An unexpected bungee jump

After Lana cleaned up from tipping over the birdbath, I turned my attention back to the underground antenna project that part of our science class was working on. There was an improved incentive too; as a large mining concern had expressed interest in helping to fund the venture. After a few hours of medium progress, I stepped outdoors for some fresh air and saw that Lana’s pink Porsche was gone. I had told her that she could stay over, but would have to use the guest room, as I needed some splendid isolation to focus properly.

*

Lana probably took this the wrong way, in light of the recent conversation we had about our old feelings racing back toward each other. However, as always, work came first for me, and this newfangled communications project was promising. While outside, I noticed that the porch light wasn’t actually burned out, but that somebody had unscrewed it and tucked it into an old robin’s nest. That was odd enough, but then in the reflection of the obsidian mirror sundial, I saw some items scattered about, presumably from Lana’s satchel, when she took her midnight spill. Leaning over to pick them up, I found a map with Amy’s house circled in red. Why would Lana need that? Suddenly, the thought crossed my mind that I should have presented Amy a pendulum with a more robust rock, or better yet some nunchucks. I hastily tried to ring Amy, but it went straight to voicemail.

*

I meditated for a moment and tried to conjure up some remote viewing powers. What I could see didn’t look good, so I rushed the pantechnivan over to Amy’s. Lana’s pink Porsche was parked by Amy’s driveway at the end of a long set of skid marks. Through the upstairs bay window, the action appeared chaotic; however I could only see one shadow. Insistently, I rang the bell, and pounded on the front door, but to no avail. I circled the perimeter to find every door locked tight. Meanwhile, the clamor from upstairs continued unabated.

*

Returning to the van, I macgyvered what was there, affixing a rope ladder to the house from a bungee-cord web. As an early season frost set in, I clambered up the makeshift ladder, trying to gain a grasp on the gutter. It was too slick though and I slipped off the edge. The bungee cord caught me and there I was, stuck dangling from my ankle, bouncing in Amy’s courtyard. Right then a police car screamed in and shined his bubblegum lights all over the place. Then through the loudspeaker, a sturdy voice demanded, “Freeze up right there Max Rudolph! This is your sheriff, Wilt Fleming!”

*

About the author: Although the speed limit has been reduced to 15 or 20 in many Hailey neighborhoods, the last time Jim Banholzer received a traffic infraction was in 1985.

Lana’s midnight shadow factor

*

Although I’ve long been infatuated with Lana, something about her had been bothering me; ever since the 4^th of July when she and I explored the subterranean tunnels that web beneath Hailey’s Main Street. Throughout the festive holiday she kept pressing me to disclose the secret location of the second silver-laden pantechnivan. Then, right before we celebrated the fireworks, I noticed Lana leafing through my personal journal in the library. That wouldn’t get her very far though, because I’ve written most of my notes in cryptic code. The thing that niggled at me the most was that when Lana and I embraced close on the Mint’s deck during the parade highlights, I noticed that she didn’t cast a shadow.

*

By having no shadow, I mean that as we hugged, I only saw one small silhouette on the north ground between the two of us. Granted the parade ends at the same time the sun is near zenith, but still; right when I noticed this strangeness, Lana made an excuse to dash inside The Mint, where the design of the lively dance hall makes it difficult to distinguish individual shadows. That evening too, as we walked out Quigley, it was too dark to say for sure, but every time a skyrocket went off, I noticed the same fleeting phenomena. Thinking back on it now, Lana chose a path, so we wouldn’t walk past any mercury vapor streetlamps. She seemed utterly determined to not reveal anything to me about her darkness.

*

What was I to make of this? Actually I hadn’t thought much about it since the holiday, and even less recently, now that sweet Amy had become a larger part of my life. Still though, there was something irresistible about Lana, and if she wasn’t way down in L.A., I would probably be more obsessed with her. Meanwhile, Amy graciously accepted the sage pendulum I had purchased from Holli Jewelers. After determining which way indicated ‘yes’ for her, Amy made it swing in a positive direction over dozens of queries. Finally, I asked her to focus on something to make the pendulum sway another way, and when she did, I sensed that she was asking the universe about Lana.

