CITIZEN JOURNALISM WORK
This story received the highest number of hits in ChiTown Daily News' history:
Following are clips from a press campaign to promote ChiTown Daily News and featured my Cops article as well as my contribution as a citizen journalist:
http://www.knightfoundation.org/news/press_room/knight_in_the_news/detail.dot?id=323826
http://www.tcdailyplanet.net/article/2008/06/02/chi-town-daily-news-ditches-just-journalists-model.html
http://www.scribd.com/doc/9509010/The-ChiTown-Daily-News-Case-Study2008
http://www.miller-mccune.com/media/the-bottom-line-for-nonprofit-news-4725/
http://cyber.law.harvard.edu/sites/cyber.law.harvard.edu/files/Chi-Town%20Daily%20News_MR.pdf
Other articles I wrote for ChiTown Daily News:
http://www.chitowndailynews.org/Chicago_news/Latin_School_field_opponents_vow_legal_action,12266
http://www.chitowndailynews.org/Chicago_news/Packed_house_enthusiastic_about_gay_friendly_school,16971
http://www.chitowndailynews.org/Chicago_news/On_the_135_bus_CTA_cuts_unpopular,10297
GRAD SCHOOL WRITING ASSIGNMENTS
Grad School Writing Assignment on the Hoover Dam
http://www.knightfoundation.org/news/press_room/knight_in_the_news/detail.dot?id=323826
http://www.tcdailyplanet.net/article/2008/06/02/chi-town-daily-news-ditches-just-journalists-model.html
http://www.scribd.com/doc/9509010/The-ChiTown-Daily-News-Case-Study2008
http://www.miller-mccune.com/media/the-bottom-line-for-nonprofit-news-4725/
http://cyber.law.harvard.edu/sites/cyber.law.harvard.edu/files/Chi-Town%20Daily%20News_MR.pdf
Other articles I wrote for ChiTown Daily News:
http://www.chitowndailynews.org/Chicago_news/Latin_School_field_opponents_vow_legal_action,12266
http://www.chitowndailynews.org/Chicago_news/Packed_house_enthusiastic_about_gay_friendly_school,16971
http://www.chitowndailynews.org/Chicago_news/On_the_135_bus_CTA_cuts_unpopular,10297
GRAD SCHOOL WRITING ASSIGNMENTS
Grad School Writing Assignment on the Hoover Dam
By Kimberly Michaelson
LAE 518
Due date: March 17, 2011
WORD COUNT: 2,000
The first time I visited California was for a three week TV shoot. I gratefully accepted the assignment, desperate for a vacation from my pathetic marriage and an evil, persistent Minneapolis winter. For three weeks I partied like a starlet at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills - eating at the finest restaurants, lounging by the pool, carousing along Sunset Boulevard, and floating far, far away from my misery. The sunshine felt like magic and I was only able to see the Tiffany Blue of the ocean, the kelly green of the Hollywood Hills and the bright hot magenta beauty of the bougainvillea.
Raising a champagne flute to my lips, I marveled at how remarkably frizz-free my hair had become in a climate devoid of humidity. It was such a relief to be vapid, not stressed. So my softened brain did not process a puzzling disconnect between my silken tresses courtesy of the desert air with the delightful tropical fruits I nibbled poolside at the Four Seasons. Tropical fruits in a desert? I gave no thought to the origin of the power supply fueling the tunes blaring out of speakers while I watched Jane’s Addiction from backstage at The Whiskey. And I never once considered the namesake of Mulholland Drive sitting up in those Hollywood Hills in my director’s chair, script on my lap, client to my left, daydreaming out over the breathtaking expanse of the Los Angeles skyline.
That trip gave my soul just enough breathing room for a watershed decision that altered the course of my life: to get a divorce. Now I learn that the California where that decision was made was enabled when man altered the course of history and nature, arm wrestled the Colorado River to the ground and constructed the massive Hoover Dam. This enormous feat resulted in a structure that irrigated the crops to produce the exotic fruit that nourished my body, harnessed the water supply filling the pool where I lazed and tanned, and lit up the sprawling Los Angeles cityscape I viewed through hopeful tears.
I know I’m not alone my assumption that when I flip a light switch, the lights will go on. Yet the Hoover Dam was only built 75 years ago; a relatively recent phenomenon in world history. What a massive undertaking in the early 1930s to build a structure with enough concrete to pave a 16 foot highway stretching from the Golden Gate Bridge to the Brooklyn Bridge! I’m not too prissy to value the idea of 21,000 men drilling, jack hammering, digging, high scaling and exploding the land to redirect the course of nature. And I’ve worked in business long enough to honor the testimony of will to manage an average of 5,000 men working three shifts a day, seven days a week, in unrelenting heat getting them to complete a $165 million project two years ahead of schedule.
President Herbert Hoover’s heart was certainly in the right place when he said, "We want to see a nation built of homeowners and farm owners. We want to see more and more of them insured against death and accident, unemployment and old age. We want them all secure." This point of view motivated a multiple-year legislative campaign promoting Southwest expansion, specifically development of Southern California. State-specific skirmishes flared here and there with Arizona harboring an inferiority complex and holding up the process. But ultimately, Congress approved construction of Boulder Dam in 1928. They then passed the California Limitation Act and the subsequent Boulder Canyon Project Act. And Hoover Dam’s construction was imminent.
