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Memories of a messiah provide insight into my own mind

Human memory is a curious thing. We are constantly learning more about how our brains work, the connections it makes, and how we come to believe what truth really is.

“Jesus Before the Gospels,” by Bart Ehrman is a well-researched with note to go do my own research. Erhman spent two years researching and speaking to psychologists, anthropologists and sociologists about how memories work and how the earliest Christians “remembered, changed, and invented their stories of the savior.”

Erhman gathers biblical and extra-biblical texts and applies what he learned about human memory to the texts to determine if certain things actually happened.

I was intrigued to see how the stories of Jesus came to be. I have long since accepted he was not a messiah, god, or miracle worker, but I was curious to see if the early writers had purposely distorted the stories. What I found as I was reading was far more about memories in general.

Erhman says many memory experts argue memories are always distorted. Since the brain is not a video camera, it records selected bits of what happens. Those parts are then stored in different parts of our brain. When we recall a particular memory, the brain must reconstruct it. Therefore, the memory is never one of the original events, but a distorted memory. In this sense, distortion is not a negative term.

As time goes on, our memories become distorted, but not because of anything we do on purpose.

Leading memory expert Elizabeth Loftus and her colleague Katherine Ketcham reflect on this issue: “Are we aware of our mind’s distortions of our past experiences? In most cases, the answer is no. As time goes by and the memories gradually change, we become convinced that we saw or said or did what we remember.”

In the article, “John Dean’s Memory: A Case Study,” Ulric Neisser wrote about two specific conversations Dean had with President Richard Nixon. The conversations were recorded, which provided an opportunity to see how memory works.

“Neisser argues that it is all about “filling in the gaps,” the problem I mentioned earlier with respect to F. C. Bartlett. Dean was pulling from different parts of his brain the traces of what had occurred on the occasion, and his mind, unconsciously, filled in the gaps. Thus he “remembered” what was said when he walked into the Oval Office based on the kinds of things that typically were said when he walked into the Oval Office. In fact, whereas they may have been said on other occasions, they weren’t on this one. Or he might have recalled how his conversations with Nixon typically began and thought that that was the case here as well, even though it was not. Moreover, almost certainly, whether intentionally or subconsciously, he was doing what all of us do a lot of the time: he was inflating his own role in and position in the conversation: “What his testimony really describes is not the September 15 meeting itself but his fantasy of it: the meeting as it should have been, so to speak. . . . By June, this fantasy had become the way Dean remembered the meeting.”

These comments are dealing with just our own personal memories. What about a report, by someone else, of a conversation that a third person had, written long afterward? What are the chances that it will be accurate, word for word? Or even better what about a report written by someone who had heard about the conversation from someone who was friends with a man whose brother’s wife had a cousin who happened to be there—a report written, say, several decades after the fact? Is it likely to record the exact words? In fact, is it likely to remember precisely even the gist? Or the topics?

My first editor, Steve Frederick, always told me to write the story as soon as possible after the interview or else you will forget the details. This was especially true during the “Pride” section the Star-Herald published every Saturday in March.

These were profiles on people and businesses assigned in addition to our regular stories. Regardless of whether I hand-wrote or typed the interview, if I did not write the story within a day or so, vital details had begun to fade.

If I waited too long, my story might just say, “Irene sat in her chair and told her story.” If I wrote the story soon after the interview, the story might say, “Irene leaned back in her black and blue computer chair and sighed deeply. A partially broken fan blew cool air across her lap. She moved the hair away from her face and began to retell how she got here.”

Both accounts are accurate, but one is lacking in detail.

During their extensive interviews of Yugoslavian singers, which included listening to them perform oral epic poetry, Milman Parry (1902–35), a scholar of classics and epic poetry at Harvard, and his student Albert Lord (1912–91) found each time the oral is recited, it changes, while the “gist” of the story remains mostly the same. Through oral performance, there is “no such thing as the ‘original’ version of a story, or poem, or saying.”

According to Ehrman, “Whoever performs the tradition alters it in light of his own interests, his sense of what the audience wants to hear, the amount of time he has to tell or sing it, and numerous other factors. And so, as a result, the one who sings the tales is at one and the same time the performer of the tradition and the composer.”

Sometimes, even the same story by the same person is different.

Social anthropologist Jack Goody has noted that when Milman Parry first met a singer named Avdo, he took down by dictation a lengthy song that he performed called “The Wedding of Smailagiæ.” It was 12,323 lines long. Some years later Albert Lord met up with Avdo again, and took down a performance of “the same” song. This time it was 8,488 lines. Parry himself observed this phenomenon. He one time had Avdo sing a song performed by another singer, named Mumin. Avdo strongly insisted it was the same song. His version was nearly three times as long.

In addition to being a factual writer, I am also a storyteller. My stories can be delivered orally or in written form. I conducted an experiment on myself to see how my own memory works. In 2018, I wrote a story about getting a speeding ticket. I wrote the story again a few weeks ago.

The stories are different lengths and provide different details. Both are accurate. Both are different. When I tell the story, like Avdo, sometimes there are time constraints. I can recite the story in five to thirty minute versions. Each is original in their own sense. There is no “original” to my story.

French philosopher and sociologist Maurice Halbwachs (1877-1945) argued in “On Collective Memory” in 1925 that memory constructs the past and recalls traces of what happened by filling in the gaps with similar bits of information from your memory.

For example, if you remember a gathering one evening long ago in your family home, you will reconstruct that memory not only by calling back to mind precisely what happened on that occasion, but also by filling in the many gaps of your memory by recalling—inadvertently—the things that typically happened on such social occasions. In that act of reconstruction, you will often confuse one set of events for another. When it comes to a memory of this sort, “We compose it anew and introduce elements borrowed from several periods which preceded or followed the scene in question.”

One of my most graphic and intense memories is of a time when I was raped when I was alone at my grandmother’s house. For decades, the fact that I cannot remember minor details of the incident have plagued my mind. I wondered whether or not the rape could be real because I couldn’t remember the entire details of every single detail.

Two minor details I still can’t remember is the color of the couch and the color of the garbage can. During my lifetime, my grandmother had green couches and red couches. I remember her green garbage can, but not the color of the one she had before that.

Whenever I have a flashback of that time, I only see the green garbage can. The couch is always vague. As Erhman wrote, and many psychologists have studied, my brain is no different in this sense than others.

I remember the most traumatic aspects of the rape, including the physical and emotional pain, but my brain has filled in the gaps where it can for the minor parts, such as whether the television was off or on, what items were on the couch or if there were no items at all, what color the couch was, what color the garbage can was, etc.

Repeated flashbacks have solidified certain elements of the assaults I endured. The bits that are fuzzy have either remained fuzzy or my brain has tried to fill in the gaps. It doesn’t mean it never happened.

Ehrman agrees.

And there is more to life, and meaning, and truth than the question of whether this, that, or the other thing happened in the way some ancient text says it did.

In my view, the early Christian Gospels are so much more than historical sources. They are memories of early Christians about the one they considered to be the most important person ever to walk the planet. Yes, these memories can be recognized as distorted when seen from the perspective of historical reality. But—at least for me—that doesn’t rob them of their value. It simply makes them memories. All memories are distorted.

When we reflect on our past lives, when we remember all that has happened to us, all the people we have known, all the things we have seen, all the places we have visited, all the experiences we have had, we do not decide, before pondering the memory, to fact-check our recall to make sure we have the brute facts in place. Our lives are not spent establishing the past as it really happened. They are spent calling it back to mind.

The truth is that most of us deeply cherish our memories: memories of our childhood, of our parents, of our friends, of our romantic relationships, of our accomplishments, of our travels, of our pleasures, of our millions of experiences. Other memories, of course, are terribly wrenching: memories of pain, of suffering, of misunderstandings, of failed relationships, of financial strain, of violence, of lost loved ones, of yet millions of other experiences.

When we reflect on our past lives, when we remember all that has happened to us, all the people we have known, all the things we have seen, all the places we have visited, all the experiences we have had, we do not decide, before pondering the memory, to fact-check our recall to make sure we have the brute facts in place. Our lives are not spent establishing the past as it really happened. They are spent calling it back to mind.

Ehrman wondered if it mattered if Jesus delivered the famous Sermon on the Mount as it is written in Matthew 5-7. Historically, yes. Ehrman also recognizes that if it did not, it doesn’t make the story any less powerful. He goes one step further to say it is one of the “greatest accounts of ethical teaching in the history of the planet.”

He brings up other topics discussed throughout the book, concluding each time, historically it is significant to remember these events as they happened, but given the knowledge of how memory works, remembering the “gist” of the story is also okay.

Memory can certainly be studied to see where it is accurate and where it is frail, faulty, or even false. It should be studied that way. It needs to be studied that way. I spend most of my life studying it that way. But it should also be studied in a way that appreciates its inherent significance and power. Memory is what gives meaning to our lives, and not only to our own personal lives, but to the lives of everyone who has ever lived on this planet. Without it we couldn’t exist as social groups or function as individuals. Memory obviously deserves to be studied in its own right, not only to see what it preserves accurately about the past, but also to see what it can say about those who have it and share it.

Personally, I am caught between being historically accurate and living with the memories which are only partially there. I remember a few traumatic events in detail. Even then, there are gaps. In truth, I am only now beginning to see where my need for historical accuracy in my own memories is a hindrance for my healing in overcoming years of childhood trauma.

My mind went through incredible stress during my formative years. The full details will never be there. It doesn’t mean none of it happened. It did and it has a powerful effect on my life today.

Those horrific memories are significant to me and I need to appreciate the fact that, under duress, my brain protected me from certain memories and strengthened others.

Erhman’s book is an intriguing look at historical accuracy and how human memory works. The book didn’t convince me of a messiah. It did provide me with insight into my own mind and ideas in which to quit “beating myself up” over minor things that probably don’t even exist in my mind anymore.

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

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The force has always been with me

About a week or so before my seventh birthday, my family climbed into my grandma’s gold station wagon. We were headed out to the Fair Oaks Drive-In to see this new movie everyone was talking about. It had opened on May 25, 1977, but this was the first time my mom could take us all.

