Colin

The whole incident was by chance. On a whim, I decided to get a chicken sandwich at Jack in The Box. I noticed the dog first. His attention was centered on a man, hair to his shoulders, dirty in the way that the hair clumps together as if invisible vines are threading their way through his mane to form matted tendrils. His clothes had seen better days, and his cowboy boots were well worn with miles of travel clinging to the soles. The dog looked adoringly at his master and crumpled to the ground in heap, all the while still gazing with devotion at the man. His body landed next to a backpack and two duffel bags held together with bungee cords.

It was what happened next that continues to haunt me. The dog attempted to get up, slumped down again and when his master pointed toward his bundle of belongings, the dog inched its way closer to the bundle. The man bent down and slipped the bungee cords around the middle of the dog, binding him to his things, as if the dog was merely part of his possessions that he didn’t want to carry into the restaurant with him. He double checked for tightness and turned his back to the dog and started to head into the restaurant.

I tried to look away. I could feel my heart starting to ache again, as it does so often these days. I couldn’t. I could feel outrage in my gut along with the sadness that was threatening to overtake me. It was as if he read my thoughts. He stopped in mid stride and pivoted around, fixing his gaze on me. His eyes were as blue as the sky, his smile easy and warm. He said hello and asked to play me a song if I would buy him a cup of coffee. I couldn’t help but smile back. The guy had manners, in the slow, effortless way that southern men often did. His voice, husky yet smooth as honey, dripped with charm. I handed him a few dollars and told him to enjoy his coffee. He invited me to stop back for my song after I went through the drive thru. I didn’t take him up on his offer, too engrossed in talking to my boy as we drove home.

I thought about him though. That effortless honeyed voice, those eyes and that lanky frame. What was his story, I wondered? How did he end up in my small town? Every day for a week, he crept into my thoughts at the oddest times.

On Monday night, under a full moon in a clear night sky, I snuck quietly out of the house. I just needed orange juice, damn it. I am such a creature of habit, first thing in the morning, straight from the jug with juice dripping down my chin, sweet and tangy and the only way I like to start the day. I saw him then, sitting in front of the grocery store. I stopped in my tracks and said hello, grinning like a fool. He remembered me and thanked me again for the coffee. His voice, weary, yet ripe with promise felt like an invisible string, pulling me closer. I just wanted to know more about him. He said his name was Colin, but everybody called him Cowboy and he had been traveling for eight and a half years. He was getting tired of sleeping outdoors now and wondered if I had a garage or a barn where he could spend the night. I was tempted, because I knew I would hear more about his journey, but it takes more than a silky voice to get me to turn over part of my safe place to a dusty man with sky blue eyes.

I asked him for an introduction to his beautiful dog. He said his name was Hank and when I yelped in delight, he looked at me quizzically. I explained that my dog was named Hank too…He grinned then and asked me where I had gotten Hank. I told him I found him on the streets of Tucson, grimy and full of ticks. He’d been with me for almost ten years. He was amazed that I found him on the streets. He told me that his Hank was a gift from his old girlfriend. They were together for eight months, and she bought Hank for him because the brown spot on his back was in the shape of a heart, a sure sign that she loved him. She loved Hank too, but not as much as she loved her hometown of Amarillo. She couldn’t picture leaving behind the town she loved, where tumbleweeds blew across the barren lands at all hours of the day and night, wandering, not unlike the man she claimed to love. He left her there, took Hank and moved west, until he landed in my town. I bid him goodbye then. I could feel my resolve starting to wane and I knew that my love, working so hard through the night, would not approve. My safety always came first with him and I’m no fool when it comes to pleasing the man who adores me.

I moved my way through the store, determined to get out of there with what I came into the store to get, and nothing more. I stopped in front of the juice and stared into the refrigerated section, not seeing it, really. Instead I was thinking about Colin and Hank. Sitting on the curb, hungry and tired but unwilling to ask anyone for food. What could I get them? Was he like so many others these days, with self-imposed dietary restrictions? I pondered as I walked to the front of the store and almost bumped into the fresh baked chicken under hot lights. I knew instantly that this was the right thing, because they could share it, and both would have full bellies as they slept under the brilliant, twinkling stars.

