The first time he saw her, it was love at first sight. He was in a bar and it was the forties, in Butte, Montana, and women unescorted by men in bars were rare. Which is why the woman’s uncle, when he saw her there with her sister, got up and chased the pair of … Continue reading When the Arrow Hits Its Mark
In the West, everyone is from somewhere else — heading to somewhere else. We are, at the very least, a country on the move. On our way from what was to what is — without looking back.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be from New York City in the worst possible way. Like fictional children in children books, I would have gotten lost in museums, become subway savvy, have hailed a cab before the age of 28, gone to Yankees games after school and considered the rest of the … Continue reading No Matter Where You Go, There You Are
He spent his weekends on the Continental Divide. He’d leave the house with a rifle thrown over his shoulder, a bedroll on his back and not much else. It didn’t matter if it was summer or winter. Up he’d go into the mountains where he’d literally eat off the land. And sleep on the ground. … Continue reading On Silence, in an Always On, Overly Connected World
His first name was Frank. But we only ever referred to him as the hermit. He wore a red and black plaid wool coat, long before the hipsters got a hold of the look. And he used to roll his own cigarettes, which when I was a kid was the most amazing thing I’d ever … Continue reading The Hermit
"Butte doesn't change. It's a tough town, even if it does have a coffee shop."