his right pocket after the shooting,
but it had not been fired. He had been shot with a
Colt 45 at close range through the heart. No doubt
Colonel Barton was in fear for his life because
of the numerous death threats made by Sample.
Witnesses at the trial confirmed these death threats,
and also spoke of the reputation of the deceased
toward violence. Colonel Barton testified in his
defense. Hank Percival, who had been charged as
an accomplice, did not take the witness stand, but it
didn’t matter. In Texas, a man has a right to defend
himself with deadly force, and the jury believed this
was such a case. Following the verdict, the colonel
thanked the jury, and then turned to his friends and
family, and thanked them all for their support. The
case against Percival, which had been continued, was dropped on motion of the state’s attorney due to
insufficient evidence. As the entourage left the courthouse in Seyma, their Pierce Arrow automobiles,
their musical horns blared out the hymn “Oh, Happy Day.”
Throughout the rest of his life, there were rumors that Colonel Barton had not fired the shot that killed
Feller Sample. The colonel’s body-guard, Hank Percival, was in the hotel that day, and he always stayed
close to his boss. He would have seen the sudden movement of Sample’s hand as he reached for the pistol.
As a young man, Percival would have been much quicker to react than the colonel who was sixty-four
years of age at that time. Did the colonel take the rap for Hank Percival? If so, he took the secret to his
grave. Whatever the truth, no doubt the quick action had saved the colonel’s life, and the jury believed
the action to be justified as self-defense. The day of reckoning had come, not only for Feller Sample, but
now also for Colonel Barton, the legendary Texas cattleman, vindicated by a jury of his peers.
Photo by R Carter.
Bob Balch, an area CPA and attorney at law, has written and self-published four historical fiction
novels and one book of anecdotal stories about older gas stations. He is presently co-authoring a history
of Texas A & M football. He remembers watching his father practice law in the old Baylor County
Courthouse. That courthouse saw many old cases including Burk Burnett being found innocent of murder
in 1913. It was Balch’s two sons who talked their storytelling father into writing his first novel back in
2003. An avid reader as a child, Balch also liked to wander around and discover things near where he
grew up in Seymour. He now spends most of his time in libraries, the North Texas History Museum, on
the Internet and talking to area people about the past, technology and geography for his books. His office
walls are surrounded with history as well as leather bound original case law that goes back to the original
Republics of Texas. “My generation had a sense of history,” Balch said, “but I don’t think the younger
ones do. You have to make history come alive.”
Michael Collins
The Execution of Private Garcia
By the summer of 1864, as preparations were
being made to remove Union forces from the
Lower Rio Grande for transport to Louisiana, in
both Federal and Confederate ranks desertion had
reached near epidemic proportions. So determined
were Union commanders to halt the stampede of
runaway recruits that, following one court martial,
a board of officers ordered the public execution of
a deserter.
On the late afternoon of June 22, 1864, a
solemn drama in Brownsville served to remind
volunteers and regulars alike that the most severe
consequences awaited anyone who left ranks
without official leave. On a typical sun-spangled
summer day, Union officers carried out the death
sentence at Washington Square, near the end of
Elizabeth Street. The focus of the day’s spectacle
was a convicted deserter who spoke little English,
Private Pedro Garcia of Company E of the First
Texas Union Cavalry. Garcia had confessed to
leaving his post for the purpose of hunting wild
turkey. During his court martial he had pledged
never to desert his post again, and he had even
pleaded for mercy, not for himself, but for the
sake of his wife and children. Without him, he had
implored the court, they would only continue to go
hungry.
Bur Garcia’s plea for leniency went unheeded.
Private Benjamin McIntyre would never forget the
eerie, almost surreal scene that unfolded shortly
after four o’clock that sweltering summer afternoon.
He recorded in his diary: “The . . . [Death] March
fell upon our ears and soon a squad of soldiers was
observed slowly approaching followed by a band . .
. Behind them was a coffin carried by four men and
immediately followed by the dead cart with [the]
victim, near whom walked a priest who had been
the constant companion of the doomed man since
his execution had been made known.”
As the cart carrying the condemned prisoner
passed within the ranks of regulars, the band
ceased its morbid dirge and the line halted beside
an open grave, where the empty wooden coffin
had been placed. “I must acknowledge for my own
part my Spirits were depressed with a sadness to
which I was a Stranger. The doomed man stepped
from his cart and approached his grave. He was
scarce middle aged – in the very prime of life,
stout, rugged, and in the enjoyment of health,”
McIntyre recalled. “He manifested but little feeling
. . . he had no word for anyone except the priest
who still kept him company and administered
the last rites of his religion while . . . [Garcia]
was on his knees before him. After this he pulled
off his shoes, placed the extremities of his pants
in his socks, then approaching his coffin kneeled
upon it. A bandage was placed on his eyes . . . but
he pushed it . . . [aside] and gazed around with
seeming indifference upon the armed squad.”
A hush then fell over the crowd. A few moments
of stillness followed as Father Parisot administered
the last rites, the sacraments that the condemned
man received with “perfect resignation.” McIntyre
recorded the drama that happened next: “The word
was given Make ready, Aim – a dozen rifles were
pointed at his breast. It was a moment of painful
suspense and was felt by the vast throng – a moment
and a human life would be ended . . . Each one who
gazed upon the specticle [sic] I doubt not felt the
cold blood curdling in his veins & would prefer
never again to witness an alike exhibition.” Then it
happened. “I felt relieved when the word Fire was
given and I saw the stiffened form fall backward,
his breast pierced by a ball. I saw no expression of
agony not the movement of a single muscle.”
An army surgeon approached the limp frame to
determine if any sign of life remained.
Signaling that the prisoner still had a pulse, and that
a last breath was yet left within his lungs, the
physician stepped away. Two members of the firing
squad were then hastened forward and ordered to
finish the grisly task. They stepped “to within a few
yards and fired . . . at his head, one ball crashing
through his brain.”
At that, it was over. The crowd dispersed as the
band again played the Death March, the muffled
drums and muted trumpets sounding forth a haunting
refrain as Garcia’s body was placed in the coffin,
lowered to the open grave, and dirt shoveled on
the pine box. After returning to his barracks in Fort
Brown, Private McIntyre recorded in his journal:
“I have but little [else] to say regarding this affair.
I doubt not the example was needed and the dead
man merited his fate.” But “in his fate there was
little or no display of feeling.” As for the doomed
deserter, “there was a lack of everything which
denoted a realization of his situation.” McIntyre
closed his entry with a postscript, noting that the
executed man appeared to be “one of that class who
lacked enlightenment, who was very superstitious
and [a] firm believer in the Roman church and .
. . the bright promises the priest represented as
awaiting him.”
Sadly, the execution and burial of Private Garcia
seemed but a normal event in such an abnormal time.
For the sobering scene of Union soldiers and priests
carrying a coffin through the streets of Brownsville
was a daily ritual that summer. Death and disease
were the constant companions of haggard and
homesick troopers and hungry peones alike. The
scorching heat, an outbreak of smallpox, and crop
failures combined with the brackish river water,
swarms of mosquitoes carrying malaria and yellow
fever, and rows of filthy, overcrowded jocales. All
ensured that the cemetery north of town fast filled
with corpses, some of the dead being nameless to
all but their Maker.
Michael Collins
Dr. Michael Collins is Regent’s Professor and
Hardin Distinguished Professor of United States
History at MSU. He has taught at the university
for 23 years and was awarded the prestigious
Piper Professor award for excellence in teaching in
2007.
Collins has published a number of scholarly
books and articles. In addition to teaching, he was
Director of the Division of Humanities from 1992
to 1999 and Dean of the College of Liberal Arts
from 1999 to 2004.
Earlier this year, he published Texas Devils:
Rangers and Regulars on the Lower Rio Grande
1846-1861 (OU Press) about the people and the
dynamic of U.S. and Mexico border history.
“The Execution of Private Garcia” was to have
been included in his book-length border study but
Collins reduced the years surveyed for
reasons of length. It may still be included as part of
a journal article.
Collins’ Ph.D. is from TCU primarily in U.S.
History and the American West, Texas and the
Southwest.
“History must be relevant to the present
generation,” he explained. “Too many people see
history as ‘the dead past,’ and nothing could be
further from the truth.”
History is a story that should be related in
narrative form, according to Collins, and history
is characters who should be developed like in a
literature class.
Collins is currently writing a biographic essay
for the UT Press on historian Walter Prescott Webb.
He would like eventually to write a post-Civil War
sequel to his Texas Devils book on the culture wars
along the U.S. and Mexico border.
Art
Ray Price
Gary Goldberg
Gary Goldberg has taught photography and
commercial art at MSU since 1983.
Growing up up in Los Angeles, He set up his
first darkroom at the age of 12. Goldberg eventually
went on to earn his BFA at Arizona State University
and his MFA at the University of Nebraska.
Goldberg has had his work published in places
ranging from Joe Ely’s book Bonfire of Roadmaps
to the Dallas Morning News, Texas Monthly,
various textbooks and even the phone book.
He has shown numerous times in the area
including most recently a collection of photographs
titled Texas Singer-Songwriters: An Americana
Portrait at museums and universities from 2006 to
2007.
Many of those photographs, such as the Ray
Wylie Hubbard image, were taken at the Late
Week Lazy Boy Supper Club in Archer City where
Goldberg is the official photographer. He began the
digital photography project in 2002.
On Hank, Willie, the
Ray Price beat and the
Cherokee Cowboys (told
to Richard Carter in May
2005)
Country legend Ray
Price has played with
everyone from Hank
Williams to Hank Williams
III.
“Hank was great”
Price said of his former
roommate. “He was a
nice fellow, a really great
fellow. Everybody loved
him and he died at 29. He
was number one in the
country and that just added
to it (the mystique).”
Price hired Willie
Nelson to play in his band
and later Roger Miller and
Johnny Paycheck. His
music influenced everyone
from Buck Owens to outlaw
country to contemporary
alt country.
Price
is
also
responsible for introducing
the Ray Price beat in his
single “Crazy Arms.” “It’s
just a shuffle beat on the
drums and 4/4 bass. And
the rhythm is, of course,
all 4/4, and that’s all there
is,” he said.
“Honky-tonk is just
my kind of music”.
Ray Wylie Hubbard
The roots of “Redneck
Mother” (told to Richard
Carter in June 2005)
Family of Women.
“After high school
(Oak Cliff), we went up to
Red River, New Mexico.
“Back in those days,
I hate to sound ancient
here—this was before
Willie Nelson sang at
the Armadillo
World
Headquarters bringing the
hippies and the rednecks
together—it was kind of a
turbulent time back then.
“We were up in New
Mexico, and you had kind
of the rough cowboy bar or
the redneck bar. And, you
had the safe musician bar.
And one night, we were
playing and having a little
jam session, passing the
guitar around.
“It was my time to get
the beer, so I said, ‘How bad
can it really be?’ so I went
to the cowboy, hillbilly
bar, and I found out. There
were some rough looking
guys in there and I got the
beer and came back.
“They
said
it’s
your turn to sing and I
just started making up
‘Redneck Mother’ talking
about this kind of woman
at the bar there that was
hassling me a little bit. You
know, I embellish the story
on stage.
“You know, it’s so
close to the truth that I’ve
come to believe it.”
Jelly Fish Triplet
Four Play: Wrestler Oaxaca
Stacy Tompkins
The act of creating is a necessity for me. The creative process is a way for me to connect directly with
the spiritual. I use rhythmic techniques such as weaving and sewing to bring myself into a trance-like
state. This space helps me stay centered within myself and entertain ideas I usually contain. The final
results are the physical bi-products of my contemplations.
This “life” can be attributed to my material choices. A mixture of textures and materials is essential
to this implication. Through the use of textiles and associated techniques, repetitive lines draw the eyes
around the objects. The soft textures infuse the work with gentleness and call the viewer to touch. My
passion for botany and nature drives me to include dried specimens and organic material. To look at
these materials evokes tranquility, a sense of waking in the cool morning air on a camping trip. Through
this cast of materials and ideas emerges a body of work, like myself, ever-evolving and hopefully everimproving.
My forms are based loosely on those found in nature. I study the plants and the rocks and envision
how these forms might change and transform with our ever-evolving planet. I draw the abstracted forms
to get a sense of scale and proportion. Then the work begins. The pieces evolve even as I work to
complete them. I become very excited watching the pieces grow and change as if they are deciding how
they are to be constructed. The completed forms evolve even from their initial conception.
The surfaces of my forms are skin and bark like, composed of many layers. A little of each layer is
left exposed as evidence of each stage of the creative process. The forms themselves are organic in shape.
I favor bulbous forms and enjoy tentacles, having them reach toward the viewer, giving the pieces a sense
of life. The structures take on the characteristic of being grown or birthed and seem to almost breathe.
Stacy Tompkins was born in Wichita Falls, Texas in 1981, and was raised in Electra and the surrounding
areas. Graduating Valedictorian from Harrold High School in 1999, she moved to Wichita Falls to pursue
a Bachelors of Fine Arts degree. She graduated cum laude in December of 2004 from MSU, and has since
pursued a professional career as a writer and an artist.
Suguru Hiraide
Suguru Hiraide has taught sculpture and
metals at MSU since 2003. Born in Nagano,
Japan, he initially attended business school rather
than become an architect like his father. After two
years, he moved to America to study art history and
discovered sculpture.
He received his BFA in Sculpture and Graphic
Design from West Virginia University and his MFA
in Sculpture from California State University,
Fullerton.
His work often has electronic or moving
mechanical parts and has strong Japanese cultural
influences.
Hiraide’s art frequently takes a “sarcastic or
critical point of view” towards Japanese culture.
“I love my country,” he said, “but there are things
I want to say about it — not the politics as much
as cultural criticism. The structures are my point of
view towards my own culture.
“Three of my recent sculptures are adaptations
of actual pachinko machines. Pachinko is the name
of the Japanese gambling game that is closely related
to American pinball and slot machines.
“The pachinko casino industry has been an
enormous influence on Japan’s commerce and
cultural identity. According to Nichiyukyo’s (Japan
Entertainment Organization) year 2002 survey,
there are 16,504 pachinko casinos, almost 20
million visitors, and total of $250 billion sales. That
calculates to an average of $12,500 spent per person
a year.”
Pachinko Highway, 7’4 H x 8’ W x 10’ D (2007)
Pa-Chinko
24” H x 16” W x 16” D (2006)
Fly High 3-D Version
24” H x 9” W x 12” D (2003)
Aeon Kid, 85” H x 38” W x 49” D (2002)
Cathy Drennan
The patterns and colors of the world’s diverse cultures – seen since childhood through extensive
world travel – have demonstrably influenced Cathy Drennan’s life and her art. Born in Abilene, Texas, she
was five when her father joined the Foreign Service and they moved to Lebanon. She also lived with her
family in Mexico, Iran and the Philippines, and visited them as an adult in such exotic places as Cyprus,
Brazil, and Iceland. Experiencing great art in museums in Europe and other countries made a profound
impression on her creative spirit.
Drennan majored in Fine Art at Abilene Christian University. She then concentrated on commercial
art and photography, receiving a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Graphic Communication from the University of
Texas in Arlington. Following a career path as a graphic designer, yet continuing to paint at home, Drennan
lived many years in Washington, D.C. and Virginia, where her work was exhibited in various venues. Since
moving to Wichita Falls in 2006 – where her husband Cohn Drennan is Director of the Wichita Falls Museum
of Art at Midwestern State University – she has found more time to concentrate on her painting.
“As I paint, I find that my memories form an important part of my work, as do food, smell, and color.
I believe they can bring a painting to life not only for me but for the viewer. Finding the right combination
creates an emotional interest and is perhaps the reason we decide a certain piece of art is the one we want to
possess,” she explains.
Her earlier paintings dealt with pattern as well as symbolic images from her past or dream images
that haunted her. However, fabric designs have influenced her more recent work, and she continues to
explore pattern and its relationship with texture. Drennan primarily works in acrylics and enjoys its fast
drying properties.
“Now I am interested in including texture and texture-as-pattern, while also bringing into play
representational imagery of importance,” she explains. “I like to consider the juxtaposition of tight graphic
patterns and loose abstract expressionist imagery - a relationship that can be very appealing as well.”
