Thursday, June 9, 2011
Hutch Run May 28, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Fare Thee Well
Hasta la Vista, baby. Sayonara. Adios. Aloha. See ya later, alligator. After a while, crocodile. Vaya con Dios.
That’s right. Buenos noches Irene. After more than three and a half years, the Friday Letters bids you adieu.
In 189 weekly installments, Mr. Tommy has strung together approximately 190,000 words. For readership ease and appeal, the rule was to limit each chapter to about 1,000 words.
At first, the weekly letters were intended for our four children. The original concept came from daughter Tammy, but others, like my sister-in-law Bonnie, were supportive.
As you may have read in last week’s installment, the family is spread out over the whole globe. An e-mail communication device seemed logical.
We soon discovered the existence of the “blog” system, and sister-in-law Joan established one for us, Tommy’s 18th St. News. Blog, by the way, is a contraction for “web log.” I mention that so that some word historian somewhere may understand the heritage.
Doing the weekly letter has been a hoot. I have spent six to eight hours each week on it. Laura puts in another hour editing the text and placing it on the site – something I have never learned to do.
We signed up for “Site Meter,” which counts the “hits” on the site. My record high, two weeks ago, was 120 page views and 80 site views. I’m told that’s pretty good for an old cowboy reporter.
Perhaps a good time to quit – or at least to take a hiatus – is when one has reached the zenith or the nadir. I’m guessing my readership, after 3 1/2 years, has grown as large as it’s going to.
It has been good for me to exercise my English skills. My mother-in-law used to do crossword puzzles for the same reason. (Crosswords make my brain fuzzy. Mom loved the game.)
We have made many friends through the Letters, and we have given old friends a new insight into our personalities. It has been great fun, exciting and fulfilling.
There are some disappointments, naturally. I was ambitious. I thought the Letters might attract the attention of someone who would want to publish (pay for) my writing.
No dice. No offers. I’ve always been a failure, a big loser, when it comes to getting paid for what I do, whatever it is. For instance, I have dozens of oil paintings in storage – good ones, I’m told – that I have been unable to sell. I have never sold a one.
Other than newspaper work, which pays poorly, I’ve never been paid at all for anything I have written. Writing is time-consuming, difficult work. I’m dog tired when I finish each week’s chapter. I’m positive Laura’s contribution causes a bunch of fatigue as well.
I’m not going to roll over and die. (Well, I am going to die eventually, but I have no plan to roll over to do it.)
My brother Dick has asked me to write the story of our 1955 family dream vacation. I have photos and documentation to go with it.
The weekly Letter has given me discipline, a regimen to which I have adhered. My fear is, if I don’t have a weekly deadline, I’ll let things slide, and go for a motorcycle ride instead. At the moment, a ride sounds pretty good.
These days, Laura and I spend from five to eight hours each week editing and formatting the weekly bulletin for St. Peter Historic Roman Catholic Church – “our” church. It is a grind, a beautiful fulfilling, exciting, terrifying weekly grind.
Frankly, at this point, I’d rather put my energy into that than the weekly Letters. I’m hoping to continue my e-mail relationship with the family as well as Brighton High School classmates and other friends who live far away.
I fear the lack of my persistent presence will erode that. Want to keep in touch? I answer every e-mail I get but I do not do no Facebook.
Hasta luego compadres.
-0-
Words of the week: Zenith, nadir. The zenith is the top of something, the nadir is the opposite. That isn’t necessarily bad. The nadir of the earth isn’t always a bad place to be. However, Zenith made a good television set. Nobody ever made one called a Nadir.
That’s right. Buenos noches Irene. After more than three and a half years, the Friday Letters bids you adieu.
In 189 weekly installments, Mr. Tommy has strung together approximately 190,000 words. For readership ease and appeal, the rule was to limit each chapter to about 1,000 words.
At first, the weekly letters were intended for our four children. The original concept came from daughter Tammy, but others, like my sister-in-law Bonnie, were supportive.
