Last night I remembered a woman I had known during out first year of Graduate School at Indiana University.
We both lived in “married student housing” which consisted of row on row of trailers, placed on one of the old athletic fields on the Campus.
These accommodations had been installed to house army personnel during the Second World War and were still in use in 1955, the year of our arrival.
My husband and I had a “single”, one room with no running water. The only utilities we had were electricity and a kerosene heater. All bathing, toilet and gray water disposal took place at a common expanded trailer centrally located to serve about ten occupied trailers. The community also had a "Peeping Tom". A neighbor told me he had seen him looking in one of our windows at night and advised me to draw our curtains.
It was a hard year and I got very depressed as the year went on. It was our first year of marriage. My husband was preoccupied with his studies and his frustrating struggle with his Major Professor. I was trying to find work in a small community with more people looking, than jobs available.
I don’t remember how we met or why we connected but I became aware of a Japanese woman in an “expanded” trailer near mine. Perhaps we met in the bathroom. I was drawn to her feeling her isolation and sadness, perhaps common to us both.
I started to visit her in her trailer, for tea and conversation. She was a War Bride, meeting her husband during the American Occupation. It was a terrible mismatch, her husband a provincial, prejudiced, hick. When he was at home I was appalled by his treatment and attitude toward his wife. He seemed perpetually angry, dismissive, treating her like a servant. I thought he was ashamed of her.
The couple had two children, a girl about four years old and a large baby boy.
I wish I could remember her name but it is so long ago. Many months later she was still bleeding from the birth of the boy. She implied that he had been too large for her and had damaged her, inside during the birth process.
I began to get her history.
“Why did you marry him?”
“After the war there was no food.
He had access to food supplies. He had a Jeep. My family was hungry. My father said, 'Perhaps you should marry him'”.
Her family was educated. Her father had been a Japanese Diplomat in Spain. She had a good education, spoke three or four languages and played classical piano.
The tragedy of her situation became more and more apparent. It was a terrible situation. His family treated her as an embarrassment. There was no kindness, acceptance or support there. Her husband had given all their furniture to his family in preparation for their entering the University.
“Why don’t you go home?”
“These children would never be accepted in Japan. They would be treated like the children of a prostitute”
“ When I was leaving Japan my father became very apprehensive about the ocean voyage to America. He gave me a long red ribbon to attach to my waist in case the boat sank. He said the sharks would think I was a larger animal and not attack me.”
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Hiking the Old Hills
On Tuesday, two days after my arrival in Tucson, I joined my hiking group to walk the Arizona Trail, north from the Madera Canyon Road in the foothills of the Santa Rita Mountains in Santa Cruz County.
It was sunny but in the 40’s with a good wind blowing from the east. I was hoping for the best in my ability to keep up with the group. This part of the trail is at about 5000+ feet. I did have to stop on the long upgrades to get my breath.
The country at that altitude is grassland, forest service land leased for cattle grazing to local ranchers. The grass was kneehigh, yellow in its dried winter dress. There are Juniper, Cedar and Live Oak Trees growing on the slopes and in the draws of the rolling land. There has been a three year drought. About 20 percent of the Oak trees have died, shedding their leaves and taking on an oxford grey appearance. The Arizona Trail is plainly marked with small iron gates through the barbed wire fences. Some of the markers are numbered and I memorized one number as we passed. 4072 it said. Under foot the trail was rough with loose small rocks scattered about.
It was soon evident that this trail serves other purposes. It is a highway for illegal migrants from Mexico. My companions remarked on the footprints that preceded us. “Worn tennis shoes, almost smooth.” Both sides of the trail were littered with empty water bottled, tin cans and here and there a discarded back pack. I tried to ascertain if the bottles and cans were fresh. They weren’t. The cans were beginning to rust and the bottles had settled into their places in the grass and had a film of dust on them.
We continued along, winding below the tops of the hillocks, trying to avoid the wind at the summits. There was a lot of discussion about the possible location of a new open pit mine that a Canadian Company is seeking to exploit for the Copper deposit.
