FROM THE ASHES.

Driving home from Oregon yesterday took seven and a-half hours. As I rolled into the county, local radio announced a burn of 450 acres near Mountain Ranch, the area that took the brunt of the Butte Fire. The Butte Fire is considered the worst for home losses in the state from a single fire.
The day before I left, I managed a quick trip to the local Arts Council Gallery for a look at their exhibit entitled History From The Ashes.
There is no joy in picking up cherished or simply common objects from your burned out property. Mostly sadness, tears and awe that anything recognizable survived the conflagration.

We know art is healing. And there is something about picking through the ashes that must be common to all of us. I watched on television as folks did just that after Katrina. The flood, destroyed as completely as fire.
When my house burned to the ground in Michigan, I remember finding  my melted marbles and my mother's  jar full of precious coins. The wafts of smoke coming from the ashes, the strong smell, the bent bed springs and melted cook stove didn't make me give up hope that I might find a heart shaped plastic locket my grandmother gave me that contained a tiny rosary. Of course, it couldn't possibly survive, but my 8 year self believed in miracles.

Items found, were given an artful setting of remembrance.

Or put together to form a sculpture or a mobile.

One survivor made a fabric wall hanging, with burned out spars of trees surrounded by wild flowers. A reality, wild flowers, rain fed, follow a burn.

Dead bushes and trees amid new grass on this canvas.

You can see my face reflected in the glass covering a spectacular photo by John Slot of the borate bomber releasing its chemical fire retardant.

And this photo by Katie Clark of a partially burned home with a surviving flag.

The most spectacular piece in the show is this shawl, positioned like an effigy with burned offerings at its feet. The shawl was made from the ties that bound hay bales distributed to land owners. Hay spread on bare ground, an effort to help prevent erosion. This artist washed and dyed the pieces. She softened them enough for weaving and wove this shawl.
It is a good feeling that something pretty, or remembered or useful rises from the ashes of despair and we can all see through to their recovery and healing, as art surpasses the ashes.

LEAVING WASHINGTON STATE.

Thunderbird Thousand Trails has a new washroom. I was glad the old agitator machines are gone for the more efficient front loaders that I like because I had three big loads of laundry to do.  I chuckled a bit when I thought of the "old agitators". At least I didn't have to heat water on a wood stove and fill that old wash tub.

It pays to put things in perspective. It is hard for me to imagine how much work my mother went through to wash clothes when we lived in Hardwood. I do know we had less clothes and therefore washed less often. We've come a long way, Baby. 


How things have changed, in more ways than equipment. At the laundry I chatted with a friendly woman. She and her husband work full-time and  live in their RV full-time. They move between three Washington Parks and commute from them to their jobs.  They sold their house and made this dramatic change because they couldn't get their two sons, age 20 and 21 to move out and get a job. The boys have menial paying jobs, no aspirations to go to college, and it was just too easy to stay home with, as she put it, "the silver spoon."  Her beautiful top of the line front loading washer is in storage. She and I both laughed about the solution. Hey, at least she did something about it. I know parents with a 26-year-old do-nothing spoiled kid still living at home and all they do is complain about him.

It rained much of yesterday and the weather was cold and damp.  It cleared a bit, just as the sun was about to set. More of it to come, too, but I'll be leaving the motor home before it gets to Murphys.  I'm flying back to California today because my sister is being treated for brain cancer and I want to spend some time with her. I have lots of pictures (and memories)  to share from our tromp through Michigan.

FUN IN THE BANK.

I helped work on the paint job yesterday. I painted five window frames and two doorways,  which required having the doors open to the wonderful, cool weather we had yesterday. My son was having problems with his back and I decided I could do it myself. I enjoyed it, but there are eleven doors in this house and many windows still unpainted. So, we will be at it for two more days, at least.

With open doorways, I decided to get all the projects stowed in boxes under desks and in corners up off  the floor and consider which one to start with. DON’T PUT OFF ‘TIL TOMORROW…  you know what I mean.

A book on brew-tasting I wrote when the craft beer movement first got started. Unsold. I thought I should put it together. Scrapbooks of trips left unfinished. To many to name.

All week long, I’ve washed and sorted through a barrel of wool for rug-making. Braided, hooked and rag rugs are beautiful and long-lasting.

This is an unfinished hooked rug I started too many years ago.

