Dennis Norman Remarcis and Dennis Norman Remarcis, III, (Prof. DNR)
Who are these people? I had never heard of them until I moved to Pinedale, Wyoming. I never would have, except that Whitey, my personal fishing guide, and Denny were best friends. I never went with Whitey as a client, but we occasionally fished together evenings, and we hardly ever talked on these outings.
“Wanna getta beer?” “Yup.” That is the extended version of one particular conversation. I think that is why he liked to fish with me, and allowed me to fish with him.
Once we got to the pub, or sometimes up at his cabin on the Upper Green River, tongues would loosen up after several swallows. Those confabs lasted until the end of days, and nights. A few people had actually met Dennis Norman Remarcis, III, (Prof. DNR,) but everyone new about him: He was a hermit who lived up beyond the Big Sandy, and he sold candles he made from boiled down grizzly bear fat at the annual Rendezvous. My God, those candles would burn for weeks, and you would never see a mosquito in the same room. It is likely you might not want to stay in that room yourself. Ever after.
He also sold Indian flutes made from the antlers and leg bones of elk and deer. These sold out first, because Denny also played and sold CD’s of himself performing on these very instruments for the Spirits in the mountains. “If I can do it, so can you!,” he said more than once in his trader’s tent. The music was so compelling that it was suspected that the recording had actually been played by James Galway, Jean Pierre Rampal, or maybe even William Bennett. No one dared to look into it.
One evening after a successful Grizzly hunt on the Upper Green, Denny was waiting in Whitey’s cabin when we arrived. Two empties and one half full indicated that he had been there at least five minutes.
Whitey says, “I see you did good, that bear strapped to the top of your vehicle. It kinda diminutizes it.” Denny drove a VW Bug which had been raised up on huge all-terrain tires, and it could go anywhere an ATV could, at 36 miles per gallon, and it had been fixed up with four wheel drive, power steering, and reliable air conditioning. The bear was indeed so big that it flopped over the front, covering most of the windshield. The visibility issue was solved with a periscope. This VW was hand painted with multiple shades of green and brown. At least eight cans of Krylon exterior spray paint applied after midnight in premeditated patterns at random made this vehicle impossible to see from the road, or even on the road. Whitey continued, “But I did not think that Griz season opened for a while yet.”
We waited while the professor finished off the third, and thought this through. Wiping the drizzle from his beard, he scowled in a way I can only recall as terrifying, and he said: “This was contractual, and the particulars best not be spread around. You heard about them cows last week.” We had, and Whitey looked at me in such a way that I knew that this discussion was over. OVER!
This was the first time since Rendezvous I had seen Dennis, and he remembered me because I had purchased both a flute and a CD as gifts for a long lost flute playing friend of mine. (She was the one who suggested quite obliquely that Bennett may have been involved.) Anyway, to change the subject and not get too personal, I asked him to tell me about his ancestors. At least about DNR numbers I and II.
He liked that and was eager to expound. “There weren’t no I and II. There was Dennis Norman Remarcis and Dennis Norman Remarcis, Jr. is all. My grandfather and father. I never knew my father, or anything much about him, just that he took off somewheres and did not return. Somebody said they had seen an old picture of him, I forget who.”
I asked: “Well, what about your grandfather? I hear he is a legend among the townsfolk of Rocky Top. I was in the archive part of the Carnegie-Mellon Rocky Top library just a year ago. The gals there were not able to locate any accounts of the man, but many, many stories and accounts written by him are preserved. I hope to do a little research, over the winter, with your permission, of course.”
