Bette's Diamonds in the Rough

The Publishing of "Beauty Way"

2011-11-02T12:08:00.000-07:00

Somewhere way back in this blog trail, you might have read about my struggles writing the novel "Beauty Way." The book is about rockhounding (of course!)and the struggles of the Navajo to follow the Nizhoni Way or Beauty Way in the contemporary Southwest.

The book took about five years to get right, or at least to tell a story in a realistic, yet very interesting way. It is an adventure into the unknown for a young writer who keeps looking for the clues that will make her life work. Aside from being what I think is a very readable piece of literature, the book carries an important message: If you leave your heart wide open to all the possibilities out there, you are likely to have choices that you never dreamed about. I know something about these choices because I'm living them.

I completed the manuscript last December and gave it to Alex Cigale to proofread and give it his good energy during the month of January. My copyright card came back from D.C. in May, and after a two month vacation rockhounding (of course!) I prepared a six page query which I completed in August. Then, following my heart and instinct, I sent it on to Sunstone Press, the celebrated independent publishing house, appropriately located in Santa Fe in the heart of the beauty way. The logo of Sunstone Press at www.sunstonepress.com is a beauty way of mesas and valleys, and what is likely the Colorado River. I received a contract in the mail one month later in mid-September.

My book is currently being formatted and scheduled for publication in early 2012, and I will be sure keep you posted!

Photo: Rockhounding in Pinta, Arizona

In Search of Buffalo Bill!

2011-07-12T16:21:00.000-07:00

Every trip to the West has the good, the bad and the unexpected that go along with it.
The good: Seeing old friends, some of whom are truly getting measurably older (not like us!)and those who seem to stay youthfully playful and adventuresome.

The bad: A series of tick bites that started in the Arkansas woods, followed by a motel mattress that I swear had bedbugs in it, followed by gnat bites and huge welts from mosquitoes that took advantage of my sad scratchy state of affairs.

The unexpected: An expedition with friends at the Wind River Reservation to search for a 140 year-old carving of Buffalo Bill Cody's name on one of the orange stone monuments that surround the neighborhood of my friend Blue Star.

We started out under gorgeous skies. The drive out to the surrounding neighborhood of high grasses and mesas and steep rises was very bumpy and rough but high with expectations that we were going to find this mysterious piece of history somewhere out there.

To be sure there is a mystery. Why was Buffalo Bill, the consummate showman so notorious for killing the buffalo, the mainstay of tribal survival, in the area of Wind River, Wyoming? It was recorded in diaries and other journals that he did travel to Cody and the Yellowstone area, but this particular back country of the reservation is totally desolate and was likely free from any human contact with the white man even way back then. To our knowledge, there were never any permanent homes built there or any mining explorations.

Blue Star, Brian and I were joined in an early fire ceremony by Mike Greywolf and his partner Wanda, who were the ones who suggested the possibility of this search party and they had an idea of where Buffalo Bill's name, etched in stone, might be.
So, after a picnic lunch of fried chicken, potato salad and chips, we drove to a spot that was dotted with beautiful orange monuments and we then spread out in different directions.

After an hour of searching that turned up nothing, the weather began to change rather rapidly. Thunder rumbled in and dampness and cold quickly took hold. I was uncomfortable to the bone but the others trudged on, making other discoveries as they hiked. Mike Greywolf came upon a very large bull snake, the kind that rattlesnakes fear and a mother pack rat with her babies!

When the rain got heavy, we got back into the trucks, but not giving up, we kept moving along on the rutted and boulder laden dirt roads in search of our prey. Somehow, Mike and Wanda got ahead of us to an area that seemed familiar to her. When we reached that spot, they proudly called us over to see what they had discovered. There at the very bottom of a very tall and wide orange monument,
was faintly scrawled "BUFFLO BILL 1871"

Everyone was happy and congratulating eachother for persistence, for keeping up the hunt, even in the worst weather. Then, here I am, looking at this carving and wondering why Mr. Cody did not know how to spell his name!
I questioned Mike Greywolf about it, and the immediate response was that he might have been carving quickly and that it is common to forget a letter when you are working so hard to get it into stone. Is it? I wondered. "BUFFLO?" Then, we all kind of started to make jokes about it. Mike found a piece of stone laying close by in the tell grass and told me that this was the stone Buffalo Bill used to carve with.

The discussion moved to Greywolf and Wanda's home, where the computer lookups began over a delicious roast beef dinner. Was Buffalo Bill literate? Blue Star found a note that said that he often wrote diaries and that we was "errant" in his writing. Then, he found an historical society that indeed called him "Bufflo."

So, the search party took a vote and it seems as though I was the only dissenter! So, is this carving the real item or is it that we the newspeople never get a break? Unfortunately, the only one who knows that truth is now a famous ghost of history and it is hard for me to compete with that!

Photos from top to bottom:
Blue Star asking permission to enter sacred land
Shoshone sacred mesa
With Blue Star on sacred land
Building fire for ceremony
Brian making the blessing
With Greywolf studying crystal calcite from the hills
The primitive roads of the outback
Wanda studying orange cliffs for signs of famous etching
Brian, Blue Star and Greywolf verifying discovery
The carving by "Bufflo Bill 1871"

Living with Ceremony

2011-02-04T18:24:00.000-08:00

For the last three months, I've been working at sorting out papers, diaries, photographs and other paraphernalia that come with living a life worth spent. An unexpected experience with my health last October, made me consider all the unfinished business and clean-up work that needed to be done just in case I meet my sudden demise.

I'm fine now, and I learned a lot about myself as one does during very trying moments. A surprise was discovering that I have little fear of death, that my decision to take a chance on a vital transfusion came instead from careful consideration for those who love me and would miss me.

I've come to the conclusion that those who fear the unknown of death, do so because they have not experienced so many of life's adventures, have not taken the chances that make us grow as humans. Their lives have been narrow, parochial. The fear may also derive from a lack of spirituality in their lives. Here again, much of humanity equates religion with spirituality, and prefers not to take the risks, once in awhile,of veering from that straight and narrow that has been ingrained since childhood in both churches and synagogues.

My life has been one of seeking knowledge of all possibilities, of learning not only about my own religion which is Judaism, but also about ceremony from the Navajo, from the Shoshone, from participation in what the Navajo call the Beauty Way. My friend Alex Cigale calls himself a Jewish/Lakota and that sounds fairly close to where I am right now.

This post is written in celebration of the completion of my book "Beauty Way" which is a celebration of the good way to live in your Creator's eyes. The photos were taken at the Miccosukee festival on New Year's eve, where Hy, Brian, Alex and I had our own private ceremony and where the Kiowa created the beauty of life in dance.

Plug for The Red Nation Society

2010-10-14T14:58:00.000-07:00

I don't ordinarily do this; in fact, I have never done this before, but here I go singing the praises of The Red Nation Society!

I joined this tribal, or as some would have it, "Native American" community about two years ago at the invitation of owner Calvin Tatsey "Big Gun Sees Good." He is a Blackfoot Indian from Montana who sought and successfully managed to create a genuine ever-growing tribal community on the internet. His goal was to have a site where tribal people and those with tribal beliefs could flourish, have discussion groups about tribal concerns and interests, get to meet those with similar interests and create genuine friendships.

My hope when I joined was to learn more about natural medicines, the type of subject I had been exploring and writing about in magazines for many years. I had learned a lot from my adopted Navajo family and Chinese practitioners, but there is always so much more to know. After a year had passed, I asked Calvin if I could start a natural medicine group on the site and he gave me the confidence to go ahead. Our group began to attract so many experts in the fields of organics and herbs, that I was starting to feel like a layman, but I was making so many friends and we were really starting to make a difference in the lives of others.

While I was away in New Mexico this spring, Calvin had a vision about me, and as a result of that vision, he gave me the name "Medicine Star." I have several Navajo names given to me by Shizhee Billie that are quite beautiful, but this one was unexpected. It is a name that I am constantly striving to live up to.

Natural medicine is the way and the future and I am now living it more than ever. Last Thursday, I had a severe bleeding episode that forced me to go for a unit of plasma at Mt. Sinai Hospital here in Miami Beach. Arriving in a weakened condition, it was fortunate that I still had my senses to refuse the flu and pneumonia vaccines and other contemporary, invasive diagnostic processes and high powered x-rays. It was not easy getting a discharge the same day even though the results from those tests I did allow, did not warrant a stay. I also found it fascinating that every nurse I encountered seemed to be following alternative medicines and were more than sympathetic to my cause.

The website for The Red Nation Society is http://www.therednationsociety.ning.com
It is the only true tribal site that I know of. It will help you grow into the person you want to be, a good, honest,intelligent human who cares about others who are just like you.

Shameless plug completed!

Faces of the Mountain and Desert

2010-07-13T12:53:00.000-07:00

It was a trip of adventure,discovery, mayhem, becoming more intimate with the Western friends we know and love plus acquiring some new buddies as well. The weather, unlike last year, kept a sunny, albeit sometimes frigid smile, and we found ourselves hiking more, unexpectedly visiting new territory and, of course, getting ourselves into occasional mishaps that proved to be adventures also!

This year, I finally got to see my friend Jeannie's mountain property in Colorado, which entailed taking a long bumpy drive uphill on gravel and dirt roads from Salida, into very uncharted territory. I was fascinated to see all the ghost towns along the route, and a body of water that housed an odd looking ancient salamander like fish.

This year, we got to see the progress made on Blue Star's home up in Wind River-A home he had acquired on the very day last year that we visited. We helped with roof repair, got to enjoy the new restaurant with the incredible salad bar at the Shoshone Rose Casino and witnessed Blue Star lighting the fire in ceremony for all of us.

This year, I decided to visit my Navajo brother Mark Laughingbear in Fresno, and one of the bonuses from that was also visiting Mariposa Grove in Yosemite, a place I had not been to in more than 15 years. In fact, the visit to Yosemite became a kind of hairy, snowy event, as Toga Pass was closed and we had to use the steep Sonora Pass for entry and passes around Monitor to exit back to Carson City.

There was plenty of rockhounding, of course, and I found some interesting tiny clear balls of a glasslike mineral that sparkled like broken glass. Still need to figure out that one. I also came upon two perfect arrowheads one day after the other, and one has been identified as an ancient Clovis. All this after Calvin, the head of the Red Nation Society had a vision and gave me the name Medicine Star!

Mishaps? Well, the blog that came before tells the Jeep saga. However,that turned out just fine when a mechanic in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, with expertise and a big smile named Ricky James, managed to correct all the screw ups, add what was needed to get the Jeep in order, and sent us on our way on a late Friday afternoon before weekend closing time. That buffet in Vicksburg really tasted good after spending five days in limbo in Pine Bluff.
Yes, one more Jeep mishap: Our new best friend Les in Delta, Utah, came to the rescue of same, left up in the hills of Topaz Mountain, when Brian, on a day hike dropped the car keys somewhere in one of the crevices and had to hitch two rides to get all the way back to the hotel where I had an extra set of keys. That ride into Topaz Mountain, is no piece of cake. It is bumps and washboard and a good hour and a half out to where that Jeep was parked. Yes, Les, a total stranger, not only drove us back there, but would not take any money for doing so. Just made us promise to come to his barbecue next year.

That just about sums things up, now, doesn't it? It's why we love the west-Gorgeous scenery, beautiful people and great rocks!

Photo captions from bottom to top:
Les and Austin, our heroes at Topaz Mountain, Utah
Ancient sequoia looms large at Mariposa Grove in Yosemite, CA
Brian enjoying snowfield, Sonora Pass, CA
At Sonora Pass, crossing the Sierras in California
With Mark LaughingBear in Fresno, CA
Serious rockhound
With Blue Star at his home in Ft. Washakie, WY
Roof repair at the Wind River Reservation, WY
Petrified logs and tree sections of blue agate and opal, Blue Forest, WY
Rockhounding with Jeannie at Lake George, Colorado

Grounded in Pine Bluff

2010-07-08T11:51:00.000-07:00

At this time of year, I am normally back in Miami Beach from my rockhounding trip west, ready to post photos and boast a bit about my mineral conquests in the wilds of Nevada, Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, California, Arkansas and the many nooks in between.

This year the problem is we cannot get home because our grounded 4-wheeler Jeep has us staying put in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, as a result of a series of wannabe mechanics playing "comedy of errors" games with the longtime faithful 1997 obsidian green, 250,000 mile traveler.

All we did initially was get a set of shocks installed to handle the weight of the rocks and then came trouble. The rear shock came off the bolt and somehow destroyed a set of wires. The Jeep stopped short about 15 miles west of Conway, Arkansas in the evening. AAA gave us a tow to the Ramada Plaza in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, after a somewhat less than endearing phone encounter with a customer server who requested that I walk the highway at dusk to locate a mile marker! For shame, ma'am!

Well, we are presently sitting out more failed attempts at Jeep resurrection here in Pine Bluff as incompetent mechanics have thus far destroyed a fuel pump and gas gauge in their playful efforts to fix the wires. But, let's not forget what all came before our down time and quite frankly, it was one of the more spectacular rockhounding trips of the past years.

I'm going to post some gorgeous photos of the friends and places that make these trips so marvelous when I eventually make my way back home. So, stay tuned. You will not be disappointed!

Photo: The Ramada Plaza Convention Center Hotel features inside terraces

Mangroves And Mysteries Beyond the Bling

2010-01-14T20:50:00.000-08:00

A cold front swept through South Florida, bringing the wind chill on the beach as low as 21 degrees last week, so if you see some winter jackets and heavy sweaters here in my photos of this part of the Sunshine State, you will know why.

