Creepy Cooper's, Sinister Sharpie

Last month we had two predatory birds visit our yard in Leavenworth, Kansas, USA. While they were thrilling to observe, they gave me a bit of the shivers. Cooper's Hawk, and Sharp-shinned Hawk, are both accipiters, well-known for ambushing songbirds at feeders, much to the consternation of birders. These raptors don't give up easily, either, as I learned from the two I witnessed.

Profile of a regal killer.

My first look at the Cooper's Hawk.

On December 8, at about 12:15 PM, I got up abruptly from my chair in the living room, having remembered a household chore I needed to do. Glancing up, I saw, through the open blinds over our backdoor windows, the largest bird I had ever seen in our backyard. It was an adult Cooper's Hawk (COHA if you are a fan of banding codes), perched atop the shepherd's hook from which our feeders are suspended. Since I was startled myself, I fully expected it to fly off immediately, but went to get my camera anyway.

Oh, no, it's leaving?

The bird did indeed launch itself a short time later, but merely glided to the back section of our fence, where it came to rest once again. I was delighted to get more opportunities for photos from between the slats of the blind, through the entirely too-dirty windows.

Still here!

Three minutes later, the hawk flew to another section of the fence, closer still. A minute later, it returned to its previous spot on the rear section of fence. From there it moved to the fencepost that abuts our detached garage, and beneath a non-functional light fixture. We need to have that looked at, but I digress. The bird was staring intently at the brush pile I erected to offer cover to songbirds for situations just like this one.

At twelve-thirty, the Cooper's Hawk flew onto the brush pile itself, perching low, on one of the more exposed limbs. A minute later it was back atop the back section of fence. A moment later it was on the side fence again. What it did next was unexpected.

Prowling on the ground.

The hawk flew down to the ground into our backyard. It proceded to skulk around our forty gallon, prefabricated pond, and crawl through the dense, weedy thicket that is our vague attempt at a pollinator garden.

At this point, I became unsure whether I was watching a hawk, a Greater Roadrunner, or even a weasel. The alert, thorough searching of this predator was truly remarkable.

Searching in the weeds.

At twelve thirty-eight, the hawk returned to the brush pile. This time, it dove right in, scouring every inch of the labyrinth for potential prey. Creepy. Literally. Another minute or two later, the hawk flew away for good, headed in the direction of the federal penitentiary, an embarrassing block-and-a-half to the north, beyond the back section of our fence.

Exploring the brushpile.

The whole encounter seemed to last much longer than the twenty or so minutes between the time stamps on my first and last photo. I would have expected the hawk to conceal itself in the brush pile, and simply wait for the House Sparrows, House Finches, Dark-eyed Juncos, and maybe other birds, to return to the feeder, unaware of the potential danger. Not so. This was active hunting, and it took me completely by surprise.

On December 15, just before one o'clock PM, I stepped out the backdoor to top off the feeder. A bird about the size of a dove, maybe slightly larger, rocketed out of the brush pile, nearly giving me a heart attack. Miraculously, I could tell immediately that it was another accipiter, but definitely not the Cooper's Hawk from the previous week.

I was able to follow the flight of this smaller raptor and, amazingly, it came to alight atop a neighbor's fence about thirty yards away or so. I went back inside the house to retrieve my camera.

Even more surprisingly, the hawk was still there when I returned. I was too excited, and too vertically-challenged, to get a sharp (no pun intended) photo of what I suspected was a Sharp-shinned Hawk (SSHA banding code), over three layers of fences, at distance, but I tried anyway.

Sharp-shinned Hawk.

Separating Cooper's Hawks from Sharp-shinned Hawks is a challenging exercise even for seasoned birders. You caannot use size as a reliable difference because there is overlap between a small male Cooper's Hawk and a large female Sharpie. Both species are clad in nearly identical colors, though the back of the neck is colored the same as the top of the head and back of the bird in Sharp-shinned Hawk. The back of the neck is vaguely paler in Cooper's Hawk, giving it a black-capped appearance.

In my limited experience, I have noted that sharpies, when perched, look like they have no neck at all, the head tapering immediately into the rest of the body. Their beaks are very short and comparatively delicate compared to a Cooper's Hawk.

Profile of the Sharpie.

More experienced birders note that the eyes of a Sharp-shinned Hawk are larger in proportion to the head, such that they appear to be "bulging." The tip of the tail in a sharpie is straight-edged, whereas it is rounded in a Cooper's Hawk. This last trait can be unreliable, though, or at least difficult to properly perceive.

