Ethnosphere Connect, Express, Inspire
Meraki
Greek (adj) to do something with soul, passion, or love. To put some of yourself into something
Jarrett Wilson
Collection 4 - April 2023
Table of Contents
Jarrett Wilson
Masthead
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Essential Ingredients for an Excellent Meal
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Guatemalan chef, José Coronado, starts his biggest project yet: executive chef at a restaurant in a historical manor in Ohio.
In Loving Memory of Neil Jentoft Honoring photographer Neil Jentoft’s memory and work.
Pursuing Pork Tenderloin Sandwiches 13 Dave Stovall has found the one thing with the power to unite people across the country: pork tenderloin sandwiches.
Shooting from the Heart 17
Photographer Randy Dunn shares some of his spectacular photos and his insights on the art of photography.
18: A Number and a Dream 23
Zach Province grew up with a love for football and a killer arm. Here, he shares his journey as he works to become a pro football player.
A Stairway of Clouds 29 A short story about the daughter of Icarus, whose obsession with a pegasus leads her on a quest on which she discovers new depths of both exhaustion, and inner strength.
Creative Works from the Artists at Advanced RV
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Beyond the Magazine 37 About the Authors 39 Submissions 41 May Issue Reveal 42
www.ethnospheremagazine.com
Editor
Madeline C. Lanshe editor@ethnospheremagazine.com
Editorial Staff
Mitchell Dunbar, Maureen Gregory, Madeline C. Lanshe, Marcia Neundorfer, Mike Neundorfer
Designer
Madeline C. Lanshe
Photographers Randy Dunn, Bill Hoff, Neil Jentoft, Madeline C. Lanshe, David Stovall, Jarrett Wilson
Writers
Madeline C. Lanshe, Zach Province, David Stovall
Other Contributors
Chris Agnew, Jose Coronado, Joyce Jentoft
Published by Advanced RV
2023 Advanced RV. All materials contained in this publication (including text, content, and photography) are protected by United States copyright law and may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, displayed, broadcast, published, or modified in any way without the prior written consent of Advanced RV. Contributors retain all rights to their stories, photography, art, etc. while giving Ethnosphere Magazine/Advanced RV the right to share their work in the digital magazine, print, and any other way they see fit for creative or promotional reasons.
We created Ethnosphere as a place to connect people who are alike and unalike, express pieces of the human experience, inspire, and be inspired.
Jarrett Wilson
Essential Ingredients for an Excellent Meal
by Madeline C. Lanshe
Some of us would crack under the pressure of a busy restaurant kitchen. This is not the case for Chef José Coronado, who not only thrives in the middle of the stress, but enjoys it. In fact, it’s one of the things that excites him the most about his occupation. Maybe some of this can be attributed to his over fifteen years of experience in the restaurant business. José moved to the US from Guatemala at the age of fifteen. His first job was washing dishes in a restaurant. That’s when he discovered how much he enjoyed being in the kitchen. From dishwasher, he moved to the sauté station. “This is me,” he realized. “I feel great here. This is my thing.” He worked at other restaurants through the years, most notably, Felice Urban Cafe, in Cleveland, Ohio, where he was the executive chef for almost six years, gaining an impressive reputation for the quality of his meals and menus. He has a broad culinary range, but many of his dishes are inspired by his culture. Growing 5
up, his mother was his first mentor and guide. “She cooked all the time,” José said. “She cooked like, 24/7.” Felice closed in 2022, but exciting opportunities seem to find those with passionate hearts. José’s new project will be executive chef and partner at Julia’s 1902 a restaurant in Willoughby, Ohio, which is under construction now. Julia’s will be on the ground floor of Willoughby House, a historic, thirty-three room, three story mansion built in 1902, formerly known as the Van Gorder Manor. Paul Neundorfer, a former owner of Felice, and his brother, Mike Neundorfer, who bought the manor and lead the construction, trust José fully, knowing not only the excellence of his food, but the strength of his character. While taking some photos in the manor, José stopped in a space created by removing walls from three rooms, with plaster stripped, and framework exposed, and explained that this was going to be the kitchen. You’d have to
have a lot of imagination to see the vision in the dusty, bare-bones room. Luckily, Chef José does. He has been working around the clock to find and obtain equipment for the kitchen. In fact, one of the things he is most excited about is designing his own kitchen and having the freedom to create his own menu. “I want my menu to be for everyone,” José said. “If you’re vegan, pescatarian, if you’re a meat lover, this restaurant is for you. We got a little bit of everything for you here.” He’d even made a small menu for dogs at Felice, with options such as bacon and scrambled eggs. Something of the utmost importance to him is the quality of the food. As much as possible, he wants to bring in organic produce and work with local farmers in order to make healthy dishes. Out with the processed foods, in with the “homemade.” While one of the aims of the restaurant is to be fine dining, José wants to make sure it is also welcoming and accessible for families. With a wife and four children himself, family, like cooking, is at the center of his life. Leila, his youngest, who is six years old, likes to be in the kitchen with him. She likes to scramble her eggs, and José taught her how to make homemade flour tortillas as well. José wants to create an atmosphere where he would take his own family to spend a nice evening. “If you’re fancy, this is for you. If you’re not, this is for you.” José explained that being a chef is more than putting a plate together. He thinks about the experience he wants to have when he goes to a restaurant and how he chooses to spend his money. When asked what his favorite dish is to cook, José said: “I just cook anything. To be a chef, you have to be creative. So I open my fridge and say okay, this is here, and combine different stuff.”