The line was about a mile long. Cars pulled partway off the two-lane road so regular traffic could continue moving. We slowly inched our way up to the entrance. When we were the third car in line, I had climbed under Gram’s black and red banana blanket. The drive-in charged per person, not per car and I was the only one left in the family small enough to evade the fee.

Because the line was so long, we missed the first few minutes of Star Wars. We pulled into our spot and my mom set up the speaker. C-3PO and R2D2 had just landed on Tatooine.

My mom and grandma sat in the car. My sister, aunt, and my mom’s boyfriend’s kids sat in aluminum lawn chairs near the speaker. They goofed around a lot during the movie. I stretched out on the hood of the station wagon, my head resting against the windshield. That didn’t last long. I was little and it was hard to see. It’s something I’ve had to deal with most of my life at the theater as well.

I climbed up onto the roof of the car.

“You’re not funny,” Mom yelled. She leaned her head out the driver’s side window and looked up at me.

“Not trying to be,” I said. I settled down on the roof near the front of the car. I crossed my legs. My elbows rested on my legs, my hands upside down, supporting my head. I sat that way for the rest of the movie.

I don’t remember eating any popcorn, candy, or chocolate. I remember lightsabers and Wookiees and Imperial I-class Star Destroyers.

When the movie was over, we stayed to watch it again. The man who took our money at the gate said that since we got in late, we could stay. It was one of the best nights of my life.

A few weeks later, I saw a Star Wars watch with C-3PO and R2D2 on Tatooine. It was a shot from the movie of the first moment I saw Star Wars. I wanted the watch. It was expensive, but Mom said I could have it when I learned to tell time.

Three weeks later, I knew how. I didn’t just know that it was 4:10 p.m – I knew it was 10 minutes after four, it was 50 minutes before five, and that the military would say it was 16:10. I didn’t get the watch. I was disappointed until Christmas. It was one of the few things I got that year. I wore that watch for nearly a decade before it quit working.

I also sold the most Girl Scout cookies that year, more than 1,000 boxes. My prize was The Story of Star Wars LP and the soundtrack to the movie. I still have them tucked away with the album my elementary school band made and my Led Zeppelin albums.

Mom had also recently taught me how to do jigsaw puzzles. I was only a little kid, but I excelled at it. There’s a peaceful calm that comes over me whenever I do a jigsaw puzzle. I’m relaxed, focused, and determined. Five hundred piece puzzles were common for me to do when I was seven-years old.

Mom came home one day with a new challenge for me. It was my first 1,000-piece puzzle. The Kenner Star Wars jigsaw puzzle was absolutely glorious. It was based off of the Hilderbrandt poster. Luke and Leia stand ready for battle. A giant Darth Vader head looms in the background. The Death Star behind him. C-3PO and R2D2 were there, too.

The puzzle was a challenge for me, especially with the different shades of black throughout the picture. Mom had a large piece of wood I could rest across my legs to do the puzzle. When the borders were done, there was a little bit of space on each side to set pieces aside.

I worked diligently for hours to complete the puzzle. I worked mostly alone in Mom’s bedroom to finish it. Mom would often help me with puzzles when I got stuck, but she let me try this one alone, only occasionally stepping in to make suggestions.

Her room was the only place I could safely work to ensure the puzzle wouldn’t be damaged. Finishing it was a proud moment in my life. I finished one of the most difficult tasks of my life.

“The Empire Strikes Back” opened when I was nine. “Return of the Jedi” premiered when I was twelve. I saw both just after my tenth and thirteenth birthdays. That’s what happens when movies open in May: you have to go to school through June and your birthday is in July. You get to see movies when school is finished.

I didn’t have many of the toys from Star Wars. They weren’t cheap and we didn’t have a lot of money. I had Luke’s X-34 landspeeder, which, much to my chagrin, had tiny wheels underneath and did not float on air. My Darth Vader and Luke figures fought often. Darth Vader usually won. Luke lost his head in one of those battles. I glued it back on, but it came off again. My mom bought me a new Luke and told me to be more careful. Luke’s lightsaber got bent so he never won against Darth Vader.

I saved proofs of purchase from my figures so I could send away for Boba Fett, who was originally only available via mail with a certain number of proofs. He had a removable rocket. I got my Boba Fett, but I took too long in mailing in for him. Some dumbass kids supposedly swallowed the rocket so Boba Fett was recalled and remade with a non-removable rocket. I missed out on a piece of history because I was poor.

Unlike today, we all had to wait three years between Empire and Jedi. No one wanted to believe Darth Vader was really Luke’s father. We didn’t have a VCR. There was no streaming. We had to remember the movie from the theater and try to piece together what little information there was. I’m not sure if any of the movies played on television. Even if they did, you had to watch them when they aired. There were no DVRs.

I had a variety of figures from Star Wars. My Han Solo figure never lost a battle because he was a scoundrel who always shot first. I hated Chewbacca with the take-apart C3PO. It was a pain in the ass to keep track of the parts.

I eventually got an X-wing fighter. I beat the crap out of that thing as it fought with the giant GI Joe dolls I had. GI Joe always lost because GI Joe is dumb and Star Wars is cool.

I also had a soft spot for the bad guys. They had all the cool ships while the rebels had whatever piece of crap they could get flying. The exception was the Millennium Falcon. I swore when I grew up, I was going to build my house to look just like it. Unfortunately, that was a dream dashed by reality many years later. I still reserve the right to build a Millennium Falcon house when I win $100 million. No one will tell me no then.

After “Return of the Jedi” ran in theaters, I saved up enough money to buy a kit model of the speeder bike. It was super cool. I also made a model of C3PO. He was easy to build and I still have him today. The speeder bike took a lot of work.

Once I finished the speeder bike, I had planned to go to the kit shop and get some paint to finish it. Unfortunately, our landlady sold our house and the new landlord was an asshole. He came in, served us with an eviction notice and then purposely stepped on my speeder bike model and my model KITT car. I was crushed. We couldn’t afford to replace them, and we now had to move.

I thought about the movies often. I bought the VHS tapes. I bought the DVDs and the Blu-rays. I bought the special editions. I watched them all over and over.

The prequels premiered after I was married. Again, they had May premieres. The difference this time was both Paul and I wanted to see them, so we went in early June. I was 28, 31, and 34 years old when I saw them. I didn’t like Jar Jar Binks because I found him more racist than annoying. Hayden Christensen’s stilted acting was a bit of a distraction, but I gave it a pass. He was a new actor in a heady role and this was Star Wars.

They definitely weren’t the best movies and I didn’t ask for prequels, but I had long given up on sequels. The story line was okay. Yes, there are plot holes, but I never looked at Star Wars as high art. It was always escapism for me and was a time for little me to enjoy the glory of of space battles, light sabers and shit blowing up.

When the sequels finally came along, they had changed from what was written in the books. That was okay with me. Though I knew about them, I never had a desire to read the books or the comics that had come out over the years. I never got into the nitpicking that some fans did.

Many people hate the directors of the sequels. The only thing that bothered me enough to laugh and roll my eyes was Leia doing her Mary Poppins thing and flying back to the ship. Even seven-year-old me thinks that’s dumb. Others find it empowering.

I liked “Solo.” I liked “Rogue One.” I really enjoyed how the end of “Rogue One” ends a moment before Star Wars begins. Now that I have them on Blu-ray, the only delay is in the speed in which I can change discs.

On December 22, 2019, at 49 years of age, I sat in the back of the movie theater and watched “The Rise of Skywalker” with Paul. I didn’t cringe when Emperor Palpatine came back. I just went with the story. It found it intriguing that what remained of the Death Star from “Return of the Jedi” was now partially in the ocean on Kef Bir. I loved the light saber battle there.

I didn’t mind that footage of Leia that was cut from the previous movies was used. Carrie Fisher is dead. They did what they could with what they had and I think it was good enough. I’ve decided to stay away from the nitpickers and naysayers this time.

I can’t help but see Star Wars from the viewpoint of seven-year old me. She loves the movies. The plot holes that seem to be driving people crazy don’t matter to her.

There is always awe and wonder with a sprinkling of joy whenever I see these movies. They have been a huge part of my life. I have seen every one in a theater during their first run, including when the original trilogy was released in the 1990s.

There’s a fondness in my heart for these movies. The movies aren’t perfect. They never will be. They will never live up to everyone’s expectations. There is no way I will ever watch the opening of Star Wars, with the star destroyers slowly moving overhead, without a smile on my face. You can get a sense of the awe of the Death Star blowing up with an recording of people in the theater in 1977 thanks to modern technology.

The movies took me to a place a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away and showed me something wondrous and magical. Star Wars blew my mind. No one had ever seen anything like it. My seven-year-old eyes were witnessing the pinnacle of filmmaking. It was gritty and dirty and real.

I’ve been on this wild ride for forty-three years. It’s been a hell of a trip and I get to take that journey every time I turn my Blu-ray player on.

If you’re as old as I am, take your little self with you when you watch the movies. You’ll never be disappointed and you will find, the Force has always been with you.

[irenenorth]

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How do you express your inner voice, introverts?

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The little lady who brought me joy

On December 16, 2017, Sarah sat and posed for me. This was the result.

I walked into the zoo well before it was open to cover a story for the Star-Herald. When I was done, I decided to walk around and take some pictures before the zoo opened for the day. I strolled past Cyrano, a Lynx rufus at the zoo, and hung out there for a while. I always enjoy paying him a visit even if he sleeps the entire time I’m there. That’s what cats do.

Eventually, I made my way past the bison, zebras, Eurasian Lynx and tigers and walked into the indoor enclosure for the chimpanzees. It was a cool morning and I wasn’t sure if Scooter and Sarah would be outside that day. Sarah was in the right indoor enclosure. She was sitting down and as soon as she saw me, she got up and started to walk toward me.

The chimpanzees normally hang out in the left side indoor enclosure, but this side had recently been cleaned and painted with plans to use it. Somewhere in the distant future I was told, the zoo hoped to bring in more chimpanzees. The other side was also due for a cleaning, so it was likely Sarah and Scooter would be outside that day. I was grateful she wasn’t. Outside, she liked to climb to the top of her jungle gym and lie on the perch at the top, basking in the Sun’s rays all day.