Prof. DNR: “Permission granted, as I would like to learn a little more about him myself. They ran me out of Rocky Top years ago, and I have no desire to return there anyway. That place has turned into Jackson’s Hole. All’s I know is here-say, so if you find out anything different, I want to know. What Mama said was this: Your great grandma got her words reversed, and maybe her thoughts as well. In this day and age they might have said it was Dyslexia, but who knows. She talked in word salads like frump duck’s truck or some such thing. She was also an opera fan who possessed an Edison Cylinder Player. She loved Puccini in general and Turandot in particular. She cherished her recording of Enrico Caruso’s rendition of Nessun Dorma. You can still hear that one on youtube. Mama told me that during her pregnancy with your grandfather…” He stopped in mid sentence seeing a look of complete confusion in the eyes of Whitey and myself.
“…No,no, I think you misunderstand.” he continued. “Mama did not get pregnant by her grandfather, nor did she give birth to him. I was consensually conceived by DNR Jr. and herself. My great grandmother was pregnant with her own child, who later turned out to be my grandfather, begot consensually or not. She listened and sang along with her cylinder every day and dreamed about it every night. But the words got mixed up. She heard…Dennis Norman, Dennis Norman….You know: Da Da de Da Da DEEE do dah. So she named him the first thing she thought of when he emerged. Now that you have the background you might understand this. Great Grandma’s name was Marci Demarcis, and her word salads extended into the written documents back in the day. She signed her own name Darci Remarcis on the birth certificate! My hunch is that great granddad Demarcis did not know how to read, so it stuck: Dennis Norman Remarcis. That is grandad’s name. There you have it.”
We took a moment and moved ourselves and a few six packs out back and built a campfire. It was getting colder and colder, as it does in the mountains, and the stars were brighter than I have ever seen. We smoked some cigars so those downwind would not detect our use of provisions easily obtainable just south of the Wyoming border.
“That is astounding!,” I exclaimed to restart the discussion, “and the whole story is perfectly clear to me as well, and it ties in with everything I’ve found out. The fact that your great grandfather could not read or write most likely was the very thing that compelled DNR to do so, and he did. Many of the things I found in the library were articles preserved on microfilm from the Rocquie Toppe Picayune, and you can read them yourself on my website. They are public domain, so anybody can read ‘em. He wrote public notices for Seven Rivers Railroad more than a century ago. He also shared his like-it-or-not opinions in columns in the Picayune which caused him to remain Editor in Chief Pro Temp, for nearly 60 years! The owner of that paper was Lisette Knottjeur, a mining entrepreneur who was run out of Leadville and settled in Rocky Top. DNR wrote about her…and many times she threatened to fire him. But they had mutual friends, some of ‘em politicians and others who were members of the Last Mostly Reformed Church, whom she could not afford to offend. Many of these folks were regular clients at Lizzy’s Saloon and Hotel down in Lizard Dale. Mutual discretion was the order of the day. I found this all out, but I have a lot more research ahead. There are some daguerrotypes still in existence from then, maybe what you heard about. Nobody said a word about how much your father looked like Lisette!, and nobody asked. I’m sharing that only with you and Whitey here.”
By now there were quite a few empties strewn around the camp fire behind the cabin. Nobody wanted to gather more wood; it is possible that nobody could. The beer drizzle on Professor Dennis Norman Remarcis the third’s beard had begun to freeze, and I could not get up. He did not look too happy about me noticing the resemblances In the photographs I had mentioned, nor did he look the least bit surprised. But I did not pursue that or many other questions I had, for instance, Where and when did they start calling you Professor? Whitey hauled me into the cabin, stretched me out on the floor and threw a buffalo robe over me. I have no further recollections of that conversation, and I have no idea where Prof. DNR went off to.
The Shoes, a Unique Pinedale Experience
Perhaps your mama read The Emperor’s New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen to you when she was putting you to bed. I liked this and similar tales. I never remember being aware of any social, political or moral implications these stories may have contained. I just liked the stories, and that they were being read to me.
