The unpaved road off FM 590 coils through fields of dried grass, past sleepy cattle towards a pastoral ranch house. At the road’s end stands Ty Wolosin, the 26-year-old organic farmer who runs Windy Hill Farm. Beside him rest two Anatolian Shepherd dogs, Kate and Kadir. From behind the largest of the beasts, trots out a very confident chestnut chicken.

“Yeah, that’s Tootles,” says Ty. “She thinks she’s a dog.”

Wearing paint-speckled white denim jeans and a t-shirt, Ty plops on his straw hat and draws the string tightly to his chin. His shoulder-length brown hair peeks out from the sides.

“I always wear my hat,” says Ty. “Last time that I didn’t, I came home looking like Rudolph.”

It is here, at Windy Hill Farm in Comanche that Ty walked away from society to devote his life to organic farming, sustainable living and the humane treatment of livestock.

His mother and stepfather, Jan and James Williams, live with Ty on the farm and assist him on weekends and evenings. Jan, a retired real estate agent, runs the household, and James works for AT&T.

Six years ago, they bought the 100-acre farm, bringing tools and supplies from their previous livestock ranch in Goldthwaite. Ty remembers driving up to the farm on the first of June 2008 in his Budget rental truck. He spent his first five months alone while his parents worked overseas on assignment for AT&T. Since then, he’s built up two lush organic gardens and two chicken coops. He also maintains small herds of goats and Red Brangus cattle that surround the gardens and house. Ty says he envisions a farm that grows less in size, but more in reputation and influence.

“Rather than me expand and buy out the farmer next door, I’d rather do it cooperatively,” says Ty. “I don’t think of myself as a venture capitalist, and I don’t know that I want to be.” While Ty is not a certified organic farmer, he is Certified Naturally Grown. He says the costly organic certification is necessary for a retailer, but a small farmer can rely on his good reputation and working relationships.

A giant pronged John Deere tractor emerges from the shed like a charging bull. It gores and then lifts a 1400-pound barrel of hay, the weekly supper for the crimson cattle. As the machine rumbles off the road over crunching grass, dozens of grasshoppers leap out of the way from under dried cow pies. A jackrabbit shoots by, looping the tractor once before ducking into one of the many cedar bushes that speckle the rolling land.

“They’re water hogs,” says Ty of the scruffy trees. He plans to clear the land of them.

It hasn’t rained at Windy Hill Farm in almost two months. The fields are parched and sparse, and the small pond is reduced to a crater. It has lost 20 feet in radius, a new record. The topic of rain is popular, and the chances for rain are checked throughout the day. “It’s time for Ty to do his rain dance,” says Jan.

As a child in Taos, New Mexico, Ty often worked in his parents’ garden, but only if a form of bribery was involved. A diagnosis of thyroid cancer at age 19 changed his worldview. He switched from fast food to a vegan diet as he underwent treatment. With the cancer in complete remission, Ty continues his healthy habits, but has reintroduced dairy and meat as long as he knows exactly where the animal products originated.

After earning his bachelor’s degree in geography at Texas State, Ty attended the University of Montana, where he earned his master’s in geography. After a brief internship at a desk job, Ty quickly realized the regular nine-to-five work week could never work for him. “I could never live solely for the weekend,” says Ty. “I couldn’t live like that; I can’t live like that.”

In 2009, Ty started the weekly three-hour drive to Dallas, rotating Saturdays between the Dallas Farmers Market and the White Rock Local Market. Fridays are devoted to market preparation.

Salad greens are cut, washed and bagged. Goat meat and beef are readied, if back from the processor. His cornucopia of local, organic options sell out every time. On Saturday, he wakes up at 3 a.m., loads the truck and heads to Dallas. Within the first hour, all of the salad greens and eggs are gone. “I’ve never seen people like something more in my life,” says Ty. He can’t always keep up with the demand. Drop-offs are also made to area restaurants such as Bolsa, Smoke and the Spiral Diner.

Though most of his days and nights are consumed with farm chores, he tends bar twice a week at the Turtle Enoteca in Brownwood. There he creates cocktails made with ingredients from his farm and takes charge of selecting which beers and fine wines to stock. Tuesday evenings, he teaches an entry level geography course at Howard Payne University. It provides an opportunity to socialize and earn a steady extra income.

If he hadn’t been presented with the farming opportunity, Ty sees himself living a transient lifestyle. His world travels already span 30 countries over five continents. He’s climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, and he speaks conversational Spanish. Now, Ty brings the world to him by housing volunteers through World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, an exchange program where farmers offer accommodations and meals in exchange for work. So far, 20 percent of Ty’s volunteers have been international. In August, Sebastian Imhof left Switzerland to visit various organic farms in the United States. His stay with Ty in September grew from the usual two weeks to six weeks. Currently, Sebastian is trying to arrange his visa so he can return next year.

Ty describes himself as a non-religious, outspoken, workaholic. He says he is also not a morning person. At 8 a.m., late by farming standards, he steps out with his stepfather to move the portable chicken coop. A jack rabbit has lodged itself in the electric chicken fence. They untangle it, but the rabbit is bloody and mangled. James runs inside and grabs his gun.

“That’s just part of it,” Ty sighs. “There is always something in the morning you don’t expect.”

The rest of the morning is spent weeding. Ty pulls back a white mesh material, revealing rows of perfectly lined arugula, broccoli, radishes and watermelons. Thousands of tiny, clover-like weeds called henbits surround the plants like an advancing army. Every single one must be pulled. The soil releases the weeds easily with a soft suck. They plunk as they drop into his orange bucket.

Suck, plunk, suck, plunk. The wind and goats chime in as the baritone, and the sparrows supply the soprano. The weeding becomes a rhythmic, hypnotic melody.

He doesn’t listen to music as he works. He learns from listening to the bugs and the way a bird’s call changes when a hawk is near. Every afternoon jets from Carswell Air Force Base in Fort Worth screech violently across the cloudless sky. It’s an unwelcome daily reminder of the outside world. Ty says his relationship with nature and the Earth can’t be described as spiritual. It’s more of a deep connection and an intricate understanding of how things work, like weather patterns.

