Fly Me a River with my Worker Bee


Post in which I take a trip with my favorite worker bee.

Guys. Guys. Are you still here? How did I go like eighteen months without writing a single blog? I’m sure I had to like renew my account or something during that time. And I didn’t write anything? *hangs head* I’m a damn mess.

In the past eighteen months I changed jobs, changed states, became cancer-free, had my cancer come back, learned how to drive in the snow, and completely remade my entire life, so I’m gonna give myself a motherfucking pass. It’s cold here, y’all. Nebraska. Honestly, it’s not for everyone. (I’m not lying. It’s the actual Nebraska tourism slogan, guys.)

It’s the first week of 2020, and I don’t usually do New Years revolutions, or resolutions, or whatever the fuck y’all do. But this year I did promise myself that I would do more things that I love in 2020. And I love History Things ™ and plan on doing a ton of them. I also love sharing History Things ™ with you all, so I’m gonna try and write here at least once a month. That’s my goal.

Also I don’t actually have a trademark on the phrase “History Things” and may have possibly inhaled too much albuterol to combat my cold-induced asthma which is acting up terribly in this frozen hellscape I find myself “living” in.  It’s okay though, I don’t really need to sleep anyway.

Nebraska is actually super-fun when it’s not winter, and we are coming up on one year here. I want to tell you about ALL THE THINGS. There is so much to do here, and I’ve done a ton of History Things already. But first, there are a few Vegas things I still wanna talk about. So I’m gonna drop them here over the next few weeks and then my future posts will be Nebraskawesome. Deal?

Today I’m gonna talk about the time that my fellow worker bee, Buzz, and I explored up high and down low. Up high to a navigation arrow on top of a mesa near Mesquite, NV, and down low to explore a city that used to be under Lake Mead.

I found out about navigation arrows when I was doing research for my first trip to Boulder City, which you can read about here (part 1), here (part 2), and here (part 3). I was looking for info on the abandoned airport in Boulder City, and I came across some information on concrete navigation arrows, which I bookmarked and tucked away for another day.

So what are they? Basically they’re what’s left of a navigation system built to guide postal planes across the country in between WWI (when we knew enough about planes to keep them in the air) and WWII (when our navigation knowledge caught up). They were part of a system of Beacon Stations, spaced about twenty five miles apart on hilltops along airmail pathways. The beacons were for illumination and the brightly-painted yellow concrete arrows pointed the way to the next station. By WWII, navigation technology had improved, and the arrows weren’t as necessary. During the war, most of the beacons were scrapped for metal, but many of the concrete arrows remained. Tons of them are still there on hilltops waiting to be found.

When I told Buzz about the arrows, she wanted to go find one as much as I did. We looked at the Arrows Across America website, which has a listing of remaining arrows by state. We found a couple near Las Vegas, but the one in Mesquite looked pretty accessible and seemed to be only a short mile-or-so hike from a truck rest area off of I-80. Which is all well and good and everything but it was sooo fucking hot in the desert which is how I ended up driving my SUV on the top of a fucking mesa like I was a goddamned hero in an action movie or something rollin’ through the tumbleweeds. And I’m afraid of heights and I’m lucky my stupid ass didn’t drive off the top of the fucking thing. I COULD HAVE DIED.

But we found the arrow.


Here’s pointing at you, kid.

Somebody had painted it orange fairly recently. I guess it’s a thing for people to go up to them and paint them every once in a while. Some people think it kinda ruins them, but I’m also pretty sure I never would have found it without the paint job.

This is my favorite picture of Buzz at the arrow. It could be an album cover. Also, isn’t she so fucking adorable??? I love my friends.


I love her so much!

Honestly, I’ve done a lot of History Things, but this damn arrow was one of the best fucking things I’ve ever seen. I know I’ve mentioned before that I have a passion for dirty history. I like going out and seeing the shit that’s not sitting in a museum (don’t get me wrong – I love museums too!), especially if even if I might get killed in the process. There’s just something really satisfying of getting out there and doing history as an action. It gets me right in the god damned heart every fucking time.

Anyways, after the arrow, we drove into Mesquite and got ourselves dinner and then headed to the Lost City Museum in Overton, which I didn’t take any pictures of. It’s definitely worth seeing, and explores the history of the Anasazi, who originally inhabited the area around Lake Mead. I’m pretty sure I went through this museum when I was a kid, probably with my grandparents, as I vaguely remember a trip to the nearby Hoover Dam when I was a kiddo. Super shout-out to the museum attendant who gave us as bunch of info that prepared us for the next stop on our journey.

After an easy hour at the Lost City Museum, Buzz and I headed into Lake Mead to check out the abandoned city of St. Thomas.

You can read all about St. Thomas on the National Parks Service website, but I know that you don’t come to this blog for that kinda stuff. Read that on your own time. This is my time. I’ll give you the Vulgar Historian rundown. You’re welcome.

The area was originally inhabited by the Anasazi, but Mormons were the first white people to settle the area. The town was at the junction of the Muddy and Virgin Rivers, and it was a good area for farming which was what the Mormons were looking for. You might think that the men in the early LDS church were all about the multiple wives, but the truth is that farming was what really revved their engines. This place was great for farming, so they stayed. Thing is, they weren’t sure if they were in Utah or Arizona or Nevada. They lived there for a handful of years before Nevada was like y’all are in our state and owe us a shit-ton of back taxes. Rather than pay the taxes, they Burned. That. Shit. Down. and yeeted themselves back to Utah. Literally, they burned their houses down before they left.

A few years later, a new group of (non-LDS) settlers moved into town and took over a few of the abandoned brick buildings and set up a farming community. The town prospered, boosted by a railroad and then an auto road between Salt Lake City and LA. At its peak, the town had a population of about 500, and even hosted a president (I forgot which one) overnight.

