Imagine living in a world where you are told nothing you ever do is right. Imagine a world where everyone questions your actions or behavior. Imagine where everyone who could help you fails or is removed from your life. Imagine what kind of person you would be if you grew up in a world like this.
Courthouse and Jail Rocks are two of the most famous landmarks of westard migration. The Oregon-California, Mormon, and Sidney-Deadwood Trails passed by here. So did the Pony Express trail. Courthouse Rock was mentioned in many diaries. It was sometimes referred to as a castle or solitary tower.
During the past few weeks, I have seen some of the most difficult days in my life. A dear friend parted this world and is no more. He left behind him a wake of love and questions. He could not see the love that surrounded him and I cannot ever blame him for taking his life. I have been there. I know. I understand. But there will forever be questions about what happened and why. They will probably never be answered and those of us left behind must find the strength to continue in the absence of answers.
In this time, I have heard some hurtful words. I refrained from responding, but they cut deep and I needed to get back to what I know to be true.
Special Projects Editor Steve Frederick hard at work.
At the end of September 2013, I had been sitting on unemployment for a month. As October began, I continued to search for work in the Panhandle.
Nebraska requires those who receive unemployment benefits to apply for a certain number of jobs each week. It was Sunday evening and I was still short one application. The weekly deadline was looming and I didn’t know what to do. I scoured every job posting and want ad I could find. Then, I saw something that piqued my interest.
The Star-Herald was looking for a reporter and photographer. While I enjoy writing and taking photographs, I did not think I was qualified. I also had a degree in Anthropology with a double minor in Black Studies and African Studies. I filled out the application and resigned myself to the fact that I would not be finding a job for another week.
I work the fourth Saturday of every month. That means I cover the Polar Plunge each year as well. I never know a good time to get there. The event always starts at 11 a.m., but you want to get there and interview some people ahead of time, take some photographs for the photo gallery of set up and the crowd. Some years I get there at the right time. Some years, like this year, I was early.
Fortunately, my partner in crime, Reporter Charissa Bryce, was coming with me to do video. I would write the story and take photos. In the past, I’ve had to do all three.
Naturally, we had some time to goof off. This is how a reporter spends their time when they can’t leave an event, but are slightly bored.
Cinders rests in her respective spot watching over me while I sleep in comfort in my special snowflake blanket, courtesy of George Soros. /s
I am not doing well.
I wrote in a previous post detailing some things that were causing stress in my life. It was not an exhaustive list. My Friend Sandra knew I was having a bad time recently and, under the guise of coming to play with my cats, brought me a red velvet cake to cheer me up. And it worked for a while.
A proper piece of cake.
Tuesday. January 30, 2018.
It was a bad day at work for fellow reporter Charissa Bryce and me until Ag Editor Spike Jordan rolled in. He came in, sat at his desk and pretended to work for a bit before rolling over toward our desks in his black, high back chair.
The world in 2017 spiraled away from what was normal and it touched me so deep inside that something broke.
Everyone spoke, but no one listened.
On November 4, 2017, a letter to the editor from local resident John Gable spurred controversy in our town. It was vitriolic. I wrote about how we are better than this. Many of my friends and acquaintances would not agree with the racism, bigotry, and general hate of the “other” that has been occurring in the country.
But those feelings of hate have always been there, under the surface, and it’s rising. Apparently, we aren’t better than this and we need to talk about it.
I woke up to my community in despair on Saturday. A letter to the editor in the local paper, the paper where I work at as a reporter, was causing a stir.
The letter, which many people have spread, can be seen below in the screenshot from the Scotts Bluff County Democrats. It is full of hate and ignorance. Its words make me want to leave this town, but I have spent two days thinking about where to go from here.
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