As you may have read in last week’s installment, the family is spread out over the whole globe. An e-mail communication device seemed logical.
We soon discovered the existence of the “blog” system, and sister-in-law Joan established one for us, Tommy’s 18th St. News. Blog, by the way, is a contraction for “web log.” I mention that so that some word historian somewhere may understand the heritage.
Doing the weekly letter has been a hoot. I have spent six to eight hours each week on it. Laura puts in another hour editing the text and placing it on the site – something I have never learned to do.
We signed up for “Site Meter,” which counts the “hits” on the site. My record high, two weeks ago, was 120 page views and 80 site views. I’m told that’s pretty good for an old cowboy reporter.
Perhaps a good time to quit – or at least to take a hiatus – is when one has reached the zenith or the nadir. I’m guessing my readership, after 3 1/2 years, has grown as large as it’s going to.
It has been good for me to exercise my English skills. My mother-in-law used to do crossword puzzles for the same reason. (Crosswords make my brain fuzzy. Mom loved the game.)
We have made many friends through the Letters, and we have given old friends a new insight into our personalities. It has been great fun, exciting and fulfilling.
There are some disappointments, naturally. I was ambitious. I thought the Letters might attract the attention of someone who would want to publish (pay for) my writing.
No dice. No offers. I’ve always been a failure, a big loser, when it comes to getting paid for what I do, whatever it is. For instance, I have dozens of oil paintings in storage – good ones, I’m told – that I have been unable to sell. I have never sold a one.
Other than newspaper work, which pays poorly, I’ve never been paid at all for anything I have written. Writing is time-consuming, difficult work. I’m dog tired when I finish each week’s chapter. I’m positive Laura’s contribution causes a bunch of fatigue as well.
I’m not going to roll over and die. (Well, I am going to die eventually, but I have no plan to roll over to do it.)
My brother Dick has asked me to write the story of our 1955 family dream vacation. I have photos and documentation to go with it.
The weekly Letter has given me discipline, a regimen to which I have adhered. My fear is, if I don’t have a weekly deadline, I’ll let things slide, and go for a motorcycle ride instead. At the moment, a ride sounds pretty good.
These days, Laura and I spend from five to eight hours each week editing and formatting the weekly bulletin for St. Peter Historic Roman Catholic Church – “our” church. It is a grind, a beautiful fulfilling, exciting, terrifying weekly grind.
Frankly, at this point, I’d rather put my energy into that than the weekly Letters. I’m hoping to continue my e-mail relationship with the family as well as Brighton High School classmates and other friends who live far away.
I fear the lack of my persistent presence will erode that. Want to keep in touch? I answer every e-mail I get but I do not do no Facebook.
Hasta luego compadres.
-0-
 |
| Happy Belated St. Patrick Day |
One more word: Hiatus. It’s Latin, from hiare, to gape. Today it means a break or gap where a part is missing or lost, as in a manuscript. It means a blank space or a pause.
Love you all.
Tom and Laura
Tom and Laura
Friday, March 11, 2011
News From the Four Siblings
A credible eyewitness has come forward with shocking news: Mr. Tommy’s memory isn’t always what he thinks it is.
Regular “Friday Letters” readers may recall that the Feb. 11, 2011, version consisted, in part, of an anecdote about Tommy’s 1979 Jeep CJ-5.
An adventure was reported in which the lives of Tommy and a passenger were endangered by a mechanical malfunction. The gear shift lever came out in his hand when the vehicle was in a precarious position at the edge of a big river.
Here’s the incredulous reaction from the credible eyewitness. It was reported previously that the passenger endangered was “another man’s girlfriend.”
The eyewitness was my daughter, Jayedominique Hodge Blair, who now lives in Indiana.
After reading the Jeep story, she telephoned and said: “Dad. That wasn’t somebody else’s girlfriend. That was ME. I remember it clearly. It scared the hell out of me.”
Let’s see. Jaye would have been 16 at that time. She has always had the most beautiful brown almond-shaped eyes, since the day she was born.