In the 20’s the government decided to build the Hoover Dam, known then as the Boulder Dam, and paid the fine townspeople of St. Thomas to gtfo. Or, you know, learn to breathe underwater. Since the dam was gonna turn that whole area into a lake and all. By the time the dam was erected in the 30’s, most everyone was gone, but there’s always THAT PERSON, and so the final family had to evacuate by boat. AFTER SETTING THEIR HOME ON FIRE. What is up with these people burning down their fucking houses?

When the lake is full, St. Thomas sits 60 feet underwater. Since its submersion, drought has caused it to be uncovered a few times, most recently in 2004. The attendant at the Lost City Museum said he doesn’t think it’ll ever go back under in his lifetime. It’s California’s fault. Thanks, Obama. (Sorry I lived in Nevada for a while and old habits die hard).

One of the things about visiting a town sitting 60 feet underwater is that you have to hike 60 feet down to get to it. I am terrified of heights and didn’t realize I would be barreling down the side of a fucking cliff. Which was actually a gradual middling-steep trail, but my story is barreling down the side of a fucking cliff and I’m sticking to that. Buzz and I made it down okay and then hiked the maybe quarter of a mile to the townsite. The hike was almost all through sand, which was kind of fun but got into my shoes like nothing.


The trail was a 2.5 mile loop, most of it flat.

Once we got there, there were a several abandoned buildings, all partially destroyed, and a few more visible foundations for buildings that had once been there. There were a few signs telling you what you were seeing, but not a lot. There was still a lot to see.


Map of the different sites you could view from the trail.

I’m just gonna photo dump some of the pics from the trail.

Buzz and I had a great time and enjoyed ourselves immensely. We went slowly through the site, stopping at the different places and exploring. None of it was roped off, so you could actually go up and touch things. I’m pretty sure I touched everything there.


Aren’t we adorable?

Afterwards, we hiked back up to our car, which took longer than it took to just run headlong down the trail. The anxiety kicked in on the way back up, but I did it and I’m proud that I did.

If you get a chance to go, it’s definitely worth the hike. I’d advise to go in the fall or winter (when it’s cooler), take LOTS of water, and probably bring a first-aid kit. There are no facilities anywhere so anything you need will have to be brought in with you.

This was gonna be my last Vegas post, but while I was looking for pics of this trip, I realized that I had a bunch of pics from my two Rhyolite trips and my Tonopah trip that I haven’t posted about. So maybe I’ll post them before I post about Nebraska. Or maybe I won’t post anything again for 18 months. Who knows? Not me.

Mormon the Explorer

When I was a wee, baby, barely-adult person, I wrote a silly story called “Mormon the Explorer” about the exploits of Mormon and his bestie monkey, Manywives, and their attempts to thwart the evil Logic the Fox who was always trying to explain away their religious beliefs (“Logic, no explaining! Logic, no explaining!”). Of course, there was an accompanying song, set to the tune of the Dora the Explorer theme, that contained memorable lyrical gems such as “Grab your ten speed, let’s go!” Not my most shining literary moment, probably. Later on in life, I met actual Mormons, who are mostly pretty cool people. Or, maybe I should say that I met some pretty cool people who are also Mormon. Like, I’m not an actual fan of the Mormon belief system, or any organized religion (especially ones that consider LGBTQIA+ people to be sinners), but I’m definitely interested in Mormon history – both large picture and small. And I’m lucky enough to live in an area (Las Vegas) near the Western frontier of Mormon settlement.

A couple years ago I read Recollections of a Handcart Pioneer of 1860: A Woman’s Life on the Mormon Frontier by Mary Ann Hafen. It’s a really short read chronicling Mary Ann’s life as a child in Switzerland, her family’s conversion to the LDS faith and subsequent immigration to the US, their journey across the plains in one of the last waves of handcart pioneers, and her life on the Mormon frontier, first in St. George, Utah and then in Bunkerville, Nevada. She wrote the book with the help of her son, LeRoy Hafen, who was a well-known historian and a professor at BYU. Mary Ann’s granddaughter was Juanita Brooks, another notable Mormon historian who is one of my history crushes. She was the first Mormon historian to write extensively about the Mountain Meadows Massacre, which caused a lot of tension between her and the church. She feared she would be excommunicated for the book, but she chose to tell the story anyway.

If you’re interested, this is a really interesting paper about LeRoy Hafen and Juanita Brooks. It’s really long, though. I also recommend this biography about Juanita, I’m reading through it right now. I currently have a quote from that book as my Facebook cover picture.


Hashtag relatable.

Anyhoo, when I first read Recollections, I noticed that Mary Ann married a guy named John Reber (he died a couple days after their wedding in a tragic carriage accident). It just so happens that my bestie Crazypants Clems is a Reber by birth and comes from that area, so I got all excited about that connection (she’s descended from John’s brother, Samuel). Whenever I visit her, she indulges in my insane thirst for the history that she probably gets tired of hearing old people talk about at family reunions and whatever.  I’m very lucky to have friends that put up with my insane passions. And hopefully blog readers that put up with them as well because I’m gonna be writing about this stuff a lot cos I have several trips planned this summer to do some Mormon the Exploring.


Crazypants Clems and I. We’re even happier to see each other than we look. I ❤ her.

It just so happens that I went to Mesquite on Wednesday to see Crazypants Clems and the entire Clems family (minus the eldest child who is fucking married already wheredidthetimego???). She took me out to lunch at Peggy Sue’s, showed me the new Mesquite Library, and took me for delicious cookies and soda at The Splash Pad. But, just in case I doubted how much she really loved me, she also took me to the Virgin Valley Heritage Museum in Mesquite. She really does love me.

I highly recommend visiting it if you’re ever in the area. 10/10 would recommend. Not only was the museum pretty cool, but the museum administrator was super-nice and willing to answer all of our questions. Even the ones we didn’t ask.

One of the first things that the Clems kid noticed was that there were pictures of her ancestor, Samuel Reber, hanging up by the door. One of the first things I noticed was that there was a freaking whiskey still in the very first display. It surprised me because I don’t know a single Mormon that drinks (do they even exist?).