“Fire ants,” yelps Ty. He retrieves a can of dried molasses and pours it over the mound. “That should take care of them,” he says, dusting off his hands. For bug deterrents, Ty utilizes what he refers to as the Homeland Security for Windy Hill Farm. Based on the severity of the infestation, Ty ranks six possible responses that are organic and tiered for their destructiveness.

He attributes a lot of his gardening success to careful planning and the technique of double digging. Two six-inch layers of soil are loosened, and the top layer is replaced with a nitrogen rich source such as mulch or bat guano. It’s a slow moving, arduous mission, but once it is completed, it will remain effective for two years. Full days are devoted to double digging, even during the hottest summer months.

It’s rare that Ty gets a free day or evening away from the farm. Occasionally, he slips away to Austin to catch a music show, but he must always make the two-hour drive home afterwards. While Ty is burdened by this tremendous entity that’s forever dependent on him, he possesses the spirit of a man who is truly free. He answers to no one but nature and himself.

On an organic farm, life slows down. The weeding process is slow, the digging is slow, even the dogs lope along with ease. Ty points to the sunset. “You know that it’s nearing wintertime when the setting sun shifts closer to the mesa,” he says as he surveys his land. “There we go, sunrise to sunset.” Smiling, he stomps up the steps to the ranch house door and hangs up his straw hat.

http://www.ediblecommunities.com/dallasfortworth/winter-2010/deep-in-the-heart.htm

You never know when you’re going to run into an outrageously good idea for a story, let alone one good enough to win a spot in an anthology of the year’s best crime reporting. And usually, you don’t get great ideas from sleep-starved med students. And most of all, you don’t get fresh leads in a story 45 years old, one covered by every newspaper, magazine and investigative committee on Capitol Hill, much less one that Oliver Stone made into a major motion picture.

What’s new to say about the Kennedy assassination, after all?

Trust Mike Mooney to have the idea fall into his lap during a call with his best friend, a third-year medical student who had listened, enthralled, as a lecture about pancreatic cancer turned instead into a conversation about the harrowing, historic day in 1963 when John F. Kennedy lay on a hospital room cart, his head gaping open from an assassin’s bullet. The student, Andrew Jennings, immediately picked up the phone and called his buddy Mike to share the story of Dr. Robert McClelland, the aging surgeon who had cradled the president’s brains in his hands and massaged Lee Harvey Oswald’s heart at the same hospital two days later.

When Mike hung up, he knew he had one of the best stories of his life and he had to write it — fast.
His story, “The Day Kennedy Died,” appeared in D Magazine in November 2008 and turned Mike Mooney’s writing life around. This spring, he learned his story would be included in The Best American Crime Reporting 2009 anthology along with the likes of The New Yorker writer Calvin Trillin and New York Times best-seller David Grann. A week later, “Royal Flushed,” his story about Florida’s amateur and professional poker world, written for the New Times Broward/Palm Beach, was picked for inclusion in The Best American Sports Writing 2009 anthology, which has featured writers such as Susan Orlean and David Halberstam.

Most writers never break into those exalted ranks and here’s Mike, a 28-year-old newbie to the news biz with less than four years’ experience, scoring with two anthologies in one year, for two diverse topics. Some guys are easy to hate.

Easy to hate, until you realize how hard they work, picking stories and animating the characters that inhabit them. Mike excels at finding untold truths. As a writer for New Times, the Village Voice Media outpost in Fort Lauderdale, he has covered real-life blood-sucking vampires, gone on dates with prostitutes, and hung out with strippers. He seeks out individuals discarded, forgotten and ignored by society and he provides them a voice that is honest, raw and real.
People like Dr. Robert McClelland.

Mike knew that if McClelland’s story had miraculously gone untold for so long, he had precious little time to reconstruct it. McClelland is nearly 80, and as Mike would find out while reporting, few of the people in Trauma Room One at Parkland Memorial Hospital that day are still alive, or willing to talk. Mike sifted through newspaper and magazine archives, but found no more than a few short paragraphs about the doctor.

He felt panicked, as if McClelland’s story – languishing for 45 years – would appear at any minute in some other publication.

He mailed a formal letter to McClelland, scoured for tidbits of information about the surgeon, and poured over the Warren Commission report. He even went to Trauma Room One at Parkland — or what’s left of it — but found only a desk and a small historical plaque. (The National Archives and Records Administration bought and carted most of it away.) Finally, Mike sat down with McClelland and tape-recorded the surgeon as he relived those unforgettable days in November of 1963. Mike burned it to a CD and listened to it repeatedly, memorizing every word.

“Well, I feel like a broken record,” McClelland begins, hesitantly. “I’ve probably told this story 8,000 times.”

To understand the writer behind the story, contemplate the photo here of Mike Mooney: the bushy red beard, the ruddy complexion, the smirking mouth that seems forever ready to share a joke, the fedora hat. Or better yet, the hilarious New Times cover where he poses, flowers in hand, as a hopeful suitor seeking surrogate mom. As a child, Mike always knew he wanted to write. He wrote and illustrated books before he could read, dictating words to his mother. While studying English at The University of Texas, he remembers reading a New York Times story about strippers and the writer’s lack of emotion and color. I can write this better, he thought.

Today, that’s what he strives to do with every story. Take his New Times story, “The Real Girlfriend Experience,” which follows Mike as he goes on wholesome, all-American dates with prostitutes. Inspired by the photo-essay book, I Date Hookers, Mike asked himself, What happens when you take a hooker on a regular date? His editor in Fort Lauderdale wondered the answer to that as well, so long as it didn’t cost too much. Mooney found Sophia the prostitute on a Craigslist erotic services post. For $100, he could take her out.

Real life intruded, as it often does for reporters. Mike’s fiancée Tara Nieuwesteeg insisted going along incognito but kept her distance. Sipping a beer, she watched as Mike and Sophia bowled. Mike would text assurances when he could. Occasionally, their eyes would meet across the bowling alley; his look assured her that everything was OK. That is, until Sophia wanted a ride home. Thirty minutes passed with no word from Mike. “He’s either getting a blow job or he’s been stabbed,” Tara says she thought, growing panicked. Then Mike walks in, grinning.

After dropping $300 on hookers, Mike finished the story in three weeks. Months later, it was still on the New Times’ Top 10 Web hit list.

