tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193009922012-01-26T09:12:34.443-06:00Essays taken from a weekly newspaper column published in the Washington County News, Washington, Kansas. Look for my book, "Dispatches From Kansas," available from Amazon.com, from the author or Town Crier Bookstore, 716 Commercial, Emporia.Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.comBlogger10121100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-29312399575992824212012-01-17T06:59:00.001-06:002012-01-17T06:59:57.335-06:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-2593272220037489972012-01-15T13:58:00.002-06:002012-01-15T13:58:56.005-06:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-91472274774551256392012-01-15T10:15:00.002-06:002012-01-15T10:15:36.159-06:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-28316717155705842632012-01-12T14:08:00.002-06:002012-01-12T14:09:40.054-06:00

Later I thought of that unnamed canyon south of Albuquerque whose dark basaltic stones cresting the highest ridges were etched with signs and patterns, with weird faces and feathered serpents and, along the tallest promontory, dozens of finely-boned feet, their toes and soles a deep burnished umber contrasting starkly against the black volcanic outcrops. All that remained of their creators were

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-87058003923813784202012-01-08T12:29:00.001-06:002012-01-08T12:29:53.258-06:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-49088825287743051142012-01-08T10:50:00.002-06:002012-01-08T10:50:57.643-06:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-90245804224711480372012-01-05T09:12:00.001-06:002012-01-05T09:12:37.407-06:00

The big pale bird flew low to the stubbled field, its powerful wingbeats propelling it toward a sharp rise where the land fell away toward the distant Little Blue River. Something about its flight pattern seemed odd, simultaneously more buoyant and erratic, its color the epitome of a gray wintry dawn.  The light was bad, my speed excessive, a curve approaching—not the most ideal

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-83489280975880934092011-12-22T09:37:00.003-06:002011-12-22T09:37:49.177-06:00

It wasn’t just cold on the main street of Barnes, it was antarctic in the old-fashioned sense of the word. An icy wind sluiced up from the south unopposed by structure or hill or tree, kicking up clouds of dust, whipping flags to froth and jackknifing down collars, turning skin to stone and eyes to icicles, and in every which way making life miserable for the hundreds of people lining the

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-91039074585238378472011-12-15T07:43:00.000-06:002011-12-15T07:43:21.470-06:00

       Much has been written about the Occupy Wall Street movement—oceans of ink, in fact, though it’s questionable how many people actually read those millions of words to their bitter end, much less grasped the meanings behind it. My own experience was surprisingly detached. On the one hand I applaud any grassroots attempt to highlight corporate greed and malfeasance; on the other hand, I

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-80360841234829254352011-12-13T04:38:00.001-06:002011-12-13T04:38:54.215-06:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-617794004157995962011-12-10T19:22:00.001-06:002011-12-10T19:22:50.910-06:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-76777764386018670782011-12-08T10:26:00.001-06:002011-12-08T10:27:44.113-06:00

        One frosty morning, without planning aforethought or consultation of a map, I turned off Highway 9 onto County Line Road and headed north.  Not that it was much of a road. For the first mile or so it was wide enough for one-and-a-quarter mid-sized cars to pass without too much maneuvering. The surface was fairly smooth though pitted with tire tracks that meandered, skittered,

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-82257486097466834082011-12-02T10:09:00.001-06:002011-12-02T10:09:54.013-06:00

Sue and Keith Jones, with my wife, Lori

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-20140009704381266812011-12-02T09:53:00.001-06:002011-12-02T09:54:52.899-06:00

The last thing I expected to see was a horned toad but then I’ve come to accept these gifts without fanfare or overblown rumination on the mysteries of life. The temperature was in the low thirties and a cold breeze slicing from the north but the bluff faced the south and the low sun warmed the deep grasses along the hillside. I’d spooked the little reptile on my way back up the slope from a

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-41061888439614695152011-11-23T14:38:00.001-06:002011-11-23T14:40:09.935-06:00

When I left work Monday afternoon light was fading into a gray featureless murk that might indicate freezing drizzle, an early dusk or both. The thermometer on the bank read 28 degrees which didn’t take into account the breeze, but then I heard a few weeks ago that the whole concept of wind-chill factoring might be tossed as hopelessly outdated or nonessential. Another instance of criminal

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-12797457099570840112011-11-22T07:43:00.001-06:002011-11-22T07:43:32.269-06:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-76203401289417905612011-11-19T09:43:00.001-06:002011-11-19T09:46:17.390-06:00

I can't decide whether I want to be reincarnated as a secretive bird, a bra or Godzilla. All have their relative merits.