Departing office embroiled in heated controversy, the Dam didn’t even officially bear Hoover’s controversial name until the mid 1940s. President Franklin D. Roosevelt swooped in to clean up the country’s mess and enacted the bright, shiny New Deal to put millions of desperate, starving and homeless people to work. During this time, the population of the American West was 11 million people. Half of them lived in a rural California with dirt roads and lacking phone lines.
Absurd temerity was displayed before ink was dry on the Dam’s blueprints. Businessmen jockeyed for alliances and positioning all determined to find their fortune in developing California. A series of back room deals, handshakes and three martini lunches brought business leaders together Godfather-style. Like the opportunity in front of them to harness the power of a wild, untamed river, they recognized the power of convergence because no single construction company could raise the $5 million in capital needed to win the job. Presenting a united front, a conglomerate was called Six Companies was formed between Morrison-Knudsen Co., Utah Construction Co., J. F. Shea Co., Pacific Bridge Co., MacDonald & Kahn Ltd. and a joint venture of W. A. Bechtel Co., Henry J. Kaiser, and Warren Brothers. This group ultimately presented the lowest bid to the Bureau of Reclamation, and was awarded what, at the time, was the largest single contract the United States government had ever awarded.
As a government contractor, Six Companies was held to impossible standards. And, as savvy business owners, the company’s leaders set about the task to attract and retain top talent. Frank T. Crowe had spent twenty years working for the Bureau and was known as the premier Dam builder in the country. Crowe, on some level, sensed his spiritual calling years before and remarked to his father his intention to build Boulder Dam. So, when he joined forces with Six Companies with the nickname “Hurry Up Crowe,” he embarked on the project that would remain the hallmark of his career. In a 1943 Fortune magazine interview, he remembers, “I was wild to build this dam. I had spent my life in the river bottoms and (Hoover Dam) meant a wonderful climax – the biggest dam ever built by anyone anywhere.”
The humanity of the men who built Hoover Dam is remarkable. In desperate poverty and starvation, people fled their conditions for the hope of a job, flocking to the Las Vegas area often without any construction experience based on the flimsy promise of possible employment. A tent-filled living hell sprung up in the barren heat of the desert summer its residents lovingly nicknamed Ragtown. Crowe’s first order of business was to lead Six Companies to fashion a more stable home base for the workers. The result was a gated quasi-military base called Boulder City where workers ate three square meals a day in a mess tent and children played freely. Finally, thousands of men had stable employment and were willing to overlook grueling hours and punishing conditions in order to put food on the table for their families.
Before construction began on the Dam itself, Crowe had the temerity to arm wrestle the river away from the project site. This required drilling diversionary tunnels using heavy explosives and requiring on-the-spot invention. Crowe, always with his eye on the timeline, developed a “Hurry Up” device called the Jumbo Rig. He piled 24 to 30 drills onto the back of a ten-ton truck. Eight of these structures were operated simultaneously to propel man through the rock walls of the canyon. Then over 285 tons of dynamite – one quarter the force of a nuclear explosion - attacked the canyons to form the second largest tunnels ever made. The rubble was used to stop the river’s path and after a frustrated fight, it acquiesced and spilled off into the tunnels.
This dramatic pre-construction initiative took place in the summer so the river could be re-routed in preparation for the winter. Temperatures reached an unimaginable 140 degrees inside the tunnels. Men became ill, often fatally ill from carbon monoxide caused by forbidden transport of gas-powered vehicles in and out of the tunnels, dust from the blasting and pure heat exhaustion. Men forgot their pre construction unemployment desperation and went on strike with severe consequences. The government sided with Six Companies and Crowe who was known to hold a grudge ordered a wholesale termination of the workforce. 100% of the workers were replaced and construction resumed, uninterrupted.
The Dam’s presence is so iconic it is even visible from the sky in satellite photography. Its mammoth presence looms day or night, giving the Dam’s over 4,500 daily visitors reason to pause and gape in awe, grasping for words to express the enormity of what they see. Not only is it visually overpowering, its construction required heroic engineering. Once the team realized if they poured the concrete en masse it would have taken 125 years to cool due to the extreme heat, Crowe attacked the problem as the father of invention. On June 6, 1933, the first of 230 concrete blocks was placed in forms, having been mixed and dried elsewhere and transported by nine overhead cable ways. Ironically, while the men were falling ill and dying due to exposure to the heat and sun, keeping the curing concrete blocks properly cooled was top priority. Refrigerated water was piped through tubes to keep the blocks cool enough so they could dry. The cooled, dried blocks were stacked in interlocking columns and grouted at 300 pounds per square inch by pneumatic grout guns. The visual result is a breathtaking 726 foot tall wedge in the earth. When it is described as one of the Top 10 construction achievements of the 20th century and the eighth wonder of the world, anyone who has laid eyes on it accepts these superlatives without question. Then, artists made it a masterpiece. Oskar J.W. Hansen added a sculptural element, Allen True grounded the interior with Navajo inspiration and architect Gordon D. Kaufman supplied cosmopolitan art deco finishes that played on the monolithic appearance of the Dam’s dominant feature.
