In Praise of the Roundabout

I remember fifteen or twenty years ago when there was all kinds of work done on the Bisbee traffic circle. It went on for months, and when it was done, it looked basically the same. But there was a little landscaping in the center (some ocotillos and cactus) and of course the large N-S-E-W monoliths indicating the cardinal directions were added.

And as the cartoon in the paper said, “Abracadabra!” When the magician pulled the the cloth off the traffic circle, it had magically become a roundabout.

Bisbee Roundabout. Thanks to Jay Jenkins for the drone photo!

Roundabouts are a British thing. Traffic circles are a US thing. The difference at first seems small, though it’s critical: A traffic circle has two lanes and a roundabout has just one.

But as it turns out, there are other differences, due to the design of the single lane roundabout.

First, the number of accidents per year on a traffic circle is quite large compared to wrecks on a roundabout. One reason is when on a traffic circle, people may zip in between oncoming cars and head to the inside lane. But they need to then blast back into the outside lane to exit. Collisions often ensue. 

The roundabout creates much less of a traffic hazard. With one lane, the driver enters when there’s space and never needs to jostle her way to a different lane in order to exit. 

In addition, roundabouts are generally smaller than traffic circles. That is, their diameter is smaller, although this isn’t true for the Bisbee roundabout since it was born as a traffic circle. 

A small roundabout in Tucson

But the smaller diameter of a roundabout leads to slower speeds. Thus, when there is an accident, traffic is moving more slowly so damage done to both vehicles and passengers is less than a wreck on a traffic circle.

This is also true for accidents involving pedestrians, bicyclists, and animals. Slower speeds result in less damage or injury.

Another Tucson roundabout

In Britain, roundabouts are often used instead of traffic lights, and there are lots of benefits, from less maintenance to less pollution.

Roundabouts need little maintenance. There’s some grooming (if there’s a garden or grass in the center) and regular repaving and pothole repair. At an intersection with signals, big traffic lights burn out, and they whole signal system generally needs to be replaced every twenty-five years or so—and that usually means calling in the experts.

There are a lot of wrecks at traffic lights because so many people try to blast through on the yellow or even the beginning of the red. And wrecks those drivers cause can be quite severe and even fatal since speed is often a factor.

Then of course traffic lights have operational costs. There’s the monthly electric bill as well as bulb replacement.

Traffic lights can go out when there’s a storm, and often that means a police officer has to head over to direct traffic because some idiots just won’t take turns. But in a city, there aren’t enough officers to cover all the outages, so of course there are a number of car wrecks each time the light’s power is out.

Another big plus for the roundabout is drivers don’t waste gas sitting at a light. How many times have you sat at a light when there’s no cross traffic? Yet you’ve had to sit and wait. And wait. That simply doesn’t happen at a roundabout.

Studies show that each traffic light replaced with a roundabout in Carmel, Indiana, the US capital of roundabouts, saves about 24,000 gallons of fuel.

A roundabout in Carmel, Indiana. Thanks to the city of Carmel, Indiana, for the photo.

Initially, it costs more to build a roundabout, mostly because cities have to buy up more land than they would for a regular intersection. But because roundabouts have lower maintenance costs, have no electric costs, and and never have outages or need to be replaced, over time they save a lot of money.

That city in Indiana, Carmel, has more roundabouts than almost any other city on the planet. Well, more than any other US city. Carmel started replacing traffic signals with roundabouts in the mid 1990s, and they’ve seen an 80% drop in injury accidents.

In 1996, Carmel had a population of 30,000 and had 217 traffic accidents. In 2019, with more than120 roundabouts, there were approximately 100,000 residents and the city saw fewer than 200 traffic accidents.

Carmel currently has 125 roundabouts with plans to add more. There are only about a dozen traffic lights left in the city. That’s big news for the city that claimed Indiana’s first traffic signal.

Thanks to the city of Carmel, Indiana, for this photo it another of their roundabouts.

Carmel proudly says the network of roundabouts has saved money, reduced vehicular emissions, improved air quality, and enhanced community walkability and traffic safety.

The switch to roundabouts came because of one man: the mayor. Jim Brainard had been to England in the 1970s when he was in graduate school. And he loved the concept of no stop-and-go. People just drove placidly on. So refined. So simple. So smart. No lines, no congestion, no pollution pouring out the backs of cars at street corners. 

