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, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babbitt,_Nevada.

Reconstruction map of Babbitt, NV. Courtesy Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babbitt,_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?”

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Why I Think Trans People Are Brave

If you are on facebook (and what middle-aged mom isn’t, amirite?) then you have no doubt seen a whole bunch of people who have never heard of the ESPY awards before all of the sudden having very strong opinions about who does and who doesn’t deserve the Arthur Ashe Courage award.  Like p.much everyone else, I also don’t follow the ESPY awards. So I don’t really have an opinion on whether Caitlyn Jenner should or should not have received the award. But I do have an opinion on the bravery of trans people. So I am going to talk about that instead.

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You may have seen this coming through your facebook newsfeed. Several of my friends have posted it. You may have seen something similar. I’ve seen a few different variations on the theme. And it’s a pretty powerful message. On the top, you have a soldier, carrying an injured or fallen comrade to safety. On the bottom, you have a woman in a dress speaking into a microphone. Which one says bravery? If you’re any kind of American – and not a dirty, stinkin’ Commie – then it is obviously the top one. Right? But I have to wonder, why can’t they both be brave?

I mean, I obviously don’t know what it’s like to be trans. I’m not even sure that I’m a good ally to trans people, although I try to be. But I think I know bravery when I see it. And I think that bravery comes in all shapes and forms.

When I was a teenager a long time ago, I had a friend who was trans. She was the first trans person I had met, ever, and she was quite a bit older than me. We lived in a small town (those of you who lived there can probably guess who I’m talking about, although I’m not going to name names), and it was not a particularly progressive town, but I’d like to think that most people there had a live and let live kind of attitude.

My friend was a Vietnam Vet. She had been an engineer at some point in her life, and could fix anything. She was wonderfully generous with her time and talent. She was very open – she would answer any questions that I had about her transition, her operation, and her life both before and after transitioning. She had a dry sense of humor, but was so funny. She was incredibly kind.

I’d like to say that I was fully and outspokenly supportive of her right to live her life as she saw fit. I was enlightened. I was a liberal, damn it. That would be a great thing to be able to say, wouldn’t it? But I was also a kid and it was the 90’s. When I first heard that we had a transexual (as far as I knew, that was the proper term in the nineties) in the neighborhood, I was really curious about the “he-she” (obviously not the proper fucking term). I made the jokes, and I joined in the speculation, and I laughed along with everyone. After I met her, and as I got to know her, the jokes made me feel a little awkward and uncomfortable. I stopped joining in. I didn’t speak out. I mean even though I had been raised to live and let live, there was still this undercurrent that “it just ain’t right” that I wasn’t willing to examine too closely. I examine those kinds of thoughts a lot now – we have those same undercurrents about a lot of things in our society, forming our opinions without us even knowing it – but I didn’t think about it so much then. It wasn’t until something that happened later that made me finally stand up and say something.

I’ll get to that in a minute. I want to talk about bravery first.

Once I started hanging out with my friend, I noticed that a lot of people had an issue with it. Not the people close to me – not my close friends and family. But people in my extended circle. One person told me that my friend was actually a pedophile and that she only got a “sex change” so she could get closer to teenage girls. The implication was that I should watch myself because my friend was actually a sexual predator in a friendly female disguise. That one was easy to dismiss. My friend had told me what the surgery entailed, and that seemed like a pretty extreme step to take just to be able to get close to teenage girls. The warnings and the disdain really didn’t get to me. I felt pretty confident that nobody would fuck with me because nobody wanted to fuck with my dad and my uncles. But it did make me wonder, if people are talking about me like that just for hanging out with her, what are they actually saying to her? When we went to town together, I could feel the hostility directed at her. I could feel the looks, see the way people reacted physically by jerking their bodies away, hear the loudly “whispered” words and venom that people spewed her way. And I came to realize that just walking out her door was dangerous for her. Just going out to the grocery store held a level of risk for her that it didn’t hold for me. I mean, I always had the choice not to hang out with her if I didn’t want to put up with the stares and the whispers and the jokes. She didn’t have the choice not to be herself.  And the fact that she did be herself – that she was herself so authentically and apologetically despite everything – that is bravery. You can’t tell me that it isn’t.