When the Dam was dedicated in 1936, President Roosevelt addressed a live audience of 10,000 - almost the size of the total number of workers that built the structure. Another 20 million more tuned in by radio to hear his remarks that the dam gave real Americans jobs, would produce affordable hydroelectric power, provide reliable irrigation and protection from unforeseen disasters like floods.
With Eleanor beaming at his side, he basked in the crowning achievement of the social and economic might of his New Deal.
Roosevelt’s remarks hardly captured the sheer force of the effort. A truly American story, it’s not without its flaws. Critical questions linger about the stability of the water supply, the scarcity of this natural resource, the economic calculus of waste vs. wealth. There are reports of rampant alcohol abuse and social disease amongst the workers who dashed off to Block 16 when they got their paycheck, the opposite of the impoverished dust bowl refugee prevalent in the remaining images. Accusations also prevail of racist hiring and employment practices – common for the day, yes, but also not the position the Dam’s public affairs department wants to portray.
Certainly, the Bureau continued to build Dams in other parts of the country and the heads of Six Companies were more than financially rewarded for their conglomerate’s gamble. Hoover Dam was the apex of both Crowe and Kaufman’s careers. Today Lake Mead’s 233 square miles remain the largest artificially created body of water. 60% of California’s 37 million people reside in the southern portion of the state. Another 6.5 million live in Arizona and 2.6 million in Nevada. Hoover Dam continues to supply 1.5 million kilowatts of power to these households.
Hoover Dam represents the power of economic and political convergence. The courage to dream and the unmitigated gall to alter the course of a natural resource, to change the agricultural and economic future of previously unusable land is astounding. And yet it’s the individual stories that are the unsung heroes. Countless men lost their lives scaling the heights of the dam, no prior experience, just trying to make a living for their family. And today, who knows how many young women sit atop Mulholland Drive, staring in the night at the Hoover Dam-powered twinkling Los Angeles skyline, struggling to find the audacity to alter their natural course, too.
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Grad school writing assignment on the Lewis and Clark Journals
Journalist Paul Allen’s Behind The Scenes Narrative About Meriwether Lewis
Journalist Paul Allen’s Behind The Scenes Narrative About Meriwether Lewis
By Kimberly Michaelson
LAE 518
Due date: March 3, 2011
Completely soaked in cold sweat, I woke with fright following another harrowing recollection. This recurrent situation plagues me nightly. The only solace I can find is by sitting in these wee hours, writing my true feelings. So, after donning a change of bedclothes, I once again unburden my heart by putting pen to paper.
My friend Thomas Jefferson asked me to compile the narrative of an important exploration mission led by Meriwether Lewis and Lewis’ choice of co-captain, William Clark. They led a team called Corps of Discovery to evaluate the western portion of the continent following Jefferson’s acquisition of the land from Spain. The objective of the mission was to identify commercial viability of the land and to determine the course of the Northwest Passage, a water route to the Pacific Ocean. I was one of the core members of the Corps of Discovery. As such, Jefferson requested my collaboration to co-author a specialized account in confidence. Joining us in this lofty assignment is fellow Corps of Discovery team member, Nicholas Biddle.
When presented in a matter-of-fact way, the request seems benign. The journey was well documented in copious, meticulous detail, penned by both Lewis and Clark. Volumes of these notes were edited and published two years ago. But now, following the premature passing of young Lewis, we struggle to come to terms with the death of a great leader, tremendous friend and troubled soul.
Jefferson, in particular, struggles to make peace with the loss of his childhood friend, having witnessed the demise of this great man.
Participating in this writing team has caused me personal strain. Sleepless nights like this one prevail and dreams of Lewis and our voyage wake me when I do take fitful slumber. Meriwether Lewis was a complex man with vast disconnect in his character traits. I have a passionate desire to productively, positively represent this elite team of Jefferson, Biddle and myself and with our best face forward, to honor the memory of Lewis as a truly remarkable leader. But it would be inaccurate to omit how he was also painfully insecure, sought solace in spirits and potions, and was haunted by self doubt, resentment and other demons.
Tonight I was startled awake by the sensation I had fallen a great distance. As I mop my brow trying to shake the haunting feeling, I am vexed with these persistent nightmares. The endless days of exploration and questioning as our team endeavored to identify the Missouri River were complex, dangerous and fraught with anxiety. Replaying our harrowing adventures stirs up emotions long ago stifled and conjures memories of a tremendously anxious time.
One year into our endeavor, we were incredibly fatigued. We were overwhelmed by scenes of visionary enchantment and exhausted by the sheer physical act of documenting every sight, sound and motion we encountered. Most of our interactions with the Indians were friendly and collegial, but there were continuous threats from unknown groups and we were always on guard. Wild animals of every shape and imagination pounced upon us, forcing us off course and postponing our progress. Every night we were bitten within an inch of our life by mosquitoes and gnats. Prickly pears had worn the soles off our feet. The unfamiliar terrain was our most prevalent foe; however, as rock formations of all scale and might required our examination and tested our mettle. And we had long ago grown tired of eating buffalo for three meals a day.
