Night tours are big in Monteverde, Costa Rica. Every corner seems to advertise one. Take a dash of the exotic, throw in a pinch of danger, add a competent, knowledgeable guide— and how can one resist? No wonder there were at least 10 companies to choose from. There is big money to be made. We paid our $300 and off we went. We had an excellent guide, Marvin. He found us each of the big three, don’t mess with me, attractions, plus more.
This iridescent, blue-green fellow was one of the creatures we came across. Actually, our youngest grandson, Cooper, spotted it first. Our son Tony claimed ‘That’s because Cooper is closest to the ground.” You will recognize this blue-green insect for what he is. A scorpion. I’ve seen many over the years. But never one of this striking color. They all pack a mean sting. Costa Rica claims that no one has ever died in the country from a scorpion. Well, except for that one girl…This one seemed almost tame in comparison. Our grandson, Chris, found it crawling up the wall behind him where he was watching TV at our VRBO. “Grandpa,” he yelled, “You have to see this.” “Well, hello,” I said, to the scorpion, and sent Chris scurrying for something to catch it with. He came back with a martini glass, i.e. large top, shallow bottom. Not ideal for catching something that packs a wallop in its tail, but great for a double martini if you get stung. Make it a triple. I slapped it over the top of scorpion but missed the offending appendage. It was swishing around trying to find me. I turned the glass right side up and he slid to the bottom, looking thoroughly peeved. “Just be glad it’s me,” I told him. “Anyone else and you’d be a grease spot on the wall.” It waved its tail at me in a single digit salute. I took him over to our balcony and tossed him out of the glass into the shrubs below. Chris, Peggy and I made a pact not to tell anyone else in our household. Mom might have had them packing.Next, on our pitch dark night, Marvin found a baby green pit viper known by the scientific name of Bothriechis lateralis, or if you prefer something you can pronounce, a side-striped palm pit viper. Apparently, they like to hang out in palms. Note its distinctive triangle shaped head: A sure sign you are dealing with a viper. Translate poisonous. There would be no trying to catch it! Least of all in a martini glass. I took this photo.Marvin, carried a spotting scope that gave us another view of the side-striped palm viper. He used Tony’s cell phone to take a photo through the scope. Here, you can see the stripe along its side. We each carried flashlights so we could see the trail plus light up whatever we wanted photos of. Not too far down the trail, we found an adult side-striped palm viper and Marvin took this photo through his spotting scope.I focused in on the upper part of its body. The viper, like New World monkeys, has a prehensile tail. It can use it to wrap around a limb while it dangles and relaxes. Or, he can whip it out to wrap around and retrieve dinner in the form of lizards and small rodents. While poisonous, few people die from its bite. Not so the lizards or a tasty mouse. The final member of our trio, a Costa Rican zebra tarantula, also known as the striped-knee tarantula. Peggy took this photo. These large spiders dig deep burrows into the ground which helps regulate temperatures. It’s reported that they often live together in large numbers. One was enough for us, but I must say, it was quite striking.Just so this post doesn’t give you nightmares, our night tour also produced less threatening species. This is Lesson’s Motmot seen through Marvin’s spotting scope. An owl butterfly. Marvin told us it was one of the largest butterflies in Costa Rica. It has large spots on the lower parts of its wings that resemble owl’s eyes when its wings are open.
Next up, the Mekemson Kids Did It: Something go wrong in Diamond Springs? Who do you blame? Like the gunslingers of the Old West, we developed a reputation that far exceeded our capacity for mischief.
I mentioned in my last post that there were no photos of the Pond or the Woods. They were victims of the endless march of ‘civilization.’ Fortunately, and I should add, so far, there are still wild places on earth. Costa Rica has many. Some, such as Monteverde, are attracting hordes of tourists. There’s good and bad news here. Among the good is that the tourists provide Costa Rica with a welcome source of income and the opportunity for the tourists to enjoy the beauty and wildlife of Costa Rica. The bad news is the incredible commercialization that goes along with it and the impact. It’s similar to when the large cruise ships drop thousands of people onto the small Greek Island of Santorini, or our most popular National Parks in America turn into traffic jams in the summer. But enough on that. The tree above was a new one to me, a fern tree. There are more photos below after my UT-OH chapter on the Woods.
Part 2: The Woods
The Woods, like the Pond, earned a capital letter. To get there I walked out the back door, down the alley past the Graveyard, and through a pasture Jimmy Pagonni rented for his cattle. Tackling the pasture involved crawling through a rusty barbed wire fence, avoiding fresh cow pies, climbing a hill, and jumping an irrigation ditch. The journey was fraught with danger. Hungry barbed wire consumed several of my shirts and occasionally went for my back.
Torn clothing and bleeding scratches were a minor irritation in comparison to stepping in fresh cow poop, though. A thousand-pound, grass-eating machine produces acres of the stuff. Deep piles sneak up your foot and slosh over into your shoes. Toes hate this. Even more treacherous are the little piles that hide out in the grass. A well-placed patty can send you sliding faster than black ice. The real danger here is ending up with your butt in the pile. I did that, once. Happily, no one was around to witness my misfortune, or hear my language, except Tickle the Dog. I swore him to secrecy. He knew many of my secrets. It’s a damned good thing he couldn’t talk.
For all of its hazards, the total hike to the Woods took about 15 minutes. Digger pines with drunken windmill limbs guarded the borders while gnarly manzanita and spiked chaparral dared the casual visitor to venture off the trail. Poison oak proved more subtle but effective in discouraging exploration.
I could count on raucous California jays to announce my presence, especially if I was stalking a band of notorious outlaws. Ground squirrels were also quick to whistle their displeasure. Less talkative jackrabbits merely ambled off upon spotting me, put on a little speed for a hyper Cocker, and became bounding blurs in the presence of a hungry greyhound. Flickers, California quail and acorn woodpeckers held discussions in distinctive voices I soon learned to recognize.
From the beginning, I felt at home in the Woods, like I belonged. I quickly learned that its hidden recesses contained a multitude of secrets. I was eager to learn what they had to teach me, but the process seemed glacial. It required patience and I hardly knew how to spell the word. I did know how to sit quietly, however. This was a skill I had picked up from the hours I spent with my nose buried in books. The woodland creatures prefer their people noisy. A Curt stomping down the trail, snapping dead twigs, and talking to himself was easy to avoid, while a Curt being quiet might surprise them.
One gray squirrel was particularly loud in his objections. He lived in the top branches of a digger pine beside the trail and maintained an observation post on an overhanging limb. When he heard me coming, he would adopt his ‘you can’t see me gray squirrel playing statue pose.’ But I knew where to look. I would find a comfortable seat and stare at him. It drove him crazy. Soon he would start to thump the limb madly with his foot and chirr loudly. He had pine nuts to gather, a stick home to remodel, and a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed lady to woo. I was blocking progress. Eventually, if I didn’t move, his irritation would bring him scrambling down the trunk for an up-close and personal scolding.
After about 10 minutes of continuous haranguing, he’d decide I was a harmless, if obnoxious aberration and go about his business. That’s when I begin to learn valuable secrets, like where he hid his pine nuts. It was also a sign for the rest of the wildlife to come out of hiding. A western fence lizard might work its way to the top of the dead log next to me and start doing push-ups. Why, I couldn’t imagine. Or perhaps a thrush would begin to scratch up the leaves under the manzanita in search of creepy tidbits. The first time I heard one, it sounded like a very large animal interested in little boy flesh.
Occasionally there were special treats: A band of teenage gray squirrels playing tag and demonstrating their incredible acrobatics; a doe leading its shy, speckled fawn out to drink in the small stream that graced the Wood’s meadow; a coyote sneaking up on a ground squirrel hole with an intensity I could almost feel.