Adventurers, we are,but considering the cold air, we decided to forgo a canoe/kayak trip to the Everglades for the Oleta River, backyard of Trump Towers and the other trendy monoliths of Sunny Isles, Florida. Brian and I were accompanied in our venture by my good friend noted poet Alex Cigale, who shared the canoe with me while Brian took off in his homemade painted kayak.

There is another world out there in the river of ibises and herons and mangroves that harkens back to a time when Miami was covered in lush gorgeous greens, abundant tropical flowers, and the wildlife that fed off it, and we discovered that the Oleta River, once you abandon the view of the city, is still, thankfully, very much alive. It was fascinating to see all the little bridges and the warning signs to watch for manatees, and then even an old abandoned ship was lurking out there to add some mystery.

Brian was a champ at maneuvering his kayak along the miles of river, which halfway out decided to throw us some unexpected surprises when the current started turning against us. The water was cold and deep and I knew that my heavy jeans would be a burden if the canoe capsized. I was thankful that navigator Alex moved it swiftly and confidently and even assured me that he could "probably" save me from drowning!

The photos tell the story of three adventurers having a wonderful time at sea on a cold day in North Miami Beach, very much the way it used to be.

Photos from top to bottom: Abandoned ship faces Sunny Isles towers, Alex guiding the old canoe, Brian gliding in his homemade kayak, flocks of ibises, Sandy beach beyond the cities' high rises, Taking a time out in winter garb.

The Launch of IE2 Magazine

2009-10-16T18:12:00.000-07:00

The title needs some explanation because the "2" in the title means "squared" and the keyboard had no way of typing that...and then what does "IE" mean anyway?
So, let's just think of the words "Inspire, Enrich and Empower" and you've got the gist of the whole thing.

This magazine was Alonzo Mourning's idea, as he was looking for a way to empower the teens here in Overtown...to get them working on something meaningful that would give them confidence, along with the working knowledge of how to put together a great looking magazine. The teens would be the stars here. They would be the models, the story tellers, the writers and even the solicitors of the big money, the thousands of dollars needed to make the project go.

So, now you have these kids from the inner city, many who come from impoverished homes and you consider how you are going to interest them in a summer-long project which will keep them off the streets, away from the malls, away from bad influences. So, Alonzo Mourning, in his brilliance, called on the most exciting magazine publisher he could think of-none other than Jerry Powers of the glamour queen "Ocean Drive" Magazine.

Now, you may be thinking-What in the world does the inner city have to do with glamour? What kind of a fit is this? What values are these teens going to learn?
Well, the answer to that is everything! Powers summoned all the best of his "Ocean Drive" staff to volunteer their time mentoring these teens and, in fact,it turned out to be a perfect match.

My dear friend Fifi Castany was the editor-in-chief for the project and the lengthy hours she devoted to it made her worthy of my extreme admiration. I was copy editor for the project and for the first time in my life, actually enjoyed editing for no money!

I had just returned from the southwest when I was summoned to Jerry's Power Play Studio in midtown and first thing I saw were familiar faces greeting me. There were Jenny and Alejandra and Carolina and so many others from Ocean Drive en Espanol and they all seemed delighted with the project. Fifi must have spent a hundred hours with Leo, the art director for the project, and we ourselves spent a few hours at Taste Bakery doing the final edits as we neared the end.

Sure, there were complaints here and there. As with all lengthy projects, sometimes you just throw your hands up in the air and you think, hey, will this ever get done? Then, you go to the launch party as we all did last night, and you hold the fresh glossy magazine in your hands, and you laugh as you watch the teen who was lucky enough to model for the cover signing autographs, and you listen as Alonzo Mourning congratulates the teens, and you witness all the happy faces, and you eat the designer cake, and take the pictures, and you get to go home and see yourself and everyone else on the 11 o'clock news, and you smile.

Yes, you can say that some history was made last night and I am so very happy to be a part of that history.

Photos as you see them: Designer cake says it, Alonzo Mourning, Jerry Powers, Fifi Castany and daughter Elizabeth, Fifi and I with some of the group, Jerry Powers with the teens

The Hail and Brimstone Roadtrip

2009-07-09T11:23:00.000-07:00

I'm joking for the most part, but this year's rockhounding excursion west had more than it's share of rainy, windy, cold and even freezing weather.
When you start out with steady rain in the Arizona desert, you can anticipate that the woolen hats and winter jackets are going to definitely be pulled out from under the suitcases. It rained at Ft. Sumner, New Mexico, where we visited the stone mound for the Dineh who perished there at the hands of the U.S. Army in the 1860's; it rained at the Gallup flea market for the big Memorial Day turnout; it rained the day we discovered septarian nodules in a hidden canyon in New Mexico;it poured for our trip to Glass Butte in Oregon, and the lightning and hail descended on us as we made it around 50 miles of scary, slippery twisty mountain road one evening back to Lakeview.

The Black Rock Desert area was damp, with constant storms following us and at Ely, Nevada it was downright freezing at 38 degrees, setting a record for the lowest temperature in the U.S.

In order to get warmer, we drove north to Wyoming, which is kind of ironic. Not to complain, of course, because rockhounding under any conditions is always worth it! Besides, seeing all our western friends so happy to see us took away all the cold in an instant.

Thank you, Bruno for your incredible hospitality in Gerlach. The apartment you had for us back of Bruno's Country Club was as cool as your complimentary wines and big smile. You are the Black Rock Desert to us and everything special about the wilderness there; thank you, Blue Star, for taking us on the beauty trip into the canyons up in the Wind River Reservation, for your special ceremony, and for taking us into your family-Grey Wolf, June, Pat, Alan, Virgene. Thank you, Jeannie for your love, heartfelt laughs and great talks at All Booked Up and at Bongo Billy's Salida Cafe; thank you great folks of Kemmerer, Bobby and George for great conversations about the Blue Forest, fish fossils and "the Universe"; thank you, Mark, for showing us at Gallup's Golden Corral how to eat fried clams correctly in a hot dog roll.Thank you, Charlie, for taking the time to come up to Santa Fe for lunch and for roaming the thrift stores with me like two scavengers. There are many other great people whose faces bring a warm smile upon reviewing the photos.

Photos are from top to bottom: Enjoying Pyramid Lake, NV; Mesa scenery at Wind River; Blue Star walking land at Wind River Reservation, Wyoming; Brian at Blue Forest, Wy; Hugging a yucca tree in Goldfield, NV; Mountain town of Ouray, Colorado; Brian's vision of the northwest Nevada wilderness, Monarch Pass, Colorado, the Continental Divide.

The Raven Runs a Milestone

2009-03-29T17:56:00.000-07:00

I call Robert "Raven" Kraft the folk hero of South Beach because the streak runner, OUR streak runner, has the kind of stuff of legends.

Today marked a momentous occasion for Raven the marathon runner- his 100,000th mile of consecutive running for 34 years! Yes, that is 34 years as in 411 months as in 12,507 days,and the TV reporters, and newsmen, and politicians and the hordes of men and women who run with him were there at the 5th Street lifeguard stand, where it all starts every afternoon,to help clock it in.

We all need heroes and Raven is the best kind because he's no one-time shot. Come rain or shine or hurricane winds or hailstorm or blistering summer heat, or arthritis or injury or sickness, he's out there in his black shorts, black headband and black glove every day, inviting you and me and everyone else to join his inspirational run, and oh, he's got followers! For what started out as a lonely personal quest back in January of 1975 soon developed into an almost cult-like following and Raven at this point has probably had more than 800 runners, of all ages, from so many countries run alongside him. The deal is that if you make the 8 miles, you make Raven's chart, his record of names of those who achieved the goal. Only, if you study the chart, you won't see a first and last name. Instead, you get a nickname like Gringo or Taxman or Rev and that name sticks with you forever.

To me, what makes Raven the hero, is not so much the perseverance,or the commitment to reach a goal like 100,000 miles. It is the humanity of a man who brings others together, the rich and poor, the elderly and the very young to bond together and to feel the sense of community and caring for eachother. Raven may have started out lonely and with few friends but he created a world, call it Raven's world, that few men can match. For that we celebrate his achievements and we celebrate life.

Photos, from top to bottom:
Raven, surrounded by news camera crews.
Back of runner's t shirt tells the story of today's milestone run.
Runner shows "the Balancer" brand new paperback featuring Raven on it's cover.
Bette and Miami Beach Commissioner extraordinaire Jonah Wolfson.
Raven, with girlfriend "Miracle" at his side, poses with his runners.
Milestone run takes off!

It Always Starts at the Miami Book Fair

2008-11-18T12:26:00.000-08:00

My birthday would not go off just right without its formal debut every year at the annual Miami Book Fair. So, Fifi and I headed downtown to the street market to load up there on all the book bargains, holiday gifts and stacks of interesting used books that easily fill supersized tote bags.

Sunday was a gorgeous day in the 70's as a cool front just passed through. It was such fun to stroll from booth to booth, munch on a kebab from one of the many ethnic food stands and enjoy just being together in the mass of eclectic humanity marching out there for the good novel, the how to book, the antiquarian map, the mystical, the non-fiction, the book readings and signings and any celebrities that may by chance be taking a walk. Fifi pointed out actor George Hamilton, so you never know who will pass by.

I've got great memories of this fair that go back to the early 90's, when Harry Lebelson, my writing partner, and I used to find lucrative writing opportunities right there. One funny one comes to mind. It was pouring and the booths were under tarps and see through heavy plastic curtains, but Harry and I trudged out there, determined to find editor Carlos Roman to sell him ideas for Almanaque Mundial, the Latin World Almanac.
We finally discovered him almost hidden behind some plastic, and there we all were checking out slides and material which he wound up purchasing right there! That meeting was the core for the eventual publication of our successful 224 page book OVNI,La Entera Verdad (UFO's, the Whole Truth) edited by Carlos back in 1993.

I often think about my venture to Florida from New York so many years ago and the questions I had at that juncture. What would happen with my writing career and would I make new friends? Well, fortunately for me, my family has had many blessings in Miami and I attribute them to the wonderful friends we've made in what is supposed to be a transient town.

Well, the rest of the day went as beautifully. From the fair we went to Brian's where Fifi's beautiful Elizabeth played with Aaron's beautiful Ayana, where there were presents, many of them, and they all seemed to point to the west. Fifi gave me an Italian leather-bound big fat journal which is destined be used to recount ever more rockhounding tales. Brian's most fun gift was a big pail of sapphire bearing gravel from Gem Mountain in Montana and he surprised with a huge butter creme birthday cake we are still eating.
I always receive beautiful tribal jewelry and this year brought handmade treasures from Brian and Robert plus a birthday bracelet of unusual style and beauty that Chiaz created in my presence.

Friendship is the most valuable thing we have after good health,a home and food and I thank all of you, my friends and family, for all that you do for me, and for the rest of the world that is blessed as I am by all your good energies.

Photos from top to bottom:
Fifi and I at the Miami Book Fair street show.
Chiaz created himself in a silver cut out as a yei bichei spirit on my birthday bracelet.
Chiaz and I ready for more birthday cake
Elizabeth, Fifi and I at Brian's

Comments on Tropical Floater Four

2008-09-08T19:14:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, as Hurricane Ike was meandering across the Central Atlantic as a category 4, with his ominous eye staring our way, I got into an interesting conversation with a lively group at Books and Books on Lincoln Road.

We were taking a vote on our favorite hurricane word or expression that we here in Florida must listen to over and over again from our local stations during the stretch of hurricane season that picks up around the middle of August and runs through late October. To get technical, the hurricane season begins on June 1st, but we really don't think about it much until we are couple of weeks to the 16 year anniversary of Hurricane Andrew. Nobody will ever forget that monster. It was Miami's 9/11 except it was late August and the terror was the wind that took the house down.

The first time I studied the satellite of Ike on the NOAA website, I was astounded to see that the center line of the "cone" was aimed right at Hollywood Beach.

The cone as we here all know, is the stretch of white sketched out on a weather map which takes in all parts of a land mass which have a possibility of a direct hit. The cone shifts inch by inch as the hurricane gets closer and reconnaissance aircraft is able to explore it better. Then, the geniuses at the Hurricane Center, using their various models(which often come up with totally different projections!) attempt to figure out how the cold fronts, high pressure areas, troughs, etc. are going to interact with this storm and its eventual direction.

Well, I'm a genius too! After co-writing a series of articles about hurricanes in the 1980's and 90's for the Miami Herald, World Photo Press in Tokyo, Geomundo and none other than NOAA in Sea Frontiers, Harry Lebelson and I were invariably asked, "Where is that hurricane going?" To this day, I'm still harassed if I'm wrong-but they keep on asking!

It's all complicated stuff, and the folks here who just want to know-Is this damn thing going to hit us?- have to suffer through it all, ad nauseum, until that moment when the storm makes its final landfall and its entry into the Hurricane Center archives.

Well, the night the line in the center of the cone was directed at Hollywood Beach, I was filled with an anxiety that is known only to those who have lived through a hurricane. We have. There was Andrew, of course. But more recently there was Frances and Jeanne and Katrina and Charley and Ivan and Wilma and Rita, and each of them caused unbelievable destruction somewhere in our beautiful State. Wilma left us here in Miami without gas or electricity for a long, long time and those ubiquitous "blue roofs", the tarps that FEMA provided to cover up damaged homes with blown off rooftops.