A particularly memorable event was watching Lewis slip into a narrow pass about 30 yards in length. I watched him disappear from sight and heard a descending cry into the passage. Yelling and scrambling towards him to see if he was safe, I heard his muffled voice assuring me he was alive. He crawled out of the hole and I got to him just in time to help pull him out. Just as he was barely on solid footing we heard the shuffling sound of moccasins slipping and turned around to watch Windsor slip out of sight. He was lying on his belly, holding on for dear life with his left arm. Lewis and I urgently stumbled over there, slipping in those damn moccasins, trying to reach him in time to help pull him to safety. I remember clearly that Lewis showed no emotion during this encounter. I couldn’t understand his lack of reaction! My heart had been pounding mercilessly - concerned for the safety of our entire crew. Slipping on these rocks was not just frustrating. Not being able to regain footing would have meant plunging to a certain death! We had been so fortunate not to have any member of our team pass despite continued danger and unpredictable events and here Lewis was acting as if everything was just … normal!
Come to think about it, Lewis kept a strong public mask in the face of any manner of volatile circumstances, retelling the events over the campfire at night as if he was laughing in the face of the grim reaper. He glugged whiskey and embellished the tales. We were all enthralled with him. A wonderful woodsman, a talented scribe, an intelligent scientist and a diplomatic leader – his charisma was just an additional quality we admired and trusted despite our personal fatigue.
But our team was facing extreme tension surrounding the identification of a fork in the river and trying to determine which direction would take us on our continued quest to the Northwest Passage. If we opted for the incorrect path, our undertaking would be set back by several months. Not only would there be financial ramifications, but the impediment would discourage us all to the point it could permanently defeat the mission in total. Lewis and Clark bore a tremendous burden in making the correct choice and strategic side missions were essential to test varying hypotheses.
I accompanied Lewis and Clark on many of these side excursions, one in particular took us to the top of the heights to survey the fork of the rivers from an elevated vantage point. While I was busy documenting the number of buffalo, wolves and elk, Lewis and Clark were bickering about how we got to this point and what next steps to take. I felt they trusted me to keep their disagreement in confidence and was surprised to hear Lewis, in particular, seething with resentment about information received from an Indian tribe. It was his belief we had been misled by the Indians, as he felt they had positioned themselves as experts in the country, and should have mentioned this river on the right hand. He practically spat as he shouted, “if they call it the river that scolds at all others, then how could they not have mentioned this other fork we have to pass before we get to the falls?!” Clark was trying to calm him and keep him focused on tasks and calculations. But Lewis was depressed and angry. I remember him sipping from a canteen, and with each sip, he seemed to relax, though he remained heated.
By the time we returned to camp, Lewis regained emotional control. He commiserated with the men who had spent the day salving their feet which had been badly damaged by stones and rough ground. Unaccustomed to walking in moccasins or, in many cases, barefoot, the men were in tremendous pain. Both Lewis and Clark were marvelous motivators and, especially having witnessed Lewis’ outburst up on the bluff, I admired his ability to encourage and inspire the men to press on. They dispatched teams in canoes with specific instructions. Even though inconclusive reports were returned, and there was insufficient information to enable a certain decision to take one fork over the other, Lewis revealed none of the heated passion he had displayed in private, presenting an even and thoughtful front.
I suspected he gained significant assistance to control his emotions from whiskey and other spirits he squirreled away inside his canteen. Thinking about those canteen sips, it occurred to me he frequently smelled of alcohol during the daytime and his eyes often possessed a glazed appearance. I stayed silent with these observations because he was such a remarkable leader and we were all under tremendous pressure to accomplish what most of the time seemed an impossible task. But Clark just didn’t seem as personally affected by the mission. He was almost obsessively focused on tasks, unrelenting in his motivation to produce results. Lewis seemed deeply impacted by making any decision. He wrestled with every calculation, striving to reason out a perfect conclusion, bearing the weight of each choice inside his heart. If his conclusions and ideas proved to be correct, he was exuberant. Should his theories fail, however, he sunk into deep depression and retreat, the ever-present calm front concealing an abyss of personal disappointment. Also, he seemed to need rewards for having gone through particularly difficult day-to-day missions. Clark was more the martyr, toiling through any weather, any illness. He was up with the sun and working until the last ember died in the fire. Lewis was indeed a hard worker, but he needed to rest and recuperate more than Clark, only truly reviving after a particularly grueling session if a hearty supper and comfortable bed followed suit.
Again, no team member could begrudge either leader’s approach and most men probably would not have noticed these character traits. I may not have considered any of these nuances, myself, had I not been asked to document the story less from a scientific perspective and more to take stock of the men themselves. I am certainly not blameless in letting emotion get the best of me. We traversed completely uncharted territory for two years with no map, guessing at almost every pace as to whether we were on the correct course. On more than one occasion I allowed nerves to take over and acted out in sheer frustration and exhaustion. So Lewis and Clark had to feel pressure ten times that of a rank-and-file crew member. Their ability to make sound decisions despite their feelings are reflected in their journals. And to witness it first hand was truly inspiring.