As Sarah walked toward me, her eyes met mine. She looked down at the floor and back at me. She looked down at the floor. I looked at the floor. She looked back up at me. I looked back at her. She looked down at the floor. I’m just a stupid human, but I started to look at where she was looking. There were a few paint drops on the floor, blue and red, but that wasn’t what she was looking at.

At first, I thought the red on her foot was paint. I wondered why she was there if the paint had not yet dried. Then, I realized what she was trying to tell me. She was bleeding.

She walked up to the pane of glass separating us, sat down and pointed at her foot. She must have read the expression on my face. She knew I understood. But she didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak Chimpanzee.

I put my pointer finger up and held my hand out toward her. “Just a minute, Sarah,” I said. “I’ll go get help.” She didn’t know what I was saying, but I think she understood.

I ran back outside and found a zookeeper and relayed the information. As it turns out, Sarah and Scooter had gotten into a scuffle that morning. The keepers thought the wound was healing as it had scabbed over, but Sarah must have picked it. The keeper thanked me and hurried over to make sure Sarah was okay.

On every subsequent trip to the zoo, I made sure to stop by and see Sarah. Whenever I was alone, she always came over to see me. Sometimes, she would smile for me. Mostly, we would just keep each other company for a little while. I always stayed until she got bored of me and left.

This is the last photograph I have of Sarah, right, with Scooter. It wasn’t the best photo I had ever taken. Scooter was grooming her until I walked into their indoor enclosure with Education Curator Alex Henwood.

In the summer of 2017, I had the privilege of following zookeepers around all day to report on what they do. The crew I worked with were scheduled on the primate rotation that day. The last stop of the day was dinnertime for Sarah and Scooter.

I learned what they were fed, how much, how well they were cared for, and most importantly, how much Sarah and Scooter were loved. I had access few people will ever have and I was grateful to see another side of Sarah’s life.

It’s not easy taking a photograph with one hand, but when Sarah put her hand up again to me, I reciprocated. I missed the shot where she turned her hand over.

In February, I was having a really bad day. I was already at the zoo covering a story and Sarah was one of the animals that could always cheer me up. She was in her indoor enclosure. The weather was too chilly for her and Scooter to be outside.

Scooter wasn’t interested in me this day. I walked in, sat down on the bench, and didn’t even try to take any pictures. My camera hung around my neck like a giant weight pulling me down. I tossed my camera bag on the bench and just watched Sarah and Scooter.

Sarah saw me from up on high. She climbed down and walked over to me. She settled down next to me, just on the other side of the glass. I put my hand up to say, “Hi,” like I do to just about everyone. She put her hand up. She had never done that before.

I asked her how her day was, but got no reply. She leaned her head in closer to me. “I hope you’re having a better day than I am,” I said to her. I sighed and began reviewing the pictures I had just taken for my newspaper story. As I did, I rested my head against the glass. Sarah moved toward me. So I got up on my knees, turned the back of my camera toward Sarah and began reviewing my photos with her.

“Oh that one’s not good,” I told Sarah. “It’s not quite all in focus.” As I explained what I liked and didn’t like about each photo, I leaned my forehead against the glass for a little better balance. Sarah leaned her head against mine. Our eyes were millimeters apart and we were staring at each other.

I stayed there for a moment before leaning back to take a picture of Sarah. I snapped a few shots and then put my left hand against the glass to balance myself. Sarah looked at my hand and put hers against the glass for the briefest of moments.

I sat back down on the bench. She sat with me for a little while, in all about 25 minutes. This time, I had to go. I needed to get back to the Star-Herald and write my story, but I wanted to stay. Sarah had calmed me and made my day better. And I didn’t want to go.

This is the last photograph I have of Sarah. It’s not a good one and I nearly deleted it. She didn’t feel like coming down to see me on this day, but she watched everything I did. I thought, “Okay, I’ll get a better one next time.”

Much like her human cousins, she had troubles with her heart. Sarah died in her sleep from what was determined to be complications from heart disease. Sarah was 49 years old.

She had helped raise Scooter. She brought joy to everyone’s lives she touched. For me, the joy was in the small moments away from the crowds when it was just the two of us understanding each other in silence.

[irenenorth]

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There is no shame in asking for help

I was sitting in the staff break room at the Star-Herald trying to keep it together. I had just sat down to eat my lunch, but wasn’t being successful. I was shaking. My heart was racing.

Up until that point, my day was the kind where thoughts are fleeting, including ones that make you wonder what it would really be like to drive your car off the Scotts Bluff National Monument. When that thought came to the front of my brain, I picked up my phone and texted my friend, Amber.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I typed. Before she could reply, I sent a series of rapid fire messages to her. When she responded her texts were ones of concern, reassurance, and messages that she was there for me. We texted for several minutes before I told her I needed to go sit in my car. I was about to break down completely and didn’t want to do so at work.

As I grabbed my lunch bag, the paper’s Media Editor, Maunette, came running into the break room. There was an accident in rural Scottsbluff, on the way to Mitchell.

“Can’t he…,” I began to ask. She cut me off with a disappointed shake of her head. I took a deep breath to stop myself from screaming. This wasn’t the first time this happened to me.

“He won’t go,” she said.

I swallowed hard and agreed to go. Maunette said she was heading back to the police scanner to get the exact location. I said I had to pee. I walked into the bathroom as tears began to fall down my face. I walked into the far left stall, locked the door and put my head against the wall. I could barely breathe, but managed to text Amber. She said I didn’t need to go. I believed I would be fired if I didn’t go, but I didn’t know how I was going to do my job.

I choked back the tears that were desperately trying to escape and walked back to my desk to get my camera bag. Maunette held up a county map and tried to point out where I was supposed to go. All I heard was “Highway 92 and County Road S.” She was still talking, but I clung to those words. It was where I needed to go. I had a job to do. I couldn’t lose it. Not now. My job needs me.

As I walked to my car, I was trying to shake the crushing feeling on my chest. I couldn’t breathe and it was getting worse. I couldn’t do my job, but I had to.

The key slid into the lock on my car as easy as it ever does. I paused before opening the door. In my reflection on the car door’s window I could see tears beginning to fall. Worried someone would see, I quickly wiped them away with my right hand and climbed into my Toyota Yaris. I was gasping for air. Each shortened breath hurt more than the last. I slammed my hands on the steering wheel several times and smashed my head against the head rest.

“You need to keep it together, Irene,” I told myself. “But I can’t. I can’t do this. You have to.”

I reached down and turned the engine on. I shifted into first gear and floored it out of the parking lot. Each gear change got me farther away from work. As I sped west on 20th Street, the speedometer read 30, then 40 then 50 mph. I didn’t care that I was driving twice the speed limit.

As I crossed over to the edge of town, and where 20th Street becomes Highway 92, I started to think about just driving away. I would head west until my car ran out of gas. Then I would walk until I ran out of air. Fuck the accident. Fuck my job. Fuck life. I couldn’t breathe. The pain in my chest increased. It was worse than a bear hug. I gasped and gasped again, trying to breath. Each time I inhaled, it hurt more. I had stopped responding to Amber’s texts.

The tightness in my chest was crushing the life from me. My brain rapidly fluctuated between panic, convincing myself to keep going and telling myself I couldn’t do it anymore. Then, I saw County Road S. I didn’t see an accident.

I slammed on the brakes at 80mph and made a sharp left hand turn. The Yaris skidded on the dirt road as it came to a stop. I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes and blew my nose. I found it strange that I could suddenly breathe. I picked up my phone and called Maunette.

“I’m at the intersection of S and 92, but I don’t see anything.”

“Head South. You’re not that far from there.”

“Okay.”

I hung up the phone. Then, I texted my editor, Brad. “I need help.”

I shifted from neutral into first gear and started driving. Brad asked if I was okay. I told him no.

I drove to a T intersection and turned left. As I came to the crest of a small hill, I saw vehicles everywhere. AirLink was resting in a corn field, ready to transport the driver. I parked my car on the south side of the road and told Brad about the accident. I told him I thought I was having a massive anxiety attack and I was unable to do my job. He said he would be there as soon as he could.

I put on my yellow reflective vest I always wear to breaking news and got out of the car. The first thing you do at the scene of any type of breaking news is take a few quick shots. If you are thrown out, you at least have a scene photo. I pulled out my phone and took a general photo to send to Maunette so she could get something short on the Star-Herald’s website. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled. Then, I went to work.

I didn’t know when Brad would be at the scene, so I started taking pictures. I pulled out my reporter’s notebook and began jotting down details about the scene. It’s what I always do, but, on this day, it allowed me to focus on something else than the world inside my head that was falling apart.

I watched a dozen first responders spend twenty-five minutes trying to save a man’s life. His red SUV was upside down. Debris was strewn along the side of the road. I kept pushing down the shutter.

When the first responders thought they had a steady pulse, they pulled the man from his vehicle and put him on a stretcher.

I kept pushing down the shutter. Brad walked in front of my shot. I exhaled slowly.

As the man was taken across the road, into the field, and into the AirLink helicopter, I kept taking photos. That’s my job now. I need a good shot. I think I got a great one.

Brad walked up closer to the SUV for some closer shots. The helicopter lifted off the ground. I kept taking pictures. As it flew off into the distance, my phone rang. It was Maunette.

“They just called a code blue from AirLink,” she said. I could still see the helicopter flying toward the hospital.

I put my phone in my pocket. Brad was standing next to me. I gave him the bad news. He hung his head toward the ground and shook it back and forth.

Sheriff Mark Overman came over to talk to us and give us what details he could. I know Mark well. I couldn’t remember his name.

Brad and I walked back toward our cars. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“No. No, I’m not. I can’t do my job anymore.”

“Do we need to bring Greg in on this?”

I sighed deeply. I just knew my answer was going to get me fired. “Yeah, I think we do.”

I got back into my car, pulled out my reporter’s notebook and called Maunette. I dictated the story to her so she could put it online. When I was finished, I headed back toward town.

I called Amber and talked to her all the way back into town. She was a rational voice in a wilderness of screaming in my brain. I parked my car in my favorite spot, under the trees at the edge of the lot and turned off the engine. I talked to Amber for twenty more minutes. I felt a twinge of guilt for taking up so much of her time, but was grateful she never made me feel that way.

