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One Does Not Simply Drive Into Far West

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Dear Uncle George, May 16, 1907 Sent my instruments to Far West.  Just southwest and across the street from the temple block is the Reorganized Church.  I had dinner with Eldmer Entrakin while negatives were washing.  Would not make a charge.  Questioned John David Whitmer who never paid much attention to his father's testimony of the Book of Mormon until he was dead.  Then he thought more about it in one year than he had the the 20 years before. May 16, 2013 It is stupid humid today. One does not simply drive to Mordor ...I mean Far West.  There are a whole lot of roads with random letters involved like "D" and "HH."  Some numbers thrown like 83, 35, 116, and the 459 curve to spice things up. When you are in a Mini, the winding roads are actually quite soothing.  Unfortunately, it takes forever to figure out which road is which because they all look alike. The speed that you build up, driving way faster than recommended is for naught since you have

Hey Sherpa Pem, Can You Find My Pants?

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Dear Uncle  George, May 15, 1907: Crooked River.  It is true to name.  Mr. Thompson carrying the instrument part of the time.  Mr. Ray McCollough is name of the boy, I talked to him about smoking.  Only seventeen years old and has an old pipe between his lips often. Sent my instruments to Far West, with Mr. Ruben Sloan.  Passed some places with fat stock, sheep that had just been shorn, hogs, goats. Val May 15, 2013: Got to the Crooked River in Ray County.  Forgot my camera. Had to go home, 75 miles out of my way, to get it.  Feel cranky.  May or may not have cussed. If I had a Sherpa like you did, I bet he would have remembered to bring my camera to the PHOTO shoot. I have met a Sherpa in real life.  His name is Pem.  He is so amazing that Glamour Magazine would say he is "bad ass." He has climbed Mt. Everest.  Twice.  Without oxygen. The second time he did it, his fiance and a friend climbed with him.  The friend performed their marriage ceremony at the su

No Rich Men In Richmond

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Dear Uncle George, George May 10, 1907: I rose early and found directions to Edwin Whitmer, son of John C. Whitmer. Anxious to get through, so went to without breakfast.  Mr. Whitmer said he could not give me information I desired.  He did not believe things that were taught by the Whitmerite Church, so he had not taken an interest in them.  Met Mrs. Miller who was popping corn and preparing to entertain some children in the evening. Val May 10, 2013: Had some yummy Life cereal, with a side of fiber.  Fixed the vacuum.  Check on dead fish. Good lemonade, although not hard.  Lunch at a saloon.  Found some $1 store pregnancy tests (ekk!).  Graves made of cement tree trunks.  Matt broke up a fist fight at the Wendy's in Grandview.  Stopped at the jail site that is now a thrift store and bought cheap pearls for the Great Gatsby party.  This is the cemetery that Bob Ford is buried in, who shot Jesse James, otherwise known as the coward who shall not be named. Despite the name, R

Dear Jack White, you're irritating.

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Written by Uncle George:  May 9th, 1907 Rose before 5:35 am.  Bath.  Breakfast.  Twenty-one meals for $3 and it was good food.  Out about five miles east of Kansas City and made a view of the Big Blue.  Very muddy and sluggish.   Val:  May 9th, 2013 Accidentally ruined The Boy's Boy Scout shirt.  Ate some chocolate fiber.   Listened to Adam Levine.  Felt sorry for the folks in North Dakota. The day started out pretty annoying.  Seth was about two minutes from finally finishing that blasted Eagle Scout Boy Scout program.  So it made sense (not) that I should ruin his very expensive uniform and every single patch on it in the wash. Nice. It didn't have this much bling, but when you have to buy news patches and sew each patch on by hand AND the patches are about as thick as the walls of ancient Troy, you feel irritated.  And when you pull back your hands from your work, your fingers worn to the nub from shoving the needle into those patches, you feel irritated about th

" Who Needs Hell When You Have Wyoming?"

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Dear Uncle George, I have decided a state is my nemesis. I don't know Anne Proulx.  Candidly, she sounds kinda of nutty but we should have a conversation.  We seriously have something big in common:  we can't stand Wyoming. Here she is.  We practically look like twins. She writes fictional wild-west tales that include Satan in Wyoming.  You know the one, where the Prince of Darkness is moonlighting as an interior designer, brainstorming the look of eternal damnation. I know what he has gone with...a winter motif.  Lavished in bright red velvet (a given), snow and wind.  Lots of wind. Having been to Wyoming three disastrous times (not including that one visit to an old boyfriend) I can totally believe it. And if by chance, you want to visit Hell on earth, I know the port of entry: Casper (aka The Great Terrible). The answer is Casper, Alex, for $100. My last letter to you included the news that I was going to go back to Casper in February 2016 to photogra