When pressed a bit further, he said his wife loves pasta, so he enjoys cooking pasta for the family. For him, cooking isn’t about just the action, but the ability to share food and an experience with people. It is one of the things that brings him joy. While he is also a wonderful baker, he prefers the freedom that comes with cooking. The former takes more precision and measuring, and once you’ve mixed the ingredients and put it in the oven, you have no control. If you got the wrong portions, the cake will not rise, or it will be too dry. With cooking, there is more room to adjust. What is Chef José Coronado doing when he’s not cooking or spending time with his family? Thinking about food and coming up with new, innovative recipes and flavors. You know something is your purpose, and has taken over your soul, when every experience in your life gives you ideas and inspiration for it. José’s advice, if he could tell the whole world one thing about cooking, is this: “Cook with passion. Whatever you do, do it with passion.”
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Avocets
Orchids
S In Loving Memory of Neil Jentoft S Neil Jentoft and his wife, Joyce, were both biochemists and photographers. They started photography as graduate students, nearly 50 years ago. After they retired in 2006, they took trips in their camper van every year until the pandemic. Neil passed away in July of 2022, but his memory lives on in the minds of his wife, friends, and in the photos he captured. Though Neil and Joyce photographed many things, birds and flowers became a favorite. They traveled to places such as Cape Canaveral, Corkscrew Swamp, and the Texas Coast to take photos of the birds. Joyce became Neil’s spotter as, according to her, “There’s no reason to be in competition, and he always had a bigger lens than I did.” For every trip, they kept a journal with a list of birds. They saw Joyce’s favorite bird, the great blue heron, so often that they started referring to them as GBHs. Neil’s photography is only displayed at Advanced RV, and in the calendars he made as gifts for friends with the year’s favorite photos. We are honored to give some of his photos a permanent home in which they can be shared and appreciated.
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Wood Duck
Little Blue Heron
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Barred Owl
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Iris 11
Fuschia
Tulip 12
Pursing Pork Tenderloin Sandwiches by David Stovall
Bill Hoff
For the uninitiated, pork tenderloin
sandwiches are essentially schnitzel sandwiches, made from pork loin that has been pounded flat, breaded and fried. Schnitzels are an old Austrian/German food, more of a plate for dinner than a sandwich. They can be the size of that dinner plate or, some say, a hubcap. Imagine one of those on a small hamburger bun. People try them mostly out of curiosity. In Indiana, Iowa, Illinois, and Missouri, they are as much a staple in restaurants as hamburgers. They go by many names and, in Texas, I had to ask a cook what a pork burger was. He said, “It is like a chicken fried steak, but pork, without the gristle.” I call them the Midwest term: pork tenderloins. I often get asked where my obsession for this particular food came from. I attribute it to my youth. When I got my driver’s license at the very end of the 50’s, “wheels” meant freedom for a teenage boy, and cruisin’ is what I did, mostly between drive-ins, to see what was happenin’. They all had tenderloins, ones that generally fit the hamburger buns. So, the first
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thing I did when I had the freedom to make my own choices was drive clear across Indianapolis, to the legendary Al Green’s Drive-in Restaurant, reputed for their huge tenderloins several inches overhanging the bun. After that day, tenderloins became forever entwined with that feeling of youthful freedom. I now live in Minnesota, which has a decent amount of German ancestry, is the number two hog producing state bordering Iowa, but is strangely bereft of tenderloins. For forty plus years, I became busy with college, marriage, the Navy, raising a family, and having an architectural career. My boyhood memories of tenderloins had fallen into the crevices of my mind. Until several years later, that is. I was staying home from work with the flu and had a rare day of watching daytime TV. While flipping quickly through the cable channels, I saw a familiar building on the TV screen. I probably went a few clicks past before it dawned on me. It was the Brickyard Crossing at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, the
first building I had ever worked on as a student architectural intern in 1962. It was a Food Finds cable channel show titled Racing Around Indiana, featuring Indiana foods. The segment was on making the Indiana breaded pork tenderloin sandwich, in my hometown of Speedway, no less. It could’ve been a coincidence or an epiphany. Maybe it was both, because that TV show was the catalyst for reigniting my memories and spurring me to embark on a new, exciting journey. With my wife, Nancy, by my side, I sought out, once again, those tenderloin sandwiches. Nancy doesn’t have the memories that reinforce my pursuit, but she puts up with my idiosyncrasies. Judging by the many tenderloins she orders, I suspect she doesn’t mind. She’s even more opinionated than I about the sandwiches. I just tend to enjoy eating them. If I had to choose a favorite, however, it would be from Nick’s Kitchen, a restaurant reputed to serve the first pork tenderloin sandwich. The son of German immigrants, Nick Freienstein started selling schnitzels from a food cart in 1904. I imagine, for convenience, he served them as a handheld sandwich, and traditional wiener schnitzel (veal) was substituted with pork. He eventually opened his restaurant in 1908. It has been in business in the same place for a hundred and fifteen years, with several successive owners who kept the name and original recipe. The best lore coming from Nick’s Kitchen, if you want to believe it, is Nick’s older brother lost his fingers to frostbite and couldn’t hold a mallet, so he pounded the tenderloins flat with the stump of his hand. We met Jean Anne Bailey, the current owner of Nick’s, and now a good friend. Jean Anne allowed us
into the kitchen to fry our own sandwiches and then eat them in the dark by the front window for light when an electrical power outage closed the restaurant that morning. She sent her employees home and stayed herself, knowing we were coming. It may be my favorite because of the history of the restaurant, the friendship, and the magic of the moment. I discovered Missouri had had a “Best Breaded Pork Tenderloin Sandwich” contest in 2008. The Udder End Cafe in Boonville was the winner. So Nancy and I meandered off the straight path to Texas to go to the Udder End. All we had was an address. The cafe itself didn’t even have a sign to mark it. What we didn’t know was it was in a cattle auction building, open only on Tuesdays, when auctions were held. Serendipitously, we showed up on a
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Tuesday. Despite the cafe floor having cow droppings trampled in by cowboy boots, the tenderloin was worth it. It was one of the best I’ve had, as it was so tender it practically melted in my mouth. It could also have something to do, I suspect, with the quality of the pork, catering directly to farmers. I could see why it had been voted the best. Facebook was a novelty at that time. I created a group: “Pursuing Pork Tenderloin Sandwiches,” for the purpose of finding those sandwiches in my travels, with the help of others. It’s how I heard about the Udder End Cafe. I envisioned a group of about two to three hundred members. There could not possibly be more fanatics than that. Wrong!