Drennan is a member of the Wichita Falls Art Association. She has exhibited her work at WFMA’s
annual show, at the Gallerie Pavilion, MSU’s Fain Fine Arts Gallery, and the Wichita Falls Country Club.
Contact her at [email protected].
Eternal Well Being
Silk Road
“My last series of work – Place of Emergence was inspired by symbols and patterns from Iran to
Japan – The Silk Road. My work explores texture and pattern while incorporating objects and symbols
that have similar meaning in different cultures. Each piece was primarily painted in acrylic, incorporating
middle-eastern block prints, Japanese handmade paper, and gold leaf.
“I paint to bring back a tangible response to my memories and to share them with others a dialogue
with paint instead of prose. My next series – Places of Existence – is to explore the process of painting
and continue to create images that are visually stimulating, that will draw an emotional response from the
audience. The series includes ideas, symbols and objects from places I have lived and where life exists.
Each painting leads me to the next – each icon leads me from my world to another cultural
reference.”
Sun Vessel
Jim Henson
I enjoy working with images and text to explore
how we construct our experiences into communication and meaning. I have broadly titled my current
work Mythos – a provisional framework for exploring the unconscious desires that compel humans to
be signifying animals.
MYTHOS
“Dreams and myths are constellations of archetypal
images. They are not free compositions by an artist
who plans them for artistic or informational effects.
Dreams and myths happen to human beings. The
archetype speaks through us. It is a presence and a
possibility of significance. The ancients called them
gods and goddesses.” -- Carl Jung
Convenient Lies We Live By
My work explores visual metaphors that allude to
our universal journey to construct identity, purpose,
origin, and meaning. Great minds continue to inspire
explanations of the mysteries of the cosmos, but not
without cycles of harmony and discord, and resolution
and conflict. Mythology, science, religion, and the
humanities/arts offer considerable corroborating
artifacts that I unabashedly appropriate and “remix”
in my work.
Consider the theories of human origin. From the
“Big Bang” cosmic explosion to evolution narratives
of our ancestors’ emergence from the seas, most
creation myths begin with man evolving, or being
spontaneously spawned, from some primordial
cosmic “soup.” And we call ourselves persons
from the Latin persona which is derived from the
term “mask.” All are mythical constructs. Our
myths provide “convenient lies” that further mask
our “significance” as we dream and imagine what
lies within and beyond us. Yet, underneath it all, a
common fabric weaves our imaginations together.
I exploit these allusions and repurpose them as the
mortar which binds my collective archetypal inner
voices.
Nike I: Neon Dream, Digital Graphic, 12” x 16”
Richard Carter
“all you need . . . is a rock star and a camera”
Sometime in the mid 60s, French auteur Jean Luc Godard famously said “All you need for a movie
is a gun and a girl.”
I didn’t know about Godard until the mid 80s. What I did know growing up was music and concerts
and thinking how cool it would be to take some pictures.
I put a black body Olympus OM-1 in layaway at Metro Photo and rented zoom lenses for shows in
Dallas, Fort Worth and Norman.
I learned by taking some awful images from great locations at a lot of legendary shows. I paid less
than 10 bucks to see Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors tour (on the front row — no reserved seating).
Stevie Nicks sure looked a lot better then.
I met David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen during their first tour in a Disc Records in Dallas. Their
first album was amazing — the first four songs anyhow. Who knew they would stick around?
I didn’t know exactly what I was doing with a camera except having some fun. Some of these slides
and negatives are testament to good times.
Godard once wrote, “Cinema is the most beautiful fraud in the world.” The same could be said of 70s
and 80s music. The difference being Godard’s films have aged better.
Eddie van Halen, April 14, 1978, Valley View Disc Records.
(Two months after release of first Van Halen album.)
Stevie Nicks, May 18th, 1977, Fair Grounds Arena, Oklahoma City Fleetwood Mac Rumors tour.
David Lee Roth, April 14, 1978, Will Rogers Auditorium, Fort Worth.
Linda Ronstadt, November 19th, 1977, Lloyd Noble Center, Norman, Oklahoma.
Hershel Self
The Scene
Patrick (Bono) Fleming, Mysterious Ways, Iron Horse Pub 2008.
Patrick Street of Corithea.
Daniel Brito of John Henry Vs The Machine.
Rusty Holcomb of Lycergus.
Richie Bates
Ali Holder
Thrity-yard Dash
Put on my new shoes
Laced them up
Tied ‘em real tight
Used a double knot
One last stretch
Then to my mark, get set, go
But I couldn’t run
I couldn’t run as fast as he could
Said with pride
Give me one more shot
But this time let’s
Make it ‘round the block
Took a deep breath
And when the gun went off I tried
But I couldn’t run
I couldn’t run as fast as he could
Used to asked for a race
Every chance I got
But maybe it’s time
That the running stop
Last time I got a pretty good start
It was close
But I’ll never run
I’ll never run as fast as he could
Trapeze
you’re a trapeze
so low down and easy
and so hard to please
you fly through the air at the fastest of speeds
you’re a trapeze
i am tired of proving points
and i am tired of mending joints
that never wanted to be fixed anyways
and i am tired of hanging around the bleachers
waiting for you to fall
or waiting for you to fade
your reflection gets harder
each time you look for some tragic answer
in your vanity mirror backstage
sparkly and shiny
bounces off the crowd of everybody that loves you
in vain
or waiting for you to change
blue to green to black to white
switch the gels in the spotlight
just to make you look this way
resin the bar and tighten the night
oh just for what so i can catch you again
waiting on you
Abbey Laine
Paul Shults
When I Fix Her Car
When I first met you your car was broke down
On the side of the highway bout six miles from town
So I crawled down under that automobile
It needed new u-joints and a transmission seal
I bought the Haynes manual and looked like a fool
And I picked up a creeper from Harbor Freight Tools
When I got it running, it lit up your life
You said that you loved me, so I made you my wife
My lady she loves me when I fix her car
But it’s always something and it never gets far
She can’t hardly stand when I go to the bars
But my lady she loves me when I fix her car
Then it was tie rods and distributor caps
But I was hungover and went in for a nap
I woke up jaw busted by your rolling pin
And I said you’re leaving when this car runs again
Your coat hanger rose up my back full of welts
Til I finally changed out your serpentine belt
Then a ball joint and then a beer joint I just stopped in for one
Now I’m peppered with rock salt from your pawnshop shot gun
Well, my baby she loves me when I fix her car
But it’s always something and it never gets far
She can’t hardly stand when I go to the bars
But my lady she loves me when I fix her car
At night now I sleep with my teeth in a jar
Cause she only loves me when I fix her car
Fire Back
You would use every recycled line
You’ve used before
If you thought it’d get you through my door
We’ve been here before
You’re not getting
Answers to roll off my tongue
That you are so hungry for
You paint a pretty picture, don’t you boy?
While I play it safe
And I don’t ever let myself go
I find it’s easier to be alone
Than fight off the bullets that you throw
But I’ll get my musket out and I’ll finally attack
And you won’t know what’s hit you when I...
Fire back
Surely you know I watch you from the outside
The way you move
To the curve of your spine
Straight to your hips
I can’t stop staring at your lips
And we’re passing glances every single night
I find it’s easier to be alone
Than fight off the bullets that you throw
But I’ll get my musket out and I’ll finally attack
And you won’t know what’s hit you when I...
Fire back
You won’t know what hit you when I...
I...
Fire back
Photographs of singer/songwriters by R Carter, WFLAR Inaugural Reception, Hamilton Ballroom, Wichita Falls, August 2008.
Jason Byas
The Hamilton Brothers: Saving the
Empire, One Film at a Time
Long before the Hamilton brothers debuted “We’re not too proud of that one, but it did provide
Batman: The Dark Tomorrow to a sold-out crowd us with the initial idea, which eventually led
at the Carmike Sikes 10 Theatre, Matt, Scott and towards the development of The Dark Tomorrow.”
David had set their dreams in motion with little
more than the family’s hand-held video camera,
several ideas and a few willing friends.
Given their natural inclination for comedic
improvisation and passion for film, the brothers
picking up a camera was almost inevitable. Now,
they handle almost every aspect of their independent
projects.
“When I was about five years old,” Scott said,
“David, Matt and I would have our dad film us while
we reenacted scenes from some of our favorite
films.” Most of those reenactments were from their
love of the super hero genre, which ultimately led
to them doing a Batman film in early 2005.
“Several summers ago, Matt and his friend,
Thomas Parker, got together and came up with the
concept behind our first Batman film,” Scott said.
Enlisting a small army of aspiring actors and
crew, the Hamilton’s began the 50-minute video
project in the summer of 2007. While filming
proved to be a challenge for the brothers who
lived five hours apart, they wrapped the following
summer in time for a screening in Wichita Falls,
the Thursday night before the $180 million The
Dark Knight premiered.
Shot on a budget of less than $1,000, the film
mixes a variety of camera angles and nighttime
downtown Wichita Falls atmosphere. The brothers
also brought together a gang of thugs, a SWAT
team, Batman, the Joker, the Channel 6 news team,
a newspaper reporter and some stylized – as well as
realistic – shootouts and action sequences.
Following the sold-out Batman premier,
the Hamilton’s began work on their newest film,
“Wild in the Streets.” Returning to their satirical
roots, the comedy displays the brothers’ ability
to fuse hilariously, awkward situations with witty
dialogue.
The film revolves around a kid named Hastings
(Scott) who moves to California to rollerblade but is
quickly confronted by a rival skate gang threatened
by his presence. Inspired by classic eighties flicks
like Thrashin and Airborne, and the pre-country,
spandex wearing, fist-pumping sounds of Bon Jovi,
the Hamilton’s latest project pays tribute to some of
the decades finest - if often overlooked - works.
So, if you still haven’t seen any of the films
the Hamilton’s have produced, go to the www.
savetheempirevideos.com” website to watch
Batman: The Dark Tomorrow along with humorous
outtakes and other videos.
A native of Wichita Falls, Jason Byas attended Rider and earned a BA in English from MSU. He
is currently working on a Masters in English.
In high school, he began playing drums with STS (Seven Times Seven) and more recently with
Radio Cowboys and Slab Rat.
He also runs sound for public and private music functions and worked at an area music store for
eight years.
Billie Hall
The Music Man
It’s not everyone who is endowed at birth with The group played so well together at church that it
the name of a famous president, as well as having began playing for area dances, both pop and countrytremendous musical talent and entertainment skills western.
– but such is Bill Clinton Gordon. He is best known Bill had told me about his dad’s interesting
to seniors in Wichita Falls and surrounding areas as background in music and that he had played with
“The Music Man.”
this group which later became famous, but still it was
His popularity among seniors in the North Texas interesting to read it from his dad’s two handwritten
area is due to the rhythmic music that flows from pages.
his small band for dancing, mainly country-western. Frank tells about his friend who loved to preach
But he is also a lover of the
the gospel, so he rented a
big band era and excels in
small building on Lee Street,
those great musical renditions
located in north Wichita,
of bygone days. He sings
and held church services
with a deep-throated voice
on Wednesday nights and
similar in eloquence to that of
Sundays. He needed some
Billy Ekstein.
kind of accompaniment,
Bill has a rich heritage
such as a guitar, so Frank
of musical talent. He was
volunteered. A few days
born into music and grew up
later, he states, mother Gibbs,
around it since his dad had
Leon, Sam and Nathaniel
played as far back as he can
began coming to church. So
remember. Bill remembers
now they had Leon on the
musicians having jam sessions
fiddle, Sam on the guitar, and
at their house frequently, and
Nathaniel on the bass fiddle.
listening to him tell about it,
Frank changed from playing
takes me back to “the good
guitar to tenor banjo.
old days,” you know, back
They decided they sounded
when everyone kept all their
pretty good, so they got
windows open in the summer,
together and decided to form
and most people never even
a dance band. Leon knew
locked their doors – kind of
a boy named Lee Cockran,
Photo
by
E
B
Hawley
like the song, “Summertime,
who played trumpet for the
and the Livin’ is Easy.”
Coyote Marching Band. He
Actually,
it was during WWII, and Bill joined them, making a five-piece band that included
remembers people walking slowly past his house, fiddle, guitar, tenor banjo, bass fiddle, and trumpet.
stopping to listen to the rich and vibrant music They each purchased a light blue jacket and named
resonating from fiddles, guitars, banjos and trumpets, the band Frank Gordon and his Blue Jackets.
as Frank Gordon, Bill’s dad, and his musician buddies This was about the time that beer joints with
played their hearts out into the late evenings.
dancing spaces, known as honkytonks, originated.
Some people might have been around long They started playing two to three times a week with
enough to remember Bill’s dad, Frank Gordon, who overflow crowds attending. However, Frank worked
played back in the early 30s and 40s. He started in the foundry by day and played in the honkytonks at
playing with a group of men here in Wichita Falls night until the many hours began to affect his health.
in 1936 when they met and performed at church. It So in 1938, he quit playing with the band. After he
was the Gibbs family, Leon, Sam, and Nathaniel. left, it was renamed the Miller Brothers Band.
Of course, most people know that the Miller
Brothers went on to become famous. And so, folks,
this is how the old M-B Coral got its name – just a
little bit of history here that I believe old-timers like
me will find interesting. But I also believe that our
up-coming new generations will relish these links to
the past; at least I envision that they will.
You know, the Miller Brothers became the
number three Western Swing Band in the nation
during the 1950s, and you may have been one of
the many lucky people who got to be there at the
M-B Coral during those high-spirited times of
entertainment to enjoy dancing or just listening to
the live music of some of the famous people who
performed there, including Elvis Presley, Fats
Domino, Bob Wills, T Texas Tyler, Hank Thompson,
Gordon Kilgore, Ike and Tina Turner, Perez Perado,
Willie Nelson, Conway Twitty, Diana Ross, Trini
Lopez, Merle Haggard, Ray Price, Lefty Frizzel,
Gene Autry, Tex Ritter, and the list goes on and on!
During the war, there was a shortage of local
musicians, so Bill’s dad began to play again, this
time with Emory and Edna Kent. Edna played piano,
Emory played tenor sax, and his dad played both
rhythm guitar and sax. They also had a drummer,
Freddie Navarette. The nightclub was called
Danceland. It was advertised as having an open-air
dance floor, as part of the dancehall was outside.
During this time, Bill’s dad had the opportunity
to play with numerous musicians who had played
with big bands from Chicago, New York, and New
Jersey while they were soldiers stationed here at
Sheppard Field. After the War, demand for the
big band sounds dropped dramatically, and Frank
Gordon no longer played professionally; yet Bill
has continued his father’s tradition of expressing his
love of music for country-western and pop into his
own generation by playing and making a name for
himself as The Music Man.
Bill started out thirteen years ago playing guitar
and singing. His wife, Sharon, joined him chording
on the keyboard while he played guitar. They
entertained at various nursing homes and retirement
centers here and in area towns. It was something
they enjoyed doing, as it was an outlet for his music
while they maintained their own business, Custom
Wood Products. After Sharon’s death, he threw
himself into music full-time, and it became a viable,
productive way of life for him.
“It took my mind off my loss and helped me
survive. Eventually, I encountered other seniors
who had lost their mates, and they joined me in
entertaining at these centers and homes. The ladies
line danced while I played. A drummer and guitarist
later joined our group, and we all continue to find as
much joy as we give out to others.”
Bill’s music is not limited to senior centers
and homes; he plays at many senior events, such
as MPEC’s 55 Advantage program, fundraisers for
Meals on Wheels, and for dances at the Senior Zone.
He has also performed at the Elks Club, Wichita
Club, American Legions, VFW Halls, wedding
parties, private parties, and churches.
Though never hitting the “top ten” list of bands
or appearing on American Idol, Bill Gordon’s music
has entertained people in Wichita Falls for more than
ten years. Bill has endeared himself to the many
senior groups here and has strummed, chorded, and
vocalized his way into the hearts of many in all of
North Texas.
Bill’s one-man band increased in size and
popularity when a drummer and guitarist joined him
– and oh, those dancing girls! A group of seniors who
are still mobile – and striving to stay that way – are
line dancing and having a great time; they add a new
dimension to his entertainment at the nursing homes.