From strippers and prostitutes to vampires and gambling addicts, Mike’s stories tend to cover people on society’s fringes. The story, “My Bloody Valentine,” took Mike into a community of South Florida blood-sucking vampires, which turned out to be a group of nice people who just happen to enjoy drinking each other’s blood. “Sometimes I worry about him getting killed,” says Tara, torn between being serious and making fun now that her beau is safe. “I don’t want to stereotype these people. But they do drink blood and Mike has a lot of blood. He looks delicious to them and he was gone for a really, really long time.”

Mike, like most reporters, shrugs off the danger aspect. He has a compulsive need to satiate his curiosity, which overcomes any brief hesitation about approaching abandoned buildings or rough-looking characters. “I see a repulsive place and I think, interesting, how did it get that way? People who have been through interesting times want to talk and these people are regular people and they have stories,” he says.

It would be easy to poke fun at real-life vampires or even a hapless hooker bowling. But with every story, Mike questions his angles and, with his editor’s help, tries to keep the stories sweet and honest. “I don’t want to exploit anybody — ever,” he says. “I want to write about other people exploiting people. And I don’t want to sensationalize someone. It’s a careful line. I want it to be sweet without mocking.”

Mike, who earned his master’s degree this spring at the University of North Texas, says his study at the Mayborn Graduate School of Journalism, especially the time he spent at an intensive writing course in Archer City, Texas, with writer-in-residence George Getschow, helped widen his horizons — and those of his readers. “I think it’s really important to take people into worlds that they’ll never know,” says Mike. “People that read these stories would never experience them otherwise. These are stories that make deeper connections, not just state facts about people’s lives.”

His Kennedy piece covers familiar ground perhaps for a generation who lived through the Dallas assassination. But the details of one man’s experience in Trauma Room One that day are exhaustive and, at times, hard to take. In Mike’s story, the doctor talks about entering the ER and finding the president there, his face “bluish-black, swollen, suffused with blood.” McClelland is handed an army-navy retractor — which Mike describes as straight metal bar curved on each end — to hold back Kennedy’s brain tissue so the surgeons can work. For 15 minutes, as blood ran over the edges of the retractor, McClelland stood 18 inches from the president’ s head wound.

Later those in the room would argue over whether it was Kennedy’s cerebellum or cerebrum that fell out onto the crash cart — a key issue in whether the president was shot from behind or in front as conspiracy theorists assert. McClelland believes he was standing over an exit wound. Mike had found not only a heck of a story, but perhaps the most convincing of all conspiracy theorists in a man few had bothered to interview.

Mike is humble when asked about his awards and attributes them to luck — and lots of reading over the years. He owns every edition of The Best America Crime Reporting, and he fantasized for years about his inclusion. As he tells it, late one Sunday night, while preparing for bed, he realized he’d forgotten to check his e-mails. Seven unread messages waited in his inbox. As he scanned the list, one in particular caught his attention. The subject line read “Best American Crime Publishing.” A quick paragraph informed Mike that his JFK story had been selected for inclusion in the 2009 anthology. Thinking it a prank, Mike roused his fiancée from bed and had her read the e-mail. Still unconvinced, he called his friends to make sure they hadn’t forged the message.

During a celebratory three-way conference call cyber toast with Getschow and fellow Mayborn alumni Paul Knight and Brantley Hargrove, George asked the group, “Well guys, who’s next?” Taking a sip from his Jim Beam and Coke, Mike joked, “Honestly, George, I think it’s going to be me again.”

A week and a half later, it was.

Checking his voice mail at work, Mike listened in shock as Glen Stout, editor of The Best American Sports Writing 2009, said Mike’s story, “Royal Flushed,” had been chosen for inclusion. Squealing so loudly that his boss ran in to check on him, Mike let the reality sink in that lightning had struck twice. “George laughed this high-pitched coyote laugh when I told him,” says Mike. “And then all he said was, ‘Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me?’”

“Awards are all very random and subjective and it’s nice to hear other people like your work and appearing in the Best American series has been a goal of mine for many years, but I know how random it is,” says Mike. “I feel like almost every story in magazines like Texas Monthly or New York Times Magazine could be selected for one of those Best American anthologies. I can get caught up on ‘why me and not someone else’ a lot and get depressed, so I try not to think about it.”
What makes him happy is the hunt for a great story and that occasional moment of serendipity when you illuminate some corner of the universe, some character like Dr. Robert McClelland, a man forgotten no longer.

http://www.news-journal.com/news/content/news/misc/stories/2009/09/13/09132009_integ_football_2.html