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I seem to have struck a nerve with others. As of this article, there are over 75,000 members. The group has evolved into finding the best tenderloin sandwich, through not just suggestions, but reviews and photos. One of my challenges, since a lot of the members’ common lament is not knowing where to find them in their state, is to find them outside the Midwest. My search, from Talkeetna, Alaska to Mission, Texas, and Palm Springs, California to Hagerstown, Maryland, has totaled close to 300 restaurants in 31 states in 17 years of travels, which is one about every 3 weeks. I continue to travel the country, feasting on all the pork tenderloin sandwiches I can find, while connecting with countless people in person and online along the way, who share this delicious passion.
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Shooting from the Heart by Madeline C. Lanshe
Randy Dunn’s journey as a photographer
started in 1975 when he came across an old 35mm Rangefinder camera in a closet when he was fifteen years old. His dad had bought it years before while serving in the army. He fiddled around until it worked, then took it on vacation that summer. His newfound interest did not go unnoticed, and the following Christmas, his father bought him a “real” camera: a Canon FTb single lens reflex with a 50mm lens. He’s been in and out of photography ever since. Randy worked in construction management and as a technical representative for a manufacturer of construction products and tools later in his career. At the end of 2019, he was able to start enjoying an early retirement. This has allowed him to pursue his passion of photography. He doesn’t worry about selling his photos, which relieves the stress other photographers experience while trying to market their images. He does it just for the pure joy, which is when he believes most artists produce their best work. 17
Randy’s favorite thing to photograph is nature. “Most landscape photographers got into it because they just enjoy being out in nature. The picture is secondary to being in the environment.” For Randy, it’s a way to document and relive once-in-a-lifetime trips. You can forever look back on those memories. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving.” Another aspect of photography that he loves is how you can pick up or put down the camera whenever, even if it’s been a while. Your vision changes, just as your life changes and your experiences grow. There are things that make you who you are and influence how you see the world, which in turn influence the shots you capture. This, Randy explains, is demonstrated when you do workshops with a group of people, all taking photos at the same location. Very few participants come back with images that are even similar. Randy considers himself self-taught, as he never studied photography formally. He does come from an artistic family, however. His mother was an artist, and his father was
musical, though he did not inherit the music genes. He has participated in numerous workshops with other professional photographers. This includes a recent trip to Alaska to take pictures of grizzly bears, coming within mere yards of a mother bear and three cubs. The first photography road trip he did was from Chicago to North and South Dakota, the Badlands, Madeline Island, and down through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The fall colors were remarkable in Wisconsin and the UP. Every spring, he goes to the Smokies to capture the wildflowers and the wide variety of greens as the trees leaf out. Otherwise, some of his most notable trips were to the Galapagos Islands and the Svalbard region in the Arctic. About the former, he said, “It’s like walking through a zoo without fences, the amount of times we had to tiptoe around iguanas and sea lions.” While working their way through the Arctic, the captain brought the small ship by a huge iceberg during dinner. Randy remembers how he had to quickly finish eating so that he could get up and get his camera. Pretty soon, everyone was out on the deck taking pictures. That same night, they saw a young, male polar bear with a pristine coat. “No scars or anything,” Randy said. “Walked up to the ship, did like, one lap back and forth. Decided, ‘there’s no food here for me, it’s time to move on.’ Those kinds of experiences, whether you had a camera or not, to capture that, is just incredible.”
While Randy focuses mainly on the domestic, as there’s enough in the US to keep a photographer occupied for life, he is planning a trip to Antarctica later this year. The cruise will cater well to photography. For him, it’s not just about being on the ice with the penguins, but taking in the landscapes and ice formations as they travel in the ship. If you’re an aspiring photographer, Randy cautions against getting too caught up in the gear or copying what you see on the Internet. It’s about going out into the world and being open: stumbling across a waterfall, a group of flowers, light filtering through the trees just right. Showing up without expectations. You can hike for hours in the dark to reach the summit of a mountain to capture the sunrise, but you have no control over how the sky chooses to behave. Carve out your own way of seeing things.“Shoot from the heart,” Randy says. “Do what makes your heart sing.” More images can be found on his website: DunnByRandall.com
Bears of Katmai Nat
tional Park, Alaska
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A Number and a Dream By Zach Province
n football, hearing your number called by teammates, coaches, fans and even opponents is endearing. Sure, they all know your name, but there is just something special about hearing “Nice throw, 18”. Maybe it’s because it’s a little reminder that you’re a part of something bigger than yourself: a team of men you get to call brothers on the gridiron, all fighting towards one goal. Perhaps it’s what that number means to you personally. I wear 18 for every team on which I play because of the man that helped me fall in love with football and all of its chess-like strategies: Peyton Manning. I was maybe seven or eight, watching SportsCenter, when a couple of the anchors started mocking his audible-at-the-line style and commenting about how he just wasn’t good enough to “win the big one.” Looking back on it now, it seems ridiculous to consider the great Peyton Manning to be an “underdog,” but that’s exactly what he appeared to be to little ole me.