So when Dennis Norman Remarcis, III, (Prof. DNR) told me about his Unique Pinedale Experience, I was astounded by the similarities, and I accused him of plagiarism. I am one of two people who can speak to him like this to his face, and remain standing. The other guy is my fishing guide friend, Whitey, who told him he was so full of shit he would need a pair of chest waders to get through it. When I mentioned the name Andersen, Prof. DNR denied ever having heard of him. “How am I supposed to make up a story that some old dude I never ever heard of already wrote?” His introduction to this experience was sent to the editors of the Pinedale Roundup, with a draft of his recollections of one particular evening at The Pub. After reading this draft, Whitey followed up. “You are so full of shit. If this gets published, we will need to build an ark for everyone around here.”
Here is Prof. DNR’s message to the editors of the Roundup, In my humble opinion it is compelling only because it makes perfectly good sense.
Dear Roundup Editors:
You know what sells papers. You must, because you are still in business. You know that most people will only listen to what they want to hear, or read what they already know, or what they are most likely to agree with. If you print along those lines, nobody is ever disappointed. Most people, for a fact, if they recognize themselves as part of a story, will right now text a message or do a Facebook post to all of their friends. Some of these folks read the story, and they also recognize themselves in the story, and they do the same. They pass the word. Before the next edition comes out, you will have to do an extra printing to keep up with the demand. Well, on this particular evening, almost everyone I know and a few I don’t were in The Pub. They will tell you that this report is beyond reproach, absolutely truthful in every respect. So here is a story for you, just as it actually happened, so I will look forward to reading it again in Friday’s edition.
That was followed by the first draft.
The very next Friday, Whitey and Denny came down from their cabins at opposite ends of the Wind River Range. We were going to read the story out loud, to see how it had been censored, and we planned to drink a few beers in my back yard. Whitey got here early and had Googled “Noah’s Ark Plans.” He was preparing a list of supplies for that inevitable project. We had agreed that two arks might be needed as Denny arrived.
The story was not printed. Denny showed absolutely no sign of remorse. He said, in fact, “I have remembered a few more details of that evening. Jot these down for me and we’ll send them the more complete version. They can not resist printing it!” They never did. I was the only one with a laptop, so this latest version is still on my computer. It was written about five years ago, and I confess that I can not doubt that this really happened:
The Shoes: A Unique Pinedale Experience, by Dennis Norman Remarcis
My friend David and I had bushwhacked through muddy willows after a day of wet-wading on a small remote stream. We had each released a dozen or so cutthroats, most of which were about ten inches in length, but I had two, (measured carefully against the markings on my rod) that exceeded twenty four!
(Note: The original version said one trout of nineteen inches was caught. I myself have fished this secret stretch from time to time, and my best fish was fourteen inches. Dennis is an extraordinary fly fisherman, but I wish he had had his camera.)
It was late, so we went straight to the Pub. On the door was this sign:
No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service.
Our wading shoes were muddy and wet, so I pulled on fresh socks and changed into my hiking boots. David had left his dry shoes at home, so I gave him a pair of clean emergency socks. He left his muddy wading shoes in the truck bed and we walked in. It was pretty busy that night. “Who will even notice?” I asked.
We found a table and ordered our dinner. They were playing a country western song through the speakers, along these lines:
I’m so sad, I lost my job; I’m so sad, I lost my dog; I’m so sad, I lost my truck; I’m so sad , I lost my wife! Dang, Dang, Dang, Yee Hah!
I’m so glad, got me a new job; I’m so glad, got me a new dog; I’m so glad, got me a new truck; I’m so glad, got me a brand spankin new girl friend! Dang, Dang, Dang, Yee Hah!
