tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56773962012-01-24T16:39:17.271-08:00Tales from W.T. Pfefferle's year-long journey around the country assembling material for his new book project, Poets on Place (Utah State University Press, Spring 2005) © W.T. Pfefferle 2005W.T. Pfefferlenoreply@blogger.comBlogger1021100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1083790979952775462004-05-05T14:02:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:47.442-07:00

I made my last stop today, in Bethesda, Maryland, to meet with my MFA advisor, the gifted and gentle Henry Taylor, a man of immense humanity and talent. I went to American University to work in his program in the early 80s as a fiction writer, and was turned on to poetry by his book An Afternoon of Pocket Billiards. His work is deft and exacting, funny, and so finely wrought that it is

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1081826119424227122004-04-12T20:15:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:47.473-07:00

We left Logan, Utah in brilliant sunshine on a cold spring morning, and headed east through valleys and passes toward the Colorado border. Before we reached the stateline we hit a tiny town called Garden City, right on Big Bear Lake, a splendid body of water that emerged before us hundreds of feet below as we descended to it. With food once again driving my desires, we found the only

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1081739979768375382004-04-11T20:19:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:47.480-07:00

Traveling north out of Salt Lake City, we are stunned by the remarkable landscape changes just an hour or so up I-15. We turn east and plunge into a part of the Wasatch range, and when we emerge on the highway to Logan, we are surrounded by deep green valleys, pastures, horses, cows, pretty farm houses. It's like the lushest part of Iowa, but at 5000 feet, and surrounded by snow capped

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1081626597203946462004-04-10T12:49:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:47.486-07:00

I don't know what was more frightening, the rapid fire barking of Hana, one of Paisley Rekdal's beautiful (large) dogs, or the size and chocolate content of the enormous pastry I was served. Both items took much of my concentration during my visit to Rekdal's spectacular and sunny home on a hillside overlooking Salt Lake City. But I'm exaggerating. I'm given to hyperbole. Hana settled down, and

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1081536599517530472004-04-09T11:49:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:47.491-07:00

The trip - which at times has threatened to swallow us whole - is winding down faster than we thought. We are on this last leg through Texas, Utah, and Colorado, and with a couple of days off we found ourselves in southern Utah near two gigantic national parks, Canyonland and Arches. Like normal tourists, we loaded up the sandwiches and cameras and went for another of a seemingly endless

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1081218357817308012004-04-05T19:25:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:47.497-07:00

William Wenthe, when referring to his move from bucolic Virginia to hardscrabble Lubbock, Texas, calls it geographic shock. The New Jersey native had made a real home in the area in and around Charlottesville during his pursuit of MA and PhD degrees, so had some adjustments to make when arriving in this splendid but isolated panhandle city. As an adopted Texan with nearly 15 years in the

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1080782817077848182004-04-01T03:42:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.502-07:00

We follow I-55 looking for a state highway, then take it into a regional park where we pick up the first of two dirt roads on our way to Yopo, a tiny town about twenty miles from Kankakee, Illinois. When we pull up, the poet Lars Fad is waiting on a large painted glider. He gives a big wave and heads over to us. He is wearing a striped shirt, long khaki shorts, and flip flops. It is 33 degrees

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1080701057963579332004-03-30T18:44:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.508-07:00

Karen, a young and brilliant nomadic poet, buzzes me into her apartment in Ukranian Village, a close-knit urban neighborhood just a little north and west of downtown. She tells me she's been here for about six months after more than a year in Hyde Park, a much different part of the city. She tells me Hyde Park is an enclave unto itself, while her new neighborhood is tied to the city in a real

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1080697408962245202004-03-29T07:43:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.515-07:00

At the Rainbow Restaurant and Pancake House in Elmhurst, Illinois, they really bring the food to the guy at the next table. He starts with a three egg omelette full of sausage and covered with cheese. He's got hash browns, four pieces of toast, a double side of bacon. His wife and kid sit across from him eating their own food. The kid, about 8 or 9, eats a short stack of pancakes, leaving half

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1080505324577061202004-03-28T12:22:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.522-07:00

There is one real reason people live in Chicago instead of New York: Lake Michigan. On a pretty Sunday morning, I'm sitting with Mark Strand about ten floors up looking out over Lake Shore Drive, while the 70 degree weather pours in through a bank of open windows. The blinds flutter sometimes, and the sound of weekend construction floats up to us as we talk. From my chair I can see the water

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1080152586900977472004-03-24T10:23:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.529-07:00

Alongside highway 71 in Missouri, we pulled off in Butler for a bite to eat. I've been doing this low carb thing for about 9 hours so I was ready to treat myself. We found the Dinner Bell Family Restaurant with an empty parking lot and the cook out back changing his oil. We went in, looked over the menu, and I opted for the Hot Beef sandwich. $3.95. It arrived within 3 minutes, a gigantic gob

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1080052802792183342004-03-23T06:40:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.534-07:00

We're on the road briefly after about ten days in Arkansas. Off to a job interview somewhere in Iowa, then on to Chicago to see the terrific Karen Volkman - and possibly another poet, a revered and magnificent writer who doesn't do many interviews. We are keeping our fingers crossed and hope to blurb-icize this news soon. If it all falls apart, you'll never know who it was and I'll retain a bit

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1079009841491196592004-03-11T04:57:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.538-07:00

The good folks at Utah State University Press have made an offer to publish The Poetry of Place in June 2005. We are overjoyed to have a home for this extraordinary project. We will hunker down in NW Arkansas for the next few months as I finish the book.

