Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Warm weather, clear skies . . .

A naturalist once told me that wildlife populations move in cyclical waves.
That would explain what comes and goes in Pack Creek valley.
Last year we caught sixty-one mice in our house. This year only two.
Then the packrats cycled through – eighteen in one year. This year only one.
The deer population boomed, then declined.
Same for the bunny rabbits, bobcats, chipmunks and coyotes.

The current up-wave is in the bat division – twenty-one roosting under the eaves of the house last night.
The magpie numbers are way up this spring, as well.
And lizards abound – too many to count - inside and outside the house – several kinds and sizes – running up and down the walls – hard to ignore.

I’ve never thought much about lizards, until now . . .

LIZARDS

A lady lizard works on the wall just outside our kitchen.
She’s been keeping the wall bug-free for several weeks now.
How big is she?
About as long as the distance between the end of my thumb and the end of my little finger when my hand is spread wide.
About as fat as my thumb at the widest point – tapering to a head as wide as my little finger.
A long whip-like tail makes up half her body length.

What kind of lizard?
Though I bought a 527 page book – “Lizards of the American Southwest” –
and carefully checked all the descriptions, habitats, and photographs, the lizard that works on our wall is not in the book.
She is either a new species, or I am too dumb to work the puzzle of terms and descriptions laid out for me by the lizard-ologists.
But she is real and there.

So I call her Mildred – any lizard you see on a regular basis deserves a name, don’t you think?
Why Mildred?
I will explain shortly.

As I said, there are lizards running all over the place this year – mostly small, mostly unpredictable in their running around.
Zip, dash, pause, whoosh.

But Mildred has been in the same area every day for some time.
I notice her because I sit and read nearby – and she’s always there, patrolling her chosen territory.
I envy her ability to move up and down the rough vertical walls of the house.
I admire her patience to wait for prey to come to her.
I respect, but do not envy, her ability to suddenly zap an ant or spider with her tongue.

She’s not just any old lizard now – we’re in touch.
One day I walked up to her while she was perched on a stone ledge.
“Hello, Mildred,” I said.
Slowly I moved closer – put my hand on the ledge in front of her – stuck out my index finger very cautiously – right up to her chin – and she flicked her pink forked tongue out and tasted my finger – the slightest touch, but I felt it.

Neither of us moved.

Mildred did it again, then turned and walked away.
Did I taste bad or was I simply too big to eat?

Somewhere in the back of Mildred’s lizard brain must exist the knowledge that her ancestry goes back more than 220 million years ago – Triassic era.
Some of her relatives were 56 feet long.
Maybe I registered as an impossible lunch to her.

Or maybe I had simply been acknowledged in a lizardly sort of way.

(Now there’s cocktail-party small-talk ammunition, don’t you think?.
Ever been licked by a lizard?
Or been rejected by one?
Have any lizard friends?)

One day I noticed another lizard following Mildred wherever she went.
This one was about the same size and color as Mildred, but he had a bright blue chest.
Call him Eddie. Why not?
I know about the chest because he did pushups – pumping up and down and flashing his lizardly bling, while trembling – doing a lizard hip-hop dance. Mildred seemed mesmerized, lying flat and still on the cement of the porch.

And before long Eddie was crawling all over Mildred, doing his dance, making his moves, exposing his chest, and finally wrapping himself around her stern, while Mildred lay very still.
They were copulating.
I know because I checked on YouTube and sure enough, there’s a video of lizard love.

(For that matter, you can see a video of almost anything you can think of making out – giant turtles, pandas, camels, lions – whatever. The camel’s way is hilarious – take a look.)

Anyhow, Eddie hung around for a couple of days and then disappeared.

Mildred remains – growing fat around the middle – “gravid” is the word.
Babies are on the way.

If I move slowly, don’t do any pushups or expose my chest, she will still let me get close enough to touch my finger with her tongue.

So now you know why I call her Mildred and think she’s female.
It personalizes the contact with a tiny lady dinosaur who fears me not.

Wonder what she thinks of me?

Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Warm with possible thundershowers

MOTHER’S DAY

A long time ago, when I was a reckless young fire-breathing minister in the stressful days of Civil Rights and Viet Nam, I finished a rousing sermon on morning calling for justice and truth and mercy, with the suggestion that those who did not agree with me were not only wrong, but damned.
Or something along those lines.
A strong, slam-dunk finish.
And I announced that next week was Mother’s Day, and I would speak truth about motherhood on that occasion.