Lewis and I went on another reconnaissance mission where we encountered some of the most breathtakingly beautiful scenery we had encountered on the entire trip. Every other man in the Corps was convinced we were at the Missouri. We stood analyzing this beautiful liquid ribbon wanting desperately to term it the Missouri so we could be on our way. Lewis’ calculations and analysis proved otherwise, however, based on lack of compatibility between the hue of the water and turbulence of the current. We stood there in silence, listening to the rushing current, mustering courage to return with this unpopular viewpoint. He named her Maria’s River in honor of Miss Maria Wood, his cousin. Upon our return we were greeted by a highly anxious Captain Clark who had fretted over our journey taking two days longer than originally planned. The two sequestered to review the findings of my trip with Lewis and compare notes with Mr. Fidler’s prior calculations. Their deliberations were extensive.
At long last, an announcement was made, that we would adopt the South fork as the most efficient route, the point of view Lewis shared with me at Maria’s River. I suspected it caused both Lewis and Clark tremendous strain to lean away from the course that would provide a more immediate solution. The team all voiced their opinions that they were not in agreement that this was the proper course; however, they respected the leadership and guidance of Lewis and Clark and would support their decision with pleasure. Lewis, in particular, seemed relieved the men were willing to support his theory and I knew him well enough to know how much stress he bore hoping he hadn’t led them deeper into the wilderness without purpose.
Preparations to decamp took a few days and I had occasion to assist Lewis as he made final observations. He validated my suspicions, confiding insecurity in his decision, worried he had made an error. He expressed desire to send one final small party to confirm. He was sick to his stomach and trying to appear cheerful, but had to take salts to quell his nausea. Perhaps the sickness was related to the physical toll of the burden of such anxiety. It might have been the effects of too much whiskey consumed as an elixr to salve the nerves, as well.
I accompanied Lewis on the final search party and our spirits as a group were fine. Lewis, in particular, surprised me by whistling a little tune as he swung his pack over his shoulder as we set out on our hike into the wilderness once more. We killed four elk after having encountered a herd on the Missouri just above us and were busy butchering the meat and preparing the skins when Lewis suddenly doubled over with pain. He was so sick he refused to join us in devouring the marrowbones, the hunter’s most delicious treat. His medical complaints included fever and lethargy so he fashioned some strange concoction for himself and rested. It was so uncommon for Lewis to be transparent with any physical affliction that I couldn’t help feel vindicated in my suspicions once more – perhaps his body reacted to his persistent angst? I wanted that to be the case. But when his recovery was just as sudden as the downfall, I suspected there was alcohol in that liquid potion he had prepared.
We split into groups of two and headed in various directions once again in the morning. I was with Lewis and the land we were covering was a level plain swarming with buffalo and really picturesque scenery. Lewis was tense and worried we were not going to find the falls and we walked a great distance together in an edgy silence. I was busy trying to scout a place for dinner when Lewis stopped suddenly, standing at rapt attention, looking off into the distance. I stopped too, unsure of what was causing his frozen stance, trying to assess the situation. He swung his head around to me with a giant smile on his face, eyes wide open, like a child on Christmas morning. He cried, “Do you hear that!?” I strained my ears and thought I detected a slight roaring sound, possibly rushing water, but I wasn’t sure I was hearing clearly. We sprinted a short distance towards the sound and it became stronger and more powerful - undeniably, unmistakably a waterfall. Running even closer we noticed billowing mist. We were hugging and whooping with glee as we ran towards it. For the first time in months we forgot how much our feet hurt and we ran and jumped as if fatigue evaporated from our bones.
Standing upon the falls we were awed by its majesty. The sheer force of the water made it impossible to converse over the din of the rushing, crashing waves coming up over the rocks and down into the beautiful, glorious Missouri River. Lewis was busy penning his scientific findings and other calculations while I sat and reveled in the might and beauty of this liquid behemoth. Tears rolled out of my eyes as I pondered the celestial power responsible for creating this incredible formation. I glanced at Lewis, surprised at his frustration and angst. I asked him what was wrong and he responded in defeat. He said he’s impotent – disgusted with his inability to adequately describe what we were looking at. He threw his tablet at me and said, “read this, it’s garbage! I’m nothing!” I read his description and at once realized how the depth of his self doubt. His prose more than accurately reflected the divine presence in our midst – it was beautifully poetic, yet detailed enough to explain to those who had never witnessed it with their own eyes the magic of the celestial sight in front of us. I wasn’t certain how to console him. I didn’t think any human could fill such a profound void. The dichotomy of reaching the pinnacle of our mission bringing on such tremendous personal trauma in the person responsible for the discovery perplexed me. We should both be rejoicing to the point of hallucination right now. Instead, the leader of our Corps, chosen by The President of our land, is twisted in shame, having set a standard for himself no mortal can achieve. And I felt overwhelmed with emotion having reached our objective, witnessing a miracle of the universe before my very eyes, and yet feeling distracted by my leader’s disturbing performance.
And, in true Lewis form, he shook it off, shut his tablet, stood up with a smile on his face and said, “I’m starving, where are those buffalo humps? I could eat a whole herd of them!” And that was the end of it.