Some of the residents join in the fun with dancing,
tapping toes to the music, or just reminiscing.
Bill, a comedian as well as a musician, loves to
flash his business cards, covering up his last name,
leaving Bill Clinton staring back at you. This was
the way we met at the Zone (though I was already
supposed to know him). His humorous personality
is entertaining, with or without his band.
Bill and I both went to high school in Wichita
Falls; however, I never knew him until I went to the
Senior Zone. He yelled out to me as I approached
the door. I had no idea who he was, and he has
never let me forget it. But, after all, when we were
in high school, he was only a sophomore and I was a
senior.
Though I didn’t remember him when we were
back in school, he will be well remembered by
the folks in Wichita Falls and area towns for the
entertainment and friendship that he unstintingly
offers.
Richard Carter
Interview with Amelie Nothomb
The youngest daughter of a Belgian diplomat,
novelist Amelie Nothomb was born in Japan and
has lived a colorful life growing up in Peking, New
York City, Bangladesh, Burma and Laos.
She attended college in Brussels, took her
first (disastrous) job in Tokyo and has since settled
in Paris. She’s published eighteen novels, been
translated into over thirty languages (ten books in
English) and has won numerous literary awards.
Nothomb is considered the bad girl of French
Literature with novels that imaginatively engage
the art of growing up along with hunger, warfare,
philosophy and the best and worst qualities of some
terribly interesting characters.
I first discovered her Loving Sabotage — a
novel that re-tells her epic adventures in Maoist
Peking from ages five to eight. She and other
diplomats’ children literally rage war against East
German kids on the ugly concrete tenements. She
also falls in love for the first time with an angelic
looking girl who happens to be miserably evil.
Over the course of Nothomb’s other
autobiographic novels, she recounts her life as
a deity in Japan, her deteriorating relationship in
Tokyo with her boss Fabuki, her fascination with
ballet and the way hunger has defined her —
literally as anorexic and philosophically as author.
There are also her somewhat less autobiographic
books about awful neighbors, burning books to stay
warm, reality television and consuming schoolgirl
jealousies.
Nothomb is the one novelist whose short
works I can read ten times or more and still find
new insights and different ways of laughing at the
world and myself.
To have the luxury of interviewing the wily
redhead one morning in Paris in late 2004 was one
of the few reasons I continue to write.
they are still very important authors to me. But, I
also read current novels, classic novels. For me,
everything is important.
In my books you will find, as well, Greek
philosophy and references to normal life. I read
them when I was very young. They belong to my
life. It’s like my personal memories you know. Like
every writer, I write with my personal memories,
and Nietzsche is one of my personal memories, of
course. When I write, it appears.
Q. How do you bring your past life into your
books?
A.N. I do it so naturally. I don’t even have the
feeling that I invent anything. I just tell the things
how I feel them. And, for me it sounds totally
autobiographic. But of course, there’s no way to
verify if it’s all true. Because especially talking
about childhood, how can you know what you
remember is true or not?
Q. Describe your writing process.
A.N. I write a lot everyday. I wake up very early
in the morning, 3 or 4 o’clock. I dress very warmly,
because when I write I am very cold. My body is
very cold. I dress like a bear, and I drink a halfliter of awfully strong tea on an empty stomach.
Because it’s impossible for me to write when I’ve
already et (eaten).
I am allowed to eat only if I’m finished to
write.
Well, I swallow immediately my half-liter
of too strong tea and it makes my head explode.
Immediately I jump on the paper. Immediately I
begin to write in a huge excitement.
Interview December 2004
Q. You once wrote that “following puberty, all
existence is epilogue.” Do you still believe that?
A.N. For me it was very clear that the epic
moments in my life was childhood.
Of course, I have never been someone besides
myself. But when I became a teenager, I really
noticed that I lost something. That everything was
less important, less strong.
I don’t mean that childhood is happy. It’s not
always happy, sometimes it’s really awful. But at
least it’s a strong period in life.
And nowadays really, grownup life is so stupid.
There’s nothing to do when you’re a grownup—just
earning money and stupid things.
The only important things happened when
you were a child. And even as a teenager, it’s less
intense. Well, at least it was like that for me. Maybe
it’s not like that for the others.
Q. Characterize your own reading.
A.N. Oh, I read every kind of book. I read
Nietzsche and all the Greek and Latin authors and
Q. Does the tea thing come from your time in
Peking?
A.N. I realized very early on thanks to Asia that
it was possible to use tea as a drug, as addiction.
And of course the tea I drink is much stronger
than that one. But even normal light tea can have a
hallucinogenic effect, at least on me.
Q. Your books can be read a number of different
ways. Is that intended?
A.N. I think that the reason my works are so
successful is that it’s possible to read them like
love stories, like philosophical books, like mystic
novels, like comic stories and everything is right.
Q. Do your work appeal to a certain typical
kind of reader?
A.N. When I write I cannot even imagine that
I will be read by even one person. But when I see
all the people reading me, writing me letters and
meeting me in the libraries, I am amazed, because
it’s really every kind of person: young people, old
people, intelligent people, stupid people, everybody.
So intellectual people or people who have never
read anything, it’s really amazing.
Q. You wrote in Loving Sabotage, that at the
age of seven, you thought literature was rotten .
When did you realize that isn’t always so.
A.N. It was the school project of writing the
story (in “Loving Sabotage”). And, I thought my
story was the most beautiful: the story of the
naked princess in the snow. The story who won the
contest was that stupid story about the African boy
building a hospital for his village.
I was so disappointed. Was that literature?
Well, you can guess finally that I realized in
literature it was also possible to be a bad girl, so
finally I am a writer.
Q. Do you know if Fabuki in Fear and
Trembling ever read your novel?
A.N. I hope she didn’t read it, but I am very
afraid she did. I don’t want to know, because if
she reads it, she will be very angry and I still feel
like a little Japanese employee, and I feel like this
book was a betrayal of the Japanese world. I am not
courageous enough to want to know her reaction.
Q. What’s the difference between green
chocolate from Japan and white Belgian
chocolate?
A.N. Oh, it’s very different. The green chocolate
has a melon taste. It’s very strange but it’s not bad.
But white chocolate is well, I think, you know
I’m Belgian, so of course Belgian chocolate is the
best in the world. When you read my next novel
(The Character of Rain), you will understand the
importance of white chocolate.
Q. I am a huge fan of Queneau’s Zazie dans
le métro. Will there ever be an Amelie dans le
métro?
A.N. Oh, I would love that. It would be perfect
because I go a lot in the Métro. Other works by
Raymond Queneau are wonderful too. He’s a
wonderful writer, so Amelie dans le métro, it would
make sense. Certainly.
Q. Since you release one book a year and you
have many put away, how do you find the time to
rewrite?
A.N. I never rewrite. I write it like that at first.
That’s the way it comes, you know. I think I’m a
full human being, and I don’t want to write in only
one dimension. So, every dimension comes at the
same time and I just want to put all of them.
Richard dans le métro
Il y a seulement deux choses: c’est l’amour,
de toutes les facons, avec des jolies filles, et la
musique de la Nouvelle-Orleans ou de Duke
Ellington. Le reste devrait disparaitre, car le reste
est laid…. (Vian 1946)*
The love child of jazz Zazous, an alto
saxophonist and a blonde-haired poet from the Pam
Pam café on the Champs-Elysèes, Richard Carter
was adopted and hastened far away from the world
of espresso, bebop and Gaulouises.
Landing in America as a baby, it was the
gypsy swing guitar of Django Reinhardt and
Charlie Parker’s bebop, which he heard in chi chi
supermarkets that stopped his tears.
Raised unaware of his cafe heritage, it wasn’t
long before he started falling in love with semi-hep
girls who wore bright red lipstick and sunglasses.
Pleated skirts with fishnet stockings were a plus.
The language of Queneau, Zazie and Vian
introduced him to his heritage. Moving to Paris, he
read all the cool cats and appreciated the decadent
art, literature and architecture.
But the jazz was gone, so he came back
desperate to discover its wellsprings in the margins.
Despite a stack of beloved old scratchy records,
he eventually realized the once brilliant American
music had given way to elevator tunesmiths.
Now Carter eeks out a living writing stuff –
trying to figure out how and where the great music
devolved into “ze” bad faith.
* “There are only two things: love in all its forms with
Downtown Pool Hall, Richard Gaines
pretty girls and the music of New Orleans or Duke Ellington, it’s
the same. The rest should disappear, for the rest is ugly….”
Snow and Steel, Frances Knowles.
Poetry
James Hoggard
James Hoggard
DARK DRIFTING CLOUDS
A drift of clouds came darkly in today.
The heavy air was still, and though
no clouds were turning now, I stayed on point:
I’d seen tornados form, I’d seen
quick lightning strikes, I’d seen thick walls of rain
come down and even fly sideways,
the stinging drive of wind so hard I had
to wonder what things here would break:
big trees, home walls, electric lines, or what?
A wildness in the air can undo all.
FIRST FREEZE
There’ll be no talk tonight about the climate here
except to say that lightning, wind and thunder crasht
as hail and sleet and freezing rain struck here at once –
I’d never seen or heard them hit this place at once –
then fog formed suddenly as wind kicked up ten knots
and blew cars off the road, the road a sheet of ice
that avalanched when brittle limbs began to snap,
and thrills drilled into me as I ran fast across
the parking lot to get my car, the overpass
in view as tons of chaos slid toward low guardrails.
Alan Lee Birkelbach
Alan Lee Birkelbach
Ben Ficklin Flotsam
During a Cool, Late Night Drive on Wide-Open Highway 287
I need a house somewhere
on a high bank
of the South Concho,
higher even
than the stone remnants
of the Ben Ficklin Courthouse,
a house so high it takes
six seconds,
maybe more,
for the dopplered bawl
of any deluge-borne calf
to reach me,
and well out of range
of any errant
mossy mermaid
who might have been
displaced and
left behind
during any
unexpected Biblical
flood.
We reach for each other’s hand across the seat,
and talk, and dare to peer in the rearview mirrors,
looking back over our shoulder,
hoping to see our racing youth of an old Ford pickup:
the gaping maws of our omnivorous mouths,
two round eyes brightly staring,
white metal teeth
chewing up our roads
Sirena in Salado, Karla Morton
Old Ford Grill, Karla Morton
Steven Schroeder
David Breeden
triangle city
Why I Am Not an Inventor
Lost my sight in the time
it took to watch the sun
rise east of Austin
this morning
over lights lying
in the triangle
city New Orleans,
Dallas, San Antonio
form from the window
of a plane on the way
to Chicago, Austin
on the short side
of the city, Houston
on the long. I knew
it would come
when the spectrum
spread from
crescent moon
to horizon.
Suddenly
sun. Moon
and I turn.
Still, we
see it
Had it been up to me
There’d be no fire
But in accidents
Of lightening and heat
There’d be no wheels
Only the padding
Of feet in brush
Hell, I can’t even get
My new oven working
I resent my car, forget
The workings of my
Coffee maker often
Hell, had it been up
To me the glass
The steel patterns
Along Michigan Avenue
Would have remained
In the minds of gods
If that’s where
The ideal resides
(Which never by the way
Would I have asked)
I’m not saying I’m special
Just a bit content
Murder would not
Have got invented
Or bricks or kingdoms
Religion, war, or writing
Still we would be
Staring at running water
Not asking its source
Its course or use
Hell, had it been up to me
Not as some god
Pushing the button or not
Getting pissed and
Waxing people or not
But as a human
Hell, the status would
Still be quo—
Love and fruit-gathering
Only the padding
Of feet in brush
There would be nothing
Invented but love and
Caring and the padding
Of feet in brush
Not because I’m special
Just because
for a time,
eyes
closed.
Nathan Brown
Inara Cedrins
Questions in the Wind
I Still Travel Like a Comet
The fists of an Oklahoma wind
pummeled the backs of the gravestones.
But with her thick black ski coat
zipped up all around her, she refused
to give up helping me find
her great-grandparents’ names.
“It means those graves are new…”
Her eyes blow open in sudden understanding.
I hadn’t visited in twelve years…
the day we buried Grandma Brown.
Half way back to the car, I sense that she’s
slowed down behind me — “Dad?
Why are these rectangles so small?”
I turn, remain silent, watch the millions
And my ten-year-old daughter tells me
she’s never been in a graveyard before.
So, I asked — “Do you know
what the rectangles of fresh dirt mean?”
She pulls her eyebrows together
and says “Well?” not wanting to say “No.”
She stays closer to me until we find
who we’re looking for. She quietly reads
my face for the story it tells about the strange
cut between death and living on.
of little calculations in her gray eyes —
watch her grow three inches
as the answer moves
towards her mouth.
We rode in past the gaudy gods, found a room
with the row of coat hooks nailed up vertically, mirror askew
and reflecting a crookedly hung poster of a highway, so it felt
like we were still veering along. All the metal shop shutters
came down at 8 p.m., and we slept in two four-poster beds
with pink mosquito netting: at 4 a.m. the bell clanging
in summons to the huge plaster god, and the joyous music
of worship. You rose at dawn and came to sprawl beside me
like a Bengal tiger, shining undershirt capping limber arms,
big brown hands loose. Janakpur temple
like a mirage in the morning mist, huge wasps
settling like black check marks on mounds of white
sugar candy to be offered. Omelette made with freshly chopped
green chili, eaten with lemony pound cake, the good taste
stayed in my mouth a long time. At the first stop,
tea made with fresh ginger and milk. Before every bridge
a sign with its name and length in meters:
but that wasn’t what we wanted to know, rather
where the immense pothole would be locatead, and how big
the fissure at the metalled joints. We left it like a dream, Janakpur
with white bullocks pulling carts of sugarcane in the night.
Debra Davis
Roberta Sund
KII8
Encounter
In a deserted oil field, west of Wichita Falls,
Gear 75, dormant, surrounded by panhandle sand
stopped today.
Its pitch circle and black heart hollow,
not a sound
line of action…no movement.
Rhythms of turning, engaging tooth to tooth,
push, pull, force, motion…frozen,
silenced ka-thump, ping, chink, swish…
replaced with swirling dust,
quietly eroding 75’s identity.
Swift switch…a mechanical heartbeat halted.
As instructed, we open the unlocked door.
A blast of heat and the stench
of cat and rotting food
emanates from the darkened room
filled with mountains of clutter.
Alert cats peer at us from their various
perches.
From the dim gloom emerges
a smiling angel of a lady
with a soft halo of silver hair.
She is dressed in a sky blue velvet gown
that mirrors the blue of her twinkling eyes.
“Meals on Wheels,” we say.
“Thank you, dears,” she replies.
Stephanie Parsley
Sarah Percy
The Frog Girl’s Debut
Riding on Music
Her poem would start with a peppercorn frog,
a hot day, a cold stream, a slick-smooth rock.
What was the frog thinking? Perfect spot.
Or not. If she could hatch, swim, sprout
arms and legs, she’d truly know
the frog. But without words,
It leans forward in suspense on its flow of music,
listening intently,
an ocean of bronze on a floor of green
moving as one.
The melody foams and crashes against the concrete banks.
Sopranos trill, hanging on the ledger line.
The bass slowly climbs a minor scale crescendoing — growing.
how could she ever portray
frogness, rock, stream—
except to sing:
krr,
krr-eee,
krr-krr-eeeeee?
Pomegranate
My soul drifts on the steady currents of music.
It floats above on the high trills,
sinks in the depths of the lows,
rides on the swift currents of the breathless graces,
and swims in the long wholes.
rubicund paper pelt
delicately peal’t
packs
multiple purple pips
to pucker lips
Trebles whisper down on chromatic scales.
Bases thunder up a whole.
In a sudden beat the two collide.
A dissonance fills the void.
Bronze lightning crashes.
Hollow beats of thunders boom.
Sounds melt.
Notes blend
until there is perfect unison again.
Reed Chapman
Charles Elmore
Oh, It’s So Cold Out On Those Streets
Wars Are Like That
Looking from the heavens
On a starry night,
You can see young boys
Trembling from their fright.
Wandering around the streets
No bed to call their own,
These young boys must soon find
Some food, a life, a home.
You might think of them someday,
Cold out on the street,
The frosty air, creeping there
Oh it’s so cold out on those streets.