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It’s the reason I instantly bonded with him. I, too, had always felt like the underdog. I grew up in a family of athletes. My dad was a star football player and thrower for track and field, collecting many medals in his time, my mom grew up with a slew of brothers with whom she’d play backyard football and eventually become quite the basketball star, and my two brothers, close in age, are athletically gifted. We were constantly outside, playing a sport of some kind. My dad taught us the proper way to throw a spiral, and I was hooked. I would lay on the living room floor, right below the high point of the ceiling, and throw that ball up over and over, trying to get as close as possible to touching the ceiling with a perfect spiral. When the rest of the family was busy, I would come up with ways to play football solo. I would either throw the ball onto the roof and have it roll back to me, find a couple of park benches a good distance apart and throw back and forth attempting to hit them, or, much to the amusement of my neighbors, I’m sure, I would play an entire game in the front yard by myself that included snapping the ball, throwing, and tackling myself.
When my dad was available after his long days at work, I would bug him relentlessly to throw some passes with me. It felt like Christmas morning every time I would get a “yes.” My dad had the best arm I’d ever seen, so I was always trying to throw just like him. We would play a game called “Favre” or “Cunningham,” depending on which strong-armed quarterback he wanted to emulate that day. The object of this game was to throw the ball so hard that your opponent physically couldn’t catch it. I’d later be known as the kid with the rocket arm in school, and on any team I’d be involved with, and I credit my father and this game for that ability. The only con to growing up in my athletic family was not understanding how gifted my arm was compared to anyone else’s. I went into my little league career dreaming of being a bruising running back. Turns out though, my little league had a backfield weight limit that my brownie-loving behind couldn’t get down to. Before every game, I would have to get on the scale in the concession stand and hear the official say “red dot”. Having a red dot on your helmet meant you were stuck on the line of scrimmage and not allowed in the backfield or to carry the ball. I knew it was inevitable, and yet every time I had to wear it, I was crushed. I wasn’t able to live out my running back fantasies, but I became a valuable member of the team anyway. I was put at center, which is considered the “quarterback of the offensive line,” and I did a damn good job at it. I would consistently impress coaches and opposing players with my skill and determination. So of course, I knew the NFL was in my future. You
couldn’t tell my nine year old self otherwise. Life is great at humbling you, though. Just give it time. When I finally broke free of the weight limits of little league by getting to middle school, I tried out for running back. We had another kid on our team who was a much better athlete. Naturally, the coaches chose him and put me at fullback. When our starting center got badly injured and we had nobody to fill in, I sacrificed my fullback position to go back to center to help the team. I still enjoyed it for the most part, but felt the love for the game start to slip. By the time 8th grade football sign ups came around the following year, I decided I wasn’t going to play. I was having the time of my life playing backyard football with my friends at the Longfellow Elementary Field, where I was mainly a quarterback or running back. Plus, I was not a fan of the head coach. 24
I told myself high school was going to be my time to shine on the football field. Once again, it most certainly was not. I signed up for the freshman team and went to the first week of “two-a-days,” but a combination of asthma, heart palpitations, hot weather, being out of shape, and a head coach that didn’t believe in water breaks caused me to quit when I felt my heart about to explode from
all the sprints we were doing. I got a job at an auto body shop and focused on my other passion, cars, until I was 24. My girlfriend at the time, who knew how much I missed playing, mentioned that she heard some friends talking about a local football league. It was a full contact, no pads, old school, backyard football league. It sounded perfect. Despite my hesitancy from being introverted, I went. I’m very grateful to her for pushing me and giving me the little bit of confidence I needed to go out of my comfort zone. All it takes sometimes is one voice in your corner telling you that you can do it. I was drafted by the Flying Purple People Eaters, and messaged by Coach Matt 25
immediately. He asked what position I would like to play. I told him I could be the quarterback. He responded by saying he already had one. I’d have to be okay with tight end. I was nervous as can be showing up to that first get-together, but very eager to demonstrate what I could do with a football. I started warming up with my friend, Tyler. While we were throwing, Matt walked over and said, “Okay, you are our quarterback.” Just from seeing me throw. It was a nice confidence boost and reassurance of my girlfriend’s belief in me. While that league was a ton of fun, it was also pretty dangerous, and we were seeing some serious injuries. It folded within that first year, but it had reignited my lost passion for playing, and I knew I had to find another way of getting on a field. I turned to the local indoor flag league that I once played in during high school. (I was benched on that team for throwing too hard). I joined the first team that was willing to have me. When that season was coming to an end, my teammates told me about the outdoor league they were a part of in Cleveland. They all said my arm ability would be better suited in that league, since the field was much bigger, so I agreed to join. I would find a little more success there, as well as more helping hands on that team. Before one of our games, I was doing my usual warm-ups, and an unknown teammate walked over, amazed at how fast I was throwing. His opening words to me were: “Do you wanna play semi-pro football?”