The next morning, I turned on my laptop first thing to see if we needed to start prepping for the storm. The list always includes the basics.Do we have enough batteries, canned goods? Do we put up the aluminum shutters? Do we have enough bottles of water? Then, there it was, right in front of my face. The line inside the cone, was no longer pointing to Hollywood Beach, but right at me! It was aimed directly at Miami Beach!

The excitement raced and I immediately turned to the loop called Tropical Floater Four, so I could see that colorful racing satellite video of Ike churning out there, heading right at me! It was at that moment that I knew we were out of danger. The storm, which was north of us last night, would be heading south into the Caribbean.

We are relieved and yet we feel a measure of guilt when it passes us because we know that it will have to land somewhere, which means suffering for someone else. In this case it was Haitians and Cubans and Bahamians-They live in areas that are clobbered by many more hurricanes than Floridians, and those to the southeast of us in the deforested islands and peninsulas, suffer in ways that we cannot fathom.

So what were some the words we tossed around at Books and Books, and which one finally came out on top? There were those very old tried and true expressions like "batten down the hatches" and "hunker down" and, yes, every hurricane season they still say them even on The Weather Channel. Then, you cannot listen to even one hurricane report without hearing about the "outflow", the "subtropical ridge" or that dreaded "storm surge". The consensus, however, was for those "feeder bands", the outer rings of the storm that bring nasty squalls of tropical rain and wind, and you get them, even when the storm makes landfall more than a hundred miles away.

The photo you see at the top is Hurricane Ike as it looked at about 10 PM tonight. It is making its way over Cuba and then into the Gulf. It is a category 1 right now, weakened somewhat by land masses, but as it makes its way back into those warm waters it likes to feed upon, the hurricane geniuses predict something more ominous. We pray they are wrong.

Some of the Best of the West

2008-07-12T19:08:00.000-07:00

It is hard to choose when you have so many memorable scenes at hand, but I picked the photos that best represented the adventures I've been relating to friends and family. When, you first start out on a cross-country rockhounding venture, there is the anticipation of discovery, besides also revisiting the familiar wonderful sites that have yielded treasures in the past.

About 15 years ago when Brian and I were on our way to becoming diehard rockhounds, we heard about a site in Oregon called Glass Butte-a piece of hilly territory that abounded in mahogany obsidian. At that time, with the Rand McNally roadmap in hand, I located a shortcut to Glass Butte from Lakeview and we ventured forth in our small rental car to an area called Christmas Valley, where a series of small roads promised to lead to the coveted obsidian. Our only problem, was that the promised roads did not exist. So we rode for miles, without the aid of a 4-wheel drive, over muddy road cuts, cow pastures and boulders. We were very lost and just about running out of gas and it was near panic time, when we suddenly spotted the natural glass in its brown, black and orange combos on the road before us. Alas, we had arrived!

So, this year, in honor of that ridiculous experience, again totally disregarding the topo maps, we decided to follow that same road one more time, which, by the way, is still posted in the new Rand McNally. We must have just gotten it wrong the first time, right? Well, after a few false starts up Christmas Valley, a rancher in the area pointed us in the direction of an old raggedy wire cow gate and a bumpy looking dirt road and sent us on with the infamous two words, "Good luck!" She had it right on, of course, but at least this time, we did not run out of gas. A word to the wise-Do not trust Rand McNally road maps for secondary roads!

Oatman, Arizona, off the old Route 66, is an old western town complete with turn-of-the-century storefronts, old hotels and tourists, who are often surprised to see wild burros roaming the streets looking for handouts. They come from the surrounding mountains and you can purchase a bunch of carrots for a dollar to make them happy. The first time we came upon Oatman, it came as a big surprise because we were really headed to Las Vegas via the Black Mountains, which give out chalcedony and fire agate in the lava areas. The narrow, scenic mountain roads of Route 66 lead down into Oatman, and it is a wonderful respite from the rockhounding and hairpin turns you go through. Yes, we bought the carrots and the burros were instantly our best friends.

We took a side trip to Wikiup, to check out some rock sites and found that Burro Creek also had an abundance of cactus all over the place. I'm fairly good at climbing the steeps but often I find it easier to just sit on my butt and slide down the hills to get back. Not a great idea here, because that very fuzzy looking friendly cactus is not your friend after all. My hands were all bruised from the prickles and I spent hours trying to remove them from "all over!"

A new discovery that totally thrilled me this year was a hill somewhere in the Wyoming wilderness that yielded golden crystals. Are they quartz (citrine) or calcite or some of both? The gemologist at the mineral store on Cerrillos Road in Santa Fe says they are "citrine for sure," so we will go with that.

We finally found the famed Blue Forest area in Wyoming which Bobby, owner of the Kemmerer rock shop, has all charted out for his friends on a handwritten paper that looks like a treasure map. This year, I gave Bobby a pecos diamond and he gave me a gorgeous blue agate petwood piece which provided enough incentive to finally locate the spot from the maze of roads that lead out from the reservoir. It was indeed wonderful and we found many treasures of petrified wood inlaid with the blue. And the little horny toad protected his favorite piece of blue wood and hung around me, making sure I left it there.

My brother Blue Star took us on a day trip to the Dinwoody petroglyphs on the Wind River Reservation in Wyoming, after first introducing us to his cousin, Virgene Tarness,a respected interpreter of the ancient drawings. We enjoyed the ride in his pickup to this sacred spot for the Shoshone and learned a great deal from him as we always do. I've posted photos of the petroglyphs and our day at the Dinwoody cliffs on my Facebook site.

Garnet Hill in Ely, Nevada is a popular site for hunting gorgeous black and sometimes red garnets. This year, we discovered a new use for the mountain--sheep herding, and what a beautiful sight that was!

The Black Rock Desert in Nevada always gets a visit, along with enjoying Bruno's hospitality in the great hamlet of Gerlach. The endless Black Rock playa is fun to drive because you can go in circles, in any which way, and at any speed and there's no cop to give you a ticket. It's a big problem though when it is wet because you can lose your car really fast in the quicksand. The rule of thumb is that if the playa looks brown instead of white or light gray, do not even try. We thought about riding it, until we met the driver of a pickup who spent the last five days out there, waiting for the sand to dry and then he barely made it out. Maybe next time.

The mountains around the Black Rock Desert hold all kinds of treasures for the rockhound and you never know what you'll come up with. I don't ever recall a year we were disappointed. This year, there was a hint of translucent orange opal in those hills which is definitely something that begs to be followed up.

Brian took the big hike up the fourteener,Mt. Antero, this year while I hung back with Jeannie in Salida. Everywhere, on our trip, starting with the Sierras and then the Rockies, there was snow. So much in fact, that the Jeep could not get very far up the mountain and Brian had to navigate a pretty sizable glacier to get to the top. He came back with very beautiful Antero minerals and plenty of photos of the mountain.

Topaz Mountain in Utah can sometimes surprise with more than you bargained for. Not only can you find the prized golden transparent topaz but on rare occasions, a tiny red beryl will be uncovered. The beryl is only found here in Utah and is very valuable and this year there were two. Thank you, Topaz Mountain!

While I was winding down and so very ready for rest after 4 days of hiking the hills of SR34 in Nevada, Brian came in from the opposite direction and told me about a wilderness site he discovered with huge boulders of bright jasper. With instant new found strength, I followed him up, up and up the hill and through the old abandoned wire gate and saw beauty that one's eyes were very grateful to behold. I felt like a ten year-old, running free in some kind of fairyland of colors, and the red continues to stoke the fires of my imagination. We took many photos but left it all untouched because it belongs there forever and there is something very comforting in that thought.

Brian took 4 hikes this year alone because I need to rest up after hiking for more than two days. He took many photos which I am thoroughly enjoying because when you miss a day, you can miss out on some very beautiful sites that are found only out here. One day, while hiking the Nevada wilderness, a real cowboy came riding up the hills looking for his "pardner". He even tipped his hat to me as he rode over the cliff just like in the old western movies. Sometimes you see the mustangs, the wild horses riding together or all alone, and Brian captured a beauty on film during one of his hikes in the Nevada hills.

So, here are the photos that belong to the stories!

From top to bottom:

Setting straight a twisted wire cattle gate on a muddy dirt road somewhere around Christmas Valley, Oregon; A wild burro walking the streets of Oatman, Arizona; Twin cactuses at Wikiup, Arizona; Golden calcite and citrine found in the Wyoming hills; A horny toad camouflaged in sand and rocks in the Blue Forest; Wyoming, Brian and Blue Star on the cliffs in Dinwoody, Wyoming; Sheep herding at Garnet Hill in Ely, Nevada; The Black Rock Desert playa, Nevada in early June; Chalcedony in the Calico hills, Nevada; A snowy Mt. Antero at 14,000 feet Colorado; Topaz Mountain at dawn, Thomas Mountains, Utah; Red jasper field at SR 34, Nevada; Wild horse in northern Nevada wilderness.

Reuniting After 25 years

2008-02-05T15:02:00.000-08:00

A diary can be a record of all things, and if kept religiously from the time you first learn to put your thoughts to paper until the time that you must finally retire the pen, it will provide a personal history of your trail and those who traveled with you at different times of your life on this wonderful planet. Some of us lucky ones get to reminisce from time to time with our early co-travelers, and with that our memories come alive and remain as treasured keepsakes, like personal time capsules buried in cedar boxes under rosebushes in our backyard.

I first met Ira in Queens College in the 60's in summer night school taking French class. Those were glorious times and we spent our breaks singing Peter, Paul and Mary and Eydie Gorme and Steve Lawrence in the halls when we weren't ranking out our insane French teacher Dr. Paul. Ira had the makings to be a psychologist or a great teacher because he knew how to listen and advise without being preachy, and conversations with him made me think twice about the 3 carat diamond engagement ring I was wearing at the tender age of 18. I was engaged to a "Mr. Rich" and was getting trouble signs everywhere I turned.

Life moved on as it will. I broke off with Mr. Rich, married Hy, and Ira and I went our own ways. These were not the good times for the country or for any of us.There was the long drawn out Vietnam fiasco and the price freezes and meat freezes and gas shortages and rampant inflation. Then one sunny day, while walking the streets of New York in the early 80's, a voice said to me,"Parlez-vous Francais?" I looked at him and he said,"You don't know who I am, do you?" It had been 15 years, and now hidden behind a moustache, there he was.

The landmarks of our life are marked by those who find us and want play catch up. We can sit and talk and review old memories, talk about what we are doing now, and happily discover that our good easy feelings for eachother are still there.Ira was teaching and creating beautiful jewelry and I was writing with Harry and planning to move to Florida. I enjoyed the ride in his van to Central Park one weekend to watch the crowds eying and then purchasing his silver creations and on the ride back, we even sang our old favorite, "Two Sleepy People" by Steve and Eydie.

Twenty-five years have now passed and he has once again found me, this time via the internet. No, it cannot be that so much time has passed. And how blessed to have someone in your life care enough to find you after a quarter of a century!

We shared pizza and memories on Lincoln Road and found that we still like the same foods, no red meat, no red wine but Zinfandel is okay, are still on the same page politically-we can't stand all the candidates, hate doctors and look to natural cures for illness. Ira came to see my place,the minerals and tribal treasures and enjoyed it all. Then, he told me to play something on the piano,and of course we both like the Bee Gees.

"Hey," he asked, "Do you remember that song?"
"Sure, I do," I said, and we both started to sing, "Here we are out of cigarettes..."

It was a moment that took me back to Steve and Eydie and the halls of Queens College some 40 years ago. How sad that so much time has passed, I thought. But how sweet that such a cherished friend could return to say hello,to take a long walk back in time and to help reopen that old diary.

Sweet Sunset Ceremony for Shizhee

2007-11-19T19:52:00.000-08:00

It took many hours of preparation to give our Shizhee Billie a proper ceremony for his passing into the Spiritual World, with consideration carefully taken as to what Pop enjoyed wearing, his wonderful adventures and the stories he told to those he held dear.
What kind of belt buckle did he favor? And what about all those buffalo nickels that adorned his belt? And there was that signature hat with the silver conchas he proudly made himself at his work bench.
We would put all those things together in story and song and make a vessel that IS Pop to take to sea to his next world of adventure.

It was all Chiaz's idea. His special way of celebrating our dear Shizhee's story in a way that would make us feel the emotions of joy and sorrow and love and pain in the spirit that Pop would want us to remember him.

Chiaz sat down at Brian's silver-making bench, lovingly and patiently spending several hours creating a silver buckle, adorned with coral and turquoise, that would decorate the front of Billie's old grey Stetson hat that I was fortunate to discover in my closet.

Billie often liked to tell us stories about his brother Jimmie, the star gazer. Jimmie was a talented medicine man who could look at a crystal and make things happen and even make the long departed reappear. Well, one day, Billie's dog ran away. He searched everywhere for days.. but nothing, and things began to look hopeless. He decided to try something, to challenge his brother.

"Hey, Jimmie," he said, "If you're supposed to be such a great medicine man, let's see if you can find my dog. If you can, I'll give you $15." So, Jimmie studied his crystal and immediately told Billie to go to a certain area on the reservation and ask around. That the dog was there.

The next morning, Billie took the journey. He knocked on the doors of every hogan in that area and spoke to all kinds of people. There was an elderly Dineh man with two wives who seemed to know something. He told Billie that he saw a dog of that description, that was chasing a horse, that was running to a small creek to get water. So, Billie followed the track that led to the creek and there it was..the horse and his dog! As he walked home with his dog, he thought about Jimmie waiting for the payment and smiled. He loved his brother.

