Beer in the Making

The Belgian's love their flavorful beers. Here's an advertising beer wagon that I saw in Belgium in 2017.

Beer in the Making

documentary

by Gregory E. Larson

          I have great memories of tasting Dutch and Belgian beers in northern Europe, where beer is much more popular than wine. Touring beer factories has also been high on my list of places to go. When I overheard two of my cycling friends discussing the home-brewing of beer, I became intrigued. We were near the end of a ride, and had stopped with friends at an outdoor pizza and beer café.

          “We ought to make a batch of Winter Belgian Ale,” Kirk said, “That would be fun.”

          Immediately I asked them if I could witness the process to write a blog. I thought maybe I could learn something, as well as enjoy some tasty craft-style beer.

          Kirk asked, “Have you ever brewed any beer?”

          “No, I haven’t, so it would be a new experience for me.”

         “The most important rule is to have fun.”

          Dan chimed in, “The second most important rule is to keep everything clean. You don’t want to contaminate the process. Ugly things might grow and destroy the batch.”

          Kirk added, “We’ll want to do the entire process, including naming the beer and designing the labels.”

          On our next bike ride, we stopped at Martin City Coffee Co. for some coffee and a bite to eat. Five minutes after we finished, we rode our bikes around the corner and stopped at Martin City Brewing Co. As we looked over the beer offerings, we noticed one that was titled, “Abbey Belgian Dubbel.”

          I asked Kirk and Dan what was “double” in the beer and they replied in unison, “It’s double the hops.”

          Kirk ordered it and gave his assessment. “It’s slightly sweet, good hop flavors and not too dry.”

          That’s when I also learned there is an IBS (International Bitter System) rating for each beer at a brewery. My head started to spin – not from drinking a beer but from trying to understand the whole brewing process. It sounded complicated.

          Kirk suggested we meet soon at the Brew Lab in Overland Park and taste different craft brews, then purchase the supplies to make a batch. A few days later we met at the Brew Lab and we each ordered a “flight” of four different beer tastings (4 oz. each) and shared how each tasted.

          “Ales are the easiest to home brew,” Kirk said, “I brought this Belgian Dark Ale recipe from my brew notebook. We could do a variation on it.” Dan agreed.

          Next, we gathered the items for the brew recipe. I followed Dan (the expert) around as he selected two different barley grains (one of them was roasted barley) and two types of Amber Malt Extract (carmelized), two types of hops (Willamette and Cascade) and some dextrose (sugar). Last, but not least, we started looking at the yeasts. One of them was Belgian Abbey Yeast. It wasn’t the yeast listed on the recipe, but we agreed that since we found the Abbey Belgian Dubbel in Martin City, this might get us close to the elusive “perfect” batch that every brewer seeks.

          Kirk said, “Next week we’ll spend a couple of hours mixing the batch, then we’ll let it set and ferment about a week and we’ll transfer it to a carboy (giant glass container). If you don’t allow enough time for fermenting, it may continue to ferment too much in the bottle.”

          “That’s not a good thing,” said Dan. “Exploding bottles.”

          The following week, at Bell Street Brewing (Kirk’s house in the kitchen) we mixed the batch. Kirk and Dan had been through the process umpteen times (56 batches, to be exact), so everything was planned to the smallest detail. Kirk lowered the barley bag into 160°F water.  Once the barley flavor transferred into the water, he pulled the bag and we added the two containers of malt extract. Then the three of us sat around for the next hour and drank beer while the malt extract boiled. The most difficult job was checking the pot every ten minutes to make sure the malt didn’t stick to the container. The flavoring hops were added and ten minutes before the end of the boil, they added the bittering hops and a small amount of Irish Moss to clarify the liquid. Seemed like hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo to me, but Kirk and Dan said it was important.

          “Now we have to cool the wort (pronounced vert) down from 160°F to 90°F as quickly as possible.”

          We carried the wort down to his work room where he had a water-cooled, spiral-copper, heat-exchanger tube placed in a special five-gallon plastic container. We poured the wort into the container and set it in a large sink, then packed twenty pounds of ice around it. Watching the ice melt and the temperature drop reminded me of making homemade ice cream with my dad. Within ten minutes we hit the 90° mark on the thermometer so we pulled the container out of the sink and vigorously stirred in the Belgian Abbey yeast. Once the foaming ceased, Kirk tested the specific gravity and put the lid on the container. There was a relief valve that fit on top of the lid. As the fermenting process started, the valve would show the bubbles of the fermenting process.

View of the spiral copper heat-exchanger

          We finished our store-bought beers and agreed to get back together to do the bottling process.

          “The specific gravity reading of the liquid has to drop for 1.045 to 1.012,” said Kirk, “That’s when it’s time to bottle the beer.” A week later, he transferred the fermenting wort into the glass carboy. At that point in time, the liquid has become young beer.

          Two weeks later we met again to bottle the beer. Kirk invited some additional cycling friends to watch the finishing process. It turned out to be a bit of a party, with favorite beers, snacks, and shared stories of days past. It seems the older we get the more stories we have to share, and the beer unlocks the door in our mind where the stories flow out.

          But – work was at hand during this fun gathering. Dan added the dextrose and brought it to a boil to add to the fermented wort. While he was working on that, Kirk set me up with inspecting bottles and cleaning them. First, I had to look into each bottle and point it toward the light. If there were any smudges in the bottom, it became a reject. Clean, clean, clean, I kept telling myself.