Shocked but excited, I, of course, told him yes. Once again, I found myself driving to a field full of strangers, having to prove to all of them, and myself, that I belonged there. With a high level of nerves, I arrived early. As I waited in the empty parking lot, fear that it was a prank and nobody else was showing up grew in my mind. After some time, a red Corolla pulled up, and out popped a man who looked dressed to play. His name was Danny, and funnily enough, he was the starting quarterback of the semi-pro team. I stood out, but not in a good way. I was the only one not in pads, and probably looked like a lost puppy. Since no one knew my name, they referred to me as “Big Country” amongst themselves. I learned this later. Apparently I looked like a country boy, and I stand 6’3”, 230 lbs. It was a fitting name, I suppose. As usual, once the throwing started, so did the looks and “damn”s. I knew I’d made an impression, because one of my future friends and teammates came up and asked if I was an undercover NFL quarterback shooting a prank video on them. The Ohio Gladiators accepted me with open arms. I didn’t get any play-time until the last minute of the last game of the season. I couldn’t have been happier to hear my number called by our coach. I trotted onto the field with my ten brothers, who I still barely knew, and we called a simple halfback inside zone left, the easiest play
for a quarterback to execute. I walked into my shotgun stance 5 yards behind the center and looked around to take everything in for a brief moment. This was my first game action as quarterback for an organized and padded football team in my twenty-six years, so I wanted a memory in my bank to reflect on later in life. I did a quick scan of the defense and called hut. I went to hand the ball to my running back, but he was not where I thought he would be, and I clearly was not where he expected me to be. The ball dropped onto the turf. Luckily, the running back fell on the football to keep the drive alive. A fumble and a loss of 5 yards became my first official stat line. It could only go up from there, right? Again, I came to the line and examined the defense in hopes they’d think I was going to audible something. They called my bluff, and I called hut. I received the snap and almost immediately felt a little pressure approaching from my left side. By the time my brain processed that I may be in trouble from a pass rusher, I felt the crown of a helmet spear straight into my back, snapping my neck straight back, resulting in neck pain and cracking that have never fully
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gone away. I somehow managed to stay on my feet, but I got swung almost a full 180 degrees. I knew I was going down. In moments like that, you tend to panic when you’re not a veteran, and that’s exactly
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what I did. I looked for the first white jersey I could see and threw it to him. He caught it, and immediately went down. I wasn’t happy with the play result, but I was a little proud of myself for taking the hit and still completing a pass to give my team a fighting chance to pick
up some yards. That feeling of pride quickly turned to shame when I saw the yellow penalty flag fall to the ground and I realized the receiver I threw the ball to wasn’t a receiver at all, but my left tackle. This meant he was an ineligible receiver, and it pushed us back another 5 yards and lost us the down. So now, we faced a daunting 3rd & 20 with our own end zone creeping on my heels. Coach called in basically the easiest completion. I received the ball from the center, turned to fire it at my open receiver, but had to stop since none of the three receivers were turned and waiting for the ball. I rocketed the ball at my closest receiver and it hit him in the back. The play fell dead with the ball. These are the memories I have to look back on from my first time on the field during a semipro match. But it’s part of the process, and you learn with time and experience. Thankfully, I can say I’ve vastly improved from my first drive as an official quarterback. I’ve spent almost 3 seasons with the Gladiators, but unfortunately, I haven’t been able to see the field too often. Season 1: I got in too late, and had the horrendous drive mentioned above, and the pesky neck crack. Season 2: I was out the whole season with a mix of shoulder injuries that took a while to diagnose. Season 3: I only just became healthy right as the season was kicking off, so my coach wasn’t able to evaluate my in-game play during the regular season. Plus, our other quarterback, Danny, was playing great, and we were winning every game, so he didn’t feel the need to make a change. At the age of 28, with a full-time job, a house, 3 cars, and a 3 year old pit bull to take care of, I am doing everything in my power to play professional football before my body decides it’s time to cool it on the hits. In the football world, that is almost ancient. Luckily, I play quarterback, and our life span in the game tends to last longer than skill position players.
