26 10 9812 https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/60a84b89aa039f6deebc7a982d00df78.tif 59d57b543aaaa620dbd33d3bf4297afd Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 8th Grade Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a> <em>Expression</em> claims first North American rights to submissions selected for publication. All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication. Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2025 Type The nature or genre of the resource Image Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource John De Hoyos Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA_04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2025_Art_01 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource TIF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/ca29ab3413183a4713c86f92a5cdefec.pdf 773ad27f91b6d3688bfff0a6eff3c0af Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wyoming Symphony Orchestra Posters Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/</a> Description An account of the resource This collection consists of digitized Wyoming Symphony Orchestra posters available for research use through the Goodstein Foundation Library. The archives of the Orchestra consist of programs, posters, photographs, scrapbooks, notebooks, records, and ephemera produced by the Wyoming Symphony Orchestra. Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Wyoming Symphony Orchestra Archives, NCA 01.i.2024.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context NCA 01.i.2024.01_WyomingSymphony_Posters Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Wyoming Symphony Orchestra Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Poster Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource A Brasstacular Christmas with Ryan Anthony Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC/1.0/ Description An account of the resource Poster for the Wyoming Symphony Orchestra's Brasstacular Christmas Performance with Ryan Anthony, December 5th and 6th, at Wheeler Concert Hall, Casper College. This poster is a part of the Wyoming Symphony Orchestra Archives made available for research use by the Goodstein Foundation Library Special Collections. The archives of the Orchestra consist of programs, posters, photographs, scrapbooks, notebooks, records, and ephemera produced by the Wyoming Symphony Orchestra. Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Wyoming Symphony Orchestra Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Wyoming Symphony Orchestra Archives, NCA 01.i.2024.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context NCA 01.i.2024.01_Posters, BrasstacularChristmas Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Text https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/63cdf6bd4fdf05099b492367d258f851.pdf a2a48ea4aae09d23f2f069e4348e865c PDF Text Text i A CENTURY OF LOVE: rA New Interpretation of Shakespeare’s Sonnets �THE PREMIERE LECTURE in The Margaret Demorest Lectures in the Humanities A CENTURY OF LOVE: A New Interpretation of Shakespeare’s Sonnets by Margaret Demorest Casper College Casper, Wyoming Gertrude Krampert Theatre February 7, 1986 �THE MARGARET DEMOREST LECTURES IN THE HUMANITIES "A Century of Love” is the culminating program in the month-long 1986 Humanities Festival at Casper College; the lecture is the first in an annual lecture series which was created by Casper College in 1985 in honor of retiring instructor Margaret Demorest. It is funded by the Casper College Foundation and private donors. The purpose is to encourage research in the humanities and to provide programs which demonstrate the value that the humanities have in our lives. Each year a lecturer will be chosen on the basis of the originality of the proposal, its value as a contribution to the humanities, and the interest which the topic will hold for the public. Eligible to apply as a lecturer for this program is anyone whose research enhances some area of the humanities: art, music, drama, literature, foreign languages, philosophy, history, anthropology, or law. For more information write to: The Margaret Demorest Lecture Series Casper College 125 College Drive Casper. WY 82601 Funding for the 1986 Humanities Festival has been provided by Casper College Foundation Private Donations Wyoming Council for the Humanities Co-sponsored by Natrona County School District No. I Natrona County Public Library ARTCORE �CONTRIBUTORS Alpha Delta Kappa, Gamma Chapter Carolyn Deuel Norman and Anna Marie Ball Mrs. Beatrice Batten Mrs. Norma Bay Ms. Jane Bovie Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dorsey Mr. and Mrs. Robert Dove O. E. "Swede” Erickson Mr. and Mrs. Whitney A. Bradley William and Marietta Estabrook Mr. William F. Bragg, Jr. Ms. Betty Evenson Mrs. Sharon Brondos Dr. Robert and Madeline Brown Mrs. Rose Forrister Susanne (Sue) Barber Brubaker Fremont Beverages, Inc Ann Gaviotis Georgia Gaviotis Evelyn Brummond and James Herb Ms. Ann Burke Diane M. Ernst Mrs. Joan Fredriksen Mr. and Mrs. Brian Burke Dan and Ellen Burke Ms. Jean Goedicke Mr. and Mrs. Michael Burke Mrs. Johnnie Burton Mr. and Mrs. Paul Hallock Casper Business and Professional Mrs. Mary Hein Mr. and Mrs. James Herzog Women Greg and Karla Greenlee Rick and Verna Harker Ms. Laura A. Butler Mrs. Wilma Hoffman Dr. and Mrs. Robert K. Carlson Mrs. Phoebe Holzinger Robert and Shirley Jacob Marsha Hagen Jenkins Mr. Harold Josendal Bill and Jan Chambers Representative Dick Cheney Dr. Celeste Colgan Diane Collins Kinskey Mini Mart Foundation Mr. Ray Cook Ms. Julie A. Klinker Ms. Katherine Dexter Cottam Mr. John T. Daniels Arlene Larson Miguel and Sandy Leotta Don and Charlene Davis Gary and Karen Lewis Mrs. Kate Davis Ms. Melanie L’Hoste �Ms. Nancy Lichty Dr. and Mrs. Lloyd Loftin Carolyn Logan Ms. Maggi Lo)o Ronald and Lois Sargent Ms. Margaret Schilling Dr. William Seese Jim and Elaine Lowham Senator Alan Simpson Peter and Lynne Simpson Mr. Gus Luers Mr. John Stalick Mary MacDonald Mr. and Mrs. Tom Stroock Ms. Cynthia Matthews Mr. and Mrs. Richard Means Mr. and Mrs. Randall Stutheit Mr. and Mrs. Dan Sullivan Mr. Patrick Meenan Mr. R. W. Miracle Ms. Dyann Morrison William and Nona Muller Mr. and Mrs. Lynn Munns Nick and Maggi Murdock Wilhelm and Heather Ossa Mrs. Mary Thomas Mr. Clarence Thompson Mr. and Mrs. H. A. (Dave) True, Jr. Mr. and Mrs. Diemer True Mr. N. P. Van Maren, Jr. Robert and Patricia Walker Mr. and Mrs. Dave Paden Robert J. and Annetta Walker Mr. Mike Swanton Curtis and Ellen Peacock Robert and Janet Walkinshaw Mrs. George Porter Mr. Herb Waterman Ms. Janet Waterman Mr. L. B. Putnam Mr. Craig Radden Ms. Jackie Watters Dr. Melon Raines Mr. and Mrs. Fred Wenn Mr. Bayard D. Rea Stan and Jean Wheatley Kenneth and Margaret Reed Mrs. Lola Reynolds Cecil and Carolyn Rhodes Mr. and Mrs. Lou Rognstad Mr. Houston G. Williams Mrs. Mary Frances Wilson Mr. and Mrs. Paul Wolz Ms. Kristin L. Rose Justice Robert R. Rose, Jr. Ms. Nadine W. Yocum Dr. Gail Zimmerman Ron and Alice Wicks �COMMITTEE FOR THE 1986 HUMANITIES FESTIVAL Paul Wolz, Chairman Paul Hallock Lloyd Agte Shirley Jacob Karen Lewis Rodney Mahaffey Barbara Crews Charlene Davis Margaret Demorest Ralph Masterson Curtis Peacock Tom Empey COMMITTEE FOR THE MARGARET DEMOREST LECTURES IN THE HUMANITIES Charlene Davis. Chairman Brian Burke Margaret