I learned a lot about her, and I learned a lot about trans issues through her. But I also learned a lot about myself. Because her bravery touched me so strongly and so deeply. And one of the big things I learned is that I could be brave too.  Maybe not the way that she was, but in some small way I could be brave. I could say, “Those jokes aren’t funny.” I could say, “Please don’t talk about my friend like that.” I could do anything other than sitting in awkward silence and feeling ashamed of my inaction. So I did. And I do.

I invited her to my High School graduation.  A lot of people had opinions on whether or not she belonged there. She came to me before the ceremony and asked me if I wanted her to leave because other people were uncomfortable. Let me emphasize that, she asked me if I wanted her to leave because other people were uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with what? With her presence there? Were they afraid they might catch trans like it was a disease? Of course I didn’t want her to leave. So when someone came by a couple of minutes later and loudly said, “Who invited the he-she,” I was finally able to reply (in my polite voice), “I invited her. Does anybody have a problem with that?”

Turns out nobody did have a problem with it after that. At least not where I could hear it.

I don’t know what happened to my friend. I moved out of town less than a year after graduation, and we lost touch. I heard from someone that she had passed away, but I don’t know for sure. I never got a chance to tell her that she was one of the bravest people I had ever met, and that she inspired bravery in me. So I’m telling you.

I often hear people say that our world is getting better. That racism, and bigotry, and homophobia, and sexism, and whatever happened a long time ago, but things are so much better now. Maybe. Things were pretty shitty for trans folks in 1995, and it wasn’t that long ago.

Trans folks were rioting for the ability to live their lives free from police harassment – in 1959 at Cooper’s Donuts in Los Angeles, in 1966 at Compton’s Cafeteria in San Francisco, and in 1969 at Stonewall in New York where the modern gay rights movement was born. It wasn’t that long ago.

As recently as 1974, cross-dressing was a crime that you could be arrested for. It wasn’t that long ago.

In 1999, PFC Barry Winchell was killed by one of his fellow soldiers after a series of conflicts stemming from Winchell’s relationship with a trans woman. It wasn’t that long ago.

Employment protections didn’t extend to transgender Americans in federal occupations until 2010. It wasn’t that long ago.

In 2013, almost 200 trans folks died as a result of anti-transgender violence. Many more were assaulted – both physically and sexually. Many acts of anti-transgender violence go unreported. The trend is upwards. Early statistics for the first half of 2015 show that anti-transgender violence has increased 13% from the previous year. It wasn’t that long ago.

Last month wasn’t that long ago. Last week wasn’t that long ago. Today wasn’t that long ago.

Until trans people are able to go to the grocery store, or the mall, or to work without having to worry about the looks, or the whispers, or the jokes, or the discrimination, or the unspeakable violence that they encounter just for being trans, I will continue think they are brave.

Here, let me fix this for you:

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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?

Fuck.

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 www.wildcatbrothel.com. 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.

Top Ten Movies (And Other Things) That Are In Some Way Having Something To Do With History (Probably)

I was going to talk about the New Deal and cook something for y’all, but that will have to wait until tomorrowish.  Because I ordered a pizza and made brownies and couldn’t figure out how the hell to connect pizza and brownies to the New Deal.  So I’m going to tell you my top ten movies/documentaries/shows that have something to do with history.

 But first, I got this book in the mail today.  Are you jelly?  I’ll tell you about it after I read it.  Or if it is boring I probably won’t.