When Jim became mayor of Carmel, he introduced the idea of roundabouts to the city planners who tossed the idea aside. Jim did the research on how cost effective and efficient roundabouts are, and the planners changed their minds and got behind the idea. 

By the way, roundabouts are also popular in Australia. The town of Canberra even had the International Roundabout of the Year in 2020 with its Gay Pride roundabout.

This roundabout is in Canberra, Australia and was taken from act.gov.au.

Will roundabouts catch on in other cities? I surely hope so. I know I now feel proud that Bisbee made the abracadabra! switch from a traffic circle. Anything that can lower the number of car wrecks, save money, cut back on pollution, save driving time and look pretty on top of that deserves our support.

Coincidences

Note: I wrote this in 2017. Be sure to read the end note!!

NPR recently ran a story on coincidences. There were some amazing stories and not one of my coincidences seemed to measure up to what I heard. But I have had a few.

Like the time I was in a cafe in Antigua, Guatemala, and a former housemate I hadn’t seen in eight or nine years walked in the door. Another time in Guatemala, (what is it about Guatemala?) on a different trip, I was sitting in a park in an obscure town and a friend strolled and sat beside me.

Just a few weeks ago, I hopped on the Tucson trolley to go to the Women’s March. As it was cool and damp and I have a hard time with cool weather on my legs and feet, I’d snuggled into my thermal boots. They’re warm and cozy, though I don’t particularly like them: black rubber with colored dots all over them.

Imagine my surprise when I boarded the trolley and found a young couple with their little girl, maybe age two. The child’s rain jacket was the same rubber and dots as my boots. A coincidence? Yes. Exciting? Not at all. But special in that brief moment when the child’s mother and I locked eyes and grinned. (sidenote: They also were headed to the march.)

But the biggest one, though it may not exactly count as a coincidence, happened in 1981.

I’d gone to Phoenix for a board meeting of the Arizona Solar Energy Association. After the meeting, the board members went out to tour a few solar homes. I spent the night with some friends on a chicken ranch named Huevos Rancheros del Sol (really) and returned to Bisbee the next morning.

When I unpacked the van, I couldn’t find my camera. I was devastated. I couldn’t afford a new one. Also, I’d taken lots of photos of the solar houses and wanted those pictures.

My then-partner went out to the van and searched. It was a plain panel van, two seats and nothing else, so it wasn’t hard to see everywhere. Obviously, he found no camera either.

About three weeks later, my partner and I did the co-op run to Phoenix. It was one of our volunteer activities: drive to Phoenix, visit three or four growers, pick fruits and veggies, bring them back to the coop.

The first stop was a farm in what was then the far southwest edge of the city, maybe five miles or so from Huevos Rancheros del Sol. This grower raised melons of all types. We’d stopped there first since we wanted the largest, heaviest things on the bottom of the load. 

We picked several varieties of melons and laid them across the floor of the van. I closed the van’s back doors and we headed down the road for the peach farm.

When we got there, we picked a few boxes of peaches and walked back to the van. I laid down my box, opened up the back door and shrieked. 

There, on the top of a watermelon, sat my camera.

It was impossible for it to be there. It hadn’t been there forty or so minutes earlier when I’d shut the back doors after loading melons. But there it was.

Is this a coincidence? It’s probably more like magic than coincidence, but it will have to do. 

I suppose the coincidence part is that the camera both disappeared and reappeared while in the southwest end of Phoenix. 

When I developed my film a few days later, all my shots were there, none missing or added.

The mystery of the reappearing camera still occasionally gnaws at me.

End Note: Just today, I looked at this piece and considered putting it in this blog. Then I decided it wasn’t complete enough. Not enough good coincidences. Half an hour later, I climbed into my car. My radio came on and the same coincidences story I’d heard years ago was replaying!

A sign, yes, and one more coincidence to put into this story, a story that is now complete.

Dancing Woman

She danced to a rhythm only she could hear.

When she first started dancing nearly forty years ago, she had no wings.

But it was often said she danced as an angel might, her long skirts flowing and twirling.

She danced at home.  She danced in the streets. She danced her way into church and she danced in the Safeway while choosing frozen peas.

I believe she danced through her dreams each night and then danced her dreams each day.

About fifteen years ago, she found a lump. Rather, she found two. She eventually danced her way to the doctor’s office where she was referred to a specialist, and then she danced her way there.

She paused in her dancing through the biopsy and danced up a storm when the doctor told her the lumps were benign. She danced as she told the doctor she’d live with the lumps.

But the lumps grew and within a few months they sprouted tiny downy feathers.