I also began to play at stalking animals. At some point in time between childhood and becoming a teenager, I read James Fennimore Cooper and began to think I was a reincarnation of Natty Bumppo. Looking back, I can’t say I was particularly skilled, but no one could have told me so at the time. At least I learned to avoid dry twigs, walk slowly, and stop frequently.
Occasionally, I even managed to sneak up on some unsuspecting woodland creature.
If the birds and the animals weren’t present, they left signs for me. There was always the helter-skelter pack rat nest to explore. Tickle liked to tear them apart, quickly sending twigs flying in all directions. There were also numerous tracks to figure out. Was it a dog or coyote that had stopped for a drink out of the stream the night before? Tickle knew instantly, but I had to piece it together. A sinuous trail left by a slithery serpent was guaranteed to catch my attention. This was rattlesnake country. Who’d been eating whom or what was another question? The dismantled pinecone was easy to figure out, but who considered the bark on a young white fir a delicacy? And what about the quail feathers scattered haphazardly beside the trail?
Scat, I learned, was the tracker’s word for shit. It offered a multitude of clues for what animals had been ambling down the trail and what they had been eating. There were deer droppings and rabbit droppings and mouse droppings descending in size. Coyotes left their distinctive dog-like scat but the presence of fur suggested that something other than dog food had been on the menu. Some scat was particularly fascinating, at least to me. Burped up owl pellets provided a treasure chest of bones— little feet, little legs and little skulls that grinned back with the vacant stare of slow mice.
While Tarzan hung out in the Graveyard and pirates infested the Pond, mountain men, cowboys, Indians, Robin Hood and various bad guys roamed the Woods. Each bush hid a potential enemy that I would indubitably vanquish. I had the fastest two fingers in the West and I could split a pine nut with an imaginary arrow at 50 yards. I never lost. How could I? It was my fantasy.
Daydreams were only a part of the picture. I fell in love with wandering in the Woods and playing on the Pond. There was an encyclopedia of knowledge available and a multitude of lessons about life. Learning wasn’t a conscious effort, however; it was more like absorption. The world shifted for me when I entered the Woods and time slowed down. A spider with an egg sack was worth five minutes, a gopher pushing dirt out of its hole, 20, and a deer with a fawn, a lifetime.
It isn’t surprising that I became known as Nature Boy by my classmates, given all the time I spent in the woods. I considered it a compliment.
The hanging bridges of Monteverde gave us a unique opportunity to study both the canopy and the forest beneath. There were six bridges at Treetopia Park. At 774 feet, this was the longest. It was also more open. The canopy towered over most of the bridges.One bridge provided us with an opportunity look down on a fern tree. The leaves were a definite clue that we were looking at a fern.As did how the leaves unfold or unfurl known as Circinate vernation. This has always fascinated me about ferns. I have many photos of different species. But given that there are 10-12000 or more know species, I have a few to go…Here’s a different species at Treetopia.And another. Both tropical and temperate rainforests provide ideal conditions for ferns to grow. Some can be giants. We spotted these down on the ground from the hanging bridge. I wish I had a person down on the ground to provide perspective. They would have made my 5 feet 11 inches appear small.
I’d love to show you a photo of the Pond, or the Woods. Unfortunately I didn’t take any photos of either when I was young. I went back a few years ago to photograph the sites that were so important to my childhood— and life. The Pond had become a large gas station and the Woods had become a trailer park. It’s called progress. There was money to be made.
Instead you have a gorgeous sunset photo over Monteverde, Costa Rica taken by our grandson, Cooper, who is in the eighth grade. Our son, Tony, his wife, Cammie and their three boys, Connor, Chris, and Cooper have joined us this week. We are situated up on a high hill surrounded by rainforest. It even has vines that are safe to swing on and a view that looks all the way to the Pacific Ocean. We sent the boys out with our cameras to explore the surrounding woods and take photos of what they found most interesting. There are more pictures after today’s UT-OH tale.
Part 1: The Pond
There came a time when the Graveyard no longer met my wandering needs. I started traveling farther and farther afield, 15 minutes at a time. That’s how far the Pond and the Woods were away. They were where I played and, more importantly, where I developed a life-long love of the natural world. As such, they earned a capital P and capital W. First up: The Pond.
There were a number of ponds in the area. Oscar ‘Ot’ Jones had one on his ranch for cattle; Caldor had one where logs waited for their appointment with the buzz saw; Forni had one over the hill from his slaughterhouse, and Tony Pavy had one that was supposedly off-limits. But there was only one capital P Pond, the one next to the Community Hall. If I told Marshall, my parents or my friends I was going to the Pond, they knew immediately where I would be.
It was a magical place filled with catfish, mud turtles, bullfrogs and pirates. Although the Pond was small, it had a peninsula, island, deep channel, cattails and shallows. In the spring, redwing blackbirds nested in the cattails and filled the air with melodic sounds. Mallards took advantage of the island’s safety to set up housekeeping. Catfish used holes in the bank of the peninsula to deposit hundreds of eggs that eventually turned into large schools of small black torpedoes dashing about in frenetic unison. Momma bullfrogs laid eggs in strings that grew into chubby pollywogs. When they reached walnut size, tiny legs sprouted in one of nature’s miracles of transformation. Water snakes slithered through the water with the sole purpose of thinning out the burgeoning frog population. I quickly learned to recognize the piteous cry of a frog being consumed whole. Turtles liked to hang out in the shallows where any log or board provided a convenient sunning spot. They always slid off at our appearance but a few quiet minutes would find them surfacing to reclaim lost territory.
By mid-summer the Pond would start to evaporate. The shallow areas surrendered first, sopped up by the burning sun. Life became concentrated in a few square yards of thick, tepid water, only inches deep and supported by a foot of squishy mud. All too soon the Pond was bone-dry with mud cracked and curled. Turtles, snakes and frogs crawled, slithered and hopped away to other nearby water. Catfish dug their way into the mud and entered a deep sleep, waiting for the princely kiss of winter rains. Ducks flew away quacking loudly, leaving only silence behind.
Fall and winter rains found the Pond refilling and then brimming. Cloudy, gray, wind-swept days rippled the water and created a sense of melancholy that even an eight-year-old could feel.
But melancholy was a rare emotion for the Pond. To us, it was a playground with more options than an amusement park. A few railroad ties borrowed from Caldor and nailed together with varying sized boards made great rafts for exploring the furthest, most secret corners of the Pond. Imagination turned the rafts into ferocious pirate ships that ravaged and pillaged the far shores, or primitive bumper cars guaranteed to dunk someone, usually me.
In late spring, the Pond became a swimming hole, inviting us to test still cold waters. One spring, thin ice required a double and then triple-dare before we plunged in. It was a short swim. Swimsuits were always optional and rarely worn. I took my first swimming lessons there and mastered dog paddling with my cocker spaniel, Tickle, providing instructions. More sophisticated strokes would wait for more sophisticated lakes.
Frogs and catfish were for catching and adding to the family larder. During the day, a long pole with fishing line attached to a three-pronged hook and decorated with red cloth became irresistible bait for bullfrogs. At night, a flashlight and a spear-like gig provided an even more primitive means of earning dinner. The deep chug-a-rums so prominent from a distance became silent as we approached. Stealth was required. A splash signified failure as our quarry decided that sitting on the bottom of the Pond was preferable to joining us for dinner.
Victory meant a gourmet treat, frog legs. Preparation involved amputating the frog’s hind legs at the hips and then pealing the skin off like tights. It was a lesson I learned early: If you catch it, you clean it. We were required to chop off the big feet as well. Mother didn’t like being reminded that a happy frog had been attached hours earlier. She also insisted on delayed gratification. Cooking the frog legs on the same day they were caught encouraged them to jump around in the frying pan. “Too creepy!” she declared.