I wish I had not flushed the sharpie, and been able to observe whether it behaved similarly to the Cooper's Hawk. Maybe I can train my brain to recall these encounters before I abruptly and absent-mindedly throw open the back door again. It could be months, if not a year or more, before we get another visit, though. I suspect the hunting territory of these hawks encompasses a pretty large area.

You are invited to share your own stories of accipiter encounters in the comments here. I moderate input at least once per week. I will try and not be envious if you have seen a Northern Goshawk on your property.

Birthday Thoughts

I recently turned the big sixty-five, and there is possibly no other anniversary more important for a resident of the United States. As an official elderly person, I realize I have plenty left to say, but it isn’t “get off my lawn!” or even “today’s music is terrible.” No, there are too many topics of far greater substance. Some of them are personal, some are collective.

My overall sentiment is that I have exceeded my expiration date. There is a certain degree of envy for those who have already passed, and thereby relieved of continued suffering, which includes watching others suffer, species going extinct, the brutality of imperialism, White Christian Nationalism, global capitalism, religious wars and terrorism, and climate change. I would rather not continue bearing witness, thank you.

If I do not find a way out of my current town of residence, surrounded by people mostly older than I am, more sickly, arguably more unhappy, and clinging desperately to “the good old days,” and a culture that no longer serves us well, then I will surely die sooner rather than later. I thrive when surrounded by younger generations with energy and creativity. Few people here have any respect for the natural world.

Turning the magic age of Medicare eligibility is not the reward you might imagine, either. One of the shocking revelations is that Medicare is definitely NOT free healthcare. Parts A and B cost me about $200 per month. Friends have told me that they have that taken out of their Social Security benefits. Because they raised the official retirement age to sixty-seven, I am not yet receiving that income. I would be left with little after the Medicare payment anyway.

Oh, and I still have to find a “Medigap” plan, through a private insurance provider, to cover what Medicare does not. Naturally, that still won’t cover dental, vision, or hearing. I did secure prescription drug coverage, but will I meet the deductible?

What concerns me most is my mental health. At best, I am not nearly as productive as I should be. I loathe writing, now. It isn’t that I don’t have something to say. I simply don’t have the energy and desire to execute the keystrokes to put it down. I may go back to longhand and then transcribe it, like I used to do.

My mental state does not even entertain the idea of engaging with anyone in my community, in person. I see my in-laws on the regular, for dinner out almost every Saturday. I attend meetings or events of the local artist group my partner belongs to, maybe three or four times a year. That’s it, pretty much. Oh, the homecoming game at my partner’s high school.

The most awful notion, right now, is the idea that I need to put my life in danger in defense of vulnerable people, at a time when I am the most vulnerable myself. I’m the physically weakest I have ever been, have even shrunken in stature. I do take long walks regularly, and perform a handful of upper body exercises twice per week, but that is not enough. The rage that once fueled me to protest vigorously, has subsided greatly, though my partner might tell you otherwise. I feel ashamed of my physical cowardice, when I could not be more aligned with those who need protection.

Finances are yet another worry. Overseas travel is highly unlikely. I regret terribly that I did not visit other countries when I was younger. I have been neglectful of too many friends here in the states because I cannot be everywhere at once.

The funny thing is, I can easily envision a better world for everyone, for every species, in fact It involves the abandonment of global capitalism, corporate control of infrastructure, pursuit of continued colonialism and empire, and instead embracing a borderless landscape. We need a “ruralopolis,” a seamless network of smaller cities, with agricultural corridors in an otherwise sparsely developed environment. International commerce would be a rare, but guaranteed treat. Currency would be something nearly intangible, almost unnecessary. We would reach consensus quickly concerning what we truly need and want. Most of those items would not be products.

Am I optimistic? No, not currently, but apparently I do have hope, and that vision, to keep me going. I do, after all, want to live long enough to see the Indigenous take back control of what is rightfully theirs.

I Shouldn't Be Ashamed....

Football season for my college alma mater is mercifully over. They finished with two wins and ten losses, including a defeat by a then 0 and 8 team. It is one of the worst performances in school history. They fired the head coach mid season. The fact that this happened, and that I am distraught by it, is a product of my own disproportionate emotional investment in what amounts to athletic entertainment, and the greater collective problems with universities, the media, and the money involved in all of it.