She danced her delight.

By year’s end, the downy feathers had become tiny wings.

Each year the wings grew, and each year she got her clothing adjusted to accommodate their size. After seven years the wings stopped growing.

With her wings, when she danced she could flutter off the floor, spin in the air, and touch lightly down. She danced her joy at having wings.

She said she would dance on her own grave.

The Clifton Hotel

Clifton, Arizona, is a small town, about 3400 people. And Morenci, the mining town just up the highway, is even smaller at under 1500. I hoped that, between the two towns, I’d find a decent hotel.  

Clifton is located right where it says “Greenlee County Historical”

I looked online and found four but checked the Clifton Hotel first. I looked at the website and found it was recently restored, and, in fact, still under renovation. It was a former “cowboy hotel” built in 1890 and at the time was called the Central Hotel. Happily, it was said to be haunted.

How could I not go? I’ve encountered spirits in the past but never when I’ve stayed in a hotel that was haunted. But I could hope.

I called the hotel and spoke to one of the owners, Karen, who bought the hotel with her husband Matt in 2017.

The couple lived in Tucson, she an engineer and he busy restoring and renovating buildings. They saw an article about Clifton that had a photo of the arch ruins downtown and decided to drive the two-and-a-half hours for a visit.

I have no idea what this used to be. I’ll find out on my next trip.

But Clifton held a surprise for them. The same day they arrived, they saw a rundown old hotel.

They called the realtor, visited the building, and bought it. That fast.

The realtor who sold it to them had once owned the hotel but sold it because shortly after purchasing it, he injured his back quite badly and wasn’t able to rehab it.

He sold it to the the current owner who just a few weeks after the purchase was hit by a car while walking in a crosswalk. His injuries left him unable to do the renovation, so he hired a crew to begin work.

The first day the crew showed up, they felt extremely uncomfortable there. They walked off the job and refused to go back.

But with all of that, Karen and Matt decided to buy the place.

Matt, however, became the third owner in a row to be derailed from his restoration project.

A few days before closing on the hotel, Matt became desperately ill. He couldn’t get out of bed for a week. In fact, he had to lie down in the back seat of a car to make it to the closing at all.

But he made it through closing and when he was better, he moved into the hotel to begin renovation.

Karen wrote this to me:

“Matt’s first few nights here were terrifying (I was living in Tucson at the time). He saw shadows and felt very unwelcome. But he persevered, and we feel that, because our intention was to restore the hotel rather than just modernize it, his work was accepted.

We’ve just put the finishing touches on our fourth room. This one is upstairs. While I don’t usually notice anything other-worldly, when I was in that room, putting up curtains, I was overcome by strong, long-lasting deja vu. I brought my bartender in there and she was immediately covered in goosebumps. She left the room and said she would never go in it again. Interestingly, the dogs do not like the room either. Katie will go in, but will slouch the entire time, while Pops will not enter at all.”

When I saw some of the before photos, I was shocked. If I hadn’t already stayed in one of their lovely rooms, I almost wouldn’t have believed it was possible.

From the outside it looked pretty hopeful.

All the “before” photos were provided by Karen and Matt, owners of the Clifton Hotel. Remaining photos of the interior today are mine unless otherwise noted.


The hotel today

The lobby needed a bit of work. Much of the damage was due to the 1983 flood which left 6-1/2 feet of water in the hotel! The building was abandoned then because it seemed impossible to clean up.

The walls held up well, though, since they’re constructed of slag block, a mining byproduct. Each block weighs about fifty pounds. Exterior blocks are stacked three thick making the walls 18” wide.

Matt and Karen had the blocks tested to be sure there were no traces of uranium or anything else dangerous. They’re perfectly safe.

Here’s a shot of the lobby when they bought the hotel followed by two photos of it today.

Waiting to greet visitors

Karen shared all three of the above pictures. What an astounding difference!

Here’s the stairway as they found it.

Here are a few more shots that show the state of the hotel when Karen and Matt purchased it.

I simply can’t believe they bought it!

Here’s a before shot of Suite 2, where I stayed. Cement blocks fill in most of the space of the original window. A few photos down you’ll see today’s lovely curtained window.

And after.

Matt removed some walls to double the size of the rooms. Suite 2 was lovely, but it wasn’t large.

Back when it was a cowboy hotel, rooms must have been about 8’x10’. Today they’re twice the size, but once the bath and kitchenette are carved out of the space, the room is comfortable. But “cozy” might be a better description of its size.