*

Since it was a school night, and I still needed to conduct some tests on the antenna in my home lab, Amy and I parted ways at McClain’s. After a few hours in the lab, I felt as though I was making some progress on the underground project, when suddenly both cockatiels started squawking up a storm. I laid down my earphones and heard a squeak at the front door. When I tried to flip the porch light on, it was burned out. By the light of the waning moon, I saw an unfamiliar car in my driveway – an expensive looking pink Porsche with shaded windows. To show I was unafraid, I thrust open the front door with great force and knocked the perpetrator to the end of the porch and head over heels into the birdbath. Lo and behold, it was Lana! And she was dressed to the tees there to surprise me. Now all soaked, I tried to yank her out of the birdbath, but it was unstable, and when I grabbed her wrist, we both came crashing down onto my obsidian mirror sundial. Lana said, “You’re all wet, Max Rudolph and about as clumsy as Maxwell Smart!” The water was warm in the nice evening as we lay together, catching our breaths with the cockatiels cooing in the background. It was amazing how fast my old feelings started rushing back again in Lana’s alluring presence, and suddenly I suspended my earlier criticisms, making myself blind to those silly questions about her elusive shadow.

*

About the author: Jim Banholzer once visited the Enola Gay warplane at the Smithsonian Institution, where he noticed that the lighting of the museum was such that no shadow was cast beneath the Bombay doors from where our first nuclear bomb exited.

Measuring Amy’s mood

It was great to be back at school instructing, and the first day was an emotional one for many of the parents, dropping their children off and snapping Polaroid’s for posterity. Some of my science class students had participated in the Chalk Cave spring field trip; so after we held a discussion about improving cave communications, half the class decided to work on a project for developing the newfangled underground antenna to further refinement.

After class, I walked down the quiet hall, carrying one of the multi-pronged antennas out to the van, when Amy suddenly whipped around the corner and one of my metal tentacles snagged on her golden hair. It took a few minutes for me to untangle her; and while brushing against Amy, I remembered the sensual flying dream we had experienced. Then as she looked at me with an unsettled gaze, I realized that I had absent-mindedly forgotten to tell her about the soaring dream! I guess it was so vivid, that I subconsciously assumed she already knew about it. But now with reality back on the radar, I folded the transmitter up, grabbed Amy’s hand in the hallway, and started to recollect the dramatic dream, demonstrating how we steered in the sky by using each others wrists as joysticks.

Amy smiled a few times, as I went on with the tale. At the part, where she showed me how to control our altitude through breathing; she said it felt like a fantasy straight out of Hesse’s Demian. Then, as I tried to ask Amy how her classes were going, she shot out, “Why haven’t you called me for three weeks, Max Rudolph!” I was left speechless, and after we parted ways, all the way home with the antenna annoyingly rattling around in the back of the pantechnicon; I realized that I should find a way to make it up to her.

While cruising north, the new speed limit of 45, gave me some constructive time to plan how to make things right again with Amy. The antenna bouncing around in the back, reminded me of various other unseen communication channels. Then it dawned on me that I should travel up to Hollie Jewelers to find Amy a pendulum so she can read my true intentions. As I walked into the jewelry store its high vibration reminded me of a holistic healing center or perhaps a church. While Leanne laid out a small array of pendulums on the counter, I immediately saw which one was Amy’s. It was the sage-green one; earthy, with tiny specks of star-shine glittering from its outer edge cuts. Leanne, kindly allowed me test the pendulum, and when I asked if it was right for Amy, it spun wildly in an affirmative direction.

I left Hollie Jewelers with a secure feeling of joy in my heart. The gift-wrapped pendulum would be a unique way to open the door for Amy to accept my apology. I even remembered to charge my cell phone this time, and as I drove the 45 mph back down valley, I called and asked if she could meet me again over at McClain’s Pizza, where I would surprise her with the dynamic gift.

About the author: Jim Banholzer has been practicing driving his pantechnicon at 45 mph in anticipation of the healthy new speed limit reduction.

Speed limit reductions have certain benefits

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Speed limit reductions have certain benefits

At first glance, the hard news that the speed limit between Ketchum and Hailey will be reduced to 45 may feel like a drag, but at the same time it can be healthy for us to remember that there are several benefits to this sweeping change.

When our traffic flows at 45, it will lessen animal / vehicle encounters. Not only will this horrible carnage of large mammals and peoples pets be reduced; but also the moderate speeds will give motorists smoother opportunities to merge into traffic, as well as offering us shorter braking distances for various quick emergencies, and improving fuel efficiency for most vehicles.

Furthermore, slowing down could inspire some motorists to better appreciate our valley’s scenic corridor. Cognizant drivers and passengers will have more time to soak up its sunny splendor, as the 45 mph will gift us with an ideal traveling rate for cloud-watching; constructively daydreaming about the physics of angels, or perhaps for better organizing in our heads, letters to the editor about other ways to improve the valley. Soon, the locals who have decided to live here and the tourists who enjoy visiting, who only blurred by our mid-valley majesty before, will begin noticing slow-motion trees in pocket-parks for later hugs.