Her hair was and is a lustrous brunette color. She is very feminine and mannerly and extremely intelligent. She has always had the most wonderful smile and a beautiful mirthful laugh.
At the time of the Jeep incident, I was recently divorced from her mother. I was busily “trying to date” a woman named Deon Rossi. Deon already had a boyfriend. A jealous boyfriend.
A gorgeous brunette, Deon had the most beautiful brown almond-shaped eyes. She had a mirthful sense of humor, a wonderful smile and a beautiful laugh. Are you beginning to see the synapse-link wreckage?
Once upon a time, I believed memory, particularly my memory, was infallible. But I have to admit now that time, and wishful thinking, and a guilty conscience, played tricks on my memory.
Certainly, there were other instances in which I could have been caught, uh, in a compromised position with another man’s gal. (See also the Feb. 18 report, “Desperation and Falsehood.”)
Over my entire writing career I have made it a personal policy to own up to it when I make a factual error. Thanks to Jaye, this one has now been set aright.
Siblings around the world
Son Benjamin lives with his family in Seattle. He reported by text a few days ago that he had accomplished almost nothing he had intended to do while off work for the weekend.
Ben and Shana are parents of a brand-new Christmas baby, their first child. He texted, “Hey Gramps. Spent the weekend holding Sal. Time flew by. There were other things I could have done, but I was busy squishing the boy.”
My son is a good father, a real good father. I already know this. If you have a beautiful Christmas baby like Ben and Shana have, you should spend the weekend squishing the boy.
Touch is intuitive and essential. Good parenting depends a lot on loving touch – demonstrating to the child acceptance, affection, inclusion. Good nurturing technique.
Good for you Ben and Shana. Squish the baby.
-0-
Shortly after she was graduated from high school, our youngest daughter Monica left for Florida. She has made her life there since.
Like the other three, there are many admirable traits in her. She started from scratch down in F-L-A, and has succeeded in various endeavors on her own. Well, on her own with the help of an amazing network of friends and supporters. Currently, she lives seaside in the Keys and spends her days working in the yacht business.
She is attentive to her parents, thoughtful, generous, concerned, loving and kind. Much the same as her brother and sisters. She is attractive with a bright smile, self-assured bearing and confidence that bring her strength when “life happens.”
Monica said something on the phone a few days ago that has really stuck with me. I was wondering aloud about our nation, our people, our future, probing a little for my daughter’s “take.”
I asked, “Why do people give so little attention to their spiritual lives? They don’t seem to realize there are consequences . . .”
Monica interrupted. “Dad. People don’t even know about that stuff like you and Laura do. Most of them are simply caught up in the fury.” Fairly bright, I thought. Perceptive.
Caught up in the fury.
-0-
Then there’s Tammy, younger sister to Jaye, older sister to Monica.
Twenty years ago, Tammy moved to Australia and then more recently to New Zealand, Auckland to be exact.
She and Phil have two beautiful sons who are growing tall and strong in beautiful New Zealand. Tammy is like her siblings, relying on her inventive survival techniques, a self-starter, analytical thinker, downright hard worker. She’s quite bright and beautiful. There’s that smile again . . .
In a recent telephone conversation, Tammy revealed that she had resigned her high-profile job in a company that specializes in real estate auctions. It was engaging work, she said, but pressurized, and she became fatigued.
As a good dad, I thought I’d better ask, “How are you going to make a living now?”
She answered, “Oh, we’ll do something creative. I don’t really know yet.”
I like that. To leave one job without having another one to go to? It shows a young woman who is courageous, resourceful, confident, self-reliant, strong.
It’s enjoyable being a dad to these four strange moppets. Indiana, Florida, Washington, New Zealand. But once in a while I have to say to their mother, “What have we done?”
-0-
Word of the week: Sibling. Originally in Middle English, “sib” and “ling” meant “a relative.” We use it today to mean one of two or more persons born at different times of the same parents; brother or sister.
Regular “Friday Letters” readers may recall that the Feb. 11, 2011, version consisted, in part, of an anecdote about Tommy’s 1979 Jeep CJ-5.