Noticed that part of the wall was left un-plastered to show the original slag block wall.

The microwave and mini fridge were handy, and there was even a small sink for washing my utensils. Rooms are decorated in period furniture, but I’m sure it’s much nicer than what the guests of the late 1800s once had!

A few sweet touches.

No clock radio here!

A big plus: My bed was one of the most comfortable hotel beds I’ve ever slept in. And there was lightning-fast internet, too, something those cowboys of a hundred years ago could never have imagined.

At the back of the hotel is a common area with a large table, a coffeemaker, and space to relax.

I sat in this area for breakfast and dinner each day. I mostly had the space to myself but ran into another guest one time.

Well, I didn’t quite have the space to myself since the two hotel doggies often showed up to keep me company.

Pops (left) and Katie

If you’re headed to Clifton, I truly recommend this hotel. I did have one disappointment with my stay, however. I never saw a ghost. Perhaps next time.

Beware when searching for the Clifton Hotel on the web, though! There’s one with the same name in Tucson that may come up first when you look.

To avoid the confusion, here’s a link to the hotel. Its website has additional information on the hotels history and on the town.

https://www.clifton-hotel.com

A Visit to Clifton

I went to Clifton, Arizona, to visit a saint for my birthday See previous blog post: https://emilievardaman.com/2020/09/25/a-visit-with-a-saint/

Heading north, I took Highway 191. Previously, it was named Highway 666, but in 2003, states ceded to pressure to rename it. “The stigma of being the mark of the beast” was the reason given for the change. Some travelers refused to drive the highway fearing it was controlled by the devil.

Many of us shook our heads and adjusted to the new name, though many long-time residents around here still call it Old 666.

Driving through the Sulphur Springs Valley, I took in the differences from my last trip in the spring (see Pursuing Poppies). In early April, the ocotillo had not yet leafed out. Now summer’s leaves were turning gold, and amber sprinkles began to litter the ground beneath the cacti-like plants. 

In early April, bright green corn stood a few feet tall. This trip, field corn was dried, ready for harvest as cattle feed, with ears to be left behind for winter’s visiting Sandhill Cranes to eat.

Last April, cotton had only been in the ground a month or so but it, too, was ready for harvest. Hay was baled and ready for winter.

Pecans trees, which need up to 200 gallons of water daily over a seven-month season, were also ready for harvest. 

Especially after this summer’s near-record drought, many county residents are speaking out against raising the water-thirsty trees here in the desert.

I continued up through Willcox to Safford. As I passed Mount Graham on the way to Safford, I recalled the sparkling blue skies and big puffy clouds of a year ago when I drove this route to Colorado. I mourned the fires throughout the West that have left smoke hanging even here, many hundreds of miles from burning forests, burning subdivisions.

2019
2020 The photo doesn’t convey how gray the skies were. My eyes were burning due to the smoke!

East at Sanford and then north again. West the last ten or so miles to Clifton, population about 3400.

I drove through town a bit and tried to stop in the Visitor’s Center, but it was closed due to Covid. Then I headed to Park Avenue to find the Clifton Hotel, my home for the next two nights (blog post about the hotel soon).

And what a greeting I got on Park Avenue!!

Bighorn Sheep!
A park full!

I found my hotel and unloaded. I’d planned to head straight to the cemetery to visit the saint and then have dinner. I’d brought a meal from Bisbee’s Cafe Roka and planned to eat by the San Francisco River. Amazingly, it was still running even with the drought.

But since I’d had only a light breakfast, I tucked into my grilled tuna and salad (delicious as always) before heading off the the cemetery. The two dogs at the hotel volunteered to help me with the tuna, but they didn’t get a nibble.

Katie stared sadly from a distance after being turned down.

After visiting Santa Teresa’s grave, I spent a leisurely evening reading in my room.

On Sunday, I visited the cemetery again and then roamed the area a bit.

I found Clifton to be a lot like Bisbee—no surprise since they’re both mining towns built into mountain hillsides. 

Someone’s goats

But Clifton has more and better sheer rock cliffs than Bisbee. And it’s much, much quieter. The silence at night was a delight. 

I wandered downtown and didn’t see a soul. Clifton seems to be closed up tight on Sundays. But I did see a few great old cars. 

Parts of downtown are in serious need of restoration.

I even went to Morenci, about four miles up the road, to look at the open pit copper mine there, the largest in the US.