Catching catfish required nerves of steel. We caught them by hand as they lurked with heads protruding from their holes in the banks. Nerves were required because the catfish had serious weapons, needle sharp fins tipped with stingers that packed a wallop. They had to be caught exactly right and held firmly, which was not easy when dealing with a slimy fish trying to avoid the frying pan. But their taste was out of this world and had the slightly exotic quality of something that ate anything that couldn’t eat them.
Next up on Wednesday: The Woods. On Friday, we will focus on some of our Costa Rica adventures.
Chris, who is a sophomore in high school, had watched a capybara as it disappeared into the woods. Later when he was visiting a waterfall, one did him the courtesy of hanging out long enough for a photo.Connor, who is a junior, actually preferred to have a photo of himself taken up a banyan tree without a ladder. His passion for high places reminds us of his dad when he was his age. Here are the boys together at the base of the banyan tree: Chris on the left, Connor in the back, and Cooper on the right.Our other activity of the day was to explore the forest canopy on hanging bridges. There were 6 different bridges. This one had a glass bottom you could see the jungle below. That’s grandma, Peggy, down on the end. Next up on Wednesday, the Woods.
This photo was taken 2-3 years after our parents sent the Mekemson kids off to Vacation Bible School, but here we are. I’m on the left, my dog Tickle is next, then my sister, Nancy and my brother, Marshall. Tickle got to stay home. He didn’t need religion; he was a good dog.
How to develop a warped view of religion…
I’m continuing with my blog-a-book/memoir/misadventure series today with my first two experiences of organized religion. It was a rocky start.
Pop inherited most of the religious fervor in our family. According to my mother, his mom was a hardline Scotch Presbyterian with a sense of humor to match. One didn’t drink, cuss, smoke or perform any of the other nefarious deeds the devil so cunningly uses to capture wayward souls. Fortunately, he missed some of the thou-shall-nots his mother preached. But he did inherit a sense that church is “good for you,” however, and this meant it would be doubly good for his kids. While Mother had more doubts about religion, even she felt that a little God wouldn’t hurt us. Or, at least she recognized kid-free summer time when she saw it.
Eventually this led to the three Mekemson kids being spiffed up and marched off to Vacation Bible School. My brother, Marshall, and I got a rare midweek bath, clean clothes, and the lecture: No shoving, shouting, fighting or farting. Our older sister, Nancy, bathed regularly and didn’t need the lecture.
In those days, going to church in Diamond Springs meant going to the Community Church, a small, white, box-shaped building that came with a straight steeple and fundamentalist leanings.
Other than the fact that Bible School seriously interfered with my play time, it wasn’t all that bad. I was encouraged to color lots of sheep and no one seemed to mind that they were purple. But the real fall-on-your-knees thing that grabbed my attention was all the stuff about miracles. I was fascinated to know how Noah got all of those animals on one boat, what he did with the poop, and how Christ walked on water. I had so many ‘hows and whys’ the Bible School teacher stopped calling on me. I went back to coloring sheep.
One day we were privileged to witness a true miracle in progress. Somehow, we had escaped from Vacation Bible School only to be corralled into attending an actual kids’ service. I think it was a graduation ceremony meant to put the exclamation point on our lessons. It came complete with hymns, prayers, a sermon and lots of Amens. Then the big moment arrived.
“Would you like to hear the Lord knocking at your heart?” the Minister asked.
“Oh yeah!” “Wow!” “Really?” What little kid could resist? The minister instructed us to bow our heads and close our eyes. He was quite insistent on the eye part.
“None of you little kids open your eyes until I tell you to,” he ordered. Apparently, you can’t witness miracles with your eyes open.
Twenty little children dutifully bowed their heads and screwed their eyes shut. Three didn’t. If there was to be a miracle, the Mekemson kids wanted to see it. So we watched the preacher with eagle-eyed attention. He glared back at us. Whoa, this was getting interesting. Next, he tiptoed from the pulpit to the back of the church. What was he up to?
Bang, bang, bang. He was up to pounding on the back door. Yes indeed, the Lord does work in mysterious ways. We watched the minister tiptoe back to his pulpit.
“OK,” he said, “you can open your eyes now. Did you hear the Lord knocking?”
Twenty little sets of big round eyes popped open and twenty little mouths started gabbing all at once. The minister smiled smugly until his eyes fell on us. You could almost hear what he was thinking and I didn’t think ministers were supposed to think those kinds of thoughts.
“Vacation Bible School is over,” he announced abruptly. “I want you all to think about what you learned today. You can go home now.” We jumped up for a quick escape.
“Nancy, Marshall and Curt, I want you to stay.”
Ut-Oh. We were about to learn that the devil had reserved a special place for us. The Mekemson kids were very bad and downright sinful. We had better change our ways or we were going to spend eternity in a very hot place. We were also being held hostage until the other kids left. It wouldn’t do to have us spread malicious rumors.
After being pummeled by twenty minutes of non-stop haranguing, we were finally turned loose. It was pushing 100 degrees outside and Mother was waiting impatiently in one of our ancient, non-air conditioned cars. She lit into us with an intensity that would have made the Minister cry “uncle.” I wondered if our punishment had already begun. But Nancy straightened things out quickly with all of the righteousness of a 12-year-old girl— and forever became my hero. Not only was the minister a ‘lying, deceitful, old so and so,’ she was never coming back to that church again. Ditto.
Marshall, who was seven, sought his own peculiar form of revenge. (He told me about it later out of fear I would tattle.) Our friend, Lee Kinser, lived next to the church and had an old outhouse up the hill behind his home. In-door plumbing had long since replaced its primary use and the daily deposits had turned to dust. The outhouse’s appeal to Marshall was that if he sat on the seat and left the door open, he had a straight shot at the church’s bell. All Marshall needed was his BB gun and a Sunday service. Actually, I think he enjoyed more than one service from his box seat. In my imagination, I can still hear the minister saying to his Sunday congregations, “Do you hear the Lord pinging?”
Brother Jones and a Glowing Jesus
And that was my introduction to religion. Almost. Another fine tutor was Brother James Allen Jones, or some such name long since forgotten. He was a southern radio preacher par excellence in an era when radio still dominated the airwaves. At least it did in Diamond. There was only one TV in town and it certainly didn’t belong to us.
Normally, Marshall and I focused our radio listening time to standard kid fare like the Lone Ranger, Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and the Shadow. We would sit glued to the radio with all the concentration of later TV/computer/phone screen generations and listen to such immortal words as “Who was that masked man?” “I don’t know but he left a silver bullet behind.” And then an awed, “That was the Lone Ranger,” as off in the distance you heard “Hi O Silver away!” We knew that Sergeant Preston and his faithful dog King would always get their man, just like we knew the Shadow would open his program with the question, “Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of man?”
The Shadow knew. And so did Brother Jones. He also knew how to ream it out. On Wednesday nights, we belonged to him. I am sure the devil quaked in his hooves to know that he had such a ferocious opponent. Brother Jones was more than fire and brimstone, however. He could cure anything. After his show the lame would walk, the blind would see and the deaf would hear. Even hardened criminals would fall on their knees and start sobbing. It was at the conclusion of the show that Jones was at his finest, though. It was time to go for the gold.
“I can see you now. I can see you sitting in front of your radio.” The good Brother would start out in his most hypnotic voice, repeating himself so people would get the message right.