An adventure was reported in which the lives of Tommy and a passenger were endangered by a mechanical malfunction. The gear shift lever came out in his hand when the vehicle was in a precarious position at the edge of a big river.
Here’s the incredulous reaction from the credible eyewitness. It was reported previously that the passenger endangered was “another man’s girlfriend.”
The eyewitness was my daughter, Jayedominique Hodge Blair, who now lives in Indiana.
After reading the Jeep story, she telephoned and said: “Dad. That wasn’t somebody else’s girlfriend. That was ME. I remember it clearly. It scared the hell out of me.”
Let’s see. Jaye would have been 16 at that time. She has always had the most beautiful brown almond-shaped eyes, since the day she was born.
Her hair was and is a lustrous brunette color. She is very feminine and mannerly and extremely intelligent. She has always had the most wonderful smile and a beautiful mirthful laugh.
At the time of the Jeep incident, I was recently divorced from her mother. I was busily “trying to date” a woman named Deon Rossi. Deon already had a boyfriend. A jealous boyfriend.
A gorgeous brunette, Deon had the most beautiful brown almond-shaped eyes. She had a mirthful sense of humor, a wonderful smile and a beautiful laugh. Are you beginning to see the synapse-link wreckage?
Once upon a time, I believed memory, particularly my memory, was infallible. But I have to admit now that time, and wishful thinking, and a guilty conscience, played tricks on my memory.
Certainly, there were other instances in which I could have been caught, uh, in a compromised position with another man’s gal. (See also the Feb. 18 report, “Desperation and Falsehood.”)
Over my entire writing career I have made it a personal policy to own up to it when I make a factual error. Thanks to Jaye, this one has now been set aright.
Siblings around the world
Son Benjamin lives with his family in Seattle. He reported by text a few days ago that he had accomplished almost nothing he had intended to do while off work for the weekend.
Ben and Shana are parents of a brand-new Christmas baby, their first child. He texted, “Hey Gramps. Spent the weekend holding Sal. Time flew by. There were other things I could have done, but I was busy squishing the boy.”
 |
| Squishin' the Baby |
Touch is intuitive and essential. Good parenting depends a lot on loving touch – demonstrating to the child acceptance, affection, inclusion. Good nurturing technique.
Good for you Ben and Shana. Squish the baby.
-0-
Shortly after she was graduated from high school, our youngest daughter Monica left for Florida. She has made her life there since.
Like the other three, there are many admirable traits in her. She started from scratch down in F-L-A, and has succeeded in various endeavors on her own. Well, on her own with the help of an amazing network of friends and supporters. Currently, she lives seaside in the Keys and spends her days working in the yacht business.
She is attentive to her parents, thoughtful, generous, concerned, loving and kind. Much the same as her brother and sisters. She is attractive with a bright smile, self-assured bearing and confidence that bring her strength when “life happens.”
Monica said something on the phone a few days ago that has really stuck with me. I was wondering aloud about our nation, our people, our future, probing a little for my daughter’s “take.”
I asked, “Why do people give so little attention to their spiritual lives? They don’t seem to realize there are consequences . . .”
Monica interrupted. “Dad. People don’t even know about that stuff like you and Laura do. Most of them are simply caught up in the fury.” Fairly bright, I thought. Perceptive.
Caught up in the fury.
-0-
Then there’s Tammy, younger sister to Jaye, older sister to Monica.
Twenty years ago, Tammy moved to Australia and then more recently to New Zealand, Auckland to be exact.
She and Phil have two beautiful sons who are growing tall and strong in beautiful New Zealand. Tammy is like her siblings, relying on her inventive survival techniques, a self-starter, analytical thinker, downright hard worker. She’s quite bright and beautiful. There’s that smile again . . .
In a recent telephone conversation, Tammy revealed that she had resigned her high-profile job in a company that specializes in real estate auctions. It was engaging work, she said, but pressurized, and she became fatigued.
