This weekend, we honor America in light of 9-11. Until August 2011, the majority of my friends and all of my family were in DC. I wasn't in DC. I was in the middle of nowhere Utah.
I had been a VISTA for two weeks, in bet you can't find it on a map, Blanding Utah. My job was to work with the Edge of the Cedars State Park Museum to draw tourists to an incredible Museum in middle of nowhere. It was 8:30am, mountain time, and I was on my way to work. There's not much to choose from musically in the middle of nowhere Utah, but there is NPR.
A plane has crashed into one of the World Trade Towers the announcer said. I knew, immediately, this was not a horrible accident. 15 minutes later, another plane crashed into the 2nd Tower. I was right. I made it to work and broke down. Everyone was wondering, why? Who would do this? Then the third plane hit the Pentagon. That's when it got personal. My mother lives five miles away from the Pentagon. My son went to school five miles away from the Pentagon. Everyone you know in Northern Virginia commutes into DC and probably works at the Pentagon.
In times of great sorrow, being around people, especially those you love, helps. I was 2500 miles away from the people I most loved and couldn't reach any of them for hours. I stayed at work because I was near a phone and used it every five minutes it seemed. My mother was playing golf at the Army/Navy golf course and watched the plane as it headed into the Pentagon. My son, in private school, was in lockdown. A dear friend's husband was in DC working and couldn't get out of town.
I am blessed that I did not have any friends or family hurt or killed during the attacks. One of the VISTAs lost a friend in the World Trade Center.
Four of my VISTA friends lived together in a house not far from mine. They had a little bit of a 9" TV with antena and foil. We hugged and cried and tried to see what was going on through the static. One of them asked me if I was going to go back home. I said no. There was nothing I could do to help anyone. Everyone I held dear was safe. Safe and terrified as we all were, no matter where you were at the time.
My landlord had cable TV. All of us crowded into his bedroom for the next 4 days, rivited to the TV screen. Watching, again and again, people falling. People covered in ash. The planes hitting those buildings over and over. The enormous cloud that followed the 2nd Tower's destruction. I have always wished the media had paid more attention to Flight 93. Those people were heros. I pray everytime I board a plane, that should something happen, I'd be couragous enough to help do something about it.
On some weirdly odd level, it makes sense that if we were to be attacked, the Pentagon would be a likely target. And it was. Today, there is a memorial at the Pentagon with a sculpture that is hard to describe but does in fact capture the moment and the strength of our country.
As VISTAs, we wanted to do something. We had to do something. We thought starting a blood donation bank would be a great first step. There was no community support for our idea. Nothing like that will ever happen in bet you can't find it on a map Utah. I know ExxonMobil was concerned, because they had oil fields 50 miles away. No matter where you are, you cannot live in a cocoon.
I cannot get my brain around what it must have been like living in a war zone. Living so close to the Quantico Marine Base, and the Nation's Capital, I was used to seeing the big, ugly helicoptors , the convoys of military on the beltway, and watching the three helicoptors the President uses when he flies overhead. I cannot begin to imagine seeing surfact to air missles parked along the side of the beltway. I never imagined I would see armed military service people carrying AK-47's and using dogs as they patrtrolled the airport in Salt Lake City.
I have to hand it to President Bush during this horrible time in our history. When he stood on the mound of what was left of the World Trade Center with the Fire Chief and said we will find who did this, I was proud to be an American. When he addressed the country abou the attacks, I was proud to be an American.
In bet you can't find it on a map, Utah, everyone was talking about the attacks. Everyone was impacted by the horrible loss of that day. I worked for a 76 year old Morman cowboy, named Cleal Bradford. There is a love/hate relationship with Cleal amongst a lot of people, but I hold a special place in my heart for him. The main reason I hold him dear is what he did three days after the attack; the national day of mourning.
Cleal suggested Kelly and I go with him to a little known natural bridge formation, not far from the place we worked. We hiked for about 1/2 an hour, and there it was. Nothing dramatic like you would see
at Bridges National Park, but a natural bridge in the making. If you didn't know it was there, you would probably miss it. We sat on rocks or in the dirt, and Cleal suggested we each say something about how we feel about the tragedy of 9-11. I don't remember specifically what was said by Kelly or myself, however I do remember Cleal, at 76 years of age, dropping to his knees in the dirt, and praying. That moment, when it was just the three of us and the desert, was perfect. We cried. We sat in silence. We were together, each of us mourning and praying in our own way to whatever God we believed in.
I have always been a student of history. Since 9-11, I have read nearly everything I can get my hands on regarding the Taliban, Central Asia, the Middle East, and our own country's history and current actions with the region. I want to understand why 9-11 happened. I want to understand the cultures our country must understand before anything can become better, or whatever normal looks like. Americans cannot change the world in our image. A large portion of the world hates us. A decade after 9-11, I still don't understand why we are hated. As a VISTA, I worked with seperate tribes that have a history of hating each other. They don't kill each other anymore, unless there is alcohol involved.
When my friends husband finally was able to get out of DC, he was in shock. I called to check on them and he told me there should be a "test" to "prove" you are a good American. A test? I asked him. What sort of questions should be on this test? He answered you have to know American football teams and some other things of equal importance to being a "true" American. I told him I wouldn't pass the test because what do I know from football? Does that mean I'm a terrorist and not a true American? He couldn't answer that one, but he was obviously in shock about what he had experienced.
One of my firmest wishes is that we do not take for granted the fact that this country, our country, is made up of diversity. Jews, Catholics, Muslims, black, red, and brown. America cannot expect our system of democracy and open government to work in Central Asia, the Middle East, or Sweden for that matter. The root of the problem is lack of education and infrastructure, not working behind the scenes electing a "President" of a country which has never experienced democracy in generations or a lifetime.
As a VISTA, I was working with people with real issues. Individual people, or families. In my humble opinion, 9-11 opened our eyes to our vulnerablities. We are not vulnerable and I will not live in fear that I don't have enoug duct tape or canned goods to survive. If I do feel that way, the terrorists have won and will continue to win by breaking us down.
No one breaks America. God bless us all and God bless those who gave so much during that terrible time.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Becoming a Celestial Wife
I loved being a VISTA volunteer. Dumping my life and heading off into the sunset to begin a new chapter was an adventure of a lifetime. I'm a December baby, and we like to travel. My Grandfather once told me I was a rolling stone because I was always on the move. He also strongly suggested I run for Mayor. Running for Mayor as an Anglo woman, who was not Morman and sympathized with the Indians, was not a good idea. God bless him for suggesting it though. I loved that man.
Working as a VISTA meant you were on the ground, working with real people with real issues. I love getting my hands dirty. The White Mesa Ute program had been established for 25 years. In that time, hundreds of volunteers came to SE Utah to work. Some stayed and called SE Utah their home. I met some amazing people during my tour. All were unique.
Working at the Edge of the Cedars State Park Museum enabled me to get involved in economic development. Economic development meant helping raise funding for the program, working with people in a position of decision making and meeting and working with Hopi, Zuni, Apache, White Mesa Ute and Navajo people. It also meant working with Mormans.
I have a soft spot in my heart for Mormans; with only one exception, every Morman I have met have been gracious and kind and welcoming. The exception however, came one night when I was invited to go to dinner in Cortez, 100 miles away, with a seemingly nice Morman man from Salt Lake City. The Museum was sponsoring a meeting regarding site stewardship and he had come down to Blanding for it.
Getting out of town was always a big deal as a VISTA. Offered FOOD and getting out of town was even better. He seemed like an interesting man, who was a Deacon in his Church, educated with a big State job. Family man, loads of children. I had accepted dinner in Cortez as a friendly opportunity to talk about site stewardship, Utah, whatever. He was closer to my age then any of the VISTAs. It is nice to talk to someone your own age ocassionally. I found out a lot on that 100 mile ride to Cortez. He had other ideas about why he invited me to dinner. I was stuck. No cell phone service. I'm in a car with someone who was a little too off the charts for me and we hadn't made it to Cortez yet.
The skies in Utah are clear and dark and that night, the stars were incredible. I suggested we stop the car and look at the stars. I needed to get out of that car for a bit. As we stood staring upwards, he moves in to kiss me. Holy Toledo Guacamole I was shocked. I pushed him away and reminded him of his wife and family back in Salt Lake, and he said it was ok, I could be his celestial wife. Celestial Wife.
What in the world was a celestial wife?? I asked him. You're a married man with a capital M as in Morman. Turns out a celestial wife is a woman a Morman man can "take" and, how do I put this delicately, use, for lack of a better word, without the benefits of marriage. And intercourse. All "good" Mormans have celestial wives. Brigham Young said so. Huh. Being a celestial wife was ok as long as there is no intercourse. I guess if you aren't technically fucking someone, the wife and kids are ok with it. Huh.