Icy winds swirling ‘bout,
Nowhere to lay a tired head,
Not a place in sight to rest a homeless child.
Once I killed a man, in the war;
He was only just a boy.
I dream about him often.
We sit and discuss the meaning of life.
But I still don’t know what it is.
Nor do I think does he.
I told him that I was sorry I killed him;
That I had no animosity toward him,
He said “Wars are like that
“Wars aren’t fought because of animosity anyway,
But for the glory of my bunch whipping your
bunch.
It’s all smiles at first.
“The animosity comes when some faceless folks
Start killing your friends;
That’s when the hatred starts.
“Wars are always started by people
Who don’t intend to fight in them.
Usually they’re just a bloody waste of time.”
I sure wish I’d known him —
That is, before I killed him.
I dream about him often.
Jim McGrath
Woodcarvings
Multi-taskin’.
It’s Nine Degrees and Fallin’. Each Time We Shoot, We Miss.
We’ve Been Here Three Days Now. It Don’t Get No Better Than This.
Jim McGrath began creating his numerous carvings after seeing an artisan in a Dallas mall about
thirty years ago. McGrath has a degree in Business Administration from Texas Christian College. He
operates a commercial concrete business, and in his spare time writes poetry and brings smiles through
messages of reflection and humor. He states, “There are three universal languages: music, math and
humor; it is a gift to be funny.” His exaggerated characters are the result of his witty interpretations of
real-life situations that he’s observed. McGrath showed some of his woodcarvings in the inaugural issue
of the WFLAR.
Photography of woodcarvings by Torin Halsey.
No Problem for a Real Good Taxidermist.
Prose
Ed Harvill
The Fear of Darkness
Fear of darkness is a terrible thing, especially to a
teenage boy. The conquering of this fear can be a
real milestone in a young man’s life, but failure to
overcome it can be a constant force of embarrassment
to him. Whether they realize it or not, most folks’
fear of the dark can be traced to some particular
experience that was especially frightening to them.
Such an experience happened to a friend of mine,
and the unusual way he overcame its result is a
story worth telling.
My friend – let’s call him Bob – was born
and raised in south Louisiana. His folks had seven
children, so when Bob’s dad built their outhouse, he
made it a “three-holer.” There was a large hole for
the grown-ups, a medium-sized hole for the teenagers, and a small hole for Bob and other younger
members of the family. Bob used to say that one of
his first real ambitions was to grow big enough to
graduate to the next larger-sized hole.
Like many privies in the bayou country, this
one was made of cypress wood. Now, cypress wood
is unusual in that it lasts longer if it is not painted.
I don’t know exactly why, but it has to do with the
wood being able to “breathe.”
It gets plenty dark at night down in those
cypress swamps, and a midnight meander to an
old unpainted outhouse can be a pretty spooky
experience. Take, for example, the night Bob and
his sister – let’s call her Genevieve – encountered
the snake. It was a summer night, and Bob had eaten
a little too much gumbo for supper. Along about
nine o’clock, he began to develop a mild case of
what might be called the “gumbo thumps.” By ten
o’clock, his case had become acute, so Bob rolled
out of bed, pulled on his boots, found his way to
the back door, and headed down the familiar path.
A full moon furnished enough light to guide him to
the privy, and by leaving the door open, he could
see well enough to do what he had to do.
Just as his business began to be of a serious
nature, Bob heard the back door slam. By leaning
forward a little, he could see someone with a
lantern coming down the path. It was his older
sister, Genevieve. At fifteen, Jenny was almost six
years older than Bob, but she was still afraid of the
dark. In fact, Jenny had always been a high-strung
filly, and it didn’t take much of anything to set her
off. When she got scared or angry, she could stir
up a racket that would make an alligator head for
deeper water, or a tree snake hunt a higher limb.
She was just about to stir up such a fuss, for right
in the middle of her path was a great big water
moccasin.
The snake had probably been close when Bob
passed. Now, he lay directly across the path, and
Jenny stepped on him before she even knew he was
there. The only thing that kept her from being bitten
was the lantern. The snake hit it when it struck, and
Jenny didn’t give it a chance to strike again. She
screamed, threw down the lantern, and made for
the house. Her screams woke up everyone in the
family, but by the time she got to the back door, she
was in such a dither that she couldn’t tell anyone
what had happened.
It wasn’t until her dad saw the flames that
he knew where to look for the trouble. Jenny’s
abandoned lantern had spilled kerosene all in front
of the privy, and the entire path was on fire. Just
beyond the flames, a very frightened little boy was
standing up on the seat. On the floor of the privy
was an equally frightened old cottonmouth. The
snake, retreating from the flames, had taken refuge
in the privy with Bob.
Talk about a bad situation! Bob could not be
rescued until the snake was moved. The snake could
not be moved until the fire was put out. And unless
the fire was put out soon, it stood a good chance
of spreading to the outhouse. It was all enough to
make a very lasting impression on a little boy.
Bob was rescued from his dilemma, but the
experience left him with a fear of darkness. Now,
a little boy can be forgiven this fear, but when he
becomes a teenager, he is supposed to “outgrow” it.
Bob did not.
At first, it didn’t bother him too much – this
being afraid of the dark. He thought it was a natural
feeling everyone had. He no longer went to the
privy after dark. He found excuses to come into
the house by sundown. When the family was out at
night, he always managed to stay close to one of his
folks.
By the time Bob was fourteen, he began to
realize he had a problem. Most of his friends were
beginning to hunt and fish, and some were camping
out overnight. All of them enjoyed staying out in
the barn ‘till it got so dark that the younger kids
would go to the house and leave them alone. Then
they’d tell scary stories about ghosts and skeletons
and rattling chains. All of this petrified Bob, and
although he tried very hard, he just could not enjoy
these activities.
Bob began to feel very self-conscious about his
fear. He found that it affected his attitude toward
others, and he spent more time alone. He simply
did not want to risk being found out that he was a
coward.
Bob’s fear was merely a problem until the fall
he turned sixteen; then it became a major dilemma.
He was passing the old Vamvoras place on his way
to school when someone called, “Hello.” The voice
was so sweet and melodious that he actually looked
up to see if it was the voice of an angel.
“Hello. I’m over here,” it came again, “by the
mailbox.”
When he finally saw her, he was sure it was the
voice of an angel. With long, brown hair, dimpled
cheeks, and soft, brown eyes, she was easily the
prettiest girl he had ever seen. When he finally found
his voice to speak to her, it turned out that she was
not an angel after all. Her name was Suzanne, and
her family had just moved down from Shreveport.
She was on her way to school, and if Bob didn’t
mind, she’d like to walk with him.
That morning brought new meaning to Bob’s
life. Finding Suzanne was, without question, the
grandest thing that had ever happened to him. And
the grandest part of it all was that Suzanne felt the
same way. She waited for him at the mailbox each
morning, sat with him in the cafeteria at lunch time,
and met him at his locker each afternoon for their
walk home. Bob met her parents and made a bit hit
with her dad by helping him repair a sagging gate.
They had Bob over for Sunday dinner, and Suzanne
was allowed to accompany Bob and his family on
an all-day trip to Lake Charles. Everything was
perfect except for one problem. On the several
occasions when Bob was invited to Suzanne’s for
the evening, he said no. He always made up some
excuse for not going, but the fact was, he just could
not handle walking home after dark. The old fear
was still there, and just as strong as ever.
Then, in November, lightning struck! Suzanne
would be sixteen the day after Thanksgiving. To
celebrate the occasion, her parents were giving her
a grand birthday party, complete with shrimp fry,
games, dancing, and moonlight hayride. Everyone
in their school was invited.
Bob panicked. No reason could be important
enough to miss Suzanne’s sixteenth birthday party.
What was he going to tell her? For that matter, how
could he ever face anyone again after they found
out his secret?
Although Bob hadn’t realized it, the series of
events that would solve his problem had already
been set in motion. His uncle Dave Boudreau had
died in October. He and Aunt Hattie had lived in
New Orleans for years, and Bob had never met
them. Bob’s father had been very serious the night
he called the family together.
“Since Aunt Hattie has no children or other
relatives,” he explained, “she has no place to go.
Your mother and I have invited her to come live
with us.”
He paused to give the children a moment to
reflect on what he had said.
“This will require the cooperation of everyone
in the family. You see, children, Aunt Hattie
Boudreau is blind.”
The days before Aunt Hattie’s arrival bustled
with activity. Furniture had to be re-arranged so
that walkways through the house were clear. There
could be nothing out where it might be stumbled
over. A special bedroom had to be prepared, and
all the children were coached as to how they might
make Aunt Hattie feel more comfortable and
secure.
One of the problems to be solved was how to
handle Aunt Hattie’s toilet needs. Obviously, she
could not find her own way to the outhouse, and
having someone escort her would be an invasion
of her privacy. The family decided that Aunt Hattie
would be furnished with a chamber pot. This was
a porcelain canister with a flared top and covered
by a removable lid. It was to be kept under her bed
for her convenience, and emptied, periodically, at
someone else’s convenience.
Everything was finally in place for the new
member of the family. Every possible arrangement
had been made, and yet, everyone wondered: What
would she be like? How should they act toward
her? Would they like her? And, more importantly,
would she like them?
Aunt Hattie arrived on the 22nd day of November,
and she was a true delight. Standing not quite five
feet tall, she wouldn’t have weighed a hundred
pounds if her apron was full of okra. She stood
straight as a string, and her pure white hair was done
up in a tight little bun on the back of her head. She
greeted everyone with a big hug and the sweetest
smile one can imagine.
There was no need for anyone to worry about
making Aunt Hattie feel at home. She was
completely relaxed and learned her way around the
house the first afternoon. When bedtime came, she
discretely asked Bob’s mom the way to the toilet.
Upon being told about the chamber
pot, she stiffened, and the smile left her
face for just an instant.
“I’m not accustomed to using the
‘thunder mug,’ but it will be fine until
another arrangement can be made,”
she said sweetly.
Bob wondered at school the next day
what “arrangement” Aunt Hattie had in
mind. He found out as soon as he got
home. As he rounded the corner of the
yard, he saw Aunt Hattie on the back
porch. She was alone. As he watched,
she reached for a small loop of rope
just above her head. It was attached to
a pulley which ran on a long wire. One
end of the wire was tied to a post on the back porch,
while the other end was attached to a new post set
about a hundred feet behind the house. Aunt Hattie
stepped carefully off the porch, walked confidently
down the path, following the wire straight to the
outhouse, and disappeared inside.
When she returned a few minutes later, Bob
asked if she wasn’t afraid to go out by herself like
that when she couldn’t see.
“No need to be afraid, Bobby,” she said. “I just
use what senses I have and trust the good Lord to
take care of the rest. The Lord hasn’t let me down
yet.”
About an hour after sundown, Suzanne heard a
knock at her door. When she answered, there stood
Bob.
“Just thought I’d come over to say ‘Hi’ and wish
you an early happy birthday,” he said, grinning.
Suzanne smiled, put her arms around his neck,
and gave him a big kiss. It was a fitting reward for
a young man who had just overcome his fear of the
dark.
She Captures My Soul, Vicki Powell.
James Tritt
Particular Movement
After carefully locking the door, negotiating the steps that lead down from the apartment’s front door,
she took five steps before it became clear something was wrong. She had left her phone inside. Going
back up the stairs, quickly, she went in and grabbed it off the kitchen counter. The cat tried to slip outside
through the open door. But she caught him with a foot and hooked him back behind her as she shut the
door and negotiated the steps again.
Now she made her way toward the street, thinking. There was something someone had said about
how you didn’t need to keep a day planner, if you were sharp. Was she sharp? Still, many times people
had given her day planners. Gifts. These organizers seemed to embody in a real, practical sense every
idea of inner integrity that rendered in the abstract. The day planners themselves contained a great deal
of complicated divisions within, yet they had found a way to manage this complexity so that all that was
inside was easily disclosed. At a glance. They were tabbed, subdivided, themed. They had a smooth,
shiny surface that was not pretentious but was warranted by the achievement that lay within. She did not
use them, but for the life of her she could not locate the reason. It was too bad, really, because she was
trying to get more organized.
“Hot enough for you today, Chrissie?” Cory Wilson said from behind his fence.
“Getting up there, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” Wilson said. His green gardening hat was just visible over the fence, as he moved about,
pruning things. The movement produced lazy shadows that poked through the fence and intersected with
her path.
When she reached the street there wasn’t much traffic. A truck still needed to pass before she could
cross. She paused, waiting.
There was no real list in mind, yet it was powerfully clear that some few essentials were needed. It
was difficult to retrieve names from a concept like “essentials.” She had read a book where the author
wanted to prove the idea of redness was real, a universal. In the book, the author had pointed to examples
of objects people know are red – apples, crayons – and said a person had the same experience of red when
presented with these different items. That part had always made sense. But what if you were asked to
begin with the idea of redness? Wouldn’t people disagree about which things were really red? She thought
color-blind people would.
She balanced on the curb edge while she waited, on just the soles of her feet. A little game she
had played since she was little. It was not easy. It required you to redistribute yourself, your weight,
constantly. The truck was about to pass now. It was moving very slowly: an old Chevy. It was hauling
gardening equipment, and there were three men in the cab. She lost her footing suddenly and slid off
the curb, landing standing straight up in the gutter as they passed. Although she was now only an arm’s
length from the cab, none of the men seemed to notice what happened. From the cab issued the voice of
an ecstatic radio announcer, speaking an indecipherable language. There was an attraction to it that kept
her listening intently as it faded with the passing of the truck. In a minute it was gone and she crossed the
street.
It was an interesting problem, anyway. The way everyone took it for granted but if you began with
the idea of redness then discovering its particulars became a kind of experiment; arbitrary. There would
be no way to know if you were right.
For instance, Sidney, her husband, had long been needing socks. That had been the concept.
“Have you seen the socks?” he’d say, burrowing into the dryer, spilling clothes onto the floor.
Inevitably he picked a pair of hers. A pair of thin black ribbed knit socks, which were too small – or a
pink and cyan plaid pattern. It didn’t matter.
“I’ll be back in about an hour!” he’d yell over his shoulder before going on a run.
Sometimes, she noticed, they returned from her mother’s house and Sidney would be wearing socks
she knew he had pilfered from her brother’s laundry. They were ankle socks, with a small black Spaulding
logo – athletic. When she teased him about it one time, he said he had had to change clothes after the cat
made an awkward leap off the coffee table.
“It knocked my glass over,” he explained. “It got grape juice all over me.”
They had both had to laugh. Still, she couldn’t help it—she had pressed him: Why hadn’t he taken his
own socks before they left?
He had shrugged. “I couldn’t find them,” he said.
Another time they had been invited to a barbeque at Wilson’s house. Sidney had been waiting in line
for chicken tikka masala when Janine Thompson’s daughter suddenly cried, “Think fast,” and the ensuing
volleyball gut-shot sent Sidney fully clothed into Wilson’s pool, Sidney absurdly actually thinking fast
enough to drop his plate and catch the pass. “Huh,” he went, his eyes X’s, and did a slow back-flop. As
Sidney hit water, Bill Thompson, who was on grill, flipped chicken onto some grease. There was a very
loud snap.
Later, after the clothes had dried, they got ready to leave.
“Thanks for finally coming, you two,” Wilson said, smiling. He made small talk with her as they
waited for Sidney to emerge from the bathroom. When he did, he was wearing the same knit polo, jeans
and moccasins he had been wearing when they arrived. But she noticed the socks were different. Sidney
had been wearing his default white tube socks that were reserved for informal events. Now he was
wearing a stylish argyle blend of navy blue, forest green, and magenta. These must be Wilson’s socks, she
thought.
As they stood in the doorway saying goodbyes, she glanced down at her husband’s feet and pretended
to notice the socks for the first time.
She said, “Sweetie, I think you left your socks.” An odd look passed over Sydney’s face then, and
Wilson laughed. “Those old things?” Wilson said. “Ripped half to pieces during his fall. I think they
caught on something sharp.”
He stepped forward, leaned against the frame, and affected an appraising look.
“Besides, they’re him.”