As a good dad, I thought I’d better ask, “How are you going to make a living now?”
She answered, “Oh, we’ll do something creative. I don’t really know yet.”
I like that. To leave one job without having another one to go to? It shows a young woman who is courageous, resourceful, confident, self-reliant, strong.
It’s enjoyable being a dad to these four strange moppets. Indiana, Florida, Washington, New Zealand. But once in a while I have to say to their mother, “What have we done?”
-0-
Word of the week: Sibling. Originally in Middle English, “sib” and “ling” meant “a relative.” We use it today to mean one of two or more persons born at different times of the same parents; brother or sister.
Friday, March 4, 2011
A Buick for Tommy
When I was about to turn 16, just old enough to drive in Colorado, I bought a car for $1. It was a 1940 Buick Special, a four-door sedan that looked like a streamlined stagecoach.
Something tells me there was an undisclosed business arrangement between my Dad and Harold, the man who had owned the car. But as far as I knew at the time, the sale price was one antique silver dollar.
Harold was also the scoutmaster of the Boy Scout and Explorer Scout organizations to which my brother and I belonged. Dad and a couple of other men who were teachers in Brighton were assistants to Harold.
Looking back, that car was quite beautiful, a quiet, smooth automotive wonder with “suicide” rear doors. It was jet black, a luxury car for its time. It was a sort of foreshortened limousine.
It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was what I was allowed to have. The Buick’s eight cylinders were in a row, not in a “V” like the quick Fords and Mercurys that were laying rubber all over town. Horsepower- challenged, the Buick was unable to spin its rear tires. A stopwatch indicated the car would reach 60 in 25 seconds. Eight or nine seconds was common at the time.
I can’t deny the Buick’s attractiveness. Still, had I had my own way, I would have acquired a ’49 Ford two-door hardtop. I would have added Turnpike Cruiser skirts, maybe a continental spare tire kit. I would have lowered the car in the rear, and I would have put three-point “Fiesta” star spinner covers on the front wheels.
Oh, and dual exhausts and shaved hood and trunk. A car-club plate would have hung on chrome chains from the rear bumper, dragging just a little bit when we drove into the A & W. At least I could dream. You could get girls if you had a car like this, or if you played the saxophone. Or both.
Along this line of dreams, I asked my friend Gary Barnard, a fantastic artist, to make me a design of a rearing horse, a “Black Beauty” which I thought would make an attractive addition to the rear fenders of the old black Buick. Gary made right and left prototype drawings.
A short time later, I borrowed a pair of clamps designed to compress coil springs. I “raked” (lowered) the front of the Buick with these devices. The car became cool, scraping the front mudguard going into the drive-in.
Giving up, I returned to daydreaming, longing for the day when I didn’t live in my parents’ home, when I could have a damn lowered rusty Ford and paint a picture of a damn frog on it if I wanted to.
I drove it for years putting up with the “Buick Lurch” going around corners, over rough roads or across railroad tracks. This uncomfortable and dangerous condition was caused by worn-out shock absorbers.
So we bounced and lurched all over the roads between Brighton and Aurora and Laramie and Boulder. Dad insisted the shocks could not be repaired. He also insisted the shock absorbers would not be repaired.
Knowing well by then the critical point at which domestic peace turned into apoplexy, I made no further effort even though I knew the vehicle was unsafe.
Years later, I saw replacement shock absorbers in a catalog. In the same Buick-specialty book, there was an advertisement promoting repair of these devices.
After the baby (Jaye) was born something changed with Mom and Dad and they bought us a brand-new Ford Econoline van. It also was monumentally underpowered, but it came with new shock absorbers. I put bigger wheels and tires on it, and seemed to get away with that modification. It wasn’t a Buick, I guess.
The Buick went to Brighton for storage. Over the years, I tried various restoration projects, but my efforts all failed because classic cars are expensive to repair, to drive, to own. Cash and time. I had neither.