I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere with a man who thinks he's going to get lucky and find him a celestial wife. Not a chance in Hell. I played it cool and kept him talking while saying we need to get back to Blanding. I wanted out of that car. He insisted on buying me dinner in Cortez. I wanted out of that car. I decided if I could keep him talking I'd be ok and I wasn't in a position to start walking back to Blanding. We were 50 miles out of Blanding.
We went to Cortez, had a very uncomfortable dinner, I had two martini's out of spite becausehe was paying (Morman's don't drink) and we made it back to Blanding. I am no one's celestial wife.
I couldn't believe the utter gall of the guy. I still can't believe I got back safely. He was a Deacon after all, and I would think a dead body would impune his standing in the Church. There are a lot of places to hide a body though, in the desert. I shared my story and was told to keep it on the down-low. The guy was a somebody up in Salt Lake City and nothing really happened. I wasn't harmed in any way. My dignity was hurt but that was about it. I had to work with the guy but I was sure to do it from a distance.
Celestial Wife My Ass.
Working as a VISTA meant you were on the ground, working with real people with real issues. I love getting my hands dirty. The White Mesa Ute program had been established for 25 years. In that time, hundreds of volunteers came to SE Utah to work. Some stayed and called SE Utah their home. I met some amazing people during my tour. All were unique.
Working at the Edge of the Cedars State Park Museum enabled me to get involved in economic development. Economic development meant helping raise funding for the program, working with people in a position of decision making and meeting and working with Hopi, Zuni, Apache, White Mesa Ute and Navajo people. It also meant working with Mormans.
I have a soft spot in my heart for Mormans; with only one exception, every Morman I have met have been gracious and kind and welcoming. The exception however, came one night when I was invited to go to dinner in Cortez, 100 miles away, with a seemingly nice Morman man from Salt Lake City. The Museum was sponsoring a meeting regarding site stewardship and he had come down to Blanding for it.
Getting out of town was always a big deal as a VISTA. Offered FOOD and getting out of town was even better. He seemed like an interesting man, who was a Deacon in his Church, educated with a big State job. Family man, loads of children. I had accepted dinner in Cortez as a friendly opportunity to talk about site stewardship, Utah, whatever. He was closer to my age then any of the VISTAs. It is nice to talk to someone your own age ocassionally. I found out a lot on that 100 mile ride to Cortez. He had other ideas about why he invited me to dinner. I was stuck. No cell phone service. I'm in a car with someone who was a little too off the charts for me and we hadn't made it to Cortez yet.
The skies in Utah are clear and dark and that night, the stars were incredible. I suggested we stop the car and look at the stars. I needed to get out of that car for a bit. As we stood staring upwards, he moves in to kiss me. Holy Toledo Guacamole I was shocked. I pushed him away and reminded him of his wife and family back in Salt Lake, and he said it was ok, I could be his celestial wife. Celestial Wife.
What in the world was a celestial wife?? I asked him. You're a married man with a capital M as in Morman. Turns out a celestial wife is a woman a Morman man can "take" and, how do I put this delicately, use, for lack of a better word, without the benefits of marriage. And intercourse. All "good" Mormans have celestial wives. Brigham Young said so. Huh. Being a celestial wife was ok as long as there is no intercourse. I guess if you aren't technically fucking someone, the wife and kids are ok with it. Huh.
I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere with a man who thinks he's going to get lucky and find him a celestial wife. Not a chance in Hell. I played it cool and kept him talking while saying we need to get back to Blanding. I wanted out of that car. He insisted on buying me dinner in Cortez. I wanted out of that car. I decided if I could keep him talking I'd be ok and I wasn't in a position to start walking back to Blanding. We were 50 miles out of Blanding.
We went to Cortez, had a very uncomfortable dinner, I had two martini's out of spite becausehe was paying (Morman's don't drink) and we made it back to Blanding. I am no one's celestial wife.
I couldn't believe the utter gall of the guy. I still can't believe I got back safely. He was a Deacon after all, and I would think a dead body would impune his standing in the Church. There are a lot of places to hide a body though, in the desert. I shared my story and was told to keep it on the down-low. The guy was a somebody up in Salt Lake City and nothing really happened. I wasn't harmed in any way. My dignity was hurt but that was about it. I had to work with the guy but I was sure to do it from a distance.
Celestial Wife My Ass.
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Moon On Top of the Mesa
Blanding was at least 2 miles from anything naturally beautiful, and as far as 100 miles from "civilization". Any trip out of town was to either go hiking or have a destination. I would go to Salt Lake City Airport to pick up my son-300+ miles one way. That's a day trip.
After picking him up and heading back to Blanding, its usually dark by the time we are outside of Moab. I mean really dark. When he came out for Thanksgiving, we were heading home and he says Mom, are those cell towers? I looked at what he was looking at, and no, they weren't cell towers. It was the constellation Orion, so bright and big. He thought Orion's belt were cell towers. Nope, I anwered him, that's what we call a constellation. That began a great conversation about stars and spirits and kept us going the last 100+ miles home.
One sunny Saturday, and they were all sunny in the middle of the desert, I decided to take a road trip to the dirt mall in Monument Valley. It was just me and Kia in my little Celica. The space between Blanding and the Valley is massive, and for the most part, deserted.
I headed to the Valley, passing through White Mesa and Bluff. After Bluff, its a whole bunch of nothing for miles and miles. The next town is Mexican Hat on the San Juan River and has a cool little restaurant/motel. The last motel until Gouldings in the Valley. Mexican Hat is so named for a rock formation. A red rock pinacle, with a huge boulder in the shape of a hat balanced on top. I heard no one would climb it becuase no one wanted to disrupt the balance. Good idea. Crossing the San Juan River, you are officially on Reservation land.
My little car was having trouble climbing up and down mesas, and I was starting to freak a little about whether she'd make it or not. There really is a middle of nowhere, and we were in the middle of it. We keep going, and there, at the top of a mesa, is the largest full moon during the day that I have ever soon.
I stopped freaking out and started giving thanks for such an amazing sight. The moon was sitting on top of a mesa. It was so bright I imagined I could see craters. There are moments like that, always natural moments, that take my breath away. This was one of them.
My angst over my car's engine gone, we kept heading to the Valley. How do I describe Monument Valley? It is vast. The Valley has rock formations called the Mittens, that everyone has seen in any John Wayne western. I've seen the Mittens spotted with snow. I watched the Olympic Torch run through the Valley from the Visitor's Center. We were some of the only white faces in the crowd. There was a boy dressed in full on yellow feathers because he was going to dance. I asked him if I could take his picture. He wanted $5.00 which I didn't have, but I did give him $2.00 for the photo. You always need to ask before just pointing and shooting your camera.
I have flown in a hot air balloon over Valley of the Gods in the Valley and been to the top of Moki Dugway where the entire landscape is empty, except for the house at the bottom, that is a B&B. I have ridden on horseback into the backcountry with an Indian guide and have seen rock art in places you would never see unless you were on foot or the back of a horse.
This trip, I was headed for the dirt mall. The dirt mall is near the intersection of Arizona and Utah. The dirt mall is essentially a series of shacks with dirt floors. Artists sell their work to tourists there. Walk into any given shack and you'll be hit with the smell of weed. Start a conversation with some, and you can learn some interesting things. I have a lot of satisfaction knowing that most, if not all of my jewelry comes from an artist that I know, or know of. The artist is always willing to talk about their art and I am always asking questions.
This journey through my VISTA experience is a great execise in memories. I hope you are enjoying it as well.
Thanks for reading!
After picking him up and heading back to Blanding, its usually dark by the time we are outside of Moab. I mean really dark. When he came out for Thanksgiving, we were heading home and he says Mom, are those cell towers? I looked at what he was looking at, and no, they weren't cell towers. It was the constellation Orion, so bright and big. He thought Orion's belt were cell towers. Nope, I anwered him, that's what we call a constellation. That began a great conversation about stars and spirits and kept us going the last 100+ miles home.
One sunny Saturday, and they were all sunny in the middle of the desert, I decided to take a road trip to the dirt mall in Monument Valley. It was just me and Kia in my little Celica. The space between Blanding and the Valley is massive, and for the most part, deserted.
I headed to the Valley, passing through White Mesa and Bluff. After Bluff, its a whole bunch of nothing for miles and miles. The next town is Mexican Hat on the San Juan River and has a cool little restaurant/motel. The last motel until Gouldings in the Valley. Mexican Hat is so named for a rock formation. A red rock pinacle, with a huge boulder in the shape of a hat balanced on top. I heard no one would climb it becuase no one wanted to disrupt the balance. Good idea. Crossing the San Juan River, you are officially on Reservation land.
My little car was having trouble climbing up and down mesas, and I was starting to freak a little about whether she'd make it or not. There really is a middle of nowhere, and we were in the middle of it. We keep going, and there, at the top of a mesa, is the largest full moon during the day that I have ever soon.
