WE BUILD; WE FIGHT - A SEABEE'S MEMORIAM

My Dad tried to be a good dad when he thought about it. I remember him mowing the tall grass in the back yard into a geometric pattern, making a ‘game’ board for us to play the Fox and the Chicken. He was always the Fox at first.  I remember him alternatively preparing spaghetti and a dish he called SOS (chipped beef in a white sauce on toast from his days in the Navy) the entire week of my whole young life that Mom was in hospital. I remember him walking my sister and me down to school bus stop on super cold Missouri winter mornings bundling us up in blankets so we wouldn’t get frostbite.

Dad took my sister and me on a couple hikes – one down along the Missouri River and the other through the closed golf course of our country club. I fell down a hill and gashed my knee and Dad wrapped my bloody knee in a dirty oil rag from the trunk of the car. Mom was not pleased.

Dad worked as a journeyman electrical lineman for the local electric utility, a couple of those years spent as the night ‘troubleshooter’. We grew up with hard-drinking, hard-gambling guys with nicknames like Shorty and Red. We grew up with Mom, us girls in tow, picking up the paycheck on Friday so Dad’s earnings would make it into the bank account instead of on a game table or a bar bill. My Mom mostly raised us. Dad honestly wasn’t around too much.

My father was raised in a family where the ‘future’ only existed as some fuzzy concept for somebody else. He was born shortly before the Great Depression and his father, a railroad man, died on the rail yard when Dad was 11. This was long before any public welfare system; any food or clothing my grandmother was able to provide to her fatherless brood of seven was through church and charity.

My Dad told me he was playing baseball in a sand lot when he heard about Pearl Harbor. Whether through patriotism or a sense of adventure, he wanted to sign up right away but wasn’t quite old enough. As soon as he graduated from high school (the only of his siblings to do so), he enlisted in the Navy.

My Dad served in the brand new SeaBees established in WWII to build air strips and Quonset huts in the jungle, clear minefields, build roads….any construction required in the Pacific Theater in a war that was being played out on sea and on land in very different battle fields than ever before. The Pacific Theater was brutal and hot and sweaty and dirty. And very, very exotic and far away from the poor white trash Kansas home in which my Dad grew up.

For my Dad, the reality of war was very different than the one portrayed on enlistment posters. My Dad was a sensitive man, aware that whoever he killed or witnessed killing may have been the enemy but was also someone’s brother, son, or father. He saw things so terrible that anything that vaguely looked like a gun – including pop guns and water pistols – were taboo in our house. Once he told me probably the single most horrific thing he saw during the War was the beheaded body of a Japanese soldier. Dad told me the Aussies sometimes did this because the body had to be intact to enter the Japanese equivalent of heaven. A final brutal act intended to demoralize and terrorize the enemy.

Dad was a hugely intelligent man with a complex and rather tortured personality.  I remember Dad being really moody at times and often quick of temper. But it wasn’t until I was much older, until friends and family members were coming back from that war they called Viet Nam, that I was able to put name to his torture. At some point I knew he suffered from ‘shell shock’, the term they used for PTS before the events of Viet Nam made this a disorder and methods for treating it began evolving.

Memorial Day is tomorrow. Origins of the event vary widely among historians. Civil War historian David Blight believes Memorial Day as we now know it had its origins as a one-time celebration to honor Union prisoners of war that had been buried en masse without ceremony in the South. On May 1, 1865, over ten thousand mostly black residents of Charleston gathered to clean up and decorate the forgotten field of the Union prisoners’ burial ground. This astonishing event was covered by the New York Tribune and other national papers. For those attending, it was their way of saying thank you to these fallen soldiers for their recent freedom from slavery.

It took years for my Dad to come to terms with his own war experiences. I’m not sure he ever completely did. I know my nephew, who came back from Iraq a few years ago disabled and unemployable, will spend the rest of his life living with the trauma, physical and mental, of the explosion and subsequent firefight that disabled him. That’s what soldiers do. Soldiers are not extraordinary people at the start; they become extraordinary people because of the extraordinary pressures and horrors of war.

In a way, Dad lived the SeaBee slogan “We Build, We Fight” until he died. He built all kinds of things in his working life and he spent his whole life fighting really hard to heal himself of the effects of War on his spirit. On Memorial Day, it is appropriate to honor our fallen. We ask them to kill others so that we may live in peace and security, far away from the horrid mess of battle. They responded to the call of duty. It is our duty to properly remember their response to that call.

YOU GOTTA’ HAVE ART

I can picture our very early foremothers and fathers picking up a piece of charcoal (this is after they found fire of course) and thinking “Ugh…what do to cave walls?” I can picture them trying to describe their journey’s circuitous path by drawing a map in the dirt with a stick. I can picture them drawing what looked like a rudimentary tent for a mountain, delighted with the ability of others to instantly understand that one tent meant that mountain and two tents meant the one with two summits.

