That damned Taylor Street will be my death if I am not more careful. The snow in Virginia City once plowed, turns to thick ice quickly because of the wind Mark Twain nicknamed Zephyr. And the town itself is built on a hillside, most every east-west street is severely sloped.

Parking is another matter and rather a dicey affair because storefront owners are very territorial. There is no fear of berating a person for parking in front of their establishment. Further, I have concluded that non one, local or visitor, understands the yellow markings along the curbs, and should they be covered in snow, which they are much of the time, the sign standing above the drifts tells anyone willing to read that they are parking in a loading zone.

So, a lot of the time, I must park on B Street or in the county offices parking lot to the south of the Storey County Courthouse. One does not want to spend too much time parked there as a citation may be forthcoming depending on how busy or lazy the deputies on patrol are or feeling.

Having parked, I grab a bundle of newspapers and make my way toward C Street. It sounds so simple, but it is not, especially when the street, more of an alleyway really, is iced over. It is slow going walking down, but then that Zephyr comes along and knocks the foot out from the traveler and down they tumble. Perhaps I should say, down I tumble.

There is no art in falling. It is clumsy from all angles, but the recovery can become a master class in artfully avoiding busy C Street. In my case, I try to guide my body towards the nearest support beam rising from the boardwalk. It is much like a baller sliding into home plate.

Stopping can also be performed with a certain grace, but one must be quick and strong, or panicked enough to develop super-human strength, because grabbing the post must be done without guile, otherwise it is into the street where it is possible to become a statistic, being run down by a vehicle moving at 20 miles an hour.

Then if there is that time one should miss the post, it is time for either cursing loudly or quietly praying to oneself as the body slips into the thoroughfare. There is also that rare occasion where the town is so snowed in that nobody is traveling the asphalts, save for the plows which have cleared the intersect. This is when gravity and other mechanics of physics take hold and you go sailing through the cross streets and down the hill toward St. Mary’s Church.

I have fallen on Taylor several times, exercising the post-catching maneuver to near perfection and the full race to the church once. In that instance, I needed a new pair of jeans, no not from ripping them out, but from scaring the crap outta myself.

In this one case, I concluded three fingers of whiskey were needed before a new set of pants.

It is more than obvious that I ain’t no pioneer-stock as I once believed myself to be. How do I know? It took me three tries to get up to Virginia City and only on the third attempt did I succeed.

The first time a Nevada State Police Trooper refused to let me drive up Geiger Grade because I didn’t have the required chains on my tires. The second day, I made it as far as the Virginia City Highlands, and because my truck is so light in the rear, I lost traction heading up towards the summit and had to back down.

As I was backing down, I saw a truck pop over the ridge behind me and so I move into the opposite lane, driving in reverse. The truck flew by me and made it over where I couldn’t. Then a car came in the other direction and I figured I was on flat enough ground that I could swing my truck around and head back towards the bottom of the hill.

Rearend dropped off into a snow shallow and I got stuck. Being somewhat of a thinking man, I had a short-handled shovel with me, so I spent about two hours digging myself free. Oddly, I saw no other traffic coming or going that entire time. It was a hopeless feeling.

The third try was a success, though slow going. I managed to make it to Dayton to get my newspapers and finish my route in the valley, heading for Virginia City. The road was fine all the way, not even Griner’s Corner held any problems for me. In town was another story.

Within a two or three-hour period, I managed to get myself stuck twice and thoroughly high-centered a third time. Remember that shovel I had with me the day before? It was stolen from the bed of my truck while I was loading the paper box at the Smiths in Dayton. Stupidly, I watched as the guy walked to his truck with a shovel, tossed it inside the cab of his truck, climb in after it and drive off.

The high centering happened behind Sait Mary’s Church. I parked and got out only to have my truck start sliding downhill in the lot. I had parked on a thick patch of ice and did not realize it until I stepped foot on it. Since I was unable to halt the momentum, I gave in, popped the brake, and let the truck slid into the drift.

Thankfully, Bum Hess and his wife came out of the church and he was able to give me a push after we hand-dug all the snow from beneath my truck’s chassis. Wet and freezing, I was very happy to get in my truck and power away to Taylor then make the corner at F Street, park for a while and let my heater dry me out and warm me up.

Once home, I saw a photograph or perhaps a drawing of Snowshoe Thompson, who is renowned for delivering the mail from Genoa to Lake Tahoe on a set of skis he caved. Yeah, embarrassingly I ain’t no pioneer stock.

There are seven days in a week, and someday isn’t one of them.

Rhyolite, a once-thriving mining town in Nevada, owes its origins to Shorty Harris and E.L. Cross, who discovered an abundance of quartz containing free gold in the area in 1904. This discovery led to a rush of prospectors and the establishment of several camps, including Bullfrog, Amargosa, and Jumpertown.

With over 2000 claims covering a 30-mile area, the Bullfrog district flourished, and Rhyolite became the prominent townsite in the region. The Montgomery Shoshone mine, which showed great promise, attracted significant attention, and the town rapidly developed adding new buildings and facilities.