I stopped freaking out and started giving thanks for such an amazing sight. The moon was sitting on top of a mesa. It was so bright I imagined I could see craters. There are moments like that, always natural moments, that take my breath away. This was one of them.
My angst over my car's engine gone, we kept heading to the Valley. How do I describe Monument Valley? It is vast. The Valley has rock formations called the Mittens, that everyone has seen in any John Wayne western. I've seen the Mittens spotted with snow. I watched the Olympic Torch run through the Valley from the Visitor's Center. We were some of the only white faces in the crowd. There was a boy dressed in full on yellow feathers because he was going to dance. I asked him if I could take his picture. He wanted $5.00 which I didn't have, but I did give him $2.00 for the photo. You always need to ask before just pointing and shooting your camera.
I have flown in a hot air balloon over Valley of the Gods in the Valley and been to the top of Moki Dugway where the entire landscape is empty, except for the house at the bottom, that is a B&B. I have ridden on horseback into the backcountry with an Indian guide and have seen rock art in places you would never see unless you were on foot or the back of a horse.
This trip, I was headed for the dirt mall. The dirt mall is near the intersection of Arizona and Utah. The dirt mall is essentially a series of shacks with dirt floors. Artists sell their work to tourists there. Walk into any given shack and you'll be hit with the smell of weed. Start a conversation with some, and you can learn some interesting things. I have a lot of satisfaction knowing that most, if not all of my jewelry comes from an artist that I know, or know of. The artist is always willing to talk about their art and I am always asking questions.
This journey through my VISTA experience is a great execise in memories. I hope you are enjoying it as well.
Thanks for reading!
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Flying High
I believe I have mentioned once or twice, that I was poor as a VISTA volunteer. I never felt poor as a VISTA. I had a cute little house, great friends, and adventures to share with them.
Being 100 miles from the closest Wal Mart in Cortez Colorado, was a day trip. Cortez is a one horse town, much like Blanding, but they had a Wal Mart. Going to that Wal Mart though, was a road trip out of Blanding, which was always a good thing. I hate Wal Marts, but besides that, Wal Marts have everything you always thought you needed but have made it this far without. Blanding celebrated the grand opening of a downsized Wal Mart, really downsized, while I was there. Now folks didn't have to drive 100 miles one way to pick up socks and dog food.
As a volunteer, I heard about some very cool things to do. The absolute best thing I've ever done was ride in a hot air balloon over Bluff Utah and Valley of the Gods in Monument Valley. My friend Kelly and I volunteered to help crew a balloon. Being a crew member meant we got to fly for free. Fly. For. Free.
Being a crew member meant you had to work as well. We arrived in Bluff at daybreak, when the pilots start to fill their balloons with COLD air fans and once they were filled, they fired off the gas and we were off. I was on the open end of the balloon, holding onto one of the sides, while a huge fan blew air into the balloon. We're in the desert. It's February. Believe it or not, it gets cold in February, before the sun rises. I thought I was going to die of frostbite, standing near that fan. Then we got to climb in.
Getting into the basket was not easy. Those things are taller than they look at the end of a balloon in flight. Gracefully climbing into that basket was out of the question. It was more a get your ass up and over the damn ledge! Actually, the pilot and his wife were very helpful and a whole lot of fun. You have to be a bit crazy, with a lot of expendable income, to fly balloons as a hobby.
We're in the basket, and we start to fly. I don't know how high we got, but I didn't care. It was quiet when the gas wasn't being used. I was surprized at how quiet and easy it seemed. I wasn't thinking about air currents and updrafts or whether the pilot actually knew what he was doing. I was digging the sensation of flying, quietly.
I don't remember how long we flew, but we landed back in Bluff. Getting out of a basket is a lot easier than getting into one. The pilot and his wife explained that since we were "virgin" fliers, there's a little ceremony to celebrate your first flight. There we were, in the parking lot of a restaurant, with a balloon close by, kneeling. Champagne was popped and poured into paper cups. We had to grab the cup with our teeth and drink the champagne. We were now deflowered fliers! And that was just the first day.
Thanks for reading!
Being 100 miles from the closest Wal Mart in Cortez Colorado, was a day trip. Cortez is a one horse town, much like Blanding, but they had a Wal Mart. Going to that Wal Mart though, was a road trip out of Blanding, which was always a good thing. I hate Wal Marts, but besides that, Wal Marts have everything you always thought you needed but have made it this far without. Blanding celebrated the grand opening of a downsized Wal Mart, really downsized, while I was there. Now folks didn't have to drive 100 miles one way to pick up socks and dog food.
As a volunteer, I heard about some very cool things to do. The absolute best thing I've ever done was ride in a hot air balloon over Bluff Utah and Valley of the Gods in Monument Valley. My friend Kelly and I volunteered to help crew a balloon. Being a crew member meant we got to fly for free. Fly. For. Free.
Being a crew member meant you had to work as well. We arrived in Bluff at daybreak, when the pilots start to fill their balloons with COLD air fans and once they were filled, they fired off the gas and we were off. I was on the open end of the balloon, holding onto one of the sides, while a huge fan blew air into the balloon. We're in the desert. It's February. Believe it or not, it gets cold in February, before the sun rises. I thought I was going to die of frostbite, standing near that fan. Then we got to climb in.
Getting into the basket was not easy. Those things are taller than they look at the end of a balloon in flight. Gracefully climbing into that basket was out of the question. It was more a get your ass up and over the damn ledge! Actually, the pilot and his wife were very helpful and a whole lot of fun. You have to be a bit crazy, with a lot of expendable income, to fly balloons as a hobby.
We're in the basket, and we start to fly. I don't know how high we got, but I didn't care. It was quiet when the gas wasn't being used. I was surprized at how quiet and easy it seemed. I wasn't thinking about air currents and updrafts or whether the pilot actually knew what he was doing. I was digging the sensation of flying, quietly.
I don't remember how long we flew, but we landed back in Bluff. Getting out of a basket is a lot easier than getting into one. The pilot and his wife explained that since we were "virgin" fliers, there's a little ceremony to celebrate your first flight. There we were, in the parking lot of a restaurant, with a balloon close by, kneeling. Champagne was popped and poured into paper cups. We had to grab the cup with our teeth and drink the champagne. We were now deflowered fliers! And that was just the first day.
Thanks for reading!
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Gardening for God
For the second year in a row, I have a garden. This year's garden is twice the size of last years garden and vegtables are actually growing. I have never gardened in my life. I tend to kill things for lack of interest in their well-being. Plants in my house were typically silk with no attention necessary.
My first attempt at a garden last year was a cluster. Really a cluster. Who knew gardens need rows to really grow properly? We did actually eat what we grew from that garden, and I learned a lot from the experiment.
When I was a VISTA volunteer I lived in a small town with 99% Anglo Mormans. I love the Mormans. They were kind and friendly and unlike a lot of people's experience, not in my face with their religion. Well, maybe they were, because I was living amongst them, however I pretended not to notice.
All good Mormans have a garden. As a VISTA, I felt that I should try to integrate myself into the community so I would go to community meetings and in the fall, there would be garden parties where everyone got together and brought food out of their own gardens. I'll never forget being in the middle of nowhere Utah when 9/11 hit. A few days after the event, I was invited to a garden party. I wanted to talk about what had happened. I had just left DC and family and friends were impacted by this horrific event. In the middle of nowhere Utah however, the sense was "it will never happen here, would you like some cole slaw?"
I lived in a little bit of a house on about a quarter of an acre of red dirt. My landlady invited me to a Morman women's group, where the topic was gardening. I fondly refer to it as "gardening for God". Whether you live in an apartment or on a farm, every good Morman has a garden. It was a lovely meeting and I met some lovely women afterwards. My landlady asked me if I was planning on a garden that year. Well, um, I would like to I replied. (I had 3 packets of seeds: sunflower, green beans and cucumbers). Well I'll just send over my husband and he'll till the soil for you so you can get started . Wow, I replied, that would be fabulous! I didn't tell her I only had three packets of seeds and was clueless as to what gardening actually entailed.
A few days later, I'm back home from work and hear this horrific noise. As I look out my window I see a tractor larger than my house turning the ground up for my "garden". I headed outside to talk to her husband. The tires on that tractor were at least 6 feet tall. I'd never been so close to any piece of machinery that big in my life. When my landlady suggested her husband would till my little quarter acre piece of dirt, I anticipated a hand tiller, not a ginormous tractor!
Wow I told him. Thanks! He climbs down, shakes my hand and asked "So what are you planning on putting in this year? I flashed to my three packets of seeds, and given the sheer amount of land he just turned over, I replied "You know, I really haven't decided yet". A little white lie, to a very nice Morman man. I think God will forgive me. I was incredulous at the amount of turned over red dirt and the size of the machine that did it. Now I had to do something with it.