Demorest Tom Empey Shirley Jacob Nona Muller Curtis Peacock Photography; Lighting Technician: Festival Posters: Donna Davis Douglas DeWoody Mark Weaver and Jeff Thompson Music; The Metropolitan Brass Quintet William Bailey Trey Demond Andrew Lund Lee Malody Roger Fenner Ushers: Phi Theta Kappa Stage properties courtesy of Plaim Furniture �PROGRAM "A CENTURY OF LOVE: A NEW INTERPRETATION OF THE SONNETS” The Metropolitan Brass Renaissance Music Quintet Welcome Dr. Lloyd Loftin President, Casper College Introduction Brian Burke Margaret Demorest Lecture (The content of this lecture is extracted from Prologue to Irigedy, copyright 1986 by Margaret Demorest.) A reception in the foyer and the student lounge of the Theatre will follow the lecture. �ABOUT THE SONNETS OF SHAKESPEARE The Sonnets of Shakespeare have been called "our greatest, perhaps our only, true love poems.” The customary interpretation is that they are autobiographical. Though the period of composition is uncertain, they are written in a tradition which became popular in England with the writing of a sonnet sequence by Sir Philip Sidney in 1582. Shakespeare’s Sonnets, with the exception of two sonnets printed in a collection of 1599, were not published until 1609, when Thomas Thorpe, a publisher of questionable reputation, entered them in the Stationer’s Register. By then Elizabeth I had been dead for six years and James was on the throne. The initials "T.T.” follow the dedication to a mysterious "Mr. W.H.” There is no evidence that Shakespeare authorized this publication or even that he arranged the order in which the sonnets appear. The original version carries no titles except arabic numerals. With the exception of one undated notation of purchase, there is no reference to the Sonnets until 1640, when most of them were reprinted by Benson along with other poems, though in altered order. Critics assume that the silence of more than thirty years indicates that the original version must have been suppressed by the authorities; there is no apparent reason. The Sonnets consist of 154 stanzas loosely held together by a vague plot uncharacteristic of Shakespeare’s method. One sonnet alone suggests a specific event—an anniversary. The only clearly unified group is the opening section where seventeen sonnets known as the "Procreation Section" plead with someone to marry and preserve his excellence in children. Approximately three-fourths of the sequence depicts a young man—apparently an aristocrat— who is referred to as the "Fair Friend,” a term which has been attached to the section celebrating this relationship—Sonnets I to 126. The portion which follows is centered around the other major character—a treacherous "Dark Lady.” She seems to be present briefly in the Fair Friend section between Sonnets 39 and 43. The only other character is a Rival Poet who flatters the loved one while the speaker-poet insists on truth. This section extends from #79 through #85 and is illustrated mainly with naval imagery. Though many writers have speculated as to the identity of these characters, no evidence has been conclusive. The absence of a source (some existing work on which Shakespeare based his writing) has added to the difficulty of interpreting the Sonnets. �SONNETS by SHAKESPEARE (1609 Quarto Version) #1 From fairest creatures we desire increase That thereby beauties Rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heire might beare his memory: But thou contracted to thine owne bright eyes, Feed’st thy lights flame with selfe substantial! fewell. Making a famine where aboundance lies. Thy selfe thy foe, to thy sweet selfe too cruell: Thou that art now the worlds fresh ornament. And only herauld to the gaudy spring. Within thine owne bud buriest thy content. And tender chorle makst wast in niggarding: Pitty the world, or else this glutton be. To eate the worlds due, by the grave and thee #3 Looke in thy glasse and tell the face thou vewest, Now is the time that face should forme an other. Whose fresh repaire if now thou not renewest, Thou doo’st beguile the world, unblesse some mother. For where is she so faire whose un-eard wombe Disdaines the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tombe Of his selfe love to stop posterity? Thou art thy mothers glasse and she in thee Calls backe the lovely Aprill of her prime. So thou through windowes of thine age shalt see, Dispight of wrinkles this thy goulden time. But if thou live remembred not to be. Die single and thine Image dies with thee. �#9 Is it for feare to wet a widdowes eye; That thou consum’st thyselfe in single life? Ah; if thou issuelesse shalt hap to die The world will waile thee like a makelesse wife The world wilbe thy widdow and still weepe That thou no forme of thee hast left behind, When every privat widdow well may keepe By childrens eyes, her husbands shape in minde: Looke what an unthrift in the world doth spend Shifts but his place for still the world injoyes it But beauties waste hath in the world an end. And kept unusde the user so destroyes it: No love toward others in that bosome sits That on himselfe such murdrous shame commits. #16 But wherefore do not you a mightier waie Make warre uppon this bloudie tirant time? And fortifie your selfe in your decay With meanes more blessed then my barren rime? Now stand you on the top of happie houres, And many maiden gardens yet unset. With vertuous wish would beare your living flowers. Much liker then your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repaire Which this (Times pensel or my pupill pen) Neither in inward worth nor outward faire Can make you live your selfe in eies of men. To give away your selfe, keeps your selfe still. And you must live drawne by your owne sweet skill. �#18 Shall I compare thee to a Summers day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough windes do shake the darling buds of Maie, And Sommers lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d. And every faire from faire some time declines, By chance, or natures changing course untrim’d: But thy eternall Sommer shall not fade. Nor loose possession of that faire thou ow’st. Nor shall death brag thou wandr’st in his shade. When in eternall lines to time thou grow’st. So long as men can breath or eyes can see. So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. #23 As an unperfect actor on the stage. Who with his feare is put besides his part. Or some fierce thing repleat with too much rage Whose strengths abondance weakens his owne heart; So I for feare of trust, forget to say. The perfect ceremony of loves right. And in mine owne loves strength seeme to decay, Ore-charg'd with burthen of mine owne loves might: O let my books be then the eloquence. And domb presagers of my speaking brest. Who pleade for love, and look for recompence. More then that tonge that more hath more exprest. O learne to read what silent love hath writ. To heare wit eies belongs to loves fine wiht. �#26 Lord of my love to whome in vassalage Thy merrit hath my dutie strongly knit: To thee I send this written ambassage To witnesse duty, not to shew my wit. Duty so great, which wit so poore as mine May make seeme bare in wanting words to shew it: But that I hope some good conceipt of thine In thy soules thought (all naked) will bestow it: Til whatsoever star that guides my moving. Points on me gratiously