“Are those the mine buildings?” Said Elka, pointing off to the northwest.
So far they have been delayed with the need to get forestland access and probably some acreage to use for necessary expansion of the deeded land containing the mineral claim. Arizona never gave mineral rights to individual property owners. So it is possible for a Mine to claim the minerals under your property and go ahead and dig for them. The Forest Service land is a different proposition, necessitating permission from the Department of the Interior to disturb and alter the land. Herein lies the hope of the population of the Sonoita Valley to
“Save the Santa Ritas”.
I felt pretty pessimistic, knowing the history of the Forest Service’s failure to protect public lands from economic exploitation. Also the price of Copper is very high now. I thought ‘It will be decided in Washington. We will want something from Canada and this wee precious corner of the earth will be given up in a trade of interests.’
Up ahead I saw a large rusted tank lying on its side, the open bottom facing the trail. I walked into it. There was a layer of sand and stones on the bottom about four or five inches deep in the center. Tossed in the back was a mixed pile of cloths, a blanket, a piece of blue tarp. The entrance was surrounded by empty water bottles, energy drink bottles. Nearby there was an old water well and some newer poles for an electric line, probably to supply the mine buildings in the distance.
“An immigrant bed and breakfast.” Said Faith.
I was beginning to wonder what we would do if someone said,
“We’ve got company.”
I thought about my cell phone resting in my left pocket, “I’ll dial 911 and give them the number of the nearest Arizona Trail marker, 4072.”
On the return I picked up a discarded red Jansport backpack and we filled it with bottles and cans in about one half mile. Molly said that on her last ride with Della they filled two black trash bags with litter and she carried them back on her mule.
“They were rattling and banging on either side of the saddle and she didn’t mind.”
The horses would have none of it. The only problem she had was when they came across a burro standing near a fence and her mule didn’t want to leave him.
“I went back and forth along that fence. Finally we went on.”
It was sunny but in the 40’s with a good wind blowing from the east. I was hoping for the best in my ability to keep up with the group. This part of the trail is at about 5000+ feet. I did have to stop on the long upgrades to get my breath.
The country at that altitude is grassland, forest service land leased for cattle grazing to local ranchers. The grass was kneehigh, yellow in its dried winter dress. There are Juniper, Cedar and Live Oak Trees growing on the slopes and in the draws of the rolling land. There has been a three year drought. About 20 percent of the Oak trees have died, shedding their leaves and taking on an oxford grey appearance. The Arizona Trail is plainly marked with small iron gates through the barbed wire fences. Some of the markers are numbered and I memorized one number as we passed. 4072 it said. Under foot the trail was rough with loose small rocks scattered about.
It was soon evident that this trail serves other purposes. It is a highway for illegal migrants from Mexico. My companions remarked on the footprints that preceded us. “Worn tennis shoes, almost smooth.” Both sides of the trail were littered with empty water bottled, tin cans and here and there a discarded back pack. I tried to ascertain if the bottles and cans were fresh. They weren’t. The cans were beginning to rust and the bottles had settled into their places in the grass and had a film of dust on them.
We continued along, winding below the tops of the hillocks, trying to avoid the wind at the summits. There was a lot of discussion about the possible location of a new open pit mine that a Canadian Company is seeking to exploit for the Copper deposit.
“Are those the mine buildings?” Said Elka, pointing off to the northwest.
So far they have been delayed with the need to get forestland access and probably some acreage to use for necessary expansion of the deeded land containing the mineral claim. Arizona never gave mineral rights to individual property owners. So it is possible for a Mine to claim the minerals under your property and go ahead and dig for them. The Forest Service land is a different proposition, necessitating permission from the Department of the Interior to disturb and alter the land. Herein lies the hope of the population of the Sonoita Valley to
“Save the Santa Ritas”.
I felt pretty pessimistic, knowing the history of the Forest Service’s failure to protect public lands from economic exploitation. Also the price of Copper is very high now. I thought ‘It will be decided in Washington. We will want something from Canada and this wee precious corner of the earth will be given up in a trade of interests.’