As I recounted the story, Chiaz made sketches in a silver bowl of the characters involved in the story. He then painstakingly sawed them all out. The Navajo stargazer, with his hair tied back in a chongo and his fingers in motion was especially challenging. The cut-out figures were then soldered onto silver rounds, making conchas to be strung around the hat.
Now, you had a silver-laden hat fit for a king and when you looked at it you could envision the man, Shizhee Billie, saying, "Hey, you know, my son Chiaz, he's a pretty good silversmith!"

Chiaz placed the hat atop Brian's head and blessed it with his eagle feather. It was ready for sailing. All it needed was a seaworthy ship, and Brian's bamboo was ready to take the journey. Chiaz cut and tied the bamboo, making it secure, and we were off to Greynolds Park just as the sun began to set in the west.

For Pop's journey, we all tasted the sweet milk of a fresh coconut and then, Chiaz poured the liquid on the hat and placed the coconut on the bamboo ship so Billie would have nourishment for the trip.

Brian, with Chiaz guiding him, took Pop for his adventure to sea. As the vessel moved out over the water, a flock of ducks appeared, headed in the same direction. Perhaps, they had an idea where our Shizhee was headed and decided to follow the leader. Or, perhaps, they were the ones that were leading him the Beauty Way.

Haggoneah, Shizhee, from your son Chiaz and your adopted Jewish children from "way over there", Brian and Bette, who promise to always honor you by following the way of the tratadine.

The photos can be "mouse-clicked" to enlarge, and are from Bottom to Top as follows:

Chiaz and I are at Brian's home. Under the eagle, and in the far left background is a black and white photo of Shizhee Billie in a suit from his working days "in the jungle" of Sandia Lab. If you click on the photo and look to the right of Chiaz and under the eagle, there is a photo of Billie on a horse taken during his appearance on "Good Morning America" in the late 1980's.

Chiaz sketched Billie's story in a silver tray. The characters were cut out and used to make four conchas for Billie's hat.

Pop's old Stetson with silver belt buckle and conchas.

A coconut for Pop's nourishment on his journey.The liquid is tasted by us and then poured over the hat.

Chiaz makes a raft of bamboo to carry Pop's hat across the sea to its destination.

Everything together and ready to sail.

Brian takes the vessel to sea with Chiaz guiding.

A photo taken before we headed out to the park. Brian in Billie attire,and beautifully adorned hat is blessed by Chiaz.

A Cherished Man's Final Walk

2007-09-16T16:35:00.000-07:00

Shizhee Billie had a proud, happy look on his face when he opened the top kitchen drawer to pull out the two white envelopes. It had been nearly 20 years that he'd been away from silversmithing and now he was at his old craft once again, here at his new Window Rock home, in the big kitchen that had nothing familiar in it except the big old mahogany kitchen table we hauled there from Albuquerque.

The old house in Albuquerque he lived in for 40 plus years went the way of a bad loan and now in his late eighties, Billie was making brave plans to face his new life with vigor. "I'll build it all up all over again," he kept saying and Brian and I were determined to help get him going. So, Brian built him a wooden desk with a big center drawer, to house his silver materials and scraps, and we hustled to the Thunderbird store in Gallup to buy all kinds of silver.

It took about a week to fully set him up again, and then one morning shortly after that, Billie took his seat at the desk, ready for work. There was no doubt in my mind that he was wondering whether he still had the same skill at crafting silver that he did in his sixties, and Brian and I were no help when we laughed every time he messed up and the solder scraps went flying helter-skelter. But soon Billie found his way and fell right back into it like he never left. He created earrings, and rings and bracelets for his family and even some smaller stuff for me to sell to the Seminoles here in Florida.

Shizhee loved being busy with silver, especially during the long snowy cold winter days in Window Rock, and we would keep it going by ordering fancy rings and bracelets and barrettes for all kinds of occasions. What was really interesting was that Billie was always open to experiment and he especially enjoyed trying new things, using his trademark "eagle wing" design, the one that all the young silversmiths love to imitate but can never duplicate.

So that year when I visited in late May, I drew a sketch for him of a feather barrette that sprayed out from an oval piece of Morenci turquoise. That turqoise is well known for its beautiful bright blue color that is often flecked with gold. I had picked up the turquoise at Thunderbird the day before and had a vision of the beauty Shizhee could create with it. I kept on thinking about him working at the desk and hoped upon hope that he could do it because he used to tell me that barrettes were the hardest for him to do and that he often messed up.

I was back at the house in early July and decided to say nothing unless he did, because every time we spoke on the phone, he either forgot to mention the barrette or he just plain didn't want to. So, here we were in the kitchen, when he said with his silly crooked grin, "Oh, I almost forgot something," and opened the drawer containing the envelopes. "I made a couple of different styles," he went on casually, "so you see what you like."

One of the barettes was the one on my dreams, except only better. It was a long narrow silver eagle feather, with two pieces of Morenci turquoise set at both ends. This meant that Shizhee had made a trip on his own to Thunderbird to purchase another piece of turquoise that matched the first so he could design something that was "floating" in his head, he said. The second barrette was a fatty eagle feather with a beauty that stood on its own, without any stones. Needless to say, he wanted me to enjoy both, and I have. For the last five years, every morning, I have worn one or the other to honor him.

Shizhee Billie was a proud man and as he used to say, "The people in Window Rock will never see me all bent over because I'm a warrior and will always be". They say he was all dressed up for his final trip and he was wearing his boots, perhaps, for dancing. No, Shizhee would not go out quietly because that was not his way. He never lived quietly, and he would not pass on to the spiritual world quietly either.

Thank you, Billie, for coming into all our lives and for making us see the world through your eyes, in a new vision. I pray you have walked and will continue to walk in the next world in beauty, in that same beauty you created for all of us.
Haggoneah

A Sea Change Coming Home

2007-07-16T11:51:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder if I'm missing the day-to-day changes that go on right in front of my eyes when I return from a less than two-month trip and find that I live in a "new and dramatically improved" neighborhood.

As it goes, I always considered where I live to be an "in between" area of Miami Beach, that is between walking distance of both South Beach and Middle Beach and with the unlikely zip code of 33140 that often spawns questions from long-term residents like, "Where the hell is that?" But, as property prices soar shamelessly and as the old haunts like Wolfie's and the Seville Hotel shut down along Collins Avenue to make room for the new 45 story megastrosities like Setai and the upcoming Paradiso, I find myself walking in a neighborhood that resembles a ten-block long torn up parking lot. Maybe, putting it in a nicer way would be to say, my area is like a newborn baby waiting to be filled up with whatever excitement the Ritz-Carlton group has in store for our beautiful beach.

I try to look at the bright side here since "progress" usually wins out with or without me. I returned from the beautiful desert and mountain West, where the open space seems boundless, and then happened upon the new beachfront areas from the Seville, going south past my condo. I was absolutely floored by the greenery and flowery landscaping that took place while I was away and even more taken back by the brand new water fountains and showers and tile designs. This part of the beach had remained largely unchanged, happy in its forgotten self since the mid 80's, and now, suddenly, it has been transformed and I am living in what will be soon called the "It" area of the beach. Hell,I never planned for this!

On Friday, I was sitting with my kids Gerri and Mitch at Balan's on Lincoln Road,and Mitch came out with something fairly significant."Your condo is probably going to get a major offer from some developer pretty soon."

I kind of glanced up, but then quickly dismissed the thought, preferring to concentrate on the savory spices in the dish of wasabi tuna in front of me, trying hard to be worth it's outrageous price.

Then,last night, Hy called from NY, where he is visiting family and said, "You realize our condo is going to probably triple in value in the next 5 years." I paid attention, but like I told Mitch, "Where are we going when it does?"

Giving it some thought, I am posting photos of some of my favorite Western scenes. Maybe, I will get the inspiration to finally make that move to one of these places when that time inevitably comes.

And now, special thank you to my wonderful Western family who bring so much joy to the travels. To Bruno,at Gerlach, in the Black Rock Desert, whose smile and ravioli would warm up any cold day, to Kate, in Gallup, who shared wonderful news of a surprise reunion with a loved one, to Blue Star, who spent two days driving us into the mountains, rivers and lakes of the Wind River Reservation and who taught us how to make a fire,to Jeannie for her beautiful bright smile that came with good coffee and conversation at Bongo Billy's in Salida.

Some favorite photos are from top to bottom: Lone rafter in Arkansas River at Cotopaxi, Colorado, Blue Star and Brian at Lake Moccasin,Wyoming, Obsidian at Glasse Butte, Oregon, Me in golden jasper field in Nevada desert, Black Mountains in Southern Arizona, Pink mesas decorate Navajo Nation near Houck, Arizona.

So long, for awhile

2007-05-12T16:40:00.000-07:00

The cowbirds are singing and the seagrapes are in full bloom and we've even got wild green parrots waking us up at six in the morning. A little sad to be leaving such sweet sounds and pink puffy evening clouds and fiery orange balls at sunset and mostly my dear family and friends.

Miami Beach, South Beach, North Beach, Downtown. When I return, it will be to July humidity with explosive afternoon storms that build from dark gray and purple cumulus and wall clouds and pool-like warm turquoise seas filled with colorful styrofoam bananas and rafts and sailboats and sexy south Beach sirens in tiny bikinis. When I return there will be brand new million dollar high rise condos with posh boutiques, and the summer crowd will be out there walking Lincoln Road in their choice of ugly crocs or ugly thongs, sipping raspberry smoothies to beat the relentless 90 degree temperatures that will linger through September.

On Wednesday, I will be exchanging turquoise and green for red, orange and tan for just a little while. I think that a change of climate and altitude and the sights and smells and quietness of a very different world are necessary for the soul's nourishment. If living across the street from the Atlantic Ocean is a privilege. visiting the desert and its denizens is an even greater one for me. It is a chance to make the crazy world go away for just a little bit, to forget about war and greed and pollution and to get fresh again, to learn new ways of healthier living and to be able to carry the knowledge back to help all the people who grace my life.

On Lincoln Road, outside of Starbucks Hear Music this morning, I met a young man selling pieces of colorful Florida glass that he had wrapped in silver wire. I asked him his price for wrapping since I always come home with prize desert specimens. He said that I could pay whatever I wanted as long as he covered his $5 charge for the silver wire. That his joy was making the wrappings and touching the glass and colorful stones.

He was a thin guy, wearing old jeans and a torn t-shirt. His ears were pierced as was his tongue and eyebrows and his eyes told a story of a difficult life. I opened my handbag and showed him a sampling of the jaspers and opal and quartz I find out West and his eyes fairly popped out when he saw my little orange ball filled with horn-shaped pecos diamonds. He held it in his palm, staring as if it were the Hope Diamond. I decided that he and the stone would be good for eachother, so I closed his palm around it, telling him to take care of it. As I walked away, he was saying, "Oh, my God, this is beautiful!",and I could still hear him saying that by the time I reached the end of the block.

Medicine is not necessarily something you swallow. Today, that little orange pecos diamond was medicine for both the giver and the receiver.

I will be back at this post in July. Best Wishes.

The Old West in Music, Books and Gold

2007-05-05T10:05:00.000-07:00

Every spring in little drips come those email feelers from my Western friends. Never a question as to whether I'm coming out there to the great deserts and mountains but just hints as to what I've been missing the rest of the year living down here in the swamps.
A couple of weeks ago, I found out that Blue Star and his friend are getting into gold prospecting, an obvious intriguing possibility for this rockhound who has never done it.
"Hey, can I come out there with you guys?"
"Sure, you can!"
I was praying for that answer. I love the feel of Wyoming and getting into Blue Star's mountains at Wind River should be a special treat, even if we find nothing.

It's been such a long time rockhounding now that you would think the thrill would be tempered and seasoned by years of doing the same, but just give me a visual of rocky mountain terrain or the cracked desert floor and the imagination takes flight. A special joy is an email from Blue Star or Jeannie or Kate or Charlie because they belong to that terrain and I can picture them in beauty there, hiking old forests and mesas, taking in New Mexico sunsets,selling Dineh silver. And there was an added serendipitous thrill-a photo of me smack dab in my element, seeking out pecos diamonds in the Roswell hills, right on the contributor page of Ocean Drive Espanol magazine. Yes, that was really me in my Royal Robbins trail vest and flannel shirt gracing the glamour pages of Ocean Drive!

To update you on one grand success I previously predicted(no "I told you so" here-Not my nature!):

Robert Mirabal's CD "Pueblo Christmas" has been nominated for 5 Nammys. Added to this, his brand new CD "In the Blood", his biggest rocker since "Mirabal",(watch this prediction)will be the most talked about album of his career.The CD cover by itself is a masterpiece. It will be released on May 15th. Robert's manager Drew emailed requesting that I get friends and family to put in a vote for Robert in the categories of flutist, historical, male singer, record of the year and producer. Easy to do since there is no better Native performer anyway. Please check in at www.nativeamericanmusicawards.com and cast your vote for Robert!

For copies of the "In the Blood" CD and info about Robert's tour, please email me at pecosdiamond@yahoo.com.

The Miccosukees and Thoughts of Billie

2007-01-01T07:07:00.000-08:00

The wind was gusting to about 30 miles an hour but the silver jewelry, ribboned and Seminole style jackets, leather and fancy crafts waiting for purchase at the annual Miccosukee Festival managed to stay put. At least the temperature was warm, not in the windy 50's the way it was in 2001, the year Shizhee Billie came to Miami for a visit. Well, maybe it was not exactly a visit. Our dear Dineh dad had wrecked his truck in Georgia on his way back home from an earlier visit and he wanted some support on his way to retrieving it.