When I thought I could go back to work, I said goodbye and walked back into the office. I took my camera out of my bag and removed the SD card. My job was not done. I had to create a photo gallery and pull photos from that to crop and put cutlines on. I pushed all the no good horrible throughts out of my mind and focused on the minute details of my photos. I picked the best 19 from more than 200. When I finished I went back to my desk to try to finish out my day.

Brad called me into his office and asked if I was ready. I said yes. About a week before I had spoken to him about #metoo and how I was already struggling with life. I provided him surface details, but I needed him to know that if I started calling in sick, that was the first step down the road to ruin. He promised if I called in sick he would show up on my doorstop and make me come to work. I thought I had a handle on things myself, but this day proved me wrong.

We walked down to Greg’s office. He’s our publisher and is ultimately in charge of everyone at the Star-Herald. Brad closed the door. I could barely speak. Brad told him I wasn’t doing well and I needed some time off. I still thought Greg would fire me.

Greg looked me in the eye and asked, “Are you okay?”

“No,” I said. I was still choking back tears, trying desperately to not be “a girl” and bawl even though I really wanted to.

Greg didn’t want the details. He wanted me to be okay. He gave me information about calling the employee assistance program. I appreciated it, but I didn’t want to talk to someone anonymous who would eventually refer me someplace else.

“I have a friend who is a psychologist,” I told him. “I plan to call her.”

Greg wanted me to go home immediately. I couldn’t. I still had another story to write. He told me to take the next day, Friday, off. He didn’t want to see me again until Wednesday. I said I couldn’t. I had my weekend stories to write.

“I know we’ve had this conversation before about how you are never sick and don’t take sick days, but you are ill right now and you need to take sick time,” Greg said.

We agreed I would come in on Friday, write my stories and go home. When Wednesday came, if I needed to, I could take more sick time.

Friday morning, I sent my friend a message. I need help.

She was out of town but promised to call me Saturday morning. When we spoke on the phone on Saturday, I told her the gist of my problem. I need help. I respect your opinion. She needed to call me back so she could contact someone to see if that person would see me. Less than ten minutes later, she called back. From somewhere on I-80 between Lincoln and Scottsbluff, she made the arrangements. I am incredibly grateful she took my call and helped me. Not everyone knows someone who will help you on their day off in a car zipping down the highway. She doesn’t know it, but she saved me.

I’m still learning how to deal with the childhood trauma, with the nightmares, with living my entire life in survival mode. My introversion, anxiety, and depression adds a lovely layer of panic and frustration to each day. Inside it all is a brain that can’t shut off, that sees and feels everything so deeply that it is overwhelming and sometimes hurts. But I’m still here.

Mental illness affects tens of millions of people in the United States each year. I am one of them. According to the National Institute of Mental Health Information Resource Center, only half of people with mental illnesses receive treatment.

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. It’s a time to raise awareness about mental illness and to erase stigmas. Stigma may not directly affect you, but it prevents the 1 in 5 Americans with mental health conditions from seeking help, according to the National Alliance on Mental Illness.

Stigma is toxic to their mental health because it creates an environment of shame, fear and silence that prevents many people from seeking help and treatment. The perception of mental illness won’t change unless we act to change it.

My friend recommended the right person to help me. If I didn’t make that call, my life would be spiraling out of control right now. While not everyone is fortunate enough to have a super smart friend who knows all the right people to help you, all you need to do is ask, to say I need help.

I don’t know how long this journey will be or where it is going to take me, but I’m on it as long as I need to be. I’m still here. I still struggle. I’m still learning. And I’m going to make it to 100.

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

New Post has been published on http://www.irenenorth.com/writings/2018/05/black-beauty/

Black beauty

The black leopard, Panthera pardus, is not a separate species of leopard. The coloring comes from the area that is their natural habitat – the dark, dense, tropical jungle of southeast Asia. When the light is just right, you can see that Maydoc is not black.

It took me several years, but I finally have some great photos of Maydoc, a black leopard that lives at the zoo in Scottsbluff. Since she moved to a new enclosure, Maydoc has been more active, playful and it’s been easier for me to take photographs of her.

Crap. She’s seen me. In the wild, Maydoc would use her acute sense of hearing and vision for hunting she probably heard me talking after I stood still for several minutes to admire her beauty. I’m not really worried. Black leopards only occasionally hunt humans for prey.

Maydoc did not eat me. She was more interested in climbing up on her perch to get a better look at all the people walking by. However, in the wild, Maydoc would likely drag her prey up into trees, where larger cats and scavengers cannot get at it. So, maybe she is contemplating how to eat me.

The agouti gene regulates the distribution of black pigment within the hair shaft. The color phase is from a surplus of melanin, the pigment responsible for suntans. An animal with the condition is known as melanistic.

Melanistic, or all-black, individuals are the result of a single recessive gene controls dark coat color. Though they are not common, they are found more often along the Malay peninsula. According to results in the study, “Near fixation of melanism in leopards of the Malay Peninsula” by K. Kawanishi, et. al., in the 13 July 2010 issue of the Journal of Zoology, there are indications, “this recessive trait may be nearly fixed in P. pardus populations of the Malay Peninsula, suggesting a unique evolutionary history of leopards in the region.”

According to National wildlife magazine, “In the natural world, rare genetic variations that occur in pigment genes can help animals to adapt better to their habitats. These color differences often provide a selective advantage through camouflage.”

The adaptive benefits of black fur for leopards are more difficult to interpret. Researchers Eduardo Eizirik, Stephen O’Brien and their colleagues at the National Cancer Institute’s Laboratory of Genomic Diversity in Maryland have mapped, cloned and sequenced the genes responsible for black coats in cats. “Melanism is particularly common in the cat family,” Eizirik says. “This is important because it means that dark fur, or something connected with it, has a survival benefit.” One theory is that animals living in dark, humid forests generally have darker fur for camouflage. African leopards spend most of their lives in open habitats with dappled sunlight, where spots are the best disguise. In Malaysian forests, black coats may be better camouflage than spots. “The most likely benefit of melanism is camouflage for hunting,” Eizirik says.

However, the black leopard story may prove more complicated than mere camouflage. O’Brien, chief of the Laboratory of Genomic Diversity, suggests that there are many other selective pressures besides being able to hide. “Another explanation is that about 70 percent of selective pressures associated with the biological environment involve microbes and diseases,” O’Brien says. Recent studies have shown that coat-color genes also affect the immune system. “The types of receptors used for coat colors are also used by viruses to enter cells,” O’Brien says. “It is plausible that some of these color mutations are adaptive—relics of historic epidemics.”

The spots and dark coat occur because of recessive genes, but the exact evolutionary reasons remains unclear. Don’t let that stop you from visiting Maydoc to gaze upon her shimmering beauty.

Maydoc may look like she is making a funny face, and she kind of is. After smelling a nearby bush in her enclosure at Riverside Discovery Center, she began using her vomeronasal organ, or Jacobson’s organ, to detect non-volatile chemical cues, which requires direct physical contact with the source of the odor. The sense of smell and taste are closely linked in cats. The Jacobson’s organ, is a saclike structure located in the roof of the mouth and is thought to be involved in sensing chemical messages associated with sexual activity. In this case, it is likely staff sprayed the bush with perfume or some other substance as an enrichment exercise.

Although Maydoc is beautiful and facts about her are interesting, black leopards are the result of a recessive gene that can occur during inbreeding. In the United States, this is purposely done and when they can no longer be cared for zoos will often taken them in and care for them. There is no need for anyone to every own such an animal.

Black leopards are solitary animals, but they like to have fun just like any other animal, including rolling around in the grass and sticking their tongues out. Just remember, Maydoc can hunt and kill animals that weigh up to 1,350 pounds. That includes you. Feel free to admire her. Just make sure it’s from a distance.

Near fixation of melanism in leopards of the Malay Peninsula” by K. Kawanishi, et. al., can be found here.

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

New Post has been published on http://www.irenenorth.com/writings/2018/05/the-well-mannered-balloon-by-nine-year-old-me/

The Well-Mannered Balloon by nine year old me

I am working on a piece for the Star-Herald about why I am a journalist. Honestly, I didn’t pay close enough attention, but I think it’s going to be used in ads or internally. I just listened to the topic, said I’d do it and stopped listening. Not a good trait for a journalist.

However, it got me to thinking about something I wrote when I was nine years old.

This is the oldest story I have saved from my days at Mechanicstown Elementary School. It is likely the first story I ever wrote. It was for a Language Arts assignment in Mrs. Sylvester’s 4th grade class. I hated that woman so much.

I don’t know if I would have caught the mistakes I made if I proofread it, especially the giant run-on sentence, or not. I was nine, so I’m guessing not. Also, I was nine and that airplane needed to be drawn. Pfft. I’m not going to proofread. Plus, I got a star for it so no need to make it better, right?

I have no idea why I spaced it how I did. Other than the corrections the teacher made – apparently I couldn’t spell the word toilet – and the weird spacing at the start, I’ve typed the story below as I wrote it on October 30, 1979.

The Well-Mannered Balloon by nine-year-old me

The day James and his mother went downtown to buy him some new shoes. Whom should they meet but the ballon man.

“Please, Mother, buy me a ballon,” said James.

“Later,” said his mother.

So, after they bought some shoes, his mother ballon.

When they got home his mother said, “Go do your homework without your balloon, and no lip.” So he went and did it. His mother flushed it down the toilet and it popped in the toilet drain and his mother fainted and her hair went in the toilet bowl and her wig fell off.

James went down stairs and asked what was wrong. His mother said, “My wig my beautiful wig.” James said, “Too bad.”

His mother died because she lost her wig. James died of starvasion. They were never burried and the house was haunted. Some people were tring to sell it. But when they heard the noises they said, “Lets scram” and they never went there again.

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

New Post has been published on http://www.irenenorth.com/writings/2018/05/some-people-think-im-good-at-writing-and-gave-me-a-bunch-of-pieces-of-paper-that-say-so/

Some people think I'm good at writing and gave me a bunch of pieces of paper that say so

It’s awards season and I won some stuff from the Nebraska Press Association and the Nebraska Press Women organization. They think I’m good at making words sound nice and believe I know what I’m doing with a camera.