I’ve braided eight area rugs. This one is in my living room. The biggest one I made was four-foot diameter circle rug that I’ve given to a friend.

Two small ones designed to be place in front of chairs so the carpet doesn’t wear down in one noticeable place.

A washable rag rug for the bathroom. It is made of cotton, not wool. I enjoy making rugs and the end result.
I’ll store the wool until cold weather sets in. I didn’t photograph the number of quilts I’ve cut and haven’t sewn. Or art projects unfinished. I’m never bored, as intended. But, I  think I have YEARS of projects on hold. Oh, well. It’s like fun in the bank.

THE THREE M'S MEET AGAIN.

We call ourselves the Three M’s, that is in Madaline, Michal and Mary. When Michal Houston moved to South Carolina, it seemed as though we would no longer be a trio.  Michal is visiting the West Coast  for an extended stay and we managed to get together. With Michal away, and me on the road so much, it was that much more meaningful that we could connect.

Madaline Krska won her election as Clerk Recorder two years ago and has a bag and sunglasses with her initials on it. Her win didn’t go to her head. She discovered a famous designer who has the same initials. Her best accessory has always been a marvelous smile.

Michal Houston has lived in many places and I was disappointed when she moved to the East Coast.  But, you know, here it is, a year later and we are together and catching up on each others lives. She has the most amazing knack for making friends, a talent developed by being a friend. She can move from Coast to Coast, and on this trip, up to Oregon and back, to Mexico and find friends wherever she roams.

It’s been a tradition to meet at Camps, always share a cocktail or dinner-this time lunch. And who can get enough girl talk?  We spent a happy three hours before it was time to part.

We didn’t change the world, but we cemented our good friendship and promised to meet again.  And, at Camps, we think the waiters are trained to take pictures for their customers.  It was fun, but too short, though nice to know we will do it again.

SO MANY LIVES AFFECTED

I read over all of  the messages, and some new ones,  and had another cry this morning. I guess it is cathartic.  It has helped Jim to be able to vent and talk through his experience over and over. He has struggled with guilt feelings about Dr. Crowe’s death, thinking that if he hadn’t shouted “We’re going over”, maybe he wouldn’t have jumped.  On the other hand, maybe it helped save others worse trauma to have been warned, he also reasons.  There is no answer I tell him, and no one can make rational sense of  what they did during an event that lasted about five seconds and forever changed all of our lives.
I laughed at him yesterday as he wanted all of his bruises and mine, photographed.  Yesterday he went back to the clinic.  They wrapped his chest tightly and explained to him that he had held onto the chair leg so tightly, that the power of the wreck really wrenched and tore that muscle and that is why he is in so much pain. Every move, breath and burp.   He slept really well for the first time last night. It doesn’t matter how severe your injuries are, the emotional trauma can be debilitating, as we all know.
I keep thinking of Sara Dailey’s words,  Walk In Beauty. They resonate constantly in my mind and I try to keep them foremost. Also the words of Carolyn, Richard’s sister, “…we look through a glass darkly…”   How true, and then we must move on.
I also heard from Stuart Koch, the father of a young officer with the Sheriff’s Department, Zach Koch, who loaded my pictures from the canyon and the accident into his hard drive, two days back.  We gave a lengthy recorded statement as well. Stuart, from Chicago,  said he was so proud of his son and seeing the pictures gave him a perspective of what his work entails at times. (Pretty gritty.)  Zach spent time with Mrs. Crowe and was very much affected by the families trauma, as well.  Being in law enforcement does not make you immune to suffering.
I’m getting restless and feeling  kind of trapped in our tin can.  Many of  you know we are in a motor home in the camp ground for Canyon de Chelly.  As travel bloggers, we are used to getting out and doing things.   We discussed maybe driving  the South Rim overlook that we had to quit because the wind nearly blew us  off the ridge. That happened the day before the accident. In fact, I took pictures of the dust that seeped into the motor home even with the windows closed that day.

This is the window closest to the dinette table. I drew my finger through the dust on the table before taking the photo.  Of course, I wiped the table but the window sills throughout are heavy with dust.