While I was in Utah, we were in the middle of a major drought. Droughts bring fires and fires cost lives and property. I was not feeling like I had a right to use water indiscriminately for three packets of seeds as a fun little project. I had a friend who lived in town and was the most interesting woman I've ever met. She was Navajo, a Morman, had a teaching degree from Harvard University and had spent her 2 year mission in Switzerland. I went to talk to about what to plant. She gave me some indian corn that her mother had given her and helped me plant the corn and my three packages of seeds (in rows).
So I had had a garden, which I did not water because I wasn't being a "real" gardener and the drought was weighing heavily on my mind; it was originally just a fun idea. Of course nothing came up of any value and I was stuck with a quarter acre of turned red dirt. FYI, water is a major component of any successful garden.
Years later, here in big sky country, a couple of Morman boys appeared at my door. They were spending their mission here in town. I invited them in, with the caveat that I was not going to convert, however I thought they could use something to drink, and possibly dinner. I have a soft spot for Mormans, especially while they are on their mission(s). We had a lovely conversation and at the end of it, before they left, one of them asked if they could sing for me. Sing. Sure I replied. I sat on my sofa and they began to sing to me, in my living room. Just as they were finishing their song, Jeff arrives home to find two strange boys singing to me. The look on his face was priceless.
One of the great gifts of my VISTA experience was learning to accept others and appreciating what they could bring into my life. I have the utmost respect for the Morman community and a soft spot in my heart for gardens because of them. I'm sure my landlady would be very proud of me this year.
Thanks for reading!
My first attempt at a garden last year was a cluster. Really a cluster. Who knew gardens need rows to really grow properly? We did actually eat what we grew from that garden, and I learned a lot from the experiment.
When I was a VISTA volunteer I lived in a small town with 99% Anglo Mormans. I love the Mormans. They were kind and friendly and unlike a lot of people's experience, not in my face with their religion. Well, maybe they were, because I was living amongst them, however I pretended not to notice.
All good Mormans have a garden. As a VISTA, I felt that I should try to integrate myself into the community so I would go to community meetings and in the fall, there would be garden parties where everyone got together and brought food out of their own gardens. I'll never forget being in the middle of nowhere Utah when 9/11 hit. A few days after the event, I was invited to a garden party. I wanted to talk about what had happened. I had just left DC and family and friends were impacted by this horrific event. In the middle of nowhere Utah however, the sense was "it will never happen here, would you like some cole slaw?"
I lived in a little bit of a house on about a quarter of an acre of red dirt. My landlady invited me to a Morman women's group, where the topic was gardening. I fondly refer to it as "gardening for God". Whether you live in an apartment or on a farm, every good Morman has a garden. It was a lovely meeting and I met some lovely women afterwards. My landlady asked me if I was planning on a garden that year. Well, um, I would like to I replied. (I had 3 packets of seeds: sunflower, green beans and cucumbers). Well I'll just send over my husband and he'll till the soil for you so you can get started . Wow, I replied, that would be fabulous! I didn't tell her I only had three packets of seeds and was clueless as to what gardening actually entailed.
A few days later, I'm back home from work and hear this horrific noise. As I look out my window I see a tractor larger than my house turning the ground up for my "garden". I headed outside to talk to her husband. The tires on that tractor were at least 6 feet tall. I'd never been so close to any piece of machinery that big in my life. When my landlady suggested her husband would till my little quarter acre piece of dirt, I anticipated a hand tiller, not a ginormous tractor!
Wow I told him. Thanks! He climbs down, shakes my hand and asked "So what are you planning on putting in this year? I flashed to my three packets of seeds, and given the sheer amount of land he just turned over, I replied "You know, I really haven't decided yet". A little white lie, to a very nice Morman man. I think God will forgive me. I was incredulous at the amount of turned over red dirt and the size of the machine that did it. Now I had to do something with it.
While I was in Utah, we were in the middle of a major drought. Droughts bring fires and fires cost lives and property. I was not feeling like I had a right to use water indiscriminately for three packets of seeds as a fun little project. I had a friend who lived in town and was the most interesting woman I've ever met. She was Navajo, a Morman, had a teaching degree from Harvard University and had spent her 2 year mission in Switzerland. I went to talk to about what to plant. She gave me some indian corn that her mother had given her and helped me plant the corn and my three packages of seeds (in rows).
So I had had a garden, which I did not water because I wasn't being a "real" gardener and the drought was weighing heavily on my mind; it was originally just a fun idea. Of course nothing came up of any value and I was stuck with a quarter acre of turned red dirt. FYI, water is a major component of any successful garden.
Years later, here in big sky country, a couple of Morman boys appeared at my door. They were spending their mission here in town. I invited them in, with the caveat that I was not going to convert, however I thought they could use something to drink, and possibly dinner. I have a soft spot for Mormans, especially while they are on their mission(s). We had a lovely conversation and at the end of it, before they left, one of them asked if they could sing for me. Sing. Sure I replied. I sat on my sofa and they began to sing to me, in my living room. Just as they were finishing their song, Jeff arrives home to find two strange boys singing to me. The look on his face was priceless.
One of the great gifts of my VISTA experience was learning to accept others and appreciating what they could bring into my life. I have the utmost respect for the Morman community and a soft spot in my heart for gardens because of them. I'm sure my landlady would be very proud of me this year.
Thanks for reading!
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Last Pink House On Cowboy Street: Living on the Edge
Last Pink House On Cowboy Street: Living on the Edge: "There were many perks to living under the poverty level in middle of nowhere Utah as a VISTA. Things slow down, a lot. When living and wor..."
Living on the Edge
There were many perks to living under the poverty level in middle of nowhere Utah as a VISTA. Things slow down, a lot. When living and working among Native Americans, time is useless. I worked with the Navajo, and time, well, it will happen if its meant to. That used to drive me crazy. I am the most prompt person ever. If I'm late, and you don't hear from me, I'm either dead or have a very good reason. Showing up on time in middle of nowhere Utah was just a waste of time.
I worked with a 76 year old Morman cowboy named Cleal Bradford. I had come to Utah from the very fast pace of Northern Virginia, and in my first week, Cleal sat me down and said "you have to learn to slow down, sit still and be patient." Wiser words were never spoken and I continue to try to live by them. Sadly, you can't take the east coast girl out of the west. I'm still wired to get 'er done.
Cleal and I worked with the Navajo in Monument Valley. At the time, we were helping them work with the states of Arizona and Utah to build a visitors center in the Valley. Monument Valley is 70 miles from Blanding. More times than I can count, we would drive to the Valley for a meeting with the Navajo, set for 10am and it wouldn't begin until 2pm and even then, if there wasn't a quorum, it didn't happen. The plans for a visitor center has been on the books for 25 years. I still don't know if they have broken ground yet. That's patience.
The Navajo Nation is the largest reservation in the country. The land is communally owned which means that no decision can be made about a piece of land without the consensus of the families involved. Many of these families still lived in hogans with no electricity or running water. Everyone is a cousin to everyone else. In terms of the visitors center, both Utah and Arizona had pledged funding for building the site. The Navajo were ultimately going to be responsible for maintaining the center, but the big argument while I was there was who would be responsible for making sure the bathrooms were clean and toilet paper was available.
Many of the VISTAs caught on to the idea of Indian time quickly. I was still dealing with trying to move things along. I'm a control freak. That became very clear during my VISTA tour. Another life lesson from my VISTA experience was you simply cannot control what others are doing or expect them to appreciate your sense of wanting to get it done. Another life lesson I am still learning. Being competitive doesn't work. Being competitive doesn't work in the sense of in your face competitive. Subtle competitiveness seems to work better. I've never been known for my subtlety.
The Navajo are very superstitutous. They believe in witches and skin walkers. I have an Anglo friend who firmly believes she has seen a skin walker. She was driving into the Valley at night, and swears she saw a 1/2 jackrabbit 1/2 man running beside the car. And she wasn't smoking anything wacky. A neighbor of mine was a teacher in the Valley and never brushed her hair or left anything personal in her classroom because of her fear of witchcraft. Students were allowed to skip school if they felt one of their family had been "witched". There were a couple of VISTAs who lived in the hospital in the Valley. They firmly believed they had seen ghosts in the hospital. Many of the Navajo were amazed they actually lived in the hospital because people had died there. It was spooky there. I don't think I could have lived in the hospital itself.
During my second tour as a VISTA, I recruited for the program. As part of our "orientation", I planned a dutch oven dinner in Comb Wash and invited a wonderful woman named Lucille to join us. Lucille was a Navajo storyteller. She was dressed in a lovely velvet skirt and top with loads of silver and turquoise (I notice these things). We had commandeered a school bus to take us to Comb Wash. Comb Wash is where the Monkey Wrench Gang of Edward Abbey fame went to work putting sugar water into big earth movers. Really.