Morning light reflects off the white tiled floors of Pilot Point High School, producing an uncomfortable glare and an occasional image of the Mona Lisa gazing either up or down at her own reflection. At a time when public school art programs are being decimated due to budget constraints, Pilot Point is pushing ahead.
Art teacher Trish Carter, 53, smiles broadly as she points out the various student reproductions that randomly spot the high school’s ceiling.
“I jumped through a lot of hoops to get these tiles up,” she sighs, gazing up at a Claude Monet reproduction. “We have a diverse group of kids and they have diverse interests and if we are going to educate the public than we have to educate all of the public not just a select few.”
Only a basic Art 1 class existed in 1995 when Carter arrived at the high school. Today Pilot Point students can take art all the way up to AP level 4. In 1996 she implemented a project to broaden the students’ knowledge of art history – each student in her Art 2 class must paint a tile with a reproduction of a painting of their choice and then incorporate a research paper.
“They’re learning the history of mankind,” Carter said. “They’ll remember all of this after they graduate and they’ll see these visions of art work and it will click and they will recognize it.”
Carter insists that her students choose lesser-known artists in order to expand their knowledge of art past Van Gogh or Monet.
Senior Lacy McMinn, 19 and a cheerleader for Pilot Point, choose Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Proserpine for her project. “I didn’t get to do Van Gogh so I had to find a different artist and chose Dante,” McMinn said. “ Now I really love the Pre-Raphaelites and I learned a lot of really cool stuff.”
Once the students graduate they have the option of taking their tile home. An after school art club organized by Carter allows students to design and paint trompe l’oeil or “trick the eye” murals to represent the various education departments around the campus.
Senior Beth Gaston, 17, is currently working on a tile of Raphael’s St. Michael Victorious.
“I don’t think a lot of people know that these murals and tiles are here,” Gaston said. “We don’t get acknowledged that much. People pay more attention to sports and I think it’s great that students win state and stuff, but what about the art?”
A self-described old Denton hippy, Carter graduated from Denton High School and “enrolled in college the very next day” at the University of North Texas where she earned a degree in Art History.
She attributes her tremendous passion for art to the “neat, strong women” in her family and to the beauty of the horse ranch she grew up on in Bonham, Texas. Since childhood she battled diabetes and says that experiencing such a hardship as a young women has really helped her to connect and understand teenagers more on their level.
Carter’s bright blue eyes shine behind rimless glasses as she speaks about her pride in her two grown children, her baby granddaughter and of the hundreds of children she has taught over the past 14 years.
“I just give them guidance and then I let them go,” she smiles.
Carter said that funding for all academic areas has been cut but that the art department has been hit especially hard. Due to high prices, acquiring art supplies, especially good art supplies, has become increasingly difficult.
“Some people say that you can produce great work with crayons and paper and though that might be true and I’m all for that but well…gall-lee it’s so nice to be able to give them an opportunity to work with fine supplies,” Carter said. “I think if I can scrounge around, get the money and buy the best I can I do it because I also teach those kids to appreciate it and to not waste it.”
Carter finds her life source through acquiring yearly grants from the Pilot Point Educational Foundation. She now has two potter’s wheels, flatbed scanners and has refurbished the iMacs donated to her by UNT. Also, two kilns, donated by alumni, have been fixed, allowing Carter to implement a Ceramics 2 class beginning next semester.
Carter agrees that it would be nice to have another art teacher around to help carry the work load but makes sure to emphasize how much she loves her job.
“I am the art department,” she laughs.
“Yup, it’s just Mrs. Carter,” chimes in Lacy McMinn. “ Just Mrs. Carter…and us.”

Through a yellow desert ran a shallow creek dirty with sand. A red stone wall curved over it providing a very nice shade and a comfortable place to walk barefoot. Beside the creek dinosaur bones peeked through the sand surrounded by small footprints and abandoned buckets.
The buckets were bright red except for the worn edges that were stained brown and felt pleasantly rough. The plastic handles read, Fort Worth Museum of Science and History.
Staring at the uncovered bones I wiped the sweat from my forehead as I waited for the last child to leave. As I scooped sand over a six-foot leg bone of a large sauropod I pondered the insanity of my job. I was a pretend paleontologist that guarded fake dinosaur bones and led children to believe they were unearthing marvelous discoveries before undoing their hours of toil with two scoops of a shovel.
At noon the sun and sand had grown very hot. A large metal fan oscillated slowly, lightly blowing the sand in every direction. My third school group was due. A pounding of footsteps in the distance and excited laughter alerted me that they were approaching. Suddenly the glass paned double doors flew open and about 15 children swarmed around me like little velociraptors around prey.
I spoke loudly in vain about various dinosaurs and tool safety as I passed out dusting brushes and flat shovels before the group dispersed across the exhibit.
A small boy strayed behind the rest. In his left hand he clutched tightly a shiny new blue bucket. A stray wisp of red hair fell across his forehead and his blue eyes shone determined behind a mass of red freckles.
His teacher smiled uncomfortably and softly whispered, “I’m sorry but he insisted he bring his own tools. He’s very strange.”
She smoothed back an imaginary stray hair and, keeping an eye on the children, repeatedly shook each foot up and down, attempting to knock the sand from her sandals. Her hair matched her seashell print shirt and tan pants, slightly blending her narrow figure into the surroundings.
I watched as he calmly surveyed his surroundings before choosing a shady spot near the creek, far from the other children. Squatting near him I sifted my fingers through the sand and pretended to be interested in a small shell fossil.
“I’ve been practicing for today for weeks,” a quiet voice whispered. The child looked at me with an expression much too serious for a first grader.
“Have you really?” I gasped with mock amazement, “Well that’s marvelous and what do you expect to uncover today?”
“A tenontosaurus, I hope,” he said.
“Where did you learn about the tenontosaurus?” I asked, this time with real amazement.
“I’ve been studying up on him quite a bit,” he retorted brushing the red hair from his eyes, “They dug one up near Weatherford once so I think that I have the best chance of finding the rest of him.”
I told him that his plan sounded great and that I would help him.
“NO!” he cried, “I don’t want any help. The other kids don’t like me at all and I just know that if I found the largest fossil here that they would really like me.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I saw myself as a child; the nerdy kid that no one liked. I wanted to run and shake the other children. How could they not like him? He was so cool, he knew about the tenontosaurus! No child had heard of the tenontosaurus!
I was silent after that and left to tend to the other children.
Childhood can be so cruel for some. I remembered my oversized wire-rimmed glasses that I wore throughout elementary and middle school. My second hand outfits that everyone noticed and my bulky braces. I spent much of my time reading Sweet Valley High books and Babysitters Club. Stories about pretty girls with lots of friends that had exciting adventures.
My younger brother always had tremendous learning disabilities, which entirely consumed my mother’s attention. I never really had someone to fix me up and to braid my hair with ribbons and bows. Through time you grow up and the essentially the pain is long gone but that little child is always in the back of your mind, creating self-doubt and fear.
“Ten minutes left,” called out the presumptuous teacher whom had earlier addressed the redheaded boy as “strange.”
He was still digging far from the other children and had not unearthed anything.
Towards the end of the dig behind the sandstone wall stood a camouflaged tool shed. Various fossils rejected by the museums’ paleontologists were discarded there and could be taken home by anyone.
I took the largest fossil I could find, a damaged trilobite and carefully buried it a few feet behind the boy.
“Phew,” I announced loudly, startling him. “You know what I just realized? That spot you’re at was just all dug up yesterday by an expert paleontologist and he didn’t find anything! Maybe you should try more over this way,” I said gesturing to where I had just hid the fossil.
He rose and slapped his pants to get the sand off, and picked up his blue bucket.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Within moments, just as I had hoped, there he sat, staring down in amazement, as he lifted up the millions year old sea urchin. The fossil was very cool and light and he ran his fingers over it slowly, brushing off the bits of wet sand.
“Look what he found,” I screamed. “He found the biggest fossil ever!”
Within seconds he was surrounded with oohs and ahhs and “let me see” from all sides.
“Let me hold it Martin,” said one pretty little girl.
He nodded and handed it to her gently.
“It’s a trilobite,” he announced, smiling broadly.
“Wonderful job Martin,” exclaimed his teacher. “I’m so proud of you.”
Holding his blue bucket very carefully, Martin gently placed his fossil deep inside and walked out of the exhibit, this time surrounded by children.
When the last child slipped through the door, tears began to flow down my cheeks. I felt as if the seven-year-old inside of me had just given me a tremendous hug.
I looked around the dig at all the unearthed bones and no longer did they appear as giant hunks of plaster, needing to be covered once again. It was a mysterious dinosaur graveyard, untouched for millions of years.