His unexpected visit was accompanied by a phone call to Brian's house from the Amtrak station in Miami where Billie, 87 years old at that time, wound up after several misguided train changes along the way. Somehow, he went from Albuquerque to Chicago and then to Philadelphia, before arriving in Miami, but he managed to make a few friends, get baskets of fried chicken and enjoy the ride for the way it went.

Billie has been this way all his life, using his keen mind to challenge and solve all the many problems from family, military, white neighbors,Dineh relatives and bosses who tried to take him down. Even in later years, when life should have gotten quieter for this respected elder medicine man,there were feuds with nephews and nieces over grazing rights on reservation land.

Now, here with us, five years ago, Billie not only had the problem of retrieving his truck, and getting his insurance to pay for the accident, but, basically, there was a big question mark regarding his home in Albuquerque. One of his sons, urged him to take out a loan so he could have enough to go back to Chilzhoo, on the reservation,to build the beautiful hogan of so many of his waking dreams. Well, the loan fell through, the money was gone and suddenly, so too was the home that Billie and his wife Mary had built from scratch and ingenuity some 50 years ago when Albuquerque seemed like a good place to raise the family,to pursue their version of the good life.

So, here he was having a great time at the Miccosukee festival, not thinking about any of this, but enjoying the moment as he has always lived his life. You meet the challenge head on, never running from it, but never giving up the small moments that give you pleasure. We danced on stage in our jeans along with the tribal performers in their glorious feathered costumes, and we walked by all the vendors where Pop Billie asked about the price, something he loves to do even when he has no intention of buying anything. The festival has vendors and performers from all around the country and from Canada and Mexico, but Billie always seeks out the Dineh, the Navajo, wherever he can find them.

Billie loves speaking his birth language and one of his real worries is that the younger generation will speak English like so many other tribes and forget their heritage. After all, you can have your ceremonies and keep the crafts going. You can even pass down the Creation Story to the next generation, but so much of the culture is tied into language-the character, the softness, the feel, the inflection. Even the low monotone. There is no other word to describe a bear but "shash" and no word for the sun in the morning but "j'onahei."

Shizhee Billie would have loved watching the dancers yesterday, especially the Bedonie performers from the Monument Valley area, as they did their best to teach some of their tribal customs to a largely white audience. We felt almost privileged, watching a dramatic presentation of the sacred grinding of the corn, to be familiar with the story, the dance and the song. We owe that all to Billie who took us into his heart and became a great spiritual force in our lives.

Following the Corn Grinding song and dance, a young lady came up to speak.She was a recent graduate of the Monument Valley high School, a top student of her class and a proud Dineh warrior. I felt the tears streaming down my face as she addressed the crowd, speaking in slow, classroom learned Dineh. I know that in recent years, the Navajo and some of the other tribes are starting to go backward, to recover many of their mother tongues and old traditions that were barred to them as late as this last century. Even while I was crying a bit, I realized that those tears were for Billie. They would have been tears of joy for him had he been with us yesterday.

The year that he was, it got colder and colder, until we found ourselves late New Years Eve, in ski parkas, seated on chairs deep in the Everglades, with Billie singing his prayers in Dineh under the stars, wearing only a short leather jacket to keep out the cold. The jacket was all he ever needed. A couple of weeks later, he retrieved the truck, now completely repaired, and Brian and I took the ride with him back to his uncertain future in Albuquerque. Pop would find his next home in Window Rock,Arizona, the capital of Navajo Nation. No,it was not Chilzhoo, but he never gave up hope that this would come later

The young Monument Valley graduate followed her short speech with a Dineh song about the Six Sacred Mountains, her sacred mountains, that encompass parts of Arizona, New Mexico, Utah and Colorado. For the Dineh, they must live within those mountains to have a sacred, peaceful, medicine existence. We pray for you, Shizhee Billie, that you are there today, on this first day of the New Year, and for always.

Billie cut a CD that includes "The Corn Grinding Song" and many other Dineh songs, ten years ago, during his "movie star" days. It is still available in limited editions. You can email for more info.

Photos above are: Dineh Corn Grinding reenactment at the Miccosukee festival, Shizhee Billie and me in Arizona desert.

My Brief Role As Publicist

2006-12-06T19:45:00.000-08:00

I am grateful to be a respected writer but sometimes it feels like a Yogi Berra thing, like deja vu all over again. So, a few nights back, as I was pondering my future in this business and thinking maybe I needed a change, for a change, it came in the form of an email from Robert Mirabal's wife Dawn. She asked me if I would give a copy of Robert's new CD to Starbucks Hear Music on Lincoln Road.

For those of you who live beyond the tribal sphere of influence, Robert is a Grammy winning musician from Taos Pueblo who is best known for his flute making, flute playing, Indian rock music and the PBS special he produced and starred in called "Music From A Painted Cave."

Robert just released a CD titled "Pueblo Christmas" which has some original Robert songs, along with traditional carols that he, his brother Patrick Shendo and Michael Kott perform on flutes and cello. Arguably, the most interesting thing about this Christmas CD is that it is maybe one of a handful of CD's ever performed by Indians, mainly because of the historical conflicts between tribal religions and Christianity. If you know anything about the early Indian experience in this country, then you are familiar with boarding schools that banned tribal languages and forced conversions of the tribes.

The CD's colorful enclosure points out the ironies connected with each of the carols, giving the timelines of the massacres of tribal peoples that concurred with the years each holy song was written. Many of the songs we are familiar with sing of peace and love of your fellow man, which was a travesty then for what was occurring to our indigenous brothers and sisters. In truth, as carols were sung around campfires, barbed wire was being strung around reservations to lock the Indians into a world from which they would never recover.

The manager at Hear Music, Charlene, was surprised when she looked at the "Pueblo Christmas" CD in her hands and commented that she had never before heard Indians playing Christmas music. We reviewed Robert's other CD's, five of which were already at the computer stations and she quickly realized she was holding gold in her hands.

For those of you unfamiliar with Hear Music, and I know I've talked about this place before in my blogs, there are four of them now in the U.S. They are combination coffee house and record store and the main feature are music stations where you can drink coffee while you download your favorite recordings old and new to create original CD's.

Well, as you can guess, this story has a happy ending, but it has an even happier ending than that. I had given Charlene two CD's, one for listening and one for keeping. She said she was going to send the sealed copy on to the main office in Seattle with her recommendation that it be placed not only in the Hear Music Stores but in all the Starbucks Coffee Houses around the country.

What a good thing for Robert and Dawn, two of the nicest people in the world. And to make their season even happier, please contribute to the Middle Road Foundation. The Mirabals use the donations to feed and clothe the less fortunate children and elders at the Taos Pueblo and to keep their traditions alive.

For information about Robert Mirabal's holiday CD, please email me.
And a very happy holiday season to everyone!

Just One More Mountain to Climb

2006-07-26T17:44:00.000-07:00

On these Western trips, Colorado is always the last beat. You've got to do the small stuff first, maybe the walk up into the Roswell hills for the pink Pecos diamonds or a trek onto the Black Rock playa to build up your strength. We work it that way, starting with some mining in Bingham, then maybe a couple of days off flea marketing, followed by a hunt for fancy obsidian in the Inyos or orange opal in Northern Nevada. When you spend the better part of the year living on a flat, and South Florida is really flat, the Western hills and mountains take major getting used to. When you finally arrive in the Rockies, you had better be ready for those 11 or 12 or 14,000 foot peaks because, if you aren't, your heart and lungs might not make the trip back to Florida.

Usually, this all works out without a hitch, but this year, due to a series of events, not the least of which was months of hurricane repairs, the trip got off to a late start. That two week difference, in my case, meant doing all the things I love to do which is rockhound, climb and desert walk in the midst of a constant heat wave. It was about 90 degrees at the Miller Mountain quartz site in Arkansas where it all started and from there the temperature just kept on rising. We are talking 107 in Roswell, 100 in Bishop and even the high 90's in the Black Rock Desert where it isn't supposed to get that hot. By the time, we reached Wyoming a month and a half later and got a respite up at Lander and Wind River,I found I had lost most of my strength somewhere along the way.

Yes,I did climb up Calumet in Colorado for he epidote crystals even fighting a giant hailstorm on the way down the mountain, and I did get to try my luck at the Last Chance Mine at 11,000 feet up there in Creede where Brian and I found all kinds of gorgeous amethyst crystals, but I was afraid to chance Mt. Antero which is my dream mountain.

Was my trip a success anyway? Hey, we got lots of blue bubblies and green obsidian and gorgeous McDermitt jasper, and then there were all the happy faces I miss all year long. At Gallup, we got to see Mark's new house and he made us a great spaghetti dinner. In Gerlach, Bruno sprung for Bloody Mary's and how many beers?At the Wind River rez Blue Star, Greywolf and Wanda shared a wonderful evening with us at Greywolf and Wanda's incredibly spacious, self-built hogan. Of course,it is always a joy to see Kate and Jeannie. The western family and friends all looked healthy and fit, and they will be missed until the next time.

The current photos posted are from top to bottom: The Last Chance mine up at 11,000 feet in Creede, Colorado. Cloudburst above Pyramid Lake. A walk in the Black Rock Desert. Bruno at Bruno's Country Club in Gerlach, Nevada. Brian in Wyoming badlands. Blue Star at Wind River reservation, Wyoming. Shoshone medicine man Mike Greywolf in his hogan. Red rim area south of Lander, Wyoming.

She Is My Best Friend

2006-05-15T17:39:00.000-07:00

I haven't talked about her on this blog because I consider our relationship a sacred bond if there ever was one. We share eachother's secrets and keep them in stone. We have lived through many incarnations together for the last 22 years or so and cherish them all. She is the editor and I am the writer is one incarnation. She is the younger and I am the elder is another one although sometimes we reverse this role depending on whoever has the greater problems at any given moment.

We have lived through many Miami moments, the death of Harry, my writing partner, the birth of her precious baby, several magazine changes,the good and bad relationships,and the demise of other friendships we once valued.
Tomorrow we meet to catch up on all those little things and next week we celebrate the birthday of her beautiful daughter Elizabeth who turns three.
I haven't said it before as I have been rambling on about all my rockhounding ventures, but I will say it now because sometimes in life it becomes the right time.

Thank you, Fifi, for always being here in my life for me. You are the special rose that grows in the forest that I see in my travels and the flowering wild cactus of the western deserts. You are songs, laughter, tears and prayers shared and all the good in this world and I will cherish your friendship forever.

Black Rock Desert in Rare Bloom

2006-05-07T14:53:00.000-07:00

This morning I was having special thoughts and dreams about a very sacred, ancient wilderness, Nevada's Black Rock Desert. Last year was a bountiful one for a desert that is normally so dry in summer that its main feature is the limitless rolling playa where four wheelers zig and zag their way to the signature craggy Black Rock or Double Hot Springs or to a make-believe silver town called Hardin.
Desert mavens noted colorful blooms last year that had not been seen for 50 years or more in the desert. Incredibly, some of those plants could not even be identified. The opportunity for photos abounded and these are a few of a rare encounter with the Black Rock Desert on a mid-June morning.

Lincoln Road in My Own History Book

2006-04-06T18:05:00.000-07:00

If you pick up the New York Times and read the latest article about ultra cool Lincoln Road without some personal reflection, then you haven't experienced the real South Beach with all of its stops and starts and diversions in the long road to its current glorious remake.

I thought about it this morning as I took the long scenic walk to the post office on West Avenue from my start on Washington. I don't know exactly how many blocks I've got to walk to get there but I pass by Drexel and Euclid and the brand new Starbucks Hear Music store where I shortstop to burn another CD for my trip because, after all, there are only 3 Hear Musics in the US and one of them is right here! The music-heads in there all know me by now because I've been burning Peter Kater, R. Carlos and good old Kris and have been annoying them for weeks to get me Johnny Whitehorse. Besides, I get free coffee at this point, and sometimes cake too.
At Meridian, I pass another Starbucks across from Ghirardelli's cafe and nearly crash into four roller bladers coming strong with cute little dogs on leashes keeping pace.

At Jefferson I hear my name called out by Susan who is eating outdoors at the Van Dyke restaurant with her sister-in-law, so I sit and chat for awhile. The Van Dyke is sister to the trendy News Cafe on Ocean Drive and the food is so good (Hy loves the Middle Eastern combo)and reasonable too. The grand hotel that houses the restaurant has been there as long as I've been around and has the most elegant restroom on the beach, with long antique mirrors and fancy old fashioned sinks. They've even got a little magazine store out back with its own great big Greek salad for 4 bucks. What a deal for Lincoln Road, not to mention the Lavazza coffee for 92 cents and sometimes its free if the guys behind the counter feel like it!

Interesting phenomenon, Lincoln Road. When I was about 8 years old and my mother used to take Marian and me here to check out Lerner's, Three Sisters and the Liggett's drugstore for the hot fudge sundaes, it seemed like such a long walk from one end to the other. Those were the great times for Lincoln Road, especially with summer vacationers from New York as we were then,with Saks, Lillie Rubin, Moseley's Linens,the souvenir shops, departments stores and first-run theatres. Last survivor from that time was Moseley's which closed a year ago, although, of course, we have Macy's north on Meridian which was and will probably be to us forever Burdine's.