There were about 30 of us and after dinner, we all sat in a circle with Lucille in the middle of circle. Circles are meant to be safe. Lucille told some amazing stories and everyone was riveted. I pulled her aside and asked her to tell a story about skin walkers. She was very reticent about doing it, but agreed. By this time it was pitch black. We all sat in a circle, and Lucille sat on the ground in the middle of the circle and began to talk. I was standing outside the circle with a couple of VISTAs. The story seemed innocuous enough, but the closer she got to the end, the more the air changed and we began to hear noises behind us. As she finished the story, the group of us standing on the outside of the circle screamed and broke the circle to run. I can't tell you exactly why, however I can tell you it was real and it was scary. Once we all recovered, I pulled Lucille aside to ask her what just happened. She explained that sitting on the ground, in the middle of the circle was what kept her safe. Skin walkers are real. I speak from experience.
I was once invited to participate in a peyote ceremony on the White Mesa Ute Reservation, but I respectfully declined. First of all most Anglos who smoke peyote throw up the first time they smoked it. I didn't want to throw up. I will say I am sorry to not have participated just for the experience, but I have never smoked peyote and probably never will. Peyote induces hallucinations that are taken very seriously by medicine men. And for the record, spending time with a medicine man is magical.
Blanding Utah is part of the Four Corners, where four states meet: Utah, Arizona, Colorado and New Mexico and the original home of the Anasazi. The Anasazi disappeared over 1200 years ago, but there remains kivas and cliff dwellings and artifact's. The ground literally is covered with pieces of pottery that are over 1000 years old that had perculated to the surface. It is bad ju ju to take anything. Just ask people who live in Blanding and pot hunters. I have a friend whose primary goal is to find the perfect pot and not tell anyone where it is located. He would leave it where it belongs and visit it if and when he ever found one.
My job site was the Edge of the Cedars State Park Museum in Blanding Utah. The museum was built to house all the artifacts collected in what was known as "Black Monday" over 30 years ago. The Feds came in with full riot gear, kicked down doors of homes and confiscated pots, belts and other artifacts that some people had literally taken a back hoe to dig out burial grounds to own. When I first arrived, I was given a behind the scenes tour of the Museum. Many of the artifacts are not on display but stored at the Museum. The one that really impacted me was a gorgeous necklace, that was a blue obsolesce color and over 1200 years old. The necklace was made of beetles and still intact. Amazing.
Needless to say, the town of Blanding really resented the presence of the that Museum. They didn't learn anything from Black Monday, because earlier this year, the Feds again raided homes and found fully intact pots and in one home a mummified baby in its carrier. Many of the people arrested included the local doctor, who later committed suicide and the mother and daughter of the sheriff. They were the ones with the baby. My friend, the Director of the Museum was interviewed on CNN about the raid. Stealing antiquities does in fact bring bad ju ju.
I was always very respectful of the culture of not only the Navajo and White Mesa Ute, but the Anasazi as well. I was not comfortable entering a kiva, which was the center of the community and a holy place. I felt things, I really did. My friend who wanted to find the perfect pot one day, took me on a lot of hikes in the back country. One day we found a Navajo sweat lodge which had obviously been abandoned and looked to be incredibly old. Another time, we found a cliff dwelling which was very hard to get to, but once there was amazing. To think people lived there over a thousand years ago was amazing to me.
The Four Corners is a very special place. Very remote, but once you get it, it never leaves you.
Thanks for reading!
I worked with a 76 year old Morman cowboy named Cleal Bradford. I had come to Utah from the very fast pace of Northern Virginia, and in my first week, Cleal sat me down and said "you have to learn to slow down, sit still and be patient." Wiser words were never spoken and I continue to try to live by them. Sadly, you can't take the east coast girl out of the west. I'm still wired to get 'er done.
Cleal and I worked with the Navajo in Monument Valley. At the time, we were helping them work with the states of Arizona and Utah to build a visitors center in the Valley. Monument Valley is 70 miles from Blanding. More times than I can count, we would drive to the Valley for a meeting with the Navajo, set for 10am and it wouldn't begin until 2pm and even then, if there wasn't a quorum, it didn't happen. The plans for a visitor center has been on the books for 25 years. I still don't know if they have broken ground yet. That's patience.
The Navajo Nation is the largest reservation in the country. The land is communally owned which means that no decision can be made about a piece of land without the consensus of the families involved. Many of these families still lived in hogans with no electricity or running water. Everyone is a cousin to everyone else. In terms of the visitors center, both Utah and Arizona had pledged funding for building the site. The Navajo were ultimately going to be responsible for maintaining the center, but the big argument while I was there was who would be responsible for making sure the bathrooms were clean and toilet paper was available.
Many of the VISTAs caught on to the idea of Indian time quickly. I was still dealing with trying to move things along. I'm a control freak. That became very clear during my VISTA tour. Another life lesson from my VISTA experience was you simply cannot control what others are doing or expect them to appreciate your sense of wanting to get it done. Another life lesson I am still learning. Being competitive doesn't work. Being competitive doesn't work in the sense of in your face competitive. Subtle competitiveness seems to work better. I've never been known for my subtlety.
The Navajo are very superstitutous. They believe in witches and skin walkers. I have an Anglo friend who firmly believes she has seen a skin walker. She was driving into the Valley at night, and swears she saw a 1/2 jackrabbit 1/2 man running beside the car. And she wasn't smoking anything wacky. A neighbor of mine was a teacher in the Valley and never brushed her hair or left anything personal in her classroom because of her fear of witchcraft. Students were allowed to skip school if they felt one of their family had been "witched". There were a couple of VISTAs who lived in the hospital in the Valley. They firmly believed they had seen ghosts in the hospital. Many of the Navajo were amazed they actually lived in the hospital because people had died there. It was spooky there. I don't think I could have lived in the hospital itself.
During my second tour as a VISTA, I recruited for the program. As part of our "orientation", I planned a dutch oven dinner in Comb Wash and invited a wonderful woman named Lucille to join us. Lucille was a Navajo storyteller. She was dressed in a lovely velvet skirt and top with loads of silver and turquoise (I notice these things). We had commandeered a school bus to take us to Comb Wash. Comb Wash is where the Monkey Wrench Gang of Edward Abbey fame went to work putting sugar water into big earth movers. Really.
There were about 30 of us and after dinner, we all sat in a circle with Lucille in the middle of circle. Circles are meant to be safe. Lucille told some amazing stories and everyone was riveted. I pulled her aside and asked her to tell a story about skin walkers. She was very reticent about doing it, but agreed. By this time it was pitch black. We all sat in a circle, and Lucille sat on the ground in the middle of the circle and began to talk. I was standing outside the circle with a couple of VISTAs. The story seemed innocuous enough, but the closer she got to the end, the more the air changed and we began to hear noises behind us. As she finished the story, the group of us standing on the outside of the circle screamed and broke the circle to run. I can't tell you exactly why, however I can tell you it was real and it was scary. Once we all recovered, I pulled Lucille aside to ask her what just happened. She explained that sitting on the ground, in the middle of the circle was what kept her safe. Skin walkers are real. I speak from experience.
I was once invited to participate in a peyote ceremony on the White Mesa Ute Reservation, but I respectfully declined. First of all most Anglos who smoke peyote throw up the first time they smoked it. I didn't want to throw up. I will say I am sorry to not have participated just for the experience, but I have never smoked peyote and probably never will. Peyote induces hallucinations that are taken very seriously by medicine men. And for the record, spending time with a medicine man is magical.
Blanding Utah is part of the Four Corners, where four states meet: Utah, Arizona, Colorado and New Mexico and the original home of the Anasazi. The Anasazi disappeared over 1200 years ago, but there remains kivas and cliff dwellings and artifact's. The ground literally is covered with pieces of pottery that are over 1000 years old that had perculated to the surface. It is bad ju ju to take anything. Just ask people who live in Blanding and pot hunters. I have a friend whose primary goal is to find the perfect pot and not tell anyone where it is located. He would leave it where it belongs and visit it if and when he ever found one.
My job site was the Edge of the Cedars State Park Museum in Blanding Utah. The museum was built to house all the artifacts collected in what was known as "Black Monday" over 30 years ago. The Feds came in with full riot gear, kicked down doors of homes and confiscated pots, belts and other artifacts that some people had literally taken a back hoe to dig out burial grounds to own. When I first arrived, I was given a behind the scenes tour of the Museum. Many of the artifacts are not on display but stored at the Museum. The one that really impacted me was a gorgeous necklace, that was a blue obsolesce color and over 1200 years old. The necklace was made of beetles and still intact. Amazing.
Needless to say, the town of Blanding really resented the presence of the that Museum. They didn't learn anything from Black Monday, because earlier this year, the Feds again raided homes and found fully intact pots and in one home a mummified baby in its carrier. Many of the people arrested included the local doctor, who later committed suicide and the mother and daughter of the sheriff. They were the ones with the baby. My friend, the Director of the Museum was interviewed on CNN about the raid. Stealing antiquities does in fact bring bad ju ju.