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1079008723165983192004-03-11T04:38:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.542-07:00

155 days or so later, we drove back into the restful and pleasant burg of Bella Vista, AR, the home to our furniture, my wife's parents, and a small house we bought last summer. 5 months to the day that we left to head north toward Kansas and the first October interviews, we eased the dependable, honorable, and lovable Winnie Cooper into the driveway and put it in park one last time. Oh, she

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1078796116858423542004-03-08T17:35:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.547-07:00

Frederick Smock's writing room is spartan and perfect. A tiny wooden desk sits in one corner next to a large wood-framed window (a dozen panes easy). Out the window is the small street in front of Smock's apartment (in a 2 story home from 20s or so). Past Smock's street, but straight out the 2nd floor window, is Cave Hill cemetery, a sweeping and gigantic mid 19th century graveyard where

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1078615512153373482004-03-06T15:25:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.551-07:00

Winnie Cooper strains in most neighborhoods as I bend her to my evil will, bouncing over curbs, taking down power lines and tree limbs, scaring outdoor pets, and pinning car pool moms and soccer dads to 1/8th of the normal avenue, boulevard, or lane. But south of Nashville, off one of the main north/south highways, I steer recklessly through the spacious neighborhood where I'll find Mark

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1078535158551429082004-03-05T17:34:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.616-07:00

No city offers a more stunning transition from its ring of highways and interstates to its inner hub of suburban plots. Coming into Atlanta - really, anything within 70 miles - is like driving on the Ugly Highway to Ugly Town. The gray slabs extend to 4 and 5 lanes in every direction. Cloverleaf after cloverleaf - almost all of them under construction - web together endlessly. The pines that

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1078017216395314502004-02-28T17:13:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.621-07:00

We're hours away from the end of February, and we are watching Queer Eye and eating Snickers ice cream bars, breathing a sigh of relief that the cruelest month (so far) is over. 4 weeks ago we crossed the Florida/Georgia border and were faced with a quandary. With temperatures north of us below freezing, with crowded cities awaiting, with virtually no campgrounds open between the Carolinas and

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1077905589158807342004-02-27T10:13:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.626-07:00

Terrance Hayes and I were set to meet in Pittsburgh, PA, earlier this week (where he teaches and lives with his wife - the poet Yona Harvey - and their two children). But he got a chance to read at a book fair in his hometown of Columbia, SC, today, so we opted for that location instead. (The forecast was for snow throughout the mountains of Pennsylvania, and South Carolina would make a nice

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1077579061761431312004-02-23T15:31:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.631-07:00

A poet's office is every bit as personal and idiosyncratic as a poet's home. So I'm embarrassed to admit that this morning, after setting up in one of Michael Harper's offices on the campus of Brown University, I couldn't stop myself from exclaiming - "Your office is exquisitely messy!" If I could have added context to all of this, Harper would have known something of the terrible mess of my

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1077480842847175482004-02-22T12:14:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.636-07:00

God knows that the only way to do this project is with technology. So, far too late, let me offer thanks to: The Safety Camera: It runs silently in the background, capturing still images every 5-10 seconds. It provides nearly all of the author photos that appear on this site, and provides me a backup in case the 35mm shots I do at the end of interviews turn out poorly. It's an old Epson Photo PC

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1077475216753825352004-02-22T10:40:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.640-07:00

C.D. Wright's work is a miracle to me. For as long as I've been reading her, I've wanted to get inside her work and pull it apart, finding the secret invisible threads that hold it all together. Unlike my own work, which remains fraught with the narrative tools left over from my start as a fiction writer, Wright's work succeeds so beautifully because of what she leaves out. The work is still

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1077403609284175322004-02-21T14:46:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.644-07:00

Provincetown is at the end of the world, the tip of Cape Cod, a tiny windswept collection of B&Bs and fudge shops. We get there a day early so see the entire town, pretty clapboard houses on the water, bigger places out toward the point. We see four lighthouses, stand on frigid beaches (with tufts of snow mixed in with the wet winter sand), talk to couples with dogs wet from the surf. We even

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1077076370329233752004-02-17T19:52:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.649-07:00

It's 28 degrees in lower Manhattan and we're eating gigantic chicken wraps inside our rented Ford Escape (where it's a balmy 38 degrees). We got the wraps at a funky convenience store where I mostly am amazed to see cigarettes selling for $7. Where are we, on the moon? I can see my breath as I open my mouth to finish off the wrap. We're here an hour and a half early because I'm a gigantic

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1076890170373206962004-02-15T16:09:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.653-07:00

Nicole Cooley's oldest daughter has something to tell me when I first arrive: "MY NAME IS MINNIE MOUSE!" She later amends her name to "Snoop," but she says the former with real conviction and it's still in my head several hours later. I meet the whole family right away, Nicole's husband Alex, the new baby Arcadia, and of course Minnie Mouse (who sometimes is called Meridian by her folks.)