At some point, we humans began drawing even more intricate figures. We drew figures of pregnant goddesses, lightning bolts, stick figures that may have been ‘aliens’ or indigenous peoples. By the time of the Pharaohs, our ability to depict our reality had become incredibly intricate and we used a vast array of materials. At some point, drawing for recordation or clarification morphed into our need to adorn ourselves and our walls with figures and pigments that were purely ornamental. And we called this ‘art’.

I do not have a creative bone in my body. I’m pretty sure I was reading a book somewhere and forgot to show up when God allotted the creative gene. Nonetheless, I love all kinds of visual art. I take photos in order to capture my memories and sometimes I even frame them. But generally, I am relegated to admiring, and sometimes purchasing, art from others.

I started collecting art even in college. I bought a watercolor from one roommate and a hand-woven basket from another. I lived with a photographer for a time. His beautiful black and white ‘available light’ photographs filled my apartment walls – until I found out he felt his nude models would be more comfortable if he were nude, too.

As a young adult, my then husband and I started going to ‘free dinner’ art sales held by Park West, a gallery in Michigan with an aggressive marketing strategy. My husband and I were pretty broke but we managed to buy a few serigraphs and lithographs for our walls by people we had never heard of but whose images we fell in love with.  It made us feel sophisticated and besides, we just liked the art.

Over the years, my artistic tastes and knowledge matured as did Park West’s marketing strategies. As they built a solid clientele, they made their events more exclusive and even halted their ‘land auctions’ completely for a time as they opened satellite galleries and moved their collecting events to the  cruise ships. With the business generated by the cruise ships and with their enormous ‘mother’ gallery in Southfield Michigan, Park West is now the largest gallery in the world.

I no longer attend free dinners to buy art. As one of their long-standing collectors, every six months or so I am invited to an entire weekend of art collecting in some flash Arizona location that provides ample opportunity for relaxing and enjoying the company of other art collectors.  I can’t always go, but when I do, I get to talk and learn about art and artists from other collectors.  But the main attractions of these weekend events is getting to meet the very artists whose work I already or will collect. Last weekend I attended one of these collecting events at the historical, gorgeous and luxurious Wigwam Resort near Goodyear, Arizona.

‘Provenance”, or the history of a thing whether it is wine or artifacts or art, provides the ‘story’ of the piece. Of course with art it is helpful to know where it was purchased, how the art came to that gallery or seller and approximately the date the art was completed. But honestly, there is no better provenance than all those things and the story of its creation directly from the artist who created it.

Imagine Picasso sharing with you over dinner how he eventually sank into depression after his friend Casagemas committed suicide, settling into his rather morose “Blue Period’, painting an entire series of monochromatic blue and green canvases with dark subjects like prostitutes and beggars. Imagine Vermeer relating the story of how his painting the innocent Dutch girl with the pearl earring came to be. Stories are important. But stories directly from the artists? That would be Provenance on steroids.

This past weekend, my friend  Margaret and I met three internationally regarded artists. All three, joyous and fun for the most part, had their own stories to tell about the original pieces that were available to us that weekend.

Peter Max, an immigrant from Berlin and undoubtedly the most well-known pop artist in the world, related his need to reach out to his community of friends to save Lady Liberty from her structural deterioration and to the families of the first responders of 9/11. He told of the constancy of yoga in his life and its impact on his art. He talked about his association with the Beatles and told stories of his long friendship with Andy Warhol.

Marcus Glenn, showing musicians in a way that virtually flows across the canvas and an artist I have collected for several years, shared his joy and astonishment at being selected the Grammy Artist for 2014. He spoke of his amazement at being gathered into the fold of the enormously famous and talented musicians at the Grammies.  He reminded us he couldn’t get very uppity about that because his wife Yolanda would be quick to remind him that he was still just Marcus Glenn, a working-class kid from Detroit.

Victor Spahn, a Russian immigrant now living in Paris, whose art depicts movement in sports and dance in ways no other artist has accomplished, shared a clip he filmed on his phone camera of his friend, a world famous opera singer, as she played and sang on the piano in his living room. He spoke of his painting technique which gives impression of movement on a flat canvas. He shared his love of cars and his enchantment at being allowed to be the official painter for various car manufacturers including Lexus. He confessed he loved American cars and told us he had a Smart Car for driving around in Paris.

Living room talk. Kitchen table conversations. Bar confessions. Meeting and learning about your artists has a lasting impression on the way you view the art hanging in your home. I can hear that smoky note of the blues singer in Glenn’s work, the pound of the hooves of the horse in Spahn's horse race. I can feel my heart quicken as I glance at the image of the Statue of Liberty and know that Max actually made it possible for my children and grandchildren to see that very Lady in person.