Slower limits will give bus commuters more time to enjoy gazing out the window, or perhaps for absorbing a few more pages of the good book or newspaper they’re reading. Speed kills, and as Kris Stoffer points out in a recently related letter, many beloved community members have lost their lives or health on the human highway, and the time for this grand paradigm shift to an unhurried speed has now arrived.

Pink rabbits & phantasmagoric flying dreams

(Part one)

It was interesting to hear last week about Amy’s uplifting dream of us flying together over Hailey’s 4^th of July Fireworks, because I had a similarly powerful dream regarding sweet Amy back at our old Petit Lake family cabin. I haven’t been up to Petit for ten years, but recently went on Google Maps and flew around the woodsy neighborhood a bit. Something, I’ve always admired about my father, Rainier Rudolph; is that whenever he bought a house, it was always adjacent to some woods, giving us young rapscallions a healthy place to scamper around to release our energy.

*

In the dream, I awoke on Saturday daybreak and went outside, barefoot in red pajamas to collect an Idaho Statesman from our snowy driveway. In reality, we lived on the sleepy dead end, but in the dream, cars could now connect into the forest. In fact, it was a bustling thoroughfare now; for some elaborate racecars were speeding into the hilly woods up to Alice Lake, and one or two old jalopies were pulling out to return to civilization. Even though it was snowy, I was excited to be back, and to show Amy my treasured childhood summer home. We thought we should take an encompassing stroll around the Lake, while waiting for the newspaper. So, still barefoot, we walked east, to see several children shouting with squeals of glee, preparing to sleigh down our cabin hill. It was a magnificent morning for sledding, and we trudged up the knoll a way, to be closer to the enjoyment. Halfway to the pinnacle, the children easily maneuvered around us, in figure-eights on their toy-sleds. While we reached the top, we saw several more houses. The furthest yard was filled with dozens of other children, enjoying some festive event. The first few modern homes were quiet and dim, but the ancient house was where the action was. As we approached, we saw a great cauldron of stew boiling over a pit in the front yard, while the happy children continued to dart about, every which-way. It was a four-story grey house, and I tried to picture it from my past. I remembered it being an old house, even back when I was young. Then in the hub of activity, we spied the property owner. She was somebody, I knew from decades ago, but she hadn’t aged much. She had some wild grey curly hair around the fringes of her head, and everyone there respected her with high regard. Trying to be polite, I asked in a curious voice, above the merry din, “How old is this house?” She was elusive with her answer, but smiled, and then kindly but sternly, grabbed me around the forearms, saying, “I remember your kind Max; I had to straighten you and your brother out a few times, from some of the trouble you caused out here in the woods!” I thought that this wasn’t necessarily true, but perhaps there was a small element to what she spoke. We briefly conversed some more, then I asked what her name was. She spoke a name so peculiar that I knew instantly Amy and I would be incapable of remembering it.

To be continued…

~

Pink Rabbits & Phantasmagoric Flying Dreams - Part two

(Continued from last week)

It was as if the strange woman had cast a spell upon her obscure name, rendering it impossible to recollect, although, I do remember her long singular name had four “i’s” in it. She released us and we trotted a little further down the wet and rocky Petit Lake trail. As the snow melted in the late morning forest sun, I came upon two more houses that I remembered from childhood: the last one an old blue Victorian, facing Toxaway Loop. I vaguely recalled some sort of strange happenings there too, but couldn’t penetrate the decades-old memories to put my finger on it yet.

*

Suddenly, as I spun around in the wet mud, I realized that I was able to fly again. I grabbed a hold of Amy and we flew feet-first with our bare toes sticking out straight ahead of us. Remarkably, the fact that we were able to fly felt quite natural, as it usually does with such triumphant flying dreams. This incubated a thought that I would like to twist our bodies to face forward and fly like Superman and Superwoman to show the Petit-Lakeians what their prodigal son had learned, while gone ten years on vast Indiana Jones adventures. They will love this! -I thought in a powerful inner celebration, and they will talk about it for decades! The plan was for Amy and me to float slow-motion past the children’s clamor and their holiday cauldron, while giving them the broadest smiles we could possibly manage. However, when we tried to spin about, to fly face-first like Superheroes, something went off kilter with our inner gyroscopes. A queer anti-gravity force led us to a higher altitude, and unexpectedly we were soaring in fast motion clouds, directly behind four space pilots and four astronauts. Those high-flyers were all relying on spacesuits and other backup technologies, so we laughed at them, as we took wing on mind-power alone! It all felt quite fearless, but for some reason, Amy and I were unable to switch our inner gears back down to earth, no matter how hard we tried. Then finally Amy showed me the secret – that is, we could regulate our altitude by taking deep breaths, just like with scuba diving in Petit Lake.