He was still sitting on the curb as I exited the store. He looked up at me and smiled that magical, charming smile. As I handed the chicken to him, he looked up, astonished. For me? Are you sure? I assured him that it was all his to share with Hank. As his eyes filled with tears, he crooned his pleasure by saying the only thing that came to his mind. Mam, please tell your boyfriend that he has an amazing lady. Will you tell him that for me? I grinned, nodded and melted into the night, back to my safe place, where traveling, grifting cowboys could only enter through my dreams.

On Being Human

Where do you turn when your very most basic (by your definition) needs are not being met to your expectations? Suppose what you crave most is sunlight and yet your house is too dark, or you are feeling claustrophobic, having been away from the rocks, the wind and the smell of dirt as it crumbles between your fingertips? Roaming, wandering the world wherever your heartstrings pulled? Laying beneath the wild sky, hair messy, damp, sweet and musty earth wrapping you in its embrace...  

You left a man once because of this very reason, a fairly useless one granted, but his heart was gone and yours needed more quiet, more clouds,desert and rain than he could provide. You chose the dirt path, education, travel, intellectual arguments, beer and vodka, mixed and swirling, tamping down your want and need of pure love.  Then...after years of roaming, running, pushing away those who wanted you, pulling those you didn't want toward you for a few precious moments...You...found...what?

Suppose you had chosen to give up some of those things because you fell deeply in love with the idea of a man who possessed your soul at its most primal level? His fingertips on your skin could cause a visceral reaction. The sound of his voice would cause you to melt into a puddle. His words, magical and lyrical, often poetic when he spoke of his love for you. Sometimes, his words sounded so sincere and heartfelt that you let yourself believe it was how he really felt. Such precious moments in time to be cherished, to be feasted upon in the void you knew was coming. If you stored them in that secret place, you could take those words out one by one...examine them, feel them on your tongue, taste the sweetness of them, dripping down your chin thick as honey, falling droplets onto your chest, melting back into your heart to be hidden for the next time you needed to feel that intense Ican'tlivewithoutyou feeling.

Wait.Stop. Listen. words floating on the spring breeze. Words blowing through the leaves, the sweetest music of all. Come with me, be the music that courses through your veins. Why do you choose this life of temporary by placing so much emphasis on your insecurities rather than the honeyed words that might build the foundation of permanence you so obviously crave? You blame this on being human, don't you?

What if it isn't? What if you could choose love at the speed of sound, make it last? Intensity in all of its bittersweet nothingness. What if?

You only get what you give.

The Past and Present Reflected in Solitude

Note: I recently was asked to write an essay about Sense of Place. This is my revised and much thought out version. Enjoy.

 I can literally feel my blood pressure decrease as I make the last turn on the asphalt that will take me to my destination. I have filled my gas tank and my cooler with food because where I will be going is sixteen miles from the closest store. I have my tent, flashlights, extra batteries, camp chair, lots of blankets and two pillows, all of the modern creature comforts that I need. As the road turns to dirt and the landscape flattens, a sigh escapes me from deep within. I know I will actually relax for the next few days because I am going to be camping alone in my most favorite spot in the world, which is Rock Art Ranch, in Northern Arizona. This is the place that I come to connect to the past. It is not my personal past, but a past that is very important to many. 

 I found RAR by accident on Memorial Day weekend several years ago. Grumpy and tired, I stopped to get gas in Holbrook, Arizona and realized that I needed a place to sleep for the night. I asked the man who owned the gas station where I would be able to camp and he told me that there was a KOA campground close. I then asked him if he knew where I might be able to find some petroglyphs in the area and he directed me to his friend who owned a ranch that had been evaluated by UNESCO as a  World Heritage Site. I called him immediately to set up a tour for the next day and was invited to camp on the ranch instead of going to the KOA. I jumped at the chance, of course. It was love at first sight, and became part of the reason why I decided to become an Archaeologist/Anthropologist. I return there often, when I feel the need to reconnect with the earth that is so important to me.

The landscape is stark, with rocks that look like they belong on the moon, a vivid red brown moonscape in strange shapes and formations. The wind blows constantly here and it wraps around me like a comfortable blanket as I step from my truck. I can see for miles, as the land is flat without many trees, beautiful, punishing and unrelenting. 

I  park at the edge of the canyon and begin my two days of solitude by descending to the canyon floor via the staircase that has been built into the rocks long ago. I can hear the water running in the creek as I am descending. When I am on the floor of the canyon, I take off my hiking boots and socks, sit on a rock and put my feet in the water. As I look upward, I see the petroglyphs on the wall across from me and my mind starts to wander….