It had been awhile since she crossed the street. Ahead, the sun bruised the sky. She was maybe
one mile from the market. She had plenty of time. She walked calmly, heel to toe, thinking. A growing
certainty took form in her, and she made it her own. She could not allow herself to take responsibility for
Sidney’s needing socks. The socks had illumined the problem of the redness, like hazard lights. So she
could not move from essential ideas to particulars. She had needed to see the argyle socks at Wilson’s,
even the time Sidney came back from a run, to see his white tube socks, carelessly discarded, left on the
floor while he showered – to move from these particulars toward a universal. But reaching it would be
like trying to glimpse a curve in the horizon. It only existed in the mind of God, and so did the kind of
socks Sidney liked. She would always need to see Sydney’s socks first to know them; their quality was
closed to her. But this realization did not come to her as a shock. It calmed, as ripples cast by a stone
thrown in water smooth into the calm.
She had reached the crosswalk. She stopped, pushed the button. Across the street, a light flashed
WALK, and then a device began chirping. Closing her eyes, she stepped into the intersection. Now she
was walking, guided by the chirping. It guided in the sense that it put her into the correct rhythm before
time ran out. But that wasn’t what the blind needed, was it? You could count by yourself.
Her foot tapped the curb and she stepped up, tripping. It was over; she opened her eyes. She stood on
the overpass. The sun sank behind the Bank of America across the street, casting bars of pink light which
fractured across the handrail and spanned lazily down the cement wall. Ahead was the market.
She began walking there, considering the problem of the market. Was there really one right way in?
The market took on the appearance of a giant artificial heart that had needed multiple bypasses long after
the first heart was gone. It was a pump. She realized her pants were vibrating. She answered the phone.
There was a pause. A man’s voice said, “Hello?”
“Yes?”
“Is there a Christina Gibbs in the house?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me when is a good time to reach her?”
She said, “When she gets back from the store.”
“OK, what time do you think that might be?”
Chrissy turned the cell phone over, looking for a clock, but the phone didn’t display one during a call.
She flipped it back over.
“In about an hour,” she said.
“Ma’am, my name is Joel Alvarado, and I’m calling with an important message from Fineline
Financial Systems for Mrs. Gibbs.”
“Yes.”
“Could you give her that message?”
“Yes,” she said. She hung up.
The sidewalk of the overpass became a walkway that bridged the intersection and connected
pedestrians directly to the courtyard abutting the east entrance to the market. She crossed it, came into
the courtyard, sat down at a cement table, tired. A car pulled up behind her, breaks squeaking. A door
slammed and a woman walked up to the row of machines flanking the doorway. The woman wore a faded
blue sweatshirt and grey sweatpants, and hefted a two-litre bottle that had been cut off at the top and filled
with coins. She brought it to a Coinstar machine, set the bottle on the ground. Then she began grabbing
coins from the bottle in handfuls and dumping them noisily into the feeder slot.
Chrissy watched the coins avalanche from the woman’s hands, the color of the pennies and nickels
and dimes all bled into a single, flickering hue. They were sorted and rerouted to their proper places by the
machine. She became aware that this was only possible since someone had, by some feat of engineering,
made the machine aware of the precise weight of every possible coin it could accept. Either this, or it
had been given their sizes. The machine had been taught the essences of the coins, and would separate
these and only these from the great influx of particulars it was even now taking into itself. It understood
coins.
The woman’s bottle was voided of coins now and she removed the receipt from the Coinstar. She took
the bottle with her and disappeared into the market.
Chrissy got up, too, and decided to head in. She had waited to see if the woman would go in, here,
and she had gone in. It was one of the right ways.
Inside, it was brightly pleasant in all ways. A dreamy fluorescence blanketed the neatly shelved items
and imbued them with a strange hyper-reality, as if they were not meant to be taken literally but were
only operating as concepts of themselves. An elderly lady working as a greeter said hello, meaning it.
Bryan Adams’ “(Everything I Do) I Do It for You” played on the intercom. The entire market was moving
to a rhythm, slow and steady, that seemed separate and even insulated from the world. As though, even
though the whole thing was built around and clearly devised for the convenience of those who entered
from without, it would dismiss any objection to the laws of motion that lay within, with no regrets. She
made her way toward the shopping carts, unsheathed one, and shifted her mind toward the problem of
those few essentials she had come to get.
The aisles fanning out before her were a matrix. They were numbered. They were categorized; each
aisle’s sign a set sharing a one-to-one correspondence to an unknown set of unlisted subcategories of
items. They were themed, but only the way a rainbow is first clear and then fades into opalescence. She
bumped up against a dis-connect, mentally, when she tried to match the market’s vision of arrangement
with what she imagined she wanted. The problem recounted what she had just seen in the example of all
those coins being digested, categorized, and ordered by the Coinstar machine. The question of how the
machine began with the assumption that all the particulars it was being fed by the sweat-shirted woman
matched those it had been taught about coins. And then, what if you began the other way around, as with
the problem of redness? She imagined the sweat-shirted woman lugging the same cut-off two-liter full
of coins, but this time with carefully weighed forgeries mixed in, some Canadian coins that had weights
indistinguishable from that of a penny, or a nickel. What was crucial about both scenarios was that they
began with the same essential touching-off point for the Coinstar machine. The concept of coins.
She had come in near the produce, and here, near the far eastern end of the market were the last aisles
in the sequence, aisles 12-15. Immediately ahead was aisle 11. The sign read:
“stationary
greeting cards
office supplies
pet supplies
kitchenware
toys
candy”
She had not made a list before leaving the house, she realized, and the aisle seemed serendipitous.
The stationary section contained two shelves of materials that made for excellent shopping list creating.
There were ring binders, spiral notebooks, yellow legal pads, Little Black Books, stacks of collegeruled lined paper. But on the lower shelf was a thick, subdivided and tabbed, card-stock booklet in aqua
imitation-leather binding, which had 2008 day organizer embossed in gold italics across the cover, and
she immediately took it. The booklet had its own miniature pen sewn into the binding, and the moment
became charged with all manner of strange relations that she only ever associated with specific, nostalgic
events from her childhood.
She was really ready now, for the first time. She had not begun a list, yet. The booklet was open to
the first page in the “notes” section, and her eyes roved among the aisles’ signs the way a match is struck
again and again before it flames. Here was the section of the aisle where the kitchen appliances were
kept. She passed them all. Now it was pretty much the end of the aisle but she paused when something
familiar caught her eye, just at the end of kitchenware. It was an Osterizer Juiceboy 1340, the same kind
she had gotten Sidney for his birthday last year. They had been standing in the smallish kitchen of their
studio apartment, four months married. Shredded newspaper, the wrapping paper, surrounded the box on
the countertop. A cheap box fan whirred in the window.
“Well!” he said, getting up from the opposite counter after leaning there for several beats, appearing
to have turned some problem over in his head. He kissed her. “Let’s see what she can do.”
“If you want to get the steak started, I can go pick up some stuff,” she said.
“All right,” he said, and he rummaged through a drawer for a pen. He handed one to her along with
the envelope of a power bill to write on.
“We’ll need radishes, for color, some spinach, ginger root, some apples, peaches or pears to cut
the edge off the spinach, maybe some tomatoes, or some grapes, and get about two five-pound bags of
carrots,” he said. “The rest needs to be offset by the carrots.”
“Ok, and you can get the steak started?” she said. She finished the list and pocketed it.
“If we have propane.”
When she returned Sidney was still out on the patio working on the grill. His blurred form moved
behind the sliding-glass door, behind blue smoke. She washed the vegetables, peeled fruit, and laid it
all out in a heap on the cutting board she had removed from the counter and placed across the stove.
She chopped a carrot, first bisecting it, then halving these to make quarters. She did not want to clog the
Juiceboy. Which, she noticed, Sidney had removed from the box and already assembled. Once the juice
was extracted, it needed to be put through the blender before the process was complete. Which, she saw,
was already 1/4 full with something the brownish-green-orange color of juiced juice.
She was tossing an armful of rinds, peels, and carrot ends into the trash when the patio door slammed
and Sidney came in to the kitchen. He set a large plate down on the counter, and gestured toward the three
large cutlets.
“Medium, well, or medium well?” he said.
“You know,” she said.
“Medium well it is,” he said, and began cutting up her steak into little chunks the way she liked it.
After they finished dinner they made the juice for dessert. They both sat cross-legged on the countertops,
holding big cups, as if enjoying an afterglow. She sipped the juice; it was delicious. And secretly, she was
surprised. She felt a great satisfaction that the birthday had gone over well – not just for Sidney, whose
friends had hinted to her at a number of parties that believe it or not Sidney had always wanted a juicer
to just make his own “Naked Juice,” which he loves but never gets it because it’s so expensive, so why
didn’t she go with that? She had known Sidney would like his present. She had not known she would like
it, too. That it would be a thing they shared, were open about.
“Boy, this is good,” she said. “I can see why you started without me.”
“What?”
“Started the juice before I got back.”
“Oh,” he said, nodded, then adjusted his seat on the countertop.
“I found some old fruit, some salad stuff. You can juice a lot of old stuff and it’s good, even if you
wouldn’t eat it.”
Afterward, Sidney even cleaned up the kitchen. They ate out of the same carton of bizarrely flavored
specialty ice cream. They watched movies until it was very late.
Later, when he slumped over asleep on the couch, she went into the kitchen. She lifted the lid off
the trash can to throw away the empty ice cream carton. Something just barely visible beneath rinds,
peels, and the huge, pithy brick of fibrous refuse that Sidney must have dumped out of the Juiceboy
while cleaning the kitchen caught her eye. She fished it out. It was an empty bottle of Naked Juice. Green
Machine.
She knew this bottle had sat half full in the fridge for several weeks. Sidney thought treats should be
rare, and savored. The juice had been old. She considered the problem of the juice, turned it over in her
mind and worked it like a Rubik’s cube. The juice was old, true, but was that what Sidney had meant when
he said the stuff he used was old? The implication had been, she thought, that Sidney had had to use the
Juiceboy to produce the juice she saw in the blender when she got back from the store. That something
had been juiced. Yet she clearly recalled the Juiceboy, fully assembled, had had that pristine look of
something just opened. When her eyes scoured the contents at the top of the trash, the search turned up no
vegetable or fruit material she hadn’t bought at the store that night. She wondered whether Sidney maybe
had just downed the Naked Juice in a fit of excitement while she was gone. Then, not wanting her to see
this as a lack of enthusiasm for the wonderful and considerate gift of the juicer, not to mention going out
of her way to buy the produce he wanted that night, he had assembled the Juiceboy and thrown in some
of the leftover salad and carrots that were in the fridge. But the implausibility of Sidney’s doing this and
still taking time to clean the machine with something like a retired man’s gusto for restoring old cars,
when they were just going to use it again that night, anyway, gnawed at a deep part of her. Doubts that
she did not want surfacing, in her heart, buoyed. The problem of the juice became the first antinomy she
quietly set her mind to resolve in those first wistful months of marriage. Just two weeks later, she hit upon
a solution the way a rich person has the convenience of returning to a hotel room they trashed, finding the
maid has vacuumed and replaced sheets and pulled it all taut, and not even needing to know her name.
The aisle had ended and she rounded the corner and came into the produce area. “Excuse me,” a man
said from behind her. She stepped out of the way, and the stocker heaved a dolly loaded with boxes of
watermelons. She watched him slowly maneuver the load to an island near the front of the section. More
stockers emerged from swinging doors and now lugubriously roved the circulatory system of the market,
replenishing the sleeping body. She wondered what time it was and headed toward the stocker to ask him
when her pants began vibrating. She answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hello, can I speak with Christine Gibbs, please?”
“Yes?”
“Is this Christine Gibbs?”
“Yes?” she said.
“Mrs. Gibbs, this is Grace with Fineline Financial services. How are you today?”
“Good, thank you.”
“Great,” said the woman. “Mrs. Gibbs, we’d like to make you a one-time offer to avoid further action
on your account if you can agree to-” she paused. “Eighty percent of the total paid in full by this time
tomorrow.”
“Wow,” Chrissy said. “What time is it?”
When the stocker first became aware that the subtle tectonic shifting that had been going on in the
load of watermelons on the way to the island had reached a critical mass, he did not think it was a problem
that his practiced, full-body tense could not counterbalance. But when it could not, even as his brain
was calculating the vectors of the watermelons and the physical space between him and the cell phoneengrossed woman and what in about two seconds would be vitally needed, his body became all sinew and
an arrow of movement. It arced up from his toes in terrible force up through his torso and out his fingers
as he literally pointed her out of the threatening avalanche of fruit and, finally, out his mouth in a low cry.
Impossibly he rolled himself out from under the danger zone, the woman tripping over a box as a melon
SCUD-missiled the cell phone from her grip. It flew into the minced garlic display and disintegrated.
Joy in the Wind, Vicki Powell
The stocker wasn’t hurt. When the woman just sort of did a 360 and, discovering where the east exit
was, wandered in that direction, he was not surprised. These things happened late at night at the market.
Nor was he upset at the woman’s response; it had been his fault. He got up, wincing. He picked up an
aqua booklet the woman had dropped. He could not tell if it belonged to her or the store; it had no price
tag. But he decided to take it to the customer service desk, in case she discovered it was missing.
Cynthia Sample
Chad’s Room
Chad’s empty bedroom would make the perfect master closet. His mother had to get back to her
job – and getting things in order had always stirred up her motivation. She saw such a closet in a magazine
sleek butternut-oak shelves, with little cubby holes for shoes and a glass-fronted cupboard for sweaters.
The closet company sent someone to count her clothes. They suggested categories divided by panels from
ceiling to floor; the top part was for blouses and the bottom for pants or skirts, with a special place for
business suits. She put her white clothes in one section and the blacks in another. Since this leave of absence,
she’d cut down on colors - changed her look, so to speak. She put together the ‘moving on’ clothes that she’d
deliberately collected in past months. But those still didn’t make up the majority of what she owned.
She did the best to organize her husband’s things, and asked him to help, but he mostly laid on the den
couch, flipping channels and sipping. He said the closet was a useless expense – lately he said nothing was
worth buying. Nothing, that is, except whiskey or back-to-back pay-per-view movies, despite that he’d
never had use for anything except the business channel; they’d had that in common. She tidied his clothes
best she could, bit her tongue.
When the wall units were finished, the closet-maker added a matching island in the center of the room –
right where Chad used to hunker down and play with multi-colored legos that matched his bedspread. The
island consisted of a 4 ½ by 8 foot counter on top of three sets of drawers on either side. Her husband didn’t
even bother to put his socks in the drawers, but she utilized all of her space: in one she tucked her underwear,
from which she carefully culled the ragged or provocative, and in another she arranged her jewelry. One
drawer held her workout clothes - though she couldn’t seem to get enough energy for that of late.
In the bottom drawers, she put mementos: a glass chalice that had been a favor at a college dance, her
high school diploma in a black plastic frame, love letters from her husband when he’d been in boot camp
her senior year. In a heavy linen envelope was the commendation he’d received for leadership. Her mother’s
handkerchiefs, a few she used herself on special occasions such as weddings or funerals, and a set of silver
plated spoons that her great-grandmother had collected from vacations. In the final drawer, the one nearest
the door, she placed Chad’s plastic army-men, and his little rusted cars, his burnt orange baseball cap with
the white longhorn stitched on the bill. There was also a math test of word problems he’d taken for Mrs.
Peminta’s 3rd grade class – with a huge red ‘A+ / ‘You’ve got a future!!!’ on it. Two yellow-stained batiste
rompers she’d embroidered for him, and his size six ragged bluejeans. The blue flannel shirt that matched
his eyes. The plaster imprint of his hand from Sunday School. She wrapped each of these items in acid-free
paper and determined not to paw through them for a long long time.
When all the pants were hung, all the blouses freshly pressed on padded hangers, all the black jackets
aligned like sentries facing her, she put her hands on her hips, and surveyed the result of her labors. She
should have been relieved. With a leather-shoed toe, she shut the memento drawer with Chad’s things. It
bounced open, then was still. The memory of his bunk-beds, with rumpled cowboy sheets, shimmered in
front of her, and the smell of him clung to this disinfected room.
“Honey,” she yelled toward the den. “Come look.”
He didn’t come until she’d called him three times, and then came up behind her, put his heavy palm
on her shoulder. The despised plaid robe fell open. He hadn’t showered in days. She leaned against him
anyway, and sighed.