          Next, I began work at the bottle cleaning station and drying tree. Placing each bottle upside down on a tube, I pushed the bottle down twice to pump the PBW (powdered brewery wash which is a patented alkali cleaner) into the bottle, and then put it on the drying tree.

Glass carboy, bottle cleaning station and drying tree

          It was a warm autumn afternoon and the garage door was open. We all sat around, drank beer and told stories while I continued the bottle cleaning process.

          Kirk readied the beer with the siphon tube and we began to fill the beer into the fifty bottles. As I filled each bottle with the siphon tube, I passed them over to Kirk, who used a bottle capper to set each cap in place. Voila! With the caps on, the fermentation would continue in the bottles for two to three weeks.

* * * *

In late October two bike groups merged on a Saturday ride. All of a sudden Kirk, Dan and I realized we were pedaling beside each other. Executive decisions needed to be made. Kirk said, “The beer is almost ready for tasting. We need to come up with a name so I can design the labels.”

We agreed the name should have something to do with the pandemic and the election close at hand. We’d been throwing around names for several weeks to no avail. Suddenly we realized the bike groups would soon split and Kirk would ride towards home. The pressure was on to come up with the name.

          I blurted out “Unmasked! What do you think?” They both agreed and Kirk sped off for home. Funny how the mind can struggle for weeks to solve a problem and suddenly the solution just comes out of nowhere. Maybe we should solve more problems while pedaling. My hope was the beer would be as good as the effort and the name.

           Finally, it was time to taste the beer. Kirk thought it was a bit early, but we wanted to make sure it wasn’t a bad batch. I stopped by late one afternoon and we opened a bottle. The flavor was good, but there wasn’t much foam or carbonation.

          “Maybe we tasted it too soon,” he said. “I think it will continue to improve over the next several days. Let’s think about Friday or Sunday to do the real taste. The weather is going to hold through Sunday, so we can sit out on the driveway for the tasting party.

          The Chiefs were beginning the second half of their Sunday game against the Panthers as I drove over to Kirk’s house. The streets seemed ghostly empty with so many people at home watching the game.  Once I arrived, Kirk turned on the radio of his car in the garage and dialed in the football game. I kept one ear towards the radio and began putting glue on the labels, then fixed them to the bottles. The label looked great with masks all around a bottle marked UNMASKED. In small letters were the words, post-election Belgian Black Ale.

The "Unmasked" label design

          The moment of truth came when we opened one of the larger bottles. Kirk poured it into a large plastic cup. Fizz! There was a good foam head, too. He poured some more in cups for us all to taste and said, “Let’s inaugurate it!”

          I took a sip. The taste was very good. Nice hops, and a bit of smoky, somewhat toasty taste. Dan said that came from the roasted barley we used. We quickly labeled the bottles and sat back to listen to the end of the football game, while other friends stopped by to have a taste.

Dan and Greg adding the "Unmasked" beer labels

          “TOUCHDOWN, KANSAS CITY!” The announcer made sure everyone knew the Chiefs had scored. More homemade beer flowed and the game continued with the Chiefs squeaking out a win to put their record at 8-1.

          At the end of the warm, autumn afternoon, we split up the bottles and I brought home two six-packs and two large bottles. I’m going to savor and share them with friends and family. I’ll have one or two on those cold days when I can sit by the fire and watch the football game and sip the UNMASKED homemade beer.

Preserve Your Memories

Porto Ercole - End point for Bike Across Italy in 2005

 

Preserve Your Memories

by Gregory E. Larson

          Simon and Garfunkel's words from a song titled "Old Friends" rattles in my brain from time to time: . . . preserve your memories. They're all that's left you.          

          When I first listened to those words at the age of sixteen, they saddened me because I was full of youth and I didn’t want to hear about people that had grown old. Now my age puts me in that category, and those lyrics fill me with joy because I am full of memories. Yes, they are both sad and good memories, but I tend to lean toward the good ones, in part, just to keep my sanity.

          There’s the milestone memories – graduations, weddings, birthdays and holidays - happy squeals that filled the air on Christmas morning, or feeling the tears roll down the cheek when the sixteen-year-old child backs out of the driveway and begins their first trip of driving to school.

          What memories boil up when you let your mind wander? The ones that are most prominent to me are experiences – not so much the ones from a career or raising a family, but scenes from journeys and adventures. What wonderous times those were, with majestic landscapes and unusual destinations.

          I love to watch a mountain stream jump and fall as it makes its course over rocks and logs. To take a deep breath of mountain air on a cool, sunny morning is about as good as it gets, or to listen to the coyotes yip to each other at sunset so they can find their way and keep warm through the night. When I was younger, there was a satisfaction in backpacking with the minimal amount of gear to take me where most people couldn’t go. I remember all the bike tours across states and countries, of feeling the exhaustion and satisfaction from dipping the bike wheel into a river or an ocean, as a way to stamp the official completion of a tour.

          Part of my psyche hearkens back to Dad, who’s words I can still hear, “Nothing is worth doing, unless you do it well.” The deeper I explored his advice, I learned that experiences were best when I immersed myself in learning everything I could learn or when I trained as much as possible in both mind and body for an upcoming event or journey. It made for a rich experience, even when the outcome was not how I envisioned it. There were fleeting moments when I experienced the temporary nirvana of thinking I’d attained a level of competency, if only temporary, of the best of the best, of campers, hikers, bikers, writers, painters, and musicians.

          After embracing the wonderful memories, I have a deep sense of gratitude that I was able to experience so much in my life. Sure, there’s more to experience, but I am so grateful for my time on earth, grateful that my creator gave me the tools to see the wonders of the universe and to give me the opportunity to navigate life.

