Coffee-ied up and out of my motel before seven. Got a mile up the road and saw my tire light. I limped back to town and pulled up in front of a tire repair place. There was a note on the door saying he was open by appointment and there was a phone number. I called and he said he’d probably be in around nine.
I checked a few other places, but no one repaired tires, so I headed back to the motel to wait until 9 o’clock. The owner saw me, wondered why I hadn’t left, and I explained. She had her son come and put air in my tire! Hooray! Back on the road!
Half a mile up the road, my tire light came on.
I rolled slowly forward, getting in and out of the car to check my tire, and there it was. A nail.
By this time it was 8:45, so I got some gas and headed back to the tire place. At 9:10 I called the tire guy again and he said he be in in about half an hour. He made it in twenty minutes.
In the meantime, I looked at maps to change my route yet again. The plan had been to stay on back roads and stop at Canyon de Chelly, then go through Teec Nos Pos to the Four Corners and head into Cortez, Colorado, where my next motel awaited. 6 1/2 hours of driving time. Plus, of course, I wanted to spend time at the Canyon and get the obligatory photo at Four Corners.
I wouldn’t have time to do all that without having to drive into Cortez in the dark. Out of the question. I rerouted.
Up 191 to Sanders. A beautiful high desert route with nearly a dozen windmills, most happily pumping water. There was little traffic.
I didn’t make my goal of not being on interstates, but since technically I’d had to use I-10 for seven miles the day before, I’d already blown the goal. I missed the canyon but saved an hour and a half of driving.
At least it was a scenic drive.
At Gallop I exited the interstate into a traffic jam. Roadwork heading north made for a mess, and drivers were not courteous.
The highway north was dotted with hitchhikers, the most I’ve ever seen. One or two or three were on every block, all of them Native American.
More beautiful high desert driving. I finally saw the Shiprock.
Then to the town of Shiprock where there was a large area of government-issued housing. None of it was in the traditional hogan shape and all houses were identical. It was pretty awful. How depressing it must be for the people who live there.
From there I drove to Teec Nos Pos and headed north toward Colorado. In a very short time I’d reached The state line and the famous Four Corners.
The marker says FOUR CORNERS…HERE MEET…IN FREEDOM…UNDER GOD.
More great scenery, and I rolled into Cortez, Colorado, about 40 minutes later.
I settled in and strolled a few blocks to have a salad and a cup of soup for supper.
I left home before seven and headed north.
Past one of my favorite windmills,
Passing Whitewater Draw, I just blew a kiss, and zipped on through Elfrida. Past farms and farms and more farms. Then I had to stop at the border patrol checkpoint, a whole thirty miles north of the border.
Fams, farms, farms. This is the area where foreign corporate agra has sunk innumerable wells for crops to ship to their home countries. And in the process, they’re draining the aquifer, causing small farmers’ wells to go dry, destroying the central and northern parts of Cochise County. The area will eventually run out of water and the corporate farms will move on to kill another beautiful spot.
Then through Kansas Settlement.
I passed miles of corn being raised for the poor cattle at a monstrous feedlot. The pesticides on crops and the manure runoff are destroying area creeks that not long ago were still pristine.
I made a stop at Bonita Bean Company for a bag of locally raised pinto beans (much smaller farm than the agra farms).
And Dos Cabezas (Two Heads) towering over all.
On through Willcox and then, sadly, I had to drive on I-10 for about six or seven miles to the next off-interstate stretch of 191.
Through Safford and north on Highway 78 which cut east, eventually taking me into New Mexico for a time. New Mexico welcomed me.
Note all the bullet holes. What a welcome!
Up and up I went on a twisty road with fast-moving semis and few pullovers. It reminded me of the stretch of Mexico Highway 2 between Cananea and Imuris, and if you’ve driven that, you know. White-knuckle driving. Well, 78 wasn’t that bad.
But one empty livestock semi seemed to be chasing me. Truly.
