Bear Creek between Evergreen and Morrison, 26 September 2006.
That little figure is yours truly.

Home Water

There is this well worn two word phrase, seemingly politically correct and held out as conventional wisdom by the bulk of modern fly fishing writers. It conjures up ancient images of Grandfather in canvas waders, a battered fedora hat stuck on his head, decked in a worn flannel shirt with a pipe full of smoldering Union Leader tobacco settled against his unshaven jaw. The images were made complete as the camera pulled back and slowly panned the scene. Grandfather stood knee deep in a rushing, crystal clear stream. His horn hard and masterful hands worked a bamboo fly rod, forming long arcs of shining line in the raking sun while the latest hatch of mayflies created a luminous insect blizzard all around him. Idyllic, yes, and the writers would say, “almost Homeric, a true Field and Stream epic…ah, those were the days.” Then, with a sigh and an inward turn of their own eyes, they would begin to remember their own home water.

Now, don’t assume that I am going on the offensive, attacking the phrase with some kind of acerbic wit. I find it a good phrase and true in subjective concept and objective meaning. It holds a deep truth. Any fly fishing junkie who is worthy of their stained and tattered vest has a place that he or she considers “Home Water.” Whether it’s a New England spring creek haunted by Brook trout or steep and rolling pocket water on some western river in Oregon, or perhaps one of the treacherous, meandering oxbow legends up in Montana, it matters little. It might be a narrow little Appalachian creek overgrown with willow and alder, or a hidden brook in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. What matters, what defines home water is the relationship between fisherman and that particular stretch of water. It is history, a sense of place and that certain and comfortable knowing of what will be around the next turn, whether that turn be a physical bend in the river or the turn of daylight to dusk or the turn of the seasons.

Those of you, oh beloved, who know my writing, might assume that my own home water would be Cabin Creek, flowing down from the snow fields on Mt, Meeker. Divining just what Cabin Creek is in my own physiognomy; well, that’s a mighty tough read. I’m scratching my head here and wondering, thinking on the run. What does physiognomy mean and how does it relate to this essay? Here’s what the folks at Webster have to say:

Main Entry: phys·i·og·no·my
Pronunciation: "fi-zE-'ä(g)-n&-mE
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural -mies
Etymology: Middle English phisonomie, from Middle French, from Late Latin physiognomonia, physiognomia, from Greek physiognOmonia, from physiognOmOn judging character by the features, from physis nature, physique, appearance + gnOmOn interpreter —more at GNOMON
Date: 14th century
1 : the art of discovering temperament and character from outward appearance
2 : the facial features held to show qualities of mind or character by their configuration or expression
3 : external aspect; also : inner character or quality revealed outwardly

Cabin Creek (another story) was and is a spiritual gift. God gave it to me as a place of harmony, reflection and life affirmation. Walking its sub-alpine banks, drinking its waters, eating its fish and the fruits nourished by its flow shaped my youth and the direction of my life, my physiognomy, if you will. I know that might seem like a bit of a stretch in science and logic. Yet that creek is as much a part of my being as is the DNA that I received from my biological parents or the eggs, tomatoes, potatoes and onions I had for breakfast.

I am not a large physical being, nor is Cabin Creek. And like that little creek, I do not like crowds or loud and boisterous convocations. My being and its being are inexorably tied to the ebb and flow of the seasons, droughts and fecund years. Mankind’s impact, beneficial or detrimental, has effected us both, yet we both continue to flow and laugh, continually fed by the alpine air, the alpine snows. Comparisons abound, and I could continue till you and I both fell asleep from my droning on.

Ya’ know, that conjures up an image. Time now for a small tangential hike on Cabin Creek.