with faire aspect. And puts apparrell on my tottered loving. To show me worthy of their sweet respect. Then may I dare to boast how I doe love thee Til then, not show my head where thou maist prove me #61 Is it thy wil, thy Image should keepe open My heavy eielids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadowes like to thee do mocke my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So farre from home into my deeds to prye To find out shames and idle houres in me The skope and tenure of thy jelousie? O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keepes mine eie awake Mine owne true love that doth my rest defeat. To plaie the watch man ever for thy sake For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere From me farre of, with others all to neere �#55 Not marble nor the guilded monument, Of Princes shall out live this powrefull rime But you shall shine more bright in these contents Then unswept stone besmeer'd with sluttish time When wastefull warre shall Statues over-turne And broiles roote out the worke of masonry, Nor Mars his sword, nor warres quick fire shall burne: The living record of your memory. Gainst death, and all oblivious emnity Shall you pace forth, your praise shall stil finde roome Even in the eyes of all posterity That weare this world out to the ending doome So til the judgement that your selfe arise. You live in this, and dwell in lovers eies. #116 Let me not to the marriage of true mindes Admit impediments, love is not love Which alters when it alteration findes. Or bends with the remover to remove O no, it is an ever fixed marke That lookes on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandring barke Whose worths unknown, although his higth be taken Lov's not Times foole though rosie lips and cheeks Within his bending sickles compasse come Love alters not with his breefe houres and weekes. But beares it out even to the edge of doome: If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. �� Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print program pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource A Century of Love: A New Interpretation of Shakespeare's Sonnets Description An account of the resource This is a digitized copy of the program for "A Century of Love: A New Interpretation of Shakespeare's Sonnets." This was the premier lecture of the Margaret Demorest Lectures in the Humanities. Researchers can learn about the history and purpose of the Casper College lecture series in honor of Margaret Demorest and the pursuit of research in the humanities. Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Casper College Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Margaret Demorest Papers, CCA 10.2011.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 10.2011.01_DemorestPapers_1986HumanitiesFestival Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Extent The size or duration of the resource. 14 pages Relation A related resource <a href="https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/exhibits/show/arts-and-humanities-ir/arts-and-humanities-faculty-sc">Casper College School of Arts and Humanities Faculty Scholarship, Pursuits and Publications</a> https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/4abf530799f4dc5526391ed7ce82745d.pdf be1754f7abf57543374cf255472272fd PDF Text Text Pl CnnuErsaUnri Duer Stohen Cigarettes Zoe von Gunten Family dinners weren't always the best, but family dinners with the Morettis were the highlight of each month, at least for Lydia, Dad, and Mom. Abigail was tired of them, mostly of Vincent, the middle child of the Moretti's. Her sister and the Morettis kids called each other "cousin," but Abby refrained from this. They weren't even related, but apparently this friendship between the families was as thick as blood. The Morettis and the Callaghans did everything together. Ever since Abigail’s father took them to the Moretti's restaurant and met Robert Moretti, the families were inseparable. Everyone except Abby. She knew her father saw Vincent as the son he never had. She had an itching in the back of her head every time her father looked at Vincent Moretti then back at her. The itching only got more and more loud and obnoxious, it seemed to tell her the truth of the look in her father’s eyes, a look that said: "If only you were more like him.” Abby was the failure who couldn't follow his rules; she slacked in classes, wrote poetry when she should have been writing essays, daydreamed at dinners while her father lectured her on personal financing, and, worst of all, she wanted to pursue being an author...an artist. She wasn't perfect like Vincent. The most recent dinner was a week ago. Vincent won an award at a recent science bowl. Abby had also won an award for her writing, but Dad cared more about Vincent. A straight-A student, intelligent, had a perfect path in life surely to become an award winning scientist or engineer, a painter in his spare time [it was never distracting like Abby's writing], and, of course, a pretty decent chef [thanks to his restaurateur parents of course]. He had a well of potential. Abby, on the other hand, was wasting time. Her writing was "a distraction,” something that would never make her father proud. That night Dad made lobster therm!dor, probably to impress his buddy Robert, He said it was a special occasion and Mom even made a pound cake. "Big night, huh. Pops?” Lydia asked, leaning against the door frame. Abby sat at the kitchen table 148 Expression Magazine �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes Staring down at the certificate hidden partialiy under her homework, she didn't know when to bring it up. "Sure is," he weaved around Mom who was stirring a pot on the stove. “I hate iobster,” Abby muttered, shrinking in her chair. “What?" Arthur turned and iooked at Abby bewiidered, "You never told me that before, I thought you loved it." "I don't love it right now," she said, placing her head on the table, “why do the Morettis have to come over tonight?" "They come over every Friday, dear" her mother responded, switching places with her father on the stove. "Right! Not to mention the celebration." Her father lifted the spoon out of the boiling pot, tasting it. "Celebration?" Abby sat back up, "Yeah, celebration. Didn’t you hear Vince won the science bowl or something?” Lydia chimed in "It's notyusf that! You and Cam are graduating soon too." Arthur had moved on to chopping vegetables. "Penny too. She's going into middle school next year," Lacey added. “Those are some pretty stupid celebration reasons." Abby said under her breath. "What did you say?" Art called back to her. "Nothing." "Celebrate, huh7" Abby thought bitterly. She wasn’t even a second thought in the conversation. There was nothing to celebrate when it came to Abby. She picked at her fingers. 65th Edition 149 �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes “1 have something to celebrate." She started, fiddling with a pencil. Her sister, father, and mother stopped. It felt like all the action in the room froze for just a second. They stood, staring at her. Her father's eyes burned into her. She felt like crumbling; she was good for nothing, but maybe this would change that. "I uh...I recently entered my short story and a poem into a competition and I won first place...in both categories." She mustered a smile and held up the certificate. "What's this?" Arthur ambled over to her and snatched the certificate out of her hand. "An...award?" "Oh.’’ He looked at it skeptically. "Oh?” "Hm, good job..." He looked a little closer at the paper. "I mean you could have been studying but this is..." Abby furrowed her eyebrows at him, “fine." Her father handed the certificate back and turned to keep cooking like nothing had happened. Abby looked down at her certificate then back at her father, the back of his balding red head seemingly apathetic to her. She shook her head, bewildered. "What’s that supposed to mean?" "Nothing. It's great." His tone was flat. "No, tell me what you mean." She tossed the certificate on the table behind her. Her father turned, pinching his nose bridge, his Seiko watch caught the light, blinding her for a moment. 150 Expression Magazine �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes “Abigale, I just think you should have been focusing on other things. Do we need to discuss your report card again?" "This had nothing to do with my grade." "Listen Abigale, you know what happened to me." "Oh my God. Not this again, Dad." "Well it’s true and it’s real life. Abby. You go into these artsy careers and you know what happens?" Abby rolled her eyes and simultaneously recited with her father: "You lose all your money and have to dig your way out." "ExactlyI" Arthur exclaimed after their duet. "God. Just because you failed doesn't mean I will," Abby muttered, crossing her arms: she avoided his eyes. “What did you say?" The air froze. "I said you failed, but I won't." She looked up glaring at her father despite her turning stomach. The kitchen was silent. Lydia opened her mouth to say something but closed it. She gazed back and forth from her sister to her father as if trying to decide who to defend, "Okay." Arthur turned to the counter and picked the knife up, slicing carrots once again. "Okay? Okay what?" Abby pressed. "Just okay," he said curtly, "You can say that all you want but just you wait. The real world hits you and you’ll be sorry. That certificate is only a false hope, just one win. How many more contests will you enter but end up losing money on? Just stop before it gets worse, Abigale." 65th Edition 151 �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes “Dad, come on...that's a little much," Lydia finally spoke up. “Art..." her mother placed her hand on Arthur’s shoulder. "Fine. Whatever," Abby spat. She knew the conversation was over. She bit her tongue so hard it hurt and snatched her homework and certificate through blurry eyes. She hobbled out the kitchen, her sister’s concerned look of pity infected her soul as she passed her. “Abby...wait, you know he didn’t mean it." Lydia tried to grab her sister, but Abby moved too quickly. She retreated to her room like a whipped dog, tai! between her legs. She slammed the door shut and dropped the pages of homework on the ground and amongst them, the certificate. Hot angry tears dripped down her face. She let out a groan and picked up the ornamental piece of paper. Her body felt hot and cold all at once. Her heart ached so much her chest hurt: her head boiled and pounded. She gripped the fragile paper; the golden etched words mocked her from the page. She gritted her teeth and found that she was crumpling the certificate. She hesitated for a moment, but, through the buzzing pain and hurt in her heart, she threw the certificate in the trashcan across her room. Her back slammed into her bedroom door as she sunk down to the floor. She contained the screams of frustration and wails of sorrow that wanted to escape her chest, instead letting out pitiful whimpers and moans. Her breath was choppy and fast. She sobbed on the ground for what felt like hours. She had stayed on the floor until her head hurt from crying and she had no tears left to cry. The doorbell rang; the Morettis had arrived. She knew she had to make an appearance: if she didn't, there would be about another hour worth of lecturing after dinner, along with the current issue of her competition at hand. After some attempted masking of her puffy face and eyes, she took four deep breaths in. After the last exhale she exited her room and emerged into a night of torture. 152 Expression Magazine �Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes The entire night, she couldn't help glaring at the shy quiet boy who sat on the couch as Lydia and Cam entertained 10 year old Penny. Even when Lydia and Cam pulled Abby and Vincent into a board game, Abby avoided interaction with Vincent. The entire dinner was lively; laughter filled the dining room. Cam and Lydia chatted about college plans, the adults smiled in approval of their eldest children's choices. Penny, ever the sweet girl, told all about how excited she was to go into Sth grade and that she had made her own hand-drawn invitations to her Sth grade graduation. Abby sat isolated in between her mother and older sister. Her mouth was dry from the lack of speaking: her head still hurt from the tears. She boiled beneath the surface as conversation shifted over to Vincent and all his wonderful accomplishments, traits, and skills. It all came to a head when the cake came out. Arthur stood up. Abby watched her father raise his glass of red wine. He gleamed and stared at Vincent in a way she had never seen him look at her. “All of you kids are growing into such fine people. I’m so proud of all of you. I wanted to take this moment to congratulate Vince on his recent award at the science bowl. This boy is truly a jack of all trades!" He said with pride, "I'm so happy to be able to be called your uncle, Vincent.” Before he could continue on with his speech, Abby jolted up out of her seat, nearly knocking her chair over. She couldn't take it anymore. The silverware and glasses clattered as her hands pushed off the table. She opened her mouth to speak, but her eyes met Vincent's. Those cold blue eyes filled with fear pierced right through her heart. They were filled with a nervous fear, he was confused. She looked at her father, clearly growing infuriated. Abby's mother let out a small sound of distress, turning away from the scene. 65th Edition 153 �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes "Abby..." Lydia whispered, taking a hoid of her hand. "Don’t touch me." Abby puiied her hand away from her sister's, "i'm done." “Young lady, you sit down right now." Arthur called after her as she left the table, fury radiating from her. Abby stormed out of the house, grabbing the keys to her sister's car. not before overhearing Penny’s small voice ask her older brother innocently: "Why is Uncle Art so angry at Abby?" She drove to the shore of Lake Michigan and stood on the shore screaming till her lungs and throat hurt. She didn't care if anyone heard her. She needed some way to get rid of the pain. Even though a week had passed since then, the memory was fresh and the wound still raw. Her father was more irritable with her despite talking little to her. Lydia was doing her best to try and be there for her sister while keeping their father happy. Mom, anxious as always, was trying to contain the fires but only inhaling the toxic smoke. She was taking more Xanax these days. Lydia's soccer tournament had finally arrived; her sister begged her to go. Abby refused