So what’s next in my career? I have that same question, but hopefully not for long. In March of 2022, I was invited to the National Scouting Combine in Indianapolis, where I could show my skills in front of coaches, scouts and agents. From that combine, I was 1 of 25 guys invited to a more private combine in Xenia, Ohio. Both I failed miserably at the athletic testing, only to completely redeem my reason for the invitation once the throwing started. From the NSC, I met a man named Russ, who would also help push my football career in the right direction. I didn’t know it at the time, but Russ is a scout for a CFL (Canadian Football League) team. In early February of 2023, I received an email from him inviting me to a tryout for the Edmonton Elks. The CFL is considered one of, if not the biggest, stepping stones into the NFL, so I was blown away by this offer. I knew I had to go no matter what. The tryout was in Atlanta, so quite a long journey down from Ohio, but I met some amazing guys, made good connections, and learned a lot about how pro tryouts and teams are run. While I was nervous for all three of these combines/tryouts, I had something new to rely on: a self confidence I’d earned through the myriad of trials I’ve faced. I finally felt I belonged on the field with all the other incredible athletes. I have more CFL tryouts on the calendar this year, and hopefully one of those goes well enough to force me to finally get a passport. Pro football is a tricky thing to crack, and once you get in, it’s not easy to stay there. When you want it this bad though, it’s a fun ride. My favorite thing about football, though, is the trust your brothers have in you when your number is called to lead them. There’s nothing like being in a huddle with ten pairs of eyes on you, waiting for the call, and breaking the huddle. Then, after the scoring play, hearing “Nice throw, 18,” while embracing your teammates. 28
A Stairway of Clouds
A short story by Madeline C. Lanshe
Ever since she was a small girl, Angeliki had
wanted, more than beauty, more than strength, more than comfort or life itself, a pegasus. Though she’d never stopped to examine her obsession with the majestic sky horses, it could be suspected that it had something to do with the fact that her father was Icarus. Not only had she seen him soar high above, while both her feet were tethered unfairly to the ground, but he, too, had been possessed. Possessed by his ambition, a need to go further than any had before, and a blazing, awesome sun that would one day spell his doom. While living, Icarus was rarely there with Angeliki, too preoccupied with pushing his body to new heights. But the rare moments his feet stayed on the earth, he’d take her to a hidden valley, tucked between rising mountains that seemed to grow taller each year, and there they’d watch the pegasi frolic in the sky above them. “I want to ride on the back of a pegasus, just like Bellerophon,” Angeliki would say each time. “Of course, my daughter,” Icarus would respond. “If you can reach one, you may have a pegasus.” “But I have no wings,” Angeliki would complain. “And you never will,” Icarus would say. “When you want something badly enough, it is like 29
a fire burning you from the inside of your heart, out. Nothing will stop you from reaching it.” Angeliki never noticed how he gazed at the sun, not the pegasi, as he said this. Her own eyes were fixed on a black foal with the midnight-blue mane. Her favorite. Some dreams become smaller as you age, fading into the lost recesses of your mind, and some grow even faster than you, exploding forth, unable to be contained. The latter was the case for Angeliki. By the time she became a woman, her dream had outgrown her body. Sometimes, she did not even feel intact, and she released her desire into all she did. She read everything there was to read about pegasi, from legends and myths to books on anatomy and breeding, and when she had consumed the knowledge thrice over, she wrote her own stories. Songs she sang while bathing, walking, cooking, cleaning. The walls of the home Icarus had left for her were covered with paintings of the winged horses, as were the floors and ceilings. She was rarely there to see them. When she was not lying on her back in the hidden valley, she was traveling on her feet in search of bards and prophetesses, anyone who could provide her with a way to reach the creatures that lived in the clouds.
She paid for information with her money, when that was gone, her hair, when that was had been shorn short, her body, scrubbing floors, washing dishes, fetching water. What she got in return were calluses on her hands, blisters on her feet, bruises on her knees, and techniques for reaching the pegasi that did not work. She left cardoons on the slopes of the mountain to tempt the pegasi, tried to sing them from the sky with lyrics she’d become a servant to acquire, and staged herself to be attacked and kidnapped in hopes of being rescued by one of them. She could’ve sworn that the black and blue pegasus, now a strong, massive stallion, was watching her. But he never so much as descended a single hoof to be nearer to her. Exhausted from years of hard work and betrayal, Angeliki was ready to leave the world, for if she could not have her pegasus, there was no reason to go on each day. All could see that her spirit had left her. She was but a shell. She was known for her madness in the surrounding towns and cities. Of course, who could be surprised? She was the daughter of Icarus, afterall. So used to being mocked was she that, when a stranger arrived in her town and said he wanted to help her with her quest, she threw three apricots from a nearby vendor at him and fled. The stranger was uncannily quick, and when he grabbed hold of her wrist, firmly yet gently, she found herself entranced by his eyes. They reminded her of her pegasus, the same midnight blue, with specs of white sparkling inside them like stars. “I mean you no harm,” assured the young man, his black hair like a blanket made of night. “I know the secret to reaching the pegasi.” “What is it you want in return?” Angeliki asked, weary from the games of strangers, even one as lovely as he. “Would you believe me if I said nothing?” he asked.
“No,” was her reply. “Then all I ask for is your dimples,” he said. “After you have accomplished your quest, I want to see those dimples every day.” Angeliki thought it over. If he was lying, she had no obligation to him. If he was telling the truth, any price was worth it, and she’d figure out a way to find the man again and smile for him every day. Perhaps she should’ve questioned how the stranger knew of her dimples, since it had been years since she’d last smiled. “Tell me what I want to know, and you shall have your price,” she said. The man smiled, and though his cheeks were free of dimples, Angeliki recklessly thought how she’d like to see him smile every day too. The secret, according to the stranger, was the clouds. She was to climb the mountains, up to the height where rock met clouds. From there, she must fashion a staircase out of the clouds themselves. This would work, he assured her, if she never wept, for tears would melt her progress; never slept, for the clouds were ever shifting; and never stopped singing, for the clouds would be drawn to her voice and, without it, they would not gather together for her. “And if I should fail?” Angeliki asked. “You will plummet to your death,” the stranger said. She could read in his eyes what he did not say: Like your father before you. Angeliki set off for the valley that same day. She slept in the soft green grass that night, and before dawn, began the longest trek of her life. She had scrambled up the side of the mountain several times in the past in an attempt to get closer to the pegasi, but never had she come close to reaching the spot where the clouds met the rock. For three days straight she climbed, sleeping, though not long, when she could, on the rough mountainside, as she would not be able to rest once she reached the clouds. 30
