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Show Page A8 - ffltmgg-nbgpenhr- -- Thursday, at Idle Thoughts from Mt. Waas Many Trails by Ollie Harris by Adrien F. Taylor My sister, Brangwyn, and I AN HOUR IN MOAB are going on a tour uncommon. of Scotland's weaving and woolcrafts industry in July, so we are busy here at the office trading jobs -a- I ft- nesses. The parade is Saturday morning at 10. -a- ftI'm out of town this weekend because my sisters and I are going to visit our mother's grave on her birthday, and then get together with a few of our cousins who live in the Salt Lake area. We've arrived at the age when all of our forebearers are in their graves, and some of us cousins as well, so it is good to get together and I my job. As with when I was in New Zealand and Australia two years ago, I plan to email travelogue material for this column. Brangwyn and I are joining a group of weavers and fiber artists, including my good friend Mary Ellen McMurtrie and her husband Bob from New Mexico. With a name like McMurtrie, it was no surprise to learn that these friends are going early, in order to visit his family home stomping grounds. One of the tour leaders is a woman also know, one of the foremost experts on Scottish tartans in the world. reminisce. All this writing about the upcoming tour and relatives brought to mind a piece written by a fiber artist friend just after her mother died, as follows: .my mother entered the hopital for what became her final illness. During the trying days that followed, working at the loom brought a degree of serenity. My mother's and my grandmother's lives flowed from my memory into the cloth, as I wove for my daughter and her daughter. I under". . I Brangwyn and are also going early, so that we can spend a few days with a friend who lives in Rugby, England and tour some of the English countryside (Coventry, Stratford upon Avon), and possibly take a short tour to Wales. Brangwyn's name is Welsh in origin, and she is understandably interested in going where her name is not so I I had an hour to kill while waiting in Moab the other day. I was ten hours into an y drive, stiff and tired, with still a little over an hours drive ahead of me. I parked my truck in the shade of an apricot tree. I have reached an age where I do not just hop out of the truck in those situations. Its more of a groaning slide out of the seat. Creaky bones and stiff muscles complain at being asked to move. I needed a little walk to get the blood flowing. Its quite miraculous how quickly the old body begins to perk up with just a little all-da- Speaking of stomping grounds, it's rodeo week here in Moab and after having worked on the rodeo book for several weeks now I was tickled when Cricket Green brought me an "Honorary Committee Member" name tag, which would have gotten me in free this year. Things tend to pile up on one date, and I won't be in town for the rodeo, but urge everyone who likes to see the action to get on out to the arena Thursday, Friday or Saturday night. Moab is lucky to still have a 'Professional Rodeo Cowboy's Association (PRCA) circuit rodeo. Putting it on is a lot of work for a fairly small group of dedicated people, and they deserve our support. Looking at the program book, it is obvious they have the support of the community's busi- around so that people will be comfortable doing my work while I'm gone for three weeks. This week, I traded jobs with Sadie, and put together the real estate ads and the second half of the B section. She's done that for so long that it's "duck soup" for her. have done a few of the realty ads on rare occasions when she's been swamped, but they're certainly not my specialty. We have realized it's good to practice each other's jobs while everybody is here, because of the inevitable questions that the job shadow person doesn't know and that the job holder knows so well that he or she thinks the answers are obvious. Sadie is finishing up the first pages of the A section as write. Sam has put together pages for so long that he doesn't need to do any job shadowing. He volunteered to do my job while I'm gone, but we decided that the cross training for the rest of the staff was important to implement, so we're doing that, and Sam, Sadie and Carrie will all do part of stood the likeness between the continuous weaving of cloth and the living of life through several generations; and recognized that the work of our hands, as we live our lives and teach skills to our children, is also the fabric that nurtures our souls." I exercise. I grabbed my camera and set off, heading in the direction ofthe last house I lived in before leaving Moab in 1960. One of my most treasured photographs was taken from in front of that old house. It is a photo of my fathers little Model-- Ford pickup sitting beside a haystack and corral with the beautiful La Sal mountains in the background. It summarizes much ofwhat I love about Moab. I carried it for thousands of miles and shared it with friends in y places. There is no denying that I am a sentimental man. It has always been my nature although as I grow older I encounter a refining of my A far-awa- sentimentality. I felt a little out of place snooping around the old place. I encountered a young woman who was hauling hay on the back ATV to feed to the cows. I of her four-wheel- There are windows on the west wall ofwhat was once our living room. It is empty now except for a couple of metal-frame- d chairs whose plastic seats are shredded and gnawed by the critters. We had a swamp cooler mounted in one of the