I was always very respectful of the culture of not only the Navajo and White Mesa Ute, but the Anasazi as well. I was not comfortable entering a kiva, which was the center of the community and a holy place. I felt things, I really did. My friend who wanted to find the perfect pot one day, took me on a lot of hikes in the back country. One day we found a Navajo sweat lodge which had obviously been abandoned and looked to be incredibly old. Another time, we found a cliff dwelling which was very hard to get to, but once there was amazing. To think people lived there over a thousand years ago was amazing to me.
The Four Corners is a very special place. Very remote, but once you get it, it never leaves you.
Thanks for reading!
Friday, June 24, 2011
Becoming a Tribal Elder
VISTA volunteers are typically kids, right out of college. They sign up for a year of service to offset college loans. I had 20 years on them, so I rightfully gained the title of Tribal Elder to my little tribe of 18 volunteers. I fell into the role easily and the mom gene never goes away.
None of us had a good idea of what exactly we would be doing in Blanding Utah. We knew we would be living there for a year, but no housing was availble to us right away. We knew we would be working with the Navajo and White Mesa Ute on education, health and economic development. Otherwise, we all arrived blindly and hopefully, ready to save the world, or a child, or ourselves.
As Tribal Elder, I felt compelled to look out for these guys and set a standard. One of the standards I set was with cow touching.
Cow touching was a game the VISTAs came up with. As a VISTA we are poor, in the middle of nowhere and easily amused. SE Utah is considered "open range". This means that cattle are allowed to wander wherever they damn well please. Very few fences. Should you run into a cow with your car, not only are you screwed because the car is probably totalled, but you have to reimburse the owner of the cow. Caution at dawn and dusk was taken very seriously. That's when I learned if their head is up (deer or cattle) you better slow your ass down. If their heads are down, they haven't seen you yet.
Coming out of a road trip to Comb Wash one day, one of the VISTAs came up with the game of cow touching. The concept was if a cow is on the road, not behind a fence, the first person to touch the cow was bought dinner by the rest of the group. Food is always a good incentive. Add the fact that most, if not all of the VISTAs were vegan or vegetarian, the comedy/irony potential of the game is huge.
A few weeks later, I met a guy who was an ice climber. We became friends, primarily because we were about the same age, and he invited me and my friend Kelly, another VISTA to ride to Telluride so that he could take some climbing pictures. As you make your way from Blanding to Telluride Colorado, you go through Dolores Colorado, a lovely place with more German restaurants in one place than most of the state. A lot of Germans in Dolores.
So we are on the road, and have to stop because by gosh here come a herd of cattle, with cowboys on horseback. Herding cattle down the middle of the road. And this wasn't unusual. As the Tribal Elder, I saw an opportunity for a free meal and being the first to touch a cow. The three of us get out of the car, and I walk into the middle of the road, in the middle of this herd of cattle, to touch one. It's a lot harder than it sounds. I'd never been that close to a cow before in my life. There I am, surrounded by cattle, and cowboys shouting "LADY, get out of the road!", but I cleaned that up a bit. Needless to say, my friends back at the truck were rolling on the ground laughing at me. I pissed off a few cowboys that day and never did touch a cow. Those suckers are HUGE. I did get a free dinner and my status as Tribal Elder was confirmed.
As volunteers, we were spread out among 18 sites, over 70 square miles. Four VISTAs were working in health at the hospital in Monument Valley on the Reservation. A couple were in Bluff working in education. Four more were working in education on the White Mesa Ute Reservation, living in the Last Pink House on Cowboy Street and one was in Montezuma Creek, on the Reservation, living in a hogan, by herself. She had no car, poor phone access and the powers that be running the program had put her in a dangerous situation. She loved living there, until she got assualted and robbed. Even after that she loved living there. As Tribal Elder though, I was astounded that they would put a young person's safety in jeopardy by allowing her to live alone in a place like Montezuma Creek. When I found out she had been assualted, I called the FBI. The Reservation is federal land, and the FBI, not a sheriff or police, are the ones involved. Talk about jacking the volume up.
She was furious at me for getting involved. I was furious at the program manager that allowed her to live in a situation like that. The program was fortunate that she did not file charges against them. Talk about bad press. During my send year, I recruited new VISTAs and made sure that volunteers weren't placed in places on the Reservation unless there were 2 of them. Being a Tribal Elder has its perks.
I lived and worked in Blanding, which is not on the Reservation(s), but 98% Anglo and Morman. Kids were shipped for a 25 mile bus ride from White Mesa to go to school every day in Blanding. I was able to score a bunch of free computers for the community center on White Mesa so the kids could learn how to use computers. The only problem was they had no internet access.
The Ute celebrate the Bear Dance in August and again in the Spring. The Bear Dance is meant to guide the bear into hibernation for the winter and again to bring him out in the spring, along with good harvests. The VISTAs attended the Bear Dance on White Mesa shortly after we arrived. The ground is dust, all the ladies are wearing beautiful shawls and everyone sits in a circle. The women would dance in the middle of the circle and use their shawls to point at the man they want to dance with. You don't point at Native Americans-its rude. The Dance is really a stomping on the ground to drums. Everyone danced, including myself. The most embarrassing thing I've ever done. I pointed my shawl at an elder and everyone laughed at me. I mean come on, I'm 40 years old here, and dancing with a young guy frankly scared me. Guess I missed a pretty good opportunity to find me an Indian and go native! I'm pretty sure friends and family back east were waiting for that.
None of us had a good idea of what exactly we would be doing in Blanding Utah. We knew we would be living there for a year, but no housing was availble to us right away. We knew we would be working with the Navajo and White Mesa Ute on education, health and economic development. Otherwise, we all arrived blindly and hopefully, ready to save the world, or a child, or ourselves.
As Tribal Elder, I felt compelled to look out for these guys and set a standard. One of the standards I set was with cow touching.
Cow touching was a game the VISTAs came up with. As a VISTA we are poor, in the middle of nowhere and easily amused. SE Utah is considered "open range". This means that cattle are allowed to wander wherever they damn well please. Very few fences. Should you run into a cow with your car, not only are you screwed because the car is probably totalled, but you have to reimburse the owner of the cow. Caution at dawn and dusk was taken very seriously. That's when I learned if their head is up (deer or cattle) you better slow your ass down. If their heads are down, they haven't seen you yet.
Coming out of a road trip to Comb Wash one day, one of the VISTAs came up with the game of cow touching. The concept was if a cow is on the road, not behind a fence, the first person to touch the cow was bought dinner by the rest of the group. Food is always a good incentive. Add the fact that most, if not all of the VISTAs were vegan or vegetarian, the comedy/irony potential of the game is huge.
A few weeks later, I met a guy who was an ice climber. We became friends, primarily because we were about the same age, and he invited me and my friend Kelly, another VISTA to ride to Telluride so that he could take some climbing pictures. As you make your way from Blanding to Telluride Colorado, you go through Dolores Colorado, a lovely place with more German restaurants in one place than most of the state. A lot of Germans in Dolores.
So we are on the road, and have to stop because by gosh here come a herd of cattle, with cowboys on horseback. Herding cattle down the middle of the road. And this wasn't unusual. As the Tribal Elder, I saw an opportunity for a free meal and being the first to touch a cow. The three of us get out of the car, and I walk into the middle of the road, in the middle of this herd of cattle, to touch one. It's a lot harder than it sounds. I'd never been that close to a cow before in my life. There I am, surrounded by cattle, and cowboys shouting "LADY, get out of the road!", but I cleaned that up a bit. Needless to say, my friends back at the truck were rolling on the ground laughing at me. I pissed off a few cowboys that day and never did touch a cow. Those suckers are HUGE. I did get a free dinner and my status as Tribal Elder was confirmed.
As volunteers, we were spread out among 18 sites, over 70 square miles. Four VISTAs were working in health at the hospital in Monument Valley on the Reservation. A couple were in Bluff working in education. Four more were working in education on the White Mesa Ute Reservation, living in the Last Pink House on Cowboy Street and one was in Montezuma Creek, on the Reservation, living in a hogan, by herself. She had no car, poor phone access and the powers that be running the program had put her in a dangerous situation. She loved living there, until she got assualted and robbed. Even after that she loved living there. As Tribal Elder though, I was astounded that they would put a young person's safety in jeopardy by allowing her to live alone in a place like Montezuma Creek. When I found out she had been assualted, I called the FBI. The Reservation is federal land, and the FBI, not a sheriff or police, are the ones involved. Talk about jacking the volume up.