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-2989385948173531192011-11-17T12:26:00.001-06:002011-11-18T06:51:33.251-06:00

It’s true: the inmates are running the asylum. I’m almost at a loss for words over news of the upcoming Kansas sesquicentennial wrap-up scheduled to take place in Wichita in early December. According to a press release, the event is a two-day, statewide symposium “designed to foster engagement and energy, and to establish a direction for a bright future, through dialogue on the most

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-82139955910384945492011-11-15T17:37:00.001-06:002011-11-15T17:37:49.627-06:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-47589507253930090202011-11-12T16:22:00.001-06:002011-11-12T16:22:46.565-06:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-83892288631697697112011-11-10T07:56:00.001-06:002011-11-10T07:56:12.430-06:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-28420805348520260232011-11-10T07:54:00.001-06:002011-11-10T07:55:32.619-06:00

For some reason the golden leaves pasted to the wet weathered boards of the patio brought back memories of the nymphal husks of stoneflies plastered to boulders pebbling the banks of trout streams in woods luminous with autumnal hues. Closing my eyes I entered that other world of blue-gold waters glittering in the sun but only for a second, brief and sharp as a gunshot, and reopening them felt

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-34629100119659159242011-11-03T12:06:00.000-05:002011-11-04T11:44:14.504-05:00

      Guy stops me on the street to say the meeting has been moved from morning to afternoon. “That a problem?” he asks. Only that I have to be in three places at the same time. Other than that, no problemo. Back at the office I pore over my daily planner. The month is bleeding away but apparently determined to squeeze the life out of every minute, and the following day’s penciled

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-8104610189185194412011-11-03T09:59:00.001-05:002011-11-03T10:16:13.187-05:00

It’s funny how I started my novel and suddenly feel too shy to share it with anyone other than Lori, and even then I feel stupid and amateurish. Even passages I think strong fall flat when read aloud. Our confidence is so often dependent upon familiarity, whether of people, places or pursuits. I’ve never considered myself a fiction writer but like most nonfiction authors sensed a novel hidden

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-55687775658238983852011-11-02T08:25:00.001-05:002011-11-02T08:25:26.001-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-90254542492320828142011-11-01T19:38:00.002-05:002011-11-01T19:38:16.620-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-16047011977211891422011-11-01T19:30:00.005-05:002011-11-01T19:30:54.411-05:00

... I am going to follow the crows back to their roost.

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-85650482802603682102011-11-01T19:29:00.001-05:002011-11-01T19:29:29.580-05:00

       In the dream I was in lower downtown Denver with the sluggish Platte River flowing past though everything was different from the way it had been when every street and every alley was as familiar as the back of my hand. Dusk was falling as I ran out of the courthouse—misplaced a mile or so to the northwest, near the 15th Street Viaduct, a ghost itself as it was torn down decades ago—to

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-81521010332548524472011-10-27T11:29:00.000-05:002011-10-29T05:27:02.567-05:00

When our extension agent heard my plan, a wince of discomfort crossed his face. “You know they’re beneficial,” he said. Oh, I knew. Believe me, I knew about ladybugs and how they control aphids and other undesirable pests. I also knew that ladybugs as we know them—the American species—are disappearing under the onslaught of the introduced multicolored Asian lady beetle. I also knew

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-61166702202362889622011-10-20T19:52:00.001-05:002011-10-20T19:52:27.875-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-45465799356678121272011-10-19T21:10:00.000-05:002011-10-19T21:10:03.696-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-75101453100479420812011-10-18T06:32:00.000-05:002011-10-18T06:32:17.468-05:00

        After a while, the pumpkin became a problem. It was a big pumpkin, a venerable giant of its race, a specimen to enter into the county fair with pride and a deep-seated assurance that any and all competitors would quail at its sight. I remember wrestling it into the car—I believe it was the Chevy Vega, the Microsoft version of automotive engineering with its underpowered aluminum

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-88458696589811976222011-10-15T10:10:00.000-05:002011-10-15T10:10:40.989-05:00

First came apartments, one to two bedrooms with inescapable views of major streets, intersections and multi-floored buildings, followed by duplexes and yards that needed to be maintained. Like most urban denizens we moved around with blithe frequency, playing the rent game as others do the stock market. We went where rent was low and amenities high and transferred loyalties and addresses

