River Bathing is Best
July 18, 2011
In the little village of West Yellowstone, Montana in the early 1940s, my father had a small one-room cabin where our family of five spent our summers. It had two double beds, one for my parents and the other for the three kids – Skippy, June and me. It was more than cozy so no one got cold at night.
Cowboy cartoonist
June 21, 2011
Once in a while someone comes along who seems to make us feel warm and comfortable. Norman Rockwell was one and Amelia Earhart was another. And you’d have to add J. R. Williams’ name to the list. He was a rare and vanished breed of artist who drew single-panel cartoons, most of which had a melancholy air and the stark, grim, face of home-cooked authenticity. His work was syndicated in 700 newspapers in the 1930s, and he must have come from the same gene pool as Mark Twain and Will Rogers.
Jumping the Milk Truck
April 28, 2011
On winter mornings before school Mickey Goolsby and I jumped the milk truck. It was a squarish, van-looking vehicle, custom built with no back. It was just open, and had long pipe handles on each side and across the top so we could hold on. Milk and cream were delivered house to house in glass bottles – quarts and pints.
Seventeen Dollars a Square Inch
April 20, 2011
The following is an excerpt from my book about Eric Sloane, who was my best friend. It’s called Seventeen Dollars a Square Inch. He wrote about fifty books in fifty years, could paint a major painting a day, and still have time to lunch with me. You can get the book from Collected Works Book Store in Santa Fe. (505-988-4226)
The World Lost its Darling
April 4, 2011
I regret the demise of graceful penmanship and thoughtful word arrangements that were so prevalent in letters a hundred years ago. It seems we don’t have time for handwriting anymore, now that emails are so quick and convenient. Yet delicate feelings cannot be suitably conveyed unless they are either gently spoken, or handed by folded note. I’ll use Amelia Earhart to illustrate my point.
My Prehistoric Friends
March 29, 2011
In the mid-fifties I had a good friend named Bill Fyke. He was known around South Texas for three things: he was a good guy, he was a delivery man for the Bruce Pie Company, and he collected stone arrowheads. I loved the guy for all three reasons. Bill’s route took him to all of the little towns and stopping places west of Austin and San Antonio. He visited every gas station and country store that sold anything edible.
And, of course, he always asked everyone standing nearby if they knew of any old Indian campsites in the area. Bill and I were really into collecting arrowheads. He even named his son Flint. Flint Fyke - it has a certain ring…
About Me
After retiring from the Air Force in 1970, I built an art gallery in Santa Fe that my wife and I ran for seventeen years. Since then, my energies have been directed toward excavation of a large Indian pueblo and writing books about art and exploration. I hope you enjoy my blog! .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)