The first room of the museum housed a collection of items that were used by pioneers and early settlers, mostly arranged in glass cases. Along the back wall was a cowboy exhibit with pictures of the Bundys and other (in)famous area ranchers. The museum used to be a hospital, and there was a cool exhibit of medical stuff, including a list of babies that had been born there. Crazypants knew half of the people on the list (and is probably related to half of the people she recognized). We also noticed a smallish exhibit of Native artifacts, but I’m planning a trip to the Lost City Museum very soon so I’ll learn more about Native culture there. There was also a really cool film projector that had come from the old movie theater, as well.

I’m just gonna do a photo dump.

We saw a lot of cool things. We also saw some not-so-cool things.

I guess blackface was a popular design motif in Mormon pioneer culture. And contemporary white culture in general, if we’re gonna really be honest.

We got to see a picture of Mary Ann Hafen’s family, as well as an antimacassar that Mary Ann (or her daughter, Mary, it wasn’t clear) crocheted.

There were probably 40 photos along the wall of life in the Virgin Valley from pioneer times through the 1940’s or so. I found this awesome picture of Juanita Brooks among them. I had a historygasm when I saw it.


Behind the main room were several rooms that were set up like rooms in a pioneer home – a kitchen, a bedroom, and a sitting room. The sitting room was where I found the antimacassar. It was on a couch near a record player that played these thick, hard rubber records. The lady working in the museum (I didn’t get her name but she was really very awesome) even played one for us. Behind the museum was a little outdoor area with a family outhouse that had three seats, including a small seat for little booties. A path led to a shed-type building that housed exhibits on ranching history and military service.

Of course, my favorite room in the museum was the library/archives, so I wanna talk about that for a minute. It was just a tiny room with a few books and a whole lotta binders of stuff. Two filing cabinets in the corner caught my eye because they were labelled “to be digitized” or something like that. When I asked about them, I was informed that the majority of their collection was digitized online and accessible to the public. Be still my fucking heart. That’s not the norm for museums here, and certainly not the norm for these kinds of small-town museums, so I was pretty surprised. Oral histories are my jam, and those of you who don’t do much historical research have no idea what a fucking pain in the ass it is to deal with them sometimes. It takes hours to listen to something that you could read in literally minutes. And transcribing them – well, I’m fairly certain that’s the punishment in one of the levels of hell. There’s something Sisyphean about the constant cycle of listening, typing, and rewinding with no end in sight. So I’m always super fucking stoked when I find oral history transcripts online.

You can check out their archives here. Their larger website is here. While you’re at it, like their Facebook page here. They post mystery items every week, and it’s fun to guess what the stuff is.

I’m gonna come back to this museum later in the month. My platonic polycule is letting me take them on a Mormon history trip, and we’re gonna start in Bunkerville with Mary Ann Hafen’s grave, see the Dudley Leavitt monument, hit the Virgin Valley Museum, and then head up to St. George for the Brigham Young Winter House and Juanita Brooks’ grave. We’ll top it off with a visit to the Mountain Meadows Massacre site.

Stay tuned.

Oh yeah, you can read my other post about Mormon History here: First! And Mormons and Stuff..





History Is My Love Language

I’m typing all this on my iPad because I can’t find the cord to my laptop. I think I left it at work, but who knows. Yesterday my friend, Lipstick, and I went on an adventure. This is us:


The Vulgar Historian and Lipstick Go on an Adventure.

She took the picture. She’s the pretty one. I’m the one with the awesome hair.

We did a lot of talking and driving, and one of the things we talked about was our love languages. We both have the same love language – cuddling and history adventures. Lipstick called it something else, like, umm, quality time and physical affection or something. But she prolly read the whole book. I only read about four pages.

We also discussed a much better book, Anne of Green Gables, which we both love with all of our wistful little hearts. And we vowed to be bosom friends forever since we are such kindred spirits. Hopefully that means plenty more adventures ahead!

Yesterday, we kind of had a vague plan to do history stuff since Lipstick likes that kind of thing as much as I do. We heard there were some old buildings in Searchlight, but we didn’t see much interesting. We stopped in and got jerky at Gus’s Really Good Fresh Jerky, which definitely lived up to its advertising. The brisket was amazing. The Searchlight Museum hadn’t opened yet, and we were hungry, so we decided to head down to Laughlin for lunch,

Unplanned trips are the best, and I had never been to Laughlin before. Apparently, it was named after this dude, Don Laughlin, who saw the potential for tourism in the area, and bought up some property and opened the Riverside Resort. Most of Laughlin looks like it was built in the 1980’s, but that’s just a visual observation and shouldn’t be taken as a fact or anything. There was a statue of Mr. Laughlin in town that we got out of the car to look at. The statue had cobweb boogers that needed to be cleaned.


Lipstick was in charge of finding a place for us to eat lunch. She chose a place called Bumbleberry Flats, and I have to admit I was a bit skeptical. But she liked the name and it was close, so away we went.

The restaurant was in a place called Pioneer Hotel and Gambling Hall, which actually was built in the 80’s.

When we pulled up, I was even more skeptical. It was very old-west-saloon-and-brothel themed. It had that kind of western Main Street false storefront thing going on. The casino itself was actually closed, but the hotel and two restaurants were open. River Rick is the casino mascot (known as Laughlin Lou by some), and he’s pretty much the same dude as Vegas Vic of the Pioneer Hotel here in Las Vegas. I didn’t get a picture of the sign, but they have a weird rock art landscaping portrait that I did snap a pic of.


We went inside, and it was a 20 minute wait to be seated, which was surprising since it was a Monday afternoon. The hotel sits right on the river, so we went outside and looked around while we waited. It was gorgeous, y’all. The river was a beautiful blue-green and there was a cool breeze coming off the water. Lipstick and I sat on a bench and just soaked it all in.