After moving the Buick out to Idaho, then back to Brighton and then to Greeley, I sold it to my friend Ray, who greatly admired it and had “low-rider” on his mind. Ray let it set out in the sun for years, which I had never done, and he eventually gave it to his son Rick. I don’t know what Rick did with it.
Besides, in our garage at this very moment sits a 1968 Ford XL 500. It has one immense V-8, and it goes like a striped-ass ape. And no rust. It will spin the tires. Happiness abounds.
Word of the Week: Apoplexy. Latin and Greek. To strike down, or disable by a stroke. Medically, it means sudden paralysis with total or partial loss of consciousness and sensation, caused by the breaking or obstruction of a blood vessel in the brain. Webster’s exemplary sentence is, “He was apoplectic with rage.” Hmm.
Something tells me there was an undisclosed business arrangement between my Dad and Harold, the man who had owned the car. But as far as I knew at the time, the sale price was one antique silver dollar.
Harold was also the scoutmaster of the Boy Scout and Explorer Scout organizations to which my brother and I belonged. Dad and a couple of other men who were teachers in Brighton were assistants to Harold.
 |
| Curbside in Laramie, ca 1963 |
Dad got wind of my project. It was very threatening to him. He became apoplectic. He confronted me. His face turned bright red. The veins bulged out on his neck. He yelled. He threatened. He postulated ultimatums. He cursed and waved his arms a lot.
Embarrassed, I had to tell Gary that all was for nothing. He would not be allowed to paint his two beautiful Black Beauty designs on my car.
I drove the car this way for one day. Apoplexy struck again. Real bad apoplexy this time. I returned the borrowed lowering kit.
To add to my pathetic teen frustration, Dad by some quirky thinking did not believe the Buick could be repaired. He fixed his own vehicles, including school buses, but he thought the Buick wasn’t eligible for fixin’.
The shocks weren’t like those we know today. They were of a design featuring an oil cylinder and a double-bend arm linked to the coil-spring suspension.
A valet at a Denver parking garage slipped the Buick clutch all the way to the sixth floor. It was burnt out. The car became unusable.
Miraculously, Dad permitted a repair. The mechanic installed incorrect parts, so we drove the car the rest of its life with us with an ill-performing clutch. Re-do or take-back was not permitted.
When I started banging into things like fences and garage walls, Dad permitted repair of the master brake cylinder. But new tires? No way. The four unmatched and balding skidders were good enough until I got stranded in a Wyoming blizzard. Mom bought new tires.
When Annette and I got married, it was our only bouncing-bubble family car. We drove it to and from Wyoming summer and winter.
We tried the two-car thing for a while. Then Annette’s father died and we came into possession of the 1950 Ford F-4, a two-ton truck with a pickup box.
 |
| Tressl Road, Blackfoot, ID, ca 1975 Tom, Jaye, Monica, Tamara, Benjamin, Annette |
Sometimes in my dreams I have the Buick back, and I am repairing it, restoring it. Upon awakening, I realize I still don’t qualify for classic, antique Buick ownership: Time and Money.
-0-
Friday, February 25, 2011
Mormons from Venus
This week I cleaned off my desk. Shock. Amazement. Astonishment. I sorted and filed (in a cardboard box) the collection of notes that had accumulated there over a couple of years.
I scanned my notes to make sure I wasn’t missing anything that could be turned into immortal prose among The Friday Letters. One name kept popping up.
It was none other than Paul Solem, a character who was an inhabitant of the lava rock desert of central Idaho.
Why I have Solem in my notes so often is a minor mystery. I met him in the late 60’s or early 70’s.
Solem came to my newspaper office to ask for publicity. He wanted the public to know he was organizing a vigil to call down brothers and sisters from the planet Venus by means of telepathy.
By the time I met Solem, I had been promoted to “editor” of The Blackfoot News. I wanted to do the reporting. Temptation, you know. I assigned a reporter to the story.
Perhaps a little historical background will help. Solem, depending on the which witness one heard: Had been excommunicated from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; or, he had left the church of his own volition; or he never was a Mormon, just a random nutcase with some Mormon trappings.