“I can see you reaching in your back pocket. I can see you reaching in your back pocket and taking out your wallet. Praise the Lord! I can see you opening your wallet. I can see you opening your wallet and taking out a ten-dollar bill. Hallelujah! Now you are taking your ten-dollar bill and laying it on the radio. I am blessing you and your ten-dollar bill. Lay your hand on the radio. Feel my blessing coming through. Do you feel it? Do you feel it? Hallelujah and Amen Brothers and Sisters! Now I can see you getting out an envelope and a pen. You are addressing the envelope to me, Brother James Allen Jones. You are now taking the ten-dollar bill and placing it in the envelope. Thank the sweet Lord! You are closing the envelope and stamping it. The first thing you will do in the morning is mail it to me. Blessed are those who give! In return, I will mail you a fine gift, a genuine picture of Jesus Christ that glows in the dark.”
I always wanted the genuine picture of Jesus, but I was a little concerned about its glow in the dark qualities. Marshall and I had been given a cross that glowed in the dark at Vacation Bible School and Marshall kept it on our dresser. It scared me, like the tombstones in the Graveyard. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and there it would be, glowing at me. You couldn’t turn it off and Marshall wouldn’t let me shove it in a drawer. My only solution was to hide under the covers. Can you imagine the trauma of growing up with a glowing cross that forces you to hide under the covers? Who knows what damage a glowing Jesus might have caused.
As you might surmise, by this early point in my life I had already developed a somewhat warped view of religion, not to mention a frustrated pair of parents. But they weren’t about to give up. Their savage little beasts would be tamed. It took Tarzan to show me the light.
Next on my parent’s road map to religious enlightenment was the Episcopal Church of Our Savior in Placerville. This time they used a different tactic, bribery. After church, we stopped at Tom Raley’s grocery store and were allowed to buy a Pepsi and pick out a comic book. I would eagerly search the rack for the latest issue of Tarzan, and, on really lucky weekends, find one. It was like winning a gazillion dollars in the lottery. The mere thought of joining the ape-man on his romp through the jungle was more than I could resist. I became a devout Episcopalian.
Next on our Burning Man focus series, we will take a look at some unusual structures that are built at Burning Man.
“There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do.” Obviously.
Next on UT-OH: Nancy Jo and the Graveyard Ghost— a terrifying experience.
This is the fourth post in our focus series on Burning Man including one on mutant vehicles, one on sculptures, and an overview from our last trip to Burning Man in 2023. Today, I am going to feature the Temples of Burning Man, which are both beautiful and sacred— as suggested in the headline. A quick look at the Temple of Grace above speaks to the beauty of the structures. I will provide examples from seven more years below, plus an introduction to what Burners will see this year. Given that there have been 25 Temples so far, my objective is to simply provide a sample. In our 12 years of attending Burning Man, we have never seen a temple that we didn’t consider special.
The process of selecting and building the Temple each year starts with various artists submitting proposals to Burning Man for different designs. This is an artistic rendering of the temple selected for 2026— James Gwertzman’s proposal for the Temple of the Moon. His inspiration was the Queen of the Night desert flower, a flower that blooms and dies in one night. The design rendering of the Temple above is by Gwertzman, and the dawn rendering is by artist Annie Locke Scherer. (Burning Man Journal)Artistic rendering of the 2026 Temple at night. (Burning Man Journal)Artistic rendering of the inside of the 2026 Temple. (Burning Man Journal)Early morning view of the 2014 Temple of Grace at Burning Man. Temples are funded by a major grant from Burning Man plus fundraising. A close look at the structure speaks to the amount of work that goes into building one of the temples. It is mainly done by volunteers. The work starts as soon as the project is chosen. Wood is cut prior to Burning Man and then brought to the site. Depending on the complexity of the project, a volunteer crew of 100-200 people arrives at Burning Man 2-3 weeks before the event to assemble the pieces.Looking up from inside the Temple of Grace.The 2013 Temple of Whollyness at Burning Man was a pyramid-shaped structure of interlocking wood that used no nails, glue, or metal fasteners. It was surrounded by four smaller pyramids.A large altar or ‘cairn’ constructed of black, igneous basalt was located inside the Temple. Cairns are normally large piles of rock arranged in a cone-like formation as a way to mark routes through wilderness areas. I’ve often followed them, or their smaller cousins, ducks, as I’ve hiked and backpacked through the wild regions of North America. In case you are wondering what a ‘duck’ looks like…The temple was filled with them. The symbolism was obvious: Helping people find their way. This photo also shows how some of the wooden, interlocking devices were use to build the Temple.The 2010 Temple of Flux at Burning Man stressed impermanence in life. This photo was taken from the Man looking out across the Playa to the mountains of the Black Rock Desert. While the creators of the Temple noted that their inspiration came from desert canyons carved by wind and water, I thought that the outer structure resembled a sand dune, a perfect example of impermanence. The people on the pathway are biking/hiking between the Man and the Temple. At night, the poles held lit lamps. The buildings in the back were an urban representation of Wall Street. It was located close to the fence that marks the boundary of Burning Man.One of the entrances to the Temple of Flux We included the Temple of Heart in the Post we did on our 2023 trip to Burning Man. Unfortunately the rains hit the day before we had planned to visit it. Everything we saw from the outside was beautiful, however. I read that it took 1000 volunteers to build the Temple.The 2007 Temple of Forgiveness at Burning Man. This Temple was created by David Best, who was responsible for the design and building of several Burning Man Temples. Looking up from inside the 2007 Temple of Forgiveness.The top of the 2009 Fire of Fires Temple was designed to look like flames, reflecting that temples are burned on the last day of Burning Man.The Fire of Fires Temple at night.Of the Burning Man Temples that Peggy and I have seen, the 2015 Temple of Promise was one of our favorite because of its beauty and design.Early one morning, we joined hands with a few hundred other Burners surrounding the Temple as the sun rose.This back view provides a perspective on its cornucopia-like structure.A daytime view inside the Temple of PromiseThe Temple of Promise at night.My rendering of the Temple of Promise in black and white. Note the single lamp.The theme for the 2012 Burning Man was fertility. The name of that year’s temple was Juno, a Roman goddess of fertility, motherhood, and childbirth.This is an early morning photo of the Temple of Juno by our friend Tom Lovering.The Temple of Juno at night.Looking up inside the Temple of Juno at night. Note the intricate carving.A large courtyard surrounding the Temple of Juno provided places for people to gather and relax. It also provided space for Burners to leave messages expressing love, grief, hope, fear and anger, as well as thanks for blessings received. Literally thousands of people leave messages annually, most inside of the Temple.Sometimes, it seems like every inch of available space is used. A quick glance gives an overview on the breadth of messages. I particularly liked the one in the upper left hand corner: “Goodbye to who I thought I was.” More than one person has left Burning Man with that perspective!Another example. Numerous pets are also memorized: a final opportunity to say goodbye.A loving tribute to Zippy: Zippy’s ball, hairbrush, and bed.Whatever the message, it burns along with the Temple on the last night of Burning Man each year. This is the Temple of Juno going up in flames, releasing the thousands of messages that Burners left in, on and around it— honoring those who have passed on, expressing love for those who still live, and letting go of anger, hate and other negative emotions. Our Burning Man focus next week will be on unique structures found out on the Playa such as La Llorona, the large ship seen above.