After some time had passed, we went back inside and were seated after a couple of minutes or so. I have never been so happy to be proven so wrong about a place. The food was fucking amazing. We shared a bowl of chicken pot pie soup that was so creamy and buttery that I could barely stand it. And it had a little square of puff pastry on top that was like two orgasms in a row. I ordered the pecan french toast which was just about as perfect as it could be – crunchy on the outside and creamy and buttery and cinnamony on the inside, covered with pecans and maple syrup. Lipstick got cheddar bacon waffles with chicken and Louisiana honey hot sauce. Hers was pretty good too. If you’re ever in Laughlin, stop by Bumbleberry Flats, you won’t be disappointed. While you’re at it, stop at the hotel gift shop on your way out. They have candy cigarettes for fifty cents, which were somehow the perfect end to a perfect meal (since I gave up real cigarettes back in 2012).

After lunch, we headed back north and ended up in Nelson, Nevada. We stopped just past Nelson and did some hiking up through an area that was pretty much a tin can graveyard. We saw some cool stuff – giant sheets of metal on the ground, something that looked like a furnace, and a lizard that was too quick for me to get a picture of. We had so much fun that I forgot that I wanted to visit the graveyard. I’ll have to save that for another day.


After we hiked around Nelson, we went a couple miles down the road to the Eldorado Canyon where they have all this old stuff rusting in the desert. They do mine tours and rent kayaks too. It’s private property, but they let you go out and explore if you want. You just hafta stay out of the restricted areas and you can’t take professional photographs or go in the mine without paying.

Signs in the parking lot direct you to check in to the general store before doing anything. We needed water, so that was gonna be our first stop anyway. The lady at the counter was super-awesome. She was really friendly and knowledgable and funny. She told us to watch out for rattlesnakes because they had caught 16 so far this season. She also showed us a binder of pictures of dudes who didn’t listen when she said not to touch the cacti. Yup, she had “binders of men” – XD. She said that women never seemed to come in with cactus spines stuck in them, but it seemed like the lads couldn’t help themselves. For the record, here’s the cacti she was talking about.

Don’t touch me or the cacti.

The site had also been used for a bunch of films and stuff. There was a book of pics from movies shot there, as well as musicians who had performed there or visited there. There were even a few shots of models from ads that were shot out there.

I don’t really know how to describe what the place was like. Like if the stuff on the walls of Cracker Barrel took steroids and started a resort for other old oddities, it would be this place. It was really jarring and surreal and completely fucking awesome. Lipstick said she could envision an entire season of American Horror Story shot there, and I completely agree. We’ve vowed to return to do the mine tour.

I didn’t take a lot of pictures because I was looking at everything with my for-real eyes, but here are a few.


There was this one weird marker that told the story of Queho who was a murderer who had somehow escaped justice and had been found dead in a cave some 20 years after his murder spree. So of course that piqued my interest and I wikipedia’d it when I got home. Queho was apparently a mixed-race Native American who either killed, or was blamed for killing, several people in the Eldorado Canyon area, including his half-brother, between 1910 and 1919. Prospectors found his mummified body in a cave in 1940. I guess the Elk’s Club thought it would be totes cool to exhibit the body one year at Helldorado Days (WTAF Elk’s Club?!?!), but the District Attorney at the time managed to get hold of the remains and give them a proper burial. Here’s a pic of the marker that tells a little bit of the story. Which is interesting for another reason that I’ll get into in a sec.

Satisfactory! is the best I can hope for.

If you look at the bottom, you’ll see that the marker was placed in 2006 by The Queho Posse Chapter 1919, E Clampus Vitus. Well, friends, I’ll tell you, I didn’t know what in the fuck that meant. So I turned back to my good friends wikipedia and google and found out a little more.

So E Clampus Vitus (ECV) is a historical fraternal organization dedicated to the study of the old west, particularly mining. They call themselves “Clampers.” I got all this info from wikipedia, and you can read it yourself, but here’s the short version… The order started sometime in the 1800’s and a whole bunch of notable white dudes were members. Currently, they all wear red shirts and more pins than a TGI Friday’s waitress. The group seems to be a mixture of serious historical inquiry and drunken mirth-making. It sounds very much like a white-dudes-with-beards thing. I’m not a dude, but drinking and history and fucking around are my jam, so I’m curious. These kinds of things fascinate me, but I’m planning adventures at the moment so I’ll have to come back to this. If you, dearest reader, know anything about it please post in the comments.

The Queho Posse Chapter is the ECV chapter in Las Vegas. They’ve done a shit-ton of historical markers, which you can look up on their website. I peeped their fb group, and the only name I recognized was Mark Hall-Patton, which surprised me not at all as MH-P is a mirthful, bad-assed white dude historian with a beard. Fun fact, I met MH-P through church. Another fun fact, Lipstick had Mrs. H-P as a prof at uni. Isn’t the world small and weird and just as lovely as fuck-all?

Anywhoo, I didn’t mean to make this entire blog post about ECV. I just happen to get distracted rather easily.

After we were done in Eldorado Canyon, I took Lipstick to the abandoned pet cemetery in Boulder City. I’m not going to go too much into detail about that because I’ve previously written a bunch about it here. It was just as hard to find and just as big as it was last time I was there, and we explored a section that I didn’t get a chance to see last time. Here are some pics:


I want my grave to read “Fatums” when I die.

If all of that isn’t creepy enough, this grave has a fucking hole in it. Katie Dog, where are you? That’s a good girl….. aahhh fuck, it’s a zombie.


So, um, yeah, we saw that movie and we knew it was time to nope the hell out of there. Lipstick said she was glad I hadn’t taken her out to the desert to kill her and make her into delicious blood sausage. I could never do that. She’s like one of those really pretty desserts that you can’t take a fork to because you don’t want to mess it up. However, I don’t think she was reassured much by Katie Dog’s possible resurrection, so it was definitely time to go home.