          Now that I’m older, I have just as much fun when swapping the tales and yarns of biking or camping adventures with those around me, sitting on the patio with a beer in hand, reliving the details and watching the story play out before my eyes. If I lean back and meditate, and let the beer do its magic, it’s as if I were there in the story, feeling, smelling, and hearing everything around me.

          Sometimes I think I should make a list of top ten physical places where I’ve stood in my life. It would be hard to pare down the list. I’d have thirty places, or more, that I thought should make the top ten. Maybe I need to go back to the Aolean Islands off the north shore of Sicily, rent a small adobe house on a hillside, sit on the veranda, look out over the Mediterranean Sea and make my lists with the reasons why they are worthy of making the cut. I’d have a big bottle of some Italian wine, some fresh mozzarella cheese, a loaf of bread, some olive oil and capers. It would be time to lean back and take a nap and to dream of all the places that have meant so much to me.

         I could do that for many days. Let’s see . . . there could be a list of the top ten adventures, the top ten eateries, the top ten . . . time to take another nap.

          Here are a few pictures from places that are high on the list of memories:

Rooftop Tour of Notre Dame, Paris - 2007

Moraine Lake - Canadian Rockies, Alberta, Canada 2011

Harbor in Tenby, Wales - 2008

Weminuche Wilderness - San Juan Mountains, Colorado - 2003

Lac d'Annecy, French Alps - 2018

Hilltop town in southern Sicily - 2012

 

Epic Journey - Rafting the Grand Canyon

Mile Zero on the Grand Canyon

Epic Journey – Rafting the Grand Canyon

travel memoir

by Gregory E. larson

 

          Foreword: It’s been about a month since I returned from the rafting trip through the Grand Canyon. I’ve started some paintings and have been thinking on how to write about such an epic experience. Rather than do a full journal of the trip, I’ve decided to share a handful of experiences that crystalize the memories of being in a remote but magical place. Looking back on the trip, it was just the antidote for plodding through months of the pandemic blahs.

 

As our two massive rafts pulled out onto the Colorado River at Lee’s Ferry, a big surprise enveloped me. One-hundred-degree-days were forecast for the week so I was ready for a hot ride. The raft started the turn to go downstream and a cool breeze wafted over the vessel. I realized that the fifty-degree water temperature from the outflow of Glen Canyon Dam upstream created a thin, cool layer of air on the river. Granted, when the wind began to blow or the sun hit us hard in the afternoon, the air layer didn’t help all that much, but many times during the week that cool layer of air was a welcome relief.

The other first impression was realizing the size of the big rafts. When fully loaded with people and supplies for a week, each raft held 14 guests, 2 crew members, and a few tons of supplies, food, and personal gear. The rear third of the raft was where the crew sat next to an open well where the small outboard motor was controlled by the captain. Our captain was Rachel, and though she was small in stature, she was a giant on the river as far as I was concerned. She knew how to eek out every move of the raft as she navigated the rapids and made our ride a safe one, but exciting and fun.

During the pandemic, the group was smaller, just ten people to each raft, so we had plenty of room to sit while we cruised down the river. As we began riding the rapids it seemed like we were on top of a humpback whale that bobbed and weaved in the rough water. Each raft had a set of large pontoons on each side. The design allowed the raft to flex in the rapids while taking the big standing waves. Chunks of water and wave flew over the raft and thoroughly doused us, while mini-geysers at the flex joints shot upward to spray anyone in proximity to the openings. Mesh bags of water, soda, and beer were tethered to the raft, and were easily pulled out whenever we wanted to quench our thirst.

For a couple of old scouts, my brother and I were in our element sleeping under the stars, becoming one with the river and the sand (literally) with a mixture of sunscreen, water, and sand stuck to our skin and our gear for most of the week. The dirtier I got the more I would repeat, “I love it!” I was beginning to feel like a river rat. Several times a day we had the opportunity to take a refreshing dip in the river or stand underneath a creek’s waterfall.

Approaching Redwall Cavern

Redwall Cavern was one of our stops that stands out in my memory. Early on the second day we floated around a bend where the cliffs were close to the river and the morning shadows lingered in the canyon. I noticed a big hole at the bottom of the cliff with a sand bar jutting out into the river. At first, it didn’t seem like such a special place until we pulled closer. By the time we beached on the sandbar, the size of the cavern, which was carved out in the bend of the river, was almost too big to grasp. I estimated about three football fields could have easily fit beneath the sandstone roof of the pocket cave. Some of the group began playing with frisbees and bocci balls. I just wandered around, allowing my brain to absorb such a unique place. As I looked upriver, I noticed the river shone with morning reflections of the sun which radiated from the western walls of the canyon. Redwall cliffs and the Redwall Cavern made me realize that everything in the Grand Canyon is super-sized. I tried to imagine a raging river that was high enough to fill the cavern in times long ago.