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-51595178880460884172011-10-13T06:56:00.002-05:002011-10-13T06:56:12.709-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-91414945577204340012011-10-09T12:30:00.001-05:002011-10-09T12:30:20.802-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-47756874194310354782011-10-07T05:57:00.001-05:002011-10-07T05:57:15.858-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-59769983616639896792011-10-07T05:39:00.001-05:002011-10-09T21:40:01.494-05:00

       We entered from the north though I could not say with any certainty where we were. A small town, a dead town, a town with no future and no past worth remembering, its broad main street devoid of marker or traffic or vehicles or any sign of life other than the cartwheeling swifts zippering the cloudless blue vault pressing down like an unbearable weight. Most of the few businesses had

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-383937494534671952011-10-02T23:24:00.001-05:002011-10-02T23:24:17.747-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-28662294420829431752011-10-01T20:16:00.002-05:002011-10-02T04:35:19.266-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-21697018037308303052011-09-29T07:39:00.000-05:002011-09-29T07:39:31.116-05:00

The shortening days always catch me by surprise. Last week I geared up to photograph an engraving on a limestone outcrop high above Alcove Springs, the famed watering hole on the Oregon Trail, only to find the sun already slipping behind the thicket. My idea was to capture the carving when the light was low so that the inscription stood out in stark relief. As the sun was so low it had all

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-66010537730993541802011-09-18T16:48:00.001-05:002011-09-18T16:48:39.895-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-51927246678561749112011-09-15T08:18:00.000-05:002011-09-15T08:18:10.858-05:00

       Everything changes. Though it’s hardly an original concept it tends to take on a sense of immediacy once the tipping point loosely called middle age is reached, at which time it stirs in the ashes of personal history to rise phoenix-like into the light. Sometimes its appearance is welcome and at others intrusive, depending upon factors barely within our understanding. And while the

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-23555640939394485342011-09-13T09:20:00.002-05:002011-09-13T09:20:45.194-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-601377044047704582011-09-09T11:15:00.002-05:002011-09-11T12:55:24.058-05:00

        The phone jars us awake. I glance at the clock to see it’s past seven, exceedingly late for me.  “That’s not a good sign,” Lori mumbles. It’s Peter. “The fog,” he says breathlessly, as if he’d been running a marathon or under the spell of some enchantment. “The fog, it’s in layers and colors, it’s breathtaking, you have to grab your camera and drive north of the bridge.”

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-15413065912128780542011-09-08T19:10:00.001-05:002011-09-08T19:10:28.116-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-7847137185210236892011-09-08T07:14:00.001-05:002011-09-08T07:14:54.950-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-90204307132900815402011-09-03T13:35:00.002-05:002011-09-03T13:35:47.857-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-73297554602988649112011-09-03T13:34:00.000-05:002011-09-05T21:03:22.445-05:00

     Sleep made me awake and the whisky sleepy. Surely that’s coming full circle though I’m left dazed and not a little woozy, midnight passing and me yet chained to the computer. After a week without Internet I’m still spelunking the endless alleyways of cyberspace with thoughts of birthdays and aging and creativity and getting somewhere or nowhere, depending upon my outlook at that

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-10722371123872763962011-08-30T07:00:00.002-05:002011-08-30T07:00:40.483-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-78670540314031127152011-08-17T21:13:00.000-05:002011-08-17T21:13:04.495-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-55952046950573254402011-08-16T07:57:00.000-05:002011-08-16T07:57:02.129-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-86207411978146120812011-08-11T10:35:00.001-05:002011-08-11T10:35:17.213-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-40969319270642455812011-08-11T09:55:00.001-05:002011-08-11T09:55:34.473-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-7044752530083300762011-08-11T09:41:00.000-05:002011-08-11T09:41:45.768-05:00

        In the end, I stood my ground and prevailed. It wasn’t much of a victory but it was better than nothing. Better by far than the alternative, which in this case would have meant being swallowed in one of those enclosed, multi-story parking garages in downtown Lincoln, Neb. And that’s not something I’d do lightly or, given the chance, at all. My long-suffering wife managed my

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-4203138399803320542011-08-09T08:25:00.002-05:002011-08-09T08:25:17.995-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-62434655325277504842011-08-06T05:42:00.002-05:002011-08-06T05:42:45.885-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-52222107457494621522011-08-04T09:11:00.000-05:002011-08-04T09:11:26.519-05:00

