The Rinckel Mansion is a part of Carson City’s history and the legacy of its pioneers. The architectural masterpiece built in 1876 is a striking example of the High Victorian Italianate style, exquisitely crafted by Charles H. Jones and European artisans.

The mansion’s story begins with Mathias Rinckel, a German immigrant who found success in California’s gold fields and the mines of Virginia City. Settling in Carson City in 1863, Rinckel expanded his fortunes by supplying meat to the region’s booming mining and timber industries, commissioning the mansion with its brick and sandstone façade.

Today, the Rinckel Mansion is the home of the Nevada Press Association.

In the Mojave Desert, Overton, Nevada, is a testament to resilience and adaptation. From its humble origins as a vital railroad stop in the early 20th century to its current status as a thriving hub for tourism and community spirit, the town’s evolution reflects the dynamic forces shaping the American West.

Established primarily as a railroad station and loading point for the nearby St. Thomas community, Overton owes its existence to the Los Angeles and Salt Lake Railroad, completed in 1905. The town’s strategic location facilitated transportation and trade, laying the groundwork for its early prosperity.

Initially, Overton thrived as a center for agricultural activities, capitalizing on the fertile land surrounding the Virgin River. However, the landscape of Overton changed with the construction of the Hoover Dam in the 1930s, leading to the flooding of St. Thomas and the need for relocation.

Today, Overton is renowned for its proximity to popular attractions such as the Valley of Fire State Park, Lake Mead National Recreation Area, and the Hoover Dam. While agriculture still plays a role in the local economy, tourism is a significant economic factor.

Despite these changes, Overton retains its small-town charm and sense of community. The town’s residents, proud of their heritage and surroundings, continue to welcome visitors with open arms, ensuring that Overton remains a welcoming oasis amidst the arid expanse of Nevada’s deserts.

Lovelock, Nevada, finds its roots in the silver mining boom of the late 19th century, with its founding dating back to 1868. Named after George Lovelock, a key figure in promoting the Central Pacific Railroad, the town quickly burgeoned owing to its strategic position along the Transcontinental Railroad and the discovery of silver ore in the nearby mountains.

Initially established as a mining town, Lovelock gradually diversified its economic landscape. Agriculture, ranching, and later, tourism emerged as significant industries shaping the town’s prosperity. Renowned for its fertile agricultural land, Lovelock specializes in cultivating crops such as alfalfa, onions, and potatoes, contributing to the region’s agricultural bounty.

Fast forward to today, Lovelock maintains its quaint, rural character with approximately 2,000 residents. The town’s economy still thrives on agriculture, mining, and tourism, with attractions like the historic Lovelock Cave serving as magnets for visitors. This archaeological site has yielded discoveries dating back thousands of years, offering a glimpse into the area’s rich cultural heritage.

Moreover, Lovelock’s position along Interstate 80 ensures a steady stream of travelers, with the town serving as a convenient stopover point. While mining activities have waned over time, Lovelock continues to play a vital role as a hub for the surrounding agricultural region, sustaining its legacy of resilience and adaptability in the face of changing times.

My Cousin Elmo says, “Forget sending me mixed signals I can’t even figure out straight ones.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “Does anyone know when the Christmas party for Walmart self-checkout staff is being held?”

Beverly Marsaw was a “tough old bird,” when I was kid, and I mean that as an utmost compliment. No one gave her shit because if they did, she gave it back and sometimes double.

Sadly, she passed away just days before Thanksgiving at 98 years young. Honestly, I did not know much about her, but now, I understand more than I did, including the fact that she was the eldest daughter of Tony Ramos.

After the 1964 flood and before Del Norte County condemned Mr. Ramos’ grocery store in the old Klamath townsite, Mom, with my brother and me in tow, and with Bev, would visit the Ramos’, who lived above their store.

The four adults would talk loud and laugh louder while Adam and I played with a box full of toys Mr. Ramos retrieved from one of the back rooms. It is where I first heard about how, in 1955, my Mom and Grandpa Jack climbed onto the roof of Grampa’s bar, the Three-Sevens, and escaped to the top of Mr. Ramos’ store before the bar washed away.

No wonder I thought the Ramos’ were my cousins all these years!

Bev used to come to our home, where she and Mom would drink Gallo wine poured from a big old green glass jug or sometimes Portuguese Galao coffee, eat anise bread and talk. Once Mom began to work at the Trees of Mystery, Bev would pick her up and take her there because Mom didn’t have a driver’s license.

Looking back, what was not funny then is hilarious now is hearing my parents arguing about Bev not having her driver’s license either, yet insisting on teaching my Mom how to drive. My Dad lost the argument, as in 1976, my Mom passed her driving test.

I do not know if Bev ever got her driver’s license, but should I learn that she didn’t, I’ll probably laugh until I pee myself.

“Write something fluffy and sweet,” his editor instructed.

Tom nodded his head, “Can do.”

Unfortunately, he knew more about what was happening behind the scenes than he cared to. But he didn’t tell his editor that.

Now he was sitting on a lonely bench across from two separate groups of people, each comprised of his friends, spatting over who had the better tree and which one was the official town Christmas tree. As they needled one another, they worked feverishly to put up and decorate their tree and doing so without enjoyment.

“Grown-ups can sure mess up the simplest thing,” one girl of about 12 said to her friend as she pointed to the ledge where the teams were working.

“Yeah,” returned girl two.

They walked quickly by, not giving any notice of the effort of the two groups. Tom watched as they walked down the boardwalk, heading to wherever kids their age go.

Part of Tom wished he could tell them that the sniping had begun a year ago when one party was upset that the town’s Christmas tree had broken apart in a wind and ice storm and not immediately repaired. That’s when unofficially, the other group decided to take over.

“Fluffy and sweet, fluffy and sweet,” Tom reminded himself.

However, his mind continued to play everything out, including how one group had the blessing of the town fathers and a budget to purchase a new, sturdier tree. The other was supplied their tree by a shop owner needing a tax write-off.

“It’s not my job to judge,” Tom reminded himself with a heavy sigh.

Thirty-five minutes later, the trees were up, decorated, and each clique had gone their own way. He looked at his reporter’s notebook, where he had written nothing about this “fluffy, sweet” event.

As Tom let out another heavy sigh, the two preteens walked by. This time they paused to look at the two trees delicately crowding the ledge overlooking the parking lot.

“Maybe there’s hope after all,” the first girl said.

“And some joy, too,” replied the second.

“And love,” added the first.

“And happiness,” the second squealed.

Then Tom watched as the cynical duo transformed, taking turns twirling in circles up the boardwalk as children don’t often do.

My Cousin Elmo says, “My therapist told me to write letters to the people I hate, then burn them, but I forgot what I was supposed to do with the letters.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “I told my wife I put the Christmas tree up myself. She asked if it hurt.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “While some women may have a camel toe, a Camel will never pussyfoot.”