She was furious at me for getting involved. I was furious at the program manager that allowed her to live in a situation like that. The program was fortunate that she did not file charges against them. Talk about bad press. During my send year, I recruited new VISTAs and made sure that volunteers weren't placed in places on the Reservation unless there were 2 of them. Being a Tribal Elder has its perks.
I lived and worked in Blanding, which is not on the Reservation(s), but 98% Anglo and Morman. Kids were shipped for a 25 mile bus ride from White Mesa to go to school every day in Blanding. I was able to score a bunch of free computers for the community center on White Mesa so the kids could learn how to use computers. The only problem was they had no internet access.
The Ute celebrate the Bear Dance in August and again in the Spring. The Bear Dance is meant to guide the bear into hibernation for the winter and again to bring him out in the spring, along with good harvests. The VISTAs attended the Bear Dance on White Mesa shortly after we arrived. The ground is dust, all the ladies are wearing beautiful shawls and everyone sits in a circle. The women would dance in the middle of the circle and use their shawls to point at the man they want to dance with. You don't point at Native Americans-its rude. The Dance is really a stomping on the ground to drums. Everyone danced, including myself. The most embarrassing thing I've ever done. I pointed my shawl at an elder and everyone laughed at me. I mean come on, I'm 40 years old here, and dancing with a young guy frankly scared me. Guess I missed a pretty good opportunity to find me an Indian and go native! I'm pretty sure friends and family back east were waiting for that.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Road Tripping
I love diners. You can really get a sense of the community you are in when you hang out in a diner. All the important business of small towns happen in a diner. Strangly, the further west I get, the more older anglo men become the center of small towns. Well behaved women support them, but are rarely vocal. All the conversations I've overheard in diners were by men. Plus, diners are fairly inexpensive to eat at. One of my road rules: find a diner not a McDonalds.
I also love maps. Real paper maps, not the GPS kind that talk to you. I love the visual effect of looking at a map and seeing all the different places to go. I will forever remain the Queen of fantasy road trips. When I planned my trip to Utah, I bought an oversize Rand McNally map book and started to plan my route. I had five days to get to Salt Lake City. I would spend hours going thru that map book. I was driving from Virginia to Utah and had three options to take. I could go south thru NM and up to Utah, I could go north through Chicago and Wyoming and drop down to Utah or I could drive straight across through Kansas and up through Colorado. All very good, interesting choices, except for the most direct route, through Kansas. I refused to drive through Kansas.
When I was 12, we took a family cross-country camping trip in a turqoise station wagon, hauling a pop-up camper. Every kid should have that sort of experience, except by the end of 6 weeks, 5 people in tight quarters becomes four people too many. On our way back to Virginia from Yellowstone, we found our way to Kansas. The sky was a horrible color green, and there was no noise. Not even an insect sound. My father made the wise decision to stay in a hotel that night. We checked into a Ramada Inn and while we were having dinner, looked out the window to see a twister popping around. Kansas is fricking flat. That twister could go anywhere and everyone in that restaurant stopped what they were doing and just watched. I was terrified, and since that day, I refuse to go to or through Kansas. Ok, so I have a phobia of tornados.
With going straight across the country out of the question, I chose the northern route, through Wyoming. All my material things were gone and it was just me and Kia in a little blue Toyota Celica. It was a convertible, which made it even sweeter. We left Virginia before dawn. Leaving is exciting and incredibly sad and scarey as hell. A whole lifetime was in my rearview mirror. I have never been so certain of a decision as I was to become a VISTA volunteer however that certainity was tempered by serious, doubt-inducing regret. I cried through two states until I was out of tears. Then I focused on my future.
Traveling with a dog is a wonderful thing. First and foremost, you have to get out of the car every two hours which is a good excuse to get out of the car and walk a bit. It's no fun traveling with a dog east of the Mississippi because very few places allow pets in the room. Thankfully, there was a website I found that highlighted pet-friendly hotels. I had planned on camping rather than stayng in hotels, however when it poured the rain the second night on the road, it was a hotel from there on out. I did camp the first night out. I have pictures to prove it.
I have to say I was only scared once. Well maybe twice. My best friend had just come back from a cross-country trip, by herself, and told me when I hit Wyoming that I should stop every time I see a gas station and fill up. Excellent advice. Somewhere east of Green River, Kia and I got out at an Exxon station. It was the scariest place I've ever been. The gas station was at the bottom of a mesa. On the top of the mesa were these huge wind turbines. Nothing but rock and a couple of pickup trucks. I filled my gas tank with Kia on the end of the lead, and walked into the store to pay with her on the end of the lead. Bad ju-ju in that place.
I loved that road trip. Iowa is amazingly green and beautiful with rolling hills for miles. There's a reason America is the breadbasket of the world. Nebraska was all about sunflowers. They were everywhere and happen to be my favorite flower. I pulled off the road in North Platte Nebraska for the night at this little mom and pop motel. When we got into the room, I saw a little notice on the bathroom mirror: In case of tornado, pull mattress off the bed and cover yourself in the bathtub. In case of tornado. Damn, I thought I had that covered by not going through Kansas! Clear skies that night. Whew.
Five days on the road, and we made it to Salt Lake City for a week of VISTA training. I didn't think my little Toyota would make it up and down the mountains after Green River Wyoming. I find out later that carboratours are adjusted for altitude and my little car was used to sea level. Utah is beautiful and has lovely rest stops. That can't be said for most of the rest stops we visited along the way. The mountains are breathtaking. Salt Lake City is beautiful and clean. Really, Really Clean.
We had made it to Utah. In another week, we would be in Blanding, 375 miles south of Salt Lake City and a long way from anything.
I also love maps. Real paper maps, not the GPS kind that talk to you. I love the visual effect of looking at a map and seeing all the different places to go. I will forever remain the Queen of fantasy road trips. When I planned my trip to Utah, I bought an oversize Rand McNally map book and started to plan my route. I had five days to get to Salt Lake City. I would spend hours going thru that map book. I was driving from Virginia to Utah and had three options to take. I could go south thru NM and up to Utah, I could go north through Chicago and Wyoming and drop down to Utah or I could drive straight across through Kansas and up through Colorado. All very good, interesting choices, except for the most direct route, through Kansas. I refused to drive through Kansas.
When I was 12, we took a family cross-country camping trip in a turqoise station wagon, hauling a pop-up camper. Every kid should have that sort of experience, except by the end of 6 weeks, 5 people in tight quarters becomes four people too many. On our way back to Virginia from Yellowstone, we found our way to Kansas. The sky was a horrible color green, and there was no noise. Not even an insect sound. My father made the wise decision to stay in a hotel that night. We checked into a Ramada Inn and while we were having dinner, looked out the window to see a twister popping around. Kansas is fricking flat. That twister could go anywhere and everyone in that restaurant stopped what they were doing and just watched. I was terrified, and since that day, I refuse to go to or through Kansas. Ok, so I have a phobia of tornados.
With going straight across the country out of the question, I chose the northern route, through Wyoming. All my material things were gone and it was just me and Kia in a little blue Toyota Celica. It was a convertible, which made it even sweeter. We left Virginia before dawn. Leaving is exciting and incredibly sad and scarey as hell. A whole lifetime was in my rearview mirror. I have never been so certain of a decision as I was to become a VISTA volunteer however that certainity was tempered by serious, doubt-inducing regret. I cried through two states until I was out of tears. Then I focused on my future.
Traveling with a dog is a wonderful thing. First and foremost, you have to get out of the car every two hours which is a good excuse to get out of the car and walk a bit. It's no fun traveling with a dog east of the Mississippi because very few places allow pets in the room. Thankfully, there was a website I found that highlighted pet-friendly hotels. I had planned on camping rather than stayng in hotels, however when it poured the rain the second night on the road, it was a hotel from there on out. I did camp the first night out. I have pictures to prove it.
I have to say I was only scared once. Well maybe twice. My best friend had just come back from a cross-country trip, by herself, and told me when I hit Wyoming that I should stop every time I see a gas station and fill up. Excellent advice. Somewhere east of Green River, Kia and I got out at an Exxon station. It was the scariest place I've ever been. The gas station was at the bottom of a mesa. On the top of the mesa were these huge wind turbines. Nothing but rock and a couple of pickup trucks. I filled my gas tank with Kia on the end of the lead, and walked into the store to pay with her on the end of the lead. Bad ju-ju in that place.
I loved that road trip. Iowa is amazingly green and beautiful with rolling hills for miles. There's a reason America is the breadbasket of the world. Nebraska was all about sunflowers. They were everywhere and happen to be my favorite flower. I pulled off the road in North Platte Nebraska for the night at this little mom and pop motel. When we got into the room, I saw a little notice on the bathroom mirror: In case of tornado, pull mattress off the bed and cover yourself in the bathtub. In case of tornado. Damn, I thought I had that covered by not going through Kansas! Clear skies that night. Whew.
