Also by Douglas Peters

In 2011, Doug decided to see what was featured on Page 2, not Page 1, in a newspaper wherever he happened to be in the world. 365 days. 365 stories.

April 1, 2011 – Iowa City Press-Citizen

Roller Girls donate to Arc Television in the late 1950s and early 1960s was not remotely edgy, certainly not by today’s standards when whatever the imagination can create the screen can reproduce.  There were mysteries and shows and made-for-TV movies.  Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone could come close but there was still an air of respectability and appropriateness as American families sat down before programming in black and white.

There were two exceptions: All Star Wrestling and Roller Derby.  In each case, whether feigned or not, adults pummeled each other in the name of sport.  And that’s what made it fascinating, because adults weren’t supposed to act that way, although, of course, they did all the time in out-of-the-way places far from the eyes of children.  That’s what made these TV shows so entrancing.  A flip of the switch and there they were in our living rooms.

Of the two, Roller Derby was my favorite.  These men and women were a mix of gazelle and gladiator as they whizzed by at break-neck speed while trying to inflict as much bodily harm on their opponents as possible.

Both professional wrestling and the roller derby of today are still alive and well.  And at least the women’s roller teams are trying for a balance between mentalities of killer and kindness.  The Old Capitol City Roller Girls are pictured on page 2 making a $500 donation to the Arc of Southeast Iowa.  Dressed in their battle gear with smiles on their faces Animal Mother, Left for Deadwoods, Toxic Sugar, Swiss Misfit and Giga Hurtz, among others (presumably not their real names), are making it clear that they care about those in need.

Once the check was pocketed, once the track was cleared of those without wheels on their feet, Ms. Mother, Ms. for Deadwoods and all the other Old Capitol City Roller Girls were probably ready to attack ruthlessly the other team.

Doug grew up in the panhandle of western Nebraska, an expanse of ranches, Sandills and open sky. Part history, part memoir, part family reckoning, these stories are for him a rich and crucial foundation.

Before Carhenge

My hometown of Alliance, Nebraska, is now famous for Carhenge, the full-scale, nearly authentic replica of Stonehenge in southern England, and made of old cars rather than stones.  Each old car is about the size of one of the ancient stones and is painted gray . . . the cars, not the stones . . . the stones are already gray.  Images of Carhenge pop up everywhere – on news programs, on the album cover of The Best of Steely Dan – Then and Now and every travel brochure within 100 miles of Alliance.  On a flight from Chicago to Rome in 2010 a large ad appeared in the Alitalia in-flight magazine for an Italian used car search web site.  The gist was that failure to use their services rendered the shoppers rusty and ancient, the Carhenge photo an attempt to drive home that point.

I did not live in Alliance when the joke turned art (i.e. Carhenge) was created.  It was not immediately popular in the area and in the state.  The Nebraska Department of Roads at first declared it a junkyard and demanded its destruction or, failing that, a serious fence to hide it from view.  Hiding art from view sort of defeats the purpose, and once people like me began to laugh, to visit and to spend money in the community the artistic qualities became a little easier to see.

But if western Nebraska memory serves me, Carhenge is not an original idea.  I realize that Stonehenge has it beat by lots of centuries, but I’m referring to something else, something more in keeping with the old car theme and situated in time between the two famous henges.

When I lived in Alliance in the late 1950s we often drove south out of our town through the nearly empty town of Angora and on to Scottsbluff or even further to Denver.  The terrain is filled with hills and bluffs, an extension of the Sandhills to the east and the Oregon Trail marker bluffs to the south.  The road was filled with twists and turns around rock outcroppings and treeless grazing land.  Young, impatient, antsy children are not particularly interested in rock outcroppings and treeless grazing land.  And being one of them I was starved for anything out the window that would pique my interest.  That’s where Poor Dick came in.

Every few miles around a bend or on top of a hill I spotted an old, rusty, fully-non-functioning car or truck perched on its side, end or top.  Painted in large letters for every traveler to see was one in a series of phrases:

Who is Poor Dick?

Where is Poor Dick?

Poor Dick was here.

And so forth . . .

They were a kind of beacon of hope for a boy easily bored, a promise that civilization, even if only a rusty eyesore, was not far away.  I thought some child-friendly angel had come to break the monotony.  My parents assured me that Poor Dick was actually in the car salvage business in Scottsbluff or Gering or some other town in the vicinity.

The last time I drove through Angora and further south the Poor Dick cars and trucks were nowhere to be seen.  I found that I really didn’t miss them; the rock outcroppings and treeless grazing land are actually beautiful and not at all boring.  But north of town Carhenge still stands in all its gray-painted glory.  Perhaps in another 5000 years some other henge will be created as either a joke or a piece of art.  But if the words “Poor Dick” are painted on the side I’m not sure it will last.