But I became dispirited after seeing hillside after hillside of mining damage and turned around without visiting the main overlook.

That evening, I visited Rio San Francisco. Such a delight! The temperature dropped significantly by the water under big cottonwoods. I waded upstream a bit then simply sat awhile, listening to the music of running water.

Later as I again settled into my room, I realized that if I were (far) younger, I’d consider moving to Clifton, buying and fixing up an old building. Perhaps open a small coffeehouse. That’s how comfortable I felt, and that comfort had much to do with the handful of people I’d met.

The few people I’d encountered were very friendly and welcoming. Some I talked to admitted to many differences among residents and their opinions, but all said the townspeople as a whole cared for and supported one another. 

On Monday, I had a quick breakfast and said my goodbyes to Clifton Hotel co-owner Karen.

I headed out on Park Avenue and found my welcoming committee had gathered on a cliff to see me off.

I took the back road out of town, which conveniently passed the cemetery, so I was able to stop in again for a last visit with the saint.

Then back south, down Old 666 and home.

Chloe was glad to see me.

A Visit With a Saint

My adventure began when my friend Cinda sent me a small article she’d found online. It was about the Mexican folk saint Teresa Urrea, “The Saint of Cábora”. (Or it could be Cabora, without the accent. Maps disagree.)

Now, I happen to love Mexican folk saints. And I’d read about Santa Teresa in Luis Urrea’s famous book The Hummingbird’s Daughter. Luis is the great-nephew of the famous saint. I’m a big fan of Luis Urrea and have read a number of his books, but The Hummingbird’s Daughter is special to me.

Teresa’s story begins in the Mexican state of Sinaloa where she was born in 1873. It continues with the family’s move to Caborca, Sonora, and through her development there as a healer. The book ends when she has to flee for her life. The book is historical fiction but Teresa’s healing and miracles are well documented.

Teresa and her father, late 1800s

The article Cinda sent me said that Santa Teresa, often called Teresita, was buried in Clifton, Arizona, a few short hours north of where I live. She’d died of tuberculosis on January 11, 1906, only thirty-two years old.

As if it happened, my birthday was coming up in about six weeks. I’d been looking for something special to do. When I reached 70 a few years back, I figured it’s pretty important to celebrate every year.

So what does one do to celebrate during the time of Covid?

Easy. Visit a grave. The grave of Santa Teresa Urrea.

I did a bit of research online and found a photo of the grave. It was covered with a concrete slab and surrounded by a small, decorative metal fence. The notes said the grave was unmarked, but with the photo I hoped to find it. I saved the photo onto my iPad.

I scheduled a room at the Clifton Hotel (blog post soon about this sweet place). I reserved two nights.

I headed off on my birthday around 9:30 and after stopping along the way for gas, coffee, photos, etc., I pulled in to Clifton around 1:45. I wandered a bit and got to my hotel by 2:30.

After a quick meal, I headed out to the cemetery with my iPad containing the grave’s photo.

The photo showed two tall Italian Cypress trees, and I figured I’d line them up with the mountains in the background to find the grave.

I got to the cemetery and was happy to find there were only two Italian Cypress trees, the ones in my photo. I could see them right through the cemetery entrance.

It didn’t take long to find the grave, but I was surprised and pleased to find it was now marked with a simple cross atop the concrete. Teresita was etched into one arm of the cross, Urrea into the other.

The fence was decorated with a rosary, and there were pink and yellow plastic flowers tied to the fence. A candle to the Virgin of Guadalupe and a small card called an estampita (a little stamp) for the Virgin sat at the base of the cross. The estampita had the Virgin’s likeness on the front and a prayer on the back. The rim of the concrete was decorated with rocks. 

I sat.

I poured out some of my sorrows, told her about Covid and the terrible divisiveness in our country. I asked her to intervene. She’s a saint, after all.

We chatted for about twenty minutes. Truth be told, she didn’t really chat. But she listened.

As I left, I asked her to come to me in my dreams.

I visited her the following day, leaving some fresh-picked flowers on her grave, and stopped by again on my way out of town the morning I left. 

Each time as I left, I asked her to visit me.

She hasn’t yet, but who’s to know? If you’ve read my post of a few weeks ago, you know I sometimes encounter spirits.

Teresa, I’m ready for a visit.

Seventy-Four and There’s So Much More (With Apologies to Neil Young)

“Old man, look at my life / I’m a lot like you were /Old man, look at my life / I’m a lot like you were / Old man, look at my life / Twenty-four, and there’s so much more.”