Up ahead I saw a large rusted tank lying on its side, the open bottom facing the trail. I walked into it. There was a layer of sand and stones on the bottom about four or five inches deep in the center. Tossed in the back was a mixed pile of cloths, a blanket, a piece of blue tarp. The entrance was surrounded by empty water bottles, energy drink bottles. Nearby there was an old water well and some newer poles for an electric line, probably to supply the mine buildings in the distance.
“An immigrant bed and breakfast.” Said Faith.
I was beginning to wonder what we would do if someone said,
“We’ve got company.”
I thought about my cell phone resting in my left pocket, “I’ll dial 911 and give them the number of the nearest Arizona Trail marker, 4072.”
On the return I picked up a discarded red Jansport backpack and we filled it with bottles and cans in about one half mile. Molly said that on her last ride with Della they filled two black trash bags with litter and she carried them back on her mule.
“They were rattling and banging on either side of the saddle and she didn’t mind.”
The horses would have none of it. The only problem she had was when they came across a burro standing near a fence and her mule didn’t want to leave him.
“I went back and forth along that fence. Finally we went on.”
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Ghost Story
When I was eight years old my parents and I moved to Greenport, Long Island. My father was involved in the local shipyard as a Naval Architect. They were producing Mine Sweepers for the US Navy to clear German Mines from the shipping channels in the North Atlantic. These boats were one of only two wooden ships produced during WWII. The other wooden boat was the P.T. or "Mosquito Boat". My father was a Wooden boat specialist. Housing was short everywhere in the country and my parents were delighted to procure an antique Farmhouse, the "Cottage" on the Floyd estate. It came complete with furnishings, extensive grounds, a gardener, and a three car garage. The house was in two parts, the oldest part dated from the early 1700s. The kitchen with the old fireplace hearth had a built in "Dutch oven". There was a wood burning stove inserted in the hearth and also an electric stove on another wall. The parlor beyond the kitchen had been turned into a formal dining room with its own fireplace. Upstairs were three tiny bedrooms and a bathroom. Connecting to this oldest part of the house was a new addition, twice the size of the original house. They connected on the ground floor through a den and on the second floor through a door in my bedroom. Each part, new and old had a basement with a separate furnace. In the middle of the first winter, my parents closed off the new half of the house and we moved into the older house, to conserve heat and the expense of oil. When the weather warmed we could open the doors and spread out into the "new" part with its large bedrooms, bathrooms, Living room and sun porch.
I remember our time there as idealic. We quickly added two cats and a large German shepherd, my first pets, to the family. I loved the seasonal thing, the small warm winter bedrooms with one little window each, slanting floors, doors with the old iron latches, Then the spacious summer quarters with many windows, thrown open in the summer to catch the air from the sea, close on both sides of this "North Fork".
Being in the house from aged eight until eleven years, I am a bit hazy about the time sequence, which year, which winter I began to hear the foot steps crossing the floor in my "summer" room, coming to the door now closed for the winter, to my little winter room. I think it must have happened two or three times before I thought it was noteworthy enough to tell my mother about it. What clinched it in my mind was the behavior of my dog. "King" slept on my bed with me, a narrow old iron cot. He curled up in the hollow of my knees and when I wanted to turn over he had to get up and lie down again on the other side. I can still feel the process, his resistance against the blankets, warm from his body, the final reluctant rising with the rattle of his dog tag, and then waiting till I felt the newly cold sheet warm with his body heat against the back of my knees as we both drifted back to sleep.
I remember hearing the footsteps and feeling King rise and stand over me. His lips were drawn back in a snarl, fangs bared, his hackles raised, and he was shaking so that the whole bed vibrated. Even in my nine or ten year old mind, I knew terror when I saw it. There I lay, watching the dog and the door, wondering what would happen next. He didn't bark, just the constant desperate snarl. Then he stopped, lay down in his usual place, still shaking, and we went to sleep.