My next blog-a-book post this Thursday will be my childhood experiences of “looking for God in all the wrong places.” While I don’t have a photo, I thought that this picture I took at Burning Man below is relevant…
Art comes in many forms at Burning Man— from massive sculptures, to mutant vehicles, impressive buildings, costumes, performances, photography, murals, etc. There is no other place in the world that inspires as much creativity for a one week period.Today, I am going to consider some of Peggy and my favorite sculptures from our 12 years of visiting The Black Rock Desert. Where else could one find oil tankers welded together?Or Medusa.Not a ‘do’ you could get (or want) from your local hairdresser.Can you imagine the amount of work that goes into putting these creations together?While Medusa may give you nightmares, many of the sculptures are created with a sense of humor. Meet the Queen Bee with enormous boobs.Or join me as I photograph the nostrils of the sphinx…You probably didn’t see this coming.A 20 foot tall goofy rabbit. (Tom Lovering took this photo.)As I recall, these colorful characters were outside the Silicon Valley Village. Was there a message for us? The one on the left looks a bit like Elon.I really liked this dog.And these cats.It isn’t surprising that a flying saucer crash landed at Burning Man. It is located, after all, in the Nevada desert and all the ETs wandering around have to come from somewhere. This baby flying saucer, on the other hand, was a bit surprising.Was the Man keeping an eye on Junior from his flying saucer perch? There is plenty of mischief one can get into around Burning Man. Adult supervision is required…(Photo by Tom Lovering)Like dancing to this wild rabbit fiddling away at Center Camp. It’s not the dancing that would impact baby flying saucer, it was dancing into the wee hours as Burners do. Babies need their sleep. (Photo by our friend Don Green.)This guy, listening to the rabbit, came close to losing his pants while getting down to boogie.The little fellow might run into a dragon.Or, worse, a dragon guarding its egg! That’s one ferocious momma.Best to pass by when it’s sleeping.Then, there is pitchfork man who was seriously unbalanced…And monstrous bugs hatching and spreading out over the Playa. (Photo by Don Green.)One certainly wouldn’t want to run into this horny spider with crossed swords after dark.Or a Texas longhorn emerging from the Playa.The little guy needn’t worry, however. There is plenty of love at Burning Man.The key is letting go of your ego…And believing. For example, this monster robot was just out walking with his dog and carrying a flower.The large pink rabbit let a little kid run up and hug its leg.And the giant butterfly invited folks to relax and enjoy the view. (Photo by Don Green.)A 50 foot tall couple was willing to share hugs…And the ferocious looking Coyote was only howling at the moon.Babies (inner children) reached out to each other, providing hope…And lots of aliens cleverly disguised as topless Burners were available to look out for baby saucer. (Otherwise, they might be stuck on Earth, which they had serious doubts about at this time.)A lighthouse was available to provide guidance…To wherever in the world the little guy might want to travel…There were plenty of bicycles to borrow for local transportation (some fixing required).And a rocket ship to provide a boost into outer space if needed.Woohoo!And now that the baby flying saucer has been taken care of, here are some of our other favorite Burning Man sculptures…These blocks seemed to be reaching for infinity…A head made of bricks was Earthy, according to his forehead.A mask with glowing eyes stared out at passing Burners. Not sure what this was meant to signify, but it has always been a favorite of mine. One wonders where all of the Burners are. But if you get far enough out on the Playa, they are few and far between. Big feet, big heart? Yes, there is a person up there. A general rule at Burning Man is, if it can be climbed, it is climbed.Ghost tree made out of bones. No climbing this. A sign told Burners to stay off. But….no guarantees.Mirror image. Every time we passed by this sculpture, someone was taking a selfie. Usually posing. I took a photo of myself taking a photo of myself while sitting on my bike. Flight.Lotus flower with a distant view, which brings us to…Giants. This was from 2006 Burning Man. Several giant male and female statues were facing an oil derrick. The oil tankers shown at the beginning were from the same year. “Hope and Fear: The Future” was the theme.The human body has fascinated artists forever. Burning Man was blessed with these sculptures. There were three in the series. This was known as Truth Is Beauty.And she was beautiful at night as well as during the day. The sculpture was constantly changing color.R-Evolution was another of the three giant sculptures by Michael Cochrane. A close up. Note the internal structure, which also shows up prominently in the two photos above.And finally, Bliss. My favorite because she is obviously having fun.I’ll conclude with this close up. I had fun playing with both the form and colors. Like much that happens at Burning Man, these sculptures rightfully received world-wide attention. I was surprised to find that one of my photos even showed up in a French poetry magazine. (They didn’t ask, but they did give credit.)Next in the Burning Man Focus Series, we’ll take a look at the striking and unusual Temples of Burning Man.
On Thursday, I’ll post the next in my UT-OH! blog-a-book series: The tale of how MC the Cat barely avoided having his danglies cut off, which, much to his dismay, would have ended his tomcatting ways.
Imagine sharing a small army cot with this large dog. Now throw in a cat or two and another dog…
I am continuing the story about how I had hired my pets to sleep on my bed and scare away the ghosts that came out of the Graveyard next door to haunt me when I slept outside. I introduced Demon the Black Cat in my last UT-OH post. Today, it’s Pat the Greyhound’s turn. She joined our family as a stray. For weeks, Mother had watched this large, starving dog wander the countryside catching jack rabbits and ground squirrels for food. One day she stopped the car, opened the door, and invited Pat home for a meal.
“Oh, it is just until she gains a little weight,” Mother explained to one very disgruntled Pop. He already believed the size of our pet menagerie was far too large. People were known to drop off unwanted cats in front of our house knowing that they would find a home. As the dog put on the pounds, Mother modified her strategy.
“It would break Curt’s heart if we had to give her away,” she argued. Mother was a master at manipulation. Pat, who I named after the local Greyhound bus driver, became my dog.
Like all of our pets, she lived outside. It was Pop’s rule; pets were limited to daytime visitation rights only. The pregnant Demon had been an exception imposed by Mother. Since there were no leash laws, Pat was free to come and go as she pleased. Mainly she chose to hang around with her food dish in sight. It was a lot easier than catching rabbits.
The night of the skunk was an exception to Pat’s normal stay-at-home routine. As usual, I had crawled into bed with an assortment of animals. That evening, it was minus Pat. Good, she took up a lot of room. Somewhere around midnight, I half way awoke as she hopped up on the bed, completed three dog turns, and snuggled down. Consciousness made a quantum leap as my nose was assailed by an unmistakable perfume.
“Seems we have a skunk visiting,” I told Pat and reached down to scratch her head. The fur was moist. As I pulled my hand back, the skunk suddenly got much closer. Now, I was totally awake. Ms. Greyhound had been bullying the wrong pussycat. It was a night to sleep inside. In fact, Marshall had a roommate for several days. I don’t know how many times I washed that hand, but I do know that the bedding was tossed and Pat learned what a tomato juice bath was. When I finally made it back outside, the animals were put on notice: One more problem and off they went.
Then Demon made her contribution.
She was well into middle age by this time and there had been no pause in kitten production. This was a time before spaying became common. Every few months, Demon shelled out another litter. She had long since finished overpopulating Diamond and was working on surrounding communities. We were teetering on becoming known as the Cat Family of Diamond Springs. My father reverted to drastic measures. Demon was not pleased. She started hiding her kittens and became a master at subterfuge. If someone tried to follow her, she would stop and nonchalantly give herself a bath, her whole body, one lick at a time. Then she would wander off in the opposite direction.
Mother paid me in cookies to track Demon down. When the Graveyard was her destination, I had a flat tombstone I would stand on as a lookout. There was an added advantage: Demon didn’t check for people perched on tombstones. Who would? Eventually, the missing litter would be discovered. I felt like Daniel Boone.
Demon’s special home delivery took place the same summer Pat had her close encounter with the skunk. As noted earlier, my attitude about bed companions had become testy. I wasn’t above rolling over quickly to see how many I could dislodge. A really good roll would net three or four. Sleeping with me was like living on the San Andreas Fault.
I did feel guilt over routing Demon, however. Once again, she was pregnant. I watched her balloon out. By this time, I was a veteran of the birthing process and found it interesting rather than troublesome. One night I had awakened to Pat howling, found that she was delivering puppies, and sat up with her through the process. Another time I had gone out with Tom Murphy, our grocer, and assisted in the delivery of a calf that wanted to come out the wrong way. It was messy, up to the elbow work. Remember the coke I stolen from in front of his store on my early morning walk home from Rudy and Robert’s? Tom was repaid many times over. I should have been rewarded with free cokes for life.
