CLASSIC CITY NEWS

By Erik Hogan Science may explain the night to us. It describes an aspect of the spherical Earth rotating away from the illumination and warmth of the sun’s light. In those hours of facing the emptiness of space, darkness covers that part of our planet, diminishing ambient light and cooling off the atmosphere. But the Earth continues to rotate and, invariably, the hours of visibility and warmth return. This does not even begin to portray the human experience of the night. Beg

By T.W. Burger It was built somewhere around 1917, the same year my father was born and while the U.S. threw itself into World War One, also known as The Last War. As if. It was a gift from a schoolteacher aunt when I was 15. I like to think she gave it to me because she recognized in me a writer taking root. More likely, she had decided nobody would ever be able to decipher my handwriting. It was the beginning of a very productive relationship. School papers, journals, poetr

By Erik Hogan Subtly, the smell of rain infused darkness infiltrates with a whisper that something has happened. An excitement over storms unremembered in the night, now gone, perhaps never were, but for the evidence of a wet world lingering out there in obscurity before the dawn. The smell of rain. Memory of a dream materialized in wakefulness. Clouds hang low, gracing treetops as the flat light of day advances. The endless succession of torrid summer days is now broken by t

By T.W. Burger Kay Scoggins was tall, blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful, kind, affable, tough as nails, really country, and sort of a force of nature. She served as a patrol officer and state trooper for decades and even ran for president at least once. She got 13 votes. In an interview a few years later she said she had not made a lot of promises during her campaign except to ensure freedom of speech and maybe put a doublewide mobile home on the front lawn of the White House. Eve

By T. W. Burger I found it, naturally, while looking for something entirely different. In a box on a bottom shelf in my office, jammed in with some other mementos, was my old Mr. Trash hat. It was filthy. Of course, it was filthy when I put it away, sometime back in the early 1980s. The grime is easy to explain. Mr. Trash, while it existed, was a “refuse removal business,” which most of us would still call “garbage company.” I was the field manager, though I’m not sure I had

By Albert DeSimone Jimmi Hendrix used it. Jimmy Page, Pete Townshend, Dave Davies, and Tony Iommi used it, as did many others from the 1960s hard rock scene. We’re talking about the power chord and how it was incorporated into the distorted sound of rock music in the 1950s. The process of the heavy, distorted sound of hard rock goes back to Sister Rosetta Tharpe. The Godmother of Rock and Roll, as she is often referred to, is credited with creating the first rock and roll s

By T. W. Burger Mulling over the second mug of coffee this morning, reluctant to begin another day in front of the keyboard, I considered the mass of flowers in the vase at the table's center. It was a typical spring mix, several varieties of daffodil, with a smattering of giant snowdrops. It has often been said that it is a shame that flowers last such a little time before they wither. Wouldn't it be great if they could bloom all the time, some say? Yes. And no. They would n

By T.W. Burger The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. would be 97 this year if some pinhead hadn’t shot him. He would perhaps be gone frail and a little dotty. Thinking back on his arc as firebrand and martyr, which is frankly hard to imagine. Those of us who were around in his day remember him differently than younger folks do. While he was alive he was, depending on where you stood, a visionary, a man of God who held his country’s collective feet to the fire of its own founding do

By Erik Hogan sat down at my desk to write. In between adventures, I didn’t have a ready story to tell. This was to be a writing exercise, free form and almost stream of conscious, scratching onto the page with a pen to see what ideas would surface. It’s practice. But then a notification flashed across my phone screen. The urge to check it was too great, so I did. And just like that, my attention was snatched away. On a thru hike of the Foothills Trail in the wilds of South C

By T. W. Burger After many years as a reporter covering police, fire and courts, I have decided that our school systems must be required Right NOW to teach our budding inhabitants to always ask themselves this simple question before taking any action whatsoever: “What happens next?” I can't tell you how often I have stood in some district magistrate's office listening to a police officer or state trooper read off the facts on which the charges against the defendant were based