After the service, a middle-aged lady who was a long-time powerfully active member of the church came up to me and said,
“Reverend, I’m bringing my old mother to church next week, and whatever you say about motherhood, it had better be nice.”
“But I thought you hated your mother,” I said.
“I do, but I’m old enough to have learned how to avoid trouble – and you aren’t and haven’t. Just be nice.”

Her admonition rung my “make-sense” bell.
Why make trouble?
Ever since then I’ve tiptoed around Mother’s Day.
It’s an emotional a mine field.
Besides, just about everything that can be said about it has been said.
Leave well enough alone and every mother in peace.

The essay I was going to post today was about lizards – and that will come.
But this morning, Mother’s Day, I played a CD of the singer-songwriter, Cosy Sheridan, and the first song on the album was about mothers.
And it brought tears to my eyes – can’t say why.
Won’t even try.

At least I will share the words of the song with you, and tell you how to listen to Cosy sing it - on YouTube.

If your mother was nice, or you wish she was nice, or if you are a nice mother or wish you had been nice, or if you just wish the world would be nice for about 30 minutes, here’s the lyrics to a nice song – the song I wish I had available for that next Sunday – the Mother’s Day way back when . . .
We would sing it as a hymn.
 

“In the land of 10,000 Mothers,
Every song is a lullaby.
Nobody marches to war.
No one stands in the airport and cries.
 
Nobody dies on the highway,
With too many words left unsaid.
In the land of 10,000 Mothers,
We all sleep safe in our beds
 
In the land of 10,000 Mothers,
Milk and honey flow without end.
Nobody goes away wanting.
You are welcome wherever you’ve been.
 
You are welcome to lay your head down
and get a kiss for every wound.
In the land of 10,000 mothers
You will get better soon.
 
You are welcome no matter what chases you;
Whatever road you chose through the wood.
In the land of 10,000 Mothers,
Somebody loves you and knows you are good.”
 
©  2005 Cosy Sheridan, Cosyng Music BMI

You can go to YouTube to hear Cosy sing the song – there are 2 postings.
The YouTube title is “Land of Ten Thousand Mothers.”
I should add that Cosy is a dear friend, who wrote much of the music for my novel, Third Wish. As her website shows, she has many CD’s available, an indication of her success and popularity in the folk music world as a singer-songwriter. If you ever have a chance to hear her in person, go.

Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
May, the second week, 2012
Warm with thundershowers

BETWEEN DEATH AND IGNORANCE -
STATISTICALLY SPEAKING

Most personal injury accidents occur within 25 miles of your home.
And moving 25 miles away won’t help.
Because you go with you if you move.
And the problem is you.
Statistically speaking.

The most dangerous person in your life is the person you sleep next to.
Domestic violence is most likely to come from your husband/wife/lover.
And you are the most threat to them.
You are a very dangerous person.
Statistically speaking.

The most pain and sorrow you will ever experience will come from those who are family – blood kin, in-laws, spouses – those who say “I love you” will hurt you the most.
And you are the most likely to cause pain to them.
Statistically speaking.

You are not likely to die in an airplane crash or terrorist attach or be hit by lightning or catch mad cow disease or AIDs.
You will most likely die in an automobile accident.
When you are driving.
Statistically speaking.

The most likely place for you to catch a contagious disease is from holding the handle of a supermarket grocery cart or from touching a small child.
You are courting illness or death if you do.
Statistically speaking.

The most toxic place in your house is your kitchen sink.
The most germ ridden item in your house is not your toilet.
It’s your kitchen sponge.
The one you use to wash dishes, clean your shoes and wipe the floor with.
You are a spreader of deadly disease.
Statistically speaking.

Why am I telling you these things – as if you didn’t know?
Why am I always the last one to get the word?

Information like this piles up in the back of my head, collects dust, and life goes on - until a new factoid comes along – raising the fear factor to red.
And I am alarmed all over again.

The kitchen sponge thing, for example.
My wife caught me washing off my shoes with it.
“Now we’re both going to die because of you,” she said.
“What?”

