Archive for the ‘Tim Shey’ Tag

Writings from the Road   4 comments

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Writings from the Road by Tim Shey.  132 pages.  Non-fiction.  Published in 2016.

Barnes & Noble
A Red-Letter Day

High Plains Drifter (short story)   7 comments

high-plains-drifter-blu-ray-movie-title-large

High Plains Drifter
By Timothy Michael Shey

The big Kenworth roared west through Wyoming.

“So how long’ve ya been on the road?” the truck driver asked.

“A day or two,” the young man replied.

“Where’d ya start out?”

“Western Nebraska. I was working on a ranch for a couple of days and got sick of it. I have a friend in California I want to see.”

“California?”

“Yeah.”

The truck driver was heavy-set and wore a short-cropped beard and baseball cap. The young man was slender and wore glasses. His only possessions: a backpack and sleeping bag.

“Ya got a long ways to go,” the truck driver said. “I’ll get ya to Salt Lake. Then I’m headin’ north.”

“Thanks for picking me up. It was cold standing out there.”

“No problem.”

The rugged, rolling terrain of Wyoming. The sagebrush. The dry air.

“So what’d ya do before the ranch?” the truck driver asked.

“I was in school in Manhattan.”

“New York?”

“No. Kansas.”

“Where ya from?”

“Garden City.”

“I see.”

The young man looked over the horizon to his right. There was silence for ten minutes except for the noise of the engine and the bounce of the tractor-trailer.

“So who’s this friend of yours in California?” the truck driver asked.

“She’s a poet.”

“She?” The truck driver smiled and looked at the young man.

“I’ve never met her before. I’ve read a couple of her books and we’ve exchanged a few letters, that’s all.”

“I see.”

“She has a daughter going to school in Santa Cruz that I thought I might like to visit, also.”

“I don’t know much about poetry. Is it like drivin’ a truck?” the truck driver asked jokingly.

“Exactly.” Exactly. Poetry is breath and fire and pain. Poetry is getting drunk or stacking hay on a ranch in western Nebraska. It is holding a beautiful woman in your arms; it is holding a baby in your lap. It is dropping out of high school because of the shallowness and stupidity. Exactly. Poetry is hitchhiking all the way to California to see a brilliant woman who loves the letters you write.

“So where’d ya stay last night? It got pretty cold out there.”

“A rancher picked me outside of Laramie. He drove me to Rock Springs where his parents live. They let me stay overnight. Wonderful people. Gave me supper and breakfast.”

“No kiddin’?”

“It was pretty incredible.”

“I’ll say. All a person hears about are people gettin’ robbed or killed on the road.”

“Yeah. Really.”

The big Kenworth was going 80 miles per hour, passing cars and trucks. The speed and the power, the stress of steel and bolt, piston and axle and 18 wheels. Going west. Going west.

“So where you going after Salt Lake City?” the young man asked.

“Headin’ north of Pocatello. Then I’ll head back to Denver with another load.”

Fire and breath and pain and heading north to Pocatello. Pocatello of your dreams. Pocatello of your nightmares. Six men die in gun battle with federal marshals at the Pocatello Corral. Southern Idaho desert. Dry heat, dry grass, dry blood on dry earth. Exactly. The breath of the moment, the heat of the battle—firefight in the Pocatello Corral. One federal marshal wounded. Dry sun on another horizon. This is not Kansas. This is not Nebraska. This is Pocatello. Pocatello of your nightmares.

“This sure is wide open country,” the young man said.

“It’s a wasteland. Desert.”

“I like wide open spaces.”

“Then ya won’t like California. Ever been to L.A. or Frisco?” the truck driver asked.

“No.”

“Where does your poet friend live?”

“Big Sur.”

“Never been there.”

California of your nightmares. Big Sur of your dreams. Fire out of Kansas. Wheatfields and golden landscapes and dry air and blue sky and. Words, ink on paper, meter and fire. The anvil and the hammer and the fireblood of a wounded heart. Laceration and pain. Fire. The wordsmith labors and sweats and bleeds and brings forth new life. Anvil and hammer. The hot steel is shaped. Blow after blow. Sparks fly in the hot and dry air of Kansas.

“So how old are ya?” the truck driver asked.

“Twenty-three.”

“So what do ya want to do with your life?”

“I want to be a bounty hunter or President of the United States.”

The truck driver smiled and chuckled. “Sounds good to me. Ever see High Plains Drifter with Clint Eastwood?”

“I am the High Plains Drifter.”

Flame out of Kansas. Riding west to the gold rush of your dreams. Desperate, unshaven, sunburned and hungry. Big Sur on your mind. Leather boots, leather skin, the stink of horse sweat. Shot six men in Pocatello just to watch them die. The bullet wounds of your heart, the anguish of the moment. Six men in Pocatello. Just to watch them die. You cinch the saddle down tight and ride west with the hot wind of Idaho at your back. You will ride west where the Pacific meets the edge of the Universe. There you will grow new muscle and ride a horse of a different color.

West. Flame out of Kansas. Exactly.

The big Kenworth rolled west through Wyoming and eternity.

Ethos
May 1995
Iowa State University

[Republished by Digihitch.com]

HIGH PLAINS DRIFTER/Written in Blood
Clint Eastwood’s film High Plains Drifter (1973)
Meeting a Former Editor from Warner Brothers
New Camaldoli
Excerpts from “The Poor in Ames”, Ethos Magazine

Caretaker of the House–the White House   Leave a comment

White House

Dreams from the LORD 2003-2006
1 July 2004

Last night, I had a dream where I was talking candidly with President George W. Bush. He was smiling. President Bush left the house we were in and I stayed behind. It seemed like I was the caretaker of the house. Then it was nighttime and German terrorists attacked the house. I saw people running around the grounds of the house I was living in. The grounds of the house were extensive. They (the German terrorists) had a fancy jet fighter and they were strafing the house. The jet fighter was red and black and it crashed close to the house. Then this well-dressed, blond-haired German, who was a secret agent, walked up to me with a wicked smile on his face and said that he was here to kill me. He had a syringe in his hand with a long needle—the syringe contained some highly lethal poison. I told him that no poison could kill me. I bared my arm and told him to inject me with the poison. He injected the poison into my arm and you could see the green poison go into my veins, but nothing happened—I did not die.