This photo is of the bedroom window sill, again with my finger run through the dust.  I’m hoping today I have the energy to haul out the vacuum and get rid of most of it. The road of life is a dusty one,  Jim keeps telling me.
Because the accident has kept us here, we had our mail rerouted from our expected destination in Durango, Colorado. I drove to town, and Jim got his new credit card after it was skimmed. And I finally got my absentee ballot for California. The time was short, I marked my ballot, put it in an express mail envelope and went to send it and I had driven to town without my wallet and didn’t have a dime to pay for it.  It was late in the day. I drove back and tossed it on the dashboard. The first time I have ever missed voting in an election since I was old enough to vote.
A lot of firsts happened to us this week, the least of which are the small irritations like missing my vote.  Last night, I loaded all but one of the accident pictures into an album if you have the need to look at them.  You can see them at this link:
https://picasaweb.google.com/106530979158681190260/2012530AccidentOnlyPics?authkey=Gv1sRgCPHCv9eqzd2jQQ

HUBBELLS TRADING POST, NATIONAL HISTORIC SITE.

The Hubbell trading post,  established in 1876  is the oldest trading post in continuous use since it opened. Hubbell died in 1930. His son took over the post. His wife Dorothy Hubbell turned it over to the Park Service in about 1965 with the stipulation that it still be run as a trading post.  She removed her clothes and some personal effects and left  numberous  treasures that remain in the post. The docent told us there was a whole suitcase of silver conchos under one of the beds.
John Hubbell learned to speak Navajo as a young man while employed as a clerk and Spanish interpreter at forts and trading posts. Travelers, area ranchers and Indians depended on the hundreds of Trading Posts throughout the west to trade their goods and sustain their life on homesteads. Posts  were the only civilized spots for locals to communicate with each other and find out what was going on in the outside world that affected them. The building was small at first, and added onto over the years. Customers still walk through the old wooden door and this is what greets them:

Goods no longer sold hangs from the ceilings as it did then. The old hardwood floors squeak and bend as you walk through. Hubbell  began trading in 1876, a crucial time for the Navajo who were released from their imprisonment at Bosque Redondo. After the Long Walk, which killed about half of the Navajo,  they were allowed to return to their lands, only to find their hogans destroyed, horses , herds and crops long gone and a new life on a reservation. The Long Walk ended in 1868, but  reservation life came with restrictions, missionaries, Indian agents, and teachers all trying to re- aculturate them. It became a new struggle. Hubbell was merchant and liaison for them. Called Don Lorenzo by the Spanish and Nk’ee Sinili by the Navajo,  he didn’t try to change them.  He became a father figure to the Navajo, settling quarrels, explaining government policies. He was father confessor, justice of the peace, judge, jury and defacto mayor of the land.

Navajo’s learned blanket and rug making from the Spanish and quickly became accomplished with their own designs and dyes. Then and now, the post has a huge selection of excellent Navajo Blankets and Jewelry.

As in Hubbell’s time, the Navajo get fair treatment. Here their rugs and jewelry earn them the bulk of the money for their work, while the downtown trading posts like Richardsons and Maizels, the bulk of the money goes to the dealer. However, the in-town posts get more traffic. When you buy a rug and/or jewelry at  Hubbell’s, you are making an investment. We talked to, and photographed  a German woman who paid $1,600 for a bracelet.  Jim just shakes his head.

We took the tour of Hubbell’s home. The roof, the thatch, the huge beams, like those in the post made differently  than others I’ve seen. The house itself had Navajo rugs on every floor, every bed, over the windows and doors to keep out the cold. Blankets softened hard wooden chairs. We took a lot of pictures but technical difficulties have dictated a shortened blog today.
The post outdoor oven put out multiple loaves per day. The oven is still on the site.

The oven though broken down a bit, still stands on the grounds along with remnants of the old corn fields, a chicken coop with a big fat turkey in it.  Horses in the barns. Old equipment, buggies, saddles, leather goods of all types.

Hay in the corn cribs. In the 1800′s the corn  was fenced, the animals ranged free.

Something I’d never seen before in the post kitchen, is a dough riser sitting next to the stove for warmth. You can tell what huge batches of bread they made each day.

The old scarecrow from the 1960′s has a dangling aluminum can to help scare off the ravens.

The guest cottage served as hospitality to President Roosevelt one time.  Numerous guests were welcomed here to paint, rehabilitate or just join the family barbecues out back.