So I checked it out on the web and got cold chills from what I read.
Trillions of bacteria of the most deadly kind are in the kitchen sponge.
E-coli, the Plague, athlete’s foot, dandruff, Dutch Elm disease, Hanta virus.
The kitchen sponge is a neutron bomb ready to go off.
I should be dead by now.

So. Home is dangerous, my wife is dangerous, my relatives are dangerous, grocery carts are dangerous, little kids are dangerous, I am dangerous . . .
And now . . . the kitchen sponge.

How have I survived this long?
How can I go on?

The solution seems to be microwaves.
Put the sponge in the microwave every day.
And my wife?
And my relatives?
And little kids?
And me?

So I microwaved the hell out of the kitchen sponge.
We’re having it for dinner. 

Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
April, the last day, 2012
Clear, warm, still . . .

As you will see, I’ll be away for a week on an adventure.
Back on Monday, May 7, with a new posting.

RE-FRAMING

“Are you coming on Saturday?”

“No, I’ve got business in Arizona and New Mexico.”

“Going down into Indian Country, are you?”

“Well, it’s all Indian country, isn’t it – even here.”

“Oh, you sweet bleeding heart. It used to be Indian country, but we won, remember – now most of it is White Man’s country. Get real.”
______________

The trip includes crossing the lands of the Navajo Nation.
That’s Naabeehó Bináhásdzo in the language of the Navajo.
(However you try to pronounce that you will be wrong.)

The Navajo Nation has a large presence in the Four Corners region.
Their reservation covers about 28,000 acres in three states; there are about 300,000 enrolled Navajos; 175,000 live on the reservation.

One stop on my way will be at the Navajo Nation zoological and botanical park near at the tribe’s headquarters at Window Rock. I want to visit the facility that has been one of the most politically charged issues in the life of the Navajo Nation in the 21st century.
A zoo? Really? Yes.

How do I know about this? I read The Navajo Times – the Nation’s newspaper. In a way it’s a different view of a different world.
And, in a way, it’s not so different.
I’ll come to that.
But first, about the zoo.

The Navajo zoo got started in 1963 with an old worn-out bear that had been left behind after the Navajo Nation Fair. The zoo grew as a rescue sanctuary for birds and animals that had been injured or abandoned.
Especially eagles.
There are about 150 animals now – representing 50 species.
And a wide array of native plants and trees.
The animals and plants represent those native to the Navajo environment.

In January of 1999 the zoo was suddenly ordered closed by the Navajo Nation president.
Why?
Because two highly respected women of the tribe had been visited in a vision by traditional Navajo deities, and had been warned that keeping sacred animals in cages would bring evil to the Dine - The People.

In sum, a zoo is a White Man’s way of disrespecting the creatures of nature.
The message: The bears and coyotes and snakes and eagles must be freed.

And all hell broke loose.
Harsh lines were drawn in the sand and in public.

On one side were the Traditionals - those who live and think in the ancient spiritual traditions of the tribe – they were in full support of the closing of the zoo forever.
On other side were the Navajos who think in more modern ways – the Realists - and support accommodating the changing times.
They were outraged that their children were going to lose their zoo.

Public hearings were held.
Meetings were called.
Letters were written – petitions were gathered.
Protests were mounted.

A special meeting of all the spiritual leaders of the tribe was called, but this group refused to come to any conclusions while the animals were in hibernation, and they, too, needed time to consult the gods.
The Shamans and Singers could not come to an agreement.
The conflict remained alive.

The possibilities:
1. Close the zoo – release all the captives into the wild.
But most would quickly die. Not fit or prepared for life in the wild.

2. Not accept any new creatures, and wait until the current animals died.
But many of the animals would live for years and years.

3. Compromise – Rethink and reframe the purpose of the zoo.
But the two sides were dug in and unlikely to find a middle ground.

The controversy did not completely die down.
But it has disappeared from the hot topics in the life of the nation.
The zoo no longer strictly exists.
Though what once was the zoo . . . is still there.

It is now called “A Sanctuary for Nature and the Spirit.”

An expression of the values of the Navajo Nation -Naabeehó Bináhásdzo.
To treat the animals and birds and plants with respect – as living creatures and as connections to ancient spiritual expression.