many times, but the way Lydia looked at her filled her with guilt. Her sister, always the fixer, was trying to keep it together, but she was hurting just as much. So Abby sat on the bleachers next to her mother uncomfortably in her school uniform. She watched her sister and her strawberry blonde hair rush across the field; she was beautiful even when dirt was smeared on her face and sweat dripped from her forehead. She smiled brightly at her teammates between plays, patting the other girls on the back, and high fiving them. She was a shining light on the grey Chicago afternoon. When Abby wasn't pretending to watch, she was writing in her notepad; poetry which her father 154 Expression Magazine �Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes would never see, She wrote and wrote till her hands were cramped. When she looked up for a minute, i shaking her hands out, her eyes locked with her sister's as she looked up to the stands. Lydia smiled and (waved, she made a heart with her hands. Abby weakly smiled back and shyly waved hoping no one was ' lookingather. "Cam! Vince!" Her mother's voice dragged her attention away from her sister. Abby's heart sank when she heard the names. She looked past her mother seeing the tall dark haired boy and his younger brother trailing behind him. Camillo smiled like Lydia: the two suns in a dark world. "Hi, Aunt Lacey! We came to see Lydia play, she told me last week about her game. I'm happy to see you're here," Cam was cheerful as always, "Oh! Abby! I didn't think you’d be here!" He leaned to the side, looking at the sullen girl awkwardly tugging at her braids. "Yeah. I'm here too." She was cold, turning her head back to the field where she saw her sister looking at her with a frown. She knew Lydia didn't want her acting this way towards the Morettis. It was no secret to Abby that Lydia and Cam had something. The two were smitten with each other. He'd come to all of her games, and, every time Lydia would come back from dinner with the Morettis and Dad, she'd blush and talk all about him. "Yo cousin, what's up with the outfit?" Cam teased with a grin. "I just got out of school, what do you think?" She snapped, her face flushing red. The Catholic school uniform was prudish, probably never changed since the 50s, No teenager would be caught dead in it. "Damn, alright," He laughed awkwardly, "well...Aunt Lacey, would you mind if we sat with you? I know Cousin over there might bite my head off, but I know you're a little nicer,” He playfully grabbed 65th Edition 155 �/ Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes Lacey’s shoulders and gently shook her. “Oh, Cam!" Mom laughed, "of course you may. I'm sorry about Abigail, it's been a difficult week." She glanced at her daughter nervously hoping not to provoke another reaction, Abby rolled her eyes, Cam and Vincent took their seats next to Abby's mother, Vincent had a sketchbook. He buried his head in it, and he kept his head down unless his brother nudged him to make some quip or jab. After a long bout of silence with interjections of whistle tweets from the fields, cheering from the crowd, and occasional clapping, Camillo leaned past Lacey to speak to Abby. "So, Cousin. Why don't you wanna switch schools to ours like your sister did?" She straightened up uncomfortably as if she had been stung with a needle. “Because. Dad would freak out." She spoke curtly. "That's a shitty excuse. Lydia did it and Uncle Art hasn't blown a fuse." Cam shrugged. "Well that's because she's not me. Dad hates me or something, but he definitely doesn’t hate Lydia...or you...and especially not Vince." she shot a glare at Camillo. "Abigail!" Her mother had overheard, "don't say that. Your father does not hate you." "Yeah right. Dad could care less about me unless I'm doing something he hates, which is apparently everything." Abby shut her notepad and grabbed her messenger bag, “Yeah Cousin...that's a little harsh. Art doesn't hate you. It's just been a tough week for everyone that's all," Camillo reached over and put his hand on her knee in an attempt to comfort her: to Abby it burnt. 156 Expression Magazine �A Convefzation Over Stolen Cigarettes "Tough week? It's a tough life! Being that guy's daughter is like living in Hell! I can't be myself and I especially can't do anything right. I'm not perfect like Vince over there! I’m sick and tired of it.” Abby snatched her bag and slung it over her shoulder. "I'm sorry..." With a quiet and trembling voice, Vincent finally spoke. Abby froze. She couldn't place why he always made her hesitant. It was like the words he spoke broke her heart. His blue eyes were on her again. They were sincere. "Whatever. It doesn't matter." She huffed, quickly averting her eyes from Vincent's. She left the bleachers like she had left dinner. It felt pathetic, it felt cowardly. Yet it felt better than staying and seeing Vincent's eyes that looked deep into her soul like he could read her pathetic misery inside and out. She gripped her messenger bag’s strap: she could practically feel Lydia watching her from the field. She knew she would break her sister’s heart, but it didn’t matter anymore. She couldn’t stand being around Vincent. He didn’t have to do anything. He was quiet, he spoke rarely. He didn’t ask for her father's praise, yet he received it. They weren’t even related and her father called himself his uncle but acted more like a father to him, and it irritated her. Vincent’s presence alone was enough to make her want to rip her hair out, and he didn't have to do anything. He never did. She found a secluded place around the corner of the large highschool and squatted down against the wall. She dug around in her messenger bag, her hands shaking, searching for a moment of calm. She pulled out the pack of cigarettes she had stolen from her mother, secretly thanking Lydia for switching to a public school so any teachers or peers at her Catholic school wouldn’t recognize her. She lit the cigarette and took a long drag off of it, her shaking hands calmed for a minute. She 65th Edition 157 �4 Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes wished that she had rejected Lydia's request to watch her game. Abby shouid have known Camiilo would show up. Of course he would. He always was dragging Vincent along with him too, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. She tapped the spent ash off her cigarette and let out a long sigh, trying to ignore the tearswelling in her eyes. "Cousin," Camiilo had followed her, "what the hell is going on with you?" He stood above her. "It’s none of your business, Cam. Go back to the game, Lydia will be upset that you’re not in the stands." Abby put the cigarette to her lips and looked away from the boy. "She’s upset that you’re not there." He turned and took a seat next to her, "Seriously, Cousin..." his voice softened. "Shut the hell up." Abby attempted to sound angry, but her wavering voice said otherwise. "Abby, what’s going on?" Camiilo put his hand on her back: this time his touch didn’t burn. It was hard to hide emotions from Camiilo. He was the kind of person you could tell anything to. It didn’t help that he could read anyone like a book. "If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.” She turned and looked him in the eye, "it’s just...ugh. God, this sucks. It’s just that... it's just that 1 can’t do anything right in Dad's eyes. To him I’m just a failure, and yet he loves Vincent! He’s not even his son! I just don’t know. It’s like he wants to replace me with Vincent." She looked up into the cloudy skies. She brought her hand to her eyes and wiped away stray tears, "Listen, it's not that I hate Vincent, 1 guess I think he’s really sweet, but I just can’t help being upset with him. He doesn’t do anything and Dad is fawning over him.” she paused for what felt like centuries, "You know...I won a writing competition that night..." 