Are you ready? Make sure you have on sturdy boots and take along some insect repellant. Oh yes, don’t forget to stuff a flannel shirt and a rain jacket in your pack. It is, after all, late summer in the high country. The weather can change in a heartbeat. Walk upstream with me, deep in the canyon we struggle through a maze of willows past an imposing granite overhang. Breaking free of the willows, we enter a small, hidden meadow about halfway between Highway 7 and the bridge on Big Owl Road. Steep slopes rise on either side of this meadow and the upstream and downstream ends are both closed by thick willow breaks. It is an intimate place, hushed, private and very personal. The waters of Cabin Creek flow out of the willows, down from a small falls into a short and deep meander before splitting into two flows around a granite outcrop. In late summer or early autumn, the sense of utter peace seeps up out of the damp earth, almost sentient and very tangible. There is this droning on the edge of consciousness that exists here. It whispers of rest and home. The breeze in the Ponderosa high above, the tinkling of the water flowing over rocks and the hushed murmur of air in the deep grasses and willows all join in a concert of contentment. Yep, a great place to sleep the afternoon away, except for the ubiquitous mosquitoes and the ominous gray thunderheads building over 13'900 ft. Mt. Meeker.

Enough, I am certain that you have grasped the concept. And now it is time to tell you of my home water.

Bear Creek rises from three snow fed alpine lakes on Mt. Evans, south and west of Denver. This center most massif of the Front Range peaks is visible from the plains. The Evans massif boasts two peaks over fourteen thousand feet. Mt. Bierstadt (14,060 ft.), is tied to Mt. Evans (14, 464 ft.) by an uncompromising and wicked saw tooth ridge that runs roughly east by north east in a south facing horseshoe shape. It is here that Bear Creek begins it run to the plains from the eastern slopes of the massif.

The creek rolls east by north east out of the rugged Alpine and Sub-alpine Evans Wilderness area into the Montane region designated as a state wildlife area where hunting and fishing are allowed under strict management by the Colorado Division of Wildlife. Jefferson County Public Schools maintains and outdoor education lab here. Now the creek drops into a broad and long glacial valley. This is the very private, very expensive, hobby ranch community of Upper Bear Creek. Willie Nelson once owned property here, until the taxman caught up with him. At the lower end the valley narrows into a short canyon then opens out to Evergreen Golf Course and the man-made Evergreen Lake, one of two impoundments created as flood control and municipal water supply diversions. Below the dam, Bear Creek flows through the township of Evergreen, (called by long time natives with a bent towards irony as “Overgrown”) where its banks and flows are maintained by the local chapter of Trout Unlimited. At the downstream end of Evergreen, the growing creek flows through a camp owned by the Episcopal Church. It then enters a checkerboard of private and public land. Midway down the canyon it passes through a private compound of one of the richest families in the Rocky Mountain Empire.

The twisting snake known as Highway 74 follows the winding canyon cut the creek from Evergreen down into the touristy town of Morrison at the mouth of the canyon. Leaving the foothills behind, the creek enters the Southern Denver suburbs. Here, the second impoundment forms Bear Creek Lake, a state park maintained for all types of water recreation. The creek then flows east until it merges with the South Platte River.

There you have the basic geographic structure of Bear Creek. Why do I choose to call it my home water? I could have easily picked much more glamorous and legendary rivers or streams like the South Platte around Cheesman Canyon, the steep and technical St. Vrain, the wicked Big Thompson, or even the northern beauty of the Cache la Poudre. Nope, I like the egalitarian, workingman nature of Bear Creek. It serves all conditions of mankind with the same implacable goodness and boundless energy. Members of Denver’s high society have maintained summer homes on its banks since the late nineteenth century. Mayor Speer, Denver’s farsighted leader in the early 1920s, purchased blocks of land along the creek and turned them into parks that are still maintained for any and all city residents to use and enjoy. Despite the immense impact of man on the majority of its length, Bear Creek retains a wild and clean feel. There is seldom found such intense human pressure with such little pollution. It is a grand combination and sympathetic interaction between man and nature. This long term and intensive use by humans shows that, with a bit of sensitivity and responsible cooperation, man can do what the Creator called us to do, maintain and husband the gift of this, our planet home. Plus, I can be streamside within forty-five minutes of leaving my front door. Not a bad thing at all, given my affinity for solitude of any kind.