windows. It cooled the room but had to be regularly filled with water from a bucket. I have a distinct memory of sitting at a table next to the west windows. In the memory I am sipping iced Brigham tea sweetened with sugar, and cut with a bit of canned milk. I am writing a letter to Barbara far away in Colorado. It, is like a love letter but not really a love letter; more of a really-fon- d letter. It is poetic. In that poetic letter I conjure images ofkisses like cool, honey flavored dewdrops in flowers, and of forests. ethereal pixies in I walked back through the house and ascended the narrow stairs. There is one long room upstairs. It was already hot up there and not yet summer. I took photographs of the long room where my bed had once been. Outside there is a very old black walnut tree. We hung a lot of deer in that tree. The last autumn that I was in Moab our family had eight deer tags. In ones and twos and threes we filled the tags, hanging each deer in the tree to be skinned, Mother bottled most of the meat. There is more than one way to skin a deer. If you are careful and take your time, the carcass will be blocky and covered with subcutaneous fat. It is more attractive while hanging in the tree than one that has had the hide forcefully ripped off. In the long run it doesnt make much difference but it looks better when done carefully. One other memory of the old house: I was scheduled to referee the high school wrestling matches one evening. I ran down the walk, jumped from the top step to the running board of the Model-- and blew a tire. It went off like a rifle shot. Ahh, the good old days. sun-dappl- ed A High Country News Writers on the Range it . Sam Remembers by Sam Taylor Every time go into Andy Nettells fine bookstore in downtown Moab, have fond memories of the old Moab Garage Company I come flooding back. Andys store is located in part of the building built and occupied by Moab Garage for many years. The garage, with its large canopy extending over the sidewalk and Conoco gas pumps near the curb, was a center of Moab activity when was growing up. You could almost always find a cluster of Moabites there, just visiting. The front part of the building contained retail automotive supplies and desks for Dennis Baldwin and Ralph Fletcher. The back part of the building, where Andy now roasts his coffee beans, was a storage area for a few new automobiles and an extensive welding and repair department. Entering the front door, you could always smell the aroma of good cigar smoke. Ralph always had a long cigar in his mouth. think he chewed it more than he smoked it. When the end would get too soggy for his comfort, he would pull a pair of scissors from a drawer and snip it off. Gay Brown manned the gas pumps and retail end. Gay was a great old pioneer. He lived at Dewey for a time with his family, and was a part of the crew that built the Dewey Bridge in 1916. Later, he operated a sawmill in Geyser Pass near Blue Lake for many years. In later life, his family lived in a home situated where the Moab Information Center now stands, behind a gas station and cate operated by his daughter and used to drive my old red Farmall tractor up to those pumps for gas, and Gay was always full of stories, gossip and questions about how my farming operation was going. Just charge it to I I I two-thir- eye-bea- m I I I I I by Alan Kesselheim I I son-in-la- What is was like in prison in Riverton , Wyoming would say. Neither my father nor Gay ever questioned it. Of course that was when leaded gasoline was under thirty cents a gallon. Whenever needed something fixed on any of my farm machinery, would manage to get it to the Moab Garage repair crew. was fascinated of the garage where all with the back the heavy work took place. They had a big block and tackle hanging from a steel when traveled the length and width of the garage. With it they could position that block and tackle anywhere in the garage. always thought if ever built another printing building, would install one in the backshop. Printing equipment is heavy and hard to move. At the garage, Andy Anderson, Dutch Gerhardt and the rest of the crew would put things back in order for me. My old tractor had so many weld spots on it you could hardly see the red paint. bought my first brand new car from Bob Baldwin at the Moab Garage. When got to the my dad, I I I point where I thought I could handle the payments, I went to see Bob. He told me he had three new 1952 Plymouth sedans in the back room, and could take my pick. I chose a bright green model, close to the same color of the car am now driving. loved that car, and kept it for years. While I was overseas in the military, my mother and dad kept it for me in Salt Lake City, and had it ready to go when was released from the service. There is a lot along Main Street that bring back great memories of growing up in a great town, where everyone knew everyone else. Andy Nettells Arches Book Store building is one of those. I I I ' I 8 ISSN (UPS) Entered as Second class Matter at the Post Office at Moab, Utah under the Act of March 3, 1 897. 