Past a sign that warned of falling rocks, and the warning was backed up with a heavy metal mesh fence that held back tumbling boulders. At least I hoped it did.
I finally was able to pull over at the top of the pass to let the empty truck roar by. I got out to stretch and found the air to be deliciously fresh. I’d been driving through desert scrub, but when I got back into my car and rounded the curve at the end of the pass, I was in a pine forest! No wonder the air had smelled so fresh.
Even some wildlife, and some not-so-wild life.
Two small fauns, little ones that looked too young to have left their mother, hovered at the side of the road. I stopped and turned on my flashers, giving them safe passage.
They stared at me, hesitated, stepped onto the highway, and stopped. They stared some more and then dashed off across the road. The cow stared at me but never moved.
Lots more scenery.
Then I turned north toward Reserve and Luna. Luna Lake just outside Alpine, had a very low water level.
I saw any areas that had been burned.
And signs I never see back home.
And pine trees that turn yellow in fall and shed them their needles.
I stopped for the night in Springerville. Next door was a wonderful little coffee shop called Junk and Java. I saw some “junk” I absolutely loved and if they’d fit I’d have bought them.
Then dinner. Fish fry. Part cod and part catfish. The catfish had been dunked in egg and rolled in corn meal. It was delicious. Perfect end to a wonderful day.
Our words are failing us.
I learned this again when I was working with two women I tutor in English. Our rule when we meet is they speak English to me and I speak Spanish to them. It works well. And they teach me much.
Long ago, I learned that the Spanish word for mountain is montaña. Well, it is, but it isn’t. Montaña refers to a mountain that you might be climbing or want to climb.
It’s a different word, however, if you’re talking about specific mountains, either a singular one or a range. That word is sierra.
I’d heard this word a lot in conversation with friends in Mexico. They’d say las sierras and wave an arm towards a mountain. I wondered why so many mountains were named Sierra. Now, knowing this distinction helps me both speak and understand better.
Spanish also has several words when talking about a hill. Although there may be more, there are three words for hill that I know of: colina, cerro, and loma.
Then there are the words in Spanish that have no English equivalent. One of my favorites is sobremesa. This means the time after a meal when people continue to sit at the table and talk. What a lovely word!
Another good one is peña aneja. This means to feel embarrassment for someone else—whether or not that person feels embarrassed at all.
One I can relate to is desvelado. It means to be deprived of sleep. Sadly, last night I was desvelada once again.
One more I can relate to is friolento, the adjective, and its noun form friolero. These words indicate an unusually strong sensitivity to cold. I’m certainly a friolera, and too often I’m friolenta.
These are fabulous words! Why don’t we have any English equivalents?
Then there’s that Spanish word that can mean almost anything.
Órale! Watch out!
Órale! Hurry up! Or Órale. Go on, get moving.
Órale! That’s amazing!
Órale. I’m waiting.
Órale! Bring it on, asshole.
The most famous example of the inadequacy of our language is the way we describe snow. Eskimos have many words for snow. I’d always heard that there were twenty-three, or maybe only twelve, but perhaps twenty-seven words for snow in Eskimo languages.
In reality, none of these numbers is true. There are many more, the exact number probably unknown.
For example, in the Yupik language alone, there are thirty-four different words that refer to snow. And that is just one language in Alaska. The Yupik even have six separate words that refer to a type of blizzard.
Native people in the Lower 48 also have a variety of words for some things. Consider rain. There is female rain, male rain, and walking rain. Those are just the ones I’ve heard of. I am sure there are also several for thunderstorms.
But we have a few special words also, words other languages may not have. One is psithurism. It means the sound of the wind in the trees and rustling leaves. Isn’t that remarkable? One word for that delicious sound of a breeze through trees.
And here’s one especially appropriate today: snollygoster, a noun. It means a shrewd, unprincipled person. Especially a politician.
But here’s maybe the best, in a twisted sort of way. We all know the word disgruntled: to be irritated or displeased.