On the fourth day, she awoke feeling wet from head to toe. The clouds had found her. More than the fear or doubt, she felt excitement, and as she began her song of winged horses and epic sky battles, the clouds rolled towards her, growing thick and dense. With her hands, she fashioned one stone-shaped cloud after the next, placing each one a little higher. Like this, she climbed her way into the sky. While the sun shone, the same sun that had both consumed and ended her father’s life, she felt high with hope and relief. The stranger had not lied to her. She was on her way to the pegasi. But day gave way to night, and there was a reason Icarus held no love for the moon: its light was distant and cold, its domain, the night, one of doubt and fear. Still, Angeliki sang on, weaving one song into the next as her hands formed the cloudstones, and the rising sun brought with it another burst of motivation. But when night came for a second time, Agneliki could feel nothing but exhaustion. Oh, how badly she wanted to sleep. She’d give anything to close her eyes and rest her body for a moment. She’d never been one to cry. She’d shed but a single tear for her foolish father, though all of her memories of him she held fondly within her heart. However, when the clouds turned thunderous in the dead of night, and each time she dipped her hands in them, she was shocked by sparks of lightning, she’d never yearned to cry so much. She forced an image of her black and blue pegasus into her mind and blinked furiously until the building tears retreated. For nearly a week, she climbed thusly. Her throat was so dry from singing that her voice was barely louder than the gentle wind. Her mind was mad from resisting the urge to drink the clouds. Her body begged for sleep, sleep, sleep. She yawned, grandly. For a minute straight, her mouth hung open. When she at last closed her aching jaw, her eyes began to water. She
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thought nothing of the singular drop that traveled down her cheek, holding on for a moment, as if to give her a chance, before slipping off her chin. The instant the drop of water touched the cloud on which she knelt, it began to dissipate beneath her. Perhaps she could’ve salvaged it, had she quickly fashioned another. But her mind felt untethered and slow, and any lyrics or melody were lost in her immediate, enveloping fear. She had failed. Angeliki fell from the sky, plummeting the thousands of feet she’d spent days climbing, all her progress evaporating like the clouds. She tried to scream, but nothing came out of her desert-dry throat. She’d often wondered after the death of her father if, when he was falling to his doom, he’d thought it had all been worth it, losing his life to reach the unreachable, attain the unattainable. Angeliki, with her short hair flailing like the arms of a spider in the wind as she tumbled through the sky, now had an answer. It was worth it. For if she hadn’t done all in her power to pursue her dream, even though it had led her to this moment, the guilt and weight of the abandoned dream would’ve consumed her. Perhaps it would’ve taken longer, but it would’ve led to her demise nonetheless. She’d never resented her father for abandoning her, both in life and in death, but now, she forgave him for the pain that still daily clung to her. There could’ve been no other end to Icarus’s story, nor hers. Closing her eyes, Angeliki accepted her fate. Her body landed on something soft, and she was scooped upward. She opened her eyes and would’ve gasped if she could. Beneath her, carrying her towards the clouds again, was her black and blue pegasus, larger than she could’ve imagined while observing him from the ground all those years. She wrapped her arms around his thick
neck, feeling his deep breath as he climbed, without stairs, into the sky. Once he leveled out, she relaxed, sitting up straight, and took in the view she’d been too exhausted to notice before. The sun was dipping behind the mountains, casting the valley and mountainside in a radiant hue of coral. Looking down, she was in awe of how far she’d climbed up the mountain to reach the clouds. “There they are,” the pegasus said, his neck twisted back to look at her. Angeliki tried to speak, but still could not. “Drink,” the pegasus said, veering into a pillow of clouds. Angeliki opened her mouth and swallowed them in, the softness and moisture immediately coating her throat and alleviating the pain. “May the stars remember you for your kindness,” Angeliki said. “You have saved my life.” “It was a life worth saving,” said the pegasus. “I have watched you since I was a foal. I have heard every song you have sung. I have known every pain you’ve endured.” “Why did you not come to me before?” Angeliki asked. “I, who was wingless and alone.” “Had I descended to your realm,” the pegasus said, “you would not now know your strength, and I would not know the strength of your devotion.” “But I failed,” Agneliki said. “No, Angeliki,” he said. “You had already reached our domain, you were simply too drained to see us all around you.” This revelation left Angeliki momentarily speechless. How had she become so absorbed in her task that she was unaware of succeeding? Then she said, “You know my name.” Though it was not a question, his large head nodded. “May I know yours?” “You may call me Califax,” he said. “Shall we go on an adventure, you and I?” Angeliki’s heart lifted and fell in a single second. “There is something I must do,” she
said. “I am bound to a stranger by an oath.” “Angeliki?” Califax said. “How do you like flying?” Forgetting for a moment her anxiety, Angeliki let herself take in the sensation. She no longer felt like a creature of the earth. She sat weightless on the back of her pegasus. Day was giving way to night, and the first stars appeared in the sky, closer than they’d ever been before. Instead of the fear and doubt, she felt wonder and contentment. The night was not so bad when she was not alone, as she’d been her whole life. “My father longed to touch the sun,” she said. “But all I want is to bathe in the moonlight with you.” “There they are,” Califax said again. “It has been years since I’ve seen them, but oh, how I’ve missed your dimples.” “Califax,” Angeliki breathed, realizing that he and the stranger were one and the same. “Just as it has been your life’s mission to reach this moment, so it will be mine to make you smile each passing day, and if I fail, I will free you from your oath.” Angeliki wrapped her arms again around his neck and rested her head on his mane as they glided through the stars. She wished her father could see her. She thought that perhaps, he would be proud. Califax landed in an unfamiliar meadow of the softest grass, flowers sleeping all about them. He laid beside her, his feathery wing covering her like a blanket. For the first time since she’d seen the pegasi with her father as a little girl, Angeliki was able to rest peacefully. In spite of her bruised and tattered body, she’d never felt more healed and whole. Califax watched her as she slept, the smile never leaving her mouth, and wondered if she’d ever know that from the moment he first saw her, frolicking in the valley below him, he’d been as entranced by her two little dimples as she’d been with his sprawling wings.