*

Abruptly awakening to present day reality, I lay there motionless for several minutes, lightly buzzing about the powerful flying dream. Then, as the dreamscape partially melted, it occurred to me that those uncanny houses in the woods were never actually there, but rather had been places imagn’d from childhood dreams. Vivid places I occasionally revisited over the decades, where many events had taken shape and form – enough to record a small history deep in my subconscious. These made me wonder if this all was merely in my mind, or are our minds potentially more powerful than what our instructors taught, in earlier schools of thought? When we dream, do we somehow mysteriously connect to otherworldly dimensions, where ongoing ethereal events persist in parallel fashions?

*

Then I realized that I had been sleeping on a sofa with a cushion that Amy had specially embroidered for me. She emblazoned it with some cute animals, most notably some pink rabbits dancing on the pillow, which had been pressing softly against my dreamy head…

~

About the author: Once in the middle of an incredibly lucid dream Jim Banholzer tried to leave a phone voicemail to the waking world. He strongly felt like it went through, but when he awoke to check his messages he was disappointed to find massive nothingness.

Compound Whippersnappers

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Compound whippersnappers

I must have still had some spelunking left in these aged bones; because when Lana showed up unexpectedly to visit for Hailey’s 4^th of July celebration, I escorted her to the Mint, and from an underground room there felt compelled to reveal to her the secret subterranean chamber that webs beneath Hailey’s Main Street. As we spryly passed by the remnants of an old Chinese opium den, I joked that this would make a fitting place to set up a closed meeting to relax the fossils who are paranoid about shifting the airport to a safer position.

While showing Lana the underground door that exits into the Hailey Museum, suddenly some penny-candy dropped from one of the overhead vault openings and we realized that the popular parade had begun. We hustled back to Bruce’s basement, where an undercover Allen & Co. agent assisted us out of the black hole and over to a prime vantage point above the Mint’s balcony. Although we were surrounded by old friends; Lana appeared nervous and every time a firecrackhttp://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,940747,00.htmler popped, she jumped an inch closer. Soon we were holding hands and some of those strong sentimental feelings I had toward her started racing back.

At the high point of the procession, an unscripted fight broke out between two members of the shoot-out gang. Since they had already performed earlier, this made it difficult momentarily to distinguish what was real and what was fiction; until a noble mechanic single-handedly dispersed the actual fisticuffs, moments before local authorities arrived at the surreal scene.

After the heat of this explosiveness, that evening, Lana and I strolled out Quigley to witness the fireworks. Although it lasted barely twenty minutes, it was a fine presentation, and there were a few sizzlers I hadn’t seen since Love American Style. Equally notable was the small number of walkers who had hiked this short distance, as even through the weather was fine; most of the rocket watchers had driven over in a second slow parade.

The next day Lana flew out of town like a blissful comet. Meanwhile, I had been thinking quite a lot about Amy and the inspiring way she interacts with people and pets. For some reason though, we’d been having a difficult time reconnecting. During a long squawk around the library, my cockatiel’s Sheila and Joe had become entangled in the landline, yanking the wire from the wall. Since the walls are 18-inch thick cement, it requires a special drill before I can fix the phone. In addition, the solid cave-like properties of the house creates weak cell reception; so the only time I can reach Amy is when I’m out walking Bud. For the last two weeks, we’ve been mostly misconnecting. Maybe I should suggest that we meet together in person sometime again soon, perhaps for a nice slice at McClain’s.

About the author: After waking from last winter’s long hibernation, Jim Banholzer realized that he had incurred a mild case of Dunlap’s disease; whereby his belly had ‘done lapped’ clean over his belt. For treatment, he skipped pizza for forty long days; and now, since the belt has returned to its old healthy notch, he’s strongly dreaming about a scrumptious pepperoni / pesto pie.

Further map puzzles plus two lovebirds

After the children emerged from the depths of Chalk Cave, we placed the series of collected map parchments on the pantechnivan lift-gate and blew the old dust off. Half of the children crowded there with me, while the other half stood with Amy under the ancient desert arch and pored over the rare Salinger book with great interest.