Also, what do you all think about the whole Rachel Dolezal pretending to be black thing?  I thought about working up a post about cultural appropriation.  Then I thought about maybe writing about the history of blackface.  Then I thought I should write about how pre-civil rights black Americans sometimes “passed” as white.  But then I realized that this whole thing is way too WTF for me.  And now I have this strange urge to watch Soul Man again.  Except that we’re going to watch Ghostbusters instead.

Anyway, I’m one of those people that nobody wants to watch history movies with because I will pause the movie every five seconds and tell you what really happened.  Apparently being a pompous twit is frowned upon in some social circles.  I actually don’t like most movies set in the past because the inaccuracies irritate me to no end. Most of the movies on this list probably aren’t too historically accurate, but they usually have some other redeeming quality.  Or I possibly have strange tastes.  You decide.

10. Lincoln

(c) 2012 Dreamworks

I read Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln by Doris Kearns Goodwin, which this movie was based on. I have to tell you a secret. I don’t really like Lincoln. I think he’s overrated. I feel the same way about JFK (but I heart me some Robert Kennedy). But the movie is worth watching just for Tommy Lee Jones’ awesomesauce performance as Thaddeus Stevens. Also, Daniel Day-Lewis is always amazing.

9. The Duchess

 Do you see the tagline on the movie poster? – “Based On The Incredible True Story”.  It is lies.  Lies, I tell you.  This movie is actually borderline horrible.  But Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire is one of my most favorite historical figures, so I had to include it.  I just love her.  The movie is loosely based on Amanda Foreman’s excellent biography: Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire.  There is so much more to her than this movie makes her out to be.

8. Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure

(c) 1989 MGM Studios

In this movie, the Doctor is played by George Carlin, and he takes two imbeciles back in time in the T.A.R.D.I.S. in order for them to learn enough history to pass their final report so that one of them doesn’t become a cyberman and the band Wyld Stallyns can live on.  I think I might have got that a little mixed up, but that’s the gist of it.  They should have just paid Margaret Nordquist two dollars to tell them about it like I did when I needed to know what A Tale of Two Cities was about so I could pass English.  But maybe they didn’t know her.  Then again, if I had a T.A.R.D.I.S., I could have probably gone back in time and just asked Dickens what the hell he was talking about and then spent the two dollars on cigarettes.  At any rate, Keanu Reeves says “Woah” a lot, so the movie is worth watching.

7. Caligula

This is basically a porno. Seriously. It was produced by Penthouse.  It’s a porno written in part by Gore Vidal (he disavowed the heavily edited finished script) and starring Malcolm McDowell, Helen Mirren, and Peter O’Toole. It’s got incest and orgies and madness and murder. And lots and lots of titties. You should probably watch it right now.

6. Rasputin: Dark Servant of Destiny
This is a TV movie. Alan Rickman plays Rasputin. Need I say more?  I do need to say more?  How about Ian McKellen plays the Tsar.  Boom.

5. Lionheart
 I am pretty sure this movie is about child trafficking during the Crusades. I’m going to level with you guys.  This is an absolutely horrible movie.  Terrible.  But I had the hugest crush on Gabriel Byrne (still do), and I could recite all his lines by heart.  I’m not ashamed.  Mostly.  Plus my brother Jesse and I used to watch this and then go outside and play like we were knights and slave traders with swords and bows made out of sticks and twine.  Yes, we played “child slave traders.”  I was a teenager.  I was a late bloomer.  Don’t hate.

4. Roots
I mean, the book was better.  And shorter.  A lot shorter.  But I kind of think that everybody should either see or read Roots at least once in their lives.  There are so many reasons to watch this miniseries.  1. LeVar Burton.  2. History of slavery.  3. The film as an important contribution to the study of black history during the 70’s.  4. The controversies and lawsuits surrounding the book.  5. There are rumors of a remake in the works.  6. I said so and I know everything.

3. Tombstone
 I’m not really into westerns, but Val Kilmer is totally my huckleberry.  He makes my delicate parts damp.  And Sam Elliot is pretty nice eye candy, too.