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1076726482305593852004-02-13T18:41:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.657-07:00

Lucie lives in comfortable decadence in the Upper West Side, quite near Columbia University where she teaches. She welcomes me in her apartment and the luxurious red of the chairs and wall hangings suffocate me. Sweet William, a Maine Coon cat scampers away as I arrive, but he gets used to me quickly and is a major part of the interview, sometimes fielding questions for Lucie, sometimes just

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1076880381591564172004-02-13T13:26:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.661-07:00

Of the rich variety of cultural advantages available to New York City residents, it's quite clear to me that the one that really matters the most is the freedom everyone feels to blow his or her car horn. Sure, the ballet and all that bullshit is great. The Met. The Guggenheim. Yankee Stadium. Papaya King. But all of that is really available in any city with more than 50,000 people, but this

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1076638229821361952004-02-12T18:10:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.665-07:00

I ran the undergraduate writing program at Johns Hopkins for the last three years, so today is a bit of a homecoming. We drive past the greatest diner in creation, the New Wyman, and then head over to campus. While my wife circles the parking lots, I run in quick to surprise my former partner in the writing program, Susie. She was my program's administrator, but more importantly, she was my pal

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1076556274260307202004-02-11T19:24:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.670-07:00

More than two decades ago I was a befuddled but beautiful Psych major at Arizona State University. I had long hair and a 31" waist. I was riddled with insecurities, however, about my future (which is, of course, just like today), and I was in receipt of another college transcript showing a wide variety of shades, nuances, and colors, but hardly any A's or B's. I was searching for a reason to

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1076461400957670552004-02-10T17:03:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.674-07:00

Nikki is wearing a medal when I meet her at her office on the campus of Virginia Tech. Her poetry has won almost uncountable awards, plaudits, and honors, but this is an actual medal. I'm thinking figure skating or the 400m hurdles or something. But the medal is from the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences which Nikki got earlier this week at the annual Grammy Awards dinner in Los

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1076105035655193922004-02-06T14:03:00.000-08:002004-02-06T14:13:49.530-08:00

Along with Miller Williams - who one can find in the 09/07/2003 archive to the left - Charles Wright belongs on American poetry's Mt. Rushmore. Wright has been a titanic figure in American letters for 40 years and his power is undiminished. It is frankly with some nerves that I appear at his three story home in Charlottesville on absolutely the crummiest weather day of the trip. It's 32 degrees

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1075934191096305812004-02-04T14:36:00.000-08:002004-02-04T15:01:46.483-08:00

We are in Chapel Hill between winter "events." Snow lays alongside roadways and mounds up 6 feet high in parking lots. Tomorrow freezing rain is expected, but today is nothing but blue skies and temperatures in the high 40s. We're traveling this month in a red Ford Escape, a so-called intermediate SUV that is jammed with our stuff. If I eat one more meal, we'll have to throw out a suitcase to

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1075334330881123632004-01-28T15:58:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.680-07:00

The humidity is suffocating. It's like breathing a hot milkshake. The line of dryer vents is not helping either, as they churn out hot air onto me as I sit on a creaky park bench in front of Coynes Laundry. My wife is inside dealing with eleven days of clothes and I'm keeping the bench down, staring across the hot four lanes of US-1, halfway between Miami and Key West, where we're headed for a

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1075248403570830432004-01-27T16:06:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.684-07:00

Campbell and I are standing in front of his gorgeous garden home plugged serenely in a bucolic neighborhood in Miami Beach. He shows me two trees in his front yard, both planted and grown by him over the past ten years. One is a Royal Palm that is as big around as two bulldogs and must approach 40 feet. It started as a stalk, not even waist high. The other palm is a little shorter, but thicker,

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1075034212415967842004-01-24T21:36:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.689-07:00

With more than 13,000 miles very recently under our belts, it's pretty easy to say that traffic varies widely from town to town, state to state. With the possible exception of Beverly Hills on a Saturday afternoon, the stretch from Miami (where we and Winnie Cooper are spending a week) to Hollywood is the most discouraging. We spot the signs of U.S. 1, The Dixie Highway, and we imagine it will

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1074946602395605282004-01-24T04:16:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.757-07:00

About a third of the poets I meet ask, "Why me?" It's a complicated question, and I don't think I've ever given a completely satisfactory answer. But in this entry I thought I'd try. 1) The work of some poets just screams out "place" to me, poets like Miller Williams, for example. It's always been impossible for me to read his work without feeling the South in every line. So I sought out many

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1074643622248322142004-01-20T16:07:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.770-07:00

Peter Cooley's house has a purple door. It's a rich and powerful hue, and we see it from well down the street as we negotiate the narrow passage. We're in Jefferson, actually, just minutes west of New Orleans proper. In less than 24 hours in and around the city we've been stuck in traffic behind three different accidents. Last night, after spending a pleasant but chilly night in the Quarter,