During my time at university, I had nothing to do with the athletic department, aside from attending football and basketball games as a student, back in the early 1980s. Since then, college sports has grown exponentially into an entertainment empire that is increasingly coveted by media conglomerates that continue to cannibalize each other, concentrating vast sums of money. It is now ESPN/ABC/Disney, FOX, CBS/Paramount, and, to a lesser degree, NBC, the CW, and other smaller networks, that are determining "winners" and "losers."

The media quest to cash in on college football began decades ago with the migration of games from free broadcast television to cable channels, namely ESPN. Ultimately, nearly all bowl games, BOWL games(!) became unavailable to any fans unwilling, or unable, to pay for ESPN. This model has continued with the recent playoff format and national championship.

As if that was not enough for the hungry media corporations, those companies drove conference realignment to create "superconferences" that make zero geographic sense, terminated some traditional rivalries, and completely abandoned at least two colleges. One of those universities left for dead was my own. The argument was that we respresent too small a "market" to attract viewers. I have been in a state of perpetual rage ever since. The schools that fled our once vibrant conference also attempted to abscond with all the money, forcing lawsuits by the two remaining schools to protect themselves financially. This is what I mean by the media choosing winners and losers.

Today, the media is obsessed with only two of the "power four" conferences: The Southeast Conference (SEC) and the Big Ten. The Big Twelve and the Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC) are only begrudgingly accorded recognition, persumably to avoid outright mutiny from those fanbases. The entire structure now guarantees that the Alabamas, Georgias, Ohio States, Notre Dames, Michigans, Oregons, and Oklahomas will always be at the top, or at least ranked, with little revenue left for any other programs to improve unless they have millionaire booster benefactors.

It gets better, or worse, depending on how robust the athletic budget of your school. Student athlete stars are now rightly demanding Name, Image, and Likeness (NIL) compensation. Are the media giants stepping up to meet that new burden? Hell, no. It is left to each university's booster clubs to pay their own athletes. Once again, the schools with rich and powerful alumni and other benefactors, profit by being able to elevate the visibility of their athletes, and gain an enormous recruiting advantage, while every other university is left behind.

Now to even more important questions. How have we, as a society, let it come to this? Why do we allow our universities to be branded "winners" and "losers" based solety on the performance of their football and/or men's basketball teams? Why is the public face of higher learning one dimensional, equated with the school's mascot? Did I not receive a quality education? I would say so, especially given that I did not graduate from my state school, yet my current publisher is an Ivy League press. My alma mater did something right in my case. That is all that truly matters: how your education at the university level translates to advancement in your chosen career, even if that is not in professional team sports.

If we, as a society, were truly committed to fairness in college athletics, we might demand the following to help level the playing field:

• Institute a cap on booster/alumni contributions to athletic departments. Academic quality should be the overriding concern of universities, and capping donations for athletics would allow other departments to prosper.
• Require all universities, public and private, to join a conference. No more independents like Notre Dame, so that they cannot enter into their own individual contracts with broadcast media outlets, with the resulting unshared revenue.
• Put the burden of NIL on media outlets, and the agents of individual athletes, instead of picking winners according to the wealthiest universities with boosters that can afford the cost.
• Require any athlete entering the transfer portal from a ranked school, to sign with a lower-ranked, or unranked university. Spread the talent more equitably. Make it more difficult for talent to defect. Everyone should be making sacrifices in the name of increased parity.

The remaining two universities in my school's conference have entered into an agreement to rebuild the conference, poaching the better teams from the Mountain West Conference; but for at least the next two years there will still be only eight teams, guaranteeing that no conference champion will be granted an automatic playoff berth consideration. Terrible.

Why am I personally so dejected? This year, at least, I think I am so depressed by the state of humanity, and the planet, that I am looking for *any* example of justice, fairness, redemption, and reason for joy. I want the underdog to triumph, and to do so emphatically. I want the elites and bullies to be punished, demoralized, metaphorically eviscerated. I guess I look to sports for signs that an actual revolution of importance can happen. Who am I kidding?

Fear and Self-loathing

We faced a substantial, unexpected expense this week, related to our one vehicle, and it conjured up all manner of emotions, some based in reality, and some emanating from the deeper wells of my paranoia. I do not believe I am alone in such reactions, so I am sharing them here.

First, we are fortunate. We can absorb the cost of repairs and new tires with our savings. There are countless citizens who are not that advantaged, who would be charging it on a credit card, or forced to abandon personal transportation completely. Racking up debt seems to be as much of an American pastime as baseball and apple pie.