            I am gathering water into my jar, looking up to see my child telling the story of his father’s hunting trip by pecking images on the rocks that shield this precious water for our use. He is happy here and content to wait for me while I think of his father and wonder when he will return. The deer graze here and I can see one down the canyon. I will not hunt him as my husband will bring back plenty of meat for us. I will remember where he comes to drink though, in case we are in need of food. I can hear a coyote in the distance, as the shadows are growing long and it is time to head back to our home with the water. I call to him and he lifts his head and smiles….. 

This is how I connect with my inner self. I enjoy being alone, exploring landscapes, connecting to the past, although it is a past that I never knew. My imagination, my professional training and my love of this sacred place puts together the pieces for me.

While I am in my sacred place,  I climb up and down the rocks, exploring all of the petroglyphs, wondering at all of the stories told here of great hunts, of fathers that journeyed and did not return and of the lady depicted by petroglyph that Brantley, the owner of this ranch has named Cinderella. I think of the child birthing scene depicted on the rocks, knowing that the experience that this woman had was so different from mine. The stories this rock art that dates to over 2,500 years ago tell is an important part of the past, of history and of my present. I cannot say that it is an important part of my future, because I do not know where life will lead me. I think about all of this as I climb the canyon walls, carefully placing my hands and feet so as not to damage history or damage myself with a rattlesnake bite.

 Often, I sit on the land in the center of the canyon, where many people do not go. The Archaeologists that come to this ranch to study this prehistoric area do not come here. I know there are several chipping station that have not been explored, as there are no footprints, no modern trash or even historic trash. I often crawl on my hands and knees, looking at the different kinds of stone and knowing that some of it has been brought here by foot from as far as Flagstaff, as these rocks do not exist here. The simple delight in finding piles of biface flakes is enough to make me happy and start reflecting on how the tools were made. As I handle the smooth and beautiful flakes, I can imagine the people who sat here on this high spot, making projectile points while they watch the landscape. They were silent, working to make the tools that would help them to obtain the food that they needed to exist. They were happy and untroubled, I imagine. I can still feel it, centuries later.

                                                           Just a pile of flakes....

There is water in this canyon. Sometimes more, sometimes less. I can always find an area deep enough to float. It is an amazing experience, to float in the water and gaze up at the images that are so old. It is peaceful and soul restoring. The water is sometimes chilly, but I don’t mind. It is clean,fresh and invigorating. 
  
 When it is time for me to ascend to the top of the canyon, it is almost dark. It is hard to believe that I have been in the canyon for hours, but time has no meaning here. I climb slowly, not really wanting to leave and yet eager to get to the top so I can watch the sunset. I resolve to one day sleep at the bottom, on one of the sand dunes or on top of a big rock. I do hope to one day do this but the top of the canyon calls to me as well, for different reasons.
  
 I make it to the top in time and sit on the rocks to watch the sky turn red, orange and purple, casting shadows upon the rocks, changing the view to another beautiful scene.

I take my gear from the truck and set it up my shelter quickly. I really don’t want to use my flashlight if I don’t need it. It is far too beautiful and serene to allow artificial light to enter this world (my quiet world) at this time.

 It is time to make a fire and make my dinner. There is wood kindly deposited here for this reason. Brantley knows I am here and is thoughtful enough to leave me this so that I will not have to gather it myself. I am usually not hungry but I know it is important to eat something and I do. It is getting chilly and I search for more clothing, stopping to pause and think about those that came before me. How did they handle the evening chill? How did they keep warm? I imagine a child being covered with the hide of a deer, smiling sleepily.

After dinner, I sit in the evening silence until the stars come out. The coyotes sing their evening song, bringing goose bumps to my skin. It is the first noise other than rushing water and my own breath that I have heard in hours.

The stars are out now, in this cloudless sky. I lay back on the rocks and watch it in wonder. I have seen this very sky in all four seasons and the winter is my favorite. I can see the Milky Way, Big Dipper and Cassiopeia. I admit that I get out my phone and use Goggle Sky Map. I’m not a versed as I want to be on constellations and am grateful for this piece of modern technology to answer my questions about what I am seeing. 

I often fall asleep looking at the stars and dreaming about life, thinking about the past and the present and trying to shut out the future. I sleep well on the rocks here or inside of my shelter, if I make it that far. I may be alone in my thoughts but I swear I can feel the presence of those before me, who lived on this land.