I told my mother about our experience. I remember one vivid nightmare of being chased through the upstairs to the back stairway down to the kitchen by a skinny white apparition. I also remember joining a waiting wasp under the covers, being stung, crying loudly and meeting my frantic parents at the back stairs clutching my hip. They had looked at each other said, "the Ghost", and rushed up the stairs to meet me at the top.
One night while my mother was sitting on my bed after tucking me in, the footsteps came toward the door. I thought, "Wow! Now she'll believe me." I couldn't believe "whatever" would be so bold or dumb to "do it" with my mother there, ineptitude or my good luck. King stood over me, next to my mother, facing the closed door, snarling and shaking. We were transfixed. My mother said later, "I was afraid that if I had opened the door, the dog would have dropped dead from fright." I wish I could tell you about how the problem was resolved but we went on living in the house. I accepted whatever reassurance my parents offered and continued to play with my friends, my cats, and my dog. I don't remember hearing the footsteps again and I'm sure that when the summer came, we opened the door as usual and King and I moved into our summer quarters, the room of the footsteps.
I remember our time there as idealic. We quickly added two cats and a large German shepherd, my first pets, to the family. I loved the seasonal thing, the small warm winter bedrooms with one little window each, slanting floors, doors with the old iron latches, Then the spacious summer quarters with many windows, thrown open in the summer to catch the air from the sea, close on both sides of this "North Fork".
Being in the house from aged eight until eleven years, I am a bit hazy about the time sequence, which year, which winter I began to hear the foot steps crossing the floor in my "summer" room, coming to the door now closed for the winter, to my little winter room. I think it must have happened two or three times before I thought it was noteworthy enough to tell my mother about it. What clinched it in my mind was the behavior of my dog. "King" slept on my bed with me, a narrow old iron cot. He curled up in the hollow of my knees and when I wanted to turn over he had to get up and lie down again on the other side. I can still feel the process, his resistance against the blankets, warm from his body, the final reluctant rising with the rattle of his dog tag, and then waiting till I felt the newly cold sheet warm with his body heat against the back of my knees as we both drifted back to sleep.
I remember hearing the footsteps and feeling King rise and stand over me. His lips were drawn back in a snarl, fangs bared, his hackles raised, and he was shaking so that the whole bed vibrated. Even in my nine or ten year old mind, I knew terror when I saw it. There I lay, watching the dog and the door, wondering what would happen next. He didn't bark, just the constant desperate snarl. Then he stopped, lay down in his usual place, still shaking, and we went to sleep.
I told my mother about our experience. I remember one vivid nightmare of being chased through the upstairs to the back stairway down to the kitchen by a skinny white apparition. I also remember joining a waiting wasp under the covers, being stung, crying loudly and meeting my frantic parents at the back stairs clutching my hip. They had looked at each other said, "the Ghost", and rushed up the stairs to meet me at the top.
One night while my mother was sitting on my bed after tucking me in, the footsteps came toward the door. I thought, "Wow! Now she'll believe me." I couldn't believe "whatever" would be so bold or dumb to "do it" with my mother there, ineptitude or my good luck. King stood over me, next to my mother, facing the closed door, snarling and shaking. We were transfixed. My mother said later, "I was afraid that if I had opened the door, the dog would have dropped dead from fright." I wish I could tell you about how the problem was resolved but we went on living in the house. I accepted whatever reassurance my parents offered and continued to play with my friends, my cats, and my dog. I don't remember hearing the footsteps again and I'm sure that when the summer came, we opened the door as usual and King and I moved into our summer quarters, the room of the footsteps.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Saving Glory's Storage Box
This little storage box was made for Granny’s friend Glory Lovelace by her second husband Charles Vermillion. He was a violin maker and made this box for her to store her woolens during the summer.
