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Show Page A8 Etmcg-3nftgpgnbc- -- Thursday, nt April 28, 2005 Idle Thoughts from Mt. Waas Many Trails J by Adrien F. Taylor A WOMAN OF FEW WORDS Reading this week about the activities of the Amigos Club brought back to me some poignant memories of going to school in Los Angeles in the 1950s.This is the way Adrien remembers it. My early life was spent in Utah. Okay, we were in Washington State for a couple of years during the war. That was my first experience with picking field asparagus, and my first hospitalization with a serious bum on my foot, all vivid memories. But the story on the Amigos Club took me back to life at Samuel Gompers Junior High and J. C. Fremont High School, 1 952-- 1 955. It was a mixed pepper neighborhood back then: white, black and brown mainly. My circle of girlfriends included caucasion, black, hispanic and oriental. It was a far cry from the sea of white faces from the elementary schools had attended (all 1 0 of them). In Los Angeles, in 7th Grade, the music teacher was Miss Ruiz, and she was something of a clone to Garrison Keillors Miss Falkoner. Her glasses also sported a row of precious stones set into the rim, and she taught us the songs that went with my first Posada celebration. It was on Alvera Street, believe, that I tasted my first tacos. There were lots of firsts back then, as there e are for most emerging teens. First crab and didnt like either at the time. First swims in the ocean. First dates. First dances. First witness to race riots. We lived about a mile from the Watts Towers, and it was a time of great racial unrest and upheaval which did touch our lives, but in ultimately positive ways. This restrospection sent me scrambling for my e yearbook, the Fremontian, which even more: jitterbugging with classback brought mates on a live television show; waiting in line during snack break for the best cinnamon rolls any lunch program ever baked, being honored with my friend Suzanna Alcaraz as a Cotton Day Princess. Suzanna and I, and probably our mothers, conspired to make matching dresses in pink and white gingham, trimmed with white eyelet and black ribbons and with pantalettes under. She was absolutely exotic and felt a bit like the ugly duckling. She wore her neckline lower than I was allowed to, and had more petticoats underneath, but it didnt matter. We were special friends and it was a special day. And that was 50 years ago, almost to the day, and despite the racial rules which we all understood, we also learned to be pretty much color blind, a good lesson to have learned. Looking at that old photo, can only find three white faces. Hmm. didnt remember that. Color blindness. ninth-grad- I I I I aba-lon- -- - tUtc I 1 by Ollie Harris With a sigh, and no hint of enthusiasm, I opened the conversation like this, Well, I guess ITJ go mow the weeds and the lawn. We still have a small patch of grass that survived the drought on the north side of the house. I dont think I mowed it at all last year. All of the rest of the place is weeds except for a few struggling trees, a row of Macs, some shrubs and small patches of Barbaras flowers. Barbara didnt say anything. She is a quiet woman (which could be the subject of an entire column) except for the occasional zinger that cracks me up laughing or leaves me pondering the broader view. Not having gotten a raise out of her, I continued with another sigh and mournfully said, What a waste. What Id really rather do is go clean out that crack. Its the crack in the bedrock of a draw that produced a few flecks of gold when I cleaned it out last year. I havent been back this year and am wondering what the winter and spring runoff may have deposited in the around the place. She does not like the term She thinks it demeans us both for honey-dher to constantly be reminding me about the lawn or the weeds. I asked her about this and she said with a shrug and a smile, Well, hells bells, you know when the lawn needs mowing. See what I mean about the occasional zinger? Second, there are the neighbors. I dont want my place to be an eyesore. I do have some pride. While they might not think so, I am slowly getting things cleaned up. At least, I think about it once in a while. Third, there is a pervasive undercurrent of teachings I have had about keeping my surroundings neat and clean. I genuinely admire people who enjoy beautifying their surroundings. There are homes and lots around town that are exquisite. We have an juniper on our place. It is missing much of its shaggy bark. Still, it has enough bark to transport water and nutrients to its green crown. A couple of years