Regardless, there were many of his ilk in eastern Idaho. The history is, that shortly after the Mormon arrival in the Salt Lake Valley, a rift took place.
Members clinging to the “old” ways, many of them Scandinavian by heritage, were steadfastly following the teachings of Joseph Smith and couldn’t abide the radical teaching of this new guy Brigham Young.
When this particular Mormon schism (there are many) happened, many of the old-school folks decided to move north, into Idaho. They took with them their Scandinavian-accented English and stick-in-the-mud humorless spiritual delusions.
They clung to Smith’s Book of Mormon and its various fabrications and oddities. One of these is that each good man, as he dies, will inherit his own planet for himself and his wives.
Solem believed that certain souls who had gone on before had found glorified bodies and a home on Venus. He was convinced that space travel had become feasible for them. He had asked them to come for a visit, to show themselves, to confirm the faith, in a way.
He was just a plain scary guy. A chunky white-haired man with enormous shoulders and a considerable paunch, he never threatened me or offered any hazard. But looking into his Lee-Harvey-Oswald vacant white eyes, one could not read any emotion. What was behind those eyes? No one but he could know.
Solem had picked Ferry Butte as the vigil site. Ferry Butte is southwest of the Snake River near Tilden Bridge. The butte is on the Fort Hall Indian Reservation. Solem had gotten permission from the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes to use the butte for his vigil.
I assigned cub reporter Bill Hathaway. Hathaway attended the vigil faithfully, night after night. He managed to cast new light on the event for daily reports. The reporter carried a camera but no photographs of spacecraft or space visitors resulted.
Solem’s idea was that if enough believers would assemble and put their minds to it, people from Venus would receive the message and respond to it.
Ferry Butte is minor as buttes go. It is a rounded hillock with an easy slope. Old folks can climb it. It’s nothing like Devil’s Tower – but Solem’s project was an eerie precedent to the movie “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.”
Curiosity seekers arrived, along with many Indians and some real believers in the Solem cause. Hathaway’s approach to the story would be that he was skeptical the first night, mildly convinced the second, gradually becoming a believer. It was an excellent yellow-journalism gambit. Management approved.
The vigil went on for a week or so. Hathaway complained of having a stiff neck from looking skyward for hours at a time, and suggested he should get extra monetary compensation for his physical pain. Management declined.
In the end, interest waned and no Venusians in space ships showed up. At least, we don’t think they did. Solem didn’t claim any visits either, saying people just hadn’t concentrated hard enough to call them.
A series of stories in a newspaper will usually lose reader interest after the third installment. We had seven or eight. The congregation on the butte diminished from 200 or so at the beginning to a dozen hard-liners.
After things died down, Solem came in again to my office and asked for coverage of a different aspect of his story.
He told me that he had built a gigantic shelter in a cave somewhere out in what Idaho people call “the lavas.”
Solem said the cave was made into a shelter from wind and weather and human invasion. He said he had built two giant wood and iron doors on huge hinges for this security. A space ship could enter this cave, according to Solem.
He wanted to take me and/or Hathaway to the site to demonstrate what he was up to. He required, though, that whoever went with him would have to be blindfolded to keep secret the location of the cave.
I declined this offer. Hathaway declined as well. I never saw Solem again. That I know of. I don’t think I saw Hathaway after that, either. That I know of.
-0-
Words of the Week: Modus Operandi. Guess what. It’s Latin. Latin is so hard to understand. Modus Operandi means “method of operation.” It describes a procedure, as in “The modus operandi of the burglar was to hide in a restroom until the building was closed.”
I scanned my notes to make sure I wasn’t missing anything that could be turned into immortal prose among The Friday Letters. One name kept popping up.
It was none other than Paul Solem, a character who was an inhabitant of the lava rock desert of central Idaho.
Why I have Solem in my notes so often is a minor mystery. I met him in the late 60’s or early 70’s.
