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."