Early morning inside the Redwall Cavern

Our camp that evening was on a sandbar near the Nankoweap Granary, which was a small grain storage space constructed with rocks and mud by ancient Pueblan natives. They created several rectangular openings into the storage space under a cliff, located several hundred feet above the river. When the guides offered to lead a hike to the granary, I was ready to go. They said it would be a strenuous forty-five-minute hike, with the last twenty minutes being on a path of irregular stone stairs which would lead us to the base of the cliff. We climbed about ten minutes on the stairs when I began to slow down and decided to stop to catch my breath. Most of the hikers were thirty years old or younger, and I realized my age was finally creating limits on my endurance.  I had to stop a couple of more times before I made it to the granary, but I didn’t mind stopping because the view was spectacular. This one view down the Colorado River seemed to sum up the entirety of how I felt about the canyon. The steps and the granary were in the deep shade of the afternoon, but the view which spread before me included the massive Colorado River which changed in color as it snaked along and around the sandbars while the red cliffs created giant walls on either side of the immediate river canyon. The distant cliffs were veiled with pink and blue shadows in the hot, dry air. The walls with changing textures and colors were a feast for the eyes. I felt like I was in a giant heavenly room. Included with the timeless view was the dead silence that flowed through time like an invisible blanket woven over millions of years. What did the natives think as they worked at surviving in the harsh environment? Did they take the time to feel the beauty of their surroundings? What did the canyon look like in the environment above the river area?

After snapping a few photos while above the river, I thought the view was special. Once the trip was over and I was home in my painting studio, I decided to make a watercolor painting of Nankoweap Overlook – Grand Canyon. Now the view is permanently etched in my brain. 

Nankoweap Overlook - Grand Canyon

2020 Watercolor by Gregory E. Larson

When I made it to the granary, I told our guide that I was turning around to take the downward hike at my own pace, knowing that going down would put more pressure on the quadriceps than a usual walk. My energy and leg muscles were spent by the time I made it back to camp, but I knew it was worth it. I had the photos to prove it.

Nankoweap Granary at base of redwall cliffs

That night I heard something that will also remain etched in my memory. I happened to be awake for a few minutes in the middle of the night. From a distance of what was probably several miles I heard a deep ka-whump, followed by a rumble, rumble. To me, it sounded like a Howitzer cannon doing target practice at Fort Riley in Kansas, but I quickly realized I’d heard the timeless falling of some huge pieces of rock or canyon wall. There were no storms that night nor did I hear any jets. It had to be some massive rocks somewhere among the other billions of rocks, succumbing to gravity’s pull.

My brother, Dan, was able to identify and point out numerous birds in the canyon. One of my favorites was the Canyon Wren which had its own mockingbird-like call. The wren was loud, and each morning it seemed as though it was demanding that we get up and get moving. We also saw a California Condor, a Peregrine Falcon, as well as numerous swifts and swallows that lived along the canyon walls. At evening and during twilight the bats weaved and dodged above the river. As we floated during the day, we saw numerous Rocky Mountain Sheep at water’s edge or high on the cliffs.

Traveling down the 'Great Unknown'

I didn’t photograph or video going through the big rapids because my camera isn’t waterproof. We felt safe on the giant rafts, but there were times when Rachel would shout out, “Make sure your life jacket is buckled and grab a rope in each hand. Put your feet against the pontoon.” If she was especially nervous about a an upcoming rapid she would say, “This next rapid has a different personality every time I run it, so if we spin around or hit a wall or rock, just keep hanging on and smile and say ‘we’re having fun!’” There were two or three big rapids that I’ll always remember. The front of the raft would hit a big standing wave and huge quantities of water would splash over the entire raft. I remember one of the rapids was bucking us like a big bronco, and there was a cliff that seemed an arm’s reach away while we flew through the crashing waves. I looked at my brother and shouted, “THIS is what I signed up for!” We’d all yell and hoot while our world splashed and crashed around us.

Lava Falls was the last big rapid of the trip. I took a photo just as we exited the rapids and then Rachel said, “If you thought that was enough, here comes Son of Lava!” We shot through more rapids along the cliffs.

Looking back at Lava Falls

Every camp had its own personality. Some had noisy rapids nearby and others were silent, as deep water in the river crept by the campsite. At some locations the air was still and hot, and others had windstorms with blowing sand during the night. At one of the campsites nicknamed Furnace Flats by the guides, I decided to sleep on top of the sheet and sleeping bag. During the night it kept getting cooler and cooler. Finally, I unzipped the sleeping bag and slid inside. By morning I was shivering. The temperature seemed below fifty degrees when the crew yelled, “Good Morning, coffee is ready.”

After 190 miles and seven days, our guides gave us instructions on what we were to do when we got off the raft to board the helicopter which shuttled us to a dude ranch. It was like a scene from M*A*S*H. The helicopter landed before we got out of the rafts. The rotors kept turning while each group of five people scurried with their luggage, moving single-file up to the door of the chopper. Once the crew stowed our luggage, it seemed like an instant and we lifted up above the remaining group, with the rafts and the river looking smaller by the second as our pilot turned the helicopter up and over the canyon walls. Immediately we saw upper parts of the canyon that weren’t visible to us during the week at river’s level. In seven minutes, we were dropped off at the dude ranch for a shower and lunch. We were now official River Rats, but it was time to wash off as much sand as possible, knowing that it will probably take months and years to get all of the sand out of the clothing, gear, and bags. But we can’t wash out the memories of spending a week with the river and the rocks. Those will always be with us.

Our chopper lands to take us out of the canyon

More Pictures:

Loading gear in the early morning

The sacred Little Colorado River merges into the Big Colorado River

Looking down on Furnace Flats campsite from nearby hilltop

Rapids at Hiker's suspension bridge near South Rim and Phantom Ranch

Early morning at the 'Silent Canyon' campsite

Part of our group taking a daytime shower at a side creek waterfall

Floating through canyons of 1.6 billion-year-old schist rock

Small Town, U.S.A.