Well, I just learned that there is also the opposite, gruntled. Gruntled! It means pleased, satisfied, or contented. And even the verb form, gruntle: to put in a good humor.
This so gruntles me!
It’s out! It’s out!
The book that started as a whisper and became a dream is now reality. Here’s the email I sent friends this morning:
I am ecstatic and overwhelmed. I am also in a bit of shock. The book I ran through my brain several years ago is PUBLISHED!!!
The book is Luisa the Green Sea Turtle, a bilingual “read-to” book for 1st to 3rd graders (although my grandniece who just finished 1st grade can read much of it on her own.) It’s about Luisa who gets trapped, faces being turned into soup, but is set free.
It’s available on Amazon at this link:
Or, you can simply log onto Amazon, enter ‘emilie vardaman’ and get to the book that way.
If you have young ones in your life or are simply inclined to make a purchase, I’m asking folks to do so on Monday, July 2. If impossible, try to do so on the 3rd.
The idea is if a lot of people buy on the same day, the book goes, however briefly, to the top of the sales chart and then is closer to the top of a search page at Amazon. So if you’d like to make a purchase, please do it on July 2.
Luisa’s illustrator (my super duper fabulous #1 niece Jessie Stout) and I are so excited we’re having champagne! We’re 1700 miles apart but coordinating the champagne.
I don’t do poetry. Except when I do.
We were gathered today
Talking, writing, laughing
When the text came
A shooting today
In her school
In her classroom
Last day of class, a joyous event
Presentations, posters, final projects
Then he stood, fired
And they fell
Two more hang on
Lockdown and chaos
Students running, hiding
Hands in air
Suspect in custody
A memory from twenty or so years ago.
“I’m going to grab my laptop and head out in a few minutes,” I shouted to Rowena. I always said goodbye to her, the languages department secretary at Cochise College, Douglas Campus.
“No you’re not. Come look at this.”
I headed into the office next to mine. Sitting on Rowena’s desk was an open box, a white powder sprinkled around it on her desk, her lap, even on her face.
“What in the world?”
“I don’t know, but I called Security. We’re not supposed to leave the building.”
It was the height of the anthrax scare, spring 2002, and the deadly poison had been sent to Democratic Senators as well as others, killing several and infecting many. Although this white powder we’d received wasn’t the same as the more coarse, tannish anthrax, it was still considered suspicious and had to be investigated.
We watched out the windows as campus Security joined Douglas policemen to string yellow Crime Scene – Do Not Cross tape around the building. Six of us were confined until … well, we didn’t know until when.
Until whatever happened next.
It wasn’t long. Within a few minutes, a Security officer opened the outside door and called into us to come board the van. We’d be driven across campus to the gym, enter through a back door, and head to the showers where soaps and shampoos awaited us.
As we walked out, we saw a small crowd of campus staff and teachers, held a good distance away. Many were in tears.
They’d been told nothing, but seeing the tape they’d assumed someone had been murdered. They shouted to us as we went to the van. What happened? Was someone killed? Who is it?
We shouted back that no, no one had been killed, but Rowena had opened a box filled with a white powder, and the entire building might be contaminated.
We climbed into the van. The driver was the campus Dean, Chuck Hoyack. He’d volunteered to drive us.
I told Chuck I needed my computer. I’d spent days preparing a PowerPoint slideshow on my office computer. I’d transferred the presentation to my laptop and I was ready to leave.
In the morning, four of us were due to drive to Las Vegas to present at a conference. I had to have that laptop!
Chuck told me I couldn’t have it, that no one could go into the building. He dropped us off at the back door to the gym, and we filed out, me still insisting I had to have the laptop.
In the shower room, a woman gave us clipped instructions.
Strip. Put clothing into a bag.
Seal the bag. Write your names on the sticker on the bag with the pen provided.
Shower and scrub from head to toe. Do it again.
And no, there was no lotion.