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Travis Yocum
Fro
Donato Luciani
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Jacob Sledz
om the Artists of ARV
Trevor Dodson
Emily Wist
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Emily Wist
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Madeline C. Lanshe
Elise Hanson
Travis Yocum
Travis Yocum
Elizabeth Keller 36
Beyond the Magazinee Follow Chef Coronado’s journey, and the progress of Julia’s 1902 at Willoughby House, as the historic manor in Willoughby is transformed into a restaurant and inn. Pictures and updates can be found on the Facebook page: Willoughby House
Randy Dunn is a native of Chagrin Falls, Ohio. He graduated from Bradley University with a degree in Construction and continued to work his entire career in the construction industry. Randy is a member of the North American Nature Photography Association, and in 2021, he joined the NANPA Foundation Board of Trustees. Locally, Randy is a member of the Cuyahoga Valley Photo Society and in 2023 he joined their Steering Committee. To see more of his captivating photos, visit his website: DunnByRandall.com
Mudpuddle Photography Life is made up of a plethora of moments, images, and feelings. We could never capture them all, but that’s what makes those we do, special, and perhaps worth sharing. You can find more of Madeline’s photography on her Instagram, @mudpuddlephotography51
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Pursing Pork Tenderloin Sandwiches Facebook Group “This group is dedicated to pursuing the deepfried breaded pork tenderloin sandwich most prominent in the Midwest. Find them, eat them, report them, review them and post a photo and location here so others can share in your joy and follow your pursuits.”
Artists of ARV Donato Luciani
Deck
Jacob Sledz
Sewing Table
Trevor Dodson Instagram: @treviestyles
Beverly, 2018, India ink on watercolor paper wall art
Emily Wist Instagram/Facebook: @wistworks_art
Chair, Moonrise Kingdom Beach at Twilight, gouache painting
Madeline C. Lanshe
Volleying Under the Sea, acrylic painting
Elise Hanson
Summer at the Lagoons, watercolor painting
Travis Yocum
Celebrity Sketches
Elizabeth Keller Instagram: @keller.design
First Day of School, ink illustration 38
About the Authors Madeline Lanshe is a writer from Green, Ohio, with a passion for traveling, rock climbing, and getting lost in the night sky. She taught English for two years in Le Mans, France, which now feels like her second home. She works at Advanced RV as editor-inchief of Ethnosphere. Besides dreams of becoming a published fiction author, Madeline is a volleyball addict. She believes life is about collecting moments of magic wherever you go and immersing yourself in the things that light your heart on fire.
Zach Province has fixed/built things and worked on cars his whole life. Besides his job at ARV, he is an amateur race car driver and semi-pro football player. His goal is to play professionally someday. After work, you can find him at the gym, enjoying nature, reading someplace comfy, shanking balls on a golf course, or spending time with his adorable pit bull, Skooch.
David Stovall is a native of Speedway, Indiana, and now lives in Minnesota with his wife, Nancy, from Bay Village, Ohio. They met at the University of Cincinnati. He was in the US Navy in Newport, RI. In Minnesota, notably, he was the Architectural Technical Director for the Mall of America, and after, Architectural Prototype Manager for Target. They raised three children, now with their own families living in St. Paul, Pittsburgh and Chicago. 39
Madeline C. Lanshe
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Submissions Who can submit? Anyone! If you have access to our magazine, we’d love to hear from you. What should I submit? Anything creative and heartfelt that can be shared in digital form! Photography, illustrations, poetry, short stories, personal stories, art, etc. Why do you accept submissions? This magazine is a space for people to share their stories and passions in hopes it will connect us with others in a positive, uplifting way. “The ethnosphere is humanity’s great legacy. It is the product of our dreams, the embodiment of our hopes, the symbol of all that we are and all that we have created as a wildly inquisitive and astonishingly adaptive species.” - Wade Davis When can I submit? In each issue, we will reveal the theme for the coming issue. If you’d like your proposal to be considered for the coming issue, submit as soon as you can to give us time to review it with our team, communicate with you, edit, and fit it into the greater picture of the magazine. Otherwise, submit anything at any time. It may fit in a future issue or even inspire the theme of one! What do I need to include in my submission? Tell us a sentence or two about yourself, how you discovered Ethnosphere, and the work you’d like to submit. If possible, attach any images, PDFs or other files to be reviewed, and the editor will be in touch with you. If you have a story that you think would make for a great article, but you don’t have the narrative prowess to write it, don’t worry! There is an opportunity for a conversation with the editor so that she, or someone on the editorial staff, could write the story with you. If your submission is not accepted, don’t get discouraged. There is always a chance in the future. In the meantime, we hope you enjoy all that the magazine has to offer. Even if you are not featured within it, your experiences, dreams, and creations are equally part of the Ethnosphere. Disclaimer: Contributors retain all rights to their stories, photography, art, etc. while giving Ethnosphere Magazine/Advanced RV the right to edit and share their work in the digital magazine, print, and any other way they see fit for creative or promotional reasons.
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Portuguese (n) an emotional state of melancholic or profoundly nostalgic longing for a beloved yet absent something or someone. 42
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Jarrett Wilson