Now, we cut to the late 70's and I'm walking with 10 year-old Geraldine down the Road, checking out the remnants of the remaining stores as Lincoln Road is dying its slow death. Saks is still there,and we frequent the old bathroom with its polka dotted sinks, but it is on its way out and the junk stores are taking over. Anyone want to buy cheap electronics at rip off prices? We still have our favorite souvenir stores and the shops that sell the appliqued handkerchiefs, but there are more closed stores than open. It looks like crime will be taking over Lincoln Road. Cameras feed back to the police station and you keep your handbags close to you.

Enter the 80's now. We've finally moved here and I'm writing with Harry and Lincoln Road is half out of business and half hopeful new art center. The rents are dirt cheap but no one is buying which is why it's now being promoted as a place for wannabe artists to display their stuff. Harry, an artist himself, isn't too impressed.A few ambitious souls open cafes with French style names like Lyons Frere and the Miami Beach Bistro, our afternoon hangout. Its bare ceilings with the pipes coming out, wooden floors and paint splashed all over the place,kind of reminds you of Greenwich Village. Hey, we're magazine writers and its perfect, especially with the daily specials like the crabcakes and Greek salad.
The Bistro eventually morphed into the current Van Dyke but it lasted a good two years which was a big deal for Lincoln Road at that time. Stores opened and closed as fast as a month could pass, and you took bets on each new opening. A little boutique might look promising to me but Harry would quip, "I give it two months," sometimes that was being generous. Nothing much was happening. We wrote stories about Gerry Sanchez and his bold, ambitious plans for South Beach and the editors laughed but they published it anyway. Who would have guessed what the future held for a place soon to be dubbed SoBe and its surprise bonus of cafes, smart shops and Lincoln Center megatheatre on none other than Lincoln Road?

So, I walked those streets today, passing all the bright and beautiful cafes and my favorite shops like French Connection and Anthropologie and Starbucks Hear Music and Books & Books and thought about all the changes and the stops and starts. And I realized just how much I loves this stretch of Miami Beach that carries so much history and so much of my history along with it. It is just a wonderful reminder of all the friendships, even going back to my teen years, that have bonded on this famous street. When I walk the antique shows every other Sunday,it reminds me of all the future possibilities this street can carry.

In the old days, the real old days, you would play dress up, white fox stole, mink coat, fancy evening attire to walk on Lincoln Road.These days, you walk Lincoln with the South Beach look, whatever it is-Bling, retro, Ocean Drive Mag. If you're not sure, check out the store windows and try one of those looks. They'll all work. Tommy Bahama,Cavalli, Earl Jean. My style has been and will always be Southwestern, my Navajo jewelry, jeans, cords.

In another month I leave to follow my style to the west and to my western buddies. A different lifestyle,a different character and a different comfort.I will walk the Black Rock Desert in Nevada and climb Calumet Mountain in Colorado and help Blue Star build his home in Wind River,Wyoming and maybe with Brian's new green obsidian Jeep we might even chance Mt. Antero. The possibilities in life are endless and intriguing. We are in a continuous motion of change and if we put our minds to it,we can move gracefully in its rhythms, back and forth. I am blessed to live in these times and to be able to enjoy both the sounds and smells of nighttime desert sagebrush and the Mediterranean omelette at Pasha's on Lincoln Road.

When I get back, Gerri and Mitch and I will go to Balan's for dinner to celebrate her birthday as we do every year. A Lincoln Road tradition. And so we continue to keep building tradition upon tradition and memory upon great memory.

People Who Photograph Their Pets

2006-03-30T13:44:00.000-08:00

Brian lived a good part of his adult life in North Miami Beach pet free. It was too much of a hassle feeding the pesky cats that would find shelter in the back shed or the dense shrubbery of trees, bushes and assorted foliage that hides two-thirds of his house from view. Besides, who would feed them during those merry spring and summer months when the call came to rockhound the west?

Maybe he started to feel something of a pang when he saw his tenant Chris's cat, with her nose at the window, longing for some adventure in the wild, or running along with her master to 7-Eleven for an early evening sub sandwich. Eventually, Chris let the cat out, part-time anyway, at first, and then full-time when the cat decided it preferred the wild to a cluttered efficiency apartment.Then,alas, Chris moved on, leaving the cat to fend for herself because Brian still had no desire to tie himself up with the duties of daily pet feeding.

We saw that Chris's cat was still around, getting her food, no doubt, by following a fat black and white cat with an enormous fuzzy tail that had been enjoying its residency in Brian's front yard, food or no food. This fat cat, that had a face that resembled a panda in reverse colors and huge whiskers, was so well fed that Chris's cat must have calculated that it had several reliable food sources. The good part was that The Panda kind of took her under his wing (or fat belly) and didn't mind showing her the ropes of a seasoned alley cat.

Well, all worked out for awhile for Chris's cat and The Panda but then came Hurricanes Katrina and Wilma, two scary cat-astrophies that rendered Brian's house unlivable. Branches were downed all over the yard, amid roof shingles, nails, tar paper and fallen cactus. And one day, shortly after the first hurricane, Brian found Chris's cat, hiding under the shed, bruised and wretched looking, her voice calling out a weak miserable plea.

So, what do you do when you see a cat so ripped up and scared from a fearsome hurricane? What Brian did was give her a name and make her his, and so by way of the storm, she became Katrina. Chris's cat was now Brian's cat and she was only too happy to accept her adoption. He petted her, and she rolled over and talked a funny language all her own.The roof became her permanent home and the front porch or back shed her feeding station. Of course, as things go in life, one hand washes the other, and Katrina wasn't about to forget her old friend The Panda who now started hanging around more than ever. With his awesome stare, huge whiskers, fancy tail and ability to escape any hand that tried to pet his bountiful furry body, he soon became known as the strong, silent type. So, now there were two cats to feed, with The Panda requiring ever more food to fill his unusual furry girth.

Also, around the time of the second hurricane, Wilma, a new tiger striped cat soon to be labeled "The Pest" made an appearance, quickly followed by an all out effort to ingratiate herself to Brian and hence to Katrina and The Panda. Katrina wasn't fooled because she knew this cat was a man stealer and she was soon proved right. It was mating season, and Brian spotted The Panda chasing The Pest. Well, you know the rest of the story-or maybe you don't. Now, every time Brian opened the door, The Pest would run inside and hide in the closet and he would have to chase her out. One day when I was at the house, she ran in and I couldn't locate her, and then suddenly I saw The Panda in the house also, giving me a wide eyed stare as he guarded the bathroom. I checked it out and there was The Pest in the bathtub, preparing her future bed for childbirth.

We were not present for the blessed event, because there were minerals and folks to see out West, so the adventures of Brian's brood were left in the capable hands of Aaron, his tenant, who coincidentally happens to work for the Humane Society. As all cat tales go, this one had one happy and one not so happy ending. The happy was the birth of Mini-Pest which made Brian the master of a handsome family of three. The unhappy was Katrina who had started it all and was now the jealous cat, the one now in left field, or in this case, relegated to the backyard.

Now,as I ponder things, I realize that throughout the years,I've looked at any number of photos of beloved dogs and cats but they never seemed unique to me. Maybe I ought to have asked for the stories that came with them because I am certain now that it's the stories that make the pictures come alive. Recently, my cousins Jane and Alan suffered the loss of Jose, their beautiful jet black cat with enormous eyes. I am sure that the many photos they have of him provide fond memories of a cat that possessed an remarkable personality, a cat with many tales. I wish I had known him.

The photo above is of the great Panda.

The Navajo Writer that Wasn't

2006-01-28T17:58:00.000-08:00

About five years ago, I read a wonderful memoir by a writer named Nasdijj called "The Blood Runs Like a River Through My Dreams". It was poetic, and gorgeous in its description of the life of a half-Navajo man living on the reservation with his dog Wanda, mostly on the back of his pickup, who adopted a Navajo infant with fetal alcohol syndrome. The man loved his son who was doomed to die and spent many days fishing with him, always fearful of the seizure that would separate them forever. Then, a couple of days ago, I received an email from Sherman Alexie's website that really threw me for a loop. I discovered that Nasdijj was not a half-Navajo or any Navajo, that he was a middle-class guy who grew up in Lansing, Michigan, that he had never had a son with FAS and that, in essence, he is a fraud.

This kind of storytelling, and the name Frey comes to mind these days, is becoming something of an epidemic. I was always of the mindset that if you want to write a story that is not true, then call it for what it is, a short story, a novel, but not a memoir. I remember reading a non-fiction account by the late Edward Abbey of an exciting, dangerous adventure along the Colorado River and then finding out later that it never happened as he said. I felt cheated and angry, and even though some claim it is the intriguing storyline that really counts, and they've said this with Nasdijj's writings also, I really don't buy it.

Why in the world would anyone want to read a phony tale by a white man of alcoholism, abuse and extreme poverty on the Navajo reservation when there are so many budding Native writers out there that are begging to be noticed? Millions of books sitting in libraries and bookstores are so much more deserving of a read than the three published by a Mr. Barrus who called himself, until he was exposed, Nasdijj. Houghton Mifflin, the publisher of that first book "Blood" ought to take a hard look at this, and so should Ballantine, the follow up publisher. So many times, rejected novelists get a form letter in the mail with the old refrain, "Your book is not right for our list" or "Your characters do not ring true."

Talk about egg on their faces!

Rockhounding Rucks' Pit

2005-12-08T17:54:00.000-08:00

Yes, it is possible to find crystals here in Florida and we decided to go for it. So last Sunday we went all the way up to Fort Drum, to the old Rucks' Pit in its new incarnation as the Fort Drum Crystal Mine.

A few years back, Brian discovered that there were gold calcite crystals in excavations for new housing developments in western Broward County. Well, maybe it was I who first discovered that Florida had this treasure when I found a golden crystal in a pile of limestone rock at the side of the gas station on Krome Avenue and the Tamiami Trail. At first we thought it was glass. Harry was still with us back then and Hy, Brian, Harry and and I had been looking for shell fossils, scutes of alligators and all the great ancient stuff you can find around the Everglades.

Once we knew the golden calcite crystals existed, we were drawn to other piles of rocks around Dade and Broward, and when Brian made his great discovery in western Broward, he was hailed as a savior of gorgeous crystals that were destined to be crushed into cement for some housing development or shopping center. Those days, we would all take a trip out to Westin or thereabouts, because Brian had Bobby the supervisor's permission to climb up on the hills of rock and seek out the gold.

We got a lot of fantastic crystals for nothing, which was why I was somewhat skeptical about paying Eddie Rucks, the ten percent owner of the Fort Drum Crystal Mine which used to be Rucks' Pit, the $120 required for the two of us to dig. The $60 per person gets you a five gallon bucket of gold calcite of fossils and a large specimen piece.

Well, Eddie Rucks explained to us that each fossil shell that was encrusted with golden dogtooth spar calcite was worth $200 at the Tucson mineral show (if you happened to go sell there) and that some folks up there on the rocks would make about $6000 today just digging. Well, I didn't look too impressed and we didn't have to pay the $120 but I won't tell you how or why we didn't have to pay...

What I can tell you is that if you do pay, it will probably not be worth it, unless you happen to sneak into the commercial area that is off limits to regular rockhounds. The commercial area that Rucks pays to have machined is filled with a bunch of gold calcite, but the rest of the pit is a joy in negotiating quicksand and slime and two feet of mucky water and rocky hills that are difficult to make your way through. You also have to park your car way far away from the pit so you have to carry tools and heavy pails quite a distance. I guess that is the idea of it. If you have to shlep too far, you don't take as much.

As a seasoned rockhound, I am fairly well tuned to what goes on at mines around the country. There are owners who charge a reasonable fee, say $10 or $20 or $30 at most to dig up quartz or fluorite. You can pay $100 or more these days to dig opal, which is worth quite a bit on the market if you find it. Some owners, make sure you get your money's worth and come home with stuff that will make you happy, but others get greedy. They want the money but they want the best stuff to sell for themselves. The Rucks Pit is still what it always has been. They have had a quarry there and get paid to break up rock. Finding the calcite there a few years ago was a bonus and Eddie Rucks used to let people on his property for $10. But now, he has figured out a way to make it big on calcite, which really is not worth all that much even if it is very pretty.

By next year, he will have installed a campground and he hopes people will come from Florida and around the country and even around the world to dig there. Maybe they will, but you won't find this rockhound there anymore. Too much money for something we got for nothing in a housing development's backyard.

Alexie's Words This Yom Kippur

2005-10-08T10:17:00.000-07:00

We sat there with the High Holidays' mahzor, the little red book my Mom and Dad carried with them to Temple Beth Rafael in Miami Beach every year at Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. They've departed to their holy places in the next world, but the little orange card from 1983, that was paid for to attend the service, remains inside.

My children Gerri and Mitch sat there and read portions of it last night after dinner, because it is the week between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and it is when we could all get together for a holiday dinner.

My mother, may she rest in peace, cried when she would read certain portions in old world Hebrew. My father always attended Kol Nidre service the eve before Yom Kippur. I'm certain he must have mourned his mother and father then, the Bubbie and Zaide I never knew because they were murdered in the holocaust. It was something we didn't talk about in our home, ever.

My sister Marian and I never understood the powerful Hebrew words of the mahzor, but in English, they would translate to just how utterly holy was the day of Yom Kippur, and how each of us would be judged to see how we would live or die in the coming year. The words in English were devastating. If we did not repent, we could die by stoning or by floods or by fire. We understood the meaning of Day of Atonement, and now, watching my kids reading the book in English, in preparation for the Yom Kippur fast, those days at the synagogue come back to me so vividly.