Granny loved Glory, without reservation. She was the only person I knew of that Granny loved in this way. Glory certainly was a good sweet person. I remember her as always being sunny and smiling. She was in the Lovelace compound on Fontana Ave. in Tucson when my mother and I went there for a new start in 1947. There were four Lovelace siblings there, Olin, Law, Glory and Truman Grace and “the old mother”. The other sister, Willow used to visit from Texas. They were decedents of Daniel Boone who had gone to Texas after the Civil War. The Father who led the migration was a former “Slave Driver” in the south.
They got to the Mississippi and the rest of the wagon train decided to postpone their departure due to information about Indian raids and attacks in Texas. (probably due to the preoccupation of the Federal Army with the Civil War) The Tribes through out the southwest had a reprieve from Army reprisals and were attacking migrants. I heard this at Ft. Bowie and concerning the Butterick Stage route through the Chirichuas and Apache Pass. The Lovelace family decided to continue on to Texas alone. A cattleman asked them to take a herd of cattle with them and they would divide the herd upon delivery of the Cattle in Texas. They delivered the Cattle and were told that they would “settle up” in the morning. In the morning the cattle and the receivers were gone. The Lovelace clan was afraid to pursue the “rustlers”.
The family lived a hard scrabble life. The mother, a daughter of the original settler, was a sort of matriarch in the family, reading and teaching her own interpretation of the bible to the the family. My mother was kind of fascinated with her interpretation. I remember the reference she made to “blood and water” associating the bible reference to childbirth, where there is both blood and water. She was in her 90s when we got to Tucson and bed ridden. Truman and Glory cared for her, turning her every two hours day and night and working full time too.
They were all very good to me. Helen, Law’s wife taught me to iron shirts and to sew, using a pattern. I played with their 3 little girls, Carol, Genowyn, and Dorothy. My mother taught all 3 the piano and said they were excellent pupils.
I have held on to this little box, given me by Truman to help furnish the “Little House on the Prairie”. Glory always said how much she loved Charles. A real sunset years love story. If you have a corner, hang on to it.
Granny loved Glory, without reservation. She was the only person I knew of that Granny loved in this way. Glory certainly was a good sweet person. I remember her as always being sunny and smiling. She was in the Lovelace compound on Fontana Ave. in Tucson when my mother and I went there for a new start in 1947. There were four Lovelace siblings there, Olin, Law, Glory and Truman Grace and “the old mother”. The other sister, Willow used to visit from Texas. They were decedents of Daniel Boone who had gone to Texas after the Civil War. The Father who led the migration was a former “Slave Driver” in the south.
They got to the Mississippi and the rest of the wagon train decided to postpone their departure due to information about Indian raids and attacks in Texas. (probably due to the preoccupation of the Federal Army with the Civil War) The Tribes through out the southwest had a reprieve from Army reprisals and were attacking migrants. I heard this at Ft. Bowie and concerning the Butterick Stage route through the Chirichuas and Apache Pass. The Lovelace family decided to continue on to Texas alone. A cattleman asked them to take a herd of cattle with them and they would divide the herd upon delivery of the Cattle in Texas. They delivered the Cattle and were told that they would “settle up” in the morning. In the morning the cattle and the receivers were gone. The Lovelace clan was afraid to pursue the “rustlers”.
The family lived a hard scrabble life. The mother, a daughter of the original settler, was a sort of matriarch in the family, reading and teaching her own interpretation of the bible to the the family. My mother was kind of fascinated with her interpretation. I remember the reference she made to “blood and water” associating the bible reference to childbirth, where there is both blood and water. She was in her 90s when we got to Tucson and bed ridden. Truman and Glory cared for her, turning her every two hours day and night and working full time too.
They were all very good to me. Helen, Law’s wife taught me to iron shirts and to sew, using a pattern. I played with their 3 little girls, Carol, Genowyn, and Dorothy. My mother taught all 3 the piano and said they were excellent pupils.
I have held on to this little box, given me by Truman to help furnish the “Little House on the Prairie”. Glory always said how much she loved Charles. A real sunset years love story. If you have a corner, hang on to it.
