Category Archives: 2015-08, August 2015 (Jerusalem Valley)

On Tour

We loaded in early to the Flipside Lounge in Pocatello, parked the rig, and hit the closest espresso joint to shake off the cragginess. It’s the first gig on a nineteen-date tour, and everyone is getting along. So far. This time out we have two bands—RevoltRevolt and a punk band supporting us called Mindrips—which means eight guys in a RV pulling a trailer. It sleeps six in beds, one person takes the floor, and I take the roof. Viva la stench! Continue reading

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Posted on by Christopher Bock / Leave a comment

My Walk in the Frank

The memories ebb and flow, from crystal clarity to blurry amalgam. Some things do not dim: the sight of the night sky full of brilliant stars, the smell of pine and smoke sticking to one’s clothes, the bend of the rod and pull on the line, and the sparkling flash of a fish as it breaches the water’s surface. These do not fade. Continue reading

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Posted on by John "Stan" Stanfield / Leave a comment

The Land of the Free and the Very . . .

I spent the Independence Day holiday in Sun Valley this year. With its rodeos, parades, fireworks, Asian rug sales, live bands, egg tosses, and slippery slides, I challenge you to find a more all-American place to spend America’s birthday. Okay, I pretty much just described every town in Idaho—if I leave out the Persian rugs. Continue reading

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Posted on by Steve Carr / Leave a comment

Back from the Brink

My spouse Jim is an avid fisherman. Did I say avid? He’s a fanatic about fishing. When I told him I was driving down to the new Springfield Fish Hatchery for sockeye salmon to interview the manager and have a tour of the facility there, he was more than ready to accompany me. “I’ll be your photographer,” he announced. Continue reading

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Posted on by Geraldine Mathias / Leave a comment

Flatlanders

This particular long-haired guy was newly arrived in McCall from Los Angeles, which had the risible reputation of a laid-back place. Laid back if you were from New York maybe, or Tokyo, but hardly to the early-twenties crowd slouching around the porch of Lardo Saloon & Dance Hall, across the street from Payette Lake. Let’s call the newcomer Jake, because I barely knew him and certainly can’t pluck his real name from the entangled ecosystems of memory spanning four decades, and more important anyway is what everyone called him. We called him a Flatlander, the same thing we called everybody else who drove against the down-rush of the Payette River up the twisty highway from Boise to the lake in the mountains. Continue reading

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Posted on by Steve Bunk / Leave a comment

The Impresario of Readings

By Ron McFarland

She could not, would not fly. This poet, whose books boasted such titles as Cruelty and Killing Floor and most recently Sin was, it seemed, afraid to fly. At that moment twenty-odd years ago, she embodied the very definition of edginess and wrath and poetic violence. But she would not fly. Continue reading

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Posted on by Ron McFarland / Leave a comment

The Daylilies

My mother had a way with plants, and her flowers were a summer-long frenzy of color.

She always planted daylilies, their long stems holding up orange clumps of color to the height of car windows passing by the southwestern corner of our Boise property. This was one-half of a block of land my folks bought in 1947, when I was two. The block was a garden and cow pasture owned by a Mr. Quarbridge, who had never developed it. Continue reading

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Posted on by Dean Worbois / Leave a comment