I loved those lines from Neil Young’s Old Man when I was twenty-four. I left the Midwest for Tucson at twenty-three, and a month later at twenty-four I was living in Tucson and knew I was a Westerner.

But Neil, you need to do a rewrite now.

“Young one, look at my life / I was a lot like you are / Young one, look at my life / I was a lot like you are / Young one, look at my life / Seventy-four and there’s so much more.”

I don’t yet know what the “much more” is, but to be sure, I plan on going after it.

Some of that “more” will include sorting, tossing, packing, and moving, though to where I don’t know. But it will be a place with public transportation and good medical facilities.

Part of the “more” will involve travel to places near and far and especially travel to be with my family. 

Most likely a part of the “more” will include a cat one day. An indoor cat. No more feline mass murderers in my home. 

Before Neil Young sang of  being twenty-four, there’d been songs with ages in them. Chuck Berry’s Sweet Little Sixteen. Janis Ian’s At Seventeen

When I did a Google search, I found there are many more songs with ages in their titles. Most are by people or groups I’ve never heard of and mention ages sixteen to twenty-five. Very telling about our culture.

One didn’t fit that mold, though. The next song I related to was John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High

“He was born in the summer of his 27th year / Coming home to a place he’d never been before / He left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again / You might say he found a key for every door.”

I was twenty-seven when I moved to Bisbee. It was winter. But by the summer of my twenty-seventh year, I knew I’d come home, to a place I’d never been before. You might say I was born again, into a community of hippies and I felt I’d found a key to quite a number of doors.

Key? Ha. In those days, no one locked their doors.

Then there were no more songs with ages in them, at least not that I recall, until sixty-four. When I finally caught up to the Beatles’ When I’m Sixty-Four, well, I still liked the song, but the line “Will you still need me, will you still feed me / When I’m sixty-four” held little meaning since I didn’t much need to be needed and anyway, I was feeding myself. 

Feeding myself a bit too much, actually, since I was at least thirty pounds overweight. Glad I’ve corrected that. 

There was one more song that spoke to me though it wasn’t about a specific age. It spoke to me long ago and does so even more clearly today. It’s John Prine’s Hello in There.

“You know that old trees just grow stronger / And old rivers grow wilder every day / Old people just grow lonesome / Waiting for someone to say, ‘Hello in there, hello.’”

But Neil, now that I’m seventy-four, please do a rewrite on Old Man and call it Young One. You can use my suggested opening lines. They are all I can come up with, but please pick up on it, okay?

Spirits I’ve Encountered

The first time I met a spirit, ghost, or whatever you choose to call them was in about 1975.

I was house sitting for friends about ten miles east of Bisbee (Arizona.) I stayed for a week in the little house that sat right off the highway.

I’d had several experiences of car lights flashing into the kitchen. Each time, I thought someone had pulled into the drive because it was the only way lights could have lit up the kitchen that way.

But there was never a car in the driveway. This happened every night, sometimes more than once, but there was never anyone there.

I slept on a sofa, and about six feet from it was a large open beam that ran the width of the house. The beam sat several feet below the ceiling.

Near the end of my stay, I awoke suddenly one night. Sitting on that beam was a round, oversized orange head. It was like a cartoon image—perfectly round with simple features.

The eyes of that orange face stared directly into mine.

Suddenly it hovered and moved in closer to me. It just hung there in the air for a bit and then faded away.

And no, I wasn’t dreaming.

My second encounter was in the summer of 1977.

I was on a road trip, gently roaming my way to Montana, and stopped for a night at Canyon de Chelley.

The first afternoon, I hiked some and spent time gazing into the canyon. The second day, I visited the White House Overlook.

I felt a stirring. A past. I couldn’t identify it, but I swear I felt spirits of the dead around me.

I was standing next to an older Diné man. We were both staring at a cave in the rock face high above the canyon floor.

He spoke softly. “My mother died there.”

My head spun his direction as he continued. “The army was attacking and she was carrying me up the ladder to the cave. When she got there, she handed me to my grandmother. My grandmother took me and right then, my mother was shot in the back and fell into the canyon. My grandmother pulled up the ladder, and those of us in in the cave were safe.”

I don’t remember what I said to him, but tears streamed down my face for the next ten minutes or so while we stood there side by side. 

No wonder I’d felt the ghosts of the past.

The third time was in 1982 when I lived out west of Bisbee at a place called Banning Creek Ranch, about halfway down Highway 92 from the tunnel on the south side.