For something beautiful to read this holiday, something that allows me to reach out with respect to my adopted Navajo Dad and to all my tribal relations, I was blessed to receive a wonderful poem by Sherman Alexie called "Inside Dachau." It brings to us the unfeeling horrors of war and hatred, and the continuum from earliest colonial times in this country, to Nazi Germany and way beyond.

Thank you Sherman for unveiling the men and women who lurk behind white doors, the ones who give us leaders who think of war as a sport that has no faces. Le Shana Tova!

Trying to Write "Beauty Way"

2005-09-30T09:31:00.000-07:00

Let's call it "Beauty Way" for starters. That is its working title. It's about my rockhounding and hiking and other experiences out west with Brian and everyone, except that there is a problem with the book that I have to figure out. I'm a white Jewish woman writing stories that include Navajos and I really fear that Indian writers and Indian non-writers won't like it.

What happened was that when I began the book, I wanted a protagonist in the story to resemble my dear adopted Dineh Shizhee. I love him and wanted that part of the book to be about his life and all the good things, the beautyway that he has shown me. The book is a novel, so it is a takeoff on my Navajo dad and does not resemble him in totality. My problems started after I was part way through with the book and had a real life dilemma with another tribal relation whose characterization set the story flowing in a new direction and I cannot not eliminate him as he is one of the main characters of my book.

So, my angst is that some characters in "Beauty Way" are Indians who do not live up to the "white person concept" of what a tribal person represents-the 4 directions, the Mother Earth Father Sky thing, and at the same time, the real characterizations may be offensive to indigenous peoples. I may be upsetting everyone, so, what do I do, Sherman?

Now, Indian writers can write anything they want to about Indians, all the stuff, good and bad. They can write about alcoholic Indians and lost Indians and those who have become estranged from their language and their brothers and sisters on the reservation. Their families and friends may get really miffed but they still won't think of their tribal brother as anti-Indian but I am afraid that I as a white woman will incur the rancor of Indians, especially the Indians who are my adopted relations and friends.

I am allowed to write humorous truisms about Jews, the same way Jackie Mason does, and by the same rule, no one else is allowed to write nasty things about Jews who isn't Jewish. That means Indians can't write jokes about Jews either. If MSNBC's Chris Matthews tells a Jewish joke, he'll be looked upon with disfavor even though he is allowed to rank out George W. and Veep.

So, I've been writing "Beauty Way" for about 4 years now. Probably right now, I am on the third rewrite and I still have trepidations about its pending, no impending(as in disaster)publication, the critics, the book signings and all the scary stuff. I never had to worry about all this with the UFO book in 1994, but things have changed now. It's all about showing your face so they can throw darts(or green obsidian arrowheads) at you.

This week I'm writing a story about how you can look more beautiful for the January 2006 issue of "Ocean Drive Magazine" which is the big beauty issue. It has nothing to do with the real "Beauty Way" that I should be writing, but it is a great distraction. I am trying to work through my dilemma with a talented Indian artist who somewhere in the last eight years decided to make me his sister. He believes in the book and maybe that is enough to help get me through my fears.I promised myself that the final draft of "Beauty Way" will be ready by May 1st or I can't go rockhounding this year. Sounds fair, but what do I do for the summer?

The Fears of Katrina's Children

2005-09-07T13:51:00.000-07:00

We are in an age of unease and insecurity and it is not just because we are getting older.
As kids, we looked to our grownup parents to help us get through horrible nightmares about North Korea and mushroom clouds, and to our teachers who would prepare us for the inevitable attack by shouting "Take cover", making us on a moment's notice get into some miserably crumpled position under our school desks to hide from the flying glass. We knew we were growing bigger when the little desk started to push down on us in such a way that it was almost backbreaking to crawl back out. There were a few things for us kids to worry about back in the 50's. Not only did we have that mushroom cloud of death taunting us, we also had the scourge of polio that we knew could leave us crippled for life.

What are these children in New Orleans and Mississippi thinking about and feeling now? What does rain mean these days, except, maybe, horrible floods that can render your mother and father helpless to take care of you. Even if you weren't directly a flood victim, you still have television which devoted hours and hours to pictures of shrieking parents, shaking babies in the air, begging our leaders for something so incredibly simple, like water.

We lived the hurricane as it traveled down Miami way as it was not supposed to do, and remembered Andrew as we listened to the transformers pop, one after the other, giving us the first hint that we would be without electric for some time to come. We weren't supposed to be cleaning up the five gallons of water that dumped in our bedrooms and living rooms and we didn't prepare for spending the fall months putting up new roofs. We were unaware and dumbstruck and some of us were affected in a worse way than we were with Andrew.

There was a real model of the devastating path this hurricane could take and the Hurricane Center gave it brief mention in their discussion site much earlier in the day. It was a model that diverged so greatly from all the others that had the storm traveling north and then quickly dying, because it pointed out a hurricane cat one that would travel in the southwestern motion, going toward the Everglades and the Keys, and then quickly strengthening at sea to become an exceptionally dangerous storm. The reason this path was mentioned at all was that this particular model is the model that correctly predicted Hurricane Andrew in 1992. By late morning, the model was gone from the discussion.
As we here in Florida watched the dangerous category five ball rolling out there in the Gulf, we knew what was going to happen to the Gulf coast, because we knew what happened when it was only a category one. Max Mayfield of the National Hurricane Center right here in Coral Gables warned the White House long before Katrina arrived.Warned them that the levee would be breached.

We will remember these times as a time that our White house made a promise to us that it did not keep. The promise to keep us secure from a sudden terrorist attack sits flat when they cannot even protect us from a fairly predictable disaster that could be witnessed on radar. How can they protect us from a biological disaster, when they are the ones who contributed to the toxic ocean of the once incredibly beautiful city of New Orleans?

Our children today are scared, I know. I lived during bogeyman times myself. The difference is that during those times our fears may not have been rational. We were scared of ideologies, but mostly of a bomb that likely would not have been unleashed by responsible countries, no matter what their ideologies may have been. The children of today are frightened and with good reason. The White House tries to assuage its guilt by handing out debit cards but it doesn't work. No money in this world can calm the fears of the children who faced catasrophe in their short lifetimes-A catastrophe caused by their own "protectors". They are scared, their parents are scared, and here in Miami, I am scared too.

Roswell UFO's Everywhere!

2005-08-22T13:58:00.000-07:00

If only Harry had stuck around to see all this, I was thinking. UFO's swirling everywhere and alien faces in all colors, peering from store windows, even surrounding the bus bench in front of the Roswell WalMart, which has its own kitchy green alien faces on its front wall. Roswell, New Mexico, home to the UFO Museum and Research Center, and the entire town has joined in with their own alien insignias above coffee houses, gas stations and convenience stores. If you don't believe me, you can check out the coke machine on the downtown corner near the Museum. Witness the larger than life green alien face greeting your dollar bill deposit.

In the early 90's, Harry, my writing partner of 13 years and a true believer, took a trip to Roswell with John Fielding, then producer of Ted Koppel's "Nightline", to visit with his long time buddy UFO author Clifford Stone and UFO investigator Walter Haut. Harry was writing a book called "Broken Silence" that was nearing publication with Broadway Books. The book, like so many of the articles that he and I wrote about, dealt with UFO events and conspiracy theories, and like many UFO books and articles that came before, made mention of the alleged UFO crash in Roswell in July 1947, that occurred on a ranch now open to tourism.

Harry, much like Clifford and Walter Haut, had his own early UFO experiences to talk about and the meeting in New Mexico, would explore that. In addition there was a buzz about laying the groundwork for museum in Roswell to commemorate its odd history. This concept for a museum had never been tried before,anywhere, and there, at Walter Haut's home during that visit, the seeds were sown. This May, when I spoke to Julia, Walter Haut's daughter and curator of the Museum, she recalled that serendipitous meeting and told me that in the beginning, no one could have imagined that it would all come to this. Harry, unfortunately never lived to see the birth of the UFO Museum because he died of a heart attack in late 1995. I don't think that he could have imagined in his wildest dreams that this town and the Museum would become a UFO investigator's haven.

Harry's manuscript,"Broken Silence", can be read at the Museum's library, along with lots of other magazine articles we wrote, including our bilingual bookazine "Ovni, La Entera Verdad", from Editorial Televisa's World Almanaque, compiled and written back in 1994. The library has compiled UFO material from hundreds of credible writers and artists the world over. I donated my cartons of writings and artwork when the Museum was in its infancy, and was delighted to see Harry's and my name on the brass plaque of donors at the library's entrance.Julie says the Museum is growing and, in fact, an 18 million dollar expansion is underway to move the UFO Museum from its downtown location, to a larger building uptown.

Sometimes, I think about Harry when I'm in Roswell and, occasionally, I find myself talking to him, since he has passed on to the spiritual world. A couple of years ago, I was in a field looking for Pecos Diamonds, the beautiful pink stone of Roswell, and I proceded to tell Harry(who I was certain was watching me) about the Museum and its profound influence on the town. I told him he would be proud to see all our writings there for everyone to study. I don't know whether Harry heard me for sure, but as I searched the ground, a pink arrowhead suddenly peeked up from the sand, and then when I got back to the Jeep, I saw that my jacket pocket, had a green hanky in it with "4 H's" in all four directions. It looked to be a hanky from the 4 H Club, but I had never seen it before. A slight chill ran through and that night I told my adopted Navajo Dad about this. He told me that often arrowheads bring us messages from the other world.

I take this to mean that Harry pretty much knows what has happened in Roswell because he once told me that he lived in other dimensions as much as in this one. He used to say that he was OF this world but not really IN this world. I never really understood what he was saying but I knew that he never had any fear of death and firmly believed there was something else out there. When I visited the Museum, one of the librarians mentioned that they often thought that there were ghosts right there in the archives. If this is so, then maybe Harry is there watching over the place in some way, making sure we never forget about that Roswell crash or the ones that followed. It could almost make a believer out of anyone.

How to Say Thank You

2005-07-23T13:29:00.000-07:00

I am back from high altitude to high attitude. It was hard to get used to South Florida drivers-You know who you are! The cut offs and cut ins on I-95 were a most unwelcome back after two months in Rocky and other mountain civilizations. Maybe folks are the same all over the world but they sure seem different in the driver's seat. Is it my imagination?

As my body begins to readjust to low altitude, meaning no more red meat, more salads to beat the humidity but, on the other hand, the return of good skin-not too fond of fish scales from the West's dryness and a face that looks like a roadmap of Texas-I am taking this time to thank my western relations who are truly special. you don't know them but I do and they are genuine folks that you wish you knew! So, here goes:

Thank you, Shizhee Billie for always being there and for giving me your own bedroom that faces the East each morning. I am grateful that I was able to rise before sunrise this year and go up to the mountain with you for Dineh prayer. I am thankful for the stories you told me on my way up to pray to Johonaei and I will keep them sacred. May you walk for 132 years in beauty.

Thank you, Bruno for the apartment with all the rooms for the same price as the regular hotel room and thank you for the beautiful green shirt with "Bruno's Country Club" on it. Mostly, though, I will think about the super sized plate of ravioli in front of me and the special Italian dinner that included a huge portion of chicken, roast beef, rigatoni, spinach and green beans. I was saddened to learned that Frances is no longer with you but encouraged that you continue to make Bruno's a home away from home to those you hold dear. You are the key keeper to the Black Rock Desert and may you be for many years to come.

Thank you, Kate, for your kindness to Shizhee Billie and for always having a smile despite your adversities. I pray that your eyes get better and that next year we can rock in Bingham together. I enjoyed your Gallup flea market display that gets bigger and bigger each year.

Thank you, Jeannie, for your warm hospitality. I always enjoy sharing breakfast and catching up on the events in our lives. Your interesting and eclectic bookstore has been updated with a new inviting back patio and as always is chock full of both new and old books and all kinds of American Indian paraphernalia. I really enjoyed seeing the renovations to your home and meeting Carlo. You are a wonderful example of the self-sufficiency of western women. And thank you for the blown glass made right in Salida!

Thank you, Blue Star, for finally getting us to your part of the world. The Wind River reservation is spectacular and it was interesting to see how you and Toni are planning to make a home on your land. We enjoyed sharing the root with you and of course the dinner and great conversation. I was enthralled with the beauty of the red canyons surrounding Lander and also the great opal finds around the Green River. These visions stay in your heart and call for a quick return.

Thank you, Charlie, for always being truthful with me. It was sad that we could not meet but I understood why you could not be there this time. You would have enjoyed the goings on in the square with the Santa Fe merchants hawking their wares to counterattack the big chain stores coming in. My best freebie was a rattlesnake egg in a brown bag that made a noise when you opened it that would scare the hell out of anyone.

Thank you all for bringing me up..And now, for the coming down....

May Greetings from the West

2005-05-09T08:26:00.000-07:00

Here I am in Miami Beach, getting ready to make my way across the country for a two month trek up mesas and down canyons, through desert valleys and finally, importantly, into the hearts of those who await my arrival.
Through the years, they came to be, the glorious people of the west, who have started to take on as much significance as the gems and minerals that encircle their homesteads. A rockhound goes to discover painted jasper and pecos diamonds and aquamarines and if she is lucky she will encounter the true treasures of friendship along the way.