Neon Sign in Abilene, Kansas
2020 original watercolor by
Gregory E. Larson

Small Town, U.S.A

memoir by

Gregory E. Larson

          The watercolor above is a sign in downtown Abilene, Kansas. To me, it exudes the late 1950s and early 1960s feeling of small towns in the Midwest.

          Thriving small-town U.S.A did exist at one time. I remember it. Maybe you remember it, too. For a small boy in the late ’50s it was a part of the idyllic summer week spent each year with my grandparents in Emporia, Kansas. After a long two-hour drive from the suburbs of Wichita, we would finally make the turn onto Garfield Avenue. My grandparents would take me downtown when they did errands, but I also spent a lot of time to myself, exploring the house, yard, and neighborhood. The time went by quickly while I was there. 
          As I painted the watercolor, the memories of times spent in Emporia returned . . .

          It was one of those summer days when the heat comes on quickly. The ceiling fans in the large Ben Franklin store in downtown Emporia were circulating what little cool air was left in the building. I grabbed the tiny race car from the bin and held it up for inspection. It had real rubber tires that were smooth as silk. It would be perfect for playing on the porch railing at Granddad and Grandma’s house on the tree-lined street. Granddad offered to buy it for me since the twenty-five cents was out of my price range. I had to use my money sparingly if I wanted to go to the Dairy Queen each afternoon for a nickel cone. On another trip to the same store, Grandad bought me an old wooden top the size of a yo-yo. He taught me how to wind up the cord and release the top with a snap of the wrist to watch it spin on the concrete pavement.

          The scariest memory of downtown was when Mom said, “We need to go to Doc James and have him look at your teeth. Being just five years old at the time, I had never ventured inside a dentist’s office. I was a bit suspect of making the visit, since I didn’t like the doctor’s offices in Wichita, A trip there usually meant that I got some type of shot.

          Doc James’ office was on the second floor of the building at the main intersection downtown. There was a big long stairway to climb and the hallway and dentist office seemed dark to me. We entered the office and they guided me to the inner sanctum where I had to climb up into a big chair that looked like the ones in the barber shops. Immediately I started looking at the drill which was run by some big-arm contraption with cords on it. Doc took some picky-looking tools from the porcelain tray and had me open my mouth. After poking around and saying, “Uh-huh,” a few times he turned to my mom and said, “Your boy has a small cavity in one of his molars. It is so tiny that I can give him a filling without using Novocain.”

          I started feeling clammy all over. Oh no! He’s going to start that drill contraption. This could be serious.

          It didn’t turn out so bad. The sounds scared me more than anything. I didn’t like his big fingers in my mouth and there was some nasty-tasting stuff he spread on my gums to numb them.

          I just hoped Mom wouldn’t stop me from getting ice-cream cones and eating all the Life-saver candy that Granddad gave me when we went fishing.

          I thought life was pretty good when I visited my grandparents in Emporia. It was a fun neighborhood to explore. They lived just one block away from the busiest highway through town, which was on Sixth Street. When I walked down the sidewalk with my brothers or cousins, we’d pass a hair salon, liquor store, root-beer stand, and a mom-and-pop grocery store. The next block towards town had a Cities Service filling station that was owned by my grandparent’s neighbor, Mr. Feltner.

          Trips to the filling station were top-notch. I thrilled at watching the cars being raised on the lifts where the workmen pried off hubcaps and used the lug wrenches to remove the wheels. It was a guy’s kind of place where the smell of grease, oil, and gasoline mixed with the rubber tires and brake dust – just the thing to make an impression on a small boy. I always wanted to quench my thirst with a bottle of pop from the big machine, but that rarely happened. My grandparents were thrifty folks. Sometimes before we went fishing, we’d buy minnows at the gas station. They were in a tank where Mr. Feltner would scoop them out with a a small net and put them in our minnow bucket. We didn’t buy worms at the gas station. That was too extravagant. Grandad would turn over a couple of shovels of topsoil in the lower back yard and let us pick them out and place them in coffee can full of dirt.

          The fishing trips to the lakes and creeks in the Flint Hills lasted the better part of a day with a picnic lunch included. Granddad always tried to find the spots where the crappie were thick. I’d throw out the line and watch the worm and the bobber plop into the water. Many times the fish would immediately begin tugging on the worm. Those were excellent places to learn how to set a hook on a fish. Otherwise, I’d have to reel in the line and the hook would be picked clean.

          The size of Emporia was perfect. Everything was within a five-minute drive. No suburbs existed there in the ’50s. The small towns were much different than my existence in the new part of Wichita where the neighborhoods had scant grass, tiny trees, and long, thirty-minute rides in the car just to get downtown.

           I loved the old neighborhoods in Emporia with the big elms and other assorted climbing trees. I thought I was in heaven when I ran barefoot in the shade through the thick bluegrass.

          At noon every day the steam whistle sounded in the Santa Fe train yard. I knew it was time to go inside where Grandma would fix me a peanut butter sandwich and put it on the colorful Fiesta-ware plate. 
          One summer, my grandparents took me to the downtown theater to see the Disney movie Pollyanna. I was fascinated with the children in the movie, and while watching it I realized I was having as much or more fun during the time at my grandparents than the kids were having in the movie. I remember Grandma laughed and laughed when the movie showed an old lady playing the drums in the band at the church bazaar.