I do not write my articles for the Star-Herald to win awards. While I have assigned beats, I also cover things I think are interesting and/or that the public should be informed on. These include historical pieces and current events. Two of those stories won first place this year at the Nebraska Press Association’s Better Newspapers Contest.

I wrote an article about human trafficking and it won first place for “in-depth writing.” The phrase “there are more slaves today than at any other time in history” has always struck a chord with me. While human trafficking isn’t a huge problem, yet, in Scottsbluff, it does happen. It’s happening in Nebraska. It’s happening in America. I’m pleased the story got some recognition.

I am eternally grateful to Tristen Wecker for being so open about her past and allowing me to tell her story. It also won first place for “feature stories.” I told the story because childhood sexual assault is a big deal. It happens a lot. People still want to sweep it under the carpet and pretend it doesn’t happen. Winning first place means other people get it. Other people understand and recognize the importance of bringing these issues out of the darkness so we can change as a society.

I shared a first place award with Lead Copy Editor Candice Pederson for a photo page of the 2017 total solar eclipse at Agate Fossil Beds National Monument. I’ve turned the page into a photo so you can view it below.

I also received nine awards – three first place, four second place, one third place, and one honorable mention – at the Nebraska Press Women organization’s Professional Communications Contest.

This year, there were 200 entries from 22 entrants in 72 categories, the most of any NFPW affiliate. Of those, 58 first place entries have moved on to the national communications contest sponsored by the National Federation of Press Women.

I would have preferred to show the pdf of these articles because I think they have more impact, I have provided the online links so you can at least read them. The headlines are also sometimes changed online, creating confusion for anyone trying to find the story. These are the awards I received:

First place, enterprise reporting, “Good Vibrations” (Part 1 and Part 2). This was my favorite story of the year and I would have been happy if it had been the only winner. From the judge’s comments, “Story invoked admiration rather than sympathy for its subject, Robby Simmons. Good narrative and use of quotes. They keep the reader in the story and pull things along.”

First place, photgrapher-writer, “Awestruck at Agate” You see this page above.

First place, editorial/opinion, “Net Neutrality is Needed.”

Second place, news story, “A Helping Hand.” From the judge, “…your article has great relevance and emotional appeal. And it also brings the public’s attention to the tremendous contributions of these women that our military branches  obviously have ignored. It’s shameful and you know it. Yet, somehow you managed to describe the women’s frustrations and emotions without adding your own to the story. Your choice of quotes was excellent, showing the strength these veterans have drawn from each other.”

Second place, continuing coverage, for following the saga of PenAir. PenAir was a subpar choice for Scottsbluff. They had continued troubles, including constant pilot shortages, which led the Western Nebraska Regional Airport to seek, and receive, permission from the FAA to sever the contract and seek a new airline. although I wrote about a dozen articles of the ongoing saga, I was allowed to submit six of them for consideration.

Second place, feature story, “Stepping up, speaking out.” This story took first place at the NPA contest. From the NPW judge, “Very tough subject well-told. A sensitive look at a very sensitive topic. Glad to see this was on the front page. More stories such as this will help break down stereotypes of sexual abuse victims.” My only gripe is I seem to have had marks against me for the lack of bold face for the subhead, which I have no control over. In the end, it doesn’t matter. People read the story and liked it. Hopefully, it sparked a few conversations as well.

Second place, columns, for “Women’s March inspires millions” and “Making the right call on ethics.” Both columns were considered as one entry. From the judge, “I’ve read seven well-written entries, four of which should be winners….Like some of the Olympians edged out of the Gold by one-hundreth of a second, you are awarded the Silver….But if I had my way, there would have been a tie for first place. Your writing is second to none in this category.”

The judge also went a little off topic stating “I was heartened after reading your Women’s March column. I was surprised to find your strong voice in a red state such as Nebraska, vehemently challenging conservative legislators on issues of women’s rights, human rights, civil rights, LGBT rights, gun control and others right down the line. It was refreshing and hopeful to me to learn that strong newspaper women like you are talking a blue streak in red states.” It’s obvious my columns I entered struck a chord with the judge. All of the things the judge mentioned were from previous columns over the past couple of years and for that I am touched that a stranger wanted to read more of my stuff.

Third place, Photography and Graphics, “Fair Time.”

MacCormick Riesen holds his duck after competing in the 4-H poultry division at the 2017 Scotts Bluff County Fair.

Honorable Mention, History, two articles covering Nebraska’s 150th anniversary. Part 1 and Part 2. From the judge, “the articles you entered were so well done that they could be used as a textbook in Nebraska Classrooms. If I headed the Scottsbluff Public Library, I’d request copies for the section on Nebraska history. You did your research, then translated it into a long, but very readable text. It’s there for posterity and you should take pride in that.”

There were great comments from the judges, even on the entries where I didn’t place, which I liked. I also liked the constructive criticism where I could improve on each entry, including first place. I really like that kind of feedback and will definitely take it all to heart.

I don’t write for awards, but, damn, they sure do feel nice when you win.

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

New Post has been published on http://www.irenenorth.com/writings/2018/04/what-a-reporter-does-at-5-a-m/

What a reporter does at 5 a.m.

It was 4:47 a.m. A Thursday. After a restful night, I awakened to begin my usual morning routine before heading to work. There was the obligatory trip to the bathroom, then I was off to the kitchen to gather kitty treats so my cats do not kill me before 5 a.m., each day. One the cats were happy and disappeared to wherever they go after I give them food, I headed into the basement to ride my bicycle to nowhere. I ride anywhere from eight to ten miles each morning as I practice my French via Duolingo on my cell phone.

On this still dark Thursday morning, I opened up the program and began cycling as I waiting for it to load. My brain usually isn’t fully functioning yet, and it’s probably stupid to make it practice French at such an ungodly hour, but it’s when I have the time.

Then, my phone rang.

My cell phone screen read “Maunette” and listed her telephone number. This particular week was my turn to be on scanner duty. At the Star-Herald, each reporter is assigned a week to cover breaking news. My week is always the fourth week of each mont. If something happens and Maunette, our digital news editor, hears it, she’s going to call.

I looked at my phone and sighed. I stared at it for at least three seconds before I put my finger over the “answer call” button and swiped to pick up the line. I never said hello.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I said.

“No,” was her reply.

“Where is it?” I asked. I got off my bicycle and began the journey from the basement to my bedroom on the second floor.

“It’s a house fire in Morrill,” she said.

My brain was trying to listen to the details she was relaying to me. Three fire departments were called out to the scene. It sounded pretty bad. I was looking in the top drawer of my dresser.

“I think I’m going to need a bra,” I said. I pointed at my bras as if Maunette could magically see them through the phone. “I’m going to need socks too.

Maunette shifted from relaying information about the fire to what I should wear.

“It’s cold outside,” she said. “You’re going to need your jacket.”

“Okay, but I’m wearing jeans.”

I left the house less than three minutes later. I had bed head. I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I still had on the blue Fallout t-shirt I had slept in.

The quickest way to Morril from my house is along 42nd Street. The only problem is 42nd Street is closed off near my house because they are upgrading the road. I had to travel about the long way around to get on the highway to Morrill.

There aren’t many people on the road just before 5 a.m. My USB drive of music just happened to be on H3Ctic’s Unbreakable[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cY5dtX3zxwk]. I cranked up the sound and put the song on repeat to wake me up. Then, I put the pedal to the metal and sped the whole way to Morrill.

Once I reached Morrill, I looked for Madison Avenue. Oh, great. There’s construction here, too. I drove to the next block and followed the Mitchell Fire Department’s fire chief up to the scene.

The journey form my house to the fire should have taken nineteen minutes. I made it in less time than that.

“I did 80 mph all the way here,” I texted her.

“You did not tell me that,” was her reply.

There weren’t any flames coming out of the house. I sighed. I don’t wish anyone ill will, but a house fire should have fire, and flames. Thankfully, for the occupants of the home, it was a small fire that was contained in the attic. There was, however a lot of smoke damage inside. I missed the smoke as well.

I texted Maunette, “No flames.” She was bummed as well.

I took a quick photo with my phone and sent it to Maunette so she could get something brief online.

“At least you got to see the sun rise,” she said. Except I hadn’t. I was too busy trying to get good photos in the dark to realize the sun had come up.

Then I proceeded to walk as close to the scene as I could get.

The Morrill Rural Fire Department and the Mitchell Fire Department did something I don’t think I have seen before. They gathered some tarpaulins and took them into the house. Firefighters then gathered up debris and helped clean up the area to try and minimize any damage to the people’s home. I thought it was a nice touch to kind of minimize whatever trauma the folks who lived inside would have experienced.

After taking many photos and gathering the details of the fire, I drove back to Scottsbluff. Yes, at 80 mph.

I tried to respond to a text from Maunette for more details, but it’s near impossible to make sense why you are speeding down a highway and still aren’t sure if you’re fully awake.

On the way back, I saw a bald eagle in a nest. For those who are unfamiliar with the bird, they hate me. Everyone I know has good photos of the bald eagles that live in Scotts Bluff County. They have even taken me out to get photos, but the birds see me coming and fly away. I’m pretty sure every bald eagle within a 100-mile radius knows what I look like. I’m pretty sure they get together on weekends to laugh about me failing to ever take their picture.

I should have stopped, but I just wanted to get back to Scottsbluff and get a shower.

I walked back through my front door at 6:33 a.m., sat down at my computer began typing up the story. When I was finished, I emailed the story to Maunette and told her I would crop the photos and put cutlines on them when I got into the office. It was 6:47 a.m.

I took a shower, ate my oatmeal, drank my hot Darjeeling tea, and still made it to work at 7:53 a.m., about three minutes later than usual.

Each year, members of Soroptimist International of Scotts Bluff County make 600 May baskets for area retirement communities. They made two extra this year. One for me and one for Paul. This was my 2 p.m., interview near the end of a very long day at work.