I knew these maps well, but even after studying them into the wee hours many nights, I still had a hard time fathoming how the ancient ones were the most accurate; especially when considering that the ground here expanded with a new lava flow, a mere 27 years ago. How in the world could the oldest maps in the group, hundreds of years old, have known about this future event and been delineated with such fine matching detail? Could it have something to do with the ancient arch and what local indigenous people sometimes whisper about? After all, there are transformative wormholes in the universe; so why not one here in our stunning Picabo desert, next to the future airport?

Meanwhile, I had more pressing earthly needs to attend to. As Amy and I caravanned separately back to the Wood River Valley, I sensed that she would want to know where my relationship with Lana stood. Amy already knew that I much preferred love over war; but now I would have to gently break her news that I’m polyamorous. As I parked the van in the drive, I saw that my cockatiel Sheila was still outside, pecking at the living room window. This was puzzling to the max, because twenty minutes ago, while emerging from Timmermans dead spot; I saw that Amy had texted me about Sheila’s great escape and return. When I pulled the door open, Sheila streaked straight for the cage, where there was another cockatiel locked inside. Wait a minute now - which one was the real Sheila and which the pseudo-Sheila? The two birds resembled each other so well that they could have functioned as each other’s Doppelgangers. Fortunately, I had methodically trained Sheila to respond to my prompts in meaningful anagrams. So when I called out “Drunken Sailors!” from inside the cage the real Sheila immediately squawked back “Darkens oil runs!”

At this juncture, I unlatched the birdcage to let the two Sheila’s become better acquainted, while swapping out the bottom lining for some fresh newspaper. Soon, the birds made it clear that the second Sheila was not another female and that they would make a good mating couple.

As I ambled over to the map table to grab a large magnifying glass, I noticed that the real Sheila’s song was less discordant than usual, which made me believe that it would be a nice change, to listen to her fulfilled melody enhance the library background. Then, as I set down to study the esoteric map information closer, Amy rang my phone and I asked her if she had any good names for a strutting male cockatiel.

About the Author: Jim Banholzer is mostly a quiet hermit; but he could surprise you with an occasional glint of hope.

Team efforts and seed ideas

After the first two braves shimmied through Chalk Cave’s teensy rock mouth opening, we sent in three more pairs of well-equipped students each succeeding hour. I had mixed feelings about bringing communications into the cavern, as caves are well known for being hallowed sanctuaries from the powerful bombardment of our communication spectrum. However, since our tech students had invented this novel antenna, which they had spiked into the soil above Chalk Cave’s elongated passageways, this would be a good means for us to test and fine-tune their new underground radio transmission system.

*

Meanwhile, Amy and I climbed back up the ridge and over the dually van to discuss what to do about its flat tire. I was hesitant to hoist it up on a jack, since it was bulging with the extra weight of heavy silver; when Amy observed that since it was only one of four rear tires, we could still operate the pantechnicon by shredding the rest of the ruined tire clean off. Seeing no better tool than the spear point, which first caused the flat, we used it to slice the remaining rubber remnants away. Next, I shot a Polaroid of the spear points’ black mirror face, and posted it to my adventurous Max Rudolph facebook page. Then we used the same weapon to burrow a hole in the hard earth to return the artifact where it belonged; hopefully burying it deep enough so nobody else would experience a flat tire there for another five hundred years.

*

The afternoon was turning late, when we received communication that the first group had discovered the Salinger & mysterious map parchments Lana and I had hid in the lava tube last year - and they would soon be returning with it. They also reported that the strange luminous humming was continuous throughout the cave depths and they couldn’t pinpoint the exact source from where it stemmed. As Amy and I waited along with the remaining schoolchildren, we studied the vast landing where our community’s wise elders had rallied together as a cohesive team and slated the new airport to be. Here we marveled over some of its pros and cons. Then we popped the question to the children, what they thought if we were to work out a unique deal with the authorities, whereby our class could have a supporting role with the new airport. “What do you mean, like a de-icing / car wash for airplanes or something? – quizzed one of the kids.

*

What the children didn’t know was, since last year after coming into possession of the enlightening maps that our crew was about to extract from the cave, I had worked out a legal claim over the forty untaken acres. Standing under the ancient wooden arch gave a better perspective, as from the light there; we could see that the lava terrain of our new land clearly held a darker color then the surrounding sun-parched earth did. I remembered hearing that during the Borah earthquake of ‘83 that there were some heavy rumblings in the Picabo Desert and wondered if the earth here at the time had expanded unnoticed with a small lava flow, thus giving birth to this uncharted land. Later on, an INL seismologist confirmed this to be true and right now beautiful Amy’s star struck eyes practically popped out when I formerly announced that this land ripe for claiming next to the new airport would soon be ours and the silver safely tucked away would fund whatever positive foundation we wanted to construct upon it…

About the author:

Twice when Jim Banholzer has taken Polaroid’s of indigenous artifacts, unusually colored swirls, not noticed before, have inexplicably appeared in the background. He lives in an old dynamite shack, where he feels fairly safe from the over bombardment of outer communication influences. Not turning the TV on much, except for baseball or the Discovery Channel, helps this mood. At this stage in his life, he feels like his man-cave is a good energy spot, somewhat conducive to productive writing.