I sit back and marvel at these memories and stories as the sun comes up over the horizon and the hazy blue of early dawn fills my room - another sleepless night obsessed about a man who can no longer speak for himself. I cling to the conundrum of how his private insecurity spilled out despite his best efforts to conceal it, though it’s only obvious now in hindsight, and after it’s too late. The hot heat of whiskey could not burn the embers of discontent in his soul. No amount of endorsement from the highest authority of the land could prove his sense of self worth. Despite tremendous accomplishment, there was no victory inside.
Now, focusing on my assignment – the task of trying to document this journey - requires the same sort of undaunted courage Lewis had to muster to perform despite the ache in his soul. I sit through these sleepless nights sorting through my own feelings so during the day I can meet with Jefferson and Biddle and focus on the facts. Jefferson is more available to express his raw emotion on the topic, and rightly so – Lewis was his companion in the halcyon days of youth. The celebrated bond of boyhood friendship is an acceptable loss to mourn following a man’s death. The untimely demise of an accomplished collaborator is also a cause that warrants public emotion.
But to actually understand the demons that motivated a man to destroy himself – that must be done in private, and the genuine truth may never be revealed.
Appendix:
I based this story on the voice of Paul Allen, the Philadelphia Journalist who received the editing assignment of the Journals from Biddle following Lewis’ death. I imposed him as an embedded member of the Corps of Discovery based on knowing his involvement with this editing assignment.
About the Biddle/Allen publication:
Captain Lewis was supposed to have edited the journals for publication, but he met with an untimely death, probably by murder, while traveling through Tennessee in 1809. The task then fell to Clark, who asked the Philadelphia lawyer Nicholas Biddle, to complete the job. Biddle agreed, but soon passed the work on to Paul Allen, a Philadelphia journalist. The journals were finally edited and made ready for publication in 1812, but were not published until February 20, 1814. Originally, an edition of 2,000 was to be printed, but when missing copies were tallied and defective copies weeded out, only 1,417 remained. These sold at six dollars a copy. The Biddle-Allen revision of the Lewis and Clark journals left intact the raw quality of diaries written in the wilderness, retaining their sense of danger and high adventure. -- Excerpt from: Treasures of the University of Delaware Library
Captain Lewis was supposed to have edited the journals for publication, but he met with an untimely death, probably by murder, while traveling through Tennessee in 1809. The task then fell to Clark, who asked the Philadelphia lawyer Nicholas Biddle, to complete the job. Biddle agreed, but soon passed the work on to Paul Allen, a Philadelphia journalist. The journals were finally edited and made ready for publication in 1812, but were not published until February 20, 1814. Originally, an edition of 2,000 was to be printed, but when missing copies were tallied and defective copies weeded out, only 1,417 remained. These sold at six dollars a copy. The Biddle-Allen revision of the Lewis and Clark journals left intact the raw quality of diaries written in the wilderness, retaining their sense of danger and high adventure. -- Excerpt from: Treasures of the University of Delaware Library
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Grad school writing assignment on Day of the Jackal
Jackal and Madamme Baronne
Jackal and Madamme Baronne
F. Scott Fitzgerald
By Kimberly Michaelson
LAE 518
Due date: February 10, 2011
My father instilled in me numerous fundamental standards that persist in my mind; amongst those are that focus and determination are tantamount to success, and success is everything. Our relationship did not possess the emotional intimacy I observe in other families, but to buoy this relentless fixation on achievement, he made a critical remark that still haunts me.
“The nurturing of a good woman is difficult to find. But the affection of a deprived woman is something to be feared, for it might indeed ruin you.”
Of course Father didn’t anticipate I’d elevate through the ranks to one day be at the pinnacle of my profession: the top specialized undercover assassin in the world. My name was known to few, and my true identity was known only to me. Therefore, my relations with women had been short-lived anonymous and solely physical sessions conducted in stolen moments. Now, charged with a most prestigious target, The President of France, my sights were set on this covert achievement - the reward enabling me ample financial security and early retirement.
Having spent the better part of a year engaged in meticulous preparations, embroiled in study and adopting, then shedding identities to conceal my tall, thin frame and blonde hair, I received word I’d been exposed. Staring calmly away from the fire, I sought deeper cover and retreated as the blaze of the police search intensified like the late summer heat. I calculated that the mountainous, winding stretches in the South of France would shield me and cool things down. The hazy August weather was erratic, the fervent pursuit relentless. An unplanned passageway led me to what initially seemed a refreshing temporary residence at Chateau de la Haute Chaloniere. There I certainly remained out of sight from the eye of the law, but I was unable to completely eliminate the fever.
En route with the top down in my white Alfa, cool air filled my lungs and the river was my liquid guide from the flames at my back. Antique trees arched my road to serenity. Cows assembled in their pastures pointing the way through pleasant main streets in settlements dotted with sandstone bricked buildings. Quaint chapels saluted my Alfa’s departure from each hamlet back onto lengthy expanses of road. Verdant hills and snowcapped mountains hugged me in their warm embrace on these stretches between villages. When peckish, I would tuck in for a crisp, chilled chardonnay - refreshing and mellow liquid complimenting a luncheon of baguette with jamon and brie. As the sun dipped out of sight, sated and fueled, the inferno’s pursuit was only a memory. I spotted the Hotel du Cerf - A former hunting lodge of royalty, I deemed its ivy covered walls the ideal location for me to recharge my identity as Duggan, and to rest my blonde head in proper style.