As we were eating our dinner, the waitress…the cutest one with flaming red hair and tattoos up and down her arms, came to check if everything tasted just fine. That is when she noticed David’s feet. “Er, ahem, ah, sir? You do not have any shoes on and I am going to have to ask you to leave.” Although she did her best not to make a scene or make anyone uncomfortable, many eyes were turning toward our table, looking towards the floor. In small towns, everyone wants to know what is going on, and do we mind our own business? Not so much. Right then and there I knew I had to quickly defuse the tensions that were building up so fast all around us, not to mention that we were not going anywhere until we had finished our dinner! What could I do? I washed down a bite with a slurp of Out-of Order Porter, and spoke out, so that anyone listening in could hear:
“WHAT!,” I exclaimed, especially for the waitress. “Those are the most beautiful shoes I have EVER seen! And they were expensive, too. I ordered them myself from a famous shoemaker who lives in solitude high in the Andes of Peru. This ancient hermit obtains the finest silk from Japan, the silk is interlaced with pure gold of the most delicate type, and the diamonds have been smuggled in from Africa, and cut by a Swiss jeweler, the only guy in the whole world who can do it. Only when these shoes are complete, (finished off from a 3D hologram computer program of the recipient’s feet… and, by the way, you can’t purchase these shoes for yourself; they must be given by a true friend…) Only then can they then be sent to the Taj Mahal and then also to The Vatican for blessings and spiritual cleansing.”
For the sake of clarity, I continued. “These final acts of divine intervention make these shoes impossible for some people to see, but I’m sure, (I turned to the waitress,) that you can see them, but you may have to place the tip of your pinky finger of your left hand on your face, centered just between and above the eyes, (just like this, I demonstrated,) , so you might see, and place your thumb of the same hand on your left ear like this, that you might hear, while extending your other fingers toward the heavens, that you may also feel. Sometimes If you waggle them a little like this it helps. Perhaps then you shall see the shoes.” I stood so all could fully grasp the intricacies of this ritual, and a few even tried it.
The first of these were somewhat elderly ladies sitting at a corner table. I knew they had just come from a prayer meeting at the Very Last Somewhat Reformed Church of Pine Creek. They came in every week for a little toddy, or perhaps two. Or three. In perfect unison, as if they were chanting the Doxology, their recital was this: “The Taj Mahal! The Vatican! Oh, how we have now witnessed those shoes, the alpha and the omega, the left and the right, of divinest creation, our sins are most surely forgiven!” Then they carefully touched up the corners of their mouths with little white handkerchiefs, and looked around for approval. They got this from a pair of cowboys at the next table, in the form of a politely tipped Stetson.
One of these old boys said, “Ladies, we are complimented by your attendance here, but I am still having some difficulty seeing the shoes for myself. Maybe I’ll come to church one of these Sundays.” David and I were seated right between these two tables, so I quickly assumed the sacred hand position and mouthed these words: “Just try this!” He centered his left hand pinky above and between his eyes, felt around the enormous sideburns and a splendid handle-bar mustache with his thumb, and finally figured out where his ear was, and then he pointed the three gnarly center fingers towards the heavens and began to waggle them. His eyes were closed.
“You may now open your eyes, my friend,” I whispered.
His Wyoming drawl revealed that he was surely fourth generation local. “BOY HOWDY, Travis, give this here a whirl. Them shoes are a sight for sore eyes, pretty durned unbelievable, and ennyway I think I’m catchin’ some powerful kickin’ from these here three fingers,” which were still waggling. His pard’ner did give it a whirl, and was soon saying just about the same thing. They celebrated with a fourth round.
At another nearby table four girl friends had met up for drinks. They had chosen that table because one of them had noticed Travis’ well worn, (and worn well,) blue jeans. Although Travis could not help himself from noticing these girls also, he was careful to avert his eyes, but not before catching a quick glimpse of some phenomenal cleavage. The girl fiends, however, had watched the whole thing unabashed, and were all trying out the special ritual. One said, “”Like, ya know, that really works, and like WOW those shoes are so totally like SO awesome!” She was a little loud, catching the attention of the whole place. Now the other three girls had placed their left hands in similar positions, and were all exclaiming: “Like,TOTALLY amazing like, you know, just SO awesome! Like.” They simultaneously grabbed their cell phones and took selfies all around, with the cowboys, Spencer and Travis, in the background.