ago several small cedars sprouted from the old trees cedar berries. Barbara and I transplanted a dozen of the little trees. It will be really great (a miracle) if the transplants survive. I like the idea of integrating native plants into our landscaping, such as it is. Last year I transplanted three small buffalo berry bushes. I do not know which is the correct vay to describe their current state. They are eith still alive, or they are not dead yet, take your ch ice. Last fall I gathered several seeds of single-lea- f ash that Fve planted this spring. Well see how they fare. In spite of my observation that if I plant it it, will die, there are a few successes on our place. For example, there are Barbaras wonderful peach trees that she raised from seed. Their fruit is delicious. The best I have managed is the corkscrew willow that is growing from a start from Carolyn Hunts tree. Its a good eighteen feet tall with five feet of clear trunk topped by a beautiful crown. It is sort of my tree. But, if I neglect it, Barbara just quietly takes care of it. o. old-grow- th crack. Barbara finally responded, Given that Id rather mow the weeds. There you go. What did I tell you? It got me to thinking, though. If someone forced me, or even paid me to clean out that crack, I would resist doing i choice, If they were to say, I want you to clean out this crack along its entire length. Use your hammer, your screwdrivers, your pry bar, your little brushes and spoons, and give it a good cleaning. Everything you get out of the crack I want buckets, you to put into these plastic I would complain mightily. Id rather be mowing weeds. At least with mowing weeds Id get a bit of exercise. I do not enjoy yard work. I only do it because of external pressures. First, there is Barbara. Even though I have become an old guy, inside I am still just a little boy trying to impress his girlfriend. I do not like to disappoint her. When I mentioned that she doesnt say much, it extends to asking me to do things ice-crea- m High Country News Writers on the Range Libby tested environmentalists , who came up short Adrien and by Ray Ring Suzanna, lower right, with the other Cotton Day Princesses, 1955. The way Sam Remembers by Sam Taylor in I dont know what you call ours we call it Lick.'' it in it ... your house, but Lick is something sweet to go with meals: jelly, jam, honey, or even molasses if thats all you've got. taste of bread and butter, pancakes and waffles brings a taste of heaven to a meal. My ancestors were never without it. The taste of sweet in the early days brought a welcome variety to the meat and potatoes and beans that were standard fare then and for many even now. My parents and their parents took their lick seriously. On good apricot years (which are not frequent in Moab due to spring frosts) they put up apricot jam in jars, and made it of to last enough through years when spring blossoms got nipped in the bud. The same was true for peach preserves. Current jelly, plum jelly and preserves and strawberry jam also filled the larder. For those of us who spent a lot of summers on the La Sal Mountains, chokecherry jelly also had an important place on the lick shelf. It was said in our family that my uncle, Claude Taylor, wouldnt sit down to a meal if lick of some kind wasnt on the table. Claude was a tough cattleman, whose ranch straddled the state line in the Book Cliffs. Im sure he packed his lick into camp in jars. It was probably a welcome taste to go along with his beef and beans camp diet. My old friend, Reuben Walker, was also fond of his lick, and called it lick. One summer in the 1 950s, when had just returned home after military service, Rube had a summer camp in Wet A lick on two-qua- rt Utah-Colo-ra- two-qua- rt I curate. Environmentalists come in many n mes-itbepenh- mt ISSN 1538-183- 8 (UPS) 6309-200Entered as Second class Matter at the Post Office at Moab, Utah under the Act of March 3, 1897. Second class postage paid at Moab, Utah 84532. Official City and County Newspaper. Published each Thursday at: 35 East Center Street, Moab, Grand County, Utah 84532 0) address: editormoabtimes.com e-m-ail Postmaster: Send changes of address to: The 435-259-75- Member . , P.O. Box 129, Moab, UT 84532 Times-lndepende- or FAX fJjATIONAL ' J ed leading Montana newspaper, the Missoulian, Sunday-editio- n ran a front-pag- e story about Libbys dying workers and widows filing lawsuits against the company. The mine closed in 1990, but the killer asbestos lingered in yards and houses all around the town. Yet environmentalists didnt really hook up with the Libby victims until 1999. Even then, environmentalists engaged the issue for only a few years. From 1999 to around 2002, they advocated for a pollution cleanup, and for medical care and compensation for the victims. Then they again shifted their focus to other issues, though the Libby victims continue to fight for their rights in Congress, the agency bureaucracies and the courts. Any generalization is at least a little inac- . 