282
10
9812
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https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/b89774466e5ad0ee93bf237d43905879.jpeg
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Title
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Scott Shipley Fall 2024 Museum Training Internship ePortfolio
Date Created
Date of creation of the resource.
2024
Description
An account of the resource
The following describes an internship at the Casper College Library and the Western History Center. The internship focused on advancing the GLAM exhibit by planning and preparing for the Chaos, Patterns, and Order exhibit, with a focus on the role of Curator in the museum.
At the beginning of the internship, we started by looking at the continuation of the GLAM exhibit, with an emphasis on Bryon H. Clapp's WWII Letters Home and his “Recollections of the War.” including the Jean Gallatin Ogolbee photo album and the newspaper clippings of Elizabeth “Neal” Forsling. These records were cataloged, they included an accurate description, including the name of the collection and the item's type, e.g., photograph, letter, or newspaper, and a catalog accession number. We looked at selecting the appropriate items, placing them in the exhibit, and adding and subtracting where appropriate.
We had several conversations about ownership, how it pertains to collections, and exhibitiions, and the time frame allowed by copyright laws, and family wishes. Ownership in the context of a collection is of paramount concern. The ability to exhibit a collection should never be an issue if the Curator and Archivist have done their due diligence before and during the accession process. However, as I have seen in the three museums where I have interned, there seems to be some grey area. Does the museum have full ownership and the supporting paperwork? Is there a stipulation regarding limiting what might be exhibited within that time frame? And many more questions.
The role of the curator has been of significant focus this semester. While researching the role of the curator I became aware of the importance that role is to the life of the collection and the individual item. The Curator tracks the life of the collection. With the increasing number of exhibits planned by Casper College Museum Studies interns through the Library’s Western History Center, this archives and special collections unit has been researching ongoing conversations on how the two often quite different organizations are adopting principles and practices from one another to increase engagement with and use of materials while also building relationships. As part of an ongoing process that started in the spring of 2024, we have been exploring how the definition of what it means to be a curator and an understanding of how the responsibilities of a curator operating in multiple settings can be used to create a role delineation statement to expand the scope of the critical work of interns. To manage this, one of the approaches we’ve discussed has been to map the responsibilities of a Curator within a semester-long internship to the 5 Cs of digital curation as outlined by Deschaine and Sharma (2015). The repository is doing the same thing for Collections Management Interns with the aim of increasing collaboration on different projects between students in each internship.
Collection Management: Among the many tasks in collections management is ensuring the institution's "Mission Statement" and "Collecting Policy" are used to guide decision-making. This provides a foundation for suitable collection management, training, education, and curation (physical and digital).
Categorization: Management of artefactual and non-artefactual materials from acquisition through further processing, storage, and usage. Categorization for many materials in the repository relies on standards for archival arrangement and description but also museum-based Nomenclature.
Critiquing: Arrangement and description of both artefacts, records and materials of varying formats up to and including in-depth collection research. Critiquing aids in the interpretation of materials within wider external or internal programming and events but also facilitates drawing connections between related materials.
Conceptualization: Selecting materials for use in wider exhibit programming following critiquing. As an iterative process that relies on critiquing materials, conceptualization is invaluable for drawing connections between related materials.
Circulation: Exhibits (physical and digital), research usage, and application of materials for specific projects/publications. Circulation is tracked via an exhibit-based registrar that also functions as a finding aid that lends itself to the interpretation of materials.
<a href="https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/exhibits/show/2024-glam-exhibit-soft-launch/glam_archives">GLAM 2024: Chaos, Pattern, Order Exhibit Page</a>
<a href="https://caspercollegearchives.libraryhost.com/repositories/2/archival_objects/32896">Western History Center Archives-Museum Exhibit Registrar: GLAM 2024</a>
References<br /><br /><span>American Association of Museums. 2000. </span><em>Code of Ethics for Museums</em><span>. Washington, DC: American Association of Museums.<br /><br />Butler, Shelley, 1964- and Erica T, Lehrer. 2016. Curatorial Dreams: Critics Imagine Exhibitions. McGill-Queen's University Press.<br /><br />Lubar, Steven D.. 2017. <em>Inside the Lost Museum: Curating, Past and Present</em>. Harvard University Press.<br /><br />Mason, Rhiannon, Alistair (Art museum director), Robinson and Emma Coffield. 2018. <em>Museum and Gallery Studies: The Basics</em>. Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group.<br /><br /><em>Society of American Archivists</em>. "Copyright and Unpublished Material: An Introduction for Users of Archives and Manuscript Collections." <br /><br />Walhimer, Mark. 1964-. Museums 101 Rowman & Littlefield, 2015.</span>
Creator
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Scott Shipley, Fall 2024
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<a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-NC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-NC/1.0/</a>
Subject
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Museums -- Curatorship.
Still Image
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Title
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Scott Shipley 2024 GLAM Exhibit Photograph
Date Created
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2024
Description
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Photograph of a shelf Museums Training Intern Scott Shipley contributed to making for the first launch of what will be Galleries Library Archives and Musumes (GLAM): Chaos, Pattern, Order in 2025.
Type
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Image
Creator
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Scott Shipley
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Fall2024_ScottShipley_Exhibit_IMG_06
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JPG
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<a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-NC/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-NC/1.0/</a>
Subject
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Museums -- Curatorship.