Five days on the road, and we made it to Salt Lake City for a week of VISTA training. I didn't think my little Toyota would make it up and down the mountains after Green River Wyoming. I find out later that carboratours are adjusted for altitude and my little car was used to sea level. Utah is beautiful and has lovely rest stops. That can't be said for most of the rest stops we visited along the way. The mountains are breathtaking. Salt Lake City is beautiful and clean. Really, Really Clean.
We had made it to Utah. In another week, we would be in Blanding, 375 miles south of Salt Lake City and a long way from anything.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Making the Break
My whole life, I've felt like I was doing all the right things, but not feeling very good about it. I come from the East Coast, DC metro area, and lived there 40 years. I went to American University in DC and loved, loved, loved the experierence of learning. I never really took advantage of DC. Typical of people who live with the best places in their own backyard, I never took advantage of the DC scene. Loved the museums, and I will say I miss the East Wing of the National Art Gallery.
I'm from the generation between going to school to find a husband and women's liberation really having an impact. I remember wearing suits and bow ties with high neck blouses to the office to be taken seriously. Living your dream was outside of many comfort zones. I finally recognized that I was unhappy, really unhappy. Everyone around me is on the fast track to success and taking no prisoners. Where do you live? Where do you work? What sort of car do you drive? What schools to your kids attend? I would like to say I thrived in that environment, but sadly, I didn't.
I wanted what every 20 year old wanted in 1989, a husband, a good job, nice house, nice car and I got it. I got it at the expense of things that were important to me that went by the wayside. It took another 20 years to realize that.
From the time I was 10, I have planned to join the Peace Corps. I wanted to make a journey to another place that would be completely foreign to me and work with other cultures. Learning. Doing things that might mean something and having adventures that might make good stories one day. There are at least 10 good reasons I kept giving myself for not actually doing it. Being married, working, family has a way of putting perfectly good ideas aside for a while.
Twenty years and a divorce passed and I had reached a cross roads in my life. I knew what I was doing was bullshit, even though the pay was good. I didn't know what I wanted to do next. Someone told me its always "what I want to do NEXT" rather than "when I grow up". Growing up, check. Now what?
I'm going off the reservation here and getting woo-woo. I believe in intentions. If you put your intentions out there with a pure heart and no sense of gain, it comes to you. It took 40 years, but it did come to me. As I was looking for another position, with yet another company, VISTA kept popping up. Volunteers in Service to America, the domestic Peace Corps. I kept going back to the VISTA site and picking fantasy locations to pack it up and move to in the middle of nowhere for a while. My follow-thru ain't that great most times, but when I set my mind on something, I get 'er done. And I set my mind on becoming a VISTA volunteer.
I have never felt such a sense of Yes, this is what I need to do. Most 40 year olds are going through their 2nd divorce, paying off mortgages and settled. Nope. Not this 40 year old. I needed to GO. I needed to do something completely different yet not a surprize to the people who love me. My brother actually asked me what took me so long to do this because its Peace Corps, yet not Uzbeckistan. It's South East Utah, one of the most beautiful, harsh places in the country.
I chose Blanding Utah, because as a VISTA volunteer, you live at the level of the community that you are serving and I would be working with and around Navajo and White Mesa Ute. Two very different tribes within 70 miles of each other. We lived on $600/month, which covered rent, food (with the help of food stamps, I have no pride) and gas. Blanding Utah between Moab, with Arches National Park and some serious red rock country and the Valley, Monument Valley, where the Mittens are familiar to everyone, but very few really go there and see them. A lot of Mormans in between. It's easier on some level to live at the poverty level rurally, rather than an urban center, like DC. When you are in the middle of SE Utah, you are seriously in the middle of nowhere. And most of us who chose to live there were there for a reason, mostly religious. The VISTAs all came from somewhere else and in Blanding, you are born, you go to school, you get married and you stay and build a family. Or you are an archeologist. There are more doctorate and masters degrees in Bluff Utah per capita, than anywhere else in the country. Of course only 300 people live in Bluff Utah, so the math is pretty easy.
I wanted to experience something completely different from what I was used to. I wanted to do something with my life that most people would give me 10 really good reasons why I shouldn't do it. By 40, I'd learned a few things and the biggest thing was something had to give and this was an opportunity, a dream I've had since I was 10, to actually get out there and do it.
So I did. In six weeks, I gave my notice, sold, donated or gave away an entire life, stored what was really important in my brother's attic, pointed the car and the dog west and we were off to begin the first chapter of the second volume in my book of stories. The first volumn was sent to the heavens in a ceremony with my best friend and my son and a bottle of tequila. For the adults. Ok, for me.
We burned 20 years of journals before I left. My son wasn't very happy about it, but I journaled to vent and to whine and complain. I wasn't going to be journaliing like that again (or at least for a long time) and if if something happened to me, I didn't want those journals to be a reflection of a life that wasn't really what it was supposed to be.
Next installment: Road Tripping
Thanks for reading!
I'm from the generation between going to school to find a husband and women's liberation really having an impact. I remember wearing suits and bow ties with high neck blouses to the office to be taken seriously. Living your dream was outside of many comfort zones. I finally recognized that I was unhappy, really unhappy. Everyone around me is on the fast track to success and taking no prisoners. Where do you live? Where do you work? What sort of car do you drive? What schools to your kids attend? I would like to say I thrived in that environment, but sadly, I didn't.
I wanted what every 20 year old wanted in 1989, a husband, a good job, nice house, nice car and I got it. I got it at the expense of things that were important to me that went by the wayside. It took another 20 years to realize that.
From the time I was 10, I have planned to join the Peace Corps. I wanted to make a journey to another place that would be completely foreign to me and work with other cultures. Learning. Doing things that might mean something and having adventures that might make good stories one day. There are at least 10 good reasons I kept giving myself for not actually doing it. Being married, working, family has a way of putting perfectly good ideas aside for a while.
Twenty years and a divorce passed and I had reached a cross roads in my life. I knew what I was doing was bullshit, even though the pay was good. I didn't know what I wanted to do next. Someone told me its always "what I want to do NEXT" rather than "when I grow up". Growing up, check. Now what?
I'm going off the reservation here and getting woo-woo. I believe in intentions. If you put your intentions out there with a pure heart and no sense of gain, it comes to you. It took 40 years, but it did come to me. As I was looking for another position, with yet another company, VISTA kept popping up. Volunteers in Service to America, the domestic Peace Corps. I kept going back to the VISTA site and picking fantasy locations to pack it up and move to in the middle of nowhere for a while. My follow-thru ain't that great most times, but when I set my mind on something, I get 'er done. And I set my mind on becoming a VISTA volunteer.
I have never felt such a sense of Yes, this is what I need to do. Most 40 year olds are going through their 2nd divorce, paying off mortgages and settled. Nope. Not this 40 year old. I needed to GO. I needed to do something completely different yet not a surprize to the people who love me. My brother actually asked me what took me so long to do this because its Peace Corps, yet not Uzbeckistan. It's South East Utah, one of the most beautiful, harsh places in the country.
I chose Blanding Utah, because as a VISTA volunteer, you live at the level of the community that you are serving and I would be working with and around Navajo and White Mesa Ute. Two very different tribes within 70 miles of each other. We lived on $600/month, which covered rent, food (with the help of food stamps, I have no pride) and gas. Blanding Utah between Moab, with Arches National Park and some serious red rock country and the Valley, Monument Valley, where the Mittens are familiar to everyone, but very few really go there and see them. A lot of Mormans in between. It's easier on some level to live at the poverty level rurally, rather than an urban center, like DC. When you are in the middle of SE Utah, you are seriously in the middle of nowhere. And most of us who chose to live there were there for a reason, mostly religious. The VISTAs all came from somewhere else and in Blanding, you are born, you go to school, you get married and you stay and build a family. Or you are an archeologist. There are more doctorate and masters degrees in Bluff Utah per capita, than anywhere else in the country. Of course only 300 people live in Bluff Utah, so the math is pretty easy.
I wanted to experience something completely different from what I was used to. I wanted to do something with my life that most people would give me 10 really good reasons why I shouldn't do it. By 40, I'd learned a few things and the biggest thing was something had to give and this was an opportunity, a dream I've had since I was 10, to actually get out there and do it.
So I did. In six weeks, I gave my notice, sold, donated or gave away an entire life, stored what was really important in my brother's attic, pointed the car and the dog west and we were off to begin the first chapter of the second volume in my book of stories. The first volumn was sent to the heavens in a ceremony with my best friend and my son and a bottle of tequila. For the adults. Ok, for me.
We burned 20 years of journals before I left. My son wasn't very happy about it, but I journaled to vent and to whine and complain. I wasn't going to be journaliing like that again (or at least for a long time) and if if something happened to me, I didn't want those journals to be a reflection of a life that wasn't really what it was supposed to be.
Next installment: Road Tripping
Thanks for reading!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)