We were to put on white jumpsuits and plastic flip-flops afterwards. The outfit, other than the flip-flops, looked like something a scientist would wear to avoid contamination.
We all scrubbed twice, toweled off, and stepped into our white one-size-fits-no-one jumpsuits and flip-flops. We walked across the drive to the administrative building and someone told us to wait until called, that we’d have to give our story.
Questioning went pretty quickly. I think there must have been two interrogators. And they weren’t cops.
When I sat, an obviously government guy flashed his credentials and introduced himself. His badge read “FBI”.
FBI? I was immediately puzzled at their arriving so quickly. Rowena had made the call maybe thirty minutes, max, before they’d arrived on campus.
Where in the world were these guys stationed? They couldn’t even have flown in from Tucson so quickly. Sierra Vista? Maybe Bisbee!
I regret I didn’t ask.
I don’t recall the questions or my answers, but do I know I told him I hadn’t witnessed Rowena opening the box, that I’d only walked into the building to gather my things to leave.
I was out of the interview in under ten minutes.
The woman who’d given us instructions in the shower room gave us receipts for our bagged clothes. She said we’d get the clothing back once the investigation was complete and/or the clothing deemed safe.
She cautioned us to go to an emergency room if we had any strange reactions. I assumed she meant other than my raw dry skin that was already itchy.
Or is that a reaction??!! No. I know how itchy my skin is when it’s dry.
She then said told us to leave.
By this time, I knew I was really late leaving. I’d been pretty late before the fiasco began. So I took a moment to call home and let my then-husband know I’d been delayed and had quite a story to share when I got home.
I don’t recall how I got my purse. I must have, though, because my keys had been in it and I know I drove home. Plus, I had ID and such when we got to Vegas.
Then, as I left, a little bonus: Chuck handed me my laptop bag and told me NOT to tell anyone he’d gone in. He then headed off to the showers to double scrub.
And that was the end of it. No one ever told us what the white powder was, only that it wasn’t dangerous. They never told us if they’d tracked down the person who’d sent the box. We did get our clothing back a few months later, however. And the Vegas trip and presentation were a success.
Who goes to a rolling art car parade, fully intending to write a blog post, and gets there without a camera? Apparently I do, so these photos were taken with my cell phone, an old iPhone with a not-so-good camera. Sorry they’re blurry.
The Bisbee Rolling Arts Transport Society (B.R.A.T.S) holds a parade each year. I think the only rules are to be creative and use no mechanization.
First, a few people walking.
And then some more walking plus some rolling things. Most in this group were part of a penguin contingent.
Now here are this year’s cars. Colonel Sanders sat in his bucket and tossed chicken feathers.
Vince even rolled along in his wheelchair.
Here is the last photo, a Sandhills Crane. The photo I took during the parade had its head cut off.
I met Cosme in Bahía Kino five-and-a-half years ago. He worked for Prescott College’s Kino Bay campus. His job was to drive students to study sites, take them out in the college’s boats, (pangas), and also maintain the vehicles and boats.
He’d been a fisherman for years, as many young, healthy, strong men there are. But he got hired away from fishing by the college.
Cosme did turtle tagging on the side, and the college supported his efforts by allowing him to use one of their pangas. I asked to go out with him one day, and that began an activity I continue still.
A panga at sunset
Bisbee friend Cinda was joining me. We swung by my ”brother” Roberto’s restaurant and ordered two dozen burritos for the following morning. The next day we rose early, well before dawn, on a cool March morning. We dressed in layers knowing the day would heat up. Our packs held hats, sunscreen, and plenty of water. We headed to Roberto’s for the burritos just after 6:30 and then went out to the estuary (estero) to meet up with Cosme and his brother, Pepe, before seven, at dawn.
We left my car parked on the beach.
My trusty RAV, Lucille
We climbed into the panga, and Cosme headed out to the middle of the estuary’s waters. There we dropped a fishing net attached to buoys. The net line was four feet tall – just about the depth of the water – and around eighty feet long. After that, Cosme took us on a brief tour of the estero.