The occupants of other nearby tables had different responses. A college kid said to his friends, “I don’t, I don’t see friggin nothin’ but that guy’s socks. Look! No holes! But they’re clean, maybe.” From the glassy look in these kids’ eyes, I concluded that they must have driven up from Colorado quite recently.
These negative and thoughtless remarks required immediate damage control. I stood up to clarify, and I spoke so all could most surely hear me quite well. “Even with this hand position that enhances the seeing, hearing and feeling, some people like this fine young man can never see these shoes! The reasons for this are not fully understood, but it appears, generally, that all those possessing a highly developed intellect, a strong and sympathetic compassion for all, and most especially an admirable physical embodiment, can almost always see the shoes. Practically everyone in The Pub resumed the sacred ritual. Some exclaimed, “Yep, for cryin’ out loud, I can see ’em now!” Others sitting at the bar swung around on their stools and were nodding enthusiastically in agreement. It had gotten so loud in there that the manager had turned off all the TV’s and the music that goes on at the same time, and he was on the phone, probably dialing 911, for back-up, because even though he himself said he had clearly witnessed these amazing shoes, there was evidently still some skepticism, which might at any moment turn sour.
At the far end of the room, next to the little green stove, were two gentlemen dressed in brand new, brand name, freshly ironed blue jeans. They each had matching belts with bright gold rodeo style buckles, which I found out later were the spittin’ image of the Wyoming flag. They wore crispy western shirts with lavender pearl buttons, and SHINY cowboy boots. Even the soles of those boots reflected light! These men were beginning to look our way, having caught the drift that something more interesting than themselves was going on in this establishment. I leaned my chair back and turned to the older cowboy at the next table. We were on the subject of fine shoes, so the shiny cowboy boots made me especially curious. I whispered to Travis, “Hey, who are those dudes over there. I have never seen them in here before, but one of ‘em looks mighty familiar. And those cowboy boots come in a close second to my buddy’s shoes here.”
Also in hushed tones,Travis replied, “Them really ain’t cowboy boots, nope they ain’t. No real cowboy could afford ‘em, but don’cha know? That’s the Governor of Wyoming with his campaign manager. He’s up for re-election you know, and he’s due to speak at a rally in Jackson tomorrow shortly after sunrise. Today he stopped over at the Bar X for some fly fishing. You remember, the Farlow place before old Merry John sold out to big ag.” I did, in fact, know that place on the New Fork very well. The rancher, Merry John, always gave me permission to fish when I renewed my membership in the Wyoming Outdoor Council. Permission has been denied ever since the sale, and I let my membership lapse.
Travis continued: “last week the Gov gave a talk at the reservation on the other side of the Winds. I was herding up on Union Pass, so I dropped down to the Rez to listen to his remarks. He was very well received, far as I can tell. The tribesmen listened as the Governor explained that the statue of Custer would be removed from in front of Tribal Council Headquarters most certainly right after the election. “Just be patient! The President says he will not renew your reservation stipends if that statue is removed, and he has threatened to run all of you off to jail for ten years if it is forcibly removed. But if I am re-elected to a second term, I will most surely then have his support. At that point I will ask for the state legislature to take up a bill addressing the situation. All they need to do is pass that on to the Supreme Court to iron out a few details. It is only a matter of time.”
Travis commented that the response from tribesmen was very positive, as he had heard “Yeah, Right!,” coming from the back rows from multiple sources.
As usual, the gas field roughnecks and some drilling supervisors were sitting at the bar. The hydrologist for Ultra was a cute Pinedale High School grad whom everyone in town knew, because at one time or another everyone had had a few piano lessons with her mother. This young lady had recently completed her studies at the University of Wyoming in Laramie as a public relations major, and there were no geology, biology, chemistry, physics or mathematics classes on her resume. Just yesterday she had given a presentation for Ultra at the library reassuring us all that we did not need to worry about water pollution. “We are drilling way down under the rivers and the aquifer, through many geological layers of rock and shale, and there is absolutely no communication between the different layers,” she had said.