The house was a delight. I loved every inch of it. Almost. There was one spot in the living room that was cold. Always cold, even on a hot summer day. The sofa sat right at the cold spot facing a beautiful fireplace. 

I couldn’t enjoy the sofa because of that cold. But I was the only one who noticed it. 

About a dozen years later I was in a writing group, and we met one evening in the home of a woman who lived maybe half a mile from the Banning Creek house. I told her where I’d once lived and she looked shocked.

“Did you know a cowboy was murdered there? He was shot and killed right in front of that big fireplace.”

Ah. The cold spot.

The fourth time was in 1989 in Guatemala. I was taking a boat across Lago Atitlán on a day trip from Panajachel to Santiago de Atitlán.

Lago Atitlán is stunningly beautiful but infamous because of the way it was used during the wars of the 70s and 80s. 

The indigenous population had many members working as or working with the guerilla, fighting Guatemala’s dictatorship.

Soldiers would come into a village and take a suspected leader away. A short time later, villagers were herded to the lake. A helicopter would appear, its side door open. The kidnapped villager, hands tied behind his or her back, was pushed out the door into the lake where he either died on impact or drown.

It was one of numerous repressive actions the government used to stifle revolution. Over a decade or so, hundreds were dropped into the deep waters of Lago Atitlán.  

On the day I was crossing the lake, I was gazing out across the still waters. Suddenly, clear as anything, about sixty or seventy people rose from the lake. All wore indigenous clothing.

A man near the front moved forward a bit and held out a large turtle to me.

I gaped. I gasped. Then I heard voices close behind me and looked around. Others on the boat were looking at me oddly.

When I swiveled my head back to the people of the lake, of course they were gone.

That is the day I became a Turtle Person.

The next time was late in 2006, about ten months after my father died. I awoke in the night and saw his face across the bedroom under the window. His face zoomed toward me and he looked at me closely. Then, just like the big orange face that had done the same thing, Dad disappeared.


I’m guessing he was there to check up on me and say goodbye.

This is my dad at about age 55. He lived nearly 40 years more.

And now I have a new visitor. Or at least I did.

For about three weeks I had a visitor, a man. I’d see him out the side of my eye, usually my right eye. I’d see him all through the house and once outside. 

He’d be standing at a slight angle to me, as if I could turn slightly and we’d be looking straight at each other. He stood somewhat slouched, dressed in browns and tans, and he wore a hat. I never saw him clearly because when I’d look, he’d be gone.

I got the sense he was youngish, maybe in his thirties. But it was hard to tell since I could never really see him.

He’d just stand there, maybe six feet away. He looked like he should be holding a cup of coffee. And maybe he was.

I got the sense he could be a cowboy, but again, since I never got a real look, I can’t be sure. 

A few weeks ago, I may have made a mistake. I told others about him. And he hasn’t been back since then.

I wish he’d come again. I’d like to find out who he is and why he’s here.

Each of my ghostly encounters is still so real, so clear. I can see every one and envision the setting perfectly.

I once assumed folks lucky enough to be visited by a spirit had that connection with just one person in one location unless they were some kind of medium. I had no idea I’d be one of the lucky ones, let alone have several experiences.

I love knowing I can, on occasion, be visited by spirits, even those to whom I have no special connection. I look forward to my next encounter.

Will

I met poet Will Inman in maybe 1997, in the early days of the Quarter Moon Coffeehouse where I was a co-owner. 

Will had come to Bisbee to do a reading in the coffeehouse, but he didn’t have a car, so some kindly soul had brought him from Tucson the afternoon of his reading.

August Schaffer made sure he had accommodations for the night, and since I had to head to Tucson the following day, I was charged with driving him home. 

For some reason I don’t recall, I couldn’t take my own vehicle to Tucson, so August said she’d loan me her old VW diesel. 

I showed up early to pick up Will and was ready to head out, but he mournfully told me he was hungry and hadn’t even had a cup of coffee. I semi-grudgingly opened the Quarter Moon, made a pot of the coffeehouse’s excellent brew and toasted us a few bagels, smearing the tops with cream cheese.

As the coffee finished brewing, I was wondering what I was going to talk about with the white-haired, slightly unkempt stranger for the next two hours. He was a good bit older than I, but that wasn’t really a problem. He was also gay, and I was fine with that. 