The western folks mostly enjoy life without the internet and so for the greater part of the year their voices are confined to my photo collection of men and women in jeans and T-shirts, hanging out next to their old pickups and 4-wheelers, with backdrops of the rivers and mountains and cedar and sagebrush that give them their soul and expansive outlooks. No impoverished souls here looking to fill their days with shopping or watching reality shows on the tube. The hours and minutes here are not wasted on fillers, on those distractions that help you forget what is inside. They like what is inside and their environment is the true nourishment of their souls.

Right now, my count is Six. Six beautiful people to visit this trip. Six people and six places as diverse as they are, for none of them live even a shooting distance from the other. It will be a challenge to see if a Jeep with 260,000 can get to all these places and back to Miami in the space of two months, but we, as always are up to the challenge.

Kate lives in a small bungalow in the woods in the middle of the Zuni Mountain range in New Mexico. The directions to her place go something like "follow the 3rd cattle guard about a mile and a half to a miniature old wooden hogan and then take a sharp left along a faint road that begins about a mile past the hogan." She is in her early sixties and her bungalow is filled with Navajo, Buddhist and New Age books that she has collected for most of her life. A remarkable woman, who always has a smile, Kate has promised to take us to a secret site where we can find linarite. I have not spoken to her since last July, but she will remember we are coming. Western people always remember and she will wait for us.

Billie, my Shizhee, my Navajo father will be at his house in Window Rock, Arizona, making silver, when I get there. Still very active at 91, Billie likes to drive around the neighborhood, which he can stretch to include the San Carlos Apache Reservation, Shiprock and Albuquerque. His house is filled with family photos, a lot of old furniture, a silver making bench, equipment, and torch and a huge kitchen table and chairs we helped him transport there when he moved back to the reservation from Albuquerque. When I come, he will insist I take his bedroom to the east where the sun rises every morning. He will take his walk to the mountain at dawn to greet that sunrise in Dineh prayer, and I will try to get up in time to join him.

When we get to Gerlach, Nevada, we will head for Bruno's Motel and room 15, which Bruno has saved for us. Bruno, in his 80's now, has been looking over and caring for this wonderful litttle hamlet at the Black Rock Desert since the 1950's. He will be behind the bar at his country club and he will make us bloody mary's, very, very strong, and it will be on the house. It has been almost a year now, since we have talked to Bruno but he knows we are coming for his great ravioli and hospitality and he will be expecting us.

Blue Star has moved back to the Wind River Reservation from Albuquerque since I last saw him, so that will mean a trip way up to the Tetons in Wyoming. Blue Star went to SIPI in Albuquerque and it was a tradition every spring to meet him, have a bite at the Sandia Casino and say prayers for eachother. He is a wonderful man who has always managed to rise to the top when presented with any problem. Last year, I gave him some money for the leather to make me a pair of moccasins and maybe when I get there, they will be ready. Here, in Miami, whenever I think about Blue Star, I tap the drum he made for me and I think of the earth in motion. He is building his homestead now and may be looking to find me a place to stay, but I will stay in Lander.

Sometime around 3 AM the other morning, I had an instant message on my computer from Jeannie, who lives in Salida, Colorado. I had not heard from her since last October, even though I sent her a Christmas card. She was worried about Bush winning the election and threatened to move to Canada if he won, but, thankfully, she didn't. Jeannie owns a wonderful bookstore in town that offers best sellers, a Native American collection, and old books and eclectic clothing that you would never find anywhere else. I don't think she makes a fortune there but it is a great place to get together and unwind. Sometimes, when you come into the store, it looks like no one is in, but there is Jeannie out in her back patio, and she will always invite you back there to unwind and have a soda. Jeannie has a piece of land up in the mountains and she has invited me there every June to camp at the fire. Maybe this will be the year we do it.

My friend Charlie lives in Albuquerque and every July he makes the drive up to Santa Fe to meet me for lunch. We meet at 12 at the square and we talk for about 4 hours about nothing and everything. He is a Vietnam veteran who cares too much about this world and its politics. As a result, Charlie has invested much time and energy in caring for that war's suffering souls and their wounded spirits. 18 years to be exact. He writes beautiful letters during the year in which he may pour out sudden emotions that make me cry. There are times I don't hear from him for half a year or more and then I will receive an email entitled "Back from the dead." Charlie has no idea when I will arrive in Santa Fe, because it is usually a last stop before heading back to Miami. When I get there, I always call, and the next day, no matter what he is up to, Charlie will get in his pickup and drive up for lunch.

I will be leaving on my journey next week. I pray for good weather, and an eagle to fly above for smooth sailing, or driving, as the case may be. I love my western friends and I just wanted them to know.

First A Rockhound

2005-03-02T19:06:00.000-08:00

I don't remember exactly when I became a rockhound. Maybe it was in 1993 or '94 or so, but I do recall the incident that made me realize I was truly taken in by some greater force. Most mineral hunters can recall their special moment and enjoy sharing it with other seekers of the stone.

It was a hot day, heading up State Road 34 in the Northwestern Nevada desert, taking what we thought was a shortcut to Lakeview, Oregon,when the rented Chevy suddenly blew a tire. So, there we were, dropped off in the midst of the purple high rock canyons and low hills, stuck on a gravelly road covered with black shiny obsidian-the natural black glass with sharp edges that cuts deep even into the heaviest of tires.
A road like this is very unfriendly to vehicles which was why we were truly alone. We were alone and and incredibly stupid about the consequences of being stuck in the middle of nowhere. We did not think to carry water supplies or to figure out in advance how to remove the spare tire in the trunk in case of an emergency.

With nothing to do but wait an interminably long time for someone to pass our way, we walked the desert road. You hear stories all the time about people like us, hapless individuals who get stuck and panic and start to walk away from the car into the rabbit brush of the massive Black Rock Desert. Some of us are never seen again because we forgot to tell friends or family where we were headed. Maybe night would fall and we would still be there with no water or maybe some crazy characters might discover us and decide they wanted our luggage or, perhaps, me. Maybe, we would have to hike 40 miles or so to reach Cedarville, on the outskirts of California, the closest town to this forsaken road.

So, we walked, but in circles, hoping to hear the sound of a vehicle, to see the dust kick up in the distance, some sign that help was possible. Brian found a green mineral on a rock and showed it to me. It looked like sulphur. I found a piece of golden jasper, and then, looking some more, I came upon something beautiful and perfect, something I'd never imagined one could find on the side of that road. It was light pink and carved and so delicate. "I found an arrowhead!" I shouted. "No," Brian said. "There are no arrowheads around here!" "Oh, yeah?" I raced over with my find and all my friend could say was, "It's an arrowhead all right."
Somehow, I took it as a good sign, corny as it sounds. And it was. A few minutes after that, a truck came our way, and I waved the guys down. Nobody would be expected to believe that these guys were driving a truck filled with tires and had a huge five gallon jug of water, but it happened that way. Well, they helped us get a tire on our car and then they drove on to Cedarville, where they waited for us. We offered dinner at the lone chicken joint just out of town, but they refused.

I've learned a lot since about the responsibilities people have for one another out here in the wilderness, and so in the years that followed, we have found ourselves several times at both ends of the unplanned event. Just last summer, we accomplished the great feat of losing two tires in almost the identical spot on SR34, and again, it was not long before Metric of the Burning Man found us and managed to make things work again, and then two wonderful ranchers followed with an ice chest filled with beer and soda. Such a banner year because somewhere along the way we, in turn, helped a family with small children stuck with three flat tires out in Utah's Yellowcat desert and then soon after, an elderly couple who crashed their car into a pine tree on top of Garnet Hill in Ely.

The thing is, all of us have one thing in common and that is the rock and the lure of the rock keeps us doing the same crazy things,taking the same chances year after year.That first flat tire back some years ago, set the stage to seek the stone. For when all is said and done, you forget the terrible disorientation that sets in when you are stranded on the desert road. Instead you think about what you are holding in your hand. The sulphur rock. The pink arrowhead. Then you remember the beauty of the road, the black obsidian, the golden jasper all around peeking out from the sagebrush, the beauty of the lush hills,and you know why the Paiute and those who came before them treasured that spot in nature. You begin to long to return there, to connect with that part of the world that stirs you inside, that brings you closer to your Creator.

The Passing of Aunt Sylvia

2005-01-01T02:50:00.000-08:00

The passing of of my dear aunt yesterday, just a few days past her 90th birthday, conjures up an image of an Old Maid card game, played on a big dining room table, covered in Irish lace.

We sat there at that table, my sister Marian, Sylvia and I, passing time, trying to forget that there was a terrible rolling thunderstorm pounding at us and that our mother was at the doctor's finding out if she would need an operation for the cancer that was growing inside her. I may have been 5 at the time and Marian 7 and Sylvia was pregnant with her firstborn. There were so many fears and unknowns that day, that it seemed almost appropriate to play a nonsensical card game.

But then, as Old Maid goes, it came down to two cards and Sylvia was the one holding them. You pick the right card, you get a reprieve, the wrong one, you get the Old Maid. I was the one doing the picking and Sylvia held the cards. Only, it became obvious that I was choosing the wrong card, because, she started to laugh nervously, while holding tight to that card. She was not going to allow her niece to be an old maid.

When you lose someone who has been a part of your entire life, you deal with it by remembering the good times and especially the ones that showed the character of the one who has passed. My aunt had the gift of strength, of no surrender. She wanted to always be at home to receive your phone call, to be your security blanket when times were rough, but she would not allow herself those shortcomings. She preferred to be resolute at all times and reassuring. Her house had an open door and if you came, there were always ice cream and soda in the fridge and fruit on the table. There was never a need for a phone call first because you were always welcome.
As time goes by, so goes the passing of those who came before us and so, tonight, as the New Year rang in, I considered my own fate and that of those I hold dear. We see the fragility of life, how it can be gone with the wave of the tsunami, and we who live by the ocean, may feel it stronger.
Tonight, as we, family and friends, returned from a walk in the darkness of the Everglades, we watched all the cars slowly pull to the side of the MacArthur Causeway as midnight approached, to see the fireworks over Biscayne Bay.

By 11:55, all the cars were at a standstill, and the natives of Miami and South Beach, who don't live by many rules, had taken out beach chairs to see the show. The causeway had become a wonderful parking lot of revelers, who hugged eachother, and reflected their hopes in the seas of the bay and the sparks of the heavens.

As a child growing up in Richmond Hill, New York, I was unhappy inside, longing for freedom and beauty, and a way out of a parochial neighborhood, where the homes were as narrow as my friends' futures- a home that in my memories seems old and worn, covered with dirty autumn oak and maple leaves, and filled with the cries of sickness and pain.

That day at the dining room table must have been a tough one for my Aunt Sylvia. As she sat there with her growing belly, she must have been considering the possibility that my mother could die, leaving my sister and me in her care. So, when I first heard of her passing and thought about that day, how she shrugged off that fearsome thunderstorm and my mother's cancer, and instead struggled to prevent me from being an "old maid", I realized just how strong this woman really was.

Who owns these tears?

2004-11-17T16:57:00.000-08:00

My Navajo dad, Shizhee, tells me to always walk the way of the tratadine and asks me if I know what that means. I know. One time when we walked up the hill to the higher hill in the back of his house on the reservation, he showed me a flower. He told me to take the flower, which had pollen that resembled the sacred corn pollen, and to walk with it and to say, "Let me walk in beauty."

My Shizhee is 90 and when he sings to me and tells me these things, it makes me cry. The thing is that I am not a Navajo and he is not my real father, but he adopted me some time ago and we fit the roles. His own children don't come for visits unless it is for some money and only one or two of them out of seven try to go the Beauty Way.
My dad relocated his children from the reservation to the city to give them a better life but instead all they found was a culture so different or maybe two cultures so different, and a strange envy and anger mix for the bilagana and the chicano. They live so far from home now, but have no desire to join their Shizhee who chose to return, and who sometimes wonders why he has, because he's lost something along the road-maybe an understanding of who his people are.

Shizhee Billie sings his prayers in Dineh but he can also sing cowboy songs and 40's songs. Somewhere in this mix he finds himself. A little of this and some of that. He even has a CD of traditional Dineh songs circling the universe that he recorded a few years back when he still had an agent to field the movies and television interviews.

He walks tall in his straw panama and jeans with his turquoise bracelet and belt covered in buffalo nickels. He speaks Dineh with his friends who know little English and speaks English with a southern accent he picked up in somewhere when he was in the service in World War ll.

When I am with him, my dad wakes me at 4:30 in the morning with prayers that he calls out loudly in English from his seat on the sofa. An hour of this and then he goes out to climb the hill and say his special prayers in Dineh, while cupping his hands, calling in the sunrise. My dad is out there every day at dawn, even when it snows and the temperature drops way below freezing. If it snows, he washes his face with it in ceremony.
When he comes back to the house, he makes himself tortillas with beans and then sits down at his small desk where he creates beautiful silver work. It is something that keeps his mind strong and his tradition alive. He has been making silver for 70 years and his hand is as steady as ever.

So, I called him on my birthday from more than 2400 miles away because I needed for him to sing me "Beauty Way." He is hard of hearing but his voice boomed out with every verse of the prayer. And then he reminded me to always follow the tratadine way. I am not a Navajo. I am a Jew but I listen to what my dad says because I am to him as his own now and because I have been blessed to have two wonderful fathers in my lifetime. Yes, I cried, when he told me to walk the beauty way because he is trying to keep a tradition going for his family. Maybe I would stop crying if they would only listen. If they would return to him.