My thought was this: “Trillions of cubic feet of natural gas are coming out of those rigs. Did you ever hear of anything like cracks, leaks, or gravity?”
The gas field crew had been interested in David’s shoes until they became aware of the Governor’s presence. They got louder than ever as they endorsed the idea amongst themselves that Global Warming was just a big hoax, (the Governor nodding agreement from time to time,) and I heard the school teachers at yet another table complaining that if that Education Bill passes they might actually have to teach SCIENCE in their classes, and “wasn’t there enough trouble with the parents already these days?” But even these teachers and gas field men were once again looking our way, trying out the enlightening left hand position, and commenting with envy on David’s shoes. “I was saving up for a pair of boots just like the Gov’s, but if I can make friends with Denny over there, maybe he can get me shoes like those real nice ones!”
The Governor himself looked around the room with a serious and thoughtful expression. He was making (from what I could tell,) little check marks in a pocket notebook with a pre-WWII lavender pearl fountain pen, which exactly matched his brand new buttons. He counted the check marks, rose from his chair and voiced a resonant “AhHemm!” sound, catching the attention of everyone. He raised his left hand to his face, pinky above the nose and between the eyes and all the rest…(got the position almost right. I had noticed that he had been practicing.) He said the most convincing “Yupp,” I have ever heard, and sat down.
Waiting by the door of the men’s room, a robust young bodybuilder of a man with arms busting out of his US Army khaki tee shirt assumed the sacred position, and his pack of Marlboros fell out of his sleeve. The little boy at his side picked them up and handed them to his dad, wriggling impatiently. “Sarge, I gots to pee real bad!” Dad said, “Hold on son, it’ll be all yours in just another minute.” I would never have even noticed that kid, because he was wearing exactly the same as dad: boots, camo fatigues, khaki tee shirt, even the hat and all, with a plastic box of Tic-Tacs rolled in his sleeve. He was only a foot or so higher than the tops of daddy’s boots, so he blended right in. The soldier, having assessed this situation with his thorough consideration, stood at attention and saluted David with what seemed like shock and awe. “My highest compliments Sir! Sir, those shoes are not the only ones like that I have seen. One sergeant from my platoon had ‘em. He always marched just ahead of our Hum Vees, and we could hardly keep up. He could detect land mines and even WMD storage units. Three tours, never lost a man.”
This handsome soldier had obviously captured the heart of our pretty waitress, who literally dropped everything, including 6 burgers, 12 beers, and 19 chasers. She listened to his testimony with what you might call rapture. It probably never occurred to her that the little boy’s mother might be sitting at another table, watching her oggle her man. No one even budged to clean up the mess. She had both hands up by her face, both pinkies above her nose, thumbs on both ears, was furiously waggling the other fingers with sparkly nails toward the heavens while jumping up and down on tippy-toes, her long red hair flying from side to side. “It is happening, why my lands it is really happening indeed, like the frost on the windshield goin’ away after the pickup warms up. Look at those shoes! Why sir, I do apologize!”
The little boy was whining. “Daddy, I gotta pee bad NOW, and that guy ain’t got no shoes, no he don’t.”
Fortunately the restroom became available, and the soldier shrugged his massive shoulders. “No worries folks, he is just a little boy, and by the time he’s out of boot camp he’ll be A-OK.”
That might have been the show stopper. An undocumented immigrant from the back came and mopped up the mess. Things finally started to quiet down to normal, the music and TV’s came back on simultaneously to fill the void. But David got up and started to dance around in my clean socks. He was singing “I just, I just, I just can’t help myself!”
I’ll never ask him why. That’s the last I saw of those socks, too, so I suspect he never took them off.
(Dennis Norman Remarcis)
Seven Rivers Railroad 