The Gem and Mineral Show
Gem and Mineral Show, 2007
The Gem and Mineral Show in Tucson Arizona is getting under way. The weather has warmed up, the sun is bright and the sky a cloudless blue. It is a scene unique in the USA. Vendors from all over the country and the world take over whole motels turning the guest rooms and lobbies into temporary shops filled with beads, stone artifacts, and rugs. This is the largest Gem and Mineral show in the world. I have been attending annually for about 10 years. Hanging around my neck is a buyer’s pass, supplied by my friend through her business. It allows me entrance into the “wholesale” shows.
The show attracts the foot loose wanderers, the flotsam and jetsam of the world wearing dreadlocks, carrying backpacks, skateboards, and guitars, led by a nondescript dog on a leash. Sometimes they are single males but also can be couples, the girls in their tie-dyed skirts, sandals, sleeveless knit tops. I look at them thinking, “Your parents are worried about you. This life has no future.”
The vendors have their own look. The men greet each other, ready to exchange small talk or arrange a trade of goods. Almost all appear to have spent too much time in the sun for the good of their skin. Often there is the red flush of the smoker or alcoholic on their faces. Most are middle age or older, their pants too tight, a small to medium size stomach hanging over a fancy belt buckle. The men sport ponytails and I saw one black pompadour, an attempt to add two to three inches in height, over intense blue eyes.
I have my favorite “shops” to visit. Abdul is a must. He is Afghani and has a shop in Berkeley. He has a wonderful collection of ancient and merely old beads. I head to him first, wanting to get some findings to fasten my necklaces. The ones he has are made in India and are simple and beautiful. While I am in his shop I check the prices of some of his antiquities. A small string of gold beads catches my eye. “How much are the gold beads?” I asked.
“One hundred dollars a piece.” There are at least twenty of them. They glow as if warming each other. A small gold ring with a flat, but real diamond at its center is $325.00. My friend bought one from him about three years ago and I always admire it on her finger.
A dealer is bargaining for a selection of amulets. “You have $450.00 there but for you $420.00.” The dealer demurs and Abdul says that prices have “gone out of sight in the last year”. Abdul looks stressed and not as affable as usual. Oh well, we’re all getting older. Mrs. Abdul sits smiling in her usual seat behind the counter. She doesn’t speak much English but is unusually effusive this year. There is a beautiful young woman sitting outside the door to their “shop” motel room.
“My wife made three trips to Pakistan this last year,” says Abdul. Slowly it dawns on us that this is a new daughter-in-law, an arranged marriage for their son. “ She has been here 22 days.” The teenaged daughter-in-law looks like a doll, just out of the box. She has elaborate eye and face make-up, a scarf wrapped around her head, expensive French boots sticking out beneath her long skirt. She has an expression of anxiety and boredom, a strange mixture. Their son, waiting on customers from behind the counter looks disoriented, his hair awry. He isn’t paying much attention to his new bride.
“We should bring them a gift,” says my friend. In years past we have brought a large bag of fragrant Minneolas from the tree in her back yard. This year the crew from the landscaper service took every one from the tree. We settle on a Valentine box of chocolates.
There are the women too. They remember me from previous years. My favorites are the Nepalese women. They are setting up today but greet me saying “You’re alone?” They still remember my son Caleb and his wife Anita, a handsome couple who were with me two years ago.
The African village is unpacking. It is a city block with about 60 booths. I hope to find wastebaskets there, beauties from Burkina Faso. African merchants bring cloth, baskets, beads, carvings, and masks and spread them out on tables and the ground. Two women have set up a kitchen that caters to the vendors. They stand in bright cloth wrapped around their hips and heads, stirring large kettles of stew. I suspect it contains goat meat. There are large pools of grease floating on the top. There is a good aroma of spices in the air. I’ll go to the vegan concession in the next block north and buy a vegetable filled buckwheat crêpe.
If you hope to go, be sure to make reservations at least 6 months in advance. This includes airline tickets, accommodations and rental cars. The start is usually the last weekend in January and it runs for about 10 days.