Travel
Karl Kilinski II
Breaking Out of Papua New Guinea
Above, pictured from left to right, are a Totem Figure, Ancestor Board, Battle Shield, Mask Shield, and Ancestor
Board. Photo by Karl Kilinski II.
A discomfort slowly but assuredly crept over
me in reading an account about roving gangs of
lawless youths on the streets of Port Moresby, the
capital of Papua New Guinea. My fiancée and I
were lunching in a Chinese restaurant in Auckland,
on our way to Sydney, and from there, steadfastly
on to Papua New Guinea. The article blind-sided us
precisely at the junction in time and place where we
were about to leap from the cozy security of down
under civilization into the clutches of alien culture.
I had sprung the idea on her in summer, and here
we were in early December enjoying a part of the
world neither of us had traversed before. For me it
offered a particular allure of the exotic that, as an
archaeologist and cultural art historian, I yearned
to exaperience: a people and place in modern time
still largely unspoiled by industrialization. The
reality of experiencing a truly exotic land appealed
to my fiancée as well, although I suspect that the
less than assured certainty of the experience would
be perceived as a yardstick for somehow revealing
my true nature under inordinate circumstances.
Although the large island of New Guinea
due north of Australia was populated likely by
migrating peoples from Southeast Asia as much
as 50,000 years ago, the geographical obstacles of
the interior inhibited settlement of the highlands
until perhaps only 8000 BC. Extreme mountainous
terrain soaring to nearly 15,000 feet supports
an isolationist’s existence in expansive upland
valleys at least a mile high. Papua New Guinea,
comprising the eastern half of the island, caught
the attention of the outside world through early
Portuguese navigators in the sixteenth century;
one of whom, Don Jorge de Meneses, dubbed the
land “Papua,” a Malay word characterizing the
frizzled texture of Melanesian hair. Periodic trade
with coastal settlements was the norm until 1930
when a crew of Australian gold miners penetrated
the interior. There they encountered extensive
populations of tribal bands who had thought that
they were the only people on the planet. The whites
in their strange clothes were considered to be gods,
until some of the locals observed them squatting
in the bushes like ordinary folk. Fortuitously one
of the prospectors had a movie camera along and
recorded several tribal functions since of great
interest to anthropologists.
Over six hundred different languages, many
unrelated to each other, are spoken on the island, with
English understood by only the formally educated.
Despite a considerable population of American
missionaries entrenched across the land, large
segments of the population still adhere to ancestor
and spirit worship. Social order is structured along
kinship lines, which nurtures deeply ingrained
clannish perspectives. These clans regularly engage
in warfare with their neighbors, taking issue over
territory, pigs, and women, in that order; they
embrace a substantially egalitarian social system
based on acquired rather than inherited status. This
contributes significantly to their polemic nature.
Yet they are nearly indifferent, if not oblivious, to
the presence of outsiders. This was precisely the
desired ingredient in their character that attracted
me to these people and this enchanted land.
The gangs of unruly young men, known as
“rascals,” roaming the streets of Port Moresby had
accumulated through migrations from the hinterland
on the presumption of obtaining employment,
if not instant wealth, in the city. Stymied in their
efforts, many resorted to pillaging and rape as a
means of venting their frustrations. Our concern
over these brigands, however, was not sufficient to
dissuade us from our endeavor, and we took solace
in the knowledge that we had booked a connecting
flight on to Mount Hagen in the interior, thereby
bypassing a stopover in the capital. In my many
years of organizing and conducting educational
tours for interest groups venturing to exotic lands,
there have been several lessons reiterated along
the way. Preeminent among these is to expect the
unexpected.
We had arranged for a local ground operator
to assist us in our transfer from international to
domestic status in Port Moresby airport, but our
carefully contrived transition from one to the other
disintegrated when the flight out to Mount Hagen
was inexplicably canceled. The airport itself is a
rickety building with only rows of ceiling fans to
combat the tropical humidity. Beneath these lines
of whirling dervishes are other lines of perspiring
humanity attempting to comprehend and comply
with the bureaucratic juggernaut of forms required
for admission to a land where most inhabitants are
illiterate.
Resigned to our fate of an overnight stopover,
our attempt to avoid the city in favor of the jungle
had paradoxically landed us in the latter after all.
This became abundantly clear upon our arrival
at the hotel near the airport where our agent had
successfully arranged for our room. The facility
was surrounded by barbed wire and patrolled by
guards with clubs and dogs. Broken glass jutted
from the top of the wall surrounding the compound
and glinted in the fading light of the winter sun.
This setting ironically instilled in my fiancée some
false sense of general security as she proposed that
we taxi to an art gallery in town that she had read
about in a travel guide on our incoming flight. We
were both eager to collect authentic Oceanic art,
but with the prospect of decorated shrunken heads
in mind, namely ours, I was able to convince her
that we had ample opportunity to procure artifacts
up country.
A long night with little sleep brought forth
the dawn of a new day and with it a renewed
appreciation for our venture into the hinterland.
Successfully landing in Mount Hagen, I watched the
eternally lethargic process of off-loading luggage
to a hand-drawn cart that brought our belongings
to the concrete slab next to the dirt road recognized
by all locals as Baggage Claim. We were now
ready for our next hop. The pilot of our four-seater
aircraft greeted us with a typical Aussie smile and
lackadaisical charm. He was flying us up to Tari
in the mountains for our five-night stay at Ambua
Lodge. Upon hearing my spirited account of our
plight in Port Moresby, he assured us that Mount
Hagen was far worse and that we were fortunate
to have spent the night in the capital. So much for
my wizened plan to avoid mayhem, and such is the
reality of false knowledge.
From our seats in the single-engine aircraft we
feasted on spectacular views of the rugged terrain.
Razor-sharp peaks covered with dense green foliage
up to their crests pierced the sky while a canopy
of trees concealed the valleys and rivers peopled
by primitive tribesmen below. Periodically there
appeared a sliver of silver along the range, which
in closer proximity turned into majestic waterfalls
streaming down cliffs to rippling pools girded in
vines. Skirting along and around the peaks below
the clouds seemed to bring us closer to the heart
of the land. Our pilot filled the time by edifying us
on the peculiarities of the local tribes people that
inhabited the area around Tari, the Huli Wigmen.
Leaving adolescence behind, young men of this
clan enter a secluded camp apart from all women
for up to two years. During this period of familial
isolation and male bonding they grow enough hair
to fashion for themselves two elaborate wigs, one
for everyday use and another for special occasions.
Like older males, their faces are brilliantly and
completely painted with various combinations of
vivid red, yellow, and white ochre. They may sport
a trinket, generally an animal bone, through the
nose, and they are nearly nude in being sparsely
attired in front by a cloth that is called a lap-lap
and belted behind with what is caustically known
as ass grass. They carry a spear or bow and arrows
at all times. Firearms are rare, and the one that I
saw among tribesmen consisted of a converted
plumbing pipe. The women are more modestly
dressed, both in clothing and cosmetic adornment.
The men, unmistakably aligned with their gender
in nature, bear the plumage to attract their mates
and intimidate their competitors.
Gunnie Corbett accompanied by Huli Wigmen.
Photo by Karl Kilinski II
We were casually briefed by the veteran pilot about
the bellicose character of these tribes, of their
seemingly unorthodox manner of agreeing to war
upon each other in advance of any conflict. This
often included clearing an open space in the forest
upon which to fight and, in the event that someone
was killed, prior agreement as to compensation to
the bereaved parties involved. Later we would be
enlightened by our native guide about the isolated
and highly decorated tombs set atop walls along
the open road where warriors felled in such battles
were given singular burials. It was astonishing how
vivid the accounts of those fallen were perpetuated
in great detail over years simply through the means
of oral tradition. No sooner had our pilot explained
the forthright nature of tribal warfare than we found
ourselves circling over the grassy airstrip above
Tari unable to land due to the unblinking reality that
the locals were utilizing the clearing for an actual
combat zone. On hindsight one could imagine that
this was simply practical thinking on the part of the
combatants, but while it left us temporarily high
and dry in a precarious holding pattern with only
mountains all around, it simultaneously provided
a ringside seat from which to clearly yet safely
observe the entire fiasco below.
When this skirmish was over, the tribesmen
withdrew, and we landed on the battlefield relieved
that their feud had drawn to a timely end before
that of our fuel. Collecting our baggage through the
anticipated ordeal of a slow-motion scenario, we
were met by our local guide, Joseph, whose English
was substantial but whose habit of never distancing
himself from a machete left us a bit uneasy. Joseph
noted our concern and thought to put our minds at
rest by quickly pointing out that although he was
not from this part of the country, and therefore not
usually subject to harassment by local tribesmen
who might challenge (and were known to kill)
neighboring intruders onto their turf, he felt better
for us by keeping this tool by his side.
It wasn’t long before our car caught up with
the tribal warriors along the road. While we were
headed to our lodge, they were in relaxed form,
jubilant and grinning, and preparing to indulge with
their former combatants in a pig fest in a prepared
open field beside the road. Whatever had triggered
the animosity was apparently resolved, at least for
the moment, and the former adversaries followed
through with their preordained cessation of
hostilities that would now be officially recognized
by coming together and sharing a feast. I could not
help but wonder which group of peoples were more
civilized, the Huli Wigmen or the rest of the world?
This notion of predetermined compensation for
egregious acts against fellow men permeates this
exotic culture. Joseph nonchalantly commented
to us on one occasion how he had once become
drunk and had punched out his best friend. The
next morning, without giving it a second thought,
he appeared on his friend’s doorstep with a case of
beer, and all was well again.
Ambua Lodge is an oasis of modern
accommodations with all the amenities housed
within native-inspired architectural design. Sloping
down the hill with a view to the lush mountains and
valleys of the region are a cluster of peaked huts,
circular in overall plan, bearing thatch roofs. Within,
one is pleasantly surprised to find spacious quarters
with comfortable beds, large plate-glass windows,
clean bathrooms with hot and cold running water,
and full electric power with air-conditioning. The
huts are surrounded by well-kept gardens through
which, we later discovered, an aged sentry marks
the passage of time by guarding the property with
a double-barreled shotgun older and taller than he.
Once unpacked in our room we ventured to the
main lodge where we met the lodge manager, a
friendly and obliging chap from Australia. Later
in casual conversation at the bar he would relate
how his two immediate predecessors, both locals,
had been murdered – the outcome of those nasty
neighborhood disagreements that had become such
a nuisance in recent years! That is why, to keep the
peace, so he explained, the company had brought
him in from Australia.
We were somewhat amazed to find that we
were the only visitors being accommodated at
the lodge at this time, with the exception of two
crewmembers from the BBC. They had been on
assignment here for the past six months patiently
filming the nearly forty species of the Birds-ofParadise that Papua New Guinea is renowned for
among birders. Each morning they trekked into
the jungle before dawn bearing their cameras and
recording equipment, and each evening we joined
them at table over dinner while listening to their
engrossing recitations of the day, mesmerized like
the sultan before Scheherazade. Each species of
these extraordinary birds is diversified in colors,
song, plumage design, and the vibrant display of
it in calling to its own kind. Approaching these
wondrous creatures close enough to record them
as well as their antics and shrills on film was an
achievement in itself. However, one particular
account from their day left me with the firm
commitment to attempt my observations of these
finely feathered creatures from the ground. Upon
hoisting himself high into the canopy of an aging
tree, one photographer found himself nose to nose
with a tree boa, which had taken up residence in
the hollow of the jungle giant. If the photographer
seemed understandably agitated in reflecting on
the encounter, the snake must have been even more
non-plussed to find such large prey up a tree. The
serpent was apparently uninterested and perhaps
in hibernation, and each tree climber left the other
peacefully alone.
Near the end of our stay a bird of quite a different
species alighted on the lawn of Ambua Lodge. This
was a helicopter carrying a gritty array of Australian
gold miners out from a sixty-day rotation shift
deep within the Bismarck Mountains. While a
subsistence economy monopolized the endeavors of
the indigenous inhabitants, exploitation of mineral
resources, largely gold, silver, and copper, drew the
attention of outsiders. I had seen some film footage
of these mines in action. The machinery required
to move the ore and slag about was colossal in
scale. The trucks appeared to be Tonka Toys from
the age of the dinosaurs with wheels twenty feet
in diameter. The only means of bringing such
gargantuan equipment into these mountains was
piecemeal by helicopter, and so was the most
expeditious way of transporting the men who ran
them. These robust workmen were in a gregarious
mood, ready for liberty back home with wives and
sweethearts, and had endured no substantial outlet
for their bravado or paychecks for a solid two
months. They wasted little time in plowing into the
Ambua bar. Their foreman had the forethought to
extend his apologies to our table for his boisterous
crew, but we were more entertained than offended.
After all, we had sat in near seclusion for nights,
and the antics now performed by these men of the
earth presented a fascinating inversion to the tales
of those fine-feathered creatures fluttering about
the forest canopy.
Joseph served admirably as our guide and
interpreter on our individual outings from Ambua
Lodge over each day of our stay. With Joseph in the
lead we wound our way through jungle paths and
over man-made bridges of intertwined poles and
vines with swirling waters far below. His ability
to spot various species of exotic birds from great
distances was uncanny and much appreciated. On
these ventures we visited small clusters of native
huts where local tribes people went about their
daily chores, and, seemingly, completely compliant
when asked to have their pictures taken with or
without us in the image. Native handicrafts were
readily purchased right off their backs, and yet they
appeared to have little need for money. In the olden
days these mountain people traded homegrown
vegetables for Kina shells brought up from the
coast, and these broad and shinny, flat forms
became a kind of money worn on the body. Today,
pigs make up the measure of one’s wealth among
the Huli Wigmen; western currency is used largely
for acquiring hand tools to aid in farming. But there
were other signs of technological intrusion, one of
which forced an irrepressible smile across our faces
upon being confronted with it. A headman of one
small village was authentically attired in traditional
garb and paint but had obviously felt that wearing a
pair of lady’s bright pink sunglasses with one lens
missing somehow added to his stature. He escorted
us into the little court surrounded by his family’s
huts where we encountered a woman seated on
the ground and completely coated in white paint.
We were informed that she was in mourning and
so we refrained from reflexing to our cameras,
but in hindsight I doubt if she would have given
our action much thought. Huli women hold great
responsibility in their society in that they are the
keepers of a family’s wealth, namely pigs. This
fact and the endemic suspicion of women’s innate
powers by men in Huli culture long ago resulted in
the division of genders to separate huts, wherein
the pigs reside with the women. The woman in
white had been separated even from the women’s
quarters due to her widowed situation and by the
male belief that she was an especially potent figure
of taboo at this time. Magic and superstition go
hand-in-hand among the Huli Wigmen. Natural
deaths and crop failures are attributed to the malign
interference of ghosts and spirits, which require
appropriate propitiation through tribal rituals to
arrest further mischief. Belief in such phenomena
is so entrenched in the native psyche that people
sometimes inexplicably fall into a strange state of
mental delusion, violent behavior, and uncontrolled
body tremors, believed to be a form of possession.
Resuscitation from such conditions is generally
brought about through – what else? – a pig fest,
whereby all members of the community are reunited
in harmony. In the center of the court where the
woman in white sat was a small shrine containing
what on closer inspection proved to be a human
skull and bones – the remnants of a village ancestor
whose spirit was thought to oversee the cluster of
these huts, their inhabitants and their belongings.
How far removed we were from my parent’s
house where a portrait of great-grand-father Louis
dominated the study is subject to debate, but the
tangible remains of this departed soul in the midst
of his kinfolk brought the reality of fervent family
ties to the fore.
Not knowing to what extent potable alcoholic
beverages might be available in the Highlands of
Papua New Guinea, we had liberated the Duty Free
shop in Sydney airport of a few bottles of good
Australian wine. As is customary in such facilities,
these bottles were snuggly tucked away, each within
an expandable plastic net to keep the glass shards
from scattering should the bottles accidentally break
in the overhead bind during our flight. As it turned
out, the Ambua Lodge bar was mightily stocked,
at least until the out-bound gold miners landed at
the facility. But, as our personal contribution to
one dinner shared with the BBC crew, we brought
forth two bottles of wine still ensconced in their
plastic webbing. The meal over and reflections
of the day fully digested by all, we retired to our
respective rooms for the night. Come morning we
were all amused to find the white plastic netting
from our abandoned wine bottles now sported as
fanciful headgear by members of the local kitchen
crew. Their indoctrination into the tourist trade for
foreigners had not dispelled their fetish for alien
paraphernalia from the outside world in the same
vein that the village headman had taken a fancy to
the pink sunglasses.