          Fridays were a bit sad at the end of the week when my mom came to get me. It was good to see Mom, but I always made sure I took one more trip to the Dairy Queen in the early afternoon before she arrived. I’d splurge and spend a dime to get the cone dipped into the butterscotch. I’d hurry as fast as I could without endangering the cone, running to the back yard of my grandparents where I climbed to my favorite spot in the red-bud tree, savoring the melting cone during the last minutes of the summertime vacation away from the big city.

          Yes, that was when small-town U.S.A. was heaven on earth, as far as I was concerned.

Book Launch: The Lost Flight

BOOK LAUNCH!

The Lost Flight

by Gregory E. Larson

How can a plane and its occupants disappear for seven months? The author shares the true story of a 1970 camping and hiking trip with his brother and two friends that turns into a horrific discovery. He later connects with the family of two of the victims and provides  the reader with a heartwarming story of the baby-boomer families that were linked by the tragic event occurring on a remote ridge in the Sangre de Cristo mountains of southern Colorado.

Excerpt from Chapter One:

Chapter One:

Maybe it was fate

  

June 2013 – January, 2014

Kansas City metro area and trip to California

A blast from the horn announced it was time for us to get onboard the train. Outside, the diesel fumes hung in the air and the late-night heat blanketed Union Station in Kansas City. The car shuddered and began to move forward with clacks and creaks. My wife, Gretta and I stood with our luggage in the narrow aisle of the sleeper car, waiting to gain access to our berth.

After we stood several minutes in the aisle, a porter scurried around us with a stack of folded white linen in his arms. “Sorry I’m late in getting the sheets. We’ve been booked solid, and the folks that were in your compartments just got off the train.”

We were on Amtrak’s Southwest Chief, bound for Los Angeles on a June night in 2013. The cars began to rock as it picked up speed through the West Bottoms, past gravel lots where stockyards once stood. The start of a vacation always excited me. Untold adventures lay ahead. I brimmed with anticipation of a fun time in L.A. and Santa Barbara. The thought of being able to relax in a sleeping berth, something we’d never tried, also added to the excitement.

While the porter hurried to make our beds, Gretta and I looked at another couple who were in the same predicament — standing in the aisle on the moving train while waiting for their berth.

We stepped closer to the couple in the hallway and introduced ourselves. The husband, Alejandro, said they were retired and had visited relatives in the East. They were getting off the train in Albuquerque, to go to their home in Belen.

“Belen?” I blurted out the town’s name. Simultaneously, memories of a decades-old adventure rushed into my brain. What were the chances that I would cross paths with someone from Belen, a small town about thirty miles south of Albuquerque?

“Yes,” said Alejandro, “It’s always nice to get back home.”

It was possible he knew of a story from my past, so I leaned closer to ask him an important question.

“Do you know the Torres family . . . Nolbert Torres?”

He tilted his head with a look of surprise and said, “Yes, I see him in church and sometimes at the grocery store.”

I couldn’t believe it. “You may not be aware of this, but Nolbert’s brother and dad died in a plane crash, back in 1969.”

Alejandro’s eyes widened and he responded, “Yes, I remember. The plane was lost. No one knew where it crashed.”

I took a deep breath to gather my thoughts. “Well, the reason I know about that crash, is that my brother and I discovered it in the mountains of southern Colorado, seven months after it disappeared. We were teenagers on a camping trip with two friends, and we stumbled onto it while hiking in the melting snow.”

We stared at each other for several seconds. How could two people randomly cross paths — two people who remembered a tragedy from over forty years ago?

I told Alejandro I had unsuccessfully tried to contact Nolbert, and that I’d always wanted to meet him and his family.

 “I need to give you my contact information to pass on to Nolbert,” I said as I grabbed for a pen.

Gretta tapped me on the shoulder. “Just give him one of your cards. Remember, I told you to bring some along.” She laughed because I had scoffed at the idea. We were going on vacation, so I stuffed a couple of the cards in my wallet. They were printed with my name and contact information, ending with a line that stated:  Architect, Writer and Creative Thinker.

I gave him the card and begged him to pass it onto Nolbert. Maybe someday we could meet. I always wondered about the family I never met. How could they have endured seven months of not knowing what happened to their brother, dad, and two other men? How did the family move on from the tragedy?

As we moved into our respective berths, I heard Alejandro talking to other folks he knew on the train . . . “You’re not going to believe who I just met.” 

After the amazement of what had just transpired, Gretta and I settled into our compartment. I looked out the windows at the moon and a shadowy rural scene that unfolded while the train rolled across the Kansas prairie. I wanted to meet Nolbert and give him a big hug. Maybe, it just might happen.

The train began to rock me to sleep while pieces of Simon and Garfunkel’s song, America, tumbled in my head . . . “They’ve all gone to look for America . . . and the moon rolls over an open field.”

Sunrise and clear skies greeted us the next morning, with the sand hills and the irrigation fields of western Kansas rushing by our big window. Satisfied with a generous breakfast in the dining car, and being fully rested, I was convinced that train travel with a sleeping berth was the way to vacation. We had acres of space as compared to a passenger seat on a plane, and it was much more relaxing than being part of the rat race of the workaday world. Up in the observation car, we found seats that looked out upon the semi-arid countryside of eastern Colorado. A thin blue line of the approaching mountains appeared on the horizon. We spied some antelope standing among the mesquite and piñon trees near the tracks, and watched them quickly bound away in fear as the giant monster passed them by.

The two Spanish Peaks, or “breasts of the earth” as the Ute Indians called them, loomed before us like a postcard image, with the Sangre de Cristo Mountains coming into focus beyond the peaks. I squinted at a point on the horizon where the mountains met the sky. The memories in the far reaches of my mind surfaced again. Somewhere up there on the opposite side of a ridge at an elevation of 12,000 feet, the Torres plane slammed into a rocky slope during a snowstorm, setting off a chain of events that affected so many families.