On top of it all, the fishing is good and somewhat predictable. The canyon between Evergreen and Morrison holds mostly rainbows and brown trout. They are normally seven to fourteen inches in length and feed on a broad selection of insect life, most of it sub-aquatic. Therefore, Bear Creek is a nymph fisherman’s heaven. Hooking up with a fifteen to seventeen inch rainbow has on rare occasions, surprised my fishing buddies and me. Most folks who do not know Bear Creek look at us with doubt in their eyes and the attitude that, like most fishermen, we are prone to exaggeration, particularly when plied with strong drink. The fishing pressure keeps the resident fish educated enough to make we anglers work on our presentations. Bear Creek doesn’t have any legendary hatches. Although, in a good summer, there can be a wave of caddis fly hatches that travels upstream around the Fourth of July.

I suppose, if I had to pare down to a single word, why I have chosen Bear Creek as my home water, that word would be comfortable. Like a well-broken in pair of Carhartt overalls, Bear Creek fits me well and does the job intended with strength and grace, year after year after year.It’s a good symbiosis, full of synergy. And I believe that we both enjoy this relationship. I can’t speak for the creek, yet if my feelings are mirrored at all in the laughing waters of Bear Creek, then yes, it is a good relationship between Bear Creek and this old grandfather.

Chosen of the Santa Veronika

The dragon and the human reached the sparkling ripples that defined the ford across the Santa Veronika’s laughing waters. Indeed, Eppy felt stronger, drawing strength from the dragon’s fire and power. In spirit and mind he was clear as the brilliant sky above, infused with a clarity unknown before in his short life. However, he was still a human form, wounded, dehydrated and physically spent.

Dræco spoke: “Little brother, drink first, fill your belly. Then I will speak to our beloved sister. She makes her home here. She and I will hasten your healing. This is ancient magik, uncluttered, unsoiled by him who we do not name."

Eppy lifted his arm free of the dragon’s neck. The long upper muscles racked tight, stiff. He felt cold migrating from his blackened fingertips, down bone and sinew, seeking his core. It was grave cold, slow and insistent. The tracker knew he was acutely dehydrated and would go into shock without water and warmth. He knew that the sun was still high enough to throw some heat, here in late October. Alone, he stumbled downstream toward a gentle sided wide pool at the foot of the ford. There was lay a shallow depression partially cut into the living rock by the Santa Veronika’s raging spring run-off, grinding away against the soft sandstone. The Adonii Clan engineers had added their own thought and structure, creating a clean water trap for man and stock. Eppy’s instinct drove him. He desperately needed to hydrate his tortured body.

Dræco eyed the human as he stumbled, listing side to side like a sailor too long at sea, unable to regain his land legs. If a dragon could show compassion, there was compassion deep in the red beast’s dark yellow eyes as he watched his little changeling brother.

The dragon turned his massive body upstream, stepped gently into the upper reaches of the shallow ford and bent his great head low until his heavy chin barely touched the racing water. Dræco drank in a long, slow and deep breath. He began to sing. His voice thrummed deep and resonant in what we humans might think a sing-song. It was subtle, slow and deliberate. The dragon’s mantra rose from the waters, rang off the hills and echoed wall to wall in the vale. Rock doves rose with the echoes and carried them high across the sun washed craigs and deep, into dark canyons above; speaking the power manifest in Cĕdro Park.

Upstream from the chanting dragon a steep vertical knife blade of schist and basalt cut across the river’s path. The stone gathered the Santa Veronika’s waters and dumped them over a short, vertical fall. Below, the splashing water gathered in a deep basin, darkened by massive twin spruce arching over the pool, like giant cathedral towers. Interwoven ilex, alder and willow brush limbs drew together defining a hidden hall over the pool. As the dragon’s song grew in complex intensity, a shimmering form, barely visible at first, slowly rose from the pool. Silky and flickering silver green, a distinctly sumptuous female form coalesced and began a sinuous dance in rhythm with the dragon’s song.