Paul Slavens’ powdered wig bobs in sync with each playful pluck of the keyboard. Three women in Marie Antoinette wigs tap their cowboy boots on the wooden stage and sway as the tempo picks up. Red lights reflect off their gossamer wigs, bizarrely illuminating the ashen, transfixed faces of the audience below. The Chameleon Chamber Group—just one of the wildly eclectic bands that call Denton, Texas, home—is playing Dan’s Silver Leaf tonight.
In the back of the club, Chris Flemmons is leaning against the turquoise wall, a smile showing beneath a wild tangle of tangerine hair. A fixture of the Denton music scene, Chris is lead singer for the internationally known band, The Baptist Generals. In 2009, however, he will put on his promoter’s hat to capitalize on a growing recognition that Denton, with its 115 bands, has become a hotbed of music innovation much like Austin and Seattle. Chris’ job? To help launch Denton’s new NX35 music bash, an offshoot of the now-famous SXSW music festival in Austin.. Exhaling a drag from his cigarette, he shakes his head in amazement at the antics of The Chameleon Chamber Group. It’s what he has come to expect from the Denton music scene. “All these bands just blow me away,” says Chris. “The quality of what’s going on here is well above the average.”
Fertilizing Denton’s music scene is the University of North Texas’ world renowned music school. With their Grammy nominated and internationally touring One o’ Clock Lab band and previous students like musicians Norah Jones, Don Henley and Roy Orbison, the school attracts aspiring artists nationally and abroad. Now big media outlets such as The New York Times, England’s The Guardian and Paste Magazine, which focuses on new bands, have started honing in on the Denton music scene. Denton is evolving into a destination for musicians, not for just the university, but also for the community.
Tourists, of course, love Denton’s looming Romanesque-style courthouse and vibrant town square, but many have no idea that live music is playing somewhere in the vicinity every night of the week. A few blocks east of the courthouse at Dan’s Silver Leaf, visitors can expect a fashionable crowd listening to Americana, softly cooing singer-songwriters, or standard rock ‘n roll. South of the square is Hailey’s with its 52 beers on tap and an occasional national act such as Nada Surf or Ladytron. Across the railroad tracks is the renovated-cement-factory-turned-live-music venue, Rubber Gloves Rehearsal Studios. Here, men with large beards and attractive tattooed females sip on tanker beers at the bar. Bands range from country to hip hop and include such national indie acts as Modest Mouse and Death Cab for Cutie.
Denton’s new music scene started attracting attention nationally and abroad in the early 1990s thanks to “acid rock” groups such as Baboon and Brutal Juice. The Baptist Generals, who specialize in rock, and the Americana-style group Centro-matic jumped on the bandwagon later in the decade. More recently, Midlake with its Radiohead influences, the punk rock group The Riverboats Gamblers, the quirky indie rock of Fishboy, and the indie rock of Record Hop have established the city’s musical notoriety. Yet despite attention from MTV, gushing music critics, and successful European tours, most of the bands choose to settle in Denton rather than relocate to established venues like Seattle, New York or even nearby Dallas and Austin.
On lunch break from recording his next album, Midlake guitarist Eric Pulido explains Denton’s allure as he finishes a sandwich at a local café. A neat reddish-brown beard, the paradigm style for Denton musicians, barely masks a baby face. He loves Denton, as is quickly obvious. “One thing I’ve learned from traveling and touring is that people from all over the world see Denton as a spring of great music and I’m like, yeah it is, how do you know?” he says, smiling. “I love the vibe. I love the community. I’ve met so many great people, so why would I move? In a big city, it’s harder to be a part of the community. Here you can walk to every club. You can walk to your friends’ houses to practice. Here, you take ownership. It’s our town. It’s our city. You can’t say for instance, I own London. It’s more like you’re getting run over by London.”
Eric and fellow Denton musician Robert Gomez recently started their own record label Nova Posta Vinyl—something they might not have done without the support of the local music crowd. (Their first signing? A local band, of course—Matthew and the Arrogant Sea.) Early in Midlake’s career, Eric remembers anticipating a small crowd for a homecoming show at Hailey’s. Instead, he stepped out to a packed crowd filled with the familiar faces of friends, co-workers, and family. “Everyone that had known how hard we’d worked was cheering for us,” says Eric. “We started yelling ‘Denton!’ into the mike and the crowd joined in. You felt like it wasn’t just a show, it was a Denton show. You can’t chant ‘Denton!’ in Dallas.”
Lawyer Mark Burroughs, serving his first year as mayor, is equally enthusiastic about Denton’s renaissance and the future of its cultural scene. Leaning back in his leather chair, he pats his blue necktie and launches into a passionate sell job of the city’s musical variety. “Denton has become the hotbed for music innovation and for new groups to be incubated, to get their starts, to make connections to the public, and to find fan bases,” he says. “We have a permanent connection to music because of The University of North Texas being world renowned for music. But a lot of folks stay here for the music side of things and that has been a treasure that, from the last decade or so, has (taken on) a higher profile.”
In December 2010, the mayor notes, a new rail line will be completed, connecting Denton and Dallas. The Denton County Transportation Authority line will stop near the old town square, right in the heart of the Denton music scene. Dan’s Silver Leaf owner Dan Mojica is, like the mayor, eager for this train to pull into town. “It’s going to be a huge change. It’s going to bring a lot of people here, a lot of pedestrian traffic,” says Dan. “The first thing you’ll see when you come into Denton will be a music venue. How appropriate that would be, ya know? It’s great.”
At Dan’s club, Chris is joined by Craig Welch, frontman for the now-disbanded Brutal Juice. Both have lived in Denton for over 20 years and have become musical icons locally. Currently Welch is a staff member at Dan’s. In the late 1990s, Brutal Juice toured nationally and internationally and had a MTV music video. “The last time Chris played here it was like a Beatles concert. It was amazing,” says Craig, taking a gulp of coffee and flashing a tattoo of the number two in Roman numerals on his forearm. “Thanks, man,” says Chris, running a black-painted fingernail along his margarita to catch the condensation. “The thing is, you throw a rock in this town and you hit a band,” says Chris. “We all do different stuff and genre-wise, it’s all over the place. There’s such a broad spectrum of people making different types of music here. There’s not a Denton sound and I don’t think there ever will be.”
The city’s eclectic music choices are a siren song reaching all the way to Europe. Music reviewers tend to make fun of the city’s sprawling suburb feel when they arrive, only to go home raving about the music scene centered around the old city square. “Just think of the far-reaching impact of a band like Midlake who is touring Europe and saying ‘We’re from Denton,’” says Kim Phillips, vice president of the Denton Convention and Visitor Bureau. “We can’t buy that type of publicity, so these bands, hugely successful bands like Midlake, become our voice.”
With 115 or more bands, up-and-coming groups are even finding it difficult to book performances at established venues such as Dan’s Silver Leaf, Rubber Gloves Rehearsal Studios, Andy’s, The Boiler Room and Hailey’s. As a result, “Do it Yourself” venues now provide an outlet for bands. Residents have been known to clear out their living rooms and open their doors for shows. “That’s the sign of real life of our music culture,” says Chris. “Because it’s hard for these young bands to get into the music venues, so you play house shows.” Even The Baptist Generals still play house shows. “It’s a great time and a big part of the culture in this town,” says Chris.
Outside of Dan’s Silver Leaf, Americana musician James McMurtry, son of writer and NT alumni Larry McMurtry, is leaning against a white van, chewing on a toothpick. James lives in Austin and he makes at least two stops annually in Denton to perform exclusively at Dan’s. He says that Denton holds a lot of significance for him because it’s where his father and mother met in college. His favorite Denton band is Slobberbone, now known as The Drams.
“Dan treats us well,” says James. “And I like their beer selection, they have Pilsner Urquell, shows a lot of savvy.”