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 6309-200- 1538-183- 0) address: editormoabtimes.com Postmaster: Send changes of address to: The P.O. Box 129, Moab, UT 84532 or FAX ail Times-lndepende- 435-259-75- 435-259-77- Member NATIONAL NEWSPAPER ASSOCIATION 'tmuTirTT and PRESS ASSOCIATION Samuel J. and Adrien F. Taylor, Publishers Adrien F. Taylor, Editor Sadie Warner, Assistant Editor Circulation Manager, l Maps Press, Production Manager Advertising Sales Staff Writer Contributing Writer Contributing Writer Contributing Writer T-- Jeannine Wait Dorothy Anderson Jose Santana, Jed Taylor Ron Drake Ron Georg Oliver Harris A.J. Long My parents have been spending time in the slammer. They are both approaching 80, are upstanding citizens', but in any given month, they might average two weekends in the joint. A while back, I decided to join them. That particular weekend they were at the Honor Farm in Riverton, Wyo. They specialize in Wyoming institutions Lusk, Newcastle, Laramie, among others. Most visits involve a three-hou- r drive, but Riverton is close to their Lander home. We showed up early Saturday morning, checked in, and were ushered to a conference room near the prison library. Soon the prisoners started filing in, 11 men in jeans and Some of them had been in prison for 25 years, others a year or less. We all sat in a circle. The mood was guarded. My mother started by introducing the program, Alternatives to Violence. Shes been conducting workshops, often with my father, for more than a dozen years. After she finished, she asked people to introduce themselves with an adjective name. Hers was Swell Chel. The men tentatively, somewhat sheepishly, spoke up. Careful Craig, Realistic Roadie, Fast Felix, Jolly Ollie. Names they would carry for the weekend. A silly exercise, in one sense, but the beginning of breaking down barriers, the first chink in the wall. The Alternatives to Violence Program began in Greenhaven Prison in New York state. In 1975, a group of prisoners known as the Think Tank, asked a local Quaker group for help in nonviolence training to prepare them for work offenders. as counselors for under-ag- e What emerged was a program that evolved set of exercises and into a carefully thought-ou- t training aimed at stopping violent reactions and violent behavior. The idea grew, mostly by word of mouth, to 40 states and 20 countries, and its staffed completely on a volunteer basis. Although its main thrust has been prison work, training has expanded to battered womens homes, homeless shelters, law enforcement groups and community mediation centers. Despite its ties to Quakers, the program and carries no religious is message. We have learned a tremendous amount about ourselves, my parents told me. These are lessons we all need to be reminded of. In Riverton, the session incorporated discussion, team-base- d challenges and focused on brainstorming, all gaining new approaches to conflict. non-sectari- an role-playin- UTAH Tom Taylor er introduced myself to her and explained my interest in the old house. It wasnt long until she returned with a key and asked me if I would like to go inside. I was delighted. She unlocked the door and left me to my memories. I went quietly inside and closed the door behind me. I stood still and waited for whatever spirits or ghosts that live in old houses. I took a couple of photographs and slowly began to move through the house. It was very dusty. Rodent droppings littered the floor and cabinets. Dust motes slowly drifted through shafts of sunlight. The way Zane Taylor Lorinda Applegate Carrie Switzer Lisa Church Jeff Richards Marjorie Miller June 9, 2005 Contributing Writer Mail Room Supervisor Backshop Castle Valley Columnist Columnist Columnist Distribution g, Between the serious stuff, goofy activities called, light and livelies break things up. In one, the group stands in a circle and throws small, stuffed animals back and forth at greater and greater speed. Within minutes the group of felons had disintegrated into a giggling bunch ofkids. Saturday was a day, broken up only by meals, head counts and smoke breaks. Just before lunch, everyone shared their greatest fears. 12-ho- ur Im most afraid that Ill never leave prison, said Realistic Roadie, who began serving time at 15. Careful Craig said his biggest fear was dying in a gutter, a needle in his anq. g There were sessions that cut close to the bone. Fast Felix confronted a father who had been gut of prison for a year and hadnt d bothered to look up his son. In others, men to had where interviews job explain they their criminal past, or negotiated daily chores with a girlfriend after release, or talked to their sons about what constitutes a good man. Once, during a heated discussion, an inmate known as Climbing Cliff burst out, This isnt our life! This isnt who we are! Theres a door well all walk through one day where we can take these skills. Every man in the circle was nodding his head. I felt a chill go down my spine. The Sunday workshop was no less intense. role-playin- role-playe- It became clear that despite living in confinement together, these men knew each other only superficially. The opportunity to talk on a deeper level had a palpable effect on the group. By the end of the workshop, the men who had begun with their shields raised were listening intently, jumping in with their thoughts and ideas. The day ended with a graduation ceremony. We stood in a tight circle. Each mans name, including mine, was called. We walked up, shook hands with everyone, held our certificates with surprising pride. Afterwards some of the prisoners hung around. Several volunteered to be trained as inside facilitators. Others talked about what it meant to have outsiders come in without any agenda. For me, it was the words, This is not our life! that kept echoing in my head all the way back to my free life in Montana. Alan Kesselheim is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of High Country News (hcn.org). He lives and writes in Bozeman, Montana. |