I really didn’t expect to be around for the arrival of Demon’s kittens. That would take place in some hidden nook. One should never make assumptions, I learned. Again. It started as a normal night. Roll over, kick the animals off, and go to sleep. Wake up and repeat the process. It was not a normal morning. I woke up with wet feet.
“What the heck!” I exclaimed as I sat up quickly, dislodging Pat in the process. Demon looked innocently back at me from the foot of the bed. Okay, nothing suggested why my feet were wet. Then I noticed movement. Demon was not alone. Several little black clones were lined up for breakfast. Demon had delivered her litter on the bed and my feet were awash in afterbirth.
That did it. My bed was not a home for wayward dogs who encountered the business end of skunks and it certainly wasn’t designed as a maternity ward for unwed cats. After Demon and her brood were moved elsewhere and my bedding given a bath, I bought a water pistol and initiated a campaign of terror. Any four-legged critter on the bed became fair game. The cats learned quickly; getting shot with a water pistol was not their idea of a proper bath. The dogs were more resistant. Usually it took several squirts and then I would get the look: Big brown eyes accusing me of dark deeds. But I was tough and my canine companions eventually vacated the premises as well.
As soon as I fell asleep, however, the whole menagerie, fleas and all, would quietly slip back up on the bed.
“There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.” Next Monday’s focus post will be on the sculptures of Burning Man.
On Thursday join me as I relate the story of how MC the Cat refused to have his danglies cut off in UT-OH! Chapter 5.
We are continuing our focus on Burning Man today with a look at the wild, whacky, weird (and, I would add wonderful) mutant vehicles that roam the Playa and make their way through Black Rock City every year. Other than official vehicles and bicycles, they are the only form of transportation that is allowed besides walking. Each year brings a new crop to admire as well as old favorites to appreciate. While who knows what 2026 will bring, my goal today is to provide a perspective of what is possible based on past years. The ‘mutations’ that people come up with are prime examples of the creativity that goes into making Burning Man special. BM encourages this artistic flare with mutant vehicles by requiring that they must be extensively transformed, unrecognizable from their original form. Throwing a few baubles on your vehicle and calling it mutant so you can drive around the Playa and Black Rock City doesn’t work.
This is one that does. Valentine’s Day may have come and gone a few days ago, but this polar bear at Burning Man would be the perfect way to deliver a rose to your sweetheart, regardless of the date. I guarantee she or he would be impressed. (Photo by our friend and fellow Burner, Tom Lovering.)Beyond transformation, safety is the other requirement for mutant vehicles. Factors such as sturdy railings to keep passengers from falling off and “radical” nighttime lighting are considered as well as the usual, like good working brakes. Special requirements are added for the many vehicles that spout fire at night. A 5 MPH speed limit is required as are rules pertaining when and where you can play loud music. BM maintains careful control over both the ‘look’ of your vehicle, its safety, and the number of mutants allowed. It starts with a detailed application process. Assuming you are granted a permit, your first stop at Burning Man will be at DMV (The Department of Mutant Vehicles) where a safety check is performed. Only then are you free to roam.
Following are photos of 40 different vehicles. While that seems like a lot for a post, they are easy to scroll though, heavy on photos, light on words. Enjoy.
El Pulpo Mechanical, a giant octopus that shoots flames out of its tentacles, is a long time favorite. Here, El Pulpo is waiting for the Man to burn, along with dozens of other mutant vehicles and 50-70,000 people. Folks sitting up on his arms have prime seats.El Pulpo Mechanical on the move.El Pulpo during the day. Most of the parts that went into building the giant octopus came from a scrap yard in Arcata, California.El Pulpo isn’t the only mutant vehicle to have a connection with the ocean. This hermit crab with its colorful shell would fit right in on ocean’s edge.While this angler fish with its strange dangly designed as bait to lure smaller fish into its scary teeth would be found between 200 to 2,000 meters (650 to 6,561 feet) under the oceans surface. It appears that the angler has caught dinner. It probably offered drinks. Photo from the Monterey Bay Aquarium of an actual Angler Fish. BTW if you are ever near Monterey, be sure to include the Aquarium in your visit. It’s magnificent. As ferocious as this guy looks, it would fit in your hand. You might lose a finger, however.Here are two more angler fish that were roaming the Playa.This one is camouflaged with a desert look. Note the bait. It’s designed to spout fire at night.This rather distinctive narwhal is also a creature of the ocean. This one came with what I assume was a captain’s cabin and some pretension of being a sailboat.A closeup of narwhal. Great lips, sneaky eyes.And now we come to a ship for sailing the seas, or desert, complete with three well-rigged masts. There are lots of mutant vehicle boats plying the Playa. Once upon a time, around 15,000 years ago, the Black Rock Desert was part of the huge, glacial ,Lake Lahontan that was 500 feet deep and covered a substantial portion of northern Nevada.A yacht lit up at night. Speaking of expensive boats, several billionaires have made the pilgrimage to Black Rock City over the years including Elon Musk, Mark Zuckerberg, Jeff Besos, Larry Page and Sergey Brin. In fact, for several years, there was a Silicon Valley Village at Burning Man. The yacht is an example of the radical nighttime lighting I mentioned above. When you are walking or riding your bike out on the Playa you want to be able to stay clear of large mutant vehicles.It isn’t surprising to find a mermaid at Burning Man…Or an alien. We came on this fellow with his rocket ship wearing Burning Man garb. He fit right in.ET phone home. Off “Da Hook!” was one of the most unique mutant vehicles we have seen.In addition to the polar bear featured at the top, numerous other mutant vehicle animals make their way to Burning Man. This is the cat car/mutant vehicle.A side view.The Cheshire Cat of Alice and Wonderland.A golf cart cat with blue balloons! (Photo by our friend Don Green.)Possibly a very large cat, with dreadlocks for a mane? The tongue makes a very comfy chair, but it reminded me of the angler fish. Beware!Along with the ‘dreaded’ lion, the wart hog is another African animal.As is the rhino. (Photo taken by our friend Tom Lovering.)Moving on to the domestic side of the animal kingdom, we found this large red rooster…And where there are roosters, one expects to find chickens.A friendly dog. Or is it a friendly bunny?An enormous cow. The guy walking beside the cow is required as an extra safety measure for the large mutant vehicles. This is a sparkle pony. The Burning Man definition of a sparkle pony is “a Burner who is under-prepared for basic survival but still manages to pack 2 suitcases full of fabulous outfits.”One scary looking unicorn.Giant rubber ducky…Steam punk duck. It shot fire out of its head at night. Your basic wooly mammoth. Note: Several fossil mammoths have been found in the Black Rock Desert.Even insects end up as mutant vehicles.A buggy bug eyes.A spider, I think. Check out the lips. Dragons are ‘big’ at Burning Man. We introduced this giant in our introduction to a Burning Man post.They can appear quite ferocious. Usually you will find them out on the Playa at night spouting fire.A rear view of the green dragon mutant vehicle.Peggy goes on a wild dragon ride— in her imagination. Not that she wouldn’t have tried it for real. (Photo by Tom Lovering.)Many designs were more ‘vehicle-like’ in their mutant sort of way, such as this steam engine house.Tom Lovering’s all time favorite mutant vehicle at Burning Man, the Victorian-like, Neverwas-Haul. (Tom took the photo.)Once upon a time, this would have been a school bus. As a mutant vehicle, it would have made riding to school a lot more fun. I can see the first graders screaming as they exited via the slide, and the principal turning three shades of red.Before it mutated, this giant VW bus named Walter was once a fire truck in the historic mining town of Jerome, Arizona.A steam punk mutant vehicle.A rear view of a hot rod mutant that found its way onto the Black Rock Desert one year.A high flying stage coach. Giddy up! Who needs reindeer…A smart car?Modern art.And in conclusion, the eye. It may win a prize for being the most unique mutant vehicle. We hope you’ve enjoyed our tour of mutant vehicles at Burning Man. We have featured lots, but they are a mere fraction of what you might see.Next Monday on our Burning Man focus series, we will feature some of our favorite sculptures.