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1074631230559952942004-01-18T17:12:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.779-07:00

Beth Ann Fennelly has just finished a 15 page poem about kudzu, the climbing and unstoppable vine that covers millions of acres in Mississippi, Alabama, etc. Kudzu is a Southern touchstone, and when my wife and I first moved down here in the mid 80s, it seemed an exotic and frightening natural world element too spooky and mysterious to ever fully understand. We left Mississippi after only about

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1074288878789418472004-01-16T13:34:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.783-07:00

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1074042553344565482004-01-13T17:09:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.790-07:00

Nye lives in a beautiful 100-year old house in the fabled King William district in downtown San Antonio. The neighborhood - which boomed originally in the middle of the 19th century - is an eclectic collection of two story houses painted in funky colors. Right across the street is an empty park and I stand there and look across at it for a while before going in. We go through the house to a

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1074036446646888162004-01-13T16:27:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.803-07:00

Somewhere in Arizona a rattle develops underneath Winnie Cooper. It's not one of those rattles you can live with, it's a heart-stopping rattle that is so loud that you can't even hear the endless and life-killing whine of the tires on yet another stretch of highway. My wife and I look at each other with different thoughts on our minds. Hers: "My goodness, there's a small problem that we will

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1073819334026704222004-01-11T03:08:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.808-07:00

Jane Miller lives across the valley from the gorgeous Santa Catalina Mountains that ring the eastern landscape outside Tucson, Arizona. We sit in her great room and I sip sparkling water as though I were a fancier man than I actually am. Jane's a walker, and she tells me a little bit about hiking the trails in and around this hillside house. I ask about the local wildlife (spiders, snakes,

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1073701978451471082004-01-09T18:32:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.812-07:00

When Richard and his wife Lois built their house in the foothills of the Tucson Mountains in 1961, they were one of only three residents in the vast and unscrubbed Sonoran desert some 10 miles west of Tucson. They and their young son relished the remote location, but scorpions and one spectacularly dog-hungry gila monster made the land a little more hostile than a similar spot nearer the city.

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1073518126913296202004-01-07T15:28:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.818-07:00

Phoenix is a bit of a homecoming for me. I went to school here in the late 70s and early 80s, met my wife here, and drove fast and wild on the desert highways in and around Phoenix when I was infallible and indestructible. So it's terrific to be here again, my first visit in almost 20 years. And while I did my B.A. work here, I hardly ever think about Phoenix as my "college" hometown. I just

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1073060612795627852004-01-02T08:23:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.823-07:00

We’re not like the normal RV travelers who surround us in the parks and campgrounds we travel through. What’s been very surprising is the diversity of folks who live – if even for a little while – in big rolling tin cans. Not surprisingly, retirees make up a good portion of the mix. As we moved south, we found more and more travelers who were full-timers, people who lived mostly year round in

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1071984340257738172003-12-20T21:25:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.827-07:00

I see "the actor" before my wife does. We're killing twenty minutes in a Mexican restaurant in Venice while waiting for my interview with David St. John. "The actor" is not famous. He's not George Clooney or anything. I mean, if he was, I'd be sitting here typing this minus one wife. (I'd wish them well, you know, I'm not a bad sport.) But anyway, "the actor" is a TV guy. You'd know him. He

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1071982640176312792003-12-20T20:57:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.833-07:00

Dogs love me. Dogs see me coming and think, "Chewy Treat. Big Shiny Head Like a Ball. Slow of Foot. Easy to Lick." Carol's three dogs all go for me like I was covered in Gravy Train, even poor, dear Fletcher hobbled by a recent ligament repair to a back paw. I've been missing our poor old boy, Tucker Satellite, so I give all the dogs a little love before Carol and I settle in to big soft

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1071726117331812872003-12-17T21:41:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.837-07:00

Donald Revell and I stand under a brilliant blue sky laced with Las Vegas's ever-present jet contrails. We're in the backyard of the house that Revell shares with his wife, the poet Claudia Keelan, and their son, Ben. We're south and west of Vegas near a tiny settlement called Blue Diamond. Like most people who live here, Revell lives nowhere near The Strip, where the casinos pulse with

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1071527116685969822003-12-15T14:25:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.842-07:00

I must admit to being a bit of a conspiracy theorist. (Nut, I guess, is what most people would substitute.) It's really not a good idea to get me started on the faked moon landings or the real killers of JFK. But I'm pretty reasonable about Area 51, the main jewel of the Nevada Test Site (NTS), a large and remote area 100 miles north and east of Las Vegas. Since the 1950s, the NTS has been used

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1071286000700836232003-12-12T19:26:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.846-07:00

Sharon Bryan's cat (the beautifully hirsute and husky Spencer) has an amazing trick. 30 minutes into the interview, I spotted Spencer in the middle of the living room, rising back on his haunches, reaching his front paws upward, stretching, a vertical and supplicant offering of some kind to the God of cats. He pedaled his front paws a couple of times and then settled back down. Sharon was in

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1071102107673884802003-12-10T16:21:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.850-07:00