-
https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/ba4ee5feb033ee49a63665c7a0149ece.pdf
d95f1dee2ec7576df2f47d1a5a340de3
PDF Text
Text
HAIKA
Down flutter the leaves
To cloak the Earth’s bare bosom
In colorful shroud.
Serenade your love;
Fill the night air with your song
Oh cricket minstrel.
Why do you taunt me —
Knowing well I cannot come
Unto those sweet arms.
Oh moon shine brightly;
Illuminate the mountains,
Oceans, land, and sky.
THE SKUNK
Soft and pretty beast
Why must your odor linger
After many baths?
Among tall grasses
The panther sleeps, undisturbed —
A purring housecat.
THE ANT
How can you find home
When far you wander searching
Food fit for the queen?
A rose I bring you,
Yet you laugh and toss it down —
Its beauty wilted.
Restless you are now
Knowing autumn soon will come.
Hasten, butterfly
Softly the rain falls.
Quenching thirst of field and wood;
Stilling wretched heat.
—34—
�I DECLINE THE DESIGN
I suppose
I must wear hose,
But now I draw the hne.
I declare
I will not wear
This latest weird design.
Squares like a waffle
Look simply awful
On someone with legs like mine.
—Sue Pate
�
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.
Text
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Print poems
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"Haika," "The Skunk," "The Ant," and "I Decline the Design"
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<a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/</a>
The Casper College Archives has archived these poems to encourage the use of its Expression Literary Arts Magazines for digital humanities and other related educational uses.
Date Created
Date of creation of the resource.
1964
Description
An account of the resource
Four poems published by Sue Pate in the fall 1964 Casper College Expression magazine.
Type
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Text
Creator
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Sue Pate
Language
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ENG
Is Part Of
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1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
Identifier
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CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Pate
Format
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PDF
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2 pages
-
https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/34921d34bbc51ba1a404572b1fb0fabf.pdf
0f0fc0a67a9968598f2bb2701bf7c696
PDF Text
Text
search turned up a red, 1964 convertible about 100 yards below
the point of entry. The swift current had badly damaged the ve
hicle. No sign has been found of the occupants of the car, who
must have been swept away by the swift current.
The next day’s paper contained this terse notice.
Hunnesville, Colo. (UPl)—The occupants of the car found two
days ago in the Rio Peligro have been identified as Mr. and Mrs.
Stanford M. Wright of Mankin, Missouri. They were identified
through vehicle registration and the testimony of a motel owner
here, who recalled that they had stayed at his place the night be
fore the accident. Their bodies have not yet been found.
Now Stanford settled down to step four of O. P. C.—this time without
Eunice’s knowledge or consent. He spent two afternoons in the thick timber
a quarter of a mile from the cabin, digging a hole. It measured six feet
long, two feet wide, and five feet deep.
On the second afternoon Stanford was working in the hole. It was
nearly finished. His spade made a chunking sound on the hard earth, then
there was a “splat” as he carefully piled the earth on a large canvas. Sud
denly he heard a noise. He turned, straightened, and looked out of the hole.
He found himself staring straight at a pair of woman’s ankles.
“You left the pick at the cabin, Stanford,” Eunice said as she brought
the pointed instrument down onto his skull.
BURDEN
Sheala Dunn
It was a cold day, a dark day for doing many things, but certainly not
the kind of a day to spend taking care of a two year old. The girl sat star
ing out the window as these, and other thoughts, mesmerized her mind.
Children were such a waste of time, always wanting something and jabbering
to no useful end. There were so many other things more important and in
teresting. Her self-inflicted depression was interrupted.
“Sissy!” called a sleepy voice from the other end of the house. He
was awake. Another day of dressing and undressing, cleaning up messes,
reading stupid stories and answering endless nonsense questions.
“Hi! Get up?” asked the cheerful, cherub-like mouth of the flaxen
haired child. His dark eyes glowed with life as the girl stood expressionless
before him. “Get-up?” he said again, patiently waiting for a sign of approval
from his part-time mother.
“Well, get up!” she said impatiently, wishing that there were some
way to keep him in bed the rest of the afternoon. Mom would be home
—31—
�at five o’clock; she had the right idea about kids, they were nothing but a
nuisance. Especially this one.
Slowly he started to get out of bed, pushing back his blankets and
stuffed toys on the way. His chubby, pink legs swung themselves to the
floor, and a second later a rag doll tumbled down after them.
“Oh! Poor Suzy!” he cried. “Honey, me love!” he consoled as he kiss
ed her. “Hurt?” he questioned.
“No, how can she get hurt? She’s not a person, she’s just a doll,” re
plied the girl sarcastically. “Boy, how stupid!” she thought. “Doesn’t even
know the difference between a doll and a person. And they say kids are
smarter than you give them credit for! What a laugh!”
“Potty!” he squeeled with delight. It was a new experience and ap
peared to him to be a fine game. But to the girl it was just another time
consuming chore. What difference did it make if he wet his pants or not? He
couldn’t finish either one alone, someone had to help him either way.
He was in the bathroom in a matter of seconds, but evidently not
quite soon enough. As she pulled his pants down, a small, wet pool ap
peared.
“John Jay!” she screamed. “What did you do?” a sharp smack landed
across his exposed bottom.
“Sorry, sorry!” he blubbered through his tears. “Not my fault!”
“Not your fault? Well, it sure wasn’t mine! Sit down in that corner!”
“More work,” she thought. “Always dressing and undressing. What a waste
of time.” She fumbled through his drawers until she found a pair of pants.
