Long Time Gone
There are scores of people who are infinitely more qualified than I am to write an article about Ruthanna Jacobs. I never had the opportunity to meet her or to to hear the way she spoke or to see how she greeted people on the street or any of those singular moments that, when assembled together, paint a portrait of a person in the mind of another.
There is no telling how a man named Percy R. Devereaux ended up on the High Plains of Colorado in the small town of Eads, which had only been actually an official town for 20 years when Percy arrived in the year 1909.
As more and more of the veterans of World War II fade into history, it becomes increasingly important to be cognizant of, and grateful for, the extraordinary things these soldiers accomplished in battling—and being victorious over—forces led by perhaps one of the most evil men to have walked this planet in modern history.
Last Friday, a member of our community passed away at the age of 95. When viewed from a distance, the loss of someone so elderly should not come as a surprise.
In the midst of elections—both those that have just passed and those looming on the horizon—and investigations and legislation and political partisanship that has us at each other’s throats, there are, nonetheless, times and events that call upon us to just stop and look and think and reflect on what’s happening around us. These events remind us that we, no matter where we are, are not the center of all that matters just as we, no matter our age, are not the only generation that has ever lived.
For many years, scientists have been intrigued by the role the five senses play in the life of human beings. There were often long standing debates (of course there were, we’re talking about scientists) regarding which sense—sight, taste, touch, hearing or smell—had the greatest impact on the human experience.
LONG TIME GONE: 33 Hours Frozen in Time
It was early on a Thursday morning in late March. When the sun rose at 5:45, the temperature was already on the rise, ultimately reaching close to 60 degrees before it was even 9:00am.
Sometimes, on the High Plains of Eastern Colorado, it’s easy to forget that the first day of spring falls in the month of March. Anyone familiar with the region understands why this is so.
Leonard Sniff was one of the first friends I made when I moved to Eads. I’d initially met him a few different times in a few different places and could tell from the start he had “the gift of gab”, as they say.
With all of the advances that have become just an accepted part of modern day life, all of the different accomplishments that have caused various members of our species to beat their chests and proclaim their greatness, it has become easier than ever before to delude ourselves into thinking that we have solved many of the great mysteries of life and few real head scratchers remain.
For those of us who are novices, searching through the common, every day records of history is, in many ways, similar to taking a journey half blind-folded. You have an idea, vague though it may be, of where you’re starting and an even more vague idea of where you want to end up, but the distance between the two is often rambling and haphazard and largely based on luck.
Located north of town, the cemetery at Sheridan Lake sits on the crest of the gentlest of slopes. The elevation is no more than perhaps a hundred feet higher than the land that surrounds it, yet it is still graced with just enough rise to give all who stop and look an unobstructed view of the miles and miles of wide open plains that stretch all the way to the far distant horizon.
Recently, one of the readers of the Independent suggested a story he thought other readers might enjoy. It took place in 1872 and involved a group of individuals whose names are so well-known that the story itself sounds like something more likely to be found in a dime store novel than a history book of the time.
Somewhere, I learned that Eskimos have 24 different words for snow, each one reflecting some slight but key difference that is probably imperceptible to everyone except for those who inhabit the land where the white frozen stuff falls by feet at a time.