We’re already making plans for a return trip to Boulder City to check out some museums, and I want to show Lipstick the abandoned airport. And of course another trip to Nelson for the graveyard and the mine tour, plus our friend Chewie was talking about an abandoned boat dock which sounds kinda cool too. And we have trips to Lake Mead and LDS Dixie coming up as well. This is gonna be the summer of historical adventure, so buckle up dear reader, it’s gonna be an amazing ride.

History really is my love language. I’m lucky for all the beautiful souls in my life who fill that bucket. ❤

Diane and the Desert: Part 3 – Hawthorne and Ozymandias

This is the third and final part of a series of posts honoring my stepmother, Diane Duncan. The beginning of this series is called “Diane and the Desert: Part 1 – Impressions.” The previous post is “Diane and the Desert: Part 2 – Cool Shiny Stuff.”

Movie night, Las Vegas, 2013.

When I was a teenager, I fell in love with ElfQuest comics. I had picked up an issue of Wave Dancers at the comic book store in Yard Birds, and I never looked back. I diligently hunted down all the other issues, the back issues, the folk music CD, and even the board game – all in pre-Internet days, thank you very much. My first tattoo was the ElfQuest logo. Eventually, I came across the novelization of the original quest, and I read a line in the first book that stuck with me. The elves had lost everything and, with the prospect of losing much more ahead of them, were journeying across a desert into the unknown. The leader of the small pack of elves, Cutter, heard the words “Sorrow’s End” in his head, not knowing that they were actually headed towards an oasis called Sorrow’s End. An oasis that contained a very different tribe of elves along with a new and unexpected future. As Cutter mulled the meaning of the phrase, “Sorrow’s End,” he mused to himself, “Sorrow’s End. There was no such thing. The only end to sorrow is death – and only that of the dying one and not the pain of those who lived on and mourned.” It may not be an exact quote. I don’t have the book anymore. But it is close. And it left a profound impact on me. You could tell that it left a profound impact on me because I doodled the quote on my book covers and in my notebook with a purple pen. Being a teenager, being a sensitive and emotional teenager, with relatively limited experience in death, that quote really encompassed what I knew about death and loss in the small ways that I had experienced it.

The funny thing is, it’s still true now. Diane’s pain is gone. The cancer is gone. But my pain is still here. The pain of the people who loved her is still here. I guess that that eventually gets smaller. I don’t know. I don’t have a lot of experience with this. But I don’t think it goes away completely. And I don’t think the good memories go away either. I hope they don’t. If the pain is the burden you have to bear for the memories, I’ll take it. Pile it on. Because the memories make the pain bearable.

After everything was said and done, the trip home from Reno was much less urgent and much more lonely than the trip there. I was hoping to break up the drive for the kids, so I made a lot of stops. The first stop was in Hawthorne, and there was so much to see there.

Mineral County Museum, Hawthorne, NV

If you ever pass through Hawthorne, you absolutely have to stop at the Mineral County Museum across from the McDonald’s. It’s free (leave a donation – don’t be a douche)! It is absolutely the most ridiculous and wonderful museum I have visited in a long time. It’s like falling into a museum looking glass. The displays are random and rarely labelled. Most of the display cases aren’t even proper cases. It is like a warehouse filled wall to wall with… just stuff. You’ll be looking at a shadow box filled with a hundred unexplained keys, and then turn the corner to find lovely examples of early 20th century clothing. Then you will wander into a section of old office furniture and machines that looks like the 1920 Sears Catalog vomited in a corner. I’m pretty sure that they don’t have an archived collection in a temperature-controlled back room somewhere. It’s all out on display, folks. And it’s pretty fucking amazing.

Now, the Mineral County Museum was cool. And we saw a bunch of other cool things in Hawthorne too. I’m going to do a post soon about a couple of Art Deco schools, which are pretty fucking nifty. But none of these things were the coolest. By far, the coolest thing in Hawthorne is the town that isn’t there.

Back in 1933, as part of a New Deal project, a Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) camp was built in Hawthorne, Nevada. A second camp was built in 1936, and these two camps combined to make up “Camp Jumbo.” The people who worked out of Camp Jumbo worked in cooperation with the forestry service, and the camp was maintained under the US Naval reservation there. When President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940, the first peacetime draft in the history of the United States, the numbers of men volunteering for the CCC diminished as men were drafted into the US military instead. This signaled the beginning of the end for the CCC, which would continue to decline in numbers until the program was officially disbanded after the bombing of Pearl Harbor in December 1941. The camp in Hawthorne was disbanded in May 1941, and the Hawthorne Naval Ammunition Depot (NAD) later developed the land as housing for the influx of military members and civilian workers who relocated to Hawthorne to support operations for WWII. This new housing supplemented existing housing adjacent to the former Camp Jumbo land, which was built by the Hawthorne NAD in 1941 and was known as the town of Babbitt.

Map of Babbitt, NV.  Courtesy Wikipedia,,_Nevada.

Reconstruction map of Babbitt, NV. Courtesy Wikipedia,,_Nevada.

In the 1940’s Babbit was pretty much where it was happening. As you can see in the map, it covered a huge area of land. By 1943, it extended 40 blocks and contained almost six hundred 2-, 3-, and 4-bedroom duplexes. Even more housing units were built during the Korean War. Babbitt boasted all of the amenities you would find in any small town (or any large military instillation) – schools, stores, gas stations, a library, a movie theater, restaurants, a bowling alley, a bank. It also had some not-so-awesome things, like segregation. The higher-numbered streets, near the east part of the town, was where the black families lived. There’s a really good interview of Carmen Head, a former black resident of Babbitt, on the Our Story, Inc. website. In the interview, she talks about growing up in Babbitt, segregation in Hawthorne, and how even small towns play a part in the larger narrative of black history. It’s a good read, if you have a couple minutes.