By Eddie Whitlock Hobby ​Remember Jon Lovitz as “the Master Thespian” on Saturday Night Live? He was a fellow who was all ham. His catchphrase was to stop whatever nonsense he had devolved into doing and shout, “Acting!” ​I am no actor. I respect actors. When I was a kid, I thought the people on television were just making things up as they went along. Memorize a script? Are you kidding me? ​In fifth grade, we did a class play. I was cast as the King’s advisor. I had a few li

By Erik Hogan Trout lilies are blooming. A delicate yellow bloom rising from between mottled leathery green leaves catches my attention. The few I saw earlier on the shaded banks of the creek were downcast, petals demurely folded. Sunlight has become harsh now in the late morning, but this flower stands radiant. Scanning the surrounding forest, I am suddenly aware that the hillside is covered in them. Perhaps I can capture a stunning photo of the lily. If I take time here, I

By Erik Hogan Landscape and nature photography revolve around the skills of observation and noticing. At first glance, these may seem synonymous. However, there is a subtle distinction between the two. This may not adhere to strict dictionary definitions of the these terms, but perhaps suggests a useful way of conceptualizing the skills. Observation is looking in its broadest sense. It involves being fully present in the moment, completely aware of one’s surroundings. This in

AP photo By T.W. Burger In Texas, late in December of 1989, Thomas Everett Blasingame pulled his horse up short, dismounted, lay down in a field, crossed his hands over his chest and died. His coworkers at JA Cattle Co. of Goodnight, Texas found him that way. His horse stood nearby. Blasingame was 91. The Associated' Press story said he was the oldest working cowboy in Texas. He told the Wichita Falls Times the previous summer that he wanted to die just the way he did. Ever w

By Eddie Whitlock I am obsessed with time: I will admit that. I think I always have been. Lately, though, my focus is on how little time I have left. ​Men in my family die at 70. Sometimes, death comes a little sooner; rarely, a little later. ​If I were to die on my 70 th birthday, that would mean I have 134 Saturdays left. ​I remember sitting with my father when I was very young, waiting in the car while my mother visited someone in the hospital. The old man and I played a

By Erik Hogan A week and a half ago it snowed. Temperatures did not rise above freezing for three days. Experts sang of potential disaster and schools were closed. Gangs of coyotes roamed the powerline cut behind my house, screaming in the austere moonlight. I looked at trees, seeing form and structure beneath settling soft white. Now the calendar slips into February. Daffodils are beginning to erupt from the dormant earth and afternoon temperatures flirt with 70 degrees. Bir

By Erik Hogan A week and a half ago it snowed. Temperatures did not rise above freezing for three days. Experts sang of potential disaster and schools were closed. Gangs of coyotes roamed the powerline cut behind my house, screaming in the austere moonlight. I looked at trees, seeing form and structure beneath settling soft white. Now the calendar slips into February. Daffodils are beginning to erupt from the dormant earth and afternoon temperatures flirt with 70 degrees. Bir

By Albert DeSimone I understand that “sycophantic” isn’t a commonly used word. According to the Cambridge Dictionary, the word means “praising people in authority in a way that is not sincere, usually in order to get some advantage from them.” In essence, Sycophantic AI creates a yes-person that “echoes your opinions, confirms your biases, and even validates factual errors just to stay in your good graces.” (Gemini AI, and, yes, I see the irony.) In simple words, it’s a suck-

By Erik Hogan Snow Falls. Silent, white, inevitable. Words fall, piling into drifts of letters on a page. Snow on the page. Landing so softly on leaves, dead already. Already fallen. Accumulating drafts of white. The sound of falling. Not silent. Gritty hissing of trees. Snow striking words, settling on thoughts. Piling. Fur by the window watches with teeth birds under drifts of white, dwelling on endings. All silent, save for the falling. Cold absence weighs down boug

By T. W. Burger At a campsite on the coast of Nova Scotia: So, today I’m working away at my genuine L.L. Bean roll-up camping table (I’ve used it as a traveling desk for at least 20 years,) while sitting on my genuine L.L. Bean folding “What-A-Chair.” I leaned over to get my briefcase off the rocky ground. Something went SNAP! Suddenly, I was lying on my side, looking out at the sea in the gathering dark. I waited a bit to see if anything would start hurting or even bleedin