Kevin Klingele sits in a lawn chair and waits. In his pocket is over a hundred thousand dollars in cashier checks. He doesn’t know when the opportunity will happen or if it even will. But just in case, he’s ready.
In front of him at the Denton County Courthouse, Judge Greg Bertrand reads through the foreclosed homes like a grocery list. Gusts of wind whip his thinning copper hair across his forehead.
“Isn’t it weird the way the wind changes from warm to cool,” says Bertrand. “Doesn’t that precede a hurricane or something?”
Across the United States and in Denton County, foreclosures have flooded the marketplace leaving destruction that rivals a natural disaster. Like scavengers after a devastating battle, investors see opportunity for gain. Gobbling up these failed dreams, they turn collapse into possibility.
Small, black sunglasses obscure Klingele’s youthful, handsome face and his buzzed, licorice-brown hair disregards the wind. On this November morning, Klingele’s prospect appears.
“One dollar over,” calls out Klingele, pointing his forefinger up in the air.
“Going once, going twice, sold for $128,241,” booms Bertrand. In that brief moment, Klingele bought a house. He swivels in his chair, high fiving his friends. One man grins, slapping him hard on the back. Klingele leans back and sighs, letting the realization sink in.
Every first Tuesday of the month, the Denton County Sheriff’s Office holds an auction of foreclosed homes. While ninety percent of the homes are bought back by the banks, the remaining ten percent are devoured by investors or regular home buyers looking for a bargain. Investors like Klingele comb the foreclosure lists, hoping to secure a home for seventy five percent of its market value. Laying hold of homes at fire-sale prices is becoming a bonanza for entrepreneurial landlords in Denton County.
Today, Klingele’s winning bid earned him a foreclosed home in Carrolton. Homes purchased at auction are almost blind. While the bidder can drive by the home, and peek in the windows if they’re open, they can’t have the home inspected for problems. This Carrolton home, like most foreclosed homes, has suffered extensive cosmetic damage by the previous owners. A foot of sooty water fills the pool. Tires, a barbeque grill and trash float in the sludge. Inside, holes are kicked through the walls and doors. In the kitchen the oven lays on the floor, ripped from the wall.
Does Klingele suffer from buyer’s remorse? Not at all. Damaged goods are what he expects in the distressed world of auctioned homes.
“These people are pretty upset and I understand that,” says Klingele. “These people are having really hard times and they can’t really take it out on the banks so they just take it out on the home.”
Klingele factors in ten thousand dollars of potential repairs in his investments. Even if the home isn’t vandalized, the average repairs are four to five thousand dollars. Klingele jokes that he’s never been good with a hammer so he hires contractors.
“It’s a crazy little world and if you’ve never seen a damaged house it will freak you out,” says Klingele. “Once you’ve done it a few times, it starts to not be such a big deal anymore. But if you expect the property to be perfect when you get it, then you’re in for a big surprise.”
None of Klingele’s purchases have sustained devastating damages, but the risk is there. Klingele knows investors that have experienced catastrophic losses. One bought a home at auction to find cement poured down the pipes, another had a 100 thousand dollar lien. Mistakes in the bidding process can easily cost the investor 50 to 100 thousand dollars.
Klingele says the best defense is to do extensive research beforehand. Klingele doesn’t purchase homes older than 20 years and examines the titles thoroughly for red flags such as liens. He compares investing to surfing.
“I grew up surfing,” says Klindele. “And if you go into a place that has big waves up front, you’re going to get killed. To be doing this you have to have a certain level of expertise.”
He earned his real estate license at 19 years old. In California, his 92 year old grandmother has been a real estate agent for 50 years and still goes to the office every day. As a young boy, he accompanied his father, a renter and a contractor, to pick up rent checks. Impressed, Klingele knew this was great way to make money.
“It’s pretty cool when you get a rent check for the first time and someone is paying you money, helping you pay your mortgage,” says Klingele. “You just want to do it again and again.”
In 2000, Klingele and his wife Josi invested in their first home in California. In 2004, the couple moved to Texas and started Allegiant Properties, a real estate management company. They bought their first home from the courthouse foreclosure auctions in the spring of 2008. As of November, they own 15 properties in North Texas, six (double check this #) are from the courthouse auctions. He tries to limit work to 40 hours a week and never works on Sunday, saving time to dedicate to his two young boys. Owning his own business permits him that freedom.
For Klingele, the rewards of investing aren’t just monetary. Foreclosed homes have been abandoned for long periods of time. The lawn is overgrown and the deterioration is a drag on the rest of the neighborhood. Happy neighbors often stop by to thank Klingele. They’re excited that the home will have life again.
“Watching the house from the first moment that you get it to making it into a home for a family to make their own, that’s a reward,” says Klingele. “I just think it’s good to take the ugly duckling in the neighborhood and make it a swan and then make the neighborhood better because of it, that’s pretty huge.”
Klingele says that in 2004 they saw the housing crisis approaching. Banks were giving out loans too freely and mortgages were getting out of control. So, they took all their money from the stock market and put it into cheap Texas real estate.
“Everybody was buying a house. People that worked at McDonalds were buying houses, and people with bad credit,” says Klingele. “Too many people were buying houses that shouldn’t have been buying houses,”
Despite other economic difficulties, the renting market in North Texas is strong. Rents are up five or six percent at Klingele’s office and vacancies are low at two or three percent. Right now, Klingele foresees a two year window in the housing market.
Lisa Hitch, a senior loan officer for University Mortgage, agrees. She’s been in the business for 19 years and has witnessed the market fluctuate before.
“North Texas is a great place to have investment properties because it will always be a renter’s market,” says Hitch. “There’s so much growth and business moving north. I think what you hear on the national news is not specific to our area. Yeah they’ve tightened screws and, ya know, business has slowed a little bit but I think it’s just correcting itself and within 12 to 18 months, it will be back on track.”
Klingele says that those wanting to go into investing should start small and not feel too intimidated at the large sums of money. For some of his home purchases he acquires loans from small, local banks which he says still have an appetite for lending. For the others, he pays cash.
“As long as you have good credit and income, there are loans to be had,” says Klingele. “The first purchase was pretty scary. But after you’ve done it once or twice, it’s like riding a bike or driving a car.”