I logged in to my work computer. As I waited for everything to load, I silently began wishing for 5 p.m., when I could return home and end my day. The life of a reporter, however, is never over. There were interviews to be had. I had an exclusive at 10 a.m., and another interview at 2 p.m.

After pounding on the keyboard all day, I logged off at 4:33 p.m., and went home. Paul had a cup of hot Darjeeling tea waiting for me.

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

New Post has been published on http://www.irenenorth.com/writings/2018/04/work-can-be-fun-when-youre-writing-about-interesting-things/

Work can be fun when you're writing about interesting things

From flickr photo by US Forest Service Wayne National Forest reintroducition – 2009

Today was a good day at work. I got to make my boss sigh and I learned something new.

MY REPUTATION FOR LONG ARTICLES REMAINS INTACT

My desk is near the editor’s office. Within five seconds of turning my story in, I heard my editor sigh loudly and say, “Sixty-nine inches. Geesh.” He exhaled and began to read my story. I can’t help but laugh at that.

For those of you who are not in the newspaper business, sixty-nine inches is 1,104 words. It’s a long story. I’ve been working on it for a week. I have four sources I talked to in order to get it done. After gathering all my data, the story was originally, 1,972 words long. I made it shorter. You’re welcome.

Hopefully, after all the editing, my story is still good and folks enjoy it. You’ll all be surprised how my story involves beetles, wagon ruts and mass graves. Just read tomorrow’s paper.

IT’S GOOD TO LEARN NEW THINGS

Learning new things is good. Having to cut them from your story sucks.

After talking to Bob Harms, U.S. Fish and Wildlife biologist today about the endangered American Burying Beetle, or Nicrophorus americanus, I learned a really cool fact. A male and a female beetle will hang out on a dead thing the size of a pigeon or a ground squirrel. They will meet in the middle of the night (they’re nocturnal) check each other out, bury the dead thing, mate, and reproduce. The female leaves her eggs on the dead thing and 30-40 days later, BAM! New American Burying Beetles. How awesome is that?

Photo Source: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

They need a large, unfragmented habitat. If you look around the Sandhills, there is grass for as far as the eye can see. That’s what the American Burying Beetle needs to survive. In Oklahoma, they have a more savanna-like habitat with grass and trees. There isn’t a lot of that type of habitat in the United States anymore, which is why the beetle is endangered.

Its habitat has been converted and roads have been put in. With these changes comes other critters, such as skunks and raccoons, who compete for their habitat.

Bob told me there is a theory that the American Burying Beetle used to follow along with the passenger pigeon. The bird would have been a huge resource for the beetles. “But, we will never know because we don’t have any more passenger pigeons,” Bob said.

So, now you have the image of beetles having sex on a dead bird underground and away from prying eyes. You’re welcome, again.

Photo credit.

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

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When work hits a little too close to home

Imagine living in a world where you are told nothing you ever do is right. Imagine a world where everyone questions your actions or behavior. Imagine where everyone who could help you fails or is removed from your life. Imagine what kind of person you would be if you grew up in a world like this.

I had the opportunity to attend the Trauma Informed Care workshop on Friday and while I was aware of basic things to be discussed, I was amazed at the willingness and desire of every single person in the room to learn more so they could return to their respective organizations in the Panhandle and find better ways to help their clients. Many times, these people are hampered by laws that are nonsensical and down right stupid. Yet, they press on.

During the six-hour workshop, there were a variety of learning activities. One video, presented through the actual words of children speaking, forced you to look at the world through the eyes of a child and what it meant to be a foster or adopted child, or a child who had experienced trauma. Right there for all to hear were the explanations why children who have experienced trauma behave the way they do and why they sometimes seem to act irrationally. You just needed to listen to what the children were telling you.

Another video showed two examples of getting a horse into a trailer for the first time. In the first video, two men were treating the horse harshly – I would say violently – in forcing the horse to bend to human will. They smiled and were proud of themselves once they were finished. My silent comment to them was, “dickheads.”

The second video showed a man trying to guide a horse into the trailer. The horse didn’t want to go. It was unfamiliar to her. She was scared. As the man attempted several times to move the horse where he wanted, he was patient to a point in allowing her to run a few feet away from the trailer. Once the horse had calmed down, he was able to guide her to the trailer and allowed her to step in when she was ready.

“She didn’t want to go in. She was scared. And I had to understand that,” the man said.

We do not take the time to be patient with one another either. We don’t listen to each other or empathize with someone else’s fears, no matter how irrational we may think they are. We tell others to stop being afraid and just get on with it. We don’t try to understand.

And all of that hit a little too close to home.

I don’t have to imagine living in a world where I am told nothing I ever do is right. I don’t have to imagine a world where everyone questions my actions or behavior. I don’t have to imagine where everyone who could help me failed. I don’t have to imagine what kind of person I would be if I grew up in a world like this. I did. And most people still do not understand.

So, please forgive me when I post things here or on Facebook or wherever when I have doubts about my abilities and who I am. I live with the dichotomy of putting my stories out there for the world to see and enjoy while simultaneously panicking that what I do will never be good enough. The more passionate I am about a topic, the more anxiety, fear, panic, and sheer terror rises to the surface.

I don’t write anything on my website for accolades. I don’t want a pat on the head, hear “good job” and be told that it will all be fine. I write to sort out a brain that is constantly fighting me. It is used to being told it is a failure. It is used to the look of disappointment. It is used to fear. It is used to a lack of praise. And sometimes you see that, too. And you don’t understand.

My brain is trying to understand the positives in harsh contrast to the world it is familiar with and has grown to expect. My brain finds it likes compliments, but doesn’t know how to accept them. It does not yet fully understand praise. It will. It’s just going to take time.

As I sat through the workshop, taking notes for an article, I looked around the packed room at all the people who have decided to make their lives about helping others, I thought, “Finally. There are some people who get it. They understand.” And they’re trying their damnedest to make sure children in the future will only imagine worlds full of candy and chocolate.

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

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Sometimes you have to climb high to feel your feet on the ground

Courthouse and Jail rock are two of the most famous landmarks of westard migration. The Oregon-California, Mormon, and Sidney-Deadwood Trails passed by here. So did the Pony Express trail. Courthouse Rock was mentioned in many diaries. It was sometimes referred to as a castle or solitary tower.

During the past few weeks, I have seen some of the most difficult days in my life. A dear friend parted this world and is no more. He left behind him a wake of love and questions. He could not see the love that surrounded him and I cannot ever blame him for taking his life. I have been there. I know. I understand. But there will forever be questions about what happened and why. They will probably never be answered and those of us left behind must find the strength to continue in the absence of answers.

In this time, I have heard some hurtful words. I refrained from responding, but they cut deep and I needed to get back to what I know to be true.

In my life, the Earth, its soil, the vastness of the outdoors has strengthened me through tough times. It is a way to escape the world, the vulgarity of false kindness, to take time standing as one with nature with the geologic wonders we take for granted every day.

Paul and I made the decision to travel just south of Bridgeport to spend a couple of hours at Courthouse and Jail Rocks. I chose to take the long way. The journey was, in more than one way, a new one. It was a different path, a different highway, than we had traveled before.

As we neared the Wildcat Hills, I shoved my foot to the floor. The speedometer increased to 80 mph. The extra speed is needed to get over the hill without slowing down to a crawl. Ludovico Einaudi’s Giorni Dispari was half way finished when we reached the apex of the hill. The wide open of Banner County lay ahead of us, embracing us as we descended into the valley.

As we drove on down the road, my change in music selection was paying off. Mostly instrumental, the music calms the anxiety within. Turning East onto Highway 88, we began the thirty-three mile journey to the rocks.

To the north, bits of green poke through the tan-colored land. Spring is trying to arrive. Clouds gently kissed the Wildcat Hills as they passed overhead.

A golden pheasant with its bright blue and red head sauntered along the south side of the highway. An osprey collapsed its wings as it settled on the top of a wooden post marking the limit where nearby cattle could graze.

A nodding donkey slowly moved up and down, pulling oil out of the ground while local birds took turns playing chicken in front of my car.

A field of calves, nary an adult to be seen, ate grass in a field east of Redington, oblivious to vehicles passing by, except one. A calf near the fencing at the edge of the road locked eyes with me as I approached the field. Cinematic Orchestra’s Arrival of the Birds played on my radio.

The young black calf with a white face watched me as my car got closer. We looked into each other’s eyes and turned our heads to maintain the moment, if ever so briefly. Forced to return my eyes to the road, I glanced in my side view mirror as I drove away from the field. The calf was still looking at me.

We continued toward our destination.

“Ooo, the rocks,” Paul said, breaking the conversational silence. They were to the left of the road and loomed over everything nearby. As I turned to glance at them, something caught my eye. To the right, a hawk was in the middle of grasping its claws around a power line. Its feathers fluctuating in the wind. It struggled to hold on as it shifted uneasily and tightened its grasp on the line.

As we arrived at Court House and Jail Rock and stopped to take a picture of the entrance marker, Paul had to touch it. He does that. I won’t bore you with the Geology lesson I received.

We turned north. A few moments later, we turned back west onto a dirt road that lead to Courthouse and Jail Rocks. H3Ctic’s Unbreakable took us up the dirt road to where we could begin our hike.

Looking East at Jail Rock. British guy for height reference. He is 5’9″ or 1.75 meters.

Courthouse and Jail Rocks rise more than 4,050 feet (1,230 meters) above the North Platte Valley. They are composed of clay, sandstone, and volcanic ash.

Looking North toward the city of Bridgeport from halfway up Courthouse Rock. My Toyota Yaris looks tiny from my location. According to the National Park Service Courthouse and Jail Rocks are the erosional remnants of an ancient plateau that bisected the North Platte River. The site is more than 4,050 feet above sea level and rise more than 240 feet above nearby Pumpkin Creek.

The rocks are listed in the National Register of Historic Places and in the Nebraska Natural Areas Register.

Do you see it there in the distance? Emigrants on the westward trails would be looking for it. From Courthouse Rock, you can see Chimney Rock, even on an overcast day.

Hey, Nick and Rebecca. You’re assholes. Stop defacing landmarks. Yes, I understand people have been doing it for thousands of years. That still doesn’t make it right.