After weeks in tranquil mountains and deserts, the arrival in Los Angeles is a little jarring. The whole "freeway nation" thing is not so hard to get used to. It's eleven lanes going every direction. Big deal. My wife has the lead foot. We have the handheld GPS unit. ("In 1.67 miles, honey, jam on the brakes and skitter across nine lanes to hit that exit. It's either Disneyland or ... you know

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-107067171088002682003-12-05T16:48:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.858-07:00

This project started in part because I believe that where we live and work has a tremendous effect on the way we live, the way we work, and the way we write. I was born and grew up in small towns all across Canada, but in my adulthood, I have lived in cities all across the U.S. - Phoenix, Dallas, D.C., Miami, etc. I romanticized this trip out of all proportion for several months before starting

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1070337146623364582003-12-01T19:52:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.863-07:00

Coming out of the Redwoods of northern California, we began to think of big stretches of highway. We're due in San Diego in a week, and we'd been poking around the gigantic red trunks long enough. (But, it must be said, the Redwoods are everything you'd imagine, gigantic beautiful trees that tower above the twisting Redwood Highway. But the size of the trunks is a little daunting. Some of the

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1070169998667236302003-11-29T21:26:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.868-07:00

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1069963024402887582003-11-27T11:57:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.872-07:00

Thanksgiving came one day early for us as the good folks in McMinnville called Wednesay afternoon to tell us that Winnie Cooper was good as new. In the pitch darkness, just before closing time, we hurtled into Valley RV to reclaim the newly repaired 29' rolling tin can that has been our home for the past two months - I mean, when I wasn't beating the hell out of it or running it into the

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1069378561777491102003-11-20T17:36:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.877-07:00

While Winnie Cooper waits in a heated bay at a large RV shop in McMinnville, Oregon, I take our rental car south to Amity, Oregon, to see Floyd Skloot. Floyd and his wife live in a pretty round home on 20 acres, due east of Amity, a tiny burg with one gas station and one feed store. I twist and turn up a hilly road through farm and ranchland (and vineyards), and turn down Skloot's driveway.

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1069076177346407642003-11-16T17:36:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.927-07:00

The crunch was pretty loud. Oh, I didn’t know what it was, but I knew something pretty bad had happened. It was a crunch that sounded thick and noisy. I looked at my wife and asked her if she had any ideas. I thought maybe a small deck chair we hadn’t stowed properly. Maybe a small badger. Maybe fifty tin cans. We had just finished packing Winnie Cooper full after a lovely week on the Oregon

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1068909999337566852003-11-15T07:26:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.940-07:00

If you're ever blind and lost on the tiny winding highways of central Oregon, watch for an unlikely town called Philomath, and an unlikely restaurant called Wing Sing. Wing Sing has both kinds of food, Chinese and American, and both kinds of music on the jukebox, Country and Western. My wife and I were exploring off the coast during our delightful stay in Waldport, and got mad lost on

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1068425113075659532003-11-09T16:45:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.946-07:00

There's a soda company I've stumbled across out here called Jones Soda. At a tiny groceteria somewhere in central Oregon, we bought four bottles, two of "M.F. Grape Soda," and two of "Fufu Raspberry." They're in glass bottles. They're fizzy and delicious, and full of bubbly satisfaction. (I get too much pleasure from stuff like this, I know.) The company has recently expanded into the hot hot

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1068423696181528252003-11-09T16:21:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.951-07:00

Barbara Drake lives amidst the rolling foothills of far western Oregon, surrounded by vineyards and nut farms...no, really...nut farms: hazlenuts, walnuts, chestnuts. Her pretty - and self-described "funky" - farm is crowded with sheep, chicken, one big rooster, and Guy, a large and happy Border Collie. She and I walk through the farmhouse and I am buffeted by the smell of scones and hot

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1068183742993893482003-11-06T21:42:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.955-07:00

Mark Halperin is a delightful guy who greets me in his snowy front yard. He and Dasha, his sweet half-Husky, half Malamute - who understands commands in English, Russian, and "dog" - escort me to the warmest room in the long and lovely house, Mark's study. Dasha makes herself scarce and Mark and I talk on a sunny but chilly morning. We talk about the standard items from this project, but also

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1067986793407939722003-11-04T14:59:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.959-07:00

It's election day in Sultan, Washington, and one of the candidates, a tall and gaunt man with a long beard, is standing in the back of his pickup truck at a local gas station, hollering at passers by. He's running for city council. He has my vote, just for the beard and the courage of his convictions - whatever they may be. We get some gas at the station and I listen in a bit. He's talking

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1067913775983409712003-11-03T18:42:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.962-07:00

We leave Everett, WA, at 6 am in a rented Ford Focus. We're headed for the first of two ferry rides that will take us to Port Townsend where I'm scheduled to meet with Sam Hamill, a terrific poet, translator, and editor of Copper Canyon Press. (Winnie Cooper is hooked up in a nice but crowded RV park, warding off - we hope - all time low temperatures for the area.) The ferry rides are

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1067225331771449012003-10-26T19:28:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.967-07:00