Solem came to my newspaper office to ask for publicity. He wanted the public to know he was organizing a vigil to call down brothers and sisters from the planet Venus by means of telepathy.
By the time I met Solem, I had been promoted to “editor” of The Blackfoot News. I wanted to do the reporting. Temptation, you know. I assigned a reporter to the story.
Perhaps a little historical background will help. Solem, depending on the which witness one heard: Had been excommunicated from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; or, he had left the church of his own volition; or he never was a Mormon, just a random nutcase with some Mormon trappings.
Regardless, there were many of his ilk in eastern Idaho. The history is, that shortly after the Mormon arrival in the Salt Lake Valley, a rift took place.
Members clinging to the “old” ways, many of them Scandinavian by heritage, were steadfastly following the teachings of Joseph Smith and couldn’t abide the radical teaching of this new guy Brigham Young.
When this particular Mormon schism (there are many) happened, many of the old-school folks decided to move north, into Idaho. They took with them their Scandinavian-accented English and stick-in-the-mud humorless spiritual delusions.
They clung to Smith’s Book of Mormon and its various fabrications and oddities. One of these is that each good man, as he dies, will inherit his own planet for himself and his wives.
Solem believed that certain souls who had gone on before had found glorified bodies and a home on Venus. He was convinced that space travel had become feasible for them. He had asked them to come for a visit, to show themselves, to confirm the faith, in a way.
He was just a plain scary guy. A chunky white-haired man with enormous shoulders and a considerable paunch, he never threatened me or offered any hazard. But looking into his Lee-Harvey-Oswald vacant white eyes, one could not read any emotion. What was behind those eyes? No one but he could know.
Solem had picked Ferry Butte as the vigil site. Ferry Butte is southwest of the Snake River near Tilden Bridge. The butte is on the Fort Hall Indian Reservation. Solem had gotten permission from the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes to use the butte for his vigil.
I assigned cub reporter Bill Hathaway. Hathaway attended the vigil faithfully, night after night. He managed to cast new light on the event for daily reports. The reporter carried a camera but no photographs of spacecraft or space visitors resulted.
Solem’s idea was that if enough believers would assemble and put their minds to it, people from Venus would receive the message and respond to it.
Ferry Butte is minor as buttes go. It is a rounded hillock with an easy slope. Old folks can climb it. It’s nothing like Devil’s Tower – but Solem’s project was an eerie precedent to the movie “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.”
Curiosity seekers arrived, along with many Indians and some real believers in the Solem cause. Hathaway’s approach to the story would be that he was skeptical the first night, mildly convinced the second, gradually becoming a believer. It was an excellent yellow-journalism gambit. Management approved.
The vigil went on for a week or so. Hathaway complained of having a stiff neck from looking skyward for hours at a time, and suggested he should get extra monetary compensation for his physical pain. Management declined.
In the end, interest waned and no Venusians in space ships showed up. At least, we don’t think they did. Solem didn’t claim any visits either, saying people just hadn’t concentrated hard enough to call them.
A series of stories in a newspaper will usually lose reader interest after the third installment. We had seven or eight. The congregation on the butte diminished from 200 or so at the beginning to a dozen hard-liners.
After things died down, Solem came in again to my office and asked for coverage of a different aspect of his story.
He told me that he had built a gigantic shelter in a cave somewhere out in what Idaho people call “the lavas.”
Solem said the cave was made into a shelter from wind and weather and human invasion. He said he had built two giant wood and iron doors on huge hinges for this security. A space ship could enter this cave, according to Solem.
He wanted to take me and/or Hathaway to the site to demonstrate what he was up to. He required, though, that whoever went with him would have to be blindfolded to keep secret the location of the cave.
I declined this offer. Hathaway declined as well. I never saw Solem again. That I know of. I don’t think I saw Hathaway after that, either. That I know of.
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Words of the Week: Modus Operandi. Guess what. It’s Latin. Latin is so hard to understand. Modus Operandi means “method of operation.” It describes a procedure, as in “The modus operandi of the burglar was to hide in a restroom until the building was closed.”
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