2. Outlander
Ok, so this is a TV series based on a novel set in Scotland in the mid-1700’s. So it’s not technically historical. However the husband of the main character (the English husband, not the hot Scottish husband) is a historian.  So it counts.  Because let’s face it, we aren’t hugely represented in popular culture.  Plus Sam Heughan looks amazing in a kilt.  And also naked.  Especially naked.

1. The Times of Harvey Milk

This is a documentary about Harvey Milk.  And it is sosososososososo much better than the movie, Milk.  If you are not moved by this documentary, you might want to see a cardiologist because you probably don’t have a heart.  I cry every time I watch this.  And I’ve seen it a billion times.

Runner up: Soldier’s Girl
This is not so much a runner up as it is that I didn’t really think this list through beforehand and forgot how much I love this movie.  It would probably be in the top five.  Maybe the top three.  It is based in the true story of PFC Barry Winchell, who was repeatedly harassed by his fellow soldiers and ultimately murdered because of his relationship with a trans woman.  Lee Pace plays Calpernia Addams, Winchell’s girlfriend.  This movie also makes me cry every time, and it began my lifelong love of Lee Pace.  It’s a Showtime movie, and the acting is a bit shaky (except for Pace’s freaking amazing performance), but definitely worth the watch.

Well, those are my top ten… err eleven.  There are so many more I could have added.  What did I leave off the list?  What should I have left off the list?  What is in your top ten?  Let me know in the comments!

Post in Which the Vulgar Historian Treads the Treacherous Waters of Pool Politics


Chances are, unless you live under a rock or don’t own a computer, you’ve at least seen a reference to the video of a Texas police officer (with some super-sweet ninja moves) making sure some black teens at a pool party WILL RESPECT HIS AUTHORITAH by throwing one to the ground and waving his gun around at others.  If you haven’t seen the video, you can watch it below.  It’s about six minutes long.

From many accounts, the altercation started when several of the (mostly black) neighborhood kids had a pool party and some of the (white) neighbors began yelling racial slurs at the kids, telling them to go back to Section 8.  I mean, most of them lived there and stuff, but let’s not let facts get in the way of ragehate or anything.  Then one of the women slapped one of the teenagers, a scuffle ensued, and the cops were called.

While watching and reading about all this, I couldn’t help but think about recreation segregation.  Probably because I just finished re-reading Victoria W. Wolcott’s Race, Riots, and Roller Coasters: The Struggle Over Segregated Recreation in America.  It’s a really good book if you are into reading about recreation segregation, which I totally am, but it might be a bit dense for the casual reader. I would wager that most folks who have studied 20th century US history in any kind of depth probably thought about the same thing when watching or reading about what happened in Texas earlier this week.  So I thought it might be an interesting thing to talk about.  Because I do think that what happened in the past affects our attitudes and our behaviors today.  And I think that nothing has just one, and only one, contributing factor. And I really get my rocks off on thinking about all the little things that influence our thoughts and our attitudes and our decisions.

Figure 1: McKinney wasn't the first time a young black person was thrown to the ground because of pool politics.  St. Louis, 1949

Figure 1: McKinney wasn’t the first time a young black person was thrown to the ground because of pool politics.  St. Louis, 1949.

If you don’t really know that much about recreation segregation, Gene Demby wrote a really good article over at NPR called “Who Gets to Hang Out at the Pool?”  You can read it here.  But basically, a lot of the early Civil Rights Movement was focused on Jim Crow laws and voting rights in the south.  But that doesn’t mean that there weren’t completely effed up things happening elsewhere.  In the South, and in the rest of the country, recreation segregation was the norm. And segregated pools were only one kind of recreation segregation.  Amusement parks, roller rinks, dance halls, beaches, and all kinds of other fun things were also segregated.