Carrying them back into the bathroom, she threw them in his lap. “Put
these on and go in the kitchen and eat your lunch!”
Smiling weakly, he muttered, “OK, Sissy.”
It was only one o’clock-four hours! There were so many other things
to do, and here she was, at home with him. How could anyone enjoy little
kids? They didn’t know how to do anything.
“Sissy! Come here!” rang a voice from the kitchen.
She walked in to see his face lit up with an expectant smile as he said
to her: “Watch. Johnny eat.”
He tried so hard to please her, to impress her. He carefully steered his
spoon from the bowl to his mouth and back again several times. Fighting
all the v'hile his childish impulse to pour it from his spoon and see it splat
ter. He ate it all; even the mushy pieces of celery. His eyes sparkled with
anticipation. His little body was tense. He picked up his glass with two
short, chubby hands, and drank it without a spill. Turning his milk-rimmed
face toward his sister, he smiled triumphantly over his accomplishment.
“That’s nice,” was her cold reply. “Now you’re going to put on your
coat and go outside to play.”
�“Why, cuz?” questioned the boy, slowly lowering himself from his high
chair until his tiny toes touched the floor, and then immediately turning
loose and dropping to a solid rest.
“Cuz I say so, that’s why,” she called over his shoulder. She returned
with his coat and cap. Willingly he thrust his arms into the sleeves; she zip
ped it up. His coat was a vivid blue with small navy emblems on each side
at the breast line. His hat, red with blue stripes, snuggled close to his
head, leaving only a small portion of his mouth, a button nose and two big,
brown eyes exposed.
Suddenly, a thought raced through his mind. “Read?” he blurted.
“No! I’m not going to read any more of those silly books. Goodbye. Go
play,” she said, opening the door.
“Bye,” he quipped cheerfully.
He was gone. She could again escape from his world of constant de
mands to hers of repressed desires and wishes. Needs of a sixteen year old
are almost as acute as those of a child. Unfulfillment-searching for some
one and for herself. But escape could not last for long. Reality was ever
present, intruding into her more perfect world. Intruding with the child.
Why must he always be there? Why couldn’t he leave? She didn’t need him,
he was only a bother.
Her thoughts were interruped by the opening of the front door. There
was no sound except that of the squeaking hinge. After a few minutes had
elapsed, a small figure, clad in a bright blue coat, appeared and walked
toward her. He climbed up into her lap, his little body still cold from the
brisk winter air. He didn’t look at her; his face was expressionless.
“What do you want?” she asked, half irritated and half inquisitive.
With a sudden surge of affection he threw his arms around her neck, and
with child-like simplicity said, “Love. Johnny, Sissy.”
The flaxen hair mingled with the darker blond. There were eyes,
brown and blue, filled with tears; but they were smiling, both of them, the
child and the girl.
It was still a cold day, dark day. But the light was beginning to break
through, and there was a promise of warmth. A warmth that would in
crease with the onset of each new season.
HELP III
To my money problem, there’s ‘ '''
No answer I’m afraid.
All my bills are overdue
And I am underpaid.
�
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.
Text
Any textual data included in the document
Print magazine story
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
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"Burden" and "Help ! ! !"
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/</a>
The Casper College Archives has archived this story and poem to encourage the use of its Expression Literary Arts Magazines for digital humanities and other related educational uses.
Date Created
Date of creation of the resource.
1964
Description
An account of the resource
Story and poem published by Sheala Dunn in the fall 1964 Casper College Expression magazine.
Type
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Text
Creator
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Sheala Dunn
Language
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ENG
Identifier
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CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Dunn
Format
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PDF
Extent
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3 pages
-
https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/ca5c4cbc9700795342f8cc882c06ecf1.pdf
ce8685a5723758465243e6e75e5de091
PDF Text
Text
THE PERFECT CRIME
Jane Logan
“Stanford, get your feet off the coffee table, and button your collar,” a
shrill femine voice called.
“Yes, Eunice,” the harried husband replied as he obeyed. Under his
breath, however, he muttered, “just you wait.”
Stanford, you see, was going to murder his wife; or as he liked to say
to himself, “Do away with the old bag.” He intended to make this the crime
of the Gentry—the perfect crime. In fact, it would be so perfect no one
would ever know a crime had been committeed. That was his only regret—■
he would never win fame for his greatest achievement. But then, peace of
mind was worth more than fame anyway.
That very afternoon he initiated step one of O. P. C. (operation per
fect crime).
“Eunice,” he said, “how would you like to do some travelling—see the
country. You’ve always talked about doing that. Money’s no object, you
know. We can sell the house so we won’t be bothered with renters or care
takers. Then we’ll just start driving—go where we want, stop when we like.
We’ll see the country, then settle down wherever catches your fancy.”
Eunice hardly took time to say “Yes” before she began making plans
for the trip. She found hundreds of errands for Stanford, she made him
carry heavy trunks and suitcases up and down stairs, and she talked con
stantly in her falsetto voice—issuing commands, commenting, complaining,
and giving more orders.
While Stanford was working, he was planning. Soon he carried out
step two of O. P. C. with Eunice’s full consent and knowledge. He trans
ferred all of their money to a secret, numbered account in a Swiss bank.
Only he and Eunice and his insurance company knew the account num
ber. Then he reworded his will, so that whoever knew the account number
would be his heir.
At last the house was sold, the goodbyes said, and the mountain of
luggage packed into a shiny new convertible, which Stanford had purchased
especially for the trip.