Every time we dip into savings, though, means less money for the future. It is snipping another thread in the safety net. Everything monetary seems extremely tenuous now, and that is where fear starts to creep in. I believe that anxiety is a legitimate concern. Everyone who is not a billionaire should behave cautiously.

The self-loathing comes from not having traditional employment, or at least some kind of reasonably dependable income. I abandoned that lifestyle well before the pandemic. I am simply dysfunctional in the average workplace. Subjecting others, and myself, to that is not in anyone’s best interests. I do thrive when I get to choose who I want to work with, but I am in a rural location now where that is almost impossible to do in person.

I am nearing retirement, I think, but the age at which you can claim full benefits from Social Security keeps going up. Neither political party seems to have a problem with this because the people we elect to public office are so wealthy they don’t need Social Security themselves. They also get a government pension, and their own premium healthcare package.

Personally, we have investments, even a “wealth manager,” but they certainly have bigger fish as clients. Obviously, everything tethered to the stock market is precarious now, thanks to tariffs and other destabilizing actions that our President and congress have been taking. Consequently, I don’t think of our financial state as “real,” let alone something we can count on over the next twenty or thirty years.

This is all a predicament I think many of us share, and it has enormous ramifications. One horrifically distressing aspect is that as perceived personal risk goes up, we are a lot less likely to make donations to nonprofits that, ironically, help people in even worse circumstances. There are also many environmental organizations and civil rights advocates that I would like to support with my dollars, but what if we have another personal emergency?

I begin to rage when I think about how government has defunded many of those agencies and non-governmental organizations doing positive work, and instead grossly inflated the budgets of the “War Department,” and I.C.E. Emphasis on “gross.” We should have the exact opposite scenario.

If money itself is not the problem, it is the weaponization of it that enables cruelty, and compounds existing misery. We have to make money irrelevant, somehow, to rob it of its power. We stand to lose control of it entirely should cryptocurrency become the new standard. Almost nobody understands blockchain, myself included, and crypto represents, essentially, the privatization of currency. Its value will be determined entirely by powerful individuals, and we will be at their mercy.

My greatest act of fiscal resistance has been to enroll in a credit union. I did that decades ago when I lived in another city, and I have been delighted by the results. Spreading assets across different types of financial institutions seems like a good strategy, at least for now.

Today, our car is safer now, with new brakes, and rides a little smoother thanks to new tires, but where will the proverbial road take us? The GPS navigation device/department of our governments seems to be malfunctioning, and we are being taken for a ride, instead of being in the driver’s seat and determining our own destination. Fasten your seatbelt.

Nacho Land

There is another thing that bothers me about the concepts of “home” and “sense of place”: Do we even have a right to claim any understanding of the landscape, let alone ownership of it? What qualifies as home when you have stolen the land? How do you, personally, and we, collectively, reconcile our participation in the damage done, or at least halt the continuing destruction and disrespect? First, we have to accept that we are part of colonialism, without shrinking and shaming. Somewhere between illicit pride and Christian Nationalism, and paralyzing regret over what our ancestors started, lies a path to humility and true progress.

IndigenousPeoplesResources.com

With all due respect to Woody Guthrie, this land is not your land. It belongs to Indigenous peoples who occupied the continent prior to European settlement (read “theft”).By this measure, none of us who are White can call the United States, Canada, Australia, South Africa, or any number of other countries “home.” We cannot say we have reverence for a “sense of place” in our nature writing when our residency has no legitimacy.

Before Independence, and even after it, for that matter, parts of the United States were settled by empires other than the British. The French and Spanish had significant territories, of course. The Dutch also had a presence. In the southern U.S. in particular, someone of British descent might be third in line for claims to ownership.

It should b evident by now that empire and colonialism have never benefited the land, its ecosystems, or even the vast majority of settlers themselves. Instead, those manifestos have punished and exterminated Indigenous peoples, enslaved others, and extracted natural resources, to advance the wealth and power of a select few.

Meanwhile, capitalism has gone hand-in-hand with colonialism, promoting the idea, in theory, that one can achieve private individual ownership of property, including land. Public ownership of land varies greatly from state to state. I grew up in Oregon, where federal lands account for 53% of all acreage. State ownership adds another three percent. I now live in Kansas, where 98% of land is in private hands. This does not necessarily translate to ownership by Kansas residents. Between 2015 and 2023, absentee ownership of Kansas agricultural lands increased by three percent. Kansans owned 71% in 2015, but only 68% in 2023.