It’s always the same, you sit down to your first cup of coffee, sleep dragging at your gritty eyes, your list of to-dos exponentially long depending on the day of the week but set aside for a brief spell to collect your wits and infuse your sluggish gray matter with hard jolts of caffeine, and about the time you start to feel slightly human the phone rings and everything goes to hell. It

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-49308235217254347442011-07-30T19:13:00.001-05:002011-07-30T19:13:14.476-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-26479508441069581942011-07-28T07:54:00.000-05:002011-07-28T07:54:55.498-05:00

        No, it wasn’t a Zen moment. Had someone been walking down the gravel road where we reside, they might have seen a solitary figure hunched over a small raised bed behind our house. That would have been me, of course, frozen into a focused immobility, peering intently into a tangled patch of indeterminate tomatoes that had been abandoned to their fates. The tomatoes—Lori’s idea, not

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-14232537282469351022011-07-24T08:43:00.002-05:002011-07-24T08:43:29.486-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-92180927142462473752011-07-21T15:28:00.002-05:002011-07-22T19:03:15.360-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-66207150346963021662011-07-21T14:59:00.001-05:002011-07-24T12:08:05.961-05:00

       She was here and she was gone and the space between too short for memory to claw a foothold.  But I think of it often, usually in the truncated, silent spaces between nonessential things that snare my attention, and while there were other moments that resonated to the core of my being—the book moments, the time in the upstairs library when I watched her eyes dance at the sight of

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-66893135919571335722011-07-14T19:58:00.001-05:002011-07-14T19:59:00.330-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-56077998168821037502011-07-14T19:52:00.002-05:002011-07-15T06:28:17.812-05:00

       The early morning sun glinted off the dozen or so Harleys parked at a roadside cutout. Around the motorcycles stood a group of grizzled riders garbed in black leathers festooned with patches of every size and shape, their eyes hidden behind dark wraparound sunglasses, faces scowling. A woman circulated among them, making small talk as they waited, and waited, and waited some more. Two

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-39528567099316228502011-07-11T22:38:00.002-05:002011-07-11T22:39:00.861-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-243068007983011632011-07-11T22:34:00.002-05:002011-07-11T22:34:35.425-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-33059099907642325362011-07-06T08:31:00.002-05:002011-07-06T08:31:56.181-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-49637436794094561852011-07-03T06:41:00.003-05:002011-07-03T06:58:24.231-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-77269645546634827232011-06-30T07:13:00.000-05:002011-06-30T07:13:14.031-05:00

        As a sometimes environmentalist, I’m familiar with having to defend policies or procedures enacted to preserve our natural resources. This is, admittedly, not always an easy task. Nor has it improved since our relocation to Kansas, less the fabled (if not iconic) heartland as much as the heart of the uber-conservative Republican mindset for whom the environment is something

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-91660118595206169352011-06-23T08:53:00.000-05:002011-06-23T08:53:01.228-05:00

 50@50_01 Western Washington County  50@50_02 Morrowville 50@50_03 Barnes

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-79264575366224478052011-06-23T08:45:00.001-05:002011-06-25T21:57:42.644-05:00

        Let me state firsthand that I needed the lens.  It wasn’t a frivolous spur-of-the-moment decision triggered by a press release announcing the latest and greatest iteration of a particular piece of camera equipment, though honestly there was a hefty dose of complicity in its timing. (A new one had just been released.) I’m not one to willfully part with my hard-earned dollars,

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-5525197889559137792011-06-16T10:20:00.002-05:002011-06-16T10:20:45.352-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-89603208888819781112011-06-16T06:33:00.001-05:002011-06-16T06:33:59.075-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-8799591281372635082011-06-16T06:32:00.001-05:002011-06-18T05:47:06.588-05:00

My aunt’s tiny farmhouse in west Texas always smelled faintly of dust, but then dust was a west Texas specialty. It probably didn’t help that we boys slept on the floor during our infrequent visits, huddled in the room’s center to avoid things creeping from their lairs at dusk. There were scorpions, mostly the smaller, more poisonous kind, and behind the house foot-long poisonous centipedes

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-46718336156739083452011-06-15T14:06:00.002-05:002011-06-15T14:06:40.197-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-80581885287582766172011-06-12T10:45:00.002-05:002011-06-12T14:31:02.513-05:00

Elsie Shehi Bock in front of the home she was born in. Elsie Bock was nine years old the last time she sat on this porch. Thanks to the generosity of the current owner, family members were allowed to visit and tour the homestead. 