Off at last! Eunice back-seat drove, complained constantly, ate vora
ciously, spent money like a corrupt politician, and mailed dozens of picture
postcards to her friends. Stanford smiled throughout the continuous ordeal
as he planned step three of O. P. C.—again with Eunice’s full knowledge
and consent.
“Do you realize, Eunice, the tremendous sum of money you and I’ve
spent on life insurance? If only there were some way we could get that
money now, while we’re still alive.”
—29—
�“Isn’t there any way we could get it?” Eunice asked.
“Well, yes, but it’s not legal, and if we were caught doing it, we’d go
to prison.”
“What would we have to do? If we were smart, we wouldn’t get
caught.” Eunice replied.
“Somehow, we’d have to appear to have died, then when things cooled
down, we could withdraw all our own money from the Swiss bank, plus
that which the insurance company would deposit to our account if we died.”
Under persistent questioning, Stanford revealed his plan. There was a
little traveled scenic road on their itinerary. The road twisted down a nar
row canyon beside a deep, swift river. Stanford recalled that he had
once read an account of an auto accident in this canyon. The vehicle had
missed a sharp curve and run off into the river. The swift current of the
river had apparently torn the lone driver’s body out a window, and his
body had never been found. Stanford had studied the situation carefully
and decided there would soon be another accident in this canyon.
The next afternoon he and Eunice checked into two motels in a large
town a six hour’s drive from the canyon. At one motel they registered as
the brown-haired couple, Mr. and Mrs. Stanford Wright. They were driving
a red convertible with a Missouri license plate. At the second motel they
registered as Mr. and Mrs. Henry Smyth. They now had very gray hair and
wore sunglasses. They were driving a second-hand car with a temporary
permit, which Stanford had just purchased under his new name. Then they
went out and purchased new wardrobes and credentials to complete their
disguises.
Late the following afternoon they checked out of both motels and
left—Stanford driving the convertible, Eunice following in the other car.
Late that night they reached the appointed place in the canyon.
It was the work of only a few minutes to transfer all the personal ef
fects of the Wrights into the convertible and drive it to the very edge of the
river, where the bank dropped straight off into the swirling black waters.
Then, leaving the convertible running and in gear, Stanford got out, got into
the other car, drove it up behind the convertible and gave it a helpful push.
There was a loud splash, a gurgling noise, then only the rushing roar of
the waters, Eunice and Stanford climbed into the second-hand car and
drove off—now officially Florence and Henry Smyth.
The next day they rented an isolated mountain cabin and awaited
events. Two days later their efforts were rewarded. The following notice ap
peared in the newspaper, which Stanford purchased at a gas station a few
miles from the cabin.
Hunnesville, Colo. (UPI)-—Authorities yesterday discovered a
car in the Rio Peligro after an unidentified person notifed them
of car tracks which appeared to go directly into the river. A
—30—
�search turned up a red, 1964 convertible about 100 yards below
the point of entry. The swift current had badly damaged the ve
hicle. No sign has been found of the occupants of the car, who
must have been swept away by the swift current.
The next day’s paper contained this terse notice.
Hunnesville, Colo. (UPI)—The occupants of the car found two
days ago in the Rio Peligro have been identified as Mr. and Mrs.
Stanford M. Wright of Mankin, Missouri. They were identified
through vehicle registration and the testimony of a motel owner
here, who recalled that they had stayed at his place the night be
fore the accident. Their bodies have not yet been found.
Now Stanford settled down to step four of O. P. C.—this time without
Eunice’s knowledge or consent. He spent two afternoons in the thick timber
a quarter of a mile from the cabin, digging a hole. It measured six feet
long, two feet wide, and five feet deep.
On the second afternoon Stanford was working in the hole. It was
nearly finished. His spade made a chunking sound on the hard earth, then
there was a splat as he carefully piled the earth on a large canvas. Sud
denly he heard a noise. He turned, straightened, and looked out of the hole.
He found himself staring straight at a pair of woman’s ankles.
You left the pick at the cabin, Stanford,” Eunice said as she brought
the pointed instrument down onto his skull.
BURDEN
Sheala Dunn
It was a cold day, a dark day for doing many things, but certainly not
the kind of a day to spend taking care of a two year old. The girl sat star
ing out the window as these, and other thoughts, mesmerized her mind.
Children were such a waste of time, always wanting something and jabbering
to no useful end. There were so many other things more important and in
teresting. Her self-inflicted depression was interrupted.
“Sissy!” called a sleepy voice from the other end of the house. He
was awake. Another day of dressing and undressing, cleaning up messes,
reading stupid stories and answering endless nonsense questions.
“Hi! Get up?” asked the cheerful, cherub-like mouth of the flaxen
haired child. His dark eyes glowed with life as the girl stood expressionless
before him. “Get-up?” he said again, patiently waiting for a sign of approval
from his part-time mother.
“Well, get up!” she said impatiently, wishing that there were some
way to keep him in bed the rest of the afternoon. Mom would be home
—31—
�
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.
Text
Any textual data included in the document
Print magazine story
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
"The Perfect Crime"
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/</a>
The Casper College Archives has archived this story to encourage the use of its Expression Literary Arts Magazines for digital humanities and other related educational uses.
Date Created
Date of creation of the resource.
1964
Description
An account of the resource
Story published by Jane Logan in the fall 1964 Casper College Expression magazine.