At this point in time, Paul and I diverged from each other. I began looking at the makeup of Courhouse Rock. I told him he could go ahead of me if he wanted. Whenever I say that, we usually find ourselves separated. I was intrigued by the erosion patterns. He disappeared.

The soft dirt gave way to the weight of my body along the trail. The ground beneath me changed from solid and steady to soft, pliable sand. My feet sank into the ground, leaving marks behind. The smooth dirt was a reminder of the fragility of the land, the people, and the birds in the sky.

I had hoped to see more of the animals that are native to the area and who regularly climb on, over, and around Courthouse and Jail Rocks. It is the wrong time of year for snakes, so a good time for humans to hike the area, but the other local residents, such as deer, were nowhere to be found.

I wandered around a little bit, climbing up, down, and around Courthouse Rock. I looked around and couldn’t see Paul. I called out to him several times, but no answer. I didn’t feel a need to panic. I took a few steps forward and was about to call for him again when I saw something about thirty feet ahead of me. Suddenly, I didn’t really care where Paul was at.

After looking at the bones for a while, I heard a cough in the distance. I recognized it. I looked up, but didn’t see Paul. I yelled his name.

“What?” was the reply. I still didn’t see him. Then, his head, covered by the gray hood of his sweatshirt emerged from behind the rock. He was on a trail near the top of Courthouse Rock.

“How the hell did you get up there?”

“I don’t know. I just followed the trail.”

“Well…be careful.”

“I’m fine.”

The British billy goat running around near the top of Courthouse Rock.

Paul continued walking East to the other side of Courthouse Rock. When he neared the end, he turned around and came back to the middle. He paced back and forth a few times.

“Whatcha lookin’ for?”

“I’m not sure how to get down from here.”

“Just go back the way you came.”

“I’m not sure which way that is.”

Welp. This outing is no different than any other. If Paul leads, he gets lost. I was sure we were going to be here for many hours as he tried to figure out how to get down.

I think Paul has lived in America for too long. He then did the most American thing one would expect. He just started climbing straight down the edge of Courthouse Rock. No path? Didn’t matter. He was coming down.

Paul had already climbed down from the level above. When he reached this location, it was a straight fifteen foot drop or climb back up and go around. Despite how it looks, this is not a gentle slope.

When given a choice, Paul always takes the most difficult option.

This is the moment Paul fell off Courthouse Rock. I was pretty sure I was taking photographs of his last moments on Earth. The grassy area is inbetween where Paul is falling and the ground. He actually has about another eight feet to fall.

“Are you okay?”

“Yep.”

Paul stood up immediately. He brushed his ass off and then his hands. He looked back up at where he had just fallen from. Then he looked proudly at me and smiled.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“What the hell? Why didn’t you just go back around.”

“I dunno.”

Paul made his way back down off the rock and rejoined me. We began walking back to the car when he had another revelation for me.

“I hit my head too,” he said. “If it doesn’t stop hurting, I might need to go to the hospital.”

“It’s okay. Bridgeport has a hospital.”

The cool temperatures of the morning had turned our hands and faces red. Even Paul’s hooded sweatshirt and my hooded jacket, the wind licked our skin just enough to to make it cool to the touch. We chatted on our way back down to my car and cranked up the heat to get warm on our two-mile drive to BurgerWerx for lunch.

“I kind of need to pee,” I said as we climbed back into the car.

“I already took care of that,” Paul said.

“I hate you so much,” I said.

Just like in Florence, Italy when Paul peed against a church, he did so again. This time against Courthouse Rock.

As we arrived at BurgerWerx for an early lunch, Paul got out of the car and said, “my butt really hurts.”

Paul stood up straight and stretched as he exited the car. He was still holding his backside, complaining he was in a bit of pain.

“My head still hurts, too,” he said. “Hopefully, I don’t lapse into a coma.”

I rolled my eyes as closed the car door. We walked into BurgerWerx for lunch.

Paul took a photo of me checking a message on my phone. Hair messed up from wind – check. Getting ready to eat a tasty burger – check. Wearing my new favorite shirt – check.

Well deserved lunch at BurgerWerx. This was our first visit to the place. Not bad. Probably will go back.

As we sat down to eat, Paul begin turning his left hand over and over.

“Did you hurt your hand, too?”

“Yeah. And my head hurts. I might have a concussion.”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

“Split those rings in half, will ya?”

Paul took half the onion rings and pushed the container over to me. I dumped them out onto the paper my bacon cheeseburger was sitting on.

In between bites of burgers, fries and rings, we chatted about Geoffrey and how to move forward from here. We reminisced about taking him out for Indian food in Denver for the first time. I couldn’t believe he had eaten so much for such a skinny little kid. He loved the spiciness and abundance of flavors.

The air outside was still chilly. The weatherman predicts snow for Sunday. It’s certainly cold enough for snow.

Taking the easy way home along Highway 92, several hawks had perched themselves on electric poles along the highway. If I was alone in the car, I would have stopped for every single one to try and get pictures. I pointed them out to Paul as we made our way past McGrew.

“Hey, the Pink Palace,” he said. “I still want to eat there.”

“I know.”

Instrumental music filled the recycled air inside my car. The Scotts Bluff National Monument could barely be seen in the distance. The overcast day obscured most of the bluffs along our way.

It’s still chilly outside. We’re awaiting the arrival of the snow. The ground beneath us is solid here in town. On any adventure, you must be careful of which way the soil moves. It can take you in unexpected directions or keep you in place just long enough to recognize the beauty of it all.

Sometimes you have to climb high to feel your feet on the ground and see what lies ahead.

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

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So long, Steve. Thanks for not giving me any fish

Special Projects Editor Steve Frederick hard at work.

At the end of September 2013, I had been sitting on unemployment for a month. As October began, I continued to search for work in the Panhandle.

Nebraska requires those who receive unemployment benefits to apply for a certain number of jobs each week. It was Sunday evening and I was still short one application. The weekly deadline was looming and I didn’t know what to do. I scoured every job posting and want ad I could find. Then, I saw something that piqued my interest.

The Star-Herald was looking for a reporter and photographer. While I enjoy writing and taking photographs, I did not think I was qualified. I also had a degree in Anthropology with a double minor in Black Studies and African Studies. I filled out the application and resigned myself to the fact that I would not be finding a job for another week.

For whatever reasons, Editor Steve Frederick called me Monday morning. I listened to the answering machine as he left his message.

“Holy shit,” I thought. “The dude actually called me.”

A panic set in. I wanted to pick up the phone and call him back, but thought he would know I had listened to his message. That would be a strike against me.

I paced back and forth in my living room for twenty minutes before calling him back. Over the course of the next week, Steve would call or email. I would panic and delay replying. He asked for examples of my writing. Once I sent them, I was sure he wouldn’t hire me.

I figured he would have a check list of disqualifications for me, too liberal being at the top of that list. But he called back. I had an interview, which I thought went okay. I still didn’t think I would get the job.

Steve called again and asked if I could come in and take a test. It was all about writing and if I could actually write. There was also a logic section. As we walked to the interview room where I would take this timed test Steve said, “Don’t worry. Football players can pass this test.”

Great. No pressure there.

I wasn’t sure how I did. Of course, I aced the parts where you have to determine to, too, and two as well as the writing section where you pick out the errors, but that logic test, man I thought I screwed that up big time. Was I dumber than a football player?

I took a typing test as well. Though I said on my resume I could type 60 words per minute, the last official test I took was 81 words per minute. I downplayed my skills.

After the test, I went home, satisfied I did my best, but still didn’t think I had the job.

The next day, Steve called again. He asked me to write two freelance articles for him. I had a week to do them. He emailed me the information. One was about the changing colors of the leaves in fall and the other was a profile on Scottsbluff Middle School band director Michael Koch.

I turned both of them in three days later.

Steve and then Assistant Editor Bart Schaneman emailed me back with some suggestions on how to make the story better. Steve called and offered me a job.

“Can you start November 5?” he asked.

Yes.

Steve called again the next day. “Can you start on October 28?”

Yeah, dude. I’m on unemployment. What the hell else am I going to?

Steve told me my first week at work would be more of a job shadow than anything else so I could get the feel of a newsroom and understand how everything worked. Great, I thought, because I’m terrified.

I found this guy at the Wndblown Arts Festival in Bushnell. He looked like he was having a good time.

On October 28, I reported for my first day at Star-Herald. Steve was not there. This day was the first day of a week-long vacation for him. Bart showed me to my desk, which was next to his, and suggested I find some cleaning materials to clean the crud off my desk and my keyboard. I tried to make this last as long as possible.

Later in the day, Bart assigned me a Canon 60D. It was the first DSLR I ever used. He asked me to go out and find “art,” better known as “we need a photo so go find something interesting.”

I got in my car and drove several blocks away before parking and reading the camera’s instruction manual. The first interesting thing I found was a guy pushing his daughter on the swings in Gering. I didn’t take a picture because I was still thinking that it would be weird and creepy to walk up to someone and ask to take their picture for the newspaper. After driving back to Scottsbluff, I eventually found a guy raking leaves. His dog kept jumping into the pile of leaves. I took the picture, but I wondered what I had gotten myself into.

When Steve eventually returned from vacation, I spent months trying to figure him out. I knew from watching other reporters to never hand in shoddy work and not to shirk your responsibilities, not that I would have otherwise.

Steve was mostly hands-off on how you chose to write your stories, but he was a damned good editor. “I can’t teach you how to write. You either know that or you don’t by now,” he told me. “But I can teach you how to be a reporter.”

I also had to write a column, introducing myself to the community. Every now and then, I was allowed to write another one. I eventually asked if I could write a column every week. Steve was enthusiastic and happy I had taken the initiative. Jeff Van Patten designed a logo for me.

My column went from occasional to every Sunday in the lifestyle section to every Thursday on the editorial page.

Along the way, Steve and Bart taught me how to tighten my work, how to work faster, how to stay within word counts, and other fine details of the job.

When Steve Frederick became the special projects editor, he worked closely with Ilene Anderson to create Out Yonder magazines for the newspaper. Steve wrote the stories and took the photographs. Ilene designed the layouts.