As Demby points out in his NPR article, swimming pool segregation was pretty much a thing, pretty much everywhere.  Prior to WWII, anybody who wasn’t super-rich used a public pool because nobody had pools in their backyards.  Cleanliness was a huge concern at public pools, and black people were considered by racist fuckheads to be, well, dirty.  And there was this sexual fear of having black men too close to white women, especially in recreation settings which were linked to dating and courtship. So most public pools were whites only.  Even though they were built and maintained by tax money that everybody had to pay.  Black people still had no access to them.  It was a huge struggle to desegregate pools.  And the completely fucked up thing about it is that, after public pools were desegregated, white people stopped using them, and most of them were closed. White folks just moved out to their suburbs and built their own pools, or formed clubs and made their pools “members only,” and black folks were s.o.l.  Again.  And yes, I know I used the f-word twice in one paragraph.  Pool segregation really gets my dander up.

williams

Figure 2. Williams St. YWCA, drawing from dedication program, Portland, OR, 1926,

But wait, there’s more. Pool segregation didn’t just affect whether black people could go swimming or not.  It affected other stuff too.  There are even theories that swimming pool segregation is part of why African-Americans are less likely to learn to swim and more likely to drown. When I was researching my thesis, I found a bunch of old letters and documents from black women in Portland, OR who wanted a YWCA in the early 1900’s.  Back then, the YWCA was segregated, but black women could get permission to form their own YWCA branches.  In 1916, when Beatrice Morrow Cannady, a newspaper editor, lawyer, and all around badass tried to get a “colored branch” started through the Portland YWCA, she was denied in part because they were unwilling to give black members the pool privileges that membership implied(1). At the time YWCA’s were hugely important to black women. Not only did they offer things like job placement, homemaking skills, and social opportunities for women in industrialized cities, but black working women who were new in town used YWCA’s as lodging while they found work. It was totally not respectable for women to stay at boarding-houses or hotels.  So not having a black YWCA was kind of a big deal.  Portland finally did get a black YWCA branch in 1921 and their own building in 1926, but hey still had to share a pool with the main YWCA.  At first, black members were only allowed to use the pool on Saturday nights right before the pool was cleaned.  When they complained, they were allowed to use the pool on Wednesday instead of Saturday night, but then white people stopped using the pool from Thursday – Saturday. So eventually black members lost their pool privileges all together.

Men protesting segregated pools in Pittsburgh, PA in 1949.

Figure 3: Men protesting segregated pools in Pittsburgh, PA in 1949.

At any rate, pool segregation is some heavy shit.  And the ideas behind pool segregation (and recreation segregation, and segregation in general) affect the way that we, as a society, view black people in public places – attitudes like how “they” don’t belong in our neighborhoods, or our pools, or even our streets.  I used to belong to a neighborhood watch facebook page (I got kicked off for not being racist enough) and every other post was about “suspicious” black men or kids doing nothing more suspicious than walking on the dog trail, or talking on their cell phone, or wearing business casual clothes.  I shit you not.  There was a post about a black guy walking down a main road, and how he was sketchy because he was wearing business casual clothing and obviously not out for a jog.

Now, I’m not saying that recreation segregation is what caused the Texas throw down by Officer Douchecanoe. But I do think his actions might have been influenced by ideas he had about race.  And I do think that it is important to examine ourselves and where our attitudes come from.  I will never forget one time when I was a teenager selling tickets for a school play and a group of four black kids came through a side door, walking towards my booth.  I remember being scared that they were gonna take my cash box and run with it.  And I remember in that moment stopping and thinking like – what the hell am I thinking?  I’ve never been robbed.  I’ve never had a bad experience with black kids (or any kids).  Why did I react that way?  Where did that fear come from?  And I felt pretty crappy about it, to be honest with you.  And I think I’m not alone in having those thoughts.  And I don’t think that having those thoughts defines you – I think it’s what you do about it that defines you.