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Jane Logan
Language
A language of the resource
ENG
Is Part Of
A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included.
1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Logan
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
PDF
Extent
The size or duration of the resource.
3 pages
-
https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/9835751b3d55970fdd3aa8dbbfc5dd29.pdf
695ed3f81a4a4e3f733deabe1448ea4d
PDF Text
Text
been foreseen by the liberals. The common man’s desires far sur
passed his abilities. No matter how much was taken from the uncommon
man and given to him, he still wanted more. The politicians, wanting to
please the majority, obliged. But soon big government was taking so much
from the uncommon man, he himself chose to be common. He gave up. His
incentive was gone, and now, like in Russia, everyone was equal.
“Certainly there were those who had had the courage to point out
the similarities between Communism, and the direction we were moving.
But they, like me, were quickly branded extremists or crackpots, and were
soon silenced.”
And after all, hadn’t the majority wanted this? When our country was
first formed, he recalled, it was realized that the majority was not al
ways right, that a democracy would not work. And so a Constitution was
written to safeguard the Republic against the will of the majority, so it
could long endure. But later the philosophy of “the majority is always
right” was adopted along with the concept that all men are equal.
“And today, in 1994, man’s freedom is gone, his incentive, his dignity,
and his individuality.”
The old man looked at the red, white, and blue flag waiving in the
breeze, thought of what it once stood for, and wept.
ONE HAND CLAPPING
A clairvoyant nonentity
That unheard applause
An unblusterous flush of air
That resounds a million times over.
A void and different insolence
That lies unquenched in a gaping world.
The monologue of a revolting and respondent searcher
It is that unconsolable osmosis that no one hears
And it feels for help in an obscene and noxious world.
A blind nothingness flapping its wings toward escapism.
That sound .... a discordance between insanity and extinction.
A false hope in a world of revolving death and destruction
Yet a lucidly painted portrait of a zenith of faith in the unknown.
But
a schizophrenic fissure of a lost mind somewhere
In the vast perplexity and nonexistence of infinity.
This is the sound of
ONE
.......... HAND
of
CLAPPING
—Steve Halverson
�
Text
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1964
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Poem published by Steve Halverson in the fall 1964 Casper College Expression magazine.
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Text
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Steve Halverson
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ENG
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1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
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CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Halverson
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https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/35a1a603c0f33cea745a41ccacc66918.pdf
f8b42b240125253f7673d8a3d608a399
PDF Text
Text
fore I brought my eyes back to the scene of action, we had recovered a
fumble. We had the ball! I was shouting to the players, “Sit on it, sit on it
fellas, we’ve got to hold on to that football!” 1 was shaking in my shoes,
we were so close to a victory, the first victory in the history of the school.
Tick, tick tick, the clock moved on, slowly and surely. Two minutes
to go, we still had the ball, then a fumble. Oh God, we had lost the danged
thing again! My heart jumped and pounded furiously. This was no place for
a weak heart.
I watched, anticipating every move. I saw the pass from the opposi
tion hit the air, I watched the receiver snatch the ball out of the air, and
then I watched him carry it in for the winning score. But wait! A flag was
down! A penalty, the ball was called back! I was jumping up and down, the
clock ran out, we had won!
I was so happy I could hardly stand it. One of my players, the same
one I had chatted with the first half, came by, took one look, and chimed,
“Coach, you’re crying.”
I looked at him and smiled, “Yeah, I’m crying.”
THE CREEPING JOHNNIES
Here they come!
Whispering, sighing, feeling
Their way through the trees.
Here they Come!
Veiling, hiding, masking
Everything in their way.
It was warm before.
Now they are here!
Turning everything
COLD, COLD, COLD,
OH, SO COLD!
My Singing Tree is silent
Oh, so silent.
Wrapped in a mantle of
Wisping, clinging, grasping
Creeping Johnnies.
Ah! there they go!
The sun is glinting through
The Singing Tree, silent no more.
Is happy that they are gone.
—Carolyn Adams
�
Text
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1964
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Poem published by Carolyn Adams in the fall 1964 Casper College Expression magazine.
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Text
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Carolyn Adams
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ENG
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1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
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3fa14a757abd9a3d094ccf075696ad47
PDF Text
Text
Hal Hardy
The tanned, white haired man sat in his favorite ehair, his sad eyes
scanning the beautifully mysterious desert, which was his home. The year
was 1994 and much had changed since he was a young man. The country
he loved so dearly had died. Oh, the nation was still all in one piece, no
bombs had been dropped but the spirit of the individual who had built the
nation was gone forever.
He remembered that once the people had died for their freedom. At
one time, he recalled, the American people preferred the challenges of life
to the guaranteed existence of today. But today there is no freedom in the
land, only freedom from hunger and need. “It is true that everyone is se
cure”, he thought. Everyone has a free meal, a nice roof over their head,
free medical expenses, and a car. How ironic that the American Negro had
practically the same thing over a hundred years ago when he was a slave.
His needs were looked after, and he was secure, yet the highest honor our
government could bestow on the Negro then was to set him free of all his
security of being a slave.”
The American people, slowly but surely, had decided that security was
more important than freedom. The Constiution once was a thing to die for,
now it was ignored. The old man recalled when law and order had been ig
nored too, and now those very people who had abused their freedom were
today victims of their own selfish interests.