The Gem and Mineral Show in Tucson Arizona is getting under way. The weather has warmed up, the sun is bright and the sky a cloudless blue. It is a scene unique in the USA. Vendors from all over the country and the world take over whole motels turning the guest rooms and lobbies into temporary shops filled with beads, stone artifacts, and rugs. This is the largest Gem and Mineral show in the world. I have been attending annually for about 10 years. Hanging around my neck is a buyer’s pass, supplied by my friend through her business. It allows me entrance into the “wholesale” shows.
The show attracts the foot loose wanderers, the flotsam and jetsam of the world wearing dreadlocks, carrying backpacks, skateboards, and guitars, led by a nondescript dog on a leash. Sometimes they are single males but also can be couples, the girls in their tie-dyed skirts, sandals, sleeveless knit tops. I look at them thinking, “Your parents are worried about you. This life has no future.”
The vendors have their own look. The men greet each other, ready to exchange small talk or arrange a trade of goods. Almost all appear to have spent too much time in the sun for the good of their skin. Often there is the red flush of the smoker or alcoholic on their faces. Most are middle age or older, their pants too tight, a small to medium size stomach hanging over a fancy belt buckle. The men sport ponytails and I saw one black pompadour, an attempt to add two to three inches in height, over intense blue eyes.
I have my favorite “shops” to visit. Abdul is a must. He is Afghani and has a shop in Berkeley. He has a wonderful collection of ancient and merely old beads. I head to him first, wanting to get some findings to fasten my necklaces. The ones he has are made in India and are simple and beautiful. While I am in his shop I check the prices of some of his antiquities. A small string of gold beads catches my eye. “How much are the gold beads?” I asked.
“One hundred dollars a piece.” There are at least twenty of them. They glow as if warming each other. A small gold ring with a flat, but real diamond at its center is $325.00. My friend bought one from him about three years ago and I always admire it on her finger.
A dealer is bargaining for a selection of amulets. “You have $450.00 there but for you $420.00.” The dealer demurs and Abdul says that prices have “gone out of sight in the last year”. Abdul looks stressed and not as affable as usual. Oh well, we’re all getting older. Mrs. Abdul sits smiling in her usual seat behind the counter. She doesn’t speak much English but is unusually effusive this year. There is a beautiful young woman sitting outside the door to their “shop” motel room.
“My wife made three trips to Pakistan this last year,” says Abdul. Slowly it dawns on us that this is a new daughter-in-law, an arranged marriage for their son. “ She has been here 22 days.” The teenaged daughter-in-law looks like a doll, just out of the box. She has elaborate eye and face make-up, a scarf wrapped around her head, expensive French boots sticking out beneath her long skirt. She has an expression of anxiety and boredom, a strange mixture. Their son, waiting on customers from behind the counter looks disoriented, his hair awry. He isn’t paying much attention to his new bride.
“We should bring them a gift,” says my friend. In years past we have brought a large bag of fragrant Minneolas from the tree in her back yard. This year the crew from the landscaper service took every one from the tree. We settle on a Valentine box of chocolates.
There are the women too. They remember me from previous years. My favorites are the Nepalese women. They are setting up today but greet me saying “You’re alone?” They still remember my son Caleb and his wife Anita, a handsome couple who were with me two years ago.
The African village is unpacking. It is a city block with about 60 booths. I hope to find wastebaskets there, beauties from Burkina Faso. African merchants bring cloth, baskets, beads, carvings, and masks and spread them out on tables and the ground. Two women have set up a kitchen that caters to the vendors. They stand in bright cloth wrapped around their hips and heads, stirring large kettles of stew. I suspect it contains goat meat. There are large pools of grease floating on the top. There is a good aroma of spices in the air. I’ll go to the vegan concession in the next block north and buy a vegetable filled buckwheat crêpe.
If you hope to go, be sure to make reservations at least 6 months in advance. This includes airline tickets, accommodations and rental cars. The start is usually the last weekend in January and it runs for about 10 days.
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