Canyon Country Zephyr page 3

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oner for three months, I was very upset."

The bubble popped. "OK Armando. You've gone too far. I've believed you up to now. I've actually believed every word you've said...Why, I don't know. But Amazonian women? Come on!"

"You don't believe me?" Armando looked wounded. "OK," he said, shaking his head. "I will have to show you."

He unbuttoned his shirt cuff and rolled up his sleeve. On his arm, starting near his shoulder and extending all the way to his wrists, I noticed the strangest scar I have ever seen. It spiraled all the way down his arm, wrapping it completely every couple of inches or so as it descended toward his hand.

"Do you see the scar?" he asked. "Do you see it?"

Once again, all I could do was nod.

Last week, I was sad to hear that an old friend and long-time Zephyr supporter has died.

I met Chuck Miller, from Huntley, Illinois, more than 20 years ago. He was passing through Moab, picked up a copy of the Zephyr and found me at Ma-rooney's Mexican cantina. Chuck had been coming to southeast Utah since the 1950s and was sure the surly ranger he once encountered at Arches in 1956 was Edward Abbey himself.

Over the years, Chuck offered me his unqualified friendship. His letters and emails always arrived when I needed them most. Once in a while, I'd get a package from him—an old geology book, maps of the Southwest. And always a kind word.

son will never tolerate it. You're already on shaky ground with Lyle over your outrageous ties. Aren't you pushing the limit?"

Bill laughed. "Lyle understands me. I think secretly he wants to wear checkered socks too."

Bill beamed proudly,

"These are my Indianapolis 500

checkered flag socks.

I'm quite proud of them."

"My god, they're awful Bill,"

I complained.

"They're almost as scary

as your orange jalapeno socks."

"All German spies had a small tattoo under their arm pit with a swastika and a serial number. Before I threw them in the Amazon, I got out my knife and I--"

"Well maybe," I said, "but this is San Juan County. These people are conservatives and represent the moral backbone of the country...This kind of deviant behavior could cause trouble!"

"Well," Flocko said, rising from his chair, "I'll just have to take my chances."

Bill headed out the door and as he passed, the smell of his aftershave lingered. It was Karl Lagerfeld.

Willie Flocko and his high priced colognes, I smiled to myself. I watched him climb into his Audi Quatro and drive away. I never saw him again.

Chuck Miller

"That is from the leather restraints the Amazonian women put on me., .for three months, they never took it off."

Just then, Phillip poked his brother in the ribs and said, "It's time to go, Armando. Let's go."

Armando shook my hand. "It has been a pleasure talking to you. We should get together again some time."

"I'd like that," I replied.

He took off his ball cap one more time to wipe the sweat from his brow. When he did, I noticed two deep scars on the top of his head, above where his hair line used to be.

"As long as you're describing your scars to me, Armando... where did you get those two scars on the top of your head?"

Armando stroked them gently with his hand, as if it was helping to recall yet another adventure. "Oh yes...I remember these scars. They are from an operation. The doctors said they had to do it because I was too horny."

"WHAT?" I cried.

"Goodbye, my friend," he grinned and headed for the car.

"Wait a minute," I yelled. "Was any of that the truth?"

"Believe me when I tell you...It was all the truth."

Later I became the executor of his estate and I spent much of the next year sifting through and eventually distributing Bill's personal effects. I started wearing some of his colorful socks and the orange jala-penos became my favorites. But I couldn't find the checkered socks. I became obsessed with them and I searched everywhere but I could not find a trace. How could they have vanished?

But recently, years later, I was rummaging through my own sock drawer. Way at the back , buried under my holey reserve socks, I spotted something fuzzy and strange. I'd seen these furry little beasts before but had never examined them closely. I remembered that they had been Bill's and I could never understand why a man with such impeccable taste in footwear would wear such a garment.

I held the socks in my hand and examined them again carefully. And then..and then it was almost as if I could hear my old pal talking into my ear. The words came slowly. He said...

Chuck was worried about The Zephyr and me when I gave up the print version. But though he wasn't wild about us going online, his support never wavered. He was a proud backbone member for years. In the last print edition I published a couple of his black & white images from Arches and the good old days.

When word came to me via his son that Chuck was gone, the loss was tempered by the knowledge that he'd left on his terms, happy and engaged to the end. As WC Fields once said, "The ranks are thinning."

End of an era.

This summer, I finally learned how to use a slide scanner that I bought a couple years ago. My first scans were of old color transparencies by Bill Benge. Many of you know that Bill lived in Moab for more than 30 years, served as Grand County's attorney for almost that long, was the author of the Zephyr's 'Willie Flocko's Country Kitchen,' and was my best friend.

"They're turned inside-out, you bonehead. THOSE are my checkered socks."

"Well, I'll be damned," I said out loud. After almost four years, Bill's checkered socks had returned to life. And in a way, so had Bill.

I think about Willie Flocko every day. I miss his sarcastic wit and our lively conversations. I miss his quiet support in hard times. I even miss that damn seersucker suit. But at least I don't have to miss his checkered socks anymore.