Increasingly, foreign ownership of land in the U.S. is on the rise. This is especially true for mining companies in Canada. Absentee ownership in the industrial sector has frequently resulted in severe environmental damage, and often increases in chronic illness in surrounding communities.

In urban locations, private equity is now precluding home ownership by the average citizen. Private equity firms outbid other real estate entities with lucrative cash offers, buying houses in bulk, to be rented out. Again, these corporate enterprises are usually absentee owners, often with little interest in maintenance and upkeep of their widely-dispersed properties.

It is no coincidence that the people telling us that land has no value until humans build something on it, or pave it over, or plow it under, are the same people telling us that our country would be better off if we killed the homeless, eradicated the LGBTQ+ community, deported immigrants (undocumented or not, apparently), and celebrated White supremacy. They benefit from culture wars that distract us from solving real problems, allowing them to profit beyond their wildest dreams. We know better. Reparations look a lot like land back, and fair housing for all.

It is obvious, from science and spirituality, that the Earth owns us, not the other way around. It is interesting that so-called pagan religions have more of a grasp of this than their Christian counterparts. In order to effect lasting change, I would argue that we need to invite Indigenous people into our public and private institutions, then promote them into positions of leadership, authority, and power. When we have more Indigenous leaders in our collective spaces, we can begin to learn the ways of properly living on the land, and engaging fairly with all citizens.

Sources: Dehlinger, Katie Micik. 2023. “Minding Ag’s Business: Land Ownership and Foreign Investment Trends in Kansas,” Progressive Farmer.
Mayyasi, Alex. 2025. “Here’s what happens when private equity buys homes in your neighborhood,” Planet Money Newsletter (NPR).

One Thirty Over Eighty

It took a little longer than average, but I am officially old now. My physician finally prescribed high blood pressure medication. As one ages, blood vessels naturally become a little stiffer, but I dare say there is more to it than that. There are other factors at play, some of them beyond our control.

Image does not equal endorsement of the device pictured.

My good vascular health is the product of circumstances that not everyone is fortunate to have. Good genetics. Opportunities for physical exercise in terms of time and location. Financial privilege that allowed me to withdraw from the corporate workforce earlier than usual. Fewer pressures from external sources means lower pressure on my internal organs. That is what a modest inheritance can do for you, but there should be more avenues for escaping the rat race.

U.S. manufacturing is booming, if you count stress as a product.

My doctor would still like me to be on a low sodium diet, and less sugar and fat couldn’t hurt, either. Sorry, doc, but I’m not going to sacrifice the few things that still give me comfort and delight. Do you know how difficult that is to do, anyway? My partner cooks recipes passed down from generation after generation, and I guarantee you that salt content was not a consideration. If anything, such dishes may have originally met with “could use more salt” criticism.

Diet might be the least impactful element anyway. U.S. manufacturing is booming, if you count stress as a product. We are programmed by our culture to be living machines of productivity and consumerism, with precious little reward for either. We are hardly recognized as having any value outside of an economic definition. This is unhealthy, to put it mildly.

Indeed, we have allowed every aspect of our existence to be framed as monetary transactions. Even your personal health is a commodity. Problems, including those created by business enterprises, are viewed as “opportunities” for additional profit. We have the industrial-legal-medical complex whereby law firms specialize in either defending corporations, or representing individuals who are harmed physically or emotionally by those entities. Not paid a fair wage? No problem. Try the lottery, sports betting, other forms of gambling, and frivolous lawsuits. Apply for another credit card, or take out a loan. You can always use the debt consolidation services later.

When I went in for my annual check-up, a year-and-a-half or so late, the one that resulted in the blood pressure meds, I presented my insurance information first thing. When I departed, I asked the receptionist if I needed to pay anything, and was assured that my insurance would cover it since there was no specific “complaint” that would trigger a co-pay. I did have the on-site lab take blood for testing, since I didn’t know when I could get back to the clinic again….

I don’t think it was even two weeks later that I received a bill for nearly $1,000.00. The invoice also asserted that they had no insurance information on file. Wow. I called the number and, to their credit, reached a representative in a timely manner. He took my insurance information again and told me they would issue another statement once the matter was resolved. Awesome.