Hunched over a thick red jacket, Cynthia Talbot, 39, presses her bare foot gently on the sewing pedal, guiding the garment under the needle’s soft whistle. Talbot runs her finger down the hem, expertly eyeing the stitching.
“I realized today that I have finished everybody’s costumes but mine,” Talbot exclaims. “The queen is not done yet!”
Brown, wire rim glasses perch on her forehead, and her auburn hair is swept back into a tight bun. Plainly dressed in a red tee shirt and jeans and her pale skin free of makeup, it’s hard to imagine Talbot as a formidable queen of Fae. In a week, Talbot and her acting troupe are scheduled to appear at Scarborough Fair in Waxahachie, Texas.
In the center of the room stands the queen’s unfinished gown. Layers of purple, black and gold flow from the purple bodice. Dozens of tiny embroidered flowers weave up from the dress’s base. A continuous work in process since 1992, Talbot estimates she’s invested $1500 into the gown. Each of the costumes for the Fae court takes months to design and construct and cost on average from $200 to $600.
Across the room, Lindsey Faber, 27, is hand-stitching fake seaweed onto a white dress.
“This will be the death of me,” Faber groans. “Part of the folklore is if you prick yourself while sewing, you have to bleed on the costume. It’s part of the blood, sweat and tears of the whole experience.”
In 1992, Talbot and three others started Kaeleigh House Productions, an acting troupe that performs at various renaissance festivals. After a long hiatus, Talbot reformed the group in 2005, she’s the only one of the original founders remaining and has built the group back up to about 25 members. As Queen Lilith of the UnSeeleigh Court, she bears the majority of the responsibility, not only in leadership but also as head designer and costumer maker.
Each character is based from fairy lore. Their characters are well researched and rehearsed and their costumes as authentically crafted as possible. Don’t refer to them as fairies though, they are known as the accurate Celtic name of Fae.
“Most of us have at least a little bit of acting background,” says Talbot. “If you want to get involved, you present me with a character idea and outline. We do character workshops, improv classes and we’ll work with you on your accent and language.”
Talbot is a master folklorist and her brown eyes dance as she talks extensively about the history of Fae in Ireland and around the world while effortlessly translating Gaelic names into English. She says that the Fae Court is divided into three counterparts, Seeleigh, Gray, and UnSeeleigh: good, neutral, and evil. Talbot prefers the UnSeeleigh Court because it’s a lot more fun to be obnoxious and, “eat people for lunch.”
“The queen is kind of evil in her disregard for humans and I have to find ways to portray that without threatening people,” giggles Talbot. “It’s trying to play maleficent without turning people into toads or something. It can be entertaining yet slightly problematic for me as an actress.”
Dress rehearsal for Scarborough Fair is at a local Olive Garden. Lined up in pairs, the troupe glides through the restaurant like a wedding procession. Curious children pop their noses over the backs of booths as a speculative murmur fills the room.
At the head of the table, Talbot is unrecognizable as Queen Lilith of Air and Darkness. A copper colored crown has replaced her glasses and she smiles cruelly with arrogance.
“Everyone, do remember that we are amongst humans so do try and blend in,” Talbot instructs. “Use the silver utensils.”
Raising their wine glasses they ceremoniously toast their queen.
“I feel like we should be acting more strange,” worries Bonnie Davidson, 40, in a whisper.
“I declare, in order to appear more inhuman, we shall clang silverware instead of glasses,” proclaims Talbot. Immediately the troupe waves their forks like swords, clashing and clinking loudly. Speaking in numerous accents with varied skill, the troupe steals food from each other’s plates while whining about the lack of human dishes on the menu.
It’s a hot day at Waxahachie’s Scarborough Fair and the heavy linens and thick layers are taking a toll on the acting troupe. Despite their discomfort, the queen and her court of eight remain devoted, never faltering in their accents or stepping out of character.
With her chin held high and the black and gold manicured nail of her index finger pressed against her lower lip, Queen Lilith scans her surroundings with a cold, critical eye.
“Long live the UnSeeleigh!” shouts a man dressed in rags, waving frantically as the queen strolls by.
Smiling graciously, the queen tilts her head. “It’s nice to be recognized,” she sighs.