It had all started very slowly, this something for nothing attitude of
the American people. Surely nothing could be wrong with Social Security,
the people had thought. And then came socialized medicine, and urban re
newal, and federal aid for this, and federal aid for that, and still the
people did not realize. Where once the promise of freedom was enough, in
recent years the elections had become merely a contest between the two
political parties, to see which one could offer the most security. The old
man recalled that thirty years ago he had promised the people nothing but
their dignity and freedom, opportunity and challenge. “Pretty old fashioned
I guess,” he thought, “thinking that the American people were still ambi
tious enough and proud enough to want to look after themselves.” His
opponent on the other hand had promised the people everything, and the
next thirty years had proven disasterous.
Certainly it was hard for the people to realize the direction we were
moving. Business was booming, most people had enough to eat. After all,
wasn’t this all that mattered?
He recalled the campaign slogan, “take from the haves and give to
the have nots.” At the beginning the redistribution of income worked fine,
fine that is for the “have-nots.” However, the fallacy of the system had not
—27—
�been foreseen by the liberals. The common man’s desires far sur
passed his abilities. No matter how much was taken from the uncommon
man and given to him, he still wanted more. The politicians, wanting to
please the majority, obliged. But soon big government was taking so much
from the uncommon man, he himself chose to be common. He gave up. His
incentive was gone, and now, like in Russia, everyone was equal.
“Certainly there were those who had had the courage to point out
the similarities between Communism, and the direction we were moving.
But they, like me, were quickly branded extremists or crackpots, and were
soon silenced.”
And after all, hadn’t the majority wanted this? When our country was
first formed, he recalled, it was realized that the majority was not al
ways right, that a democracy would not work. And so a Constitution was
written to safeguard the Republic against the will of the majority, so it
could long endure. But later the philosophy of “the majority is always
right” was adopted along with the concept that all men are equal.
“And today, in 1994, man’s freedom is gone, his incentive, his dignity,
and his individuality.”
The old man looked at the red, white, and blue flag waiving in the
breeze, thought of what it once stood for, and wept.
ONE HAND CLAPPING
A clairvoyant nonentity
That unheard applause
An unblusterous flush of air
That resounds a million times over.
A void and different insolence
That lies unquenched in a gaping world.
The monologue of a revolting and respondent searcher
It is that unconsolable osmosis that no one hears
And it feels for help in an obscene and noxious world.
A blind nothingness flapping its wings toward escapism.
That sound .... a discordance between insanity and extinction.
A false hope in a world of revolving death and destruction
Yet a lucidly painted portrait of a zenith of faith in the unknown.
But
a schizophrenic fissure of a lost mind somewhere
In the vast perplexity and nonexistence of infinity.
This is the sound of
ONE
.......... HAND
of
CLAPPING
—Steve Halverson
�
Text
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<em>Hal Hardy</em>
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Date Created
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1964
Description
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Story titled <em>Hal Hardy </em>published in the fall 1964 Casper College Expression magazine.
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Text
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ENG
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1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
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https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/b3c45b579b55d203717e1af1a4659e1a.pdf
c1854a81215735d3bcd0d7b6a5716110
PDF Text
Text
IT TAKES HEART
Bill Bolles
I could hear my assistants yelling their heads off. It was the eighth
time in two months that I had been here sitting in the corner, on the floor,
with my head bowed wondering where I had gone wrong. I was the head
football coach at a new high school, and it half time in our game; we were
losing 13-0. So far the team had a perfect record, no wins and eight de
feats. We had come into the game, I felt, with a strong chance of winning,
but mistakes, single little mistakes that we had made over and over, time and
time again, had spelled defeat. Well, the team was trying very hard, but we
were still making stupid little mistakes, and we were still losing.
I got up from my lonely corner, where I had been feeling sorry for
myself, and went back into the dressing room. “All right,” I quipped,
“What’s wrong with you guys?”
Quiet enveloped the room, everyone was hanging their heads for they
couldn’t face me. “Are you gonna quit?” 1 got a little carried away and be
gan to yell freely.” “You’re beatin’ yourselves kids, you guys have lost all
your respect, half of you don’t belong in a football uniform, you get down
and you quit!”
The team still bowed their heads, they didn’t like to lose, but a loung
team with no seniors, and the rest with little or no experience had a pretty
tough fight to stay alive in this fast game of football. I was mad now, I
couldn’t stand to see my ball club humiliated and pushed around; we were
like ants, we got kicked, stepped on, and killed all at once. “When are you
gonna start playin’ ball?” 1 asked. “Lay down and die, don’t fight back,
but don’t ask me for sympathy after we lose again. What does it take, an
other 38-0 stomping like last week? Think about it kids, if you’ve got any
respect for yourselve, if you’ve got any guts, if you’re not afraid to go knock
heads, go out there and tie that game up.”
A few of the players looked up, but for the most part, they were all
looking down as we took the field for the second half. For some reason I
felt my little lecture might have done some good, but my hopes were soon
destroyed, for no sooner had play resumed than we were down, 20-0. We
began to rally back briefly, but we couldn’t keep pace, the opposing team
hit the board again; we trailed 27-0.
As the game ended, I was simply discouraged. I had given up a fine
job as assistant in a school system that had been the home of the state
football championship for three years. Sure I figured for the worse when
I came here, but 1 didn’t expect to get slaughtered every time out. We had
played eight games and only hit the scoring columns twice. We scored twice
in one game, the rest of the time we had been shutout. We had played a
couple of games good enough to win, but other times we played like a
�■■■ w
group of girls. I was completely down, I was ashamed of my team. I felt
maybe they didn’t care anymore.