There danced Santa Veronika herself, called by the dragon, rising from her deep water home in answer to Dræco’s passioned call for help. She would minister to the tracker, to Eppy. She knew him well, his life and history and loved him well from the first day, as a giggling, summer boy child, he had played in the twisting skirts of her shallow ford under the watchful eye of his mother. Veronika’s form grew as solid as focused thought. Her deep green eyes flashed like liquid malachite. As she watched the dragon and dehydrated human, her undulating form shimmered full of water that poured in constant, shifting colors, reflecting the westering sunlight. Autumn wet leaves and moss wove in a wreath with plaited black hair, an oval framing her wide and deep, ever-changing countenance. Tiny Brook Trout, bright in spawning colors, danced in a woven necklace that fell deep between the flow and swell of her full breasts. When she moved, she didn’t walk, she didn’t swim. She drifted in a dance that could at once mesmerize and delight, or, quick as thought, rise up in power and destroy.

“What is this? Who calls me to rise in these bright Autumn aires? Veronika’s voice rippled; at once soft and watery laughter, it held a cold and fierce ice knife edge. Dræco lifted his wide head, slowly shook it side to side. He chuckled.
Twisted, woven steam chuffed from his dripping jowls and rose into the deepening western sun. “Svelt sister, you know me. I know you and your dark green eyes.” Dræco laughed again. His own eyes, cat wise, swelled bright, full of memory. Then quickly his vision snapped back, sharp and fully present. “The changeling, we must look to his health, sister.”

Nikolas Eponymous lay on his belly, nestled in a smooth, water worn trough of cool, damp stone. His outstretched arms, pinned like piers in the slow twist of water, held his upper body just above the flow. In a slow rhythmic cycle he first buried his face in the Santa Veronika’s flinty waters, drinking long, full draughts, then raising his head high, arching over his back, he drank deep the cooling afternoon air. It didn’t matter that he was growing chilled. His body reveled in the fresh water and air flowing, restoring power, focus. Not only did Eppy feel his strength return, he felt the strong resolve of the Adonii blood pulsing through his veins. This was his river, just as he belonged to her.

The human quietly chuckled out loud. While he tended his dehyadrated, wounded body, his mind wandered down the halls of family memory.

“Dragon’s indeed! Grandfather would have been non-plussed and grandmother would have been pleased, no, delighted to have proved her stuffy, old curmudgeonly husband wrong. What a sight that would have made.” Eppy laughed again, softly and strong. In the back of his mind he listened to the dragon’s song, paying no heed to it or what it had accomplished. He did stop his reveling when the all-pervasive sing-song turned silent in the brilliant late afternoon. He looked upstream to see what next would happen. Eppy gasped. All his newly regained strength failed him. He choked in mid breath and nearly fainted as his young eyes fell upon the flickering form of Santa Veronika rising in response to Dræco’s song.

Nikolas knew her. All of his conscious life, his dreams and visions had been filled with her flowing presence, persistent and powerful. Her shadow had spoken with him, her voice nurtured him. Now, on this auspicious day when Eppy first found dragons to be true, this came to pass. Veronika was real, alive. And he wept.

Thrice in an instant, oh beloved, a serendipitous dance exploded thus:

The wind changed, flowing swift and cool out of the north. The sun’s dazzling, low raking light spilled into Cĕdro park through a wide break between high peaks in the upper canyon and a glorious song rose like twisting incense into the bright Autumn aires.

Nikolas Eponymous burst into joyous tears, wailing the long and rising pulse of the Adonii anthem. Dragon Red and River Nymph joined the human in deep, rhythmic harmony. High above in the deepening sky, two falcon voices screamed, high and lonesome while the strident, repetitive coarse croak of a raven echoed one word:

“…ADONII…!”