The chance encounter last night with Alejandro resurfaced from my subconscious. I had no idea that a vacation to California would bring the events of decades past back into focus.

I also thought about why Gretta and I were taking this vacation. We had booked the trip months in advance to have an adventurous train ride to California. Just two weeks before our trip she was diagnosed with cancer and the oncologist said she needed surgery — soon. We told him of our plans to go to California and asked if we should cancel. He said, “No. Take the trip. It is the best thing you can do to get the surgery off your minds. I’m not able to do the surgery for a couple of weeks anyway.”

We felt like honeymooners rolling through the southwestern landscapes of New Mexico and Arizona, holding hands while looking at the scenery, and planning what we would see once we arrived in L.A.

After a second night in the sleeping berth, we woke up as the train rolled into Los Angeles. From that point on, we rented a car and immersed ourselves in West Coast points of interest, from San Simeon and the Hearst Castle, to the Getty Museum and other architectural treats. In between the sightseeing, we found the perfect solution for relaxing: spending time doing nothing on the beach in Santa Barbara.

With our bed and breakfast inn located just two blocks from the ocean, Gretta and I strapped beach towels to the handlebars of the hotel-provided beach-cruisers and pedaled along the coastal path, rolling between the warm sand and the groves of palms and eucalyptus trees, out past the crowds to a place where we had 100 yards of empty beach on either side of us.

Sun hats rested on top of our faces as we lay on the beach towels, soaking up the warm sun, letting the cool breeze and the sound of the surf wash over us. My daydreams were interrupted with worry about Gretta and her upcoming cancer surgery.

I touched her toes with mine and said, “I’m your guy — always. You just tell me what you need and consider it done. I’ll take care of it.” We were so in tune with each other’s thoughts, she didn’t have to answer. She touched her toes on mine, and that told me all I needed to know.

The surf kept pounding the shore and I took a short catnap. When I awoke, my mind drifted back to the chance meeting with Alejandro, the possible link to the Torres family.

I punctuated the silence, “Can you believe we met someone on the train, at the very beginning of our trip, someone who knows Nolbert Torres?”

More silence was followed by Gretta’s reply, “What are the odds? Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it was meant to be.”

Here’s the link to Amazon Kindle where the complete book is available in paperback and ebook:
https://www.amazon.com/Lost-Flight-Gregory-Larson/dp/B086G11XH7/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?keywords=the+last+flight+gregory+larson&qid=1585837983&s=books&sr=1-1-fkmr0

Home for the Holidays

Home for the Holidays

Fiction

By Gregory E. Larson

          My heart sank when I saw the selections at the dessert station in the cafeteria. There were three small plates with half-melted strawberry Jell-O squares, each placed on a large piece of wilted lettuce. The bright fluorescent lights in the food selection area didn’t add to the appeal. All morning long I visualized a piece of pumpkin pie or apple crisp for the lunch dessert on the last day before Christmas, or whatever the proper term is now, Winter Holiday Vacation. The cafeteria workers were already in clean-up mode, and the few remaining people in the hallways scurried for the exits.

          My friend Eric, a manager in the accounting department, leaned over as he walked by with his tray, “Slim pickens, eh?”

          I responded with obvious disappointment in my voice, “So much for a holiday meal. What happened to the good old days when there was turkey and ham for everyone, and we all put in a full day’s work and didn’t leave until five o’clock?

          The cashier wearing a miniature reindeer pin, an elf hat, and a big smile tried to cheer me up as she totaled the cost of the tuna salad plate, the Jell-O, and a cup of coffee that had a burn-tinged taste. “Now you have a wonderful holiday Pete, and you be safe.  I want to see you next year”

          A massive Christmas tree filled the middle of the dining room which was almost empty. Background music was playing Burl Ives singing A Jolly Holly Christmas, while I steered toward a group sitting near the far windows.

          Betty Jo from Credit and Billing was there, having an animated conversation with another lunch regular, Fred. “My ex-hubby has the kids on the main holidays all year round! I get the left-over dates. Doesn’t matter what the court settlement says. He does just whatever the hell he wants, whenever he wants. Doesn’t seem fair.”

          “Sounds like you need an attorney that is good at sending nasty-grams. That might do the trick.”

          Fred’s eyes grew big as he turned toward me, “Get out the checkbook. Hey, Pete, what are you doing here anyway? You whiz kids up in R&D have the most flexible schedules of all.”

          “It’s all about data. We have to make sure we track and keep all kinds of data. It’s not the fantasy life in R&D that everyone thinks it is. Pressure’s on constantly.”

          Eric pulled up a chair and sat down next to the impromptu lunch group. He threw in his two cents worth. “I’m just glad I’m not in IT. Those poor guys have to draw straws to see who gets to stay here on late shifts over the holiday. Wouldn’t that be a fun way to spend your vacation?”

         “Maybe some people would like that assignment. It would be quiet and peaceful. I’m sure they have a few card games going when the boredom sets in. Better than sitting alone at home.”

          Betty Jo had a quizzical look. “Why would you want to be stuck here?”

          “Some of us older staff members don’t have spouses or family nearby. Things can get pretty lonely at home on a holiday.”

          Betty Jo looked down at the floor.

          Gina, joined the table. “You can’t believe the things we see in HR. There’s a lot of people that struggle with holidays. Some people at the company never take a vacation. They can’t handle the silence and loneliness.”

