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Beautiful Numbness: The Book I Have Been Writing for Fifty Years

Every book has a birthday, but not every book has a conception date. Some books arrive late and fast, fully formed, demanding to be transcribed before they vanish. The Last Living American White Male was like that. Others accumulate across decades, assembling themselves in the background of a life, borrowing material from every stage and every failure and every standing ovation until the writer finally sits down and discovers that the book has already been written in the margins of everything else. Beautiful Numbness: Art, Sedation, and Twenty-Five Centuries of the Standing Ovation is that kind of book. It was conceived when I was ten years old. It has taken me more than half a century to deliver it. It is now available as a Kindle ebook, a paperback, and a free PDF download from David Boles Books.

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Cathedrals of Chalk: 55 Years Later!

I believe I was three or four years old when I took my first visit to the Chalk Mine near North Loup, Nebraska. Growing up there each summer, and with each subsequent visit to the mine, the experience of being surrounded by a cooling white chalk was both effervescent and full of young wonder. Heading back into the mine last summer as an old man, after a break of about 40 years, proved yet another interesting example of how sometimes things change beyond the fateful recollection of the shared memory.

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2024 Return to Happy Jack Mountain

Janna and I made a pilgrimage to Happy Jack Mountain near North Loup and Scotia, Nebraska this summer. Okay, maybe Happy Jack is more hill than a mountain, but because Nebraska (Otoe for “Flat Water”) is pretty dang flat, any rolling hill easily becomes a mountainous monument in memory. Happy Jack sits over the chalk mines below, and we’ll get to that wonder of the valley in a future article. The goal of us trekking up Happy Jack — me, for the second time, and for Janna, first — was to land in front of a giant, wooden cross atop the mountain. Easter services are held under the cross every year, but my question, now as an aged, and somewhat wizened 59-year-old man-child was, and still is, this: WHO IS CLIMBING HAPPY JACK MOUNTAIN ON EASTER MORNING? (the threat of dying is palpably real!)

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Return to the Braided Prairie: A 2024 North Loup Photo Memory

When I returned to North Loup, Nebraska this summer to bury my mother, I realized I hadn’t been back to that beautiful village for 40 years! It seemed impossible that I’d been away from the braided prairie for two generations! I discovered the last time I visited North Loup was in 1984 when I published a photo memory. Today, 14,600 days later, I present a new photo memory of the North Loup that raised me, and that lifted all the hopes of my curious childhood in far away in Lincoln, Nebraska.

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Wilma’s Boy

My mother, Wilma Jean Boles, died on June 24, 2024. She was 85-years-old. Her death was unfortunate, and unnecessarily gruesome in that, in the end, she chose not to walk, or eat, or take her medication after a major surgery; the only thing she desired was a quick death. My mother always fought for what she wanted, and sometimes what she wanted is what nobody else wanted, including her death. Wilma never really recovered from elective surgery she had on May 23, 2024 to fix a perforated diaphragm where half of her stomach and part of her colon were stuck in her chest cavity, placing pressure on her left lung. Her surgeon believed she’d been living with that condition for more than 25 years; and he also believed there was “no good reason” for her not to recover and get better. As I have worked to come to terms with Wilma’s death, and the first 23 years of our life together, I am surrounded by — and often hunted with — the memories of my mother’s life, her successes, her disappointments, and her ability to continually confound the unwary. I have also realized, but not quite yet accepted, that no matter how hard I try, or how fast I may run, I will always be “Wilma’s Boy.”

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What the Hell Happened to Nebraska?

I grew up in Nebraska. Then I escaped to New York. When I lived in Nebraska, it was a pretty good place. North Loup. Scotia. Lincoln. The University. Bob Kerrey. We had stamina, hard work, and a future, and we were kind to each other because we believed in the Good Life. Then, over the last 30 years since I’ve been away, something broke, and a red-hard Republican named Pete Ricketts, decided to ruin the state in an ego-driven run for the governorship just so he could ultimately become a thug in the Trump Covid-19 Death Cult along with Ted Cruz, Ron DeSantis and Greg Abbott. Thankfully, there are still some sane people in Huskerland who can use their power to do goodness — as in getting the Nebraska Covid-19 Dashboard reinstated:

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The Scotia Register Wormhole

It isn’t often you can take a trip through a wormhole, and survive, tumbling back in time, from whence you began, and then arrive back in the future from which there is no escape; and so I have described my recent journey tripping through the online archives of — The Scotia Register — a village newspaper that was published weekly, on Thursdays, in Scotia, Nebraska (population 291) from 1895 to 2003. Paging back through The Scotia Register archives was like being watched and recorded, from afar, years ago, with the perspective, and perception, of the now.

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From Twit to Tweep: A Groundling in the Twitterverse

Yesterday, I participated in an odd, one hour, “web session” with the Twitter Small Business advertising team where you submitted questions beforehand in anticipation of getting real world answers you could use to promote your small business on Twitter.

Instead getting helpful, direct, answers I was pricked back in time to the beginning of my blogging life and the excellent startup FeedBurner service.

Do you remember this fiery, iconic, logo?

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Keep a Song in Your Heart: Remembering Lawrence Welk

Every time I visited my grandfather in North Loup, Nebraska — there was one unspoken, but wholly enforced rule — on Sunday nights at 7:00pm, you sat down with him and watched the Lawrence Welk Show on ABC television.

It was an hour of a painful persuasion for a young lad to bear — second only to the never-ending reruns of Hee Haw that aired every single weeknight that I was also forced to watch during each visit.

I never learned to like, or even tolerate, the Welk show.  The show was a matter of saccharine moments topped with thick frosting of faux frivolity and façade.  All show and no substance.  Complete spectacle and no plot.

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The North Loup Cheese Factory

by Darlene Psota

(About the Author: After leaving the Cheese Factory, Vic King was employed by the North Loup Lumber Yard, where he worked until his retirement 20 years later. He continues to live in his home on the west edge of town. He celebrated his 90th birthday in September, 2004 with an Open House honoring his contribution to the community. Darlene, his youngest daughter, helped Vic compile his memoirs and submitted them to Go Inside in his honor. She lives in Shenandoah, Iowa but continues to visit her Dad on a regular basis.)

I suppose most travelers driving through North Loup, Nebraska would see only a small town, just one of many that dot the roadways of rural America. But for me, driving down Highway 11 and seeing the water tower come into view, the years drop away and the spell that is North Loup is cast once more.

In my mind’s eye, I see more than just a small town. I see people with hopes and dreams. I see homes and businesses that have withstood time. I see a proud past and a bright future. I see love and faith and integrity.

I see these things because, no matter where I am physically, North Loup was, and always will be, my home. No matter how often I return, every time I turn into my Dad’s driveway and see him standing at the kitchen door watching for me, I am filled with a joy and peace that comes from a heart filled with precious childhood memories.

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