Max’s map irregularities – Chapter 17

I slept a bit uneasy after setting off the car alarm, right when the time seemed perfect for Amy and me to share our first sweet kiss by the romantic sage grouse lek setting. The next morning we awoke to a warm sun at the Trapezoid Lake campsite and when I glanced over at Amy, for a fleeting moment I saw a million stars still reflecting in her twinkling eyes. Then, as we watched the remaining grouse fly off in pairs to a northern place of wisdom; one of the students remarked it didn’t look as if they soared very high and wondered how the new adjacent airport would affect this magnificent bird migration. Our own decampment would be a short one too, and after dousing the smoldering fire, Amy helped me hitch our camp gear up to the silver pantechnicon. Then we navigated along with the children in the school bus, up the isolated desert road, over to nearby Chalk Cave.

☼☼

We pulled through an ancient wooden arch, to a clearing in the tall sage, and came to a loud popping halt. A sharp obsidian spear point sticking out of the gravel had punctured one of the dually van’s rear tires; but at least it was at the same spot where we wanted to park. We would deal with the flat later, for now we were at today’s destination. And although we were within 50 feet of the cave, it took several minutes before any of the students noticed the jagged mouth opening. Behind the schoolchildren, I squeezed Amy’s hand tight as we clambered down past a juvenile owl pecking at a pile of brown rattlesnake eggs in the hot rocks. After cautiously passing the guardians, we felt a cool breeze emerging from the tiny lava stone entrance. This desert quietude held a dissimilar vibe than the Wood River Valley and as we listened closely, it sounded uncannily as if the cave mouth was whispering a message for greater mankind. It was almost celestial noon and though our shadows were small, the barely detectable voice singing from somewhere in the cave depths had everyone’s hair on edge.

☼☼☼

Two of our tech students set up an elaborate portable antenna they had invented, and spiked it into the rough terrain above the cave. This newfangled device would enable us better communications throughout the cavern and not only that, but it also had a recording mechanism attached. Then, the same young braves volunteered to spelunk headfirst into the darkness. Meanwhile, since Amy had been observing our schoolchildren through rosy Holden Caulfield filtered glasses lately, I wondered how she would react when she discovered that Lana and I had previously stashed a mile within the lava tube, a rare copy of Salinger’s Ocean Full of Bowling Balls. Although this great unpublished work is not supposed to be released until fifty years after Salinger’s death; the preceding year I had visited Princeton’s tightly controlled Firestone Library where the only public copy available is kept; and then through several fortnights of burning the midnight ethanol; I rigorously committed the fine work to memory; before meticulously hand scribing a second copy. This uncommon duplicate now laid in a wooden box eight furlongs deep within the climate-preserving walls of Chalk Cave. And as an added bonus; within this good medicine box, laid a series of parchments – several official maps that indicated some unclaimed land, somehow overlooked all these years by various government agencies. Moreover this unspoken-for tract of free land lay smack-dab between Chalk Cave and the proposed airport taxiway’s south perimeter!

About the author: After mostly conquering his claustrophobia, Jim Banholzer has shyly spurlunkered in several Virginia and Idaho caves. Only once has a Guardian rattler struck at him, but its wicked bite merely pierced the jeans and not the flesh. Someday he would be curious to peep through the wormhole of a mysterious ancient desert arch.

Catcher in the sage

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Catcher in the Sage

(version one)

Soon after secreting away one of the silver-laden pantechnicons in a remote high desert area; I rendezvoused with Amy and the bus-load of eager school children she had driven down for our overnight field trip at Trapezoid Lake. By evening twilight we gathered enough dry sage for a small campfire near the wall tents, along with some out-of-this-world rabbit stew that Amy had cooked up. As nearby planets etched their elliptical orbits against the Milky Way’s silvery fog, the children appetites were whet for story time.

