Notes from Tuscarora, September, 1994
We arrive on a September day that feels like a typical one in August: dry, dusty, the time of day that flattens the landscape and makes me sorry for choosing this place. I don't like the roofline of the addition to the Adobe House. I think the name "Adobe House" is stupid and pretentious.
Everyone pitches in, unloading the car. The light changes. Pretty soon it all feels better.
Getting there. Every trip is different, but every trip has its own ritual. Places where I stop. What I notice on the way. Stop at Raley's in Elko. Notice the Hooper's stone house with the beautiful blue roof. Think about stopping at Lone Mountain for coffee, but we didn't do it. We never do. Notice the Van Norman sign, "In God..." weather tilted letters, some missing. "What about God?" I wonder. The willows in Taylor Canyon. We're getting closer. The Taylor Canyon Bar is closed. Turn on to the Midas road for the seven miles, then turn one more time.
The coincidences. Six degrees of separation. John Euler knows the Varneys, whose daughter is married to John's friend, the owner of a paint store in Mill Valley. Wheatly Allen's friend, Elmer Colette, has been coming here for years to visit Doc Flynne, who has a house near Jack Creek.
The first Artist's Week, when I brought Heidi, Rosemary and Pamela to Tuscarora, we stayed in Winnemucca, had dinner at the Martin Hotel. The owner asked us, "Where are you going?"
We said, "Tuscarora."
He replied, "We were just up there a couple of days ago."
Monday, January 31, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Tuscarora Journal: A Reminiscence "Friends and Neighbors, 1993"
Friends
On his way back to Ukiah after visiting his son in Salt Lake, Doug Puckering, math teacher at Mendocino College, parked his camper down near the turn-off and spent the night. The next day he drove around Tuscarora, trying to figure out which was our place. A devout born-again Christian, Doug later told me that "somebody ought to fix up the cemetery."
My cousin Chris came out from Salt Lake, took a great photograph of me, Mom, Itha, and Annique standing in front of the adobe house. I love that picture.
When my friend Heidi came, we--Mom, Heidi, Itha, Annique, and I--spent the night in the little cabins at Taylor Canyon. We continued the discussion about "who would like this place." Neither Itha or Heidi thought their husbands would. I told both of them, "if you ever want to run away from home, you can always come to Tuscarora."
Other friends: Sarah Sweetwater. She loves Tuscarora. Mom's best friend in Elko, Berna Johnson, came up with her sister and brother-in-law, Kathleen and Bob Ewald. They didn't say anything critical, but I'm sure they think Mom is crazy.
Neighbors
Charlie Woodbury, 81, was the one who said to my mother, "Helen, I know you are a good old ranch gal. What're you doing hanging around with them art people?"
Lee Deffabaugh. I transplanted a yellow rose from her back yard. I think there are only four lawns in town--hers, the Parks, James's, and the Pottery School.
Jim Linnehan (aka James) left us a beautiful wildflower, wild grass bouquet in a cast iron pot.
Milt d'Azevedo, retired truck driver, Marin County Portuguese. "Me 'n Charlie's next move is over there." He nods toward the cemetery.
Felix Thornhill, the Ukiah Thornhills, much to Doug's chagrin. "Where's Doug?" Felix says. "I want to take him fishin'." Milt says nobody will go fishing with Felix anymore. Felix tells us about his "prostrate operation." "You turn it on and off, like a little spigot." No one wanted to inquire further.
One day two bottle hunters came. We talked to them but wouldn't let them dig on our property.
On his way back to Ukiah after visiting his son in Salt Lake, Doug Puckering, math teacher at Mendocino College, parked his camper down near the turn-off and spent the night. The next day he drove around Tuscarora, trying to figure out which was our place. A devout born-again Christian, Doug later told me that "somebody ought to fix up the cemetery."
My cousin Chris came out from Salt Lake, took a great photograph of me, Mom, Itha, and Annique standing in front of the adobe house. I love that picture.
When my friend Heidi came, we--Mom, Heidi, Itha, Annique, and I--spent the night in the little cabins at Taylor Canyon. We continued the discussion about "who would like this place." Neither Itha or Heidi thought their husbands would. I told both of them, "if you ever want to run away from home, you can always come to Tuscarora."
Other friends: Sarah Sweetwater. She loves Tuscarora. Mom's best friend in Elko, Berna Johnson, came up with her sister and brother-in-law, Kathleen and Bob Ewald. They didn't say anything critical, but I'm sure they think Mom is crazy.