Good fortune provided a number of vacant suites for my selection and while I cleansed my long-limbed form, the attendant pressed my grey suit, silk shirt and knitted tie, and freshened my traveling attire - preparing it to be worn again during another day of my journey. My maid was charming and solicitous, further melting any difficulty away. I realized the toll of such exacting and painstaking arrangements and considered the notion that the affections of a willing female might offer pleasant relaxation.
Dressed for dinner, I entered the dark paneled dining room, affected by the picturesque view of the hillside carpeted with a lush green thicket of trees. Parts of the dining room were open to the temperate night air but another customer dressed in an evening gown had requested a closed window as her exposed shoulders left her with a slight chill. I would have preferred to spend my starry night in the warmer air, but was distracted by the pillowy focal point of the chilled patron’s ample bosom. I made eye contact with her and she greeted me with a cool exterior. But her eyes revealed the window to a burning desire inside of her and I became the hunter in pursuit of my prey.
I ate my splendid meal in calculated solitude. The chef expertly grilled speckled river trout over a wood fire and paired it with tournedos broiled over charcoal, fennel and thyme. The savory flavors coupled beautifully with multiple glasses of the waiter’s suggested potion, a full, rich Cotes du Rhone.
Keeping one eye on my conquest throughout the meal, I overheard a strident, husky tone inform the server of the choice to retire to the residents lounge for une café. The water responded and referred to her as Madamme la Baronne.” Casually I followed her into the lounge. She attempted to conceal it, but she was watching my every movement.
“Please allow me to introduce myself, I am Alexander Duggan.”
Blushing, she replied, “I am Madamme la Baronne de la Chalonniere. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Madamme, I can not help but notice you are unaccompanied this evening. Would it be too forward if I were to request permission to join you for une café?”
“I believe that would be acceptable, yes. You’re English, what brings you to France?”
“I am traveling through on business. And yourself, surely you have a beautiful home in this picturesque country.”
“Why yes, I live about 500 kilometers from Gap. I am only away from home because I attended an event for my son today. He was honored at the military cadet academy at Barcelonette. It was his father’s old regiment”
Without guilt, I pried, “Ah, and where is the Baron?”
“He’s in Paris, also on business.” The suggestion of her husband contorted her fleshy face and removed any traces of what was obviously a reasonably attractive woman twenty years prior. She’d clearly benefitted from the lavish lifestyle of marriage to a grandee of the kingdom. Having been spared no meal and living a life requiring no physical exertion, her flesh quaked even at the slightest hand gesture. Still, there was an unmet need in her eyes, and I felt not a trace of shame in my quest.
Further pleasantries were exchanged and on the surface our benign conversation was the discourse of strangers. We made love to each other with our eyes during that repartee and, having finished our cafes, I politely offered to escort Madamme to her room.
Saying little on the walk up to the residents’ quarters, we paused upon arriving at the door of her suite. Her actions indicated she was attempting a dramatic feat as if she planned to end our encounter at the threshold. I patiently allowed her this performance, knowing that with her perceived dignity intact, it would only make our encounter more powerful. The coquettish batting of her eyes indicated her deep denial at the current state of her physical appearance - that she had yet to accept the bloom had faded from her rose.
Standing precariously close, I felt her short, rapid breath as she placed her hand on the door knob, she said, “It has been a most pleasant evening, monsieur.” With no intention of returning to my room, I wrapped my hands around her back, pinning her against the door frame and bringing my mouth onto hers’ for a kiss. She responded with an arched back and exposed neck. Further imposing my physical arousal onto her body, I covered the hand she rested on the doorknob with mine, tongues still entangled, turned it to the right and we both entered the room. I kicked the door shut with my feet and with the moonlight streaming in providing a dim landscape, threw her to the bed and lifted her skirts. We let the wine do the talking from there, knotting our bodies into conjoined positions, screaming and heaving and sweating through the hazy summertime heat. By the palest of early morning light, shadows were thrown over satin garments and rumpled bedclothes strewn about the room. We both lay on our backs, sated, breathless, drowsily resting.
I felt her stir and rolled over to have another go, a man’s need for physical pleasure is superior to anything including physical attraction or mutual admiration. Even so, she insisted I depart, concerned she maintain her appearance as a dignified married woman. I needed to rest anyway, so I gathered my clothes and headed for the door, cooing at her affectionately, expertly playing on her feminine wiles. I offered one more passionate kiss, bid her adieu by her first name, Collette, and retired to my room.
I returned to my room and without undressing, fell face down onto the bed, atop the covers. I sank into a deep, motionless sleep, only to arise drowsy, late in the day. Slowly I showered and prepared to take the Alfa for a quick trip into town to use the long-distance telephone at the Postal station. I received shattering news on the telephone that at once altered my plans and required me to think and act quickly. Though my head was throbbing and my mouth was dry from the enormous quantity of wine consumed the previous night. I was bleary eyed from lack of sleep, and physically depleted from the lovemaking, but my mind snapped to attention as rapid action was required in order to keep the authorities at bay.