Family and guests  could spend the evenings outdoors next to the huge barbecue pit, by the light of hand-built lanterns that held a fat candle. I expect it gave a romantic light under the stars.
We took a lot of pictures but had difficulties with our signal where we are parked in Canyon De Chelly. As a travel destination, Hubbell Trading Post is an experience you shouldn’t miss. It really makes you feel you have stepped back in time. It isn’t far from the Canyon and worth going out of your way to find.

SMALL TREASURES

Yesterday, I referred to a big black asteroid as a comet, and I stand corrected.  And, last night the moon and Jupiter were shining so brightly, my bedroom was completely navigable in the dark. I appreciate small treasures. Today I leave for Sacramento to attend to business and then look after  my two youngest grandsons over the next  four days. They too, are small treasures and I always learn something from them.

My photo file contains small treasures, a few of which I’ll post today. It never ceases to amaze me how different each builder chose to make a small, friendly edifice for our feathered friends.

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In the fall, birds really appreciate  additional food a feeder supplies. It must be kept clean.

Bird feeders are fundamentally the same, yet individual as well.
I had my windows washed on the outside yesterday. Now, I must be careful that the birds do not batter themselves on a too clean window. I’ve learned how to stop it when it happens. I cover the window from the inside with cardboard for a week or so. The sun’s position changes and the birds no longer are fooled into thinking they are flying into the reflected woody area behind them.  Birds are another small treasure that inhabit my yard. I keep water for them and a bird bath. And, I’ve decided to never own another cat. Cats are plentiful and the birds take a beating.

CHANGE.ORG

Jim says I don’t rant as much when I’m on the road as I do when I get home.  Of course, he is right. I’m quite shielded from all of the muck going on in the world while we travel. It feels good. But, I return and quite happily get back in the fray. On the streets of Sonora Saturday, a woman told me her daughter was afraid to come to the protest for fear of someone seeing her,  reporting back to her boss,  and costing  her her  job.   I don’t have a job to lose, thus it is even more important that people like myself get out and make sure we don’t give our freedoms away and that we stand up for what we believe in.
My first real job, after high school, was at the Alameda County Jail.  My first day of work,  I was told I would have to remove the bumper sticker on my car. (It was my father’s car.)   The bumper sticker in support of Don Dillon running for mayor of Fremont had nothing to do with any County election. I was indignant at age 17 and full of  idealism. At home, Dad said, remove the bumper sticker, you need the job.  For this woman to fear for her job made me realize  we are not as free as we think we are and our freedom and rights have to be continually protected.
This is a long away around to get to Change.org, an organization that allows you to set up a petition about something you believe should be changed.  They will help you give your idea legs as you spread the word to your friends and they spread it to their friends, if anyone out there  thinks your idea has merit.
I’ve had this thought at the back of my mind for years. Why do we allow California Nurseries to sell non-native invasive species? I had a horrible experience with an Australian  pampas grass plant when I planted the Calaveras Community Studio Garden. It’s fronds are sharp like tiny razors and the pampas I planted began to spread into the nearest parking spot. Finally, no one could exit their car door without getting scratched. It even made tiny scratches on car paint. Our studio manager tried cutting it with a chain saw. It bucked the saw back at him and snarled the chain. We cut the fronds individually, a nasty job,  and poisoned it over a period of weeks. It couldn’t be dug up with shovels,  the root ball was so deep and fibrous. What a mess. And, worse, it seeded to a neighbor’s property.

When Jim and I drove the coastal route from Washington to California, I saw plantations of pampas grass, and parking lots and roadside banks where people have tried to mow them down with little success. Yet, we allow these monsters, beautiful though they are, to be sold by nurseries all over our state.

Another invader that has proliferated is Scotch Broom, again, beautiful, but invasive. They grow incredibly well without any native enemies to keep them in check, much like star thistle. Star thistle in its native Scotland has  a parasitic enemy that keeps it in check. It has cost Calaveras  County over a million dollars to control star thistle and it is still growing and needing constant treatment. Expensive.
Now that I’m done ranting, I’ve developed a petition through change.org to gather signatures for a petition that seeks to  make it against the law to sell non-native species in our nurseries.  Realize that it will cost us huge amounts of money to eradicate them when they get out of hand.  If you are like minded, please sign my petition.
http://www.change.org/petitions/the-state-of-california-oregon-washington-by-law-prevent-the-sale-of-non-native-invasive-species-by-nurseries