But the man was a poet. A nationally recognized one. And that was intimidating. I don’t write poetry and am in the group of people who often times doesn’t “get” poetry. So that left me feeling … well, yes, intimidated.

Will Inman, 1976. Photograph by LaVerne Harrell Clark. Courtesy of the University of Arizona Poetry Center. Copyright Arizona Board of Rgents.

We took off up 80, coffee snugged between our legs and munching bagels. We sputtered up the hill towards the tunnel and within a mile of downtown, Will said, “Would you mind if I open the window a bit? That way the diesel fumes might not kill me before we reach Tombstone.”

I laughed and told him the smell of diesel always reminded me of Guatemala. With that, our conversation took off.

We spent the next two hours laughing, talking and sharing stories like we were old friends who hadn’t had the chance to laugh or gossip in a long time. We talked of our past, present, and future lives as we roared up to the interstate and then to Tucson’s west side.

When I pulled in front of Will’s house, I felt quite sorry our time together was at an end. But the time didn’t end then because he invited me into his home.

Startled isn’t even the word I felt as I stepped into his living room. I immediately flashed on the home of a woman I’d worked with at the Tucson Urban League a dozen years previously. 

This woman had kept every one of her newspapers for maybe the last decade. Or longer. Some areas of the house had stacks of papers three and four rows deep, and they were piled up nearly to the ceiling. I remember the horror I felt knowing the house would be an inferno should there ever be a fire. 

Will must have known that woman. She must have been his mentor, for his living room held a similarity in the piles of papers and magazines he kept, with the resultant trails running through them.

Will Inman and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, 1979. Photograph by LaVerne Harrell Clark. Courtesy of the University of Arizona Poetry Center. Copyright Arizona Board of Regents.

The biggest difference was I could see Will’s artistry in his piles of paper. They didn’t merely stack against the walls. He’d created curvy, winding trails, and he kept the piles low enough to allow sun and light to spill into his home and afford him a view of his garden.

This was a sharp contrast to Newspaper Woman. Her piles of papers covered the windows. She had but one narrow path through the living room straight into the kitchen. There she’d left access to the stove, refrigerator and sink plus a tiny section of one counter.

There was another trail into the bedroom. Although the bathroom was next to the bedroom, access was closed by piles of papers and one had to backtrack to the kitchen and follow a different trail to get there. 

So Will’s house didn’t really compare. Thankfully.

I used his bathroom flushing with a bucket next to the toilet. He captured shower water until it reached the right temperature and used the caught water for flushing.

I followed the trail from the bath to the kitchen which thankfully had no piles of paper. There he handed me some iced tea and invited me into the back yard which, in contrast to the house, seemed lovingly tended and groomed.

There he took me through his garden and introduced me, truly verbally introduced me, to each plant. He told me a bit about each, like how long he’d had it and its habits.

He tore off a leafy green for each of us to nibble. He assured me it was full of minerals yet needed little water. It was bitter, but edible.

At some point during the morning, maybe as early as smelling diesel and laughing together, and certainly long before we nibbled bitter green leaves, I understood that this man was important to me and would be for the rest of his life. 

And he was.

Will Inman, 1982. Photograph by LaVerne Harrell Clark. Courtesy of the University of Arizona Poetry Center. Copyright Arizona Board of Regents.

When I left, we promised to stay in touch and became regular letter writers. He’d often send a real letter, but more often he’d send a poem with a note scribbled on the back. I wish I’d kept them all but still have a few.

Several years later, I was attending Arizona Writing Project at the U of A for a six-week session, dorm and meals paid for via a grant. I knew Will had a writing group and met weekly, so I called and asked if I could attend.

Of course, everyone in the group but me was a poet.

The first week I attended, I brought nothing. Will read a poem of his about a wolf and it inspired me to write a piece for the following week.

I read it and got great feedback from everyone, but Will remained silent for a time. All eyes turned to him, and I sat there nervously awaiting his comments.

Finally, he looked at me and simply said, “That’s a poem.”

“No it’s not. I don’t write poetry.”

“It’s a poem,” he repeated. Then he looked away and had the next person share his work. 

Many months later, I pulled my piece out and worked it into a poem. I knew Will had been right, and just had to mull it for awhile before I could shift its form. 

I sent it off to him and got an immediate reply. It was the only time he did not send me a poem, just a message.

His one-line note read: “Told ya.”

Will Inman, 1985. Photograph by LaVerne Harrell Clark. Courtesy of the University of Arizona Poetry Center. Copyright Arizona Board of Regents.