It’s an answer to the Navajo question, “Are we going the way we should?”

How sane is that?
_________________________________

“You mean all that hassle was started by couple of juiced-up old squaws who said they talked to spirits and carried hallucinations back from the underworld. And the President of the Navajos closed the zoo based on what the old squaws said? That’s nuts.”

“Well you could put it that way – I wouldn’t – but you could and did.
Let me ask you a question or two. You are a Christian, I believe – correct? An Episcopalian?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe the Bible is the Word of God?”

“Of course, every word of it.”

“So, then, you believe in angels – supernatural beings that carry out the work of God. And you believe in the truths expressed in the Book of Revelation?
Giving an account revealed to John of the coming of the end of the world?”

“Yes, well . . . I . . .”

“And you believe God now is the same God as long ago?”

“Yes, well . . . I . . .”

“And if a couple mature women – members of your church – declared that God had spoken to them and said that the White Man was ruining God’s Creation and that Global Warming is the curse the White Man had brought down on himself, as predicted already in other words in the Book of Revelation – and something must be done - would you have the women committed to a mental institution, or would you think maybe their vision is authentic?”

“Well . . . I’d have to think about that . . .”

“Think about it.”

“Sure would be a lot simpler if the issue was just about a zoo.”

“It is. Our world has become a zoo, and you’re one of the creatures caged up in it.”

“Well . . . maybe we could reframe – change the name of the Earth to
A Sanctuary for Nature and the Spirit?”

“Now you’re thinking. Start with the question the Navajos asked themselves.”

“What was that?”

“Are we going the way we should?”

Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
April 23, 2012

The forces of spring have marched up Pack Creek Valley and on into the shoulders of the high country. What was grey up there a week ago is faintly aspen-green as their leaves join the parade called out by the sun. Sitting still in the warm stupor of the afternoon and thinking of nothing, one notices everything. Ravens and hawks at work. Several sizes of lizards charging around chasing several kinds of insects. Zap!
The claret cup cactus splash the somber landscape with touches of vibrant red. Last night the bats were out and about patrolling for insects in the air. The bats nested last night up under the eaves at one corner of my house. That they choose to live peacefully alongside me is a blessing.
Just in time, before the elegant spring weather slows me down to a minimal crawl and general laziness, the first full draft of the Memoir is finished, and off to editors tomorrow.
I’ll put down the memoir for a while to let it rest.

(Read or re-read the previous posting for a background explanation to what’s coming next . . ..)

It may well be that the three essays I’ve written about writing a memoir do not belong in the memoir itself. My main mentor thinks so.
They may be cut from the final book.
But it seemed important to think through what I was doing before I did it. And since most people go through episodes of self-contemplation, I thought I’d put my thinking alongside yours.
So . . .

FIRST MEMOIR THINKING

How do you think of yourself?
I don’t mean to ask what your opinion of yourself is.
I mean, as you go through your daily life, what process do you use to
accommodate the multiple and often contradictory views you have of the person you are?
Do you talk to yourself. I do. Many other people also.
A long-time friend talks to herself all the time.
I’ve heard her do it, and wondered Who is the I talking, and who is the I listening or responding? And what’s the purpose of the conversation?

Walt Whitman’s comment applies in this realm:
“Do I contradict myself? Very well, I am large. I contain multitudes.”

Me, too. I contain multitudes. Sometimes an audience as united as the supporters of a sports team. Sometimes an unruly, quarrelsome mob, and sometimes a serious-minded Executive Committee.
Whatever the metaphor, I hear many voices in my head.
And all of them mine.

A mental health professional knows that at one end of the spectrum this can mean a personality so divided that is deserves the diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder. That’s when you really do think you are more than one persons – and don’t know it.

There are other less-intimidating terms for the sense of distinct aspects of one’s being: alter-ego, avatar, for example; actors have stage names; writers employ a nom de plume or a pseudonym – all for good reasons.

This line of thinking leads to an essay I wrote – mostly to myself :

AN EXPLANATORY ASIDE

Why is this memoir entitled “The Argentine Chronicles of Senor don Roberto Juan Carlos y Suipacha.”
That’s the first question I’m asked when I describe the book.
Though perhaps not readily understood, my reply is not trivial.
It’s grounded in deep personal history – mine.
And it addresses that even more basic question -
"How do you think of yourself?”