We saw egrets, blue-footed boobies, herons, and osprey, and I got a good look at my first green heron We also saw mangroves, and tiny islands that existed only at medium to low tide. We got out on one of the islands to roam a bit.
I asked about the turtles. If they were caught in our net, wouldn’t they drown? Cosme explained that a turtle can stay under water for about four hours, but he planned to be back at the net in about two hours.
When we got back to the net, we had a turtle! The men hauled her in and got her into the panga. Cosme had me cover her eyes with a damp towel. Like many animals, if they can’t see, they don’t panic so much. The thrashing turtle, all 180+ pounds of her, settled down once her face was covered.
Pepe getting a turtle into the boat
Cosme then showed us how to remove the barnacles attached to her shell and head. He said he’d seen two terrible situations with barnacles on turtles. One was when was a turtle had a barnacle growing over her mouth. She could eat only with half a mouth, and he felt she was quite malnourished and underweight. The second instance was a barnacle covering most of a turtle’s eye. He was able to safely remove both.
A turtle with barnacles, thankfully not covering an eye
We recorded placement of each barnacle on a chart. Every turtle had her own chart, and yes, all the ones we’ve netted have been females. Males head into the ocean when they hatch and never return to land. Females return only to lay eggs. Likely the ones we caught over the years were in the neighborhood to lay eggs, though some could have been there for the sea grasses they enjoy eating.
We later brought this turtle and two others to shore. We measured each one – her length and width, and length of tail, and recorded the information. Cosme weighed each big girl and had me write it down. Then we tagged each one, noting her tag number on her chart. and released them back to the sea.
Me measuring a turtle, her face still covered
Cosme weighing, Pepe reading the scale
One day, I asked Cosme if he’d become concerned with turtles since working for Prescott College. As it turned out, it was the other way around. It was his interest that got him hired. And he proceeded to tell me the story of how he became interested in turtles and then, as a fisherman, one who’d once enjoyed turtle soup quite regularly, began working to save them.
I remember thinking at the time, Wow. That’s a good children’s book!
The idea rolled around in my head for a little while, and then I sat down to write the story. Several revisions later, some inspired by friends who read it and one inspired by my then five-year-old grand niece, I had a final draft.
I sent it to my friend Teri, a professional translator in Hermosillo.
But I sat on it for many months. Then I sent it to my niece Jessie, who draws quite well. She sent me back a sample drawing and I fell in love with it.
It took Jessie quite a while since she worked full time and helped do some child care on weekends, but she finally had drawings for the whole book. The drawings and their locations had all been determined by my grand niece, Aenea.
Jessie’s drawing of Luisa eating
So I had it all. But I sat on it again, for about ten months. The only thing remaining to be done was create a map that showed Luisa’s route from Baja California to Sonora, yet I sat. Insecurity, I imagine.
Finally, one day I put an entry in my calendar for the following day: Do the damn book.
And I did. I made the map, printed photocopies, colored it in, drew the route, then photographed it. I organized all the photos and emailed the whole to Debora, the woman who lays out books for friends of mine and, now, for me.
The dashed line shows a typical route for turtles headed to Kino
And here we are, two months later. Luisa the Green Sea Turtle, a bilingual read-to book, is on Amazon, sitting there waiting to be purchased. It is, basically, Cosme’s story come to storybook. I am forever indebted to Cosme, Pepe, their cousin Matilde, and all the tortugueros of Tortugueros de las Californias, an organization that does tagging, like us, and more. Some locations rescue and rehab injured turtles. Most, including folks at Kino, protect turtle nests.
Five years ago, many Kino residents couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen a turtle nest on the beach. Last summer, the town rejoiced in the seven nests that were faithfully monitored. Townsfolk turned out to watch the “eruption”, the time baby turtles emerge from the sand.