Four walls of stacked balconies draped in ivy ascend to an elaborate glass ceiling reminiscent of an abandoned cathedral. A coterie of witches surrounding a small table throw down tarot cards, the sun glinting off of their green and gold glittering pointed hats. Close by a group of sleepy sorceresses are sipping coffee, the hems of their pajamas and puffy slippers peek out beneath their black, hooded robes.

Professor Snape and Lucius Malfoy

“I feel like a muggle,” I sigh, nervously pulling at the hems of my shamrock green Harry Potter tee shirt. (A muggle is anyone dressed in normal garb.)
I’ve always considered myself a knowledgeable Harry Potter fan. I’ve read all the books at least twice and seen each of the films countless times. But as I walk through the Portus Harry Potter Symposium, I begin to have my doubts.
Draping my hot pink press pass around my neck, I explore the hotel’s quiet lobby.
“Have you been sorted yet?” booms a voice behind me. I turn to see a very convincing Severus Snape, a dark character known for his aversion to Harry Potter and his redemption.
In the series, wizards are sorted into one of four houses. The bad guys tend to go to the House of Slytherin and the good guys to the House of Gryffindor. More insignificant characters tend come from the houses of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.
I shake my head.
“What house is your favorite?” he sneers, in character.
“Well, Gryffindor of course,” I beam. A loud snort escapes his assistant. Apparently, I answered wrong.
“Ooooh k, Gryffindor it is,” says the young witch and hands me a card. Looking up at me under the brim of her pointed hat and tufts of platinum blond hair, I feel bristled by her sardonic smile.
An older man next in line giddily proclaims himself the House of Slytherin. Now it’s my turn to snort. What a weirdo! Smirking, I look around expecting to see other bemused expressions. Instead, I’m greeted with broad smiles and cheers.
A large group of witches scuttle by, donning tall hats wrapped in gold and green ribbons, feathers and string with matching broomsticks. Green and gold are the house colors of Slytherin.
“Where are all the Gryffindors?” I wonder. After all, Harry Potter is a Gryffindor. Doesn’t everyone want to be like Harry Potter? And why the House of Slytherin, known for their cruelty, elitism and prejudice?
“I’m totally Hufflepuff,” announces Caitlin Leyden, 17, as she glues pieces of colored glass to a Hufflepuff insignia. Red feathers stick out from her long auburn hair and her black Harry Potter shirt looks stark against her pale skin.
“Yeah, I don’t know any Gryffindors,” chimes in her friend Dorie Mishael, 17. “I think most people identify with Slytherin.” Looming sparkly fairy wings frame a face hidden by large wire glasses. Protruding purple feathers look tangled in her wild brown hair, reminiscent of the character Hermione- a Gryffindor and one of Harry Potter’s best friends.
The girls say they dislike Hermione. That she’s boring. Caitlin says she prefers Hufflepuff because, “In Hufflepuff you’re happy where you are. No one expects you to be smart or brave and you’re ok with that.”
I remind them that Hermione is an exceptionally intelligent girl, with strong opinions and unyielding loyalty. You all seem like Hermiones, I say. Silently they continue gluing their colored glass.
“Well I prefer Pansy Parkinson,” insists Dorie- a snobby Slytherin character that picks on Hermione.
In an adjacent room Andrew Sims, contributor to the Harry Potter fan site Muggle.net, sits on the edge of a circular table surrounded by a room full of adolescent girls.
Sliding along the back wall, I find an open spot next to a gothic-dressed girl.
“Are there any more questions?” asks Andrew. His blue shirt reads “Myspace Celebrity”.
“Why are there no Harry Potter’s and why do so many people embrace and identify with Slytherin?” I ask.
“I have never seen so many Slytherins at a convention,” answers Andrew. “It used to be all about the Gryffindors. People just want to be bad sometimes. But people still do relate to Harry.”
A murmur of agreement fills the rooms.
“People are proud not to be Gryffindor, which is so different than the way it used to be,” nods Stephanie Mendoza, 16. “Everyone used to want to be Gryffindor, now it’s almost no one. It’s just the sad truth.”
“We all hold Harry close to our hearts,” says Katy Forbes, 17. “Without Harry I wouldn’t have many friends. But I choose to explore other characters that the book doesn’t touch on as much. That way I can make them more my own.”
Still determined to find a Harry Potter and some Gryffindors, I wander down the main hall of the hotel. Just one room over and up a small flight of stairs a giant banner hangs from the ceiling. It reads, “Renew Your Passion.” A few feet further stands a makeshift chapel. Curious I proceed towards emanating music and singing. With eyes closed and arms raised there stood hundreds of Christian missionaries.
“Our God is an awesome God he reigns,” they sing in unison. The words are projected onto a screen in front of them.
Could this be true? I gasp. Did the hotel really simultaneously book a Harry Potter and a Christian Missionary convention? I spin in a half circle. Sure enough, an elevator slides open and out emerges an impish young woman, perched on clear platform heels, excessive cleavage and a billowing black cape that drags behind her like the bride of Frankenstein.
I cover my mouth and swivel back around. Two older men in chairs glare over their newspapers as she cavorts by. An Amishly dressed young mother pulls her child tightly to her hips.
I turn and flee to concierge desk.
“Did the hotel realize what they’d done?” I blurt out. The concierge smiles through tight lips and explains that the conferences are very distanced and that all guests are welcome.
Here were two extreme worlds: fantasy nerds that reveled in and embraced their attraction to darkness juxtaposed with evangelical missionaries. And despite the distances between their theological worlds and their closeness in proximities, the entire day passed without any reported incidence.
I never found my Harry that day but I realized that the fans had grown out of their hero. They didn’t need him anymore. Through Harry Potter they had found companionship, self-actualization and distractions from life’s sadness. You can always flirt with darkness as long as it ends there.