Christopher Howell is a quiet man with a studied nature, and my visit to his lovely home in Spokane is pleasant and much too short. We walk through his kitchen and into his office that looks over his back yard. The room is small, but well lit and we sit across a heavy wooden desk to talk while drinking coffee. As I do in all of these interviews, I start with the principal question: "Does

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1067227774848670162003-10-26T13:28:00.000-08:002010-10-21T21:21:47.971-07:00

Nance van Winckel lives outside of Spokane, Washington, in an airy and beautifully apointed 2nd floor condo that looks over Liberty Lake, a small, but gorgeous body of water surrounded by trees. She shows me her writing studio first. The large high-ceiling room faces the lake, and is lit by a floor to ceiling window nearly 5 feet across. She tells me she has plans to add another window in the

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1067140151340783492003-10-25T20:49:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:47.975-07:00

It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than it is for a 29' motorhome to go up a dirt road near the Idaho border. Yet, this is what we did today. The accomplishment of that was so thrilling - the dust, the bumps, trees and branches slashing at us - that when we got to the home of the poet Robert Wrigley, I locked the keys in the big tin can for fun. Oh, how we will laugh, I

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1066975454907897472003-10-23T23:04:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:47.979-07:00

Highway 12 runs between Lolo, MT, in the westernmost part of the state, straight through the panhandle of Idaho, and into eastern Washington State. And we take that route today, leaving Montana around noon, and crossing the Snake River into Washington around 5. It's 200 miles, roughly, and the first 150 or so are the most beautiful miles I've ever driven. Highway 12 follows the Lochsa River, a

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1066973281589549592003-10-23T22:28:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:47.984-07:00

At 10 am, Sandra Alcosser pulls up beside our motorhome. We've parked at a small park and ride on a highway south of Missoula, MT, and about 5 miles from Sandra's home in the mountains between Florence and Lolo, Montana. She greets us both warmly and we pack our stuff into her wagon. We head up a gravel road, then a dirt road, and then squeeze halfway between the trees and the ditch to let a

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1066964027262487242003-10-23T19:53:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:47.990-07:00

I’ve often told people in the East that I thought of myself as a Westerner. I love the West, I’d say. I’d tell them about going to college in Arizona, my love of the Oregon coast, and some story about smoking a cigar on a car hood in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. I never had to say much more than that. That was always strange enough for most people. In the circles I’ve lived in for many years now, the

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1066691212339637362003-10-20T16:06:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:47.995-07:00

Downtown Buffalo is dotted with galleries and coffee shops. It’s a cute little town within sight of the Bighorn Mountains to the west, and just past an endlessly beautiful 400 mile stretch of badlands and high prairie grasses. At the post office, two men in identical outfits, cowboy boots, jeans, starched white shirts and baseball caps finger through their mail and talk about a guy they know

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1066492504948085442003-10-18T08:55:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.002-07:00

- If you don't start acting like a big boy, we're going RIGHT back to the motel. - Not THAT button. Push the OTHER button. That's the WRONG button. - Sit with grandma here in the shade. Grandma doesn't want to go any closer. - That's not the zoom, THIS is the zoom. - Zachary, Zachary, Zachary, are you listening to me? - I think old Dubya would look pretty good up there next to Washington. - You

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-106634605615301652003-10-16T16:14:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.009-07:00

All in all, the life in the big tin can is quite sweet. Check with me on different days about this, though, because I am sometimes a little dark, dark like the Grinch, dark like Monty Clift. We have a 26" TV with DVD and VCR, and an auto satellite dish that pivots and twirls till it locks on a giant floating TV machine that floats - always - above the Texas gulf coast. We have hundreds of

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1066347233831100912003-10-15T20:14:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.013-07:00

God bless Wal-Mart. When we are low on supplies, and unable to park the giant beast in any of the now impossibly tiny town squares of the Midwest, a familiar sign up ahead tells us that all is safe. As we arrive in Brookings, South Dakota, we turn the Winnebago on a dime and extravagantly take up two nose-to-nose spaces in the far reaches of a gigantic parking lot. We stroll inside, buy some new

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1066238912158545742003-10-15T10:28:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.016-07:00

In the southwest corner of Iowa, we pull in to my brother-in-law's house south of a town called Red Oak. He's taught there for almost 25 years, and he's my wife's only brother. He's a funny and brilliant guy who knows enough about history and baseball to keep you talking all night. My wife's family is from Iowa, and she was born just about 20 miles from here. One of our stops this weekend is to

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1065842334166305962003-10-10T20:18:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.020-07:00

Holden is a sweet, wryly funny man who is quick with a hearty laugh. We sit in a spacious and beautiful living room in his home in Manhattan, and talk easily about all manner of things, my favorite being a story about some girls heckling him when he was young for being too skinny. He turns to me and says, "Skinny Man, Skinny Man," bringing back the memory with real pleasure and maybe the

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1065749298668600492003-10-09T18:28:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.024-07:00

The sun is going down in Manhattan when I arrive at Elizabeth Dodd's home near the campus of Kansas State. The sun peeks through a stand of trees and we sit on a screened in porch in her back yard. Cars go by, but the town seems awfully distant. As with all of these interviews, it's remarkable to talk to her about her work. Like many academics, Dodd is where she is partly because of a job.