Feeling like a young Ivan Swaner, spinning a fanciful tale, I recounted how we had discovered substantial silver in the cairns, aided by Clark’s anagram clue. As the sage grouse settled down in the background from their ritualistic mating dances; I announced to the children that they would soon have some input as to how we should invest the second silver wagon stuffed full of cash. I glanced at Amy across the smoky campfire, and as she leaned with Bud against the wagon, something good stirred inside me. I appreciated how she had taken care of my pets while I was on the wild Red House, Nevada adventure; and now she had even brought the schoolchildren down for this beautiful spring overnight excursion. I was starting to look at her in a brighter light, when suddenly that well-worn copy of Catcher in the Rye flashed at me from her back pocket.

All of a sudden, I practically snapped. Just when I thought that Amy was somebody that I could start spending some quality time with, Holden Caulfield stood brazenly in the way. My hand snatched the cursed book from her pocket and in one motion flung it angrily toward the sputtering campfire. It bounced off a river rock and opened to the page where Holden was trying to scrub off some expletive graffiti from his school wall. Some of our schoolchildren were aghast; for this was a side of me they were unaccustomed to seeing. My voice had risen and I started lecturing Amy that she was allowing herself to become snared by the wrong books. I sternly warned her about poring over this dangerous book; especially if she was going to have it near the children. And with that, and my drumming voice overpowered the last sage grouse murmurs, signifying an end to the spring mating season. To top it off, I howled at Amy, “Why don’t you try reading, a couple of nice zesty Vardis Fisher romance novels, instead?”

Fortunately, by then, several of the schoolchildren had already drifted off to sleep under the peaceful stars. I apologized for my loud intensity to the handful still awake, a little late for me to consider that some of them probably never camped out before and may have been easily frightened. But none seemed too upset. On the contrary, it felt as they were gaining a valuable learning experience - which is exactly what field trips are made for. And for the second half of our outing we would be dragging the second silver pantechnicon wagon over to Chalk Cave, near the new airport location.

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Courting in the Sage

(version two)

Soon after secreting away one of the silver-laden pantechnicons in a remote high desert area; I rendezvoused with Amy and the bus-load of eager school children she had driven down for our overnight field trip at Trapezoid Lake. By evening twilight we gathered enough dry sage for a small campfire near the wall tents, along with some out-of-this-world rabbit stew that Amy had cooked up. As nearby planets etched their elliptical orbits against the Milky Way’s silvery fog, the children appetites were whet for story time.

Feeling like a young Ivan Swaner, spinning a fanciful tale, I recounted how we had discovered substantial silver in the cairns, aided by Clark’s anagram clue. As the sage grouse settled down in the background from their ritualistic mating dances; I announced to the children that they would soon have some input as to how we should invest the second silver wagon stuffed full of cash. I glanced at Amy across the smoky campfire, and as she leaned with Bud against the wagon, something good stirred inside me. I appreciated how she had taken care of my pets while I was on the wild Red House, Nevada adventure; and now she had even brought the schoolchildren down for this beautiful overnight excursion. I was starting to look at her in a brighter light, when suddenly that well-worn copy of Catcher in the Rye flashed at me from her back pocket.

My first inclination was to snatch this cursed book and thrust it toward the sputtering campfire. But then, I caught myself, and remembered how this book has some redeeming qualities, once you learn how to read between the lines. Plus; there was no sense in making a scene in front of the schoolchildren, and tarnishing the sage-grouse courting ritual we had brought them down here for. I could tell that they were into this natural ceremony too, as, when I went into the wall tent to check my e-mail before retiring; I noticed that the group had posted the video of the wildly fluttering grouse they had filmed, onto my Max Rudolph facebook wall.

As the children began to drift off under the starry skies, I delicately reminded them that tomorrow would also be a big day for our group, as we planned to explore that sacred cave area, near where the fresh airport would be built. I wanted them to envision how this proposed project would play a large part in their futures, as well as letting them have an actual say on its impact. Before retiring, Amy and I drew near, and held each other close by the campfire, with the sage grouse romantically murmuring in our background. Like the book in her back pocket, it slowly dawned on me that that there was much more depth to Amy than I had initially recognized; and in this awakening spring atmosphere, I suddenly wanted to learn everything good about her… 

 

To be continued…

About the author: Like Holden Caulfield the author wishes that he could scrub off every bad graffiti expletive from the world’s walls, so his little sister would not have to face its terrible ugliness.

Max’s Anagram Bonanza

(Final version for May 19 edition of The Weekly Paper)

As our search for hidden treasure continued around the parched Clarksville ranch, we didn’t unearth any notables that first day, or the next. Soon, it was going to be time to hightail it back to the Wood River Valley and I didn’t want to return empty-handed. We were low on water and beer anyway, so for the last evening, my friends and I returned to the hoppin’ Red House bar.