I tried to ask myself where 1 had been wrong, why didn’t we win just
a few times? I was beginning to feel that I hadn’t gained the confidence of
my players, maybe I hadn’t done my job as a coach. Sitting in the corner at
half time seemed to be the only thing to do, for if I had failed the team, I
didn’t want to face them.
Everyone was chanting win; the school, the team, the newspaper, but
we still lost. Twelve boys quit for assorted reasons, mostly my strict train
ing rules. My problems seemed to mount with each day; we were young,
inexperienced. 1 had watched the guys make mistakes we should never have
made, 1 corrected the mistake and watched them make another one or the
same one over again. I was at the point 1 couldn’t sleep at night, 1 had lost
my appetite; I soon discovered why some coaches get ulcers.
The week passed quickly, soon the last game of the season would be
here. People were asking me how 1 felt about losing and about the next
game. The only thing I could say was that we were still trying, as long as we
don’t quit, we have a chance to win. If we play good ball, we can win.
Good ball, easier said than done, I thought to myself. So many things would
have to go right for us to win, we can’t even get one thing for us consis
tently.
Friday night arrived and we took the field against our ‘cross town ri
vals. No one felt we had a chance, and 1 prepared to resume my position
at half time. I was discouraged before the game started, but for the first
time, the team seemed to be fired up. The coaching staff, including me,
was not ready to quit, we thought we could win.
In the dressing room I gave a few words of encouragement before we
took the field. “I’m going to leave you alone tonight, this one is up to you. If
you want to win, go get it, if you don’t want to win, let’s just stay in here
and save ourselves some work.” No one moved, then at the call from the
field, we made our way out, full of chatter and spirit.
The first half was a sight that I had seen over and over. The opposi
tion hit pay dirt twice in the first six minutes of play. I kept getting angrier
and angrier with each play and the team’s ego shot straight down. Trying
to keep my head up with pride, I found that the team was ashamed of
themeselves and I was ashamed of them, along with my ill fate. Each time
we started to drive into enemy territory, something happened and we blew
sky high. Late in the second quarter we stopped a long drive by our rivals,
only to fumble, lose the ball, and have another touchdown scored.
The half ended, 1 slowly trudged to the locker area trailing 20-0. One
of my players came up to me and asked, “What’s wrong with us coach?”
“If I knew that, our problems would be solved. We’re not hitting, we
have no guts, and no one cares,” I answered.
—24—
�“We can’t get going, coach,” came a reply.
“Get goin’, you guys haven’t moved, this is the last game of the sea
son and you havn’t showed me that you’re a ball team.”
In the locker room, I sat down in the corner again, almost on the verge
of tears. I had great respect for my ball team, and I just couldn’t stand see
ing them beaten this way. It hurt me to see another ball club insult us this
way.
I sat there for about six minutes, although it seemed as if I had been
there for an hour. I heard my staff going over the mistakes in the first half,
I had heard the questions, in fact, I had heard all I could stand. I got to my
feet and walked into the room. Everyone was quiet now, as they were wait
ing for me to make my comments. Scratching my head I commented,
“Okay, we’re down but not out, I challene you to show me that you are a
football team. You can win it or you can lose it, it’s up to you.”
The team fired up again as they left the room for the field. I had given
up almost to where it didn’t matter anymore. It had been a long season,
I wanted to get it over with.
We took the opening kickoff, marching up field in four plays to score.
I couldn’t believe it, we scored a touchdown. I almost came to life, but be
fore I could get my bearings, we got the ball back and hit pay dirt again.
Suddenly I became hyperactive, I started yelling, my head came up, I
sensed something, we had jelled.
The defenders couldn’t stop us in the third quarter, we were moving
well, and for the third time in eight minutes, we took the pigskin into the
end zone to score. The extra point was good, and for the first time in the
history of the school, we were leading, 21-20. The third period ended; the
hardest part of football was now upon us, we didn’t have the ball, we were
in the lead, and we had to hold that lead, we had to stop them from scor
ing.
I found myself running incircles, shouting, “Get tough! Hustle, hustle!
Hold tight boys, hold on!” Sweat poured from my head, I was actually
excited.
Eight minutes remained, they had the ball on their own thirty. First I
was up, from one side of the bench to the other, then I squatted down, I
could not take the suspense, I was up and pacing again. How much longer
could they hold? The opposing forces took the ball to the midfield, seven
minutes left. I was scared, we had to hold, we couldn’t let down. The time
ticked away, oh, so slowly. I had never endured such a thing, I would
never last the ball game; five minutes showed on the clock, my heart flut
tered with every second of it.
The crowd began to get restless, they could not take the actions eith
er, they wanted someone to score again. I kept eyeing the clock; they start
ed to move the ball well against my defense when I looked at the board, be—25—
�fore I brought my eyes back to the scene of action, we had recovered a
fumble. We had the ball! I was shouting to the players, “Sit on it, sit on it
fellas, we’ve got to hold on to that football!” I was shaking in my shoes,
we were so close to a victory, the first victory in the history of the school.
Tick, tick tick, the clock moved on, slowly and surely. Two minutes
to go, we still had the ball, then a fumble. Oh God, we had lost the danged
thing again! My heart jumped and pounded furiously. This was no place for
a weak heart.