So what happened to Babbitt? Well, it’s not there anymore. Most of the houses were removed in the 1970’s and were shipped to new owners throughout Northern Nevada. Some are still in Hawthorne on different plots. Some have been spotted in Fallon and some even in Reno. If you want to see Babbitt today, you will turn into the Whiskey Flats RV park, just before Hawthorne (if you’re coming from Reno), and drive all the way through the park out the back gate. The roads are still there – pitted and cracked with weeds sprouting through the asphalt. But all that remains of the home sites are uneven layers of foundation, sprawled across the ground like giant headstones, concrete reminders of the lives lived there.

Babbitt home site, with walkway leading to concrete foundation.

Babbitt home site, with walkway leading to concrete foundation.

Concrete foundation.

Concrete foundation of former home site in Babbitt, NV.

The point I wanted to make about Babbitt is that people lived there. They really lived there. They slept and worked and went to school and fell in love and married and died there. The same things that you and I do. For a time, whether long or short, their lives were anchored in that one place. And even though that place doesn’t exist anymore, you can still see the remnants of what was left behind. And you can still feel the whispers of their lives in the air. Cities rise and fall, landscapes change, lives are born and crumble into dust, but the essence of all of that lives on. You can always see it if you look hard enough.

When I was a kid, probably early teens, I was really into the English Romantic poets, especially Byron and Shelley.  I could recite “When We Two Parted” by Byron from memory. Still can, and will gladly do so upon request, although I admit my oratory skills are lacking :p And of course, I loved “Ozymandias” by Shelley.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Who doesn’t love the story about Ramses II (a.k.a. Ozymandias), his pretensions to greatness, and the inevitable decline of his empire into nothingness. The lesson of the poem is that as great as you think you are – as great as you might be – eventually there will be nothing left. You ain’t hot shit after all. But, you see, when I was a kid I always got it all wrong. For me, the story behind “Ozymandias” wasn’t about how there was almost nothing left of this great huge empire. It was about how there was still something left of this great huge empire. Maybe it’s just the barest bones – the trunkless legs, shattered face, and plaque – and maybe the great empire has disintegrated into the lone and level sands. But something is still there. And the rest is waiting to be found.

Doodle and Diane; Beginnings and Endings.

Doodle and Diane; Beginnings and endings.

That’s what’s so comforting about history. Nothing ever really leaves us. We might come from stardust and return to it, but in the meantime everything that ever was is still there, just waiting to be uncovered.

Right now, my memories of Diane are buried by my grief. But those stories are sitting under the surface. And even though it’s hard to see them through the sadness, they are there – sometimes with mesmerizing sweetness and sometimes with painful eagerness – waiting to be held in the hands of our memory, waiting to be enjoyed and loved on and treasured again. And those stories are intertwined with the stories of my life. Stories that shaped the person I am, and stories that are still shaping who I become. And, if you knew her, those stories are intertwined with your lives. And although she’s gone, she can never really die. Not as long as her stories are a part of ours. Not as long as her love still comforts us. And not as long as her memories remain.

So I’m going to honor her the best way I know how. Not by telling her stories. Because these stories in this blog are for me, not for her. They are to help me sort through my grief, and maybe to help you if you find comfort here. No, I’m going to honor her by making my story the best it can be. Because her story is a part of my story, an important part of my story, and I have a responsibility to the part of her that is still with me. Because she was, at her most basic, a giant beacon of love wrapped up in human skin. And I think that’s what she would want for me. I think that’s what she would want for you. So I will remember her, and I will cherish those stories of her, and I will wrap myself tight in the memories of her, and then I will go out into the world filled with love and anticipation and I will write the best god-damned story I can write for my life. I hope you will too.

So, as the Eleventh Doctor once said, “We’re all stories, in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?”

Diane and the Desert: Part 2 – Goldfield and Cool Shiny Stuff

This is the second of a three-part post honoring my stepmother Diane Duncan. To read the first part, click this link Diane and the Desert: Part 1 – Impressions. The final installment is Diane and the Desert: Part 3 – Hawthorne and Ozymandias.

Diane and I – <3.

I didn’t mean for it to be two weeks between posts. The thing is, I’m really bad at processing emotional shit and really good at compartmentalizing. And I had shoved all of this into a box in my brain and I just don’t want to open it. But, you know, I kind of have to.

I’m a big fan of public history, and one of the things that I think a lot about is how history gets told. How do we preserve memory? Which stories get told, and which stories don’t? Which items go on display and which ones stay archived? How much of our final narrative contains input from outside groups who might have their own unique perspectives, and how much of it is just raw data?  Yes, I know, I think about weird shit.

Those who know me won’t be surprised to learn that I asked myself the same questions while thinking about how to best memorialize Diane in this blog. My grief is my grief. It is different from my dad’s grief, or my sister’s grief, or anybody else’s. How do I tell this story in a way that will encompass what she means to each of us? Which stories should I tell? Which pictures best capture her spirit? I mean, for those of you that knew her, you’ll just get it. Because you know you were blessed to have known her. And you know that your life was richer for having her in it. But what about all the people who read this and didn’t know her? How do I make them see?

I don’t have the answer. Not yet. All I know is that I have to keep telling the story.

When we were driving to Reno the day Diane died, we were rushing to get there as fast as we could. Out first destination was Tonopah, where we planned to gas up and find something for dinner. About a half hour or so south of Tonopah, we came to the little town of Goldfield. The town immediately made me think of Diane. I mean pretty much everything on that trip made me think of her, as well as most everything since then. But this town really made me think of her.  For one thing, there was this:

Cool Shiny Stuff in Goldfield.

I mean, not only does it have handcrafted jewelry, but it also offers cool shiny stuff. You can’t go wrong with cool shiny stuff. I didn’t stop, but I know Diane would have approved. As we passed the store, I could feel her in the car with us, feel the nudge of her elbow on my side, and hear her say – the way that she had said countless other times in countless other strange little shops – “Dude, come look at this. Isn’t it cool?”

God, I miss her. With an incredible aching painfulness, I just miss her. 

