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Showing posts from May, 2008
Space Age Endless conversation by TONY EVANS From the Idaho Mountain Express http://www.mtexpress.com/index2.php?ID=2005120706 I was motivated to a great extent in my youth by the expectation that I would one day own a NASA Jet Pack. Every kid in my town saw the televised demonstration: A man stands stiffly in a spacesuit with jet-fuel tanks on his back. The pack ignites and he rises from the ground, maneuvering unsteadily above the trees, using toggle switches and his swinging legs for balance. It was an unwieldy vehicle and I don't remember ever seeing him land it. In fact, I don't think we were meant to. The Jetsons cartoons were on TV, Apollo missions were taking men to the moon. Every kid I knew expected, at the very least, to have a personal helicopter within a few years, probably a Jet Pack or two. We studied hard, ate our vegetables and waited for the future. By 1975 it became apparent that the Space Age was a bit of a ruse. The moon turned out to be the worthless slag

Utah Phillips has left the stage

http://www.kvmr.org/utah_letter.html Listening on KVMR this morning we learned that our dear friend and pal, U. Utah Phillips has ended his struggle with his health problems and has stepped onto a broader stage. We will miss him dearly. Fare thee well Utah. Thank you for your long memory, we will carry it on from here. We love you.

Against the Grain:Memoirs of a Western Historian

http://www.signaturebooks.com/reviews/against.htm Associated Press , Bob Mims For most of his 82 years, Brigham D. Madsen has mined historical truth, chipping away layers of legend to unearth the real, often raw, always compelling stories of the frontier's Indians, soldiers, explorers, and settlers. But that truth, Madsen will tell you, has proven a harsh muse. Fourteen books, numerous articles, and scholarly awards are the milestones of an intellectual and spiritual journey through the region's past that have brought him both pleasure and pain. Along the way, Madsen unearthed one of the worst butcheries of Indians in the Old West; exposed as fable a long-accepted account of an emigrant massacre; and concluded that the Mormon faith he held dear was founded on fictional, if inspirational, scripture. "That's the historian's burden," he said. "You ask yourself, 'What are going to be the results of this?' . . . But you have to give the truth as you
~The Midnight Hour~ by Noah A. Bowen H e wore a top hat, frock coat, carried a sword stick, and had the tendency to lick at the froth that would often flick from the corners of his mouth. He preferred alleys to streets, night to day, and, with the insistent accuracy of a madman, never wore white. His cape was, as was all else, of black silk only the lining, a smear of stark scarlet that would flicker and weave about his shoulders as a flame of some diabolic heritage would a coal. The stiff collar rose high and red against his tall hat giving his pallid face the appearance of some pagan god. He wavered under the street lamps like a shadow, and through the alleys, neath a full moon and cloud mottled sky. Somewhere a clock boomed as it clicked mid-night, the specter looked to the sky, the moon becoming an eerie glimmer in his empty black eyes. The time was ripe and with each tick of the hour and darkening of shadow, growing richer, sweeter still. He stopped at a boarded door and, with gn
~ C h a n g i n g s e a s o n s ~ by Noah A. Bowen T he Days were slowly growing longer as the snow began to recede and the sky began to brighten. Spring had started its dainty sonata with rich greens and vivid blossom, dappled with soft sorrels and the somber grey of fleeting shadows. The air poured golden and warm down the mountains with the rising sun, dusty shafts filtering through the twigs with merry song of waking birds and humble yawn of nestling beast. Logs channeled the docile current of a green river , forming a confluence into a once silent pond that would now ripple and swirl up the sandy banks and to the high grasses causing whisper amongst the dreary willows and pleaching yews. The wind whistled moodily over the purple dew drops that would weep, with the solemn patter of a tear, upon the drifting lilys and silent shallows. The season had come at last, and, as if awakened from long hibernation, Mr. Sparks stepped out from his cabin and yawned. It was such a yawn th

Suggestion for a WR Journal tribute to Idaho war veterans

The dozens of articles that Wood River Journal reporters have written about our armed service veterans over the past few years are greatly impressive. Last summer, I remember thinking, while reading key feature stories by Kelly Jackson and Karen Bossick what a grand thing it would be for our community, if the newspaper did a little something more with these in-depth articles. Since the stories have already been written, the Journal could go back at limited expense and simply cobble together a magazine or small book about our veterans to present to each of the regional history department heads of our local libraries. Other places where such a book would be a good fit are the coffee tables of our senior center, local armory, American Legion, Blaine Manor, St. Lukes, the Sun Valley Lodge, Sun Valley Adaptive Sports vans, etc. Imagine how far those feelings of good will could go, if a Journal representative presented a copy of this book as a gift, during next years ceremonious ribbon-cutti