Before they leave, you get to stand next to these great artists to have your picture taken with them, giving you time to tell Max you love the joy in his work and you now understand, because you are also a devotee of yoga, how it came to be there; to get a ‘snog’ by Marcus Glenn who you have told with shining eyes that his work moves the music within you; and to get a warm hug from the boyish Spahn who has appreciated your interest in how he has been able to get the mud from the track up into the canvas.

Provenance my friends. Can’t get better than that.

SAMPLING SEDUCTIVE SEDONA

Sedona – the sensuous center of Arizona vortexes and sweeping scenes of lush red-walled canyons and natural arches. I’ve been to Sedona many times in my years living in Arizona – visiting Sedona’s seductive spas, art galleries, eateries and vortexes. This time I was intent on ignoring the sensuous pleasures of Sedona to focus on sampling Sedona’s wonderful hiking opportunities and the tasty beers of Oak Creek Brewery.

I’ve hiked Sedona before. One of my favorite spots before a damaging flood in September 2009 was Red Rocks State Park, where a short hike along Oak Creek would deliver me to a field of impossibly balanced stone towers constructed with magnetically charged rocks and pebbles. It was magic. The last time I was there, those rock towers had been swept away by the flood but I could see that the Park’s many visitors were beginning the slow process of rebuilding the hundreds of cairns, returning the field once more into a place that could easily cause the child in you to envision tiny mystical people. Magic reborn.

If it weren’t for Sedona’s magnetic rock, Sedona might still be here but it wouldn’t be Sedona.  The red in the rock is its higher than average iron content, which not only causes the rock to be magnetic (hence the small rock towers everywhere) but is also purported to be able to effect brainwave EEGs (Sedona Anomalies). These electric anomalies, called vortexes where they are most strongly felt, are said to have healing properties and provide the perfect environment for meditation.

Although I experience the magnetism in the rock and my inner child enjoys building stone towers, I can’t honestly say I have ever felt a vortex. I meditate, and sometimes even well, but even though several of my friends have ‘felt the charge’, I never have. I sit quietly, in muktasana (seated posture) with my hands in chin mudra (index and thumb joined in a circle on my knees with palms up) and wait for the charge, and wait, and wait and then……..nada.  My monkey mind keeps asking all sorts of questions – how does this work, exactly? I wonder if I am an upflow or an inflow vortex person (if you clicked on the link above you would know what that was already). Are my palms really feeling warmer? That bird song is nice – wonder which bird it is. I’m feeling like Indian food. Where is good Indian food around here?

To the point, if you are in Sedona, you should visit a vortex. Period. Even if, like me, you wind up only feeling the wind on your face and keeping your monkey mind busy.  It’s a thing. Like going to New York City and visiting Lady Liberty. And on this trip, we could hike AND visit vortexes since some of the most stunning places in Sedona are conveniently vortex sites.

We all have friends that we choose to do different things with.  My usual Sedona friends have been more the pedi/mani artsy kind. This time I took four of my dedicated hiking friends with me, staying at Diamond Resorts Sedona Summit, a lovely property in West Sedona on 89A at the intersection with the Red Rock Loop Road to Red Rocks State Park.

Sometimes you just have to call out the experts. The two friends who I drove up with and I were intent on starting our Sedona sojourn by taking a short hike before we settled in to our suite. The greater Sedona area has an excellent web of hiking trailheads leading from its main and side roads, including the in-town trails where the Coconino Forest sneaks right onto 89A west at the Adobe Jack Trailhead, just a short distance from the “Y”. (The Y is the major intersection between West and North 89a and Highway 179.)

This is where my friends and I started our hiking vacation with a pleasant hour hiking the loop around the Adobe Jack, Coyote and Crusty Trails in a light sprinkle. It was lovely. These women would gladly exchange a little moisture to spot an unusual flower, bush, rock formation or animal along the trail. I think I’m in love with them.

The next day, joined by two more hiking buddies, the group decided to hike in Dry Creek Basin, which is an absolute hiker’s heaven just beyond the edges of West Sedona. We missed the unpaved road to the Devil’s Bridge Trailhead but found ourselves a few miles further along on the paved Long Canyon Road which had an actual paved parking lot and trailhead to the Bridge. Missing the unpaved road probably put a couple miles or so onto our hike but if a destination is too close, this group doesn’t feel like we’ve been anywhere.  Yes, I definitely think I’m in love with them.

Devil’s Bridge is a very popular hiking destination in Sedona and rightfully so. The hike from the jeep trail is a little less than a mile and as you approach, you have to climb up to the Bridge but the path is well marked and in good condition.  The Bridge itself is large enough and wide enough for mothers to feel safe about letting their kids jump or balance on one foot for family photo ops. Not this mother you understand but I did witness this. We spent an agreeable half hour before retracing our steps to Long Canyon Road.