          “Who?” asked Betty Jo, “They need to get a life.”

          Gina motioned as if she were zipping her lips shut.

          Eric scanned the five of us. “We’re all here, aren’t we? What’s wrong with this picture? Maybe we need to get a life. It’s Christmas Eve.” He looked straight at Fred. “Where’s your family?”

          “The wife’s out in San Diego watching over her dying mom. The kids are scattered around the world.”

          “What about you, Gina?”

          “We get the family here on New Year’s, so I have a few days to get ready.”

          I slapped my palms down on the table, “So what are we all going to do this afternoon? Play tiddly-winks? It’s interesting, we have good 401K’s and nice homes with freezers stuffed with food and here we sit like a bunch of dysfunctional people.”

          Fred had a sheepish grin on his face. “I’m sure the guys from manufacturing are already getting cozy at the Giddy-up Roadhouse.

          “I’m not that dysfunctional,” I replied, and then added, “Well, I guess I have been out there a time or two after golf league.”

          My cellphone buzzed. The email said my credit card was compromised. The message came from an account with .edu at the end – a scammer for sure. Others started looking at their phones, too.

          Eric pointed to his phone and spoke to the group. “Okay, here’s something we can do before we go home tonight. The food kitchen at St. James is serving full holiday meals all this week to the needy and homeless folks. They have menus, and the volunteers take orders and serve the people at the tables. They need extra volunteers to help until six o’clock. You get to meet all kinds of people and when you are done you get your own free meal. It’s better than what I’m looking at on my tray. Who’s in?”

          Fred replied, “That’s a great idea.”

          Gina chimed, “Let’s go.”

          We all got up and walked to the conveyor belt at the tray return. I set my tray on the belt and watched the uneaten Jell-O disappear into the kitchen.

          “See you there at two.” My heels clicked on the floor of the empty hallway. The building was almost deserted. The office space had a quiet, spooky feeling to it. White-noise hiss and computer fans were the only sounds that filled the air.

          Eric’s idea of helping at the church appealed to me. It sounded more fun than going home to a dark house. I grabbed my coat and hurried through the bone-chilling cold in the massive concrete garage. Uh-oh, I need to get some gas. The tires crunched on the packed snow as I pulled out onto the street.

          The inner-city gas station with a mini-mart wasn’t one of those gleaming plazas in exurbia. The spaces were tight at the pumps and at the parking stalls. Once inside, I passed a small table on the way to the restroom. A woman with sad-looking eyes and stringy hair was holding a small child in her arms, and there was a crying toddler next to her. They were eating crumbs from small cracker and cheese-spread packets. She was counting change and putting the coins into her purse. There were two large shopping bags filled with clothes leaning against the window.

          While in the restroom, I thought of the look of fear and desperation in her eyes. They might be homeless, or at the very least, without enough money for food.

On my way out, I stopped at the table. “Ma’am, I don’t mean to pry, but if there is anything you need, I’d be glad to get it for you. Your kids look hungry.”

          The baby buried its runny nose into the mother’s armpit, and the toddler began to whine.

          The woman looked directly at me, then turned her head towards the window. “Oh, thank you, but I’m okay . . .” Tears began to stream down her cheeks and her chin trembled. “I just left my husband and I don’t know where to go. When he comes home, I’m afraid he will begin looking for us.”

          “I’m so sorry. You know, I think I can help you. I’m on my way to St. James to volunteer at their food kitchen. They’ll have a good meal for you and your kids. I’ll bet someone there will help find a shelter where you and the kids can stay.”

          She hesitated to respond, probably sizing me up, trying to decide if my offer was legitimate.

          “I’m on my way to meet some friends there to help serve. There’s room in my car. It’s just five minutes down the avenue.”

          “That sounds very nice, but we don’t want to be any trouble.”

          “No trouble at all, ma’am. I really think you could use some help right now.”

          She nodded, “Yes, just a little.”

          “Here, let me carry these bags and we can get you all to the car.” We walked slowly out of the mini-mart, and I helped them into the back seat.

          On our way down the avenue, I broke the silence. “Ma’am do you think you will be safe while you are at St. James? If you think your husband is looking for you, I can try to get you to a shelter immediately.”

          “No, he’s usually gone for three or four days when he goes on a drug binge. I think we’ll be okay.”

          At St. James, I helped them out of the car and carried their bags into the building. The smells of turkey dinner and coffee hit us was we walked into the large room decorated with red ribbons and gold bells. Betty Jo greeted us at the door. “Why Pete, you’re a bit late. Who do you have here?”

          “These are some nice people I met at the gas station.”

          The woman added, “I’m Mary and these are my two children, Isabel and Lucas.”

          Betty Jo put her arm around them and said, “So nice to meet all of you. Come on in and we’ll get you and your kids something to eat.”

          I found Eric, then shared the story about finding the woman and two children.

          "I know some folks here who have connections with the mission. I'll get them to see if there is some space at their home for women and children. Here, Pete, I'll let you take the orders from the guests at tables six and seven." He stuffed the food lists into my hand.

          While walking towards the tables I looked at the talkative crowd and heard laughter and music. I saw Gina crouched down, visiting with Mary and her two kids. They were all smiling.

          So many happy people. There’s no place I’d rather be than right here, right now. We’re all one big family. This is my home tonight.

          I walked up to the couples sitting at table six. “Merry Christmas, folks. What looks good on the menu? I’ll be glad to take your order.