Rhyolite’s population enjoyed a vibrant social life, engaging in various activities such as baseball games, dances, picnics, and entertainment at the opera house. Enhancing the town’s allure was Countess Morajeski’s Alaska Glacier Ice Cream Parlor and Tom T. Kelly’s whimsical Bottle House, made from thousands of beer and liquor bottles.

Electricity arrived in April 1907, bringing newfound radiance to Rhyolite, and the Montgomery Shoshone mine’s advanced mill boosted its reputation even further. However, the financial panic of 1907 had a detrimental effect on the town’s prosperity, leading to the closure of mines, bank failures, and a population decline.

By 1910, the town was a shadow of its former self, and in 1911, the Montgomery Shoshone mine and mill shut down. Rhyolite’s decline continued, and by 1916, the town’s lights were extinguished, marking the end of its once-thriving era. Despite its demise, remnants of Rhyolite’s past can still be seen today, including the partially standing walls of the bank building, the old jail, the privately-owned train depot, and the restored Bottle House.

Rhyolite serves as a poignant reminder of the boom-and-bust nature of mining towns in the American West during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Neighbor Tom called and asked if I could meet him at the Nugget in Sparks. He was getting off work at the Tahoe Reno Industrial Center and had a drive equal to mine if I left straight away.

I left straight away.

We met up and headed for the Gold bar in the Nugget. After a beer, we concluded we should go to Reno and wander from some of the dives along Fourth Street.

Somewhere and somehow, we became separated. I waited half an hour before I gave up the ghost and walked the few blocks to CitiCenter, where I knew I could hop a bus to the CitiCenter in Sparks.

As I sat in the middle of the nearly empty bus, I watched as a man of African-American descent stepped aboard before sitting down one seat back and across from my position. He was sweating profusely, and his breathing labored, and I thought perhaps he had run to catch the bus.

Two minutes after the bus pulled away from the curb for the 15-minute ride to Sparks along the 4th and Prater route, I watched this man begin changing in appearance. He went from human to monstrous wolfman.

He rocked back and forth in his seat and began making pained grunting sounds but never looked around. It was as if he was unaware that the three other persons on the bus, including the driver, were witnessing his transformation.

I touched the pistol I had concealed in my beltline, knowing it would be useless if this were a case of lycanthropy because it lacked silver bullets.

Inside my jacket pocket, my cell phone dinged. It was Neighbor Tom wanting to know where I was and if I were okay.

“On the bus, headed back to my truck. I’m doing okay,” I answered.

Covertly I snapped a blurry photo of the changeling, with his yellow-glowing eyes and ever-increasingly elongating sharpening yellowed teeth.

Then the bus pulled up to the stop between 15th and 16th Streets, where the man got up and exited. The two remaining riders, me and a young woman, looked at one another but said nothing.

The driver shot nervous glances our way in the overhead mirror above his steering wheel but did not speak. Drivers are conditioned through training to take passengers as they are and do so without comment.

As a casual observer, I could tell he had never seen this before as his brow was damp with sweat and knuckles gripping whitely to the wheel.

The woman and I stood to make a quick escape from the bus. Hand-in-hand, we dashed into the Nugget casino and the safety of the slot machines and bright lights.

Neither of us said a word as we came to the first bar we saw, the one nearest the showroom, and ordered ourselves a stiff drink. Soon her boyfriend met her, and they left.

I still had to walk across a darkened parking lot, and I did not fancy the idea, so I ordered two more braces of courage before heading to my truck.

A romance novelist that disappeared following her arrest after leading police on a high-speed chase was found alive and well on Sat., Feb. 18.

52-year-old Faleena Marie Hopkins went missing on Mon., Jan. 30, the day she left the jail. Police tracked her down using surveillance cameras, alleging she bought a new phone and changed the number while at the Jackson Airport in Wyoming by pinging the cell phone on the island of Kauai in Hawaii.

Hopkins is due for another federal court appearance on the morning of Feb. 28, the Jackson Hole Daily reported.

It brings to mind the case of another writer going missing nearly 100 years earlier.

On the evening of Mon., Dec. 3, 1926, Agatha Christie left her home. The following morning her abandoned car was found several miles away by Surrey Police, the apparent result of a car accident.

Her disappearance led to a search by thousands of police and volunteers. Home Secretary William Joynson-Hicks put pressure on police to find the writer, and fellow mystery writer Sir Arthur Conan Doyle sought the help of a clairvoyant.

Ten days later, the head waiter at the Hydropathic Hotel in Harrogate, Yorkshire (now known as the Old Swan Hotel) contacted police that a guest by the name of Theresa Neale may be the missing writer.

Christie’s husband traveled to Yorkshire with police, took a seat in the corner of the dining room where he watched his wife walk in, take her place at another table, and begin reading a newspaper that heralded her disappearance as front page news. Witnesses said Christie didn’t recognize him when he approached her.

“So, after illness, came sorrow, despair, and heartbreak,” Christie wrote, reflecting on the period, “There is no need to dwell on it.”

In the remarkable era of the 1870s, when the American frontier was a place of bustling communities and untamed landscapes, the general store stood as a symbol of abundance and community spirit. A visit to one of these veritable cornucopias was like stepping into a treasure trove, where townsfolk, rural families, and weary travelers could find an astonishing variety of goods.