Then, oh beloved, the haunting, hoarse wail of the thrice forbidden pipes joined in song as the upright form of the Elder of elders, head of the Clan Adonii, rose into the far North saddle between the sparkling quartz spires. The Clan’s best and brightest spread out in an arc around the Elder and those who served him, voices and pipes joining the refrain. Glistening spearheads danced a dazzling dance in the low sun. Human voices rose in harmonious clamor with Red Dragon, River Nymph and the wounded human changeling, wet and cold, yet filled with the Father of Father’s joy unbounded. High above in the deepening sunset air, hawk and eagle, raven and falcon voices echoed in wild born refrain.

Pipes and voices; joyous dragon, nymph and human; wondrous and wild the call of creation; bird and air, trout and water, stag and land…Oh, beloved, the song of creation there in Cĕdro Park rose high into the heavens. Intertwined voices rose like clear incense, sweet and unsullied.

Listen oh beloved:

Adonii…Adonii…Adonii…great and glorious creator God,
Father and Mother, wood and vale, fire and air, hear our song.
Adonii…Adonii…Adonii…great and glorious creator God,
Brother and Sister, peak and plain, water and earth hear our song.
Adonii…Adonii…Adonii…great and glorious creator God,
Beloved lover of all creation, hearken to the voices of your beloved.

…ADONII!

Oh beloved God, creator and lover to all who exist on this broken sphere,
You who know each broken heart and wicked mind that cries out to you,
You who weep at each unseemly death and rejoice in the redemption of one,
You who call each of us to choose ‘tween you and the empty darkness;
You who call all creation to choose ‘tween your full breast and death;
You who call us with patience and quiet judgment to choose…SPEAK!
“Choose oh beloved, ‘tween the tempting world and my broken Son.”

…ADONII!

Adonii…Adonii…Adonii…humbled and broken creator God,
Lost father and broken mother weeping on bloody streets, hear our song.
Adonii…Adonii…Adonii…humbled and broken creator God,
Raging brother, wicked painted sister wretched on mean streets, hear our song.
Adonii…Adonii…Adonii…humbled and broken creator God,
Empty souls cry out to you, weary of the world’s wrecked and wretched songs.

…ADONII!

Oh beloved God, creator and lover to all who exist on this broken sphere,
You who know each broken heart and wicked mind that cries out to you,
You who weep at each unseemly death and rejoice in the redemption of one,
You who call each of us to choose ‘tween you and the empty darkness;
You who call all creation to choose ‘tween your full breast and death;
You who call us with patience and quiet judgment to choose…SING!
“Choose oh beloved, ‘tween the tempting world and my broken Son.”

…ADONII!

Then, as the sun turned behind the sharp, dark violet mountain teeth, it’s light reflected red and gold shimmering on the high clouds, pouring a soft and subtle light into the park. There silence reigned. No breath of air, nor bird, nor animal, nor thought of man remained. Only the gentle voice of the river murmured in the quickening sunset. The elder of elders slowly raised his carven staff into the last rays of the sun. The lingering light caught one last ray and spread a soft rainbow over the depths of the Adonii Keep and all of Cĕdro Park.

The Great Creator’s quiet reigned, the quiet of the dawn before creation rested in every heart as darkness crept up the canyon, hush and soft. Only a shimmering, northern light and breath of wind stirred with the river’s subdued voice.

More than a Few Ruffled Feathers...

Serendipitous - Our friends over at Merriam-Webster have this to say about the root word "serendipity":

Main Entry: ser·en·dip·i·ty Pronunciation: -'di-p&-tE Function: noun Etymology: from its possession by the heroes of the Persian fairy tale The Three Princes of Serendip: the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for.

The last few days I have been reading an posting on other BLOGS and cleaning up some overdue correspondence. Most of the writing has been involved with veterans and the current iteration of the Holy War that continues to plague the Middle East and the eastern Horn of Africa.