435-259-77- stripes, and some are more concerned for communities than others are. But Montanas environmentalists, like their fellows around the country, mostly concentrate on wilderness, wildlife and other aspects of nature. They oppose d and minlogging, ing. Thats part of what happened in Libby environmentalists pressed many lawsuits over the industries impacts on nature outside the town. In the process, environmentalists find themselves marooned on one side of a cultural divide, with industrial workers and their families on the other side. dam-buildi- heavy-hande- NEWSPAPER ASSOCIATION PRESS ASSOCIATION Samuel J. and Adrien F. Taylor, Publishers Adrien F. Taylor, Editor Sadie Warner, Assistant Editor Jf;j UTAH V f In Libby and .nationally, voters, have by supporting politicians. In the feedback on my Libby piece, some Goofy logic from Ray Rong," one Critic charged. The most ridiculous piece of journalism I have read, said another. Trash and rubbish, said others. Those blasts came from angry environmentalists. Theyre criticizing a piece of news analysis I wrote recently, about an environmental-healt- h disaster in Libby, Mont. I intended it to be provocative. In that small town, more than a thousand people are either ill, dying or already dead, because they inhaled lethal asbestos fibers that spread from a nearby mine. Like many journalists whove looked into it, I blamed the corporate giant that ran the mine for decades, W.R. Grace & Co., along with the government agencies, industry agents, and others who allowed the town to get poisoned. But I also went further, concluding that environmentalists could have done more to help the asbestos victims. The basic facts for that conclusion: The dan- -' gers of asbestos nationwide were known by the early 1980s. Then in 1985, Ralph Naders magazine, Public Citizen , reported that Libby workers, in particular, were ailing. Then in 1988, a J , . environmentalists agree that their side shouldve done more for Libby and other communities. But I knew I would be jamming a stick into a hornets nest. Some of the criticism is well reasoned, but theres a certain strain that supports my conclusion. The environmentalists were not responsible for the mine, the criminal acts of its owners, the vitriol and hate hurled at them by the citizens of Libby, the distrust and divisions in the community, said one environmentalist critic. Environmentalists cant take care of everyone, said another. Much of the criticism shows outright disdain for the workers and families. One letter-writethe president of the board of a leading Montana group, calls Libby an ignorant and arrogant community that actively and aggressively made it painfully clear that it wanted nothing ever to do with (environmentalists) and their creative efforts and factual information. Another said, Mr. Ring would have had us drop all (our) work on behalf of all species and Creation, to help one small, hostile, community intent on running us out of Dodge, even as they rushed blindly over an environmental cliff. Libbys workers and their families, said another, are a populace conditioned, on an integral, invisible, even molecular level towards escapism and simplicity. Stupid locals? Well, theyre human beings. They worked hard for generations, pulling ore from the mines and wood from the forests. They toughed it out, in difficult, risky jobs, and took pride. They didnt see as far ahead as they should have. Nobodys perfect, even environmentalists. One environmentalist in my town, who holds two masters degrees from Yale University, approached me in a coffee shop to straighten me out. He said Im confusing the role of environmental activists with the role of community activists. In his view, community activists focus on the workers and families, while environmentalists, of course, focus elsewhere. Thats precisely my point: there should be r, pro-indust- ry , no difference'. Ray Ring is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of High Country News in Paonia, Colorado (hcn.org). He is the papers reporter in the field in Bozeman, Montana. Hstfi for special r.; : weddingsanniversaries ' 1 csnaiifiMSMRts: ; X mission calls births . obituaries card of thanks (limit 40 words) i ' $15 for 400 words or less -- 200 per word over 400 $25 with photo |