When I see things like a cop kneeing a black teenager in the back or pointing a gun at unarmed boys, I get mad.  And I want to do something about it, but I don’t know what to do.  And that is super-freaking-frustrating.  But there are two really important things I can do about it.  The first is to realize that I don’t know shit.  Or as Ygritte would say, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”  I recently read a blog post by Pastor John Pavlovitz, who writes, “I am the only person about whose heart I am completely qualified to speak about. As much as I hate to admit it, the jurisdiction of my authority and expertise ends abruptly at my own epidermis.”  That’s powerful stuff, right there.  Beyond my own skin, I don’t know a damn thing.  And that’s OK.  Because the second thing that I can do about it is just to listen.  I can never experience someone else’s experiences, but I can listen to them.  I can hear them talk about how they feel, and how racism affects them, and what they have been through because of it.  I can do that, and I’m going to.  I invite you to do the same.

This morning, a friend of mine sent me a link to a blog I’d never read called Mommy Nani Booboo, which featured a post by guest blogger and slam poet Fannon Holland, titled “Forgive Me If I Do Not Believe You.”  He writes:

All lives matter is not a solution
It is a rebuttal
Black lives matter is an awareness of the struggle
A remembrance of stolen bodies and lost lineage
All lives matter is a white washing of heritage
Against the blackboard of history
This is history
This is history
This is history
This is history
This is history
This is history repeating itself
We are the sons and daughters of history

Go to the blog.  Read the post.  Listen.  And then pay attention to the result of history repeating itself.  Here’s the link again if you don’t want to scroll up:  http://mommynanibooboo.com/guests/forgive-me-if-i-do-not-believe-you-black-lives-matter/.

Tomorrow I’ll keep it light.  Pinkie-promise.  We’ll talk about the New Deal, and I might cook something.

(Note: I used “black” instead of “African-American” throughout this post because my husband, who is black, prefers that term.)

Footnote:

1. Lina Belis James, General Secretary Portland Branch YWCA, Letter to Eva D. Bowles, Director of Colored Work, YWCA National, October 25, 1916, Lewis and Clark College Special Collections, Young Women’s Christian Association of Portland, Oregon papers, Box 5, Folder 11.

Image Credits:

Most of the images in this post were found through a search of the Civil Rights Digital Library, which can be accessed through this link: http://crdl.usg.edu/. There are all kinds of Civil Rights primary sources digitized and available for your historogasmic viewing pleasure.  It is abso-freaking-lutely amazing.

Figure 1. “Race riot at the Fairgrounds swimming pool, St. Louis, Missouri, June 21, 1949,” Stetson Kennedy papers, Special Collections and Archives, Georgia State University library.  http://digitalcollections.library.gsu.edu/cdm/ref/collection/SKennedy/id/10587

Figure 2. Young Women’s Christian Association Williams Avenue Center Records: 1926-1961, MSS 2384, Oregon Historical Society Research Library.

Figure 3. Teenie Harris, “Men protesting swimming pool segregation with signs reading “We want democracy at Highland Park Pool, Mayor Lawrence, what do you want?” and “We fought together, why can’t we swim together,” Grant Street, Downtown,” Documenting our Past, the Teenie Harris Archive Project, Carnegie museum of Art. http://www.cmoa.org/collections/main_publications.asp

Battle Lines

When I was going to UC Davis, one of the best classes I took was on the 1960’s with Professors Ari Kelman and Eric Rauchway. The class was fan-freaking-tactic. We learned about things like the Berkeley Free Speech Movement, listened to musical gems like Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction,” and watched clips of Gore Vidal and William F. Buckley not being very nice to each other. Oh, and there was some Vietnam war and some Kennedys and a bit of Civil Rights thrown in there somewhere too. It was life-changing stuff, for sure.