While sharing a specific war related poem, reflecting a conversation with a Viet Nam era vet, my close friend , Peter (http://www.nyx.net/~pforss/index.htm) shot back an e-mail asking if I had sent a copy to the vet for whom I had written the poem. DUH!!! I immediately sent him a copy of the poem, (which follows in this post) and received a warm and thoughtful response (which also follows in this post.) Meanwhile, I found link to http://gatheringofeagles.org/ , their logo graces the head of this post. I also revisited the Virtual Wall Memorial website where my closest High School friend's death is remembered here:

http://www.virtualwall.org/dk/KempCC01a.htm

I am sharing all of this for one very specific reason. No matter on which side of the socio-political spectrum one sits, stands or shouts-out-loud, I do truly believe that respect for those who have fallen in defense of this country and those hallowed places which memorialize them, must not be defiled.

The folks who will gather on 17 March 2007 to protect that long black wall from any foul desecration deserve support. I urge those who can to join them, those who cannot to get the word out and those who can afford to send funds, to do so without reservation.

Here shared, my reasons why I support the upcoming "Gathering of Eagles" :

~~~~~~~~~~

Kansas Eyes

I thought 'twas done. Forty years spent

Walking with ghosts, hearing the tales.

Once mute, lost voices rise in autumn light.

Over coffee I was pierced when I plumbed the depths,

His haunted, ice blue Kansas eyes.

He spoke of joy in flying over these high plains.

His ragged tooth smile, his modulated radio voice and

A heart that tends a hedgerow tall and strong.

Born in pheasant farm memories when Mithras called,

Tossed a farm boy, yet a man, into the killing fields.

French Indonesia, Vietnam, Cambodia:

Soggy, fetid dark green jungle folded rank;

Shadowy nether world, Old World, older than Christ.

Called him to unknown flesh and a festering war.

It tore a bloody, twisted screaming wound.

It ne'er was healed, that stinking wound.

It's septic, fouled puss still flows;

Infects and sickens his beloved home.

I saw it in his eyes today, haunted manhood's

Sour wine racked in long memory.

I saw it in dark rimmed hollows,

Sad and distant ice blue Kansas eyes.

Drawn close, new bloody born;

Remembered in quiet conversation

Fresh, over coffee hot and apple pie.

A cigarette glows, the traffic groans

In rhythmic haste. Now my soul eyes

These words drawn here, remembering

That cold, long black wall of names.

As once again, war's red fire set aflame.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tom's response:

Stephen,

'tis not so long since floods of memory clouded my eyes, but your poem did it just that way.

I, and the 59,000 brethern would be honored to be associated with those words.

Back in '82, I ventured to Washington DC, to do battle with the business mavens of my profession at the time, and while there, I visited The Wall. It was berift of any lights, flag, grass, nor statues... it didn't even have a proper sidewalk.

As I thumbed through the dog-eared pages of the "book" on either end, and came across old friends, I made my way down hallowed tablets of numbered stone, the better to find them all. At one point, I just bloody well SAT DOWN and cried my eyes out, trying to cover my face in the worn jungle hat, I'd stuffed into my suitcase. Passers by, tried not to stare, and some understood - that's when a fellow who had been sitting under a tree in the afternoon shade, came up... placed his hand on my shoulder and said those amazing words, that nobody had ever uttered.

"Welcome Home" he said

- and that began the voyage back to pasture and pond... the halcyon days of my youth, armed with naught but fishing pole and bare feet in the warm mud of a Summer's day - chasing madly after those lost days of a peach-fuzzed young man from a wheat field.

Bless You - Tom

~~~~~~~~~~

Yes indeed, more than just a few ruffled feathers await those who, for whatever reason, see fit to attmpt desecration of sacred ground.

The North Side

Actually, it is the North-west corner of Denver where Italian immigrants settled back in the early years of the last century. They found the floodplains of Clear Creek to be ideal land for truck farms. Once settled and worked, the land produced legendary crops. Long summer days, not too hot and mostly without rain provided ideal weather conditions for growing vegetables. The soil was deep, not too heavy with clay and rich from thousands of years of snowmelt washing soil and minerals off the Front Range mountains to the west.