Thursday’s blog-a-book memoir will relate how a greyhound and a black cat got banned from sleeping on my bed.
Here I am with Tickle and my mother, sitting on the edge of the Graveyard. Tickle was my constant companion when I wasn’t at school. That included nights when I slept outside in the summer where he joined Pat the Greyhound and Demon the Black Cat in keeping the ghosts away.
First Grade was not the highlight of my school years, thankfully. Things had to get better. And did. My second and third grade teacher turned out to be my Godmother. There is a commandment issued on a mountain somewhere and written in granite: She had to like me. My attitude toward education made a dramatic leap. I actually became something of a teacher’s pet, which surprised everybody. Me, most of all. But back to the wilderness, er, Graveyard.
Between the third and fourth grade, I discovered a new way to enjoy nature. I moved my bedroom outdoors in the summer. It was partially to avoid sharing a room with Marshall and partially to escape my father’s house shaking snores. But the real reason was that I loved being outdoors. I would move out as soon as school was over and stay until it started, or later if parents and weather permitted.
At first I slept on the ground in a cheap cotton sleeping bag. The ground was hard, the nights cool, and the mosquitoes persistent, but these were minor drawbacks. I was free. If I had to pee, I’d climb out of the sleeping bag and find the nearest bush. If I woke up thirsty, a convenient garden hose was nearby. I would go to sleep watching the stars and listening to a giant bullfrog that lived in the ditch in front of our house. I would wake up to the cool morning air and chirping robins. Life was good.
Then it got better. My grandparents bought me a real bed— a wood framed, steel spring army cot, complete with mattress. Looking back, I think they may have been embarrassed that their grandson was sleeping on the ground.
My paradise was marred by one thing, the Graveyard. It was always there on the edge of my sight. White tombstones glared at me.
As hard as I pretended, the cemetery and its frightful inhabitants would not go away. So I developed a set of defenses. The first was to sleep facing the opposite direction, or hide under the covers, ostrich like. A more sophisticated approach was to locate the bed where I couldn’t see the Graveyard. Our well-seasoned cars worked in a pinch, but they weren’t quite large enough. Bits and pieces of the Graveyard would creep around their sides, peak over their tops and slink under their bottoms. A trellis built by my father, Pop, was much better. Its luxurious growth of honeysuckle created the perfect screen. I set up a permanent residence behind it.
But even the trellis wasn’t enough to calm my imagination. More drastic action was called for. I hired protection. It came in the form of various family pets. Their job was to chase the ghosts away. Payment was made by allowing them to sleep on my bed. Apparently, the scheme worked. The evidence is irrefutable: No ghosts attacked me in the years I slept outside.
The downside was that I didn’t have much room. Two dogs, a cat, and me on a one person army cot constituted a menagerie, or a zoo, if you counted the fleas. It was difficult to move. At first, I was very careful not to disturb my sleeping companions. I became a circus contortionist frozen in place with body parts pointed in every direction. If this meant a sleepless night, so be it. It was a small price to pay for keeping the ghosts at bay.
Gradually, my attitude changes. I grew larger, the bed space shrank, and the animals started sleeping on top of me. Meanwhile the ghosts, who tend to hassle little people more than they do big people, became less of a threat. Therefore, I needed less protection. Neither of these factors led to the final banning of the animal kingdom, however, it was the shameless shenanigans of Demon the Cat and Pat the Greyhound.
Demon the Black Cat
Demon, the alpha family cat, was as black as the darkest night. As such, she was appropriately named and attired for Graveyard duty. In fact, she spent a good deal of her life there, stalking mice, lizards, birds and anything else she could get her claws into with impunity. Captured prey would then be brought home for approval, or as gifts. My job was to dispose of the half devoured carcasses, preferably before Mother saw them. I would sometimes tie a string around the unsolicited gifts and run around the yard with Demon in mad pursuit. (Okay, this was admittedly weird, but I did receive high marks from the cat.)
Depopulating the Graveyard was not Demon’s claim to fame, however. Motherhood was. She had kittens often and everywhere. I suspect that half of the cats living in Diamond Springs and El Dorado County CA, today, can trace their lineage back to her.
Two instances of kitten production bring back vivid memories. The first took place on the living room floor. Demon was a young cat at the time, and a neophyte at motherhood. Her impending delivery was quite apparent from her large belly and ceaseless exploration of clothes hampers, closets and other dark places. With high hopes of avoiding a misplaced litter, Mother had arranged her bedroom closet as a maternity ward.
It was my duty to show Demon her new home several times a day. I would carefully pick up the very pregnant cat, carry her to the closet, and deposit her in a box with well-used clothes. Demon didn’t buy the program. It seems that my bedside manner was faulty. She would climb out of the box, glare at me, and stalk out of the room.
When the joyous day finally arrived, I was home alone. Demon was practicing her would-be mother waddle walk across the floor when she suddenly stopped, squawked and squatted.
Neither she nor I was ready for what followed. After all, how prepared can a young kid and a first-time mother be prepared for birth? In a massive surprise to both of us, a tiny, black bundle of fir emerged from Demon’s undercarriage. Surging emotions paralyzed my seven-year-old mind.
One thought stood out: The closet! If Demon hadn’t memorized her delivery lessons, I had. I jumped across the room, grabbed her by the nape of the neck, and dashed for Mother’s bedroom. As fast as I ran, it wasn’t fast enough. In the middle of the kitchen, the new arrival completed her journey and was heading for a crash landing. Somehow, somewhere between Demon and the floor, I caught the warm, wet ball of fur in my free hand. After that, my memory fades but I know that the three of us made it to the closet. I left Demon busy licking her new baby. Demon accepted her new home and four more kittens followed the first, although in a less dramatic way. Diamond’s cat population explosion was underway.
Part 2 of Hiring the Family Pets to Keep the Graveyard Ghosts Away will be posted next week on Thursday’s blog-a-book day. Tune in to learn about my second vivid memory of Demon’s kitten production, how Pat the Greyhound became a member of our family, and how Pat and Demon’s bad behavior led to the banning of animals from my bed. Sort of.
Monday’s focus post will be on the wonderful, weird, and often whacky mutant vehicles at Burning Man. It’s a blog you won’t want to miss.
Here we are in the first grade class of Diamond Springs Elementary School in 1949. I’m in the middle of the back row with my hands in my pocket, crunched together between two girls. Rudy is one person to the right of me. Robert is in the middle of the first row. Joe is on the far right, bottom row. My life-long friend Bob Bray, who you will meet in future chapters, is sitting in the front row just right of Mrs. Young.
My endless vacation came to an end the fall of 1949. It was time for the first grade. Mother was delighted. Mrs. Young, not so much. A number of the little boxes on my report card that reflected good behavior were marked ‘needs improvement.’ Mrs. Young had decided I needed a lot. Is neat: needs improvement. Shares: needs improvement. Is polite: needs improvement. The list went on. I was a little savage.
The ‘neat’ part was particularly sensitive. My shoes were falling apart, my pants had holes in them (this was before it became a fashion statement for young women), I smelled like a little boy who only bathed once a week, and didn’t wear any underwear. You might wonder how Mrs. Young knew about the latter. It wasn’t that she did an inspection. The zipper was to blame.