158 Expression Magazine �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes She picked up a rock and fiddled with it. Cam reached over and took the cigarette out of her mouth; he put it to his own lips and inhaled the smoke. "You did?" He glanced at her. "Yeah. First place.” She tossed the rock. "That’s awesome, Abby. For what it’s worth, I think you’re very talented, and so does your sister." He held the cigarette out to her. "Thanks..." she sighed, “I just wish that Dad would think that." "Man, fuck what he thinks. He was being a prick anyway." Cam nudged her, "Lydia told me about what he said. 1 think you can make it as a writer." They sat in silence, listening to the distant whistle calls from the soccer field, the mindless chattering in the bleachers, and the fading spring breeze that was slowly becoming a warm summer wind carried the cigarette smoke far into the sky, "I know I said not to tell anyone, and I still mean that," Abby looked down, "But...would you tell Vincent that I don't hate him? I know 1 act like I do... but I'm just frustrated. I'll try to be kinder...but 1 can’t guarantee it. Just tell him I don't hate him, okay?" "Yeah, I’ll do that cousin." The two passed the cigarette back and forth for a few minutes longer. After a while Camillo stood up, “I’ll tell him, Abby," he turned to leave, "When you’re ready, you should come back. It’d mean a lot to Lydia.” Camillo walked back to the game, leaving Abby alone yet again. She pressed the cigarette into 65th Edition 159 �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes the ground, making sure it was put out: she slipped the remainder in her pocket, She took a deep breath in and exhaled long and hard. Why was it so hard to forgive Vincent? Why couldn’t she stop blaming him? She wished she knew. All she wanted was for the aching pain to end. She gripped her chest, the invisible pain only buzzed and hummed more. She finally worked up the courage to leave the safety of the secluded wall and returned to the soccer field. She quietly muttered an apology to her mother. She was ready to take her seat back on the opposite side of her mother, away from the Moretti boys, but, while she was gone, the bleachers had filled in more. Her stomach flipped, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the only spot left was next to Vincent. She gripped her messenger bag and scooted past Camillo, shooting him an uncomfortable glance; he shrugged in return. She sat next to Vincent. She could tell he was just as uncomfortable as she was. Vincent’s eyes darted from her to his sketchbook. His hands were shaking as he drew. Abby's hands shook too, "You smell like smoke," he whispered. "Yeah-.bad habit," She responded, trying not to inject the venom clawing at her chest into her voice, “I understand...I'm sorry...I don’t know what I did but I'm sorry if I hurt you." He muttered quietly enough that Abby strained to hear him. "You..,you haven’t." Abby forced out, "I’m sorry I’ve been so...you know." She avoided his gaze. She let out a long sigh; she picked at her fingers until they bled in the awkward silence. "I don’t hate you. you know." She could feel his eyes finally settling on her in shock. "You don’t...?” 160 Expression Magazine �A Conversation Over Stolen Cigarettes “No. I don’t. I told Cam he could tell you that so I wouldn’t have to myself, but clearly he wants me to do my own dirty work." She leaned forward hoping Cam would hear her, he probably did but didn't care. "Oh...well, thanks..." Vincent looked back down at his sketchbook. Abby could make out a small smile on his face. Silence settled over the two. A strange peacefulness they had never felt near each other. Abby sighed and glanced at his hand steadily sketching away. "What are you drawing?" She asked softly and leaned over, their shoulders brushing against each other. 65th Edition 161 � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. 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Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2023_Art_73 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource TIF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/bdf418fd00adaad3942056f8ceeb3668.pdf 2f561c353fa8762f5021d5add64a4a6d PDF Text Text The Nevada Review Vol. 4 Spring 2012 No. 1 �A Field Guide to the Trout Stream in Your Heart Chad Hanson Early in the morning on the fifth of August, I start north out of Casper up the east flank of the Big Horn Range. The prairie is green on account of a wet spring and a storm in late July. My course will take me past Sheridan up to the town of Ranchester, where I catch a route through the mountains. Once I’m over the summit, I plan to head north one more time, across the Montana border, and onto a dirt road that leads to a canyon with Ram’s Horn Creek stirring at the bottom. While I’m driving I take note of the hawks perched on fence posts and telephone poles. Hawk number seven swoops toward the ground but I lose sight of him as he drops into the sagebrush. I assume he ound a field mouse or a prairie dog. It makes me wonder what hawks think about when they spot their prey from above. Do they see tender eg muscles? Do they begin to imagine the taste of a heart? I bet they do. Why wouldn’t they? I ask myself, ‘Why don’t I think along those lines?” I do not think of food when I see animals. Sometimes I skip breakfast when I’m on a fishing trip. Even with hunger pulling at my attention, when I catch a trout I do not see fillets. I admire the form and the colors. Then I put the fish back in the water. When I flush pheasants from the brush beside a creek, I do not think of drumsticks as they fly away, and when I see cattle in a pasture I don’t picture them as cheeseburgers. We are not the same as other animals. My friend Beck believes that we are driven to fly fish by the forces of biology. He claims that we are no different from any other predator, n his mind, it is an inborn lust for blood that drives us to lakes and rivers. For years, I sat in the passenger seat of his pickup, listening to stories about how our choices are determined by nature. Finally, I said, Chad Hanson lives with his wife and two cats in Casper, Wyoming. He teaches sociology at Casper College, contributes to academic journals, and writes poems in the haiku tradition. His essays and mort Stones have appeared in Sky Journal, Mountain Gazette, Third Coast, Pilgrimage, South Dakota Peview, and Morth Dakota Quarter^ among others. His first book. Swimming with Trout, is available from' the University of New Mexico Press. �Beck. I do what I want. I do things when I want and how I want I’m not driven by anything.” , , . He didn’t like that.' He appreciates the thought that his fly fishing habit comes to him as a primordial instinct. I am sympathetic. I warn an explanation