The original immigrants were farmers, craftsmen...simple folk who wanted nothing more than the opportunity to make a better life. However, as the community grew in wealth and stature, it also drew notice from other Italian/Sicilian communities in Chicago and further east. The "Family" moved in and by the mid 1920's they were fully invested in local, ummmm, "politics". Railroad, commerce, ranching, mining and their attendant industries turned Denver into a wide open, if small, western city repleat with all of the attendant underworld activities: gambling, booze and prostitution.

Many of these enterprises were housed in the upstairs rooms or back offices of restaurants. Tradition!...It was the way things had always been done. These family run restaurants served up a wonderful mix of Italian food style food that was influenced by the local environment. Spanish and Mexican, German and Polish immigrants all added to the mix, along with the still plentiful wild game.

The following is one of those regional interpretation of a traditional dish that will serve 4 to6 hungry people...Enjoy:

North Side Spaghetti

- 1 to 1 1/2 lbs of Belfiore’s fresh ground, bulk, hot Italian sausage
- 1 link of “Columbus” Salame Secchi, sliced thin
- 1 medium white or yellow onion, chopped fine
- 4 to 6 cloves of fresh garlic, crushed and diced fine
- 2 stalks of local Paschal celery, chopped fine
- 1/2 green bell pepper, chopped fine
- 4 to 6 medium button mushrooms, stems removed and sliced fine
- 1lb can of local tomato sauce
- 1lb 12oz can of local diced tomatoes

- 1/4 cup of Kalamata olives, pitted and diced
- 1 to 2 tblsp of dried, sweet basil
- 1to 2 tblsp of dried, Mexican oregano
- 2lbs Barilla, fresh or dried spaghetti or linguine pasta
- A good sized wedge of Parmesano Regiano cheese

- 1/4 cup of fresh Extra Virgin Olive oil

- A jug of decent red wine, a spicy Chianti or Cabernet Savignon

- One loaf of fresh, heavily crusted, Ecchi Panis, or similar local Italian bread

Brown the Italian sausage in a well seasoned dutch oven over high heat, crumbling it as it browns. Add the onions and garlic and continue stirring until the onions begin to brown and caramelize. Add a cup or so of the red wine. Have a glass for yourself, if desired. Once the mixture comes to a boil, turn the heat down to medium high and allow the wine to reduce in water content, about half, stirring frequently.

Add the cans of diced tomatoes and tomato sauce, celery, bell pepper and olives. Crush the oregano and basil to a coarse powder in the palms of your hands and stir into the sauce. Allow it to come to a boil and simmer for 10 minutes or so.

Meanwhile, fill a medium stock pot with cold water, add about 1/4 cup of the olive oil and put the pot on over high heat. Take a fresh baked loaf of crusty, local Italian bread, sliced not quite completely through, slathered the slices with garlic butter, wrap in foil and tuck into a low (200-250 degree) oven... more wine for the cook?

Stir the sliced mushrooms and Salame Secchi into the sauce and turn down to medium low, allow the mixture to continue to simmer uncovered.

When the water comes to a rolling boil, add the pasta and stir until the pot comes back to a full boil. Continue to stir the sauce. It will thicken into quite a savory and colorful sauce.

Test the pasta after about 10 minutes. I like mine a bit "al dente". Remove it from the heat and drain off the water and cover.

Pull the bread from the oven. The garlic butter should be melting into the body. I like a bit of grated Parmesan added at this time.

We serve this dinner buffet style, allowing each individual to come to the kitchen and plate their own portion of pasta, sauce, bread and grated parmesan.

The rest of the wine jug is on the table covered with a red checked tablecloth and a couple of candles, just for atmosphere. A little blessing, a little toast and a hearty meal, spiced with good conversation and laughter is sure to follow.

Judge Wallace Lundquist

11 February 1923 ~~~ 14 January 2007

Dad's full obituary can be read at the following site:

http://rememberedby.us/judgelundquist.

~~~~~