I was in the bathroom one day, had finished peeing, and was zipping up my pants when my poor little guy got stuck in the zipper. Damn that hurt! I screamed like the six year old man I was and made a beeline to Mrs. Young to solve the problem. She must have been delighted and wondered where in her contract it stated “Must be available to liberate little boys’ penises from zippers.” Anyway, she did her job. I suspect a not-nice note was sent home to my mother. Anyway, underwear became part of my attire, forever after.
I thought of naming this chapter, Free the Penis! But my editor/Peggy (wife) thought not.
Once, I got spanked. “Reading and writing and ‘rithmetic taught to the tune of a hickory stick” the old song School Days proclaimed. My classmate Joe and I had disagreed over who was top dog. We fought it out on the playground. I thought I was doing Mrs. Young a favor by clarifying the issue. Joe was even more uncivilized than I. She thought otherwise. The only justice I could see was that Joe got it in the end as well, so to speak.
The high point of my year was that I made my first two friends who weren’t family or buddies of my older brother. Rudy and Robert were a pair of Hispanic brothers who lived in a small house out in east Diamond. We had hit it off immediately and on a Saturday toward the end of school, the boys and their parents invited me up to their house to spend the night. It was my first official play date and my first ever sleep-over. I was nervous. My mother took me up and dropped me off to a royal greeting by the boys, their parents and their siblings.
“Quick,” the boys urged, “we have to go stand by the railroad tracks.” We could hear the train’s whistle as it approached Diamond.
The tracks were part of a narrow-gauge railway Caldor Lumber Company used to bring logs from its tree-cutting operation 20 miles up in the El Dorado National Forest to its lumber mill in Diamond Springs. When the company was established in the early 1900s, it had located its sawmill in the forest near its logging operation and used mules for hauling the logs. It had then switched to oxen, and finally a giant steam tractor. The tractor made so much noise that the company was required to use outriders a quarter of a mile in front to warn people so their horses wouldn’t be spooked.
Understandably, the company switched to the railroad when it relocated its mill to Diamond Springs, 20 miles away. The train, in turn, would lose out to logging trucks in the 50s. At the time, however, little kids still had the joy of watching the engines and their line of rail cars carrying massive logs out of the forest.
Caldor’s steam engine and its load of logs. Note the size of the logs. (Old newspaper photo)
My father had a close connection with the railway. As one of Caldor’s two electricians, he was responsible for maintaining phone service along the track between the lumber camp and the mill as well as the massive machinery the mill used for cutting up logs and producing lumber. When there was a problem with the phones, off he went to check out the 20 miles of line. A hand cranked generator was necessary for creating the electricity to make calls. We inherited one when the line was replaced. Marsh and I would invite our little friends over, crank up the machine, and have them touch the outlet. They got the message. It was shocking.
Pop’s favorite railway task was clearing snow off the tracks each summer when the logging camp opened up for the season. “We had a diesel-powered rail car with a snow plow on it,” he explained to me later. “We’d back up and take a run at snow banks, crashing into them, and hopefully breaking through. Often our car would jump the tracks. We’d all pile out and lift it back on.” Some fun; he loved it.
While watching the train was high entertainment, the primary attraction for us was that the engineers carried an ample supply of wrapped hard candy that they would throw out to the boys and girls standing alongside the track. It was a tradition.
The train was near. We could hear it chugging along. Rudy, Robert, their brother, sisters and I sprinted the hundred or so yards over to the tracks. Being a smart ass, I laid down and put my ear on one of the rails. It was a trick I had learned from the Lone Ranger and his side-kick, Tonto. You can actually hear the vibrations and supposedly judge how far away the train was. I needn’t have bothered since the train came into view a hundred yards away while my I was focused on the ‘vibes.’ I’m sure the engineers saw me.
“Get off the track!” Rudy and Robert screamed. We started waving vigorously. One of the engineers dutifully leaned out of the cab and tossed us candy, lots of it. We scrambled around picking it up and shoving it in our pockets. At least the ones that weren’t shoved into our mouths.
After we had collected our candy from the train, dinner was a long hour off. I suggested to Robert and Rudy that we head out to the woods behind their house and ride trees. Who needs horses? My brother and I had learned that we could climb up to the top of young, skinny pines and make them sway back and forth by leaning out. The farther we leaned, the more they swayed. It offered a free carnival-like experience 10 feet up in the air. Even more could be accomplished by throwing our feet out in the direction the tree was swaying and hanging on for dear life. If the tree was skinny enough, two of us could make it bend all of the way down to the ground, where we would drop off and allow it to snap back up. It took a while for me to persuade Rudy and Robert that the sport wasn’t going to kill them.
I suspect the trees didn’t enjoy the experience nearly as much as we did. Years later when I read Robert Frost’s poem about children bending birches, I fondly recalled our pine tree horses— or bucking broncs if you prefer.
“It’s dinner time!” came the call so we rushed back to the house and made use of an outside water faucet to wash the pine pitch off our hands. Sort of. Pitch has a way of sticking like super glue. It’s the pine tree’s revenge. Mother had a box of Boraxo at home for the task. Hand inspections were held afterward.
“You have to try this,” Rudy enthused, dashing into the house and coming out with a red pepper. I should have been suspicious when the rest of the kids gathered around. But what does a first grader know? I gamely bit into the pepper and was introduced to habanero-hot. The kids roared as I made a mad sprint for the faucet and drank a gallon of water, becoming a major part of the evening’s entertainment. It would have served them right if I’d peed in their bed later.
I forgave them when I had my first Mexican dinner, however. I still love Mexican food. And I’ve come to enjoy habanero-hot on foods ranging from burritos to spaghetti.
As the night progressed, it soon became time for bed. I was about to flunk sleep-over etiquette. The boys slept on the same bed. Admittedly it was bigger than my small single at home, but I had never slept in a bed with another person, much less 2 others, or maybe it was 10. That’s what it felt like. They put me in the middle. I was mortified, but I tried. I really did. Ten o’clock came and there I was, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, body frozen in place, and midnight, and two, and four. At five, I gently nudged Robert.
“I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept all night,” I confessed. “I have to go home.”
“Ummm,” the half-awake Robert had moaned and moved.
I got up, dressed, and slipped out of the house by 5:30, careful not to wake anyone else. It was close to dark outside with only a dim light announcing the morning. Home wasn’t that far away, maybe a mile and a half at most. But I still remember the journey from a first grader’s perspective: It was long and spooky, my first great solo adventure. I followed the dirt road over the railroad tracks out to the Pleasant Valley Road. Not one car zipped by. Fortunately. They probably would have stopped and driven me home. Everyone knew everybody else in Diamond Springs with its population of 750. “Sorry to wake you up, Marge, but I found Curt out wandering in East Diamond.” By noon, everyone in town would have heard the story.
I walked past the hill with the cross on it and picked up Highway 49. Halfway home, I came to Tom Murphy’s grocery store. Sodas were stacked in wood boxes in front, waiting to be moved inside. I looked around furtively; I was totally alone. So, I helped myself to a Coke; I deserved it. I continued on my journey, walking by the post office, Dub Walker’s store, the barber shop, Scheiber’s hardware store, the historic Pony Express stop, the firehouse and Gust Brother’s Garage, eventually reaching the dreaded Graveyard. I clutched my coke and crossed the road, preferring Pagoni’s mean dogs to the ghosts.
Arriving home, I carefully hid the soda outside. It wouldn’t do to have overly inquisitive parents discover the purloined drink and ask questions. I happily enjoyed it later in the day, feeling much less guilty about stealing than I did about abandoning my friends. I suspect there was a bit of consternation when Rudy and Robert’s parents woke to find me missing. Imagine what would happen today.
Are you ready for our next focus series? Peggy and I will be returning to the whacky, wild, weird and wonderful world of Burning Man. This is Peggy decked out for Burning Man 2023. The world traveller, Bone (over 50 countries), is resting on the right arm of the throne.