for why I spend so much time up to my knees in moving wamr, and the biological explanation is easy, but I know it’s not the I take a left onto the road that meanders over the Big Horns The dimb to the top is drawn out over twenty miles. I take my time on the switchbacks The views get longer as I twist up the east slope. When I reach the summit, the road straightens and tracks off to foe west. I make a stop. Before foe road bends down toward foe lower elevations, it runs within two miles of foe Medicine Wheel The site has been preserved by foe managers of foe Bighorn National Forest Curious travelers park their cars and hike to foe edge of a butte where native people placed stones on foe ground in foe shape of a circle. The form is sixty-five feet in diameter. A second circle marks foe center of foe wheel, and foe center is connected to foe rim by twenty-eight spokes or lines made with rocks set into foe soil. Historians and anthropologists have spent generations trying to assess the meaning of foe Wheel. The spokes align with astrophysical patterns over foe course of a year. There are spokes that point toward foe rising and setting sun during foe solstices. The total number of spokes correspond to foe lunar cycle, and there are spokes that line up with stars like Rigel and Sirius. Even so, foe intent of foe Wheel’s creators has been a source of contention. No one knows who built foe circles and their motivation is unclear. Crow elders can only offer that foe site was built by people vX a chance that foe Medicine Wheel exists in its place and shape because foe builders liked its looks “Aesthetic reasons” have been offered as a rationale for its size and location. Standing alongside foe stones—staring two hundred miles into the distance—that speculation feels on target. It is hard to imagine ' that people built foe Wheel because they were biologically driven to place rocks in circles at foe edge of scenic overlooks. It’s even tougher to see how instincts could have played a role in producing any of the meaningful things that we created over foe course of humanity—music. �71/ Chad Hanson philosophy, or the; great works of literature. Through art we transcend our biology. Last year I served as a member of a panel convened to discuss the subject of writing about fly fishing. I sat at one end of a table. To mv flght sat a hero of mine, Ted Leeson, weU known for The Habit ofTdvers To his right sat another hero, John Gierach, famous for Trout Turn and a dozen other well regarded books. When the presentation started, each of us talked for ten minutes about the process we go through when we write stories or egsays. As the low ranking member on the panel I spoke first. Then Leeson addressed the group, and Gierach finished the presentation. We left thirty minutes for questions. The first person to raise a hand directed his comment to Gierach. A man in the front row asked, “Why fly fishing?” I sat there thinking” Thank you . I imagined that I was going to hear our guru address the’ rundamental issue that we face. • Gierach stared at the ceiling for a second. A room full of fly fishers waited with anticipation. He looked back at the audience. Gierach turned his gaze to the person who posed the question. Then he said “It’s pretty.” ’ I _ I wasn’t the onjy one thinking, “What?” I could see it on the faces in the crowd. Fly fishing is “pretty?” While I pondered the answer Gierach talked about the first time he saw someone cast a fly rod’ I thought about the first time I watched somebody casting, knee deep in a mountain stream. The beauty struck me, too. Fly fishing is not the most effective way to catch a trout. If you just want to put a fish in your net—you carry a carton of worms to a local waterway. Everyone knows that live bait works the best. But here we were, a crowd full of people who had disavowed the most effective way to catch a fish, because a fly line looks better. The Navajo are fond of the saying, “Go in beauty,” and Gierach is right. Fly fishing is at least one way that white people abide. Leeson went next. He took the same question. He started with a story about waiting for a flight in the Pordand, Oregon airport For five minutes no one understood his point. He painted a picture of the scene in the concourse. He described how he sat next to a woman with a^two year old resting in a collapsible stroUer. He explained that the child started crying when one of the airline employees barked an announcement through a microphone. �In response, ±e mother held up a quilt and stretched it in front of her face, hiding herself from the child. Every ten seconds she pulled the blanket^^away. Then she stuck her face up toward the toddler and cooed, Peek-a-bool” Soon the kid was giggling and squirming. It s a scene we ve aU enacted. We have been behind the quilt, and we have been in the stroller. I wasn’t sure what that had to do with fly fishing, but then Leeson made a transition to talking about one of his trips to the Deschutes River. Once again he took care to describe the setting: swift water, peaks in the distance, a forest of larch and pine. He talked, about flipping a blue-winged olive forty feet upstream. He explained how he had to mend his line to make sure the fly found a sweet spot. He told us how the olive looked as it spun down the bank. As we listened to Leeson, we became children nestled in our seats. Then he cooed, “Peek-a-boo!” A redside trout attacked the olive. Trout don’t say “peek-a-boo” when they attempt to eat an artificial fly, but they might as well. We fly fish, in part, because we like surprises. Gierach offered us beauty. Leeson gave us unresolved mystery and the pleasure that follows when something uncertain becomes clear. All I had to talk about was a modest childhood, spent in central Minnesota. I grew up on a creek set in between a swamp and a hardwood forest. But I didn’t teU the crowd about the water or the woods, at least not in the beginning. I started out by asking the audience if they’d ever seen somebody look at a piece of scenery and say, “This reminds me of...” Memories are uncanny. It is incredible what we can store and then conjure up in our minds, but the long record of people, places, and events creates a precedent, which we use to judge and then compare each moment we live through. For most of us, there are portions of our childhoods that are tough to follow. I spent summers wading and splashing in a stream beside my parent’s home. I took naps on the bank me and the birds, fish, swamp grass, and snapping turtles. No politics. No financial concerns. No knowledge of pollution, climate change, or species extinction. Compared to adult life, our childhoods often shine like pure states of affairs, but they are gone. In the words of Jackson Browne, time is a “conqueror,” banishing the things we love into the past. We cannot get our youth back, but we can try, and I am not ashamed to admit that I do that with a fly rod in my hand. �Chad Hanson _ I take one more moment to look at the Medicine Wheel. Then I hike back to the car and continue down the west slope of the ranee After twenty minutes, I reach the road that ends at the mouth of Ram’s Horn Canyon. At this point, names like Ram’s Horn are nothing more than reminders of the fauna that used to roam the ranges of the West. Eight years ago, on our way to Yellowstone, my