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1065749680082337332003-10-09T15:33:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.027-07:00

The giant 29 foot Winnebago began rolling northward today. For those following along at home, we moved the Beltsville furniture to the new vacation home in Arkansas. The stuff didn't fit, of course, so boxes line every room, boxes of such variety and combinations that the house looks like it might be a sort of training center for young men who dream of being movers one day. The garage is full.

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1064845319667901592003-09-29T07:21:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.030-07:00

The furniture is in a gigantic Allied moving van somewhere in Pennsylvania. We are still in Maryland, waiting to sign away the deed on the big house. We have matching colds that we caught from an overworking air conditioner that seemed to pour as much water into the room as it did air. So, we're miserable. I'm famously lazy, so we hired two crews to help with moving, one to pack and one to load

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1063734205797455352003-09-16T10:43:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.037-07:00

I've returned safely from the two week tour through the Midwest. What a terrific time, and what terrific hospitality I was treated to at every turn. My mighty thanks to all the poets. We are now just packing up the house and relocating our stuff to a small vacation home we've purchased in NW Arkansas. We expect to have the big RV on the road in early to mid October. We'll be hitting the plains

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1063659986128869272003-09-15T14:06:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.044-07:00

After 4000 miles in 14 days, I find myself headed home, half lost on the freeways around Pittsburgh at 11:30 at night. Construction has thrown up fifty orange detour signs and I'm blinking and seeing about a third of them. Finally, I'm on the PA Turnpike, headed east out of Pittsburgh. The city skyline is beautiful, and I'm still sort of seeing the lights in my head as I drive. About five miles

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1063654147228133022003-09-15T12:29:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.047-07:00

Writers work everywhere. Poets can scribble on notebooks in planes and in hotel rooms. Some use every part of their homes, the study, the bedroom, even porches. But Richard Tillinghast is the winner of the porch sweepstakes. While rain threatens from the southern skies, Richard and I sit on either end of a large, bulky sofa. Richard is surrounded by books, notepads, and a set of homemade flash

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1063651534398642122003-09-15T11:45:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.051-07:00

Ann Arbor on a Sunday morning is the perfect college town. The Wolverines have stomped Notre Dame the previous afternoon, and the endless outdoor bistros and cafes on Main Street are full of parents and children drinking in the sunshine and the espresso. I see a guy set up on the lawn of an Exxon station selling reproductions of Van Gogh, Cezanne, and Monet. He also has one of the "Dogs Playing

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1063503445468470922003-09-13T18:37:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.055-07:00

It’s 7 pm or so after I check into the Hampton Inn in Battle Creek, Michigan. When I drove in earlier, I was knocked out to see about 30 vintage cars in the parking lot, Fords, Chryslers, all primo condition, detailed, etc. A big sign in the lobby advertises this weekend as the National Street Rod convention. After getting settled, I decide to run out and make some very bad food choices at the

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1063493783727049792003-09-13T15:56:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.058-07:00

Orlando's beautiful wife Ibis is 8 months, 3 weeks pregnant when I arrive in South Bend. This has been on my mind for the days that have led up to this part of the trip. I'm very grateful for the chance to meet and interview Orlando, but do not want my hurried and cacophonic visit to initiate childbirth during the interview. Should my beaming bald head and affable presence start proceedings

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1063418809628733382003-09-12T18:42:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.063-07:00

I may have found my home here in Wisconsin. As I travel I-90 and I-94, cheese and meat shops appear on the horizon every now and again. Everything is called a Haus. Cheese Haus. Sausage Haus. When I see two on the same exit, I pull over faster than you can say "who has a big belly?" The Cheese Haus looks full, but there's a place called Humbird right next to it, and it has a giant painted sign

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1063317924087366802003-09-11T15:05:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.068-07:00

It's an odd thing, this interview game. I am walking into people's home and offices with a giant bag of equipment - that could just as easily contain rope, a mallet, and pepper spray - and I am being welcomed like a member of the family. (Maybe a distant cousin, but you get my drift.) After about ten of these, I've gotten quite comfortable with the process. In the early ones, I'd arrive hours

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1063237882979417102003-09-10T16:51:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.074-07:00

My friends who live in big cities have little understanding of the great middle of this country. This is not the greatest failing in the world, perhaps, but it's a failing nonetheless. There are terrific and fascinating places and people on every square inch of the map, and I can't think of a place that hasn't educated or entertained me in some way. Sure, for some lives, New York is the place to

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1063065646076424082003-09-08T17:00:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.079-07:00

Having taught for the past three years at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, I've forgotten the sort of shock one gets when a giant university suddenly appears in a big town or small city. I was casually meandering down a deserted Campus Blvd., arm out the window, sucking on a Pepsi, munching on a Rice Krispie treat (product placement opportunities), when I turned into campus and had my Nissan

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1063063654027173572003-09-08T16:27:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.084-07:00