Tedious tasks such as checking out of the inn, obtaining paint and other tools and packing clouded thought on options for my next destination. The preparations were arduous and required me to remain centered so I didn’t make mistakes. I wiped perspiration from my brow, the mountain air had suddenly become more oppressive, like the heat had caught up with me.
Having snapped the last suitcase shut, I shoved one under my arm and grabbed the handles of the other two, racing down the stairs. I exchanged pleasantries with the staff as I completed all the necessary paperwork, attempting a public façade of calm and cool. Upon placing my final signature at the desk, I flipped through the book and spotted the name of Madamme la Baronne de la Chalonniere, Haute Chalonniere, Correze.
I didn’t have to worry about my next stop any further.
Jumping in the Alfa, I sped off onto the mountain roads. As I was driving my eyes darted from side to side seeking a spot where I could get some shelter from the trees. Sweatting profusely, unable to stop even with the top down and the wind whipping my face, I found the spot I was looking for. I removed my shirt and got to work painting the car blue. Driving a foreign car was conspicuous enough, but had anyone a tip that I was driving a white Alfa, I’d be a moving target for every officer in the region. The painting was mind-numbing, made worse by the sweltering heat. I was drenched all the way through to my knickers until that car was disguised. Finally the paint was dry and I changed the license plates. Putting clothes onto my damp, sticky body, I got back in the car and squealed around bends and turns, helicopters and police threatened me from every angle. I would make progress on my journey, then have to make a detour. It was a frustrating drive and the heat was excruciating, but the Chateau was my only safe haven, and I was determined to make it there undiscovered.
Late into the night I coasted into the lone café open in the night at Place de la Gare at Ussel. I grabbed a baguette and some hard boiled eggs, undaunted by the randomness of the ingredients and starving from the day’s stress. I sought a telephone book to identify the Chateau’s address – even that was no small feat as I had to try to patiently deal with locals unaccustomed to foreigners and strangers.
Back on the road again, I required a place to conceal the car. Finding a private road, I spent an hour up and around the vehicle cutting down brush to place around its newly darkened frame and keep it hidden from view. With a deep sigh, I gathered my suitcases and engaged in a long march up the road in the complete darkness. I had to stop frequently to cover my tracks, screaming and swearing with frustration into the blackness. At long last, I arrived at the road and sat, waiting for a passing car to give me a ride. I obtained such a ride and engaged in several more annoying encounters with townspeople, suspicious of an outsider, unwilling or unable to provide direct answers to simple questions. Eventually, a taxi took me on my way and late into the night I arrived at the doorstep of the Chateau.
A flurry of gossipy servants greeted my strange, unannounced presence and suddenly the dark, musty estate was alive with activity. Collette appeared at the top of a grand staircase flush with excitement, clearly impressed I was there to see her. Her loving, attentive caretaking was welcome after such a tense voyage, but I was unavailable to return her affections. She saw to it that I was treated like a king with lengthy baths and elaborate meals and all the carnal delight a man can handle. My sight was continually assaulted with flesh, lace and comely facial expressions, completely undaunted by the fact that I remained dispassionate and unaffectionate, totally shut down and unavailable for anything except knowing my cover was temporarily obscured.
During that time, I received a phone call. I strode into an alternative room to receive the news from my caller as the lady of the house made elaborate preparations for subsequent lovemaking.
My French caller informed me of Lebel’s plans while I made few verbal acknowledgements but my brain busily calculated strategic options. I glanced across the hall to the open door of the master suite, glimpsing my wide bodied lover preening for me on the bed, endeavoring a beguiling look. Even at a distance I distinguished thick flesh rolled up underneath ostentatious lingerie. I offered her a wan smile hoping to conceal my inward disgust.
I turned my back to focus on the caller’s information and heard a faint click on the line. My blood ran cold as I recalled my father’s words, “The nurturing of a good woman is difficult to find. But the affection of a deprived woman is something to be feared, for it might indeed ruin you.”
After placing the receiver back onto the base, I slowly turned around and re-entered the suite, greeted by the sight of her obesity spilling out of filmy garments, a shoulder strap askew around her chubby arm. Mascara stained tears streamed down her tubby cheeks as she knelt over my open suitcases, clearly having sifted through the contents.
She was clutching my assassin’s weapon in her butterball fingers.
“You were listening.”
“I … I didn’t … I thought you were … I wanted to know who you were calling,” she whimpered, wiping a drip from her nose.
“What are you doing.”
“I … well, I thought you were making arrangements … with … another lover, and … well, I got jealous and … I … why do you have a killer’s gun …
I walked towards her and still on her knees, she tried to get to her feet but tripped and fell backwards.
“… what are … Alex … I …”
I stormed purposefully across the room as she struggled to get up and get away from me, tripping and bumping into things. When I reached her, I grabbed her neck in my hands. She gagged and I pushed her up against the wall, holding her neck with one hand, the other muffling her screams. Pressing harder against her neck, my physical strength was no match for her bloated, deficient limbs, and within minutes, without much of a struggle, the breath left her body until, lifeless, I let her thud to the ground.