Our original idea was to drive up the unpaved road after visiting the Bridge to a place delightfully called Secret Canyon. Its secrets are still secret since we determined that the unpaved road was a bit too bumpy and the time it would take to slowly drive the rest of the way over that rocky road we deemed would take too much time from other planned hikes. We turned our attentions to Fay Canyon and the promise of another arch and the crème de la crème of hiking attractions - a set of ruins. We like ruins; we like to poke around and take pictures of ourselves through tiny rock windows or peeking over rock walls.

We spotted the arch up and along the walls of the canyon but since one of our party was in the middle of a family crisis, we chose to avoid long or difficult hikes up the steep hill to get to it, staying closer to actual phone service. We followed the lush and beautiful Fay Canyon Trail back to where an enormous rock fall had closed off the rest of the canyon.

Though we did not proceed around the rock fall, a few of us bouldered up the rocks to see if it was possible. Fay Canyon is very, very lush and from the top of the rock fall I was able to take gorgeous pictures that put me nostalgic about old Tarzan movies. I wanted to be Jane. Not that I lusted over Johnny Weissmuller. My lust was more primal – I have always liked real estate and I wanted his treehouse. The canyon past the rock fall is now on our list of places to go because most likely we would find very few people there. Solitude is seriously attractive to avid hikers and backpackers.

Later that evening we visited Tlaquepaque, a gorgeous shopping and dining area near the Y. We wanted to stop in at the Oak Creek Brewery restaurant but it was chockablock full. I’m fonder of tap rooms than crowded busy restaurants and got the directions to Oak Creek’s small pub and tap room in an ‘industrial’ area of Sedona behind West Sedona’s main drag. While the others sampled the tasty food, my friend Melissa and I shared a generous sampling tray (10 2-oz glasses) of microbrews. We liked the Amber Ale and I think I liked the King Crimson a lot (it was one of the last of the 10 we tried and I’m a little fuzzy on the details). The tap room is very basic but has an excellent outdoor patio which is very relaxing and surprisingly quiet. It appears to offer live music during the evening, too.

The next day was Easter Sunday and three of us awoke at an ungodly hour to attend services at the church we thought might have the best view. (I know, kind of self-serving and I would apologize but the picture I took across the altar to the gorgeous morning sun on the red Rocks east of Sedona got over 30 Facebook ‘likes’. ) After some breakfast back at the resort, we all hiked the very urban and doable 3.6-mile Airport Loop Trail which is called that because it circumnavigates the Sedona Airport. The Airport sits atop Airport Mesa (which makes me wonder what the mesa was called before it became an airport – but then again, maybe the ETs who were attracted to the vortexes made it their landing zone as well). Actually this is a pretty satisfying hike with 360 degree views of Sedona if it’s not summer (not much shade) and you have never really been to Sedona.

While we were on top of the Mesa, we stopped at the Airport Vortex, a rather disappointing affair near the Masonic Lodge Memorial Cross but with terrific views to the north and west. Of course I tried meditating to see if I could be one with all things vortex and of course I failed. All that meditating did, however, cause me a great thirst which we satisfied at the 3-year-old Mesa Grill quite close to the actual airport runway. It felt, well, swanky being so close to the airplanes flying in and out of sexy little Sedona.

After two of our group left for Tucson, three of us returned to Fay Canyon to find the ruins which Melissa had discovered are right underneath the arch (the internet is so wonderful). We hiked back to the rocky scree-filled route to the arch, entranced by the delicate play of sunshine and shade on the arch. We stayed around to play around under the arch and in the ruins trying to figure out how the Mother made the arch and when, why and how her human species took up residence there.

Finally, heading back to the car, not really ready to call it quits for the day, we decided to hike one more trail. (I swear the Dry Creek Area is like a smorgasbord - you just have to have one more.) The parking lot to Fay is shared by a series of interconnecting trails, including the Aerie Trail. Aerie is aptly named because after wandering through the flats, it climbs slowly to traverse a ridgeline from which we could see stunning views of the rocks and sweeping views of Dry Creek Basin as the sun set behind us, relaxing on comfortably large rocks to watch the red rocks glow in the fading light.

The next morning, even after three days of hiking, we were reluctant to just drive home. Each way out of Sedona heads right through more abundant hiking opportunities. We exited Sedona via Hwy 179, stopping to hike the 4.3-mile Courthouse Butte Loop Trail. At the base of prominent Courthouse Butte, the trail is relatively flat and offers a lot of interesting washes and rock features which beg to be photographed. Be warned, however, the heat bouncing off the red rock can be brutal in the summer. Even in April we could feel the heat. The Butte is also a vortex site and whether you are a vortex devotee or a hiker, Courthouse Butte can deliver.

I can now attest that whether you are craving adventure or relaxation, Sedona is a good place to look. No matter if you have a few days or a few weeks, it’s worth your time to sample seductive Sedona.