We didn’t stop in Goldfield on the way to Reno. We didn’t have time. But we did stop on the way home. It is an incredible place. It’s not quite a ghost town because there are people living there. It’s not really a tourist trap, because there isn’t much to see. When you look at towns like Williamsburg, Virginia, you see that they have one foot planted firmly in the past and one stepping forward into the future. Goldfield is kind of like that, but kind of not. It doesn’t seem to have firm footing in either era. It’s got an incredibly rich past, but it’s still deciding what it wants to become.

I can relate.

The Goldfield of the past was a mining boom-town that popped up in 1903, a year after gold was found in the hills near Tonopah. At its peak, 20,000 people lived in the town, many of whom were gone by 1910 when the cost of mining became prohibitive. Although on a smaller scale, mining continued in the area until the 1940’s, and over the years Goldfield’s mines produced almost 2 billion dollars (in today’s prices) of silver and gold. In its heyday around 1907, the town boasted 49 saloons, 15 barber shops, 54 assayers, 27 restaurants, 21 grocers, and 22 hotels. Any amenities that could be found in larger cities could also be found in Goldfield. By contrast, Las Vegas had only just been founded in 1907 and had a population of well under a thousand. At the time, Las Vegas was advertised on postcards as the “Gateway to Goldfield.” Goldfield also played host to notable residents such as Samuel Clemens (aka Mark Twain), Wyatt Earp, and Virgil Earp, who died there. Fun fact: Virgil Earp died in Goldfield, NV, but is buried in Portland, Oregon. Sam Elliott, who played Virgil Earp in “Tombstone,” lived in Portland as a teenager and graduated from high school there – about ten miles from where Virgil Earp is buried.

You can read more about historic goldfield on the Goldfield Historical Society Website, on Death Valley Jim’s website (lots of old pictures), or on the In Old Las Vegas website.

A house. With signs. Goldfield, NV.

The Goldfield of today is a strange mixture of the quaint and the quirky. The past isn’t sectioned off in a neatly fenced historic district.  It sits cheek by jowl with the present day.  Houses covered in signs sit across the street from antique fire engines. Bustling businesses are just around the corner from ramshackle abandoned buildings. And amidst all of the history, the town still struggles to tell the story of what happened there.

One of the buildings that caught my eye as I was driving through the downtown area was the abandoned high school pictured below. It was opened in 1907 and was in use until 1953. The building, which cost $100,000 to construct, consisted of three stories and housed 12 classrooms that could seat 450 students. When I hear about old buildings, or houses, or towns, or whatever, the first thing I do is imagine all of the people who lived or worked or played there. Everyday people, just like you and me, living and learning and loving one another. Struggling with math or groaning over names and dates in history. Harboring crushes and nurturing romances. Hating certain teachers and being amazingly inspired by others. How many passions that blossomed into careers began in that schoolhouse? How many kids learned to think a little differently or were exposed to some grand new idea in one of those classrooms? How many kids were given opportunities for education that their parents never had? How many first-generation college students started their educations in one of those rooms? Because that is what really gets to me, you know? I mean, history is about movements – big movements, big wars, big people, big things. But it’s also about the minutiae, and the normal everyday people just going about their normal everyday routines, doing normal everyday things. They aren’t just drops in the bucket. They are important too.  We can’t forget them. We shouldn’t forget them.

Goldfield High School, NV.

Goldfield High School staircase, NV.

Due to decades of neglect, the school is crumbling today. The mortar between the bricks has been compromised, and one wall has already collapsed. The roof is caving in, which has exposed the inside of the building to the weather and has thus accelerated the damage. The Goldfield Historical Society is trying to save the building. They have secured some funds through grants and private donations. Their most immediate goals are stabilizing the building and erecting a temporary roof in order to prevent more damage. Some of the funds they were awarded have fallen through due to the economy. The sad, sad truth is that historical preservation is almost always on the chopping block when belts are tightened. It sucks. It sucks balls. But that’s the way it is. You can learn more about the plans for the high school restoration on their website here, and if you scroll to the bottom, there is also a button where you can donate to the project. It’s tax exempt. It’s for a good cause. It might not be a project that represents a big movement. It might not make a whole lot of difference in the grand scheme of things. But some things are worth preserving.

While planning out this blog post, I thought long and hard about what big story I wanted to tell about Diane.  And believe you me, there are some doozies. Some of them are heartwarming. Some of them are hilariously funny (especially the ones before she was sober). Some are deep and insightful and thought-provoking. But in the end, I think I’m going to go with this one…

A couple of months ago, I called Diane out of the blue because I just missed her so fucking hard. I missed her and I missed my dad, so I called and asked them to come see me. A couple weeks later, they did. We sat around the house and watched TV. We talked – a lot. We went to a history museum and a chocolate factory and down to Fremont Street to look at all the freaks (her kind of people). As always, the visit was too short and I was incredibly sad when they left.

It was the last time I saw her.

A couple weeks later, I got the call from my sister that it was cancer.  A couple days after that, I talked to her on the phone. Things were looking up.  A couple of days after that she was gone.

It was so fast.

The moral of the story, so to speak, is that she was always there when I needed her. Always. When I graduated college, she was there. When I had the baby and almost died, she was there. When I just missed her and needed to see her, she was there. Always. She was there. And it might not seem like a big story to you. I guess it doesn’t make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things.  But it was so big to me. If you could feel that love, you would know how big it is. It stands out, bright and beautiful, like cool shiny stuff. And it deserves to remembered. She deserves to be remembered.

What am I going to do now that she’s not here anymore?


That’s about all I can take, y’all. Back into the box it goes.  Next up is “Diane and the Desert: Part 3 – Hawthorne and Ozymandias.”

If you have a story about Diane, I would love to hear it. Please share in the comments. Let’s remember together.

Diane and the Desert: Part 1 – Impressions

My cousin Dawnie made this picture of my step-mother, Diane.