wife and I made a stop at die Bighorn Sheep Center in Dubois, Wyoming. The center sits on the south side of the road that runs through the middle of town. Inside the building there are mounted sheep, taken from every comer of the world. Some of the mounts hang on the walls. Others are placed on die faux ridges of carefully wrought exhibits. The displays are impressive. On our way out, I stopped at the counter to talk with one of the center s staff. The woman looked to be fifty years old. Her hair was pulled into a bun in the back of her head, and she wore a pair of wirerimmed glasses. I walked toward her thinking, “This woman wiU answer any question I can think to ask.” I said, “Howdy,” and she smiled. I explained that I have hiked into the Big Horns on dozens of occasions. I told her that I began making trips to the Horns when I was in college. Then I mentioned how the number of trips increased when I actually moved to Wyoming. I said, “In all that time, I haven’t seen a bighorn.” I asked, “Are there any bighorns in the Big Horns?” She said, “No. Not to my knowledge.” I put on a flabbergasted face and asked, “Isn’t that why we call them the Big Horns? The bighorns?” “Yes. We caU them the Big Horns because at one time they were covered with bighorns.” “What happened?” Her explanation started down a predictable road. She described how the wild sheep in the Big Horns were hunted to the brink of extinction. She pointed to a row of sheep’s heads on the wall and asked Wouldn t you want one of those above your fireplace?” I said “No' Thank you,” but my answer was beside the point. Mounted ’sheep heads were a status symbol in the early part of the twentieth century. �• The West was still the frontier, and at the time, people wanted a piece of that in their living rooms. Hunting regulations curbed the wholesale slaughter of the Rockv Mountiun bighorn sheep, but hunters were not the last threat they would face. Wyoming is known as the Cowboy State, but when the phrase w^ coined there were more sheep than cattle within our borders. Domestic sheep carry an infection called pasteurella. They’ve een carriers for years. They are immune to the disease. Domestic sheep can live full lives with no outward effects. But wild sheep are not immune. When bighorns and domestics range over the same landscape the infection IS passed from the tame to the wild animals, and it makes them disorders, pneumonia in particular. Epidemics of prt,r/vvvZh-i:;uiiccd pneumonia wiped out herds of bighorn sheen including those that used to roam the Big Hom Range. When she fimshed explaining the demise of the bighorns in the Big Horns, I asked, Doesn’t that bother anyone?” She said, ‘Tou’re the first person to ask.” I was flattered to think that I was the first to ask, but it turns out Aat I wasn’t the only one outraged by the thought that there were no bighorns in the Big Horns. In the fall of 2004, the Game and Fish Department air-lifted forty sheep out of an Idaho canyon, and placed ±em at 8,000 feet of altitude on the west side of the range. The department hoped the herd would grow to include 200 animals and stabilize. The group has not grown to that size, but the population is stable, and that makes me feel better about the condition of my favorite mountains. It takes a minute for my feet to grow accustomed to the water The creek is freezing cold. It stings at first, but then I start to cast, and forget that I have toes. Mayflies hatch on the surface, spread their wings, and flutter in the air. The trout watch bugs from behind rocks and sunken logs. A splashing sound catches my ear. I look in time to see a brook trout arching back into the current on the downside of a leap. I whip a cast along the bank. The rod arches and the bug lands upstream, but the fly does not have time to ride the current. It is hit by a brookie. His belly shines in the air as he rolls over, sweeping the fly underwater. �94 Chad Hanson With my line in tow the fish makes a run toward a pool. He swims hard, but I pull him close despite his determination. Once I have the trout in hand I am quick with the hook, although, I take a moment to appreciate the colors on his sides. I ask the fish to forgive me for the intrusion. Even though I do not fully understand my desire to insert myself into the food chain of a stream, the compulsion is too strong to deny. Two days before the trip to Ram’s Horn, I left the house at noon and rode my bicycle to a local burrito stand. There were seven people waiting to place an order. At the counter, there stood four boys in their early teens. They looked like they had come from a soccer practice. Three men in business suits waited behind the boys. The kids were wiggling all over. They were smacking each other and laughing for reasons that no one else could understand. The businessmen stood silent behind their neckties—faces resentful. As I thought about the distinction between the adults and the teenagers, it occurred to me that I was looking at the difference between wild and domestic human beings. In the past, I have worn ties and worked fifty weeks out of the year. I know the effect that such a life has on a person. It’s debilitating, but it’s hard to stop. We yearn for homes and cars and clothes and sporting goods. Our desires trap us on the road to what we think of as success, and that road does not have an exit. Sometimes, we drive into the weedy ditch beside the economic freeway of our lives. We do it because we know we gave up something when we became middle class. We know that something untamed stiS exists in the tall grass and sagebrush beyond the parking lots and close­ cropped lawns. We fly fish in part because we all harbor a sense of loss. We’ve seen fields of lupine bud-dozed and paved into subdivisions. We’ve had to watch people we love grow old and pass away. We’ve read the reports that explain how pikas, marmots, and polar bears are scheduled for oblivion. With all of the usual bad news on TV, we start to yearn. The feeling begins as a quiet longing, but it grows. We develop a need for sensual experience—the reality of moving water, jumping fish, tall peaks, and quaking leaves. We are the yearning creatures on this good green Earth. Hawks do not crave anything. Trout do not possess desires. Cats and coyotes long for nothing. We are different. We yearn our way into plastic, �throw-away lives, and then we yearn for a way out. We yearn for beauty, for what is gone, for whatever waits around the next corner, unseen. We might be kidding ourselves, with our vests full of gadgets, our brand-named waders, and our SUVs. We’re actors playing the parts available to us in our culture. Our society said, “Take a page from the screenplay of A VJver 'Bains Through If and head for a body of water.” When we can afford the costume and the props, some of us are happy to oblige. Our actions are not forced on us by genetics, but there is a thirst that afflicts people that come of age in this country. For those of us with fly rod tubes in our closets, the longing appears as an urge to stand knee deep in rivers, colorful rocks under our feet, birds chirping in the branches overhead, a light breeze carrying the seeds of cottonwoods— all of it thrumming to the rhythm of a stream. ■ � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. 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