Typically, a general store of the time would be a two-story frame building adorned in a coat of white paint. The second floor often served as a storage area, while the absence of side windows cloaked the interior in a compelling veil of dimness.

The store’s façade, elevated by a porch, was a practical feature for loading and unloading goods but also held another significance. It was a gathering spot where townsfolk took solace on provided benches, chairs, or inviting steps, indulging in discussions on topics from the whims of weather to the intricacies of politics and crop prices.

Inside, the general store revealed an assortment of life’s necessities. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, displaying culinary delights and stitch-seekers’ desires, all within arm’s reach.

Barrels stuffed with pickles, crackers, and minced meats ran down the center of the store, adding to the enticing array of goods. From food to fabrics, aromatic soaps to healing elixirs, spices to delicate crockery, and durable dishes to sturdy tools, the store catered to the diverse needs of its customers.

Sugar reigned supreme as the most sought-after item, serving as a sweet delight infusing delectable creations and as a preservative. In the absence of refrigeration, copious amounts of sugar became an indispensable ally in preserving seasonal harvests, ensuring that communities could enjoy the bounty of their efforts throughout the year.

The general store was not just about commerce. It was a hub of communication and community life, from election announcements to upcoming events and even wanted posters, all found on the store’s main wall.

Often, nestled quietly amidst the goods, one might find the local post office, a nexus of correspondence connecting the frontier to the world beyond. In a testament to the close-knit nature of these communities, it was not uncommon for the store owner to also serve as the town clerk, overseeing various administrative tasks.

The largest vessel ever to float, 800 feet long and displacing 45,000 tons, declared unsinkable by all who had seen it was gliding through the water with roughly 2,500 peacefully sleeping passengers. Then, suddenly it struck an iceberg on its starboard side, moving at 25 knots.

The ship was 400 nautical miles from Newfoundland. The ship sank quickly, and due to a lack of lifeboats, it took most of its passengers with it.

The story sounds familiar to anyone with even minor knowledge of the Titanic.

However, the story does not describe what happened to the Titanic.
It is the plot of an 1898 novella by Morgan Robertson titled “The Wreck of the Titan: Or, Futility,” 14 years before the Titanic ever set sail.

“She was that largest craft afloat, and the greatest of works of men in her constuction and maintenance were involve every science profession and trade known to civilization,” the manuscript opens. “On her bridge were officers, who besides being the pick of the Royal Navy, had passed rigid examinations in all studies that pertain to the winds, tides, currents and geography of the sea.”

Ambrose Bierce disappeared without a trace in Mexico at some point in 1913. He was known for his stories of time-slips and mysterious vanishing, as in “The Difficulty of Crossing a Field.”

“The coachman was directed to drive back, and as the vehicle turned Williamson was seen by all three, walking leisurely across the pasture. At that moment one of the coach horses stumbled and came near falling. It had no more than fairly recovered itself when James Wren cried: ‘Why, father, what has become of Mr. Williamson?’”

In a letter to his niece Lora, Bierce wrote: “Goodbye. If you hear of my being stood up against a Mexican stone wall and shot to rags please know that I think that a pretty good way to depart this life. It beats old age, disease, or falling down the cellar stairs. To be a gringo in Mexico — ah, that is euthanasia. ”

Just before he entered war-torn Mexico, he again wrote Lora, “I shall not be here long enough to hear from you, and don’t know where I shall be next. Guess it doesn’t matter much. Adios, Ambrose.”

“Deadline” is a science fiction short story by Cleve Cartmill, published in Astounding Science Fiction in March 1944. The piece described the still-under-development and secret atomic bomb in some detail, prompting a visit from the FBI.

Cartmill gleaned from unclassified scientific journals on Uranium-235 to make a nuclear fission device.

As Tom Shipley posits in his 2016 thesis, The Cold War in Science Fiction, 1940–1960: “For a while, aficionados liked to recall the incident of the visit of Military Intelligence to the offices of Astounding in 1944, prompted by Cleve Cartmill’s otherwise undistinguished U-235 story ‘Deadline.’ That showed science fiction had to be taken seriously! If only the rest of America had realised in time!”

The 2022 movie White Noise is an adaptation of the 1985 novel by Don DeLillo. One of the plot points in both the book and film concerns a train crash near East Palistine, Ohio, releasing clouds of toxic chemicals into the air.

In an interview with People, East Palestine resident Ben Ratner, featured as an extra in White Noisepoke about the strange parallels between the film, and the Fri., Feb. 3 real-life 50-car train was derailment transporting chemicals that have left toxic smoke drifting over East Palestine, Ohio, currently.

“Talk about art imitating life,” he said. “This is such a scary situation. And you can just about drive yourself crazy thinking about how uncanny the similarities are between what is happening now and in that movie.”

But unlike the book and movie, where the characters break out in dance inside a grocery store at the end, this tragedy may not conclude as superficially.

China sent us a balloon because it is the only damned thing missing from this circus.

There is no “i” in “team,” but there are two in “narcissist.”