In early childhood I, an only child, lived a long way out in the country and had no playmates except those I could create in my imagination. At this distance from those times I don’t recall the names of the friends I invented, though they seemed very real and ever-present at the time.
In games and adventures I, too, became something of a figment of my own imagination. I gave myself names to account for the various roles I played – as a way of being involved while still being in charge.
In other words, I was the writer, director, actor, and audience of a one-child-theater-of-the-mind. The whole movie.
It was a way of using solitude as self entertainment.
As a result, I don’t recall ever being truly lonely as a child.

Years later, as a teenager, when I had a morning paper route, I remember walking in the quiet dawn hours alone every morning, keeping myself company by reviving the theater of childhood, adding sequels as the cast of characters grew up with me.

Even now, in my mature years, I carry on that theatrical tradition, seeing myself playing different roles in scenarios both real and imagined.
This faculty of creative imagination is a horse I must keep under tight reign when writing essays, but the horse can be turned loose to run free when it comes to writing fiction in the form of novels.
When I’m asked which characters in my fiction are me, I smile and answer what any writer of fiction knows: All of them.

As for writing a personal memoir . . . a struggle all the way.

Keep in mind that this capacity for creating alter-egos does not arise out of a desire to deceive other people or to change my name and identity for public purpose, as entertainers, writers, poets, actors and secret agents sometimes do. Not at all.

My purpose is to entertain myself, to allow free reign to my creative imagination, and to see myself objectively with an eye to retaining a sense of humor about me and my life.

I also know that this activity is an antidote to my tendency to take life far too seriously, to focus on too much of the dark side outside and on too much of the dark side inside.

Much of this alter-ego activity is private – never shared – theater on a stage with one member of the audience. Sometimes, for fun, I share the pseudonyms with close friends and family.
But never in public, until now.
In the form of Senor Fuljumero.

When I committed to making a deep investment of my time and energy to the world of tango, I had an image of myself becoming what the Argentine’s call a jubilado milonguero – a senior citizen worthy of respect for his dignity, style, and great dancing talent.
It was a laughable goal. I would never, ever become a mature, handsome, swarthy Latin with sleek black hair, elegant clothes, smooth style - an absolute master of tango from having lived and danced tango all my life.
I could only become a parody of that figure.
A caricature - a comedic persona at best.

To keep my perspective, to be able to consider myself from the outside in, and to keep my sense of humor about the reality of my endeavor,
an alter-ego came to mind – named in the Spanish tradition. Hence:

Senor – Mr.
don – an honorific – the honorable
Roberto – the Spanish form of my first name
Juan Carlos – two of the names of the current King of Spain
Fuljumero – a Spanish twist for Fulghum
Suipacha – the name of the street in Buenos Aires where the tango emporium, Confiteria Ideal and the best tango shoe stores are located. The street gets its name from the first battle of the Argentine war of Independence from Spain – at a town called Suipacha.
(And, besides, Senor Fuljumero likes the way the word sounds when he says it aloud - Soo-ee-pah-cha.)
Now you know.

Want to know even more?
It’s hard to go this far and not tell you the other alter-egos I’ve used in the past in other circumstances and other places.
The list is long – but the stories of the names are too long to tell here.
You must imagine . . .

The Grand Duke Fuljumakis
Rotocritos Fuljumakis
Epitripos of the Cave of St. Makarios
Manabu Foljambe
Samsara Curnonski
Nigel Morningstar
Blind Bobby Bucksbam
Sadhu Folly
Goodtime Bobby Lee Foojum
Chumboom Foozboom
Le Grande Blanc Lapine Lunatique, Captain of the Bunny Brigade
Ali Baba Bobby
Fabuliste Curnonsky
Bombasto Exsulate Jubilate Fulfum
Wonko the Sane or Wonko the Weird
Baldassaro Trinizani
Zhileus Amilcar
Blaarch, the Oldest Living Neanderthal
The King of Karpoozi

All are relatives, friends, and boon companions of Senor don Roberto Juan Carlos Fuljumero y Suipacha.

Why not.
What harm?
Am I crazy?
No – it’s what I do to keep from going crazy.

Now you know.