I watched, anticipating every move. 1 saw the pass from the opposi
tion hit the air, I watched the receiver snatch the ball out of the air, and
then I watched him carry it in for the winning score. But wait! A flag was
down! A penalty, the ball was called back! I was jumping up and down, the
clock ran out, we had won!
I was so happy I could hardly stand it. One of my players, the same
one I had chatted with the first half, came by, took one look, and chimed,
“Coach, you’re crying.”
I looked at him and smiled, “Yeah, I’m crying.”
THE CREEPING JOHNNIES
Here they come!
Whispering, sighing, feeling
Their way through the trees.
Here they Come!
Veiling, hiding, masking
Everything in their way.
It was warm before.
Now they are here!
Turning everything
COLD, COLD, COLD,
OH, SO COLD!
My Singing Tree is silent
Oh, so silent.
Wrapped in a mantle of
Wisping, clinging, grasping
Creeping Johnnies.
Ah! there they go!
The sun is glinting through
The Singing Tree, silent no more.
Is happy that they are gone.
—Carolyn Adams
�
Text
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Title
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"It Takes Heart"
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<a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/</a>
The Casper College Archives has archived this story to encourage the use of its Expression Literary Arts Magazines for digital humanities and other related educational uses.
Date Created
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1964
Description
An account of the resource
Non-fiction story published by football coach Bill Bolles in the fall 1964 Casper College Expression magazine.
Type
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Text
Creator
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Bill Bolles
Language
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ENG
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1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
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CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Bolles
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4 pages
-
https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/e413e58e4cca64e74aa15d5d999076b8.pdf
9fa72ff5ab2f377471cc31733a678cc0
PDF Text
Text
non-white. They waited.
The weary, half-starved faces of those around him reflected the dis
couragement and helplessness he was feeling. It was now almost 5:00 p.m.
He had waited through the noon hour, thinking that he might miss a good
chance if he left.
About 6:00 p.m. the office closed and with its workers left a young
Negro father whose wife works irregular hours, whose son dies as he waits.
But there is always tomorrow.
STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN
Jacob.
See, Jacob?
Staircase, Jacob.
Long way up there, Jacob.
See the top way up there, Jacob?
Listen! I hear somethin’ cornin’, Jacob.
Soon there’s got to be a reward cornin’, Jacob.
But now you must admit, repent your old sins, Jacob.
There’s the only way you’ll ever get to heaven now, Jacob.
Jacob
Jacob
Jacob
Jacob.
—Tom Norman
VICTORY
Like a falcon in the sky.
Triumphantly passing others by.
The victorious chant and scream.
And yet, may not know what they mean.
Meanwhile, the conquered must bow down.
And lose possession of their noble crown.
But, who really won in the end?
Of course, those who had the most to spend.
THEIR GOALS
It’s true, the components of this marvelous age.
Want it all in black and white on this very page.
Not to think, contemplate, decide, and do.
But rather, to merely follow through
By Plan A, let the flower bloom.
That’s what they want — Security of the tomb.
—Ronnie Forgey
—22—
�
Text
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"Victory" and "Their Goals"
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The Casper College Archives has archived these two poems to encourage the use of its Expression Literary Arts Magazines for digital humanities and other related educational uses.
Date Created
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1964
Description
An account of the resource
Two poems published by Ronnie Forgey in the fall 1964 Casper College Expression magazine.
Type
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Text
Creator
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Ronnie Forgey
Language
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ENG
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1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
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CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Forgey
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1 page
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9c7280ac669944b370de99f74d3e7d95
PDF Text
Text
non-white. They waited.
The weary, half-starved faces of those around him reflected the dis
couragement and helplessness he was feeling. It was now almost 5:00 p.m.
He had waited through the noon hour, thinking that he might miss a good
chance if he left.
About 6:00 p.m. the office closed and with its workers left a young
Negro father whose wife works irregular hours, whose son dies as he waits.
But there is always tomorrow.
STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN
Jacob.
See, Jacob?
Staircase, Jacob.
Long way up there, Jacob.
See the top way up there, Jacob?
Listen! I hear somethin’ cornin’, Jacob.
Soon there’s got to be a reward cornin’, Jacob.
But now you must admit, repent your old sins, Jacob.
There’s the only way you’ll ever get to heaven now, Jacob.
Jacob
Jacob
Jacob
Jacob.
—Tom Norman
VICTORY
Like a falcon in the sky.
Triumphantly passing others by.
The victorious chant and scream.
And yet, may not know what they mean.
Meanwhile, the conquered must bow down.
And lose possession of their noble crown.
But, who really won in the end?
Of course, those who had the most to spend.
THEIR GOALS
It’s true, the components of this marvelous age.
Want it all in black and white on this very page.
Not to think, contemplate, decide, and do,
But rather, to merely follow through
By Plan A, let the flower bloom.
That’s what they want — Security of the tomb.
—Ronnie Forgey
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Text
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Text
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Print poem
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Title
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"Stairway to Heaven"
Rights
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<a href="http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/">http://rightsstatements.org/vocab/InC-EDU/1.0/</a>
The Casper College Archives has archived this story to encourage the use of its Expression Literary Arts Magazines for digital humanities and other related educational uses.
Date Created
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1964
Description
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Poem published by Tom Norman in the fall 1964 Casper College Expression magazine.
Type
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Text
Creator
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Tom Norman
Language
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ENG
Is Part Of
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1964 Fall. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections.
Identifier
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CCA_04.ii.c.01_Expression1964_Fall_Norman_03
Format
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PDF
Extent
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1 page