Armando turned the key, the engine started, he put the car in gear, and roared onto Main Street, throwing gravel and a cloud of dust as he and Phillip made their grand exit.

Pat and Sue and I watched the car shrink in the distance. "What do you think, Pat? Was all that the honest-to-god truth?"

"Jim," she said wisely, patting me on the shoulder, "never question the OSS."

I decided she was right.

Bill Benge, working for Tex in 1973.

Inside out... and vice versa.

Bill passed away suddenly on Friday, October 20, 2006. While his health had been troubling him for years, he had never been as happy as he was that past summer. Bill was in an especially expansive mood when he came by my house in Monticello on the previous Tuesday morning. He was in town for a court hearing and was dressed to the nines (if you knew Bill, you knew his taste in men's fashion knew no limits. His tie collection alone, if placed end to end, might reach France. No comment on his seersucker suit).

On this day, he arrived in pin-striped navy-blue; a neon tie adorned his neck. All of that I could handle. But when he sat down to chat, he exposed a pair of white and black checkered socks that I thought crossed the line.

"What the hell are those?" I asked.

Bill beamed proudly, "These are my Indianapolis 500 checkered flag socks. I'm quite proud of them."

"My god, they're awful Bill," I complained. "They're almost as scary as your orange jalapeno socks."

"There's nothing scary about these socks," he replied indignantly.

"And you're wearing them to court? Judge Ander-

OLD FRIENDS...and checkered socks

Autumn is upon us, though a quick glance at my thermometer makes me doubt the date. Still there are telltale signs apart from the temperature that suggest summer's gone. The sun rises at 5:57 AM on summer solstice day, now it's cresting the eastern horizon more than an hour later. And of course, the light itself seems softer. That golden light.

It's a time to reflect and to confront the relentless passing of time. And to remember past times and lost friends.

A NOTE ABOUT A MISSING STORY...

This issue was to include a story called, "The Brilliance, Banality and Brutality oifacebook." It's a confusing place to be these days. I've found old friends and made new ones on FB and I think the Zephyr page is helping us find new readers.

But facebook can also be banal, tedious, embarrassing and sometimes cruel. Specifically and very recently, I came under personal attack from two people I barely know (one of them I've never met). They fabricated some remarkable lies and posted them on facebook pages read by thousands. I had no idea what to do and still don't, though many others have intervened on my behalf, for which I am very grateful.

But, you know, it's Autumn, my life otherwise is perfect these days, and I think I'll deal with these idiots some other time.

Enjoy the fall colors.

Chuck Miller at Balanced Rock in Arches NM. About 1956.