So when I heard that Professor Kelman had written a new book, I was mildly interested. OK, who am I kidding? I squeed like a freaking twelve year old fangirl. I had previously read his book on the Sand Creek Massacre, which anybody who is interested in public history should absolutely read immediately, and so I was definitely planning on getting Battle Lines. I pre-ordered it. Like six months in advance. I didn’t even pre-order the last Zelda game that far in advance. Just sayin’. So, you might be asking, “What makes Battle Lines so special?” Well, I’ll tell you…

It’s a freaking Civil War comic book!!! I mean, it’s technically a graphic novel, but how awesome is that? Pretty gol-durned awesome if you ask me. And I assume you’re asking me since you’re reading my blog. Unless you’re just here to stalk my spelling and grammar mistakes and shit. In which case, you can seriously GTFO.

But anyway, kind of like this blog is history for people who hate history, this book is the Civil War for people who don’t want to read long boring books about the Civil War. And the cool thing is, a lot of the information is there anyway. It’s just presented in a way that isn’t boring. Author/illustrator Jonathan Fetter-Vorm and author/professor Ari Kelman tell the stories of the Civil War in a series of illustrated vignettes prefaced by more dense historical material staged as newspaper articles. Instead of bogging down the narrative with the minutiae of troop movements and general names and dates and battles, they are able to unfold the multilayered stories of the Civil War in broad silent strokes – the stark images of battlefield carnage, the prayers of a dying amputee felled by new weapons technology, the slow setback-laden march towards abolition, or the matter-of-fact staging of battlefield photography where dead soldiers are merely props to the historical record.

I’m not going to say anymore because I don’t want to spoil it (the North wins). On a more personal note, those of you that know me in real life are aware that my middle little has Autism. One of the things that we have been struggling with for-practically-ever is his monofocus on cars. Whatever you want to talk about, he will find a way to make it about cars. He wrote 40 essays in Kindergarten about cars. For Easter, it was about what kind of toy cars he might find in his Easter basket. For Christmas, it was a persuasive essay about the benefits of cars over reindeer-drawn sleighs. The boy is cuckoo for Cadillacs, crazy about Chryslers, mental about monster trucks. I really, really tried to learn about cars so that I could connect with him, but he could tell I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about (BTW, spoilers and fenders are not the same thing, in case you weren’t aware). But he stole Battle Lines from me as soon as I got it in the mail, and he didn’t let me touch it for at least a week. Now we have all sorts of things to talk about. Mostly minié balls and amputees and the fact that six million tons of flesh festered on the battlefield at Gettysburg, but it’s a start. I’m kinda OK with that.

So, if you don’t really like history but want to learn more about the Civil War, or if you are a teacher or homeschooling parent looking to introduce some Civil War concepts into your lessons, or if you are the parent of a bloodthirsty eight year old, or if the thought of a freaking history comic book makes you squee, you will probably like this book. Read it. Do it. You won’t regret it. 

Battle Lines: A Graphic History of the Civil War by Jonathan Fetter-Vorm and Ari Kelman, published by Hill and Wang, New York, 2015.

Professor Kelman’s Website: http://arikelman.org

Jonathan Fetter-Vorm’s Website: http://www.fetter-vorm.com

First! And Mormons and Stuff..

The Barnes and Noble in Saint George, Utah has an LDS section.  Be still, my heart.

Let me get this out of the way right now. In no way, shape, or form am I Mormon.  I am a happy Unitarian Universalist pagan-atheist who fully supports interfaith and inter-non-faith community and collaboration.  Having said that, nothing gets my tingly parts tinglier than a little bit of Mormon history.  I love everything about it – the religion, the culture, the underwear.  I am a bit obsessed.  I’m like a wanna-be Mormon (Wormon?).  Luckily, my bestie, Ms. Crazypants, is Mormon and she indulges my fancies with only mild eye-rolls and barely-audible sighs.

Since my mama is in town, I decided to take her to my favorite place in the whole wide world – Bunkerville Cemetery.  I could spend all day there.  Srsly.  My mom, on the other hand, gave me “the look” several times before loudly whispering that it was time to go.  In general “the look” still works, even though I am almost 40 and arguably a grown-up myself.  But I seem to be immune to it when I am immersed in the past.