I don’t think another two weeks elapsed before I received another bill for over $400, likely related to the lab work since it was from a different division of the hospital. Again, they claimed they had no insurance information. I called again. Pretty certain I got through to the same representative (a comforting East Indian accent), and he took my information once again. So far, fingers crossed, I have not received another bill. Good thing I got those high blood pressure meds before the bill, right?!

I will be turning the magic age next year, and am procrastinating the debacle that is negotiating Medicare. Assuming Medicare still exists going forward. If I have to submit my insurance information multiple times as it is now, what am I in for next? Talk about needless stress, so insurance companies can profit from Part C, or whatever.

I have seen multiple posts to social media suggesting that we should be making personal friends with doctors, so that when the system collapses, we at least stand a fighting chance. I don’t think this is hyperbole, but it is a sad state of affairs. Oh, the diet thing? It really would pay to make friends with farmers, so that when the food supply chain goes south, you can at least eat. Stressed out yet? Yeah, me, too.

Home Is...?

I recently posted on social media the assertion that “Home is not a place, it’s a time,” adding “That is why you can’t go home again.” The responses, few that there were, suggested more intangible definitions, such as “a feeling,” and “a memory.” Someone said “….a smell, a taste….” It may be complicated, but I detest the romanticism associated with the idea of home. I am a slow nomad.

In the traditional sense, geographically and temporally, my first home was Portland, Oregon, in the nineteen sixties through the mid-1980s. If this evokes your idea of paradise, then good for you. My reality was that of an only child with two parents who frequently fought verbally, and occasional property damage by my father. I also remember seemingly lifeless coniferous forests under overcast skies, and rain. Home was a place where I lived against my will.

Work eventually took me to Cincinnati, Ohio. I remember storms, one of which flooded my apartment. I recall the self-inflicted trauma of being fired, or asked to resign, by multiple employers because I was never properly socialized. Cincinnati was the home where I confronted my tumultuous childhood, and curbed my drinking.

From Cincinnati, I took a job in rural southern Missouri. The employer downsized eight months after I got there. I decided that my being there, however briefly, was less about the work of fabricating exhibits for museums and nature centers, and more about gently suggesting to my coworkers that they use something in addition to religion to craft the fabric of their lives.

On a whim I moved to Tucson, Arizona. I bottomed out financially, and it took five years, in my forties, to establish quality friendships. Ultimately, a temp assignment turned into something permanent, mere blocks from my apartment; and I got my first book-writing opportunity. The office eventually closed, but by then I had met my partner, Heidi.

Moving to Colorado Springs to be with her felt more like home than prior locations. I got the benefit of instant friends from her workplace at the zoo, and found additional friends through other networks.

Heidi retired from the zoo after 26 years, but she probably should have done so sooner. Keeper work takes a toll on the body. Meanwhile, the rising cost of living in the Springs meant we could not afford a home in a better neighborhood. I agreed to her suggestion that we move to Leavenworth, Kansas, her childhood hometown, where her parents still reside.

Four years on, and I still have no friends that I see regularly, aside from the in-laws. I assume everyone here is a Republican cult member unless proven otherwise. I want my old friends back. Leavenworth demographics skew heavily to the White, geriatric end of the spectrum. The town does have young people, but no collective energy. Leavenworth is prisons, the military (Ft. Leavenworth), and churches. At least we have a house we own free and clear, and a couple of yards.

What is the overall theme here, then? Misery? Trauma? Isolation? Mere dissatisfaction? I abhor sentimentality attached to the idea of home. Nostalgia can screw itself. Portland was not a bad place to be at the time I lived there. Today, the traffic is worse than Los Angeles. Before I left for Tucson, a coworker told me that he lived there in the 1980s and loved it. In the early 2000s, I did not. Timing is everything, and the idea of place cannot divorce itself from that. A place does not stay stagnant, locked in some kind of Neverland. It grows up, and is usually the worse for it. Colorado Springs continues to sprawl because the powerful and wealthy insist that the high prairie I love is worthless until somebody can profit by putting in a subdivision or an industrial park.

I think, for me, home has been a series of gratifying, if not occasionally euphoric, punctuations in an otherwise unsatisfying existence. The places I have the fondest memories of were fleeting destinations, experienced over weeks or weekends, with friends of the highest order. I can sometimes put myself mentally back in those places; or on a beach in the Caribbean that I’ve invented in my mind, listening to calypso or jazz fusion, and drifting off to sleep.