Through our village outings and by raking
through the lodge gift shop, we had amassed
an impressive array of Oceanic artifacts. These
included masks, ancestor boards, carved idols and
statues, jewelry of sorts, and a few native weapons.
The self-imposed dilemma set before us was how
to pack all these things in order to carry them out
with us back to Australia and then home. Insight
into this matter and a critique of our acquisitions
was on its way. The last night of our stay brought
another couple to the lodge. They were from New
Jersey and he was a life-long admirer and collector
of Oceanic art. His wife was apparently along for the
ride, mildly disgruntled at his impulsive insistence
on uprooting from one locale to another every other
night throughout Australia before arriving at the
Ambua Lodge. They had not been forced to endure
the sights and sounds of colorful Port Moresby.
Here, so they informed us, they planned to spend
several days at Tari before continuing on to a fiveday cruise up the Sepik River in northern Papua
New Guinea.
Having sponged up so many fascinating
accounts during our rather isolated stay at the
lodge, we took relish in recounting them to the
couple before us at table. We related the episodes
that the manager had shared with us regarding
the demise of his predecessors, of our machetetoting guide and the elderly night watchman with
his blunderbuss. We offered animated recitals of
the war party that had occupied our landing strip
thinking that the anthropological instincts of our
dinner partner would be appreciably aroused. They
were: he became focused on our departing flight for
Port Moresby of the next morning and gradually
circumscribed his reason to leave the day after his
arrival around what he characterized as his wife’s
desire to spend more settled time in Australia.
This man had professed to be a long-time admirer
of Oceania. He had obviously, as had we, plotted
out this trip of a lifetime with great anticipation.
He had come halfway around the world to fulfill
that dream, and now he was contemplating doing
an about face and going back within hours of his
arrival. It is a fascinating concept that people will
bring themselves through the turmoil of physical
or mental hardship to the very threshold of
accomplishment before then deciding whether to
proceed or withdraw. It is as if they have created
the challenge outside of their normal lives to bring
themselves to an extreme point of confrontation
with human fear and then attempt to deal with it.
He had failed. Miraculously obtaining tickets on
our packed flight on the morrow, they stood with
us, obligingly carrying some portion of our art
trophies, on the verdant field waiting for the plane
to land. There was, in fact, an area intended for
passengers to congregate before a flight. But since
this was an open-air grassy plot of land adjacent to
the ticket office and surrounded by a picket fence
with a sign on the gate that read “Waiting Room,”
we didn’t bother.
Our international flight out of Port Moresby
to Sydney was scheduled to leave only forty-five
minutes after the scheduled arrival of our flight
from Tari into the capital. This sobering thought,
along with the knowledge that checked baggage
took an eternity to retrieve after arrivals, left me
with the conviction that our only hope of making
a sure connection in the capital was to take on
board all of our worldly possessions as hand carry.
Our dreaded thought was that we might miss our
international connection and be forced to suffer
another apprehensive night in Port Moresby. Once
the plane landed and disgorged its passengers,
we were first in line to board. With open seating
available we muscled our way to an exit row and
proceeded to stash our brown paper-wrapped
bundles against the emergency door after stuffing
what would fit in the narrow over-head binds on
the twenty-eight-seater Fokker aircraft. To my
great relief, while going against every experience
instilled in me from the western world, the flight
attendant obligingly ignored our heap of packages
covering the emergency exit. The New Jersey
couple sat across the aisle. It was clear that they
were not talking to each other. The man’s wife was
visibly disgusted, less so from the fact that they
were now leaving what they had traveled so far and
so long to see, but from the reality of once again
uprooting from a spot, any spot, where she had
planned to relax for some time.
As I anxiously waited for the propeller engines
to fire up an eternal sequence of seconds and then
minutes drifted away. I silently castigated myself
with the thought that planes do not leave on time
in the tropics anymore than they do in the civilized
world. Fifteen minutes behind schedule the plane
slowly turned into the wind in preparation for takeoff. To everyone’s surprise there was a knock at the
main cabin door at the back of the plane. The engines
sputtered and to my even greater surprise the flight
attendant got up from her seat to answer the knock.
With the door now open there stood a man with two
children, tickets in hand. The plane was completely
full but apparently the airlines had overbooked the
flight, and the obliging flight attendant proceeded to
scan the seats to see who might double up! “Expect
the unexpected,” I reminded myself. The man was
simply escorting the two kids to the plane. He was
not boarding. Somehow the two children faded
into the confines of the fuselage, and once again
we commenced our flight. We were now nearly
thirty minutes behind schedule, and I nudged my
fiancée with the resigned disposition of a man
condemned to hang at dawn. In my mind there was
no possibility of escaping yet another night in Port
Moresby. But she, reflecting on the kind attitude
exhibited by the flight attendant in allowing us to
occupy an escape hatch with our treasured artifacts
and in obliging the two children on their first flight
ever, urged me to relay our dilemma through the
flight attendant to the pilots. They could radio an
account of our situation to Port Moresby airport
and alert the Quantas flight of our imminent arrival,
albeit thirty minutes late.
Now the flight itself seemed to be in a
continuous state of slow motion, the mountains
drifting by the portals of the aircraft like icebergs
on a sluggish sea. When finally we entered our
approach to land, the muscles in my neck tightened
in the firm belief that we would not be in Sydney
this night. Even now I had still not reckoned with
myself to expect the unexpected. No sooner had the
wheels of the plane touched the ground than the
flight attendant bolted from her seat and urged us to
gather our belongings and stagger to the rear door
of the aircraft. One would be sharply chastised over
the address system on any commercial flight in the
West for even attempting to rise before the plane
had completely halted at the gate and the pilot had
switched off the buckle-up sign, but surely this
wasn’t Kansas anymore. As the plane grounded to a
halt the flight attendant let fly the rear door and the
unfolding steps on to the tarmac. Standing there like
St. Peter himself at the pearly gates was a Quantas
agent who expeditiously escorted us around other
aircraft and through a back entrance of the terminal
to the Quantas ticket counter. Our papers were all
in order, passports in hand, when the ticket agent
cheerfully looked up at us and casually stated
that due to our late check-in the airlines had been
forced to relinquish our Economy seats to stand-by
passengers . . . and then smilingly handed us two
Business Class boarding passes for the same flight.
If ever I felt that I might expect the unexpected, this
was not the time. With joy in our hearts and smiles
and handshakes all around, we clambered onto the
awaiting Quantas jet airliner and settled into our
comfy seats, still not fully realizing the extent of our
good fortune. The Quantas crew, as always, was in
a jocular mood and we bantered back and forth in
good humor as they served up chilled champagne
and good Australian wine. We would sleep well in
Sydney that night!
Floral Abstraction. “This painting is in oils. An exercise in creativity using mulitcolored backgrounds of turquoise, violet and yellow set on a grey field. The floral
impressions are of an abstraction color to enhance the image so as to strengthen
the overall painting.” Richard Dalton
Angela Bacon Kidwell
In the series, Traveling Dream, I attempt to
create a story and preserve a dream. My approach to my
work is similar to the way my subconscious generates
my dreams. As I move through my day, I am keenly
aware of my encounters with people, places and things.
I mentally record the details of these situations, and the
physical or emotional responses that they evoke. These
fleeting associations replay themselves in my dreams.
The random moments combine to form sleep stories
that are rich narratives, ripe with symbolism. With that
as my model, I construct sets, use props, and invite
myself and models to perform in a natural, intuitive
way. In essence, I attempt to create a waking dream.
For me, it is about being in the moment of a planned
vision. That is where I’m most connected to my creativity.
In 2008, Angela was among the top 50 photographers in Photolucidas, Critical Mass. Her
photographs have been selected for TPS Members Only Show, International Fine Art Photography
Exhibition 2008 and several juried exhibitions. Angela holds a BFA specialization in Painting with a
minor in Photography from MSU. She resides in Wichita Falls, Texas with her husband and son.
A Letter to An Editor in Winter
(written in stream of consciousness)
Biographical Notes
Dear Elizabeth,
Thanks for getting back in touch and believe it or not when i was young mom used to take us on trips
to the caribbean antigua the cayman islands guadeloupe puerto rico such vivid memories of really nice
kind soft spoken black men back then we used to call natives literally climbing the bend of
the trunks of the palms in the wind literally with just their cut-off blue jeans no body fat pure muscle and
machetes scaling up with simply there hands and feet getting to the top and hacking down coconuts then
piercing a hole in the bottom drinking out the coconut milk and splitting up the rest of the fruit on the stone
walk along the shore then doing wild back flips along the beach as they all fell madly in love pretty much
pathetically wrapped around the finger of my seductive teasing sister all asking me if i could hook them up
with her my mother not wanting me to go see a movie with
them
as they used to smoke great blunts of home grown mother earth and didn’t trust me on the back of theirmopeds to travel down dirty dusty roads into tumbledown ramshackle towns to see rocky just come outspending whole days simply reading paperback novels biographies on the beatles wonderful books like cane and
abel be jeffrey archer black boy by richard wright islands in the stream i still think one of hemingway’s most
engrossing and absorbing listening to newly unwrapped christmas presents
thoughtfully chosen by my mom the album hot rocks by the stones maybe synchronicity by the police
swimming to
the center of the bar where you could order virgin pina-coladas and cokes with lemon after
feeling totally dehydrated and cheeseburgers and fries and just show them your key and charge it to
your room where you subliminally heard the hush of the buzz of a murmur of lit-up cola machines like
some sort of comforting beacon mixing with the constant mellifluous assuaging cycle of the sleepy
sea spending all day digging deep holes and construction motes and sand castles and then the whole
blessed mediterannean suddenly magically materializing like a hard-earned miracle rushing gushing
in from beneath the sand euphoric and hysterical and then after a full day of perhaps looking bronzed
and handsome in your dad’s borrowed bone-white chinos sandals clattering seashell necklaces going
to those great buffets of rice and peas and cold conch stew and curried goat and son on with those self
same black men jamming on their cavernous kettle drums around the pool all lit up with multicolored
lights hearing the sea seep in flirting with girls of course having no idea what you were doing at such an early
age yet for some god-forsaken reason still feeling your heart palpitating in the half-crazed
Unexplainable days
of disco falling asleep with a deep suntan and sunburn beneath a sputtering ceiling fan with sand still
sprinkled in your ears like those great transcendent echoes you hear deep in the shimmering eteral lobesof
conch shells spic and span falling asleep dreaming to these ephemeral transient action and
adventures...
Be well
Joseph
Re
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e
v
i
e
c
•
James Hoggard was named Poet Laureate of Texas for 2000
by the State Legislature. A teacher at MSU since 1966, he has won
numerous awards for his writing, including a National Endowment for
the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship, the Soeurette Diehl Fraser Award
for literary translation, the Brazos Bookstore (Houston) Award for short
story, and the Stanley Walker Award for the best newspaper journalism
of the year by a writer from Texas. In addition, he was named a finalist
in 1999 for the National Poetry Series Award. Recent awards include
the PEN Southwest 2007 Poetry Award for Wearing the River and, in
2006, the Lon Tinkle Award for Excellence Sustained Throughout a
Career, from the Texas Institute of Letters.
His books include six collections of poems — Wearing the River,
Medea In Taos & Other Poems (Pecan Grove), Rain In A Sunlit Sky,
and a seventh collection, Triangles of Light, due in April— a novel,
a biography, two collections of stories, and six collections of literary
translations, with a seventh translation, due in March, of the work of
South American poet Oscar Hahn, Ashes in Love. His novel Trotter
Ross was hailed by Leonard Randolph, the former director of literature for the NEA, as “far and away the
finest masculine ‘coming of age’ novel in current American literature ... a brilliant writer.” His collection of
stories, Riding The Wind & Other Tales, has been called “one of the finest books ever written by a Texas
writer” (Dave Oliphant, Texas Books In Review). A dramatist as well as poet, fiction writer and translator,
he has had seven of his plays produced, including two in New York.
In addition to appearing in textbooks and anthologies, hundreds of his poems, stories, essays, and
translations have appeared in such magazines and journals as Harvard Review, Southwest Review, Texas
Monthly, The Texas Observer, Partisan Review, Redbook, Mississippi Review, Manoa, Ohio Review,
Translation Review, Southern Living, Texas Parks & Wildlife, Dallas Morning News, Dallas Times Herald,
Fort Worth Star-Telegram, WFLAR and numerous others.
• Alan Birkelbach, a native son, was the 2005 Poet Laureate of
Texas. His work, praised for its vivid sense of place, has appeared
in journals and anthologies such as Grasslands Review, Borderlands,
The Langdon Review, and Concho River Review. He has received a
Fellowship Grant from the Writer’s League of Texas, been named as
one of the Distinguished Poets of Dallas, was nominated for a Wrangler
Award for his contributions to Southwest Letters, and is a member of
The Academy of American Poets. He has four collections of poetry:
Bone Song, Weighed in the Balances, No Boundaries, and New and
Selected Works (the first in the Texas Poet Laureate Series from TCU Press.) His next book, Translating the
Prairie, a non-fiction poetry book about the history of Plano, Texas, is due out in the spring of 2009.
• Steven Schroeder was born in Wichita Falls and grew up in
the Texas Panhandle. He is the co-founder, with composer Clarice
Assad, of the Virtual Artists Collective (a “virtual” gathering of
musicians, poets, and visual artists – vacpoetry.org) that has
published eighteen full-length collections of poetry and five
chapbooks since it began in 2004. His work has appeared or is
forthcoming in After Hours, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal,
Concho River Review, the Cresset, Druskininkai Poetic Fall 2005,
Georgetown Review, Karamu, Macao Closer, Mid-America Poetry
Review, Poetry East, Poetry Macao, Rambunctious Review, Rhino,
Shichao, Sichuan Literature, Texas Review, TriQuarterly and other
literary journals. He has published two chapbooks, Theory of
Cats and Revolutionary Patience, and two full-length collections, Fallen Prose and The Imperfection of
the Eye. Six Stops South is forthcoming from Cherry Grove Collections in February 2009. He teaches at
the University of Chicago in Asian Classics and the Basic Program of Liberal Education for Adults and at
Shenzhen University in China.
• Nathan Brown is a poet, musician, teacher, and photographer from
Norman, OK and holds an interdisciplinary PhD in Professional and Creative
Writing from the University of Oklahoma. He has published five books of
poetry: Two Tables Over (Village Books Press 2008), Nôt Exoctly Job
(Mongrel Empire Press 2007)—a finalist for the 2008 Oklahoma Book Award,
Ashes Over the Southwest (Greystone Press 2005), Suffer the Little Voices
(Greystone Press 2005)—a finalist for the 2006 Oklahoma Book Award,
and Hobson’s Choice (Greystone Press 2002). He’s had individual poems
published recently in: “Walt’s Corner” of The Long-Islander newspaper (a
column started by Whitman in 1838); Byline Magazine; Blue Rock Review;
Windhover; Christian Ethics Today; Crosstimbers; and Poetrybay.com… as
well as in a recent anthology: Two Southwests (Virtual Artists Collective).
Nathan has served as the Artist-in-Residence at the University of Central Oklahoma and currently teaches
Professional Writing in the Human Relations Department at the University of Oklahoma. Mostly though, he
travels now leading workshops and speaking in high schools and universities — as well as to community
groups and organizations — on creativity, creative writing, and the need for readers to not give up on poetry.