When I’m at the B-Ville Cemetery, I always stop and say hi to Mary Ann Stucki Reber Hafen, author of “Recollections of a Handcart Pioneer of 1860: A Woman’s Life on the Mormon Frontier.”  You can get the book on amazon here, and it’s a pretty good representation of life for a Mormon settler in Southern Utah/Eastern Nevada.  Mary Ann’s family (among many others) was from Switzerland, and they were converted to Mormonism by missionaries who came to their hometown.  They immigrated to the US in 1860, headed for Omaha, Nebraska.  Upon reaching Nebraska, they were given a handcart (think giant freaking wheelbarrow) to push across the plains to Salt Lake with a bunch of other Mormon settlers. They were eventually directed by the church to settle in Saint George, Utah.  She married another settler from her hometown, John Reber (her aunt was one of his first wives), but he died shortly after their wedding on an accident on their farm.  Then she became one of John Hafen’s wives. She wrote the memoir with the help of her son, historian LeRoy Hafen (also buried in Bunkerville).  If you are interested, the book is pretty short and utterly fascinating.  History Matters also has a snippet of it on their website if reading books isn’t your thing (I will judge you for not liking books, just sayin’).  Hafen

Mary Ann got a new gravestone, and I’m tickled purple about it.  Last time I visited, about a year ago, it was a flat stone with her name, birth date, and death date.  Now she has a fancy monument with a picture, the names of her husbands, and the names of her children.  You can see LeRoy down at the bottom.

Her second child, also a Mary (and also buried in Bunkerville Cemetery) married Henry Leavitt.  Henry was the son of Dudley Leavitt, and we will get to him in a minute.  They had a daughter named Juanita Brooks.  I have a HUGE history crush on everyone Juanita Brooks because she is a BAMF.  She is arguably the greatest female Mormon Historian.  She wrote a book on the Mountain Meadows Massacre (google that shit, you won’t be disappointed), even though she was discouraged by the church from doing so.  She was subject to a lot of disapproval from church leaders and even her local congregation because of her decision to write about Mountain Meadows.  But that didn’t stop her, hence the designation of BAMF.  Her papers are currently housed at the Utah State Historical Society in Salt Lake, and it’s one of my lifelong dreams to go there and see them (I know, I dream big).  Some lovely photographs have been digitized and are available at the Utah Division of State History website.

Besides the book on the Mountain Meadows Massacre, Juanita also wrote a biography of her grandfather Dudley Leavitt, and his monument is the pièce de résistance of the Bunkerville Cemetery.  I have to admit that I don’t know a whole lot about Dudley, but I am in love with him.  Truly, madly, deeply.  I would like to go back in time and be his sixth wife.  My lifelong goal is to build a T.A.R.D.I.S., travel back in time, and marry Dudley.  And stop and read the Juanita Brooks papers somewhere along the way.  Dudley’s monument is monumental.  There is even a bench in front of it because there is no way you can stand and ponder such a magnificent memorial.  It’s not possible. Your legs will simply give out from the sheer orgasmic joy.

DudleyThe front of the memorial lists biographies of Dudley and his five wives – Mary, Mariah (Mary’s sister), Thirza, Jeanette (a Native American), and Martha.  Together, they had 49 children, if I counted correctly.  Let’s have a moment of silence for that shit.  Except that I have three kids and haven’t experienced a moment of silence in fourteen years.  Can you imagine? I mean, seriously, can you imagine? I’m sure Dudley did some superawesomefantastic things in his life.  He was an early leader of the Mormon church and one of the first Mormon settlers of the Southern Utah/Eastern Nevada area.  But I’m pretty sure his most impressive achievement is having almost fifty kids and not going utterly and terrifyingly insane.

One of Dudley’s notable descendants (according to wikipedia) – Cliven Bundy.  We also went to the scene of the Bundy showdown, but I’ll have to save that for another blog.