The Gatekeeper
Harry Truman, Hoboes and the Santa Fe Railroad
A Room With Many Windows

Book Review: High Plains Drifter   8 comments

High Plains Drifter:  A Hitchhiking Journey Across America

This review is by M. Canniff (Valora Raziel):

“I first heard of Tim Shey through his web site, and then ordered his book from Amazon. (I have yet to ever meet him.) I was curious about what life on the road must be like for a hitchhiker following God. His path that he details in this book, blew all my previous misconceptions about hitchhikers clear out of the water! He receives guidance from the Holy Spirit, through the spiritual gift of knowledge, in what I see as a unique twist to the usual. Some have claimed to hear the voice of God speaking to them and directing them into His Ways, but in Tim’s experience, He feels the anointing of the Lord upon him, giving him great peace and joy, thereby letting him know, that he is indeed upon the right path. And what a path it is! Tim shares how the Holy Spirit leads him into intersecting paths of those people that God wants him to meet. Sometimes it’s just a simple conversation with another believer, that leads them into a stronger faith in Christ, and other times it is to actually, physically, lend a helping hand to those who (at that moment,) are in desperate need. It shows how the Lord can be trusted to work out even the smallest details in ones life. It also shows how one can live for Christ without all the encumbrances that come with having and getting material stuff. My only disappointment with the book was it’s lack of a good solid ending. (I am a ‘happily-ever-after’ and an ‘all-loose-ends-tied-up’ kind of reader.) However, I also realize that it simply isn’t possible for him to have one yet, as he is still out there, on the road, doing the Will of God. So, in conclusion, if you’ve ever wondered what it must be like, for a man of God to live the life of a hitchhiker, then this is the book for you. It will open your eyes to a world that few of us have ever experienced…”

Book Depository
The First Time I Rode a Freight Train & other hitchhiking stories
The Computer, Iowa State University and Jane Smiley
High Plains Drifter (short story)
Into The Wild
The Short, Short Hitchhiker
Author/Hitchhiker
Writings from the Road
Book Review:  The First Time I Rode a Freight Train & other hitchhiking stories

Hitchhiking in Nebraska   12 comments

Prairie Sunset

Sand Hills, Nebraska

High Plains Drifter: A Hitchhiking Journey Across America
By Tim Shey

Excerpt from Chapter Five:

Psalm 18: 19: “He brought me forth also into a large place; he delivered me, because he delighted in me.”

In May of 1997, I hitchhiked west towards Nebraska. I have always loved going through Nebraska. In all my travels, I believe that the people of Nebraska and Texas were by far the best people I have ever met. Nebraska was in my comfort zone. Whenever I had been wandering out west and came out of Wyoming and into Nebraska, I felt that I was back on my home turf. The people of Nebraska are gold, silver and precious stones.

I got some good rides all the way to Osmond, Nebraska. It was getting close to sundown when this guy driving a tractor picked me up.

“You can sit on the fender if you want,” he said.

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

He drove me to Plainview and we talked about the things of God and the Bible. He asked me what I was doing. I told him that I just quit my job and thought I would hitchhike by faith and see where God would take me. He offered me a job right there. He had his own construction company and lived on a farm with his wife and kids. I told him I would love to work for him, but that God was calling me out west for some reason. We stopped in Plainview and we shook hands. I hopped off the tractor and I got a motel room.

The next morning this tractor-trailer picked me up.

“I’m going all the way to western South Dakota,” he said. “I got five drops: three in Nebraska and two in South Dakota.”

We stopped at three places in Nebraska and I helped unload his van–he was hauling some small trees and shrubs. We got to a truck stop near Kadoka, South Dakota and he told me he would buy me some supper.

We were eating supper when he looked at me and said, “You know, right before I picked you up I saw this man pointing at you. It was like he was telling me to pick you up.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “I didn’t see anybody out there. I was alone.”

“I saw him plain as day. When I picked you up I didn’t see him anymore.”

I was flabbergasted. So I sat there and wondered and looked out the window and asked him, “Do you think he was an angel?”

“He must’ve. It was the strangest thing I ever saw.”

On our trip we talked a lot about the Word of God and certain preachers on TV. He lived in Sioux City and was very well self-educated. I enjoyed talking with him. After supper he said he was going back to the sleeper and get some sleep. I took a long walk—for two or three miles—out in the country. Lots of grassland; it was beautiful.

I walked back to the truck and the trucker was sound asleep. He had a double-decker sleeper, so I got in the top bunk and turned on the VCR. From midnight till four in the morning I watched two films. The first film was The Professional—it was about the life of a mafia hit man and a twelve-year-old girl named Matilda. It was very good. I forget the other film.

The next day we stopped in Rapid City and Spearfish and we unloaded his truck. He bought me breakfast and I hit the road.

A Book Review for High Plains Drifter
Are You An Angel?
A State of Existing, North Dakota
Tim Shey Hitchhiking in Western Wyoming
It’s a Small World
The life of a hobo
Hitchhiking Stories from Digihitch
A Thumb and a Prayer
An American Pilgrim:  Some Reflections on High Plains Drifter