I really got to know Steve when he stepped down as editor. He wanted to write again, so he became the special projects editor and dove back into writing.

Steve is also a phenomenal photographer. He is better at writing and taking photos than me and I thought, “This guy is going to retire one day. I need to learn everything I can from him and pick his brain while he is here.”

And so I have.

Steve Frederick takes a photo of me taking a photo of him on our hike at Toadstool Geologic Park.

When Steve asked me if my husband, Paul, and I wanted to go to Toadstool Park with him. He knew I had wanted to go for more than twenty years, but never quite made it. “Hell, yes,” I told him. While most of the day was hiking, I paid special attention to what Steve was taking photographs of and which lenses he used. He taught me all about fish eye lenses that day.

When I was planning a trip home to New York, he gave me an old manual lens he had used with his film camera. It worked on my Nikon D7000. I took it to New York and left my kit lens home to force myself to learn to work in manual mode. It’s not easy, but it’s a worthy lesson.

Because I hadn’t been around sophisticated cameras a lot, I grabbed every opportunity to ask Steve questions so I could become a better photographer. I’m still learning, but I’m much farther along in my quest to be a great photographer because of Steve.

Steve Frederick takes notes while Jack Hartshorn tells Steve about his life in the newspaper business.

Whenever I needed help on a story, I knew I could ask Steve to take a look at it.

“Steve? My story on Howard Olsen is 3,200 words long. It’s not supposed to be more than 2,000,but I can’t see where to cut it? Can you help me?”

“I’ll be brutal.”

“That’s what I need.”

“Okay. Show me what you got.”

One crucial lesson Steve taught me was that you may have a fantastic quote for a story, but if it doesn’t fit in with the rest of the story or narrative, you have “bite the bullet” and delete it.

“It’s going to sting, but it’s necessary to make a better story,” he told me.

Steve gave me my story back. Not only did he cut parts out, he found some grammatical errors and AP style errors I had missed. I thanked him and got back to work. After looking at what he did, it made sense why he axed those portions. The story was better now. I re-read the story and tightened up a few other parts. It was still almost 2,500 words. I decided to turn it in that way.

The story passed muster with my editor, Brad Staman, and the copy desk. It was one of the hardest, and best, stories I’ve written because of the level of involvement, the number of people interviewed, my success in weaving a great story, but most importantly, because Steve taught me again how to be a better writer.

In March 2017, I was writing a story about a young lady speaking out against child sexual assault. My interview was a little over two hours long. The written story was going well. I finished it, proofread it, and turned it in to Brad. He read it, made suggestions about deleting some paragraphs and moving others. I took it back to my desk and worked on it some more.

Usually, I can look at suggestions, make corrections, proofread again and turn them in. This time, something was bothering me, but I didn’t know what. I read the story five more times, but couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong. So, I printed out a copy and walked over to Steve’s desk. I asked him if he had any free time in the next day or so to look at my story.

“Sure. What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, it’s 804 words, which is fine, but there is something I don’t think is right and I can’t figure it out.”

“Leave it on my desk and I’ll have a look at it.”

I figured it would take a day or so for him to look at it. About a half an hour later, Steve called me over to his desk.

He found two issues. First, I had neglected to write about how her family had supported her. That omission, Steve said, would lead people to believe the perpetrator was a father or brother. Nope. I need to call her back and get a quote to the contrary.

The other issue with the story was that I had written a sentence before a quote, which changed the meaning of the quote. When Steve read it out loud, I was horrified. He asked what the young lady meant to say. We sat there at his desk rewriting that quote into a paraphrase without the hideous language.

I had read over both. It didn’t matter that I had read it seven times by then. I was never going to catch either mistake.

Another lesson Steve had taught – always get someone else to read your work. Disaster avoided and the story was well-received.

Steve Frederick takes a much needed break during a hike at Toadstool Geologic Park.

During my last job interview with Steve, he looked out from his office into the newsroom and said, “I want someone who doesn’t sit in the office all day with a telephone attached to their face and who will go out there and dig to find the stories people want to read.”

I hope I have followed his example.

Thank you, Steve, for taking a chance on me. It has meant the world to me. You have made me a better writer and photographer by being willing and open to helping out those at the beginning stages of their careers. I wish you many long days of fishing and spending time with Maria. And, seriously, thank you for not sharing any of your fish with me.

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

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My heart is breaking today

Geoffrey Evert conquers the Scotts Bluff National Monument.

The first time I saw you I was working in Gering Junior High. You were a scrawny little kid dressed all in black, including black nail polish and eye liner. I remember thinking, “dude hit his black stage a couple of years early.”

And then I got to know you.

How can you not love a kid like this?

We talking in the hallways between classes. You were excited about so many things and could never seem to settle on just one to be interested in.

I remember standing by your locker one day after school while you showed me your notebook. It was filled with drawings on how to make many commonly used items better. On this particular day, you showed me a drawing of how you made a more efficient system of heating a home than the Romans had. Instead of the heat dissipating as it would in Roman times, you designed a way to capture the heat and recirculate it as long as was needed. I’m not sure it would have worked, but, at 13, you were ecstatic at your accomplishment.

On another day, we talked about how you had taken three broken remote control cars and rebuilt them as one. Their bodies were destroyed so you cut up a gallon milk container and created a new body. When I visited your house, you took me to your room and showed the car to me.

Geoffrey Evert was so proud he had grown his hair out. We had to do this photo a few times because he kept laughing. He wanted a photo where he wasn’t smiling and where he looked tough.

We talked computers, programming, engineering, science, math, whatever the topic you were interested in. you always wanted to know how things worked, taking apart a variety of things to learn and understand. When I gave my old laptop to you, sure, you goofed off on Minecraft, but even then you were learning.

We talked about your family, your grandparents in Alliance, whatever you were interested in. You played with our cats, slept on our couch, and traveled with us. All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you, to take you seriously.

You had your struggles in school, as everyone does, and we know the school ignored the bullying for 12 years, but you managed to get through. You still had some missteps, but you were finding your way as a young man.

“The sign says you can’t go past, but I’m pretty sure there aren’t any park rangers out there to catch me.”

It was a simple day, but climbing the Scotts Bluff National Monument with you on April 16, 2011 was one of the best days of my life. The trail is long, a bit strenuous. When you saw I saw struggling a bit, you encouraged me, saying, “Come on. You can do it. It’s not much farther.”

After another three or four hundred feet, you started to feel it, too. You stopped, bent over and rested your hands on your knees. You took a few deep breaths and stood back up.

“We can do this,” you said. “We got this.”

And we continued to climb. When we reached a point where we could rest, we saw a sign that said you could not walk out any further and to stay on the path. Naturally, you didn’t. You climbed out to the edge of the monument and I took your picture. We laughed about sticking it to “the man” and breaking the law. I’m sure it’s something hundreds of other people have done that day.

Our only disappointment that day was not seeing any rattlesnakes.

Geoffrey Evert was one of the few people that Puck was not scared to be around.

When you and Joe dropped by unannounced one day, we fed you. Both of you had easily traveled 10 miles over the course of the day with no food or water. Joe was nervous about being in a teacher’s house, but you calmed his nerves. “Dude. I sleep on this couch. It’s cool.” You stuffed your faces with Paul’s homemade french fries. After you had regained your strength, we piled into my car and I took you home.

Geoffrey Evert making fun of the way Cinders sleeps.

I stood by you at Joe’s funeral. You leaned in and said, “Please make sure if I ever die that I don’t have a religious funeral.” I assured you that you would be at my funeral first. That was three short years ago. There was so much more for you to do.

We know you struggled with depression. We know you kept your feelings bottled up inside. We thought you were doing fine. You and your wife were on a journey together, heading toward new and wonderful adventures.

21 is too soon to go.

Why, Geoffrey? Why?

Geoffrey Evert, sitting on the edge of the monument, taking in the scenery. April 16, 2011.

If you are thinking about suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. You can also contact me. Your life is worth it. You are worth it. It will get better.

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

New Post has been published on http://www.irenenorth.com/writings/2018/03/one-day/

One Day

IWD2016

One day we will not have to work twice as hard to be seen as an equal.

One day we will not have to prove ourselves over and over.

One day we will be judged on the merit of our work.

One day we will be paid equally.

One day our contributions will matter.

One day we will be wanted for more than our looks.

One day our bodies will not be used for profit.

One day we will not have to listen to cat calls.

One day we will be seen as more than “easy on the eyes.”

One day we will not be marginalized.

One day we will be respected.

One day we will not be judged for speaking up.

One day we will not be shamed for the decisions we make about our bodies.

One day we will not have to say #metoo.

One day we will all be equal.

That day is not today.

But it is coming.

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

New Post has been published on http://www.irenenorth.com/writings/2018/03/i-got-to-hang-out-with-some-yaks/

I got to hang out with some yaks

What’s up? You got some cow cake?

As we move through the month of March, Star-Herald reporters are busy writing extra stories for the four Stars sections – Business, Ag, Healthy Communities, and People in Education. I was setting up an interview for the Ag section at Chadron State College with Lucinda Mays. Ag Editor Spike Jordan asked if he could tag along. He wanted to do a story on Hay Springs Yaks, owned by Una Taylor and Tim Hardy. Una and Tim were gracious hosts. I had a blast learning about yaks and hanging out with yaks.

Hay Springs Yaks lies within the historic Pine Ridge. The ranch is more than a mile long, from the banks of Little Bordeaux Creek into the wildest parts of the ridge.

It doesn’t look like it from here, but Spike Jordan is trying really hard to not be blown away by the 60 mph winds.

Yep. I’m in the middle of a yak pile.

Spike Jordan feeds a yak a cow cake.

I’m still in the middle of the yak pile.

This is a place holder for the awesome picture Spike Jordan took of me. I actually like the photo.

Well, that’s one way to pick your nose.

Spike Jordan reaches out to pet a yak.

Just a friendly jousting show between two yaks.

One of the things I learned today is that only the males are called yaks. Females are called dri or nak. You can learn more about Hay Springs Yaks in the March 17 edition of the Star-Herald. It was fun learning about these beautiful animals. Now we get to write about them for our readers.