And I am a small part of all of this!!
Interested in reading Luisa the Green Sea Turtle? Here’s the link (it may not be live – I don’t know how to add them into WordPress, so copy and paste!):
Well, apparently I live in Luxembourg.
Not right now, actually, since I seem to have just returned. But I’ve been a resident there for about a week. Without my knowledge, I might add.
My sudden departure began when I filled out forms with Createspace, the company that does book publishing for Amazon. I’d written my first book and was ready to publish it. To work with them, I had to set up an account. I dutifully filled out my name, address, banking information, and SSN. I signed it electronically and was done.
Except I wasn’t.
I must have typed something incorrectly because Createspace told me the IRS thinks I live in Luxembourg. But I didn’t know this since I hadn’t logged back into my account. There was no reason to. I believed I’d completed my mission.
But apparently I chose a good county, in some ways, to flee to. It seems more expats live there than in any other European nation. Still, I’d have preferred Spain or Italy.
It was just this morning, around 6, that I learned where I was living. Debora Lewis, the woman who laid out my book and does all the technical work regarding uploading and and such, said when she went through Createspace to do it, they told her she couldn’t because I hadn’t finished setting up my out-of-country account.
Well, she is out of country. She’s in Canada. I, to my best knowledge, am right here in Arizona. But not according to the IRS.
I wrote to Createspace. No resolution. So I asked for a callback, and wow! A man named Paul called me immediately.
I explained the problem. “I’ve never heard of such a situation,” he said. He had me fill out the Createspace form again. I’d already tried that and been stopped because I couldn’t continue without providing the information about my Luxembourg residency.
He walked me through it but it seems I was still overseas. He was mystified. He put me on hold to talk with a few higher-up folks. When he returned, he apologized and said I had to take it up with the Internal Revenue Service.
The IRS. Do you know how impossible it is to try to speak to someone at the IRS? On top of that, who in the world wants to connect with them other than when our taxes are due?
I called. I negotiated their automated system. Repeatedly. And each time (six times) I ended up getting a message saying no one was available. Or they needed more information (followed by “goodbye”). Or some other lame ending that basically cut me off.
I was steaming.
I contacted Createspace again. Then, I finally found an email address for the IRS and sent off a request for help.
I contacted my “local” IRS office in Tucson, nearly 100 miles away. They don’t do that kind of work, it seems, and I was referred back to the IRS 800 number.
And then a miracle! I received a return email from the IRS!!
Well, they don’t help with that via email. Only by telephone. But the automated letter told me exactly what numbers to punch on the automated phone system. So I tried it.
And I got a human!! Glory be. “I’ve never heard of such a situation,” said she. So she sent me over to someone in records. After sitting on hold for quite some time, I got another human!
I explained my whole sad story. And sad it was! I wasn’t even able to enjoy my time in Luxembourg!
“I’ve never heard of such a situation,” said the woman in records. She said it must be a Social Security problem. So I opened my Createspace account and read her what it said, and yes, it said the IRS didn’t find me in the US. Luxembourg was suggested as my place of residence.
She then took all my info and confirmed that I seemed to be who I claimed to be, living in the US. Perhaps suspiciously close to Mexico, but in the US nonetheless.
While I had her on the phone, though, I attempted once again (eighth time) to edit my account on Createspace. I spoke each line aloud to her as I entered my info.
And then it happened. It sent me on to the the second page! The one that had been repeatedly denied me because of where I appeared to be living! I filled out the second page, and I saw, in big yellow letters, VALIDATED.
Validated! I’m a US citizen! Living in the US!
I got back home from Europe in a split second, just as rapidly as I’d departed a week ago. I wish all my long-distance flights were like that.
I texted my sister to let her know all was well. She responded that it was mean of me to live in Luxembourg for all that time without letting her know so she could visit. I told her I’d been on a top secret mission and was allowed to tell no one.
Funny thing is, though, I can’t remember a thing about the whole trip.