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-86678799004299720942011-06-11T09:37:00.001-05:002011-06-11T10:17:14.585-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-11311399445243104082011-06-11T00:47:00.000-05:002011-06-11T00:47:39.153-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-88329578638972831302011-06-09T08:30:00.001-05:002011-06-09T08:30:54.574-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-61872584174544726662011-06-09T06:54:00.000-05:002011-06-09T06:54:28.706-05:00

With everything neatly stored away in the basement there was little left to do but remain at my lonesome vigil. I can’t say I was afraid but the past two weeks were enough to make most Midwesterners feel stalked. Beyond the thin skin of the walls lightning flared in strobic pulses painting the fields bone white before dropping darkness like a curtain. Winds shrieked in the trees and hammered the

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-66965699348229107522011-06-02T08:05:00.001-05:002011-06-06T07:03:03.350-05:00

How many times I studied the doppler radar image on the Internet I couldn’t say. Many, many times. Too many, to be honest. Like others who voiced their reservations on Facebook, the unfolding cataclysmic weather front was impossible to disregard, in equal measures fascinating and terrifying, riveting us to our seats when there were better things to do, like preparing for the unthinkable.

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-77590773601652294392011-05-29T15:42:00.000-05:002011-05-29T15:42:37.704-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-68887805427523204942011-05-27T09:23:00.000-05:002011-05-27T09:23:56.205-05:00

 Greenleaf elevator Clifton elevator

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-475472426654199722011-05-26T07:54:00.000-05:002011-05-26T07:54:48.595-05:00

I had just returned home from a trying day at the office—something of a laughable concept as I’m there only one day a week and I’d spent several hours wandering backroads on my return leg—and sitting down to supper barely able to keep my eyelids aloft heard a slight tapping, a gentle rapping at my side door. “It’s back,” my wife said. I turned and saw nothing out the window. Two more taps

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-21934318447938280292011-05-19T13:06:00.005-05:002011-05-20T05:58:17.248-05:00

Lately I’ve been trying to find a way to inhabit this new body of mine, not so much in circumventing its foibles or overcoming whatever limitations treachery and old age have in store but simply in understanding where I fit in and how the two of us might function as a whole. Or parts of a whole. At times I’m led to believe that my right knee will never get better but always remain a ghost of

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-47271831589796987262011-05-19T13:06:00.002-05:002011-05-19T13:06:40.955-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-39010648228811538752011-05-16T20:19:00.002-05:002011-05-16T20:19:49.634-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-37161542186127994182011-05-15T20:26:00.000-05:002011-05-15T20:26:10.475-05:00

 Herb Hobson  Dave Leiker

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-75047340522275672722011-05-15T05:59:00.002-05:002011-05-15T05:59:28.803-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-42662945206008882992011-05-14T23:00:00.000-05:002011-05-14T23:00:57.490-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-28097309662887687282011-05-12T07:59:00.000-05:002011-05-13T15:20:09.526-05:00

Well, the first round of thunderstorms wasn’t nearly as impressive as they looked on Doppler radar, and the amount of rain they produced nothing like predicted. Weather forecasting has always been a crapshoot and I for one am glad it’s not my responsibility to divine the proverbial tea leaves. I’d hate to be the one to tell farmers day after day that their chances of making it through the Drought

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-13485578368044241012011-05-11T15:30:00.000-05:002011-05-13T15:20:10.021-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-11380672337709987952011-05-10T07:49:00.000-05:002011-05-10T07:49:08.525-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-71379666033645747052011-05-05T12:26:00.000-05:002011-05-05T12:26:37.261-05:00

“I don't believe in anything anymore: god, country, money or love.” – Dorianne Laux This is the life I always wanted but never knew how to dream: Rabbits in a two-acre yard with a view of the northern edge of the Flint Hills and a wide river a half mile away, a small rural town without a blinking light, a job that lets me be creative, a forgiving boss, a wife who makes everything worthwhile,

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-73807459762025658672011-05-04T09:07:00.002-05:002011-05-04T09:07:59.383-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-85385053835876069772011-05-04T08:02:00.002-05:002011-05-04T08:02:33.472-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-19996446118927964972011-05-04T07:37:00.001-05:002011-05-06T16:48:01.589-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-52020753745435067192011-05-04T04:21:00.002-05:002011-05-04T04:21:46.794-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-76391323561782502872011-05-01T18:21:00.002-05:002011-05-01T18:21:55.216-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19300992.post-12030061293937831542011-04-27T13:29:00.001-05:002011-04-27T13:29:00.851-05:00

Tom Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13351116214626024883noreply@blogger.com6