Aaron picked up an old menu from the dusty table at the entrance. Why they had menus, I had no clue, because they only served burgers and beer. The atmosphere of the place could have used a “Sorry, we’re open” sign, too. Why, Dugout Dick’s caves in Salmon offered a more comfortable ambiance than here. Suddenly, I noticed on the reverse of Aaron’s menu some familiar handwriting – the same quirky handwriting style from the puzzling map we had quizzed over for days. At the bottom of the Red House bar menu, barely legible, was scrawled in green ink smudges: “Look in Arson Crick –signed Clark.” That was our answer! As usual, Clark was speaking to us through cipher and now he had left us another beyond-the-grave clue. From our long cryptic talks together, Clark knew that I had acquired a taste for snappy anagrams, as well as spicy hamburgers, in my worldly travels. I’m sure he chuckled as he calculated that I would eventually come across his clue at the Red House, Nevada bar. “Look in Arson Crick” was an anagram for “Look in Rock Cairns!”

After re-supplying some liquid provisions, we sped back to Clarksville and held my metal detector against the heart of first cairn we approached. When I set the sensor to silver, the gauge went haywire, so I flicked it off and we carefully stripped the balanced rocks down to their foundations. Inside each jagged cairn, Clark, or some cooper, had sealed hundreds of uncirculated Liberty Dollars into dozens of cork casks. We were going to need to hire a couple of Nevadan pantechnicons to safely extract this shimmering coinage before transporting it northward. I rang Amy, who was petsitting Bud and Tweet; and with a silver smile, explained I was going to be a few days late and that I had a grand secret. I then asked if she could make arrangements for an overnight field trip for the schoolchildren. Amy and I wanted to show them a mating ritual, in part to celebrate my newfound wealth. This was the perfect time of year to see the male sage grouse strut their stuff near Trapezoid Lake, then afterward, we would all ambulate over to Chalk Cave, where, although I had some definitive ideas about how to transform my newfound wealth into dynamic action with that land near the new airport, I was curious to ask the children that I had taught all year for their constructive ideas. This special cave would make the ideal backdrop.

About the author: Jim Banholzer enjoys fiction, and sometimes is astounded when discovering that some of the characters there, grow to become more three-dimensional than many real people do.

Max’s Anagram Bonanza

As our search for hidden treasure continued around the parched Clarksville ranch, we didn’t unearth any notables that first day, or the next. Soon, it was going to be time to high-tail it back to the Wood River Valley and I didn’t want to return empty-handed. We were low on water and beer anyway, so for the last evening my friends and I returned to the hoppin’ Red House bar.

Aaron picked up an old menu from the dusty table at the entrance. Why they had menus, I had no clue –because they only served burgers and beer. The atmosphere of the place could have used a “Sorry, we’re open” sign, too. Why; Dugout Dick’s caves in Salmon offered a more comfortable ambiance than here. Suddenly, I noticed on the reverse of Aaron’s menu some familiar handwriting – the same quirky handwriting style from the puzzling map we had quizzed over for days. At the bottom of the Red House bar menu, barely legible, was scrawled in green ink smudges: “Look in Arson Crick –signed Clark.” That was our answer! As usual, Clark was speaking to us through cipher and now he had left us another beyond-the-grave clue, as “Look in Arson Crick” was an anagram for “Look in Rock Cairns!”

After re-supplying some liquid provisions, we sped back to Clarksville and held my metal detector against the heart of first cairn we approached. When I set the sensor to silver, the gauge went haywire, so I flicked it off, and we carefully stripped the balanced rocks down to their foundations. Inside each jagged cairn, Clark or some cooper had sealed hundreds of uncirculated Liberty Dollars into dozens of cork casks. We were going to need to hire a couple of Nevadan pantechnicons to safely extract this shimmering coinage before transporting it northward. I rang Amy, who was watching my dog Bud and Tweet the bird; and with a silver smile, explained I was going to be a few days late and that I had a grand secret. I then asked if she could make arrangements for an overnight field-trip for the schoolchildren, so that Amy and I could show them a mating ritual, in part to celebrate my newfound wealth. This was the perfect time of year to see the male sage grouse strut their stuff near Trapezoid Lake and then afterward we would all ambulate over to Chalk Cave, where, although I had some definitive ideas about how to transform my newfound wealth into dynamic action, with that land near the new airport, I was curious to ask the children that I had taught all year for their constructive ideas and this special cave would make an ideal backdrop for that.

About the author: Jim Banholzer enjoys fiction, and sometimes is astounded when discovering that some of the characters there, grow to become more three-dimensional than many real people do.