He worked as a professional songwriter and musician for more than fifteen years in and around Oklahoma
City, Nashville, and Austin. He has performed in Israel and Russia, and worked with artists like Cynthia
Clawson, Billy Crockett, Michael Johnson, and Tom Wopat… as well as opening for Jimmy LaFave at the
Cactus Café in Austin and the Mucky Duck in Houston. He’s recorded five of his own albums. The two
most recent are Why in the Road and Driftin’ Away. Most recently, he has read his poetry for the Oklahoma
Council of Teachers of English; the American Studies Association of Texas; the 7th Annual Speakers and
Issues Series presented at Midwestern State University; The Writers’ Festival at University of Mary HardinBaylor; the Scissortail Creative Writing Festival in Ada, OK; the Red Dirt Book Festival in Shawnee, OK;
the Oklahoma City University Creative Writing Festival; the Woody Guthrie Folk Festival in Okemah,
OK; the Blue Rock Studio Concert Series in Wimberley, Texas; the Winter Wind Concert Series at the
Performing Arts Studio in Norman, OK; Full Circle Bookstore in Oklahoma City; and Book People in
Austin, TX. Nathan’s workshops have been hosted by Cedar Park High School in Austin, Episcopal High
School in Houston, Seminole State College in Seminole, OK. Lines and Lyrics, a poetry and music concert
series featuring Nathan, Jim Chastain and the music of Kerrville New Folk Competition winner Beth Wood,
has played to standing-room-only audiences across the Southwest.
Nathan’s web site is www.brownlines.com
•
David Breeden has an MFA from the Writers Workshop at the University of Iowa and a PhD from
the Center for Writers at the University of Southern Mississippi. He has published several books of poetry.
He is a Unitarian Universalist minister. Breeden’s web site is www.drpoetry.com
•
Born and raised in Wichita Falls, Richard Gaines was
a cartoonist for the Notre Dame High School newspaper. He
attended MSU where he was in the Art program and worked
as an advertising artist/copywriter for the McClurkans
department stores. Gaines performed for many years in and
around North Texas as a musician with several popular music
groups. He has been a resident of Austin, Texas now for many
years where he has worked in art and design for a number of
publications. He is currently a marketing director for a small
corporation. Gaines is a performing musician and singer/
songwriter. He is married with three boys. His father and sister still live in Wichita Falls.
•
Jim Henson holds degrees in art and English and has taught a variety of humanities courses over
the past 30 years. His background includes serving as a high school theatre director and Director of the Red
River Valley Museum in Vernon, Texas from 1979-1981. He taught art and journalism at Vernon College
until he was selected in 1983 by the Texas Commission on the Arts to participate in the “Artists in Schools”
program. Public and private collectors have purchased and commissioned Henson’s fine art and commercial
designs since he was in high school and college in the 1970’s. Henson enjoys teaching studio art classes and
Advanced Placement Art History at Rider High School. He is the Region IX director of the Texas Visual
Arts Scholastic Event. His fine art and writing explore how experience is constructed into communication
and meaning. On March 12th, 2009, The Kemp Center for the Arts features his newest works, broadly titled
Mythos, in which he investigates identity and signification through Jungian archetypes.
•
Reed Chapman is twelve years old and a sophomore at Rider High School, where his English
teacher, Mr. Kramer is one of his favorite teachers. He also enjoys science and math. He is active in the
junior high ministry at his church and enjoys playing soccer with his competitive soccer team. He also
enjoys the company of family and friends and hopes to be a Texas A&M Aggie someday!
•
Stephanie Parsley tasted her first pomegranate when she was nine — she
and her best friend pinched it from a shrub in a yard near Crockett Elementary
and tore it open right there. Stephanie holds an MFA in writing for children and
young adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts and a journalism degree from
The University of Texas at Austin. She works in a school library and writes mostly
middle-grade fiction. Her poetry has appeared in Spider magazine, and her essays
have appeared in the Houston Chronicle and The Dallas Morning News. Stephanie
lives in Wichita Falls with her husband, daughter, two dogs and two cats. (Reformed
years ago, she no longer steals pomegranates.)
•
Sarah Percy has lived in Wichita Falls all her life. She is a senior at S.H. Rider High School and
plays alto saxophone and bass clarinet for the school band. Her poem “Riding on Music” was inspired by
the memory of her first half-time performance with the Pride of the Raiders marching band.
•
Vicki Powell graduated from Louisiana Tech University in 1986 with a
Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree with a Graphics Design Major. She worked in the
creative field for many years as a graphic artist before switching gears to work as
part of the IT team for Wichita Falls Independent School District. Vicki moved
to Christ Academy in 2004 as the Technology Director and computer teacher for
kindergarten through 8th grade with anticipation of adding 9th - 12th grades. She
completed her Masters of Education in Instructional Leadership with degree to be
conferred in March 2009 through Wayland Baptist and plans to pursue a doctorate.
Vicki feels honored to have her photography chosen to be published in the Wichita
Falls Literature and Art Review. “It is my belief that artistic expression, whether
painted, drawn, photographed or rendered in any other media can motivate us,
inspire us, break our hearts and speak to us at emotional and spiritual levels that transcend the present pains
of everyday living, reminding us that we are joined with unseen bonds as human beings.”
• Karla K. Morton is a board member of the Greater Denton Arts Council, Dos
Gatos Press, and the Denton Poet’s Assembly. Morton, who has a Journalism degree
from Texas A&M University, has been published in descant, AmarilloBay, the
Austin International Poetry Anthology, Concho River Review, the Southwestern
American Literature , Wichita Falls Literary and Art Review, The Langdon Review
of the Arts in Texas, the Texas Poetry Calendar, and the upcoming Illya’s Honey,
New Texas, and ARDENT. Morton, nominated for the 2009-2010 Texas State Poet
Laureate, is also author of the book/CD titled Wee Cowrin’ Timorous Beastie, (a
North Texas Book Festival Awards Finalist), which is a unique blend of poetry,
story and original Celtic music.
•
Steve Allen Goen has documented, collected newspaper articles, oral histories, and photographs
in regard to the history of the state’s railways since his childhood. Active in the preservation of railway
history, Steve’s contributions include Steam Gauge Video Productions, which produced historic films and
programs; founding the Wichita Falls Railroad Museum, for which he served as president and director;
serving as chair of the Burlington Route Historical Society’s National Convention (2000); and as special
guest speaker at the George Bush Presidential Library and Museum (2006 and 2008). Goen has authored
several books on railway lines, and has two upcoming books. Steve currently plays trombone for the
Wichita Theatre.
•
James Tritt is a short story writer in his spare time. He was born in Fresno California. Tritt holds
a B.A in Literature from the University of California at San Diego, and a Master of Divinity from Talbot
School of Theology in La Mirada, California. Tritt currently is a substitute teacher for the Burkburnett
Independent School District, tutors at Sylvan Learning Center in Wichita Falls, and is a part-time copy
editor for the Wichita Falls Times Record News. He lives in Wichita Falls, Texas with his wife, Candice
Marie Tritt, and their two cats, Venti and Club Sauce.
•
Karl Kilinski II, Ph.D. has
been a senior research fellow at
the American School of Classical
Studies in Athens and a visiting
research fellow at the Warburg
Institute in London; has taught as
a visiting professor at Kwansei
Gakuin University in Japan and at
the DIS University of Copenhagen;
and has authored many articles
and five monographs. He has also
received three university awards
for teaching, and is a University
Distinguished Teaching Professor
at Southern Methodist University.
•
Roberta Faulkner Sund grew up in Breckenridge, Texas. After
graduating from Texas Christian University with a bachelor’s in chemistry,
she studied the following year at the University of Heidelberg, Germany as
a Fulbright Scholar. She then earned an M.S. in chemistry at the University
of Texas at Austin. She has served on the faculties of Wichita Falls ISD,
MSU, Al Akhawayn University in Efrane, Morocco, Southbank International
School in London and Kapiolani Junior College in Hawaii. She was inspired
to begin writing poetry after attending James Hoggard’s poetry class at MSU.
She is currently president of the Texas Democratic Women of the Wichita
Area and of Interfaith Ministries, Inc. She enjoys traveling, gardening and
volunteering.
•
Cynthia Sample received an MFA in Fiction from Vermont
College of Fine Arts in 2005. Her stories have appeared in Between the
Lines, and the Georgia anthology Love After 70. In 2007, she was one
of four emerging writers selected to present her work at the WordSpace
Literary Festival in Dallas, Texas.
Karl Kilinski II. Photo by Gunnie Corbett, digitally enhanced by
Carolyn Hammett.
•
Miguel C. “Mike” Lechuga was born
in Mexico City, Mexico, but grew up in Boyle
Heights in East Los Angeles, California. At
the age of nineteen, he enlisted in the United
States Air Force, and began a 30-year career
that took him to many exotic countries as well
as a few states. A historic highlight of his
honorable service was his deployment to Tan
Son Nhut Air Base, in South Vietnam during
the evacuation of Saigon in April 1975. He
retired as a Chief Master Sergeant at Sheppard
Air Force Base in 1998. Lechuga began to
explore the arts during high school, and after
graduating he studied Commercial Art at Los
Angeles Trade and Technical College. He
continued to pursue art as a hobby during his
military career, and was able to complete an
Associate of Arts Degree in Fine Arts from
Los Angeles Metropolitan College. For the
past three years, he has been taking art classes
at MSU.
•
Inara Cedrins is an American artist, writer and
translator; her anthology of contemporary Latvian poetry
written while Latvia was under Soviet occupation was
published by the University of Iowa Press, and she is
currently working on a new Baltic anthology. Cedrin went
to the Central Academy of Fine Art in Beijing in 1998 to
study traditional Chinese ink painting on silk, remaining five
years to teach at universities including Tsinghua University
and Peking University, as well as to the People’s Liberation
Army and students at the Central Academy of Fine Art,
designing the courses and using poetry as a vehicle. Two
collections of her poetry were published bilingually by the
Foreign Literature Press in Beijing. In 2003 she went to
Nepal to study the technique of thangka painting. After the
king’s coup d’etat, she relocated to Riga, where she started a literary agency called The Baltic Edge and
taught Creative Writing at the University of Latvia. She returned to America in 2006, and a collection of
her poetry titled Fugitive Connections was published by the Virtual Artists Collective. She currently lives
in the Albuquerque/Santa Fe area.
• Debra S. Davis, a Texas native, grew up on the Blackland Prairie of Denton
County. As an educator in the Denton Independent School District, Debra has
been writing for about sixteen years. As a founding member of the Denton
Poets’ Assembly, she became a more dedicated writer and poet. She lives with
her husband of thirty-seven years and two dogs (almost that old). Debra and her
husband have two adult children and three beautiful grandchildren. Debra loves
to travel, hike the mountains of Colorado, immerse herself in writing, participate
in workshops and classes, and visit children and grandchildren in Texas and in
Colorado. She has published in Denton Voices, 2006, Anthology of Works by
Denton County Poets and Learning, and has paired five of her poems with various
visual artists in a Merging Visions exhibition in Denton.
•
Joseph Reich is a social worker who works out in the state of Massachusetts; A displaced New
Yorker who sincerely does miss diss-place, most of all the Thai Food, Shanghai Joe’s in Chinatown, the
fresh smoothies on Houston Street, and bagels and bialy’s of The Lower East Side. He has a wife and
handsome little son with a nice mop of dirty-blonde hair, and when they all get a bit older, hope to take
them back to play, to pray, to contemplate in the parks and playgrounds of New York City. He has had
works which have appeared in numerous literary journals.
•
Billie Hall is a native of Wichita Falls, and graduated from “Old
High” back when it was called Wichita Falls Senior High School. She attended
Midwestern University before it became a state university. Her recent studies
have been Creative Writing courses at MSU, both prose and poetry, taught by
James Hoggard. Some of her verses have been published in greeting cards. She
was proud to have one of her poems included in the inaugural issue of the Wichita
Falls Literary Art Review.
•
Hershel Self was born in Oklahoma City but came to
Texas as soon as he was able. He hails from Kerrville and currently
attends MSU. Graphics designer by day, photographer by night,
Self manages to find time to nerd it up with his bookworm wife
and cats. He likes to shoot weddings, heavy metal concerts, and
everything in between.
•
L. E. (Ed) Harvill, Jr. is a native Texan. Born March 27,
1933, in Alice, he grew up in the south Texas brush country
of Duval County, and the sand hill of the great Permian
Basin in West Texas. Harvill earned his BS in Agriculture
from Texas A&M in 1954, and his Master’s in Educational
Administration from MSU in 1977. After teaching for
twenty-seven years in the public schools, (twenty-two of
those in Wichita Falls) He, with his wife, Melba, is enjoying
retirement at their home in Pleasant Valley, Texas (between
Wichita Falls and Iowa Park). A quarter horse breeder for
more than forty years, he is currently serving on the Wichita
County Extension Horse Committee, and as president of the
Wichita Valley Horsemen’s Association. He is a member
of the Southwest Cowboy Poets Association in Amarillo,
and has recited at the Red Stegall Cowboy Gathering in
Fort Worth, the Texas Cowboy Reunion in Stamford, and
for numerous civic, social, and church groups in the North
Texas area. His story, Fear of Darkness, was recently
awarded Honorable Mention in the Frontiers in Writing
competition sponsored by the Panhandle Professional
Writers Organization in Amarillo.
•
Frances Knowles was born in Honolulu, Hawaii.
Her father served in the U.S. Army which enabled the family
to tour Europe during their stay in Schwäbisch Gmünd and
Frankfurt, Germany. She has called Wichita Falls home
since 1983. Frances’ mother and father nurtured their
daughter’s creative side through their own love for the arts.
Her father enjoyed making jewelry and other crafts, and her
mother continues in ballet and theater in Richmond, Virginia.
She was bitten by the photography bug about four years
ago and recently completed an Architectural Photography
course at Harvard University Graduate School of Design.
Knowles currently shoots interior and exterior photographs
for a local architectural firm (Bundy, Young, Sims &
Potter) and occasionally has the pleasure of photographing
live subjects. She has found great joy in experimenting
with Photoshop and transforms many of her photographs
into photo-art. For most of the last 23 years, Knowles has
spent working in the banking industry, serving in various
capacities including credit analyst, business banker, and
business banking administrative manager. Knowles is a
graduate of Leadership Wichita Falls and is currently serving as a steering committee member of Hottern-Hell Hundred and donates platelets on a regular basis at the American Red Cross. Her past volunteer
activities include Hospice of Wichita Falls, Hospice Golf Board, and the United Way as a loaned executive.
Her hobbies consist of fly fishing, golfing, attending sporting events, and spending time absorbing anything
about cameras, photography and Photoshop.
•
Born and raised in Borger, Charles Elmore has lived in Wichita Falls for seventeen years, and
is a three-term District Five representative of the Wichita City Council. He regularly holds town hall
meetings, and hangs out at the Northside Carl’s Jr. mornings, drinking coffee with friends, sharing stories,
and talking issues. Back in the day, he hung out in Haight-Ashbury and saw shows like Jimi Hendrix, and
the jazz off at the Blackhawk Cafe, between Dave Brubeck and Stan Getz. Elmore loves to read and never
goes anywhere without a book. He also paints and sculpts. A photographer in his Army days, he had three
Stars and Stripes photos of the month in his first year. He has written poetry for over fifty years.
• Richard Merrill Dalton was born in
Graham, Texas, to a prominent Young
County family. He completed high school
in Fort Worth. Upon graduation, he
entered the USAF in 1959 and remained
there until 1971 when he was retired
involuntarily for wounds received in
Vietnam. His work in the USAF consisted
of Intelligence Operations and Survival
Training where he trained US Pilots, Navy
Seals, and UDT personnel in Survival
techniques as potential Prisoners of War.
He was also an interrogator in Vietnam
when he was severely wounded and soon
released from active duty. Returning to
civilian life, Dalton finished his degree in Political Science and History/Sociology, and then completed
a Master’s and Ph. D. Sharing stories with his students while a college professor encouraged Dalton to
write several books and articles that range from history and espionage to humor. He owned and operated
a Mexico insurance agency in Progreso, Texas, one mile from the Mexican border. He often travels to
Northeastern New Mexico as a participant observer of Mexico, its history, lifestyle, and economics,
including its culture, social and political conditions of which he records and transcribes for those who
wish to drive into Mexico. He resides in Wichita Falls.
Iron Horse Pub
615 8 St. Wichita Falls, Texas 76301
(940) 767-9488
Open Monday-Saturday 3 pm-2 am
For information on shows and events, go to
www.theironhorsepub.com
th

The Holt Hotel Sign. Photo by R Carter.

Transcription

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