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	oner for three months, I was very upset." The bubble popped. "OK Armando. You've gone too far. I've believed you up to now. I've actually believed every word you've said...Why, I don't know. But Amazonian women? Come on!" "You don't believe me?" Armando looked wounded. "OK," he said, shaking his head. "I will have to show you." He unbuttoned his shirt cuff and rolled up his sleeve. On his arm, starting near his shoulder and extending all the way to his wrists, I noticed the strangest scar I have ever seen. It spiraled all the way down his arm, wrapping it completely every couple of inches or so as it descended toward his hand. "Do you see the scar?" he asked. "Do you see it?" Once again, all I could do was nod. Last week, I was sad to hear that an old friend and long-time Zephyr supporter has died. I met Chuck Miller, from Huntley, Illinois, more than 20 years ago. He was passing through Moab, picked up a copy of the Zephyr and found me at Ma-rooney's Mexican cantina. Chuck had been coming to southeast Utah since the 1950s and was sure the surly ranger he once encountered at Arches in 1956 was Edward Abbey himself. Over the years, Chuck offered me his unqualified friendship. His letters and emails always arrived when I needed them most. Once in a while, I'd get a package from him—an old geology book, maps of the Southwest. And always a kind word. son will never tolerate it. You're already on shaky ground with Lyle over your outrageous ties. Aren't you pushing the limit?" Bill laughed. "Lyle understands me. I think secretly he wants to wear checkered socks too." Bill beamed proudly, "These are my Indianapolis 500 checkered flag socks. I'm quite proud of them." "My god, they're awful Bill," I complained. "They're almost as scary as your orange jalapeno socks." "All German spies had a small tattoo under their arm pit with a swastika and a serial number. Before I threw them in the Amazon, I got out my knife and I--" "Well maybe," I said, "but this is San Juan County. These people are conservatives and represent the moral backbone of the country...This kind of deviant behavior could cause trouble!" "Well," Flocko said, rising from his chair, "I'll just have to take my chances." Bill headed out the door and as he passed, the smell of his aftershave lingered. It was Karl Lagerfeld. Willie Flocko and his high priced colognes, I smiled to myself. I watched him climb into his Audi Quatro and drive away. I never saw him again. Chuck Miller "That is from the leather restraints the Amazonian women put on me., .for three months, they never took it off." Just then, Phillip poked his brother in the ribs and said, "It's time to go, Armando. Let's go." Armando shook my hand. "It has been a pleasure talking to you. We should get together again some time." "I'd like that," I replied. He took off his ball cap one more time to wipe the sweat from his brow. When he did, I noticed two deep scars on the top of his head, above where his hair line used to be. "As long as you're describing your scars to me, Armando... where did you get those two scars on the top of your head?" Armando stroked them gently with his hand, as if it was helping to recall yet another adventure. "Oh yes...I remember these scars. They are from an operation. The doctors said they had to do it because I was too horny." "WHAT?" I cried. "Goodbye, my friend," he grinned and headed for the car. "Wait a minute," I yelled. "Was any of that the truth?" "Believe me when I tell you...It was all the truth." Later I became the executor of his estate and I spent much of the next year sifting through and eventually distributing Bill's personal effects. I started wearing some of his colorful socks and the orange jala-penos became my favorites. But I couldn't find the checkered socks. I became obsessed with them and I searched everywhere but I could not find a trace. How could they have vanished? But recently, years later, I was rummaging through my own sock drawer. Way at the back , buried under my holey reserve socks, I spotted something fuzzy and strange. I'd seen these furry little beasts before but had never examined them closely. I remembered that they had been Bill's and I could never understand why a man with such impeccable taste in footwear would wear such a garment. I held the socks in my hand and examined them again carefully. And then..and then it was almost as if I could hear my old pal talking into my ear. The words came slowly. He said... Chuck was worried about The Zephyr and me when I gave up the print version. But though he wasn't wild about us going online, his support never wavered. He was a proud backbone member for years. In the last print edition I published a couple of his black & white images from Arches and the good old days. When word came to me via his son that Chuck was gone, the loss was tempered by the knowledge that he'd left on his terms, happy and engaged to the end. As WC Fields once said, "The ranks are thinning." End of an era. This summer, I finally learned how to use a slide scanner that I bought a couple years ago. My first scans were of old color transparencies by Bill Benge. Many of you know that Bill lived in Moab for more than 30 years, served as Grand County's attorney for almost that long, was the author of the Zephyr's 'Willie Flocko's Country Kitchen,' and was my best friend. "They're turned inside-out, you bonehead. THOSE are my checkered socks." "Well, I'll be damned," I said out loud. After almost four years, Bill's checkered socks had returned to life. And in a way, so had Bill. I think about Willie Flocko every day. I miss his sarcastic wit and our lively conversations. I miss his quiet support in hard times. I even miss that damn seersucker suit. But at least I don't have to miss his checkered socks anymore. Armando turned the key, the engine started, he put the car in gear, and roared onto Main Street, throwing gravel and a cloud of dust as he and Phillip made their grand exit. Pat and Sue and I watched the car shrink in the distance. "What do you think, Pat? Was all that the honest-to-god truth?" "Jim," she said wisely, patting me on the shoulder, "never question the OSS." I decided she was right. Bill Benge, working for Tex in 1973. Inside out... and vice versa. Bill passed away suddenly on Friday, October 20, 2006. While his health had been troubling him for years, he had never been as happy as he was that past summer. Bill was in an especially expansive mood when he came by my house in Monticello on the previous Tuesday morning. He was in town for a court hearing and was dressed to the nines (if you knew Bill, you knew his taste in men's fashion knew no limits. His tie collection alone, if placed end to end, might reach France. No comment on his seersucker suit). On this day, he arrived in pin-striped navy-blue; a neon tie adorned his neck. All of that I could handle. But when he sat down to chat, he exposed a pair of white and black checkered socks that I thought crossed the line. "What the hell are those?" I asked. Bill beamed proudly, "These are my Indianapolis 500 checkered flag socks. I'm quite proud of them." "My god, they're awful Bill," I complained. "They're almost as scary as your orange jalapeno socks." "There's nothing scary about these socks," he replied indignantly. "And you're wearing them to court? Judge Ander- OLD FRIENDS...and checkered socks Autumn is upon us, though a quick glance at my thermometer makes me doubt the date. Still there are telltale signs apart from the temperature that suggest summer's gone. The sun rises at 5:57 AM on summer solstice day, now it's cresting the eastern horizon more than an hour later. And of course, the light itself seems softer. That golden light. It's a time to reflect and to confront the relentless passing of time. And to remember past times and lost friends. A NOTE ABOUT A MISSING STORY... This issue was to include a story called, "The Brilliance, Banality and Brutality oifacebook." It's a confusing place to be these days. I've found old friends and made new ones on FB and I think the Zephyr page is helping us find new readers. But facebook can also be banal, tedious, embarrassing and sometimes cruel. Specifically and very recently, I came under personal attack from two people I barely know (one of them I've never met). They fabricated some remarkable lies and posted them on facebook pages read by thousands. I had no idea what to do and still don't, though many others have intervened on my behalf, for which I am very grateful. But, you know, it's Autumn, my life otherwise is perfect these days, and I think I'll deal with these idiots some other time. Enjoy the fall colors. Chuck Miller at Balanced Rock in Arches NM. About 1956.

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