There was a reason Jennifer, once of Jenny’s Barnyard Adventure, sat in the back of my head for so long before she became an airline pilot. She sat there with a kid named Louis and a boy who used to play Cub Scout baseball on a team our pack faced…
Leave a CommentAuthor: Patrick Dobson
Dr. Patrick Dobson is a work in progress until his termination. In the meantime, He is a writer, scholar, postman, and college professor living in Kansas City, MO.
The University of Nebraska Press published his travel memoirs, Canoeing the Great Plains: A Missouri River Summer in 2015 and Seldom Seen: A Journey into the Great Plains in 2009. Canoeing the Great Plains won the 2016 High Plains Book Award in Creative Nonfiction and the Thorpe Menn Literary Excellence Award. His essays and poems have been published in New Letters, daCunha, Kansas City Star, Garo, Wood Coin, and JONAHmagazine, and others.
Dobson earned a doctorate in American History and Literature at the University of Missouri-Kansas City in 2013. He has edited books, taught journalism, and been a union ironworker. He now teaches American History, Modern Latin American History, and Western Civilization at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, KS.
He looks forward to hearing from you soon.
Before Trout was a murky and mean time. It was a time of fishing for catfish in a minuscule and crowded pond, where Lenny and I didn’t really need rods and bait; we could have reached in and noodled the fish we wanted. The only trick (and possibly the only…
Leave a CommentWhen I first visited Wyoming’s breathtaking expanses of sky, sagebrush, pine woods, and splashes of cars and junk strewn around trailers like exploded bombs, I lived in a brick room at the university in Laramie. I’d have never had known about Wyoming from my concrete and baked-clay cell. It had…
Leave a CommentA corporation bought the family newspaper I worked for, and I was scared. My fear was for myself, for my coworkers, for my family. We had worked to turn the paper into something we could be proud of, and the men in suits didn’t care as they walked around us…
Leave a CommentOne of the Germans and I wandered off down the bank though the sycamores into the night. Several long, flat-bottom boats motored by, outfitted with huge spotlights and muscular men who spit mouthfuls of tobacco past the tines of their tridents. Udo, the tall German, and I watched the men…
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