I’ve been in the desert – both literally and metaphorically. Almost two weeks ago, my stepmom, Diane, was diagnosed with cancer in her spine. She passed away last Sunday from complications of that cancer. It hit hard and fast. Cancer fucking sucks.

Diane and my dad have been together since I was a kid. It is hard to remember a time when she wasn’t a second mother to me. She was utterly and completely amazing. She was an eternal hippie – quirky and strange and friendly. She made friends with everybody she met. She never said an unkind word about anyone, ever. She loved tie-dye and frogs and dragons and rocks and crystals. I cannot even begin to do her justice because it’s all just raw emotion and unprocessed grief. But she taught me two great truths. The first is that you should never be afraid to be yourself. Even if that means being sixty and sleeping in a wrought iron spiderweb bed with crystals and frogs hanging from your ceiling. Or being a history nerd with a potty mouth and a blog. Because the first step to being happy is owning who you are. And the second truth is that it’s almost always better to be kind than to be right, better to be compassionate than to be smart, better to give a hug than an attitude. I still struggle with that one, but that’s OK because I’m a work in progress. And because of the first one. Because I’m happy with myself.

Graduation, 2012. She was so proud that I went to college.

When I found out that she was dying, like soon, I rushed home and threw everything in the car knowing that I wouldn’t make the sevenish hour drive to Reno in time. My dad called with the news that she had passed as I was pulling out of my driveway. I don’t know if he needed me, but I needed him. So the three kids and I made the long journey up through the desert.

With the DivaTeen and Middle Little plugged into electronics, and Doodle-Dude sleeping most of the way, I had plenty of time to think as I was driving. When you’re grieving, when it is still raw and fresh and festering, that’s maybe not the best thing. Especially with the long stretches of nothing but unending desert and unyielding sun. I’ll spare you the details, but it went something like this: drive forever – oh look, a cactus – drive a little more – pull over and cry – continue driving – that whorehouse sells hot sauce – drive until you’re pretty sure you’re halfway to hell – cry some more. And so on, ad infinitum.  And as I drove, I thought about all the things we had done together, and I replayed all of the stories (like the time I mistook her for a Sasquatch), until somehow those stories, and the desert, and she and I and everything became linked.

And it made perfect sense. Because she was like that, you know? A breath of fresh air. Like the world’s biggest firecracker or roadside stand that sells desert honey and gemstones. You’d be going on in your normal everyday life and she’d show up in a flash of tie-dye with a smile and mismatched earrings and constantly open arms, without judgement or expectations. And then she would leave, and it was back to the desert, but with a smile on your face and an excitement and anticipation for whatever might come your way next. She was just like that. And I’m never going to make that drive again without thinking of her.

Only seven and a half hours, but this trip was too big – she was too big – for the story to be told in just one post. So I’m going to do it in three.

Diane and the Desert: Part 1 – Impressions

Diane and the Desert: Part 2 – Goldfield and Cool Shiny Stuff

Diane and the Desert: Part 3 – Hawthorne and Ozymandias

I will link the other posts when I get them up. Give me some time. It’s a process. For now, I’m going to leave you with some impressions of random things that I saw that reminded me of her because they flashed across my dashboard and made me smile. In no particular order, and sometimes for no reason at all. I know it’s not a proper memorial, but idgaf. I hope you enjoy.

This is the Area 51 Alien Center souvenir shop. It is right next to the Area 51 Alien Cathouse and is located about an hour and a half from my house. Last time my parents went through the area, they stopped here for some trinkets. They were offered a free tour through the brothel. My dad said that they weren’t giving free samples, so he turned down the tour. I didn’t ask what he thought free samples from a brothel would be like. Because he is my dad and that’s icky. While this place is not really close to Area 51, it does border the Nevada Test and Training Range (so does most of southern Nevada), so I’m sure there’s probably Super-Secret Military Stuff and Other Things ™ going on nearby.

Next to the Alien Travel Center and Brothel is the “World’s Largest Firecracker” Because why the hell not?

Fallon, Nevada is a smallish town about an hour Southeast of Reno, which houses a Naval base. Now, that might seem a bit strange considering, you know, it’s in the middle of the freaking desert. However, Naval Air Station Fallon is home to the Naval Strike and Air Warfare Center a.k.a. TOPGUN. And also a lot of meth, if the sign above is any indication. I know it’s a bit blurry, but it reads: “METH has become a Nevada Epidemic. Don’t let this POISON destroy your life!” It’s a far cry from 160 years ago when clean clothing, not meth, infiltrated the area. Informally called “Ragtown” for the laundry scattered along the banks of the Carson River drying in the sun, this was the first water stop for wagon trains after crossing the 40 Mile Desert to the North. If they made it to Ragtown they were home free. Well, except for that little mountain range to the West and a little thing called Donner Pass. But that’s nothing to worry about, right?

Tonopah was a lovely place, I’m sure. We didn’t stay for very long. But if you’re ever in the area, maybe you could get a room at this Clown Motel. It looks like they have great rates. The nightmares are free.

Tonopah was also home to Stalking Cat (birth name Dennis Avner) who lived there from 2007 until his death in 2012.

Not far East of Hawthorne, NV is a teeny tiny little town called Mina. At first glance, Mina seems to be a ghost town, but there are actually 197 people who live there. Some of them, I assume, work at this place…
You can tell that the Wild Cat Brothel is a classy place because of the Greek columns set up around the perimeter of the double-wide. Now, I didn’t take this picture because I didn’t want to explain to my kids why I stopped at a brothel. So I got this from their website Go ahead and click the link. You know you want to. And don’t let the double-wide and chintzy twinkle lights fool you. That shit ain’t cheap.

I have so much more to show you and so many more memories to share. But I don’t think I can handle any more right now. I hope to post part two in a couple of days. Until then, take care of yourselves. Hug someone you love. Embrace your weirdness. That’s what she would have wanted.

To go to the second part of this series, click here Diane and the Desert: Part 2 – Goldfield and Cool Shiny Stuff.