I heard the news this morning that songwriter Warren Zevon died last night. Zevon - most well known for "Werewolves of London," a 1978 song that paid him well, but took its toll artistically for the rest of his career - was diagnosed last year with a rare and inoperable form of lung cancer. He was an anomaly, a literate rocker, a longtime favorite of critics and other artists - even "real"

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1063055369595529722003-09-08T14:09:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.088-07:00

Were we to begin work on the American poetry version of Mount Rushmore, I’d like to volunteer to start work on the chunk that would become the face of Miller Williams. It’s a miraculous face, one that is wise and welcoming, genteel and grizzled, open, inquisitive, and always alive. (And, we share that rare biological gift of a brilliant, beautiful, and smooth cranial dome. I'd think this would

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1062901804100306232003-09-06T19:30:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.092-07:00

Ten miles outside of St. Louis, on I-44, the four lanes of traffic stop suddenly. For the first few minutes, cars jostle lane to lane, trying to make a guess which ones are clogged, which ones are free. This happens all the time in cities. Nobody blinks. After five minutes, nobody is jostling. Nobody is moving. A few people hit the far right shoulder and ease up the road, angling for an exit.

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1062901180664922592003-09-06T19:19:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.097-07:00

St. Louis is a city in all respects of the word. Big time sports - the baseball stadium rises up suddenly right in the middle of the central business district - industry, commerce, tourism. The gleaming silver arch is visible for miles as you arrive. Billboards outside of town advertise - in nearly equal numbers - casinos and churches. Parts of the city, west of the big river, reveal a diverse

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1062897312939298692003-09-06T18:15:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.105-07:00

In Mt. Vernon, IL, I make an early stop to do some work. I've got transcribing and laundry to do, two jobs that are exactly as sexy as they sound. The transcribing goes slow. I let it my slim, silver recorder run a few seconds, get a sentence or two, hit pause, start typing. By the time I'm typing I've only remembered the gist of the thing. I rewind, listen again, fix what I fouled, and then the

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1062703972920407662003-09-04T12:32:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.111-07:00

Jim Cummins, in addition to teaching poetry and lit at the University of Cincinnati, is the curator of the Elliston Poetry Collection, housed in a quiet spot on the 6th floor of UC's main library. The room is set up for readings, so we have a ton of chairs to choose from. He seems glad to hear how the trip has gone so far, so I take a little longer getting set up. Once the recorder is on, though

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1062622622551964822003-09-03T13:57:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.117-07:00

Today's an off day, so I'm steering the red SUV through endless Ohio towns. Roads are closed in a flurry here right now. The last months of heavy summer construction have got me detouring through towns I've never seen before, and I'm turning around in many nice driveways when I miss those "No Outlet" signs. After my third detour in three towns, I get a hankering for some ice cream. Not a big

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1062585750311962882003-09-03T03:42:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.122-07:00

It may be that the towns of northern Ohio are about the prettiest I've ever seen. Each little town is full of endless green lawns and 1880 houses bright white with crisp green or black roofs. Nobody is scurrying; there's no traffic to speak of. Even the town bank is an architectural beauty. In Norwalk, OH, I get myself caught in the wrong lane for a moment while I try to negotiate my way to a

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1062524111944358222003-09-02T10:35:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.126-07:00

When you book motel rooms over the Internet, it's never entirely without some hidden value. After leaving WV on the afternoon of Sept 1st, I journeyed another 200 miles to my next city, Columbus OH, where I will meet with David Citino. With a whole evening stretched in front of me to recuperate from the initial blast of the trip, I pulled into my Super 8, a motel notable for having both a Waffle

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1062448476749130652003-09-01T13:34:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.147-07:00

I leave Beltsville around 5:30 am, making my way west through the early and sluggish dewy morning. Out of the Maryland panhandle, into West Virginia, out again, then in Pennsylvania for 6 minutes, then into West Virginia again. By 7 the sun is behind me, diffuse, but lighting my way. By 9:30 I'm in Morgantown, too early for my interview. I hit Wal-Mart and buy a cheapo watch - always buy

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1061987550269030172003-08-27T05:32:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.155-07:00

The 2 week trip from Maryland to Minnesota and back is set. The following poets are on the schedule: Jim Harms, Morgantown, WV David Citino, Columbus, OH Martha Collins, Oberlin, OH Jim Cummins, Cincinnati, OH Carl Phillips, St. Louis, MO Miller Williams, Fayeteville, AR Scott Cairns, Columbia MO Marvin Bell, Iowa City, IA Michael Dennis Browne, Minneapolis, MN Lisa Samuels,

Terry P.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5677396.post-1061820629343385472003-08-25T07:10:00.000-07:002010-10-21T21:21:48.159-07:00

Here are the instructions I'm sending folks who I will interview on this first, pre-RV trip through the Midwest: I’m juggling 12 visits on this first, pre-RV trip, so I’ve done my best to meet the scheduling requests of all of you who have been so gracious to allow me this opportunity. Let me run through some information about my visit and my plan to allow you as much lead time as necessary to

Terry P.noreply@blogger.com