Rock Art Ranch isn’t for everyone. It is windy and colder than many places in Arizona and remote, rugged and tough enough to keep most people I know from visiting. However, I get to leave the busy Tucson that I currently call my home (and that I also love) behind and reconnect with the things most important in life.

           

Longing For Quiet Landscape

As I rolled up to the front of my house after being gone six weeks, I made note of how terrific the front yard looked. Before I left on my trip, I spent most of my time combing Craigslist, working on obtaining the right kind of rocks (as in... free to a good home), personally picking up the rocks, shoveling almost every bit of those rocks into the back of the truck and then shoveling them out when I got to my house. I fussed and planned and rearranged. I moved a prickly pear from one side of the yard to the front, unearthing an old sidewalk about 0.75m under the yard in the process.It needed to look just so, because life is so much better with a beautifully landscaped front yard... or so I thought.

The next thought after admiring the handiwork was that it still didn't look right. Something was missing. Uneasiness crept in. What the hell? I couldn't shake that feeling.

It took three days for it to dawn on me...

                                                         Photo credit: Jay Stephens

It wasn't the landscape that I had become accustomed to seeing every day. That landscape looked more like this:

It has now been two weeks since those thoughts entered my head. Two weeks of rolling up on that beautiful, almost finished front yard and feeling uneasy, as if something in the universe was badly skewed.

I have managed to function, going to work, eating the occasional meal, having some meaningful adult conversation, all the while knowing that my front yard didn't look that good to me anymore. Sounds strange, doesn't it?

I've had a love affair with landscapes for as long as I can remember. If the earth and the sky in a particular longitude and latitude speak to me...if it calls me....then I know. I can live here. I can call this home for a little while. I am grateful when this happens because my soul is rather gypsy-like and I don't love that many places.

                       More comfortable with my face (and feet) in the wind than in the air conditioning.

I have grown tired of the noise of my big small town. Ready to be quiet. I'm ready to walk the hills and climb the rocks and hang over cliffs. I'm ready to survey the land and bury my fingers (and trowel) in the dirt. Connect with the history of the people who came before me. I'm ready.

 I know my time in Tucson is not quite done. I will start another landscaping project to occupy my mind. Perhaps this trick will put a band-aid on my wild, wandering heart just a little longer.

It is, after all, about the landscape.

                                                          Photo Credit: Jay Stephens

The importance of social history in Archaeology

I have recently completed a small project undertaken during Archaeology Southwest's field school in Mule Creek, New Mexico. I interviewed local residents with regard to artifacts they may have found, sites they might know about and their general opinion of Preservation Archaeology. Some important questions arose. One question was asked by a person in the field school. He wanted to know my opinion of the people I was studying and their practice of collection of surface artifacts. That's a tough question with a very long answer.I will address a few of the things that I encountered and how I feel about them.

I like "hunting" artifacts and keep them when I find them. 

Where are these artifacts being found? On private land that belongs to the person who found them? I'd like to think, in a perfect world, that the information and the artifacts would be shared with someone in the Archaeology community. Educating people on the importance of this is vital to the historical record. Are they taking artifacts from public land? We all know that's just breaking the law, plain and simple. Did it happen before laws were put into effect to stop this behavior?  I don't think anything we can do today will change what happened in the past, unless their record keeping was amazing and we have the provenance of said artifact. Thus, the importance of oral history in this case.

It's just a hobby. I draw the line at digging burials.

While I am pleased to hear that the person making this statement would not consider disturbing a burial, a hobbyist does not an Archaeologist make. It is important to make friends in the community, so gut reactions need to take a backseat at times. Changing opinions can sometimes take a very long time. Walk gently....

How do you feel when these people tell you stories?

I tend to look at it with gratitude. These people are telling me stories from the past. They have decided that I am worthy to hear these stories and while I may not agree with everything that they tell me, I believe in their right to tell it and my right to hear it. If it helps us to understand things that have happened in the past, it can't be all bad.

I was also asked-

How can you change people's opinions that are decades old?

Simple. Education. Education of the next generation.Many people learn from their children (and grandchildren). Let's see if we can take a non-combative approach to changing the mindset that artifacts are meant to be taken and hoarded, or worse, sold to the highest bidder on ebay. Looking to the young to change old attitudes is the way of this country, is it not?