Neighbors
Charlie Woodbury, 81, was the one who said to my mother, "Helen, I know you are a good old ranch gal. What're you doing hanging around with them art people?"
Lee Deffabaugh. I transplanted a yellow rose from her back yard. I think there are only four lawns in town--hers, the Parks, James's, and the Pottery School.
Jim Linnehan (aka James) left us a beautiful wildflower, wild grass bouquet in a cast iron pot.
Milt d'Azevedo, retired truck driver, Marin County Portuguese. "Me 'n Charlie's next move is over there." He nods toward the cemetery.
Felix Thornhill, the Ukiah Thornhills, much to Doug's chagrin. "Where's Doug?" Felix says. "I want to take him fishin'." Milt says nobody will go fishing with Felix anymore. Felix tells us about his "prostrate operation." "You turn it on and off, like a little spigot." No one wanted to inquire further.
One day two bottle hunters came. We talked to them but wouldn't let them dig on our property.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Tuscarora Journal: A Reminiscence "Who Would Like This Place?"
Who Would Like This Place?
I tell my sister that the residents are like curators of some derelict art museum, a tribute to two epochs: the mine tailings are an earth art memorial to the glory days of silver mining and the rusted wrecked cars a tribute to the automobile age.
As we walk past desiccated bodies of ground squirrels lying on the road, we talk about who would like this place, who would "get it."
On the phone I wonder to my sister if we should encourage this "mystical high desert crap."
"Which comes first?" she says.
I said that the reclaimed mine tailings on the other side of the Glory Hole look like ancient ruins: slightly Egyptian, slightly Anasazi.
When I was telling John Wetzler about our real estate purchase, describing the town, the lack of any distinctive architecture, the mining operations and their cyanide pads, he said, "Nancy, Tuscarora sounds ugly."
On the defensive, I said, "Well, I'm not giving over my summer to O.J. Simpson. Let's talk about Tuscarora."
I tell my sister that the residents are like curators of some derelict art museum, a tribute to two epochs: the mine tailings are an earth art memorial to the glory days of silver mining and the rusted wrecked cars a tribute to the automobile age.
As we walk past desiccated bodies of ground squirrels lying on the road, we talk about who would like this place, who would "get it."
On the phone I wonder to my sister if we should encourage this "mystical high desert crap."
"Which comes first?" she says.
I said that the reclaimed mine tailings on the other side of the Glory Hole look like ancient ruins: slightly Egyptian, slightly Anasazi.
When I was telling John Wetzler about our real estate purchase, describing the town, the lack of any distinctive architecture, the mining operations and their cyanide pads, he said, "Nancy, Tuscarora sounds ugly."
On the defensive, I said, "Well, I'm not giving over my summer to O.J. Simpson. Let's talk about Tuscarora."
Friday, January 21, 2011
Tuscarora Journal: A Reminiscence
Tuscarora in June, 1993
- Steve, the carpenter whose mother had a sex change. Steve refers to her as "his Uncle Len." James's twisted take-off on Fay Dunaway in Chinatown, "My mother, my uncle, my mother, my uncle." Slap. slap.
- First day, utter mess, boards, subfloor, room partitions, masonite, layers of old linoleum, old redwood shiplap siding.
- Ripping layers of wallpaper and newspaper, 1888: S.F. Examiner, Salt Lake Tribune, Portland Maine Woodsman. Fine brittle layers, toasty brown, elegant black typeset.
- Reciting poems standing on the subfloor, papers blowing, fallen walls--Helen, Itha, James, Steve, Maisie the dog.
- Lone Mountain Station. The Piute proprietor who wouldn't let Helen in to make a phone call; the photographs of men holding fish.
- The concept of the western wave--laughing about the etiquette of waving from a pick-up truck, the kinds of waves and what they mean.
- Getting stuck at the dump on the edge of the mine tailings in a brand new metallic blue pick-up, rented from Gallagher Ford--our Thelma and Louise act. "Who's going to go get Jerry?" James said, "and it's not going to be me," he added.
- Carrying coals to Newcastle--taking a case of beer to two alcoholics as a thank you for the free bed with a good mattress and box springs, a cigarette burn in the plastic headboard.
- Itha says, "It's the hottest summer in thirteen years, the town smells like dead ground squirrels, we're working like dogs, but we're having a great time."
- Itha called Boyak Surveying to see if there was an official map of property lines. The guy laughed and said, "We went up there one time. There was so much conflict and disputation, we just got the hell out of there."
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