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Show (Die Page A8 iTimrs-3!iibcpmftn- Thursday, July 28, 2001 it Community Comments by Sam Taylor In trie years ot our marriage, AJnen and have traveled to a lot of states, and have enjoyed Vacations, though, have been tew and tar between We once took our old red station wagon and ail tour kids to California We spent a little more than a week, starting at Monterey arid working our way south to L.A That's about the only trip can remember trial was truiy just a plain olo vacation. Most of our traveling has been done in conjuncconventions. In tion with trade or government-typall of those travels, though, we have extended our stay a day or two to see something of the country around us Those extra days have been precious We have the Virginia hunt country We visited historic southern mansions in Tennessee We took a marvelous day long busriverboat trip into the Columbia River Gorge upstream from Portland We even toured Cape Canaveral a day following a convention in Orlando, Florida We ate pounds of clams and lobster in Maine, and spent a great day at Mount Rushmore in a rent car following a convention in Rapid City, SD. Last September we found ourselves at a convenforty-plu- s I I e bus-toure- d tion in Lot'isville, Kentucky, following which we traveled by bus with a small group of other newspaper people, touring a variety of places in northern Kentucky One stop was particularly interesting to both of us. We visited a fully restored Shaker village, Actuwhich is staffed by a lot of pseudo-Shaker- s no left. real Thats Shakers arent there many ally allow nor did not in believe sect the since surprise, marriage It's pretty hard to sustain a society under those rules Ask Brigham Young. We are both gardeners and enjoy it tremendously. We were naturally drawn to the carefully kept and very large garden in the village. Being rather straightforward by nature, we immediately struck up a conversation with the resident gardener, since there were a number of vegetables growing there we didnt recognize. It turns out he was a retired botanist from the National Park Service who volunteered his efforts to keep him oft the couch He was was in Jeffersons day" Wonder if it would work in Utah? we asked. He said that even though it was against the rules, he had just picked a couple of ears and shucked the kernels off in the barn, which wasnt dn the preferred visitor list. Go on in and pick up a few kernels and try them," he said. We didnt hesitate. The huge kei nets of corn soon filled the side pockets of my sports jacket. We bag brought them home and put them in a to protect against any insect damage. This May, planted a row in my garden. Every kernel, believe, grew and grew and grew. The ow of normal sweet corn planted next to the Thomas corn didn't survive. It was fine, but my conscience wouldn't allow me to do the obvious allow pulled up the corn and fed it to the horses before it had a chance zip-loc- I I -- fascinating and very talkative We were particularly taken in by a couple of rows of the tallest, strangest corn we had ever seen. Tell us about it," we said. The stalks, which had dued out by September, were nearly ten feet tall and had six to eight ears of corn each. That corn is special, our host said. Shakers don't believe in hybrid anything. That corn was developed over two hundred years ago by Thomas Jefferson at his plantation, Monticelio. It has all this time. been protected against Tom even gave some of his protected seed to his friend George Washington, who grew it at Mount Vernon. We work hard to keep the strain just as it cross-pollinatio- k I I cross-pollinatio- to store-boug- tassel. The corn now, as you can see in the picture, is eight to nine feet tall and still growing. It has just barely started to tassel. We don't know how it will taste. We may have to rely on our favorite Olathe corn for eating But for avid gardenwe are fascinated with Mr. Jeffersons corn. I'm ers, sure Ill have some seeds to share at the end of the season. But warn you. if give you some seeds, youll have to protect the variety. Its the Shaker way. store-boug- n ht I I Many Trails by Adrien F. Taylor Idle Thoughts from Mt. Waas f by Ollie Harris Good times We love to get together and Ive written about our reunion liefoie. I dont want people to get tired ofhearing about them, but maybe just a few observations that came out of this most recent Oliver Harris family reunion would be OK. In department, granddaughter Abby told me that she had a friend who was in the swimming pool for six hours and her hair turned green. Shoot," I told her, I once stayed in a pool for five hours and the water turned yellow." In department, Marcos, visiting from Brownsville, Texas, said, This is so cool. There is so much to do. We just have the mall." Marcos is a nephew of my son, Doyle. He is Mexican-Arnerica- n but what really ima nice enough looking pressed my granddaughters were his good manners and social skills. One granddaughter told me, He is so nice. He opens the door for us and lets us go first." I complimented her for noticing and appreciating his behavior. Marcos is smart, too. He scored 20th out of 1,500 students on private school comprehensive exams. I apologize to Aunt Ida for getting the year of her birth wrong. She is six years older than my dad, bom in 1910, not ten years older bom in 1906. She brought an old photo album to the Wayne Harris reunion at La Sal. Old photographs of my family are extremely rare because my folks house, old photos and treasures, were completely destroyed by fire in the early 1960s. My sister, Ruthie, made copies of some of the pictures and sent me a photograph that I had no idea existed. In the photo I am six or seven, standing with my dad and grandfather. The other photo is even more precious to me. It was taken at about the same time as the photo. I seem to be bibbed-overald in both the same, wearing photos. In the second photo my dad and I are fishing in a three-generatio- What started out some years ago as one nice ewe who had lovely fleece for spinning turned into an unwieldly flock consisting of one ram, six ewes and nine lambs this spring Miss Redd, a cormocolumbia cross ewe, was getting on in years, and showing the beginnings of health problems Well, heck, having triplets this spring at her age didnt help matters any. So I made the difficult decision that she would go oft to Blue Mountain Meats, along with some of the others. Now, where all these lambs are concerned, the only consideration has been how big to let them grow, since seven of the nine are ram lambs, and the two ewe lambs don't show signs of bearing the type of fleece I like to spin I looked over the flock carefully, finally selecting the lesser of the remaining ewes, and the two largest lambs. Sam made the tnp to Monticelio alone, since I just didnt have the head to accompany my ladies on this last journey The hides are now all salted down and ready to send off to the tannery in Maine. Sam asked if would have a problem dealing with Miss Redds hide. Not with her not in it anymore. Its just another sheepskin. It's a good thing that the Taylor clan members all like sheep meat, and particularly lamburger and leg of lamb, because tnat's what we're going to have a good bit of this fall and winter. Meanwhile, out in the garden, in addition to the antique corn, start to feel the way Garrison Keillor puts it, that we have planted a glacier out there, and its moving in on us." It's canning time coming on hot and heavy. can feel it in the air! Meanwhile, noticed a sprout this in in of one the back spring April. And patio planters sure enough, it has turned out to be a watermelon vine from a seed sombody spit out last summer. The plant has clambered up onto an Oregon Grape bush nearby and actually has a little watermelon hanging down. So it looks like there's yet another harvest, of sorts, coming on. (Sena has a volunteer watermelon growing in a flower bed next to her corral, where she throws the rinds and unwanted watermelon parts to her horses). familiar-lookin- g ZEmics-Jnbepcnhc- nt ) (UPS) Entered 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 6309-2000- address: editormoabtimes.coTi Postmaster: Send changes of address to: The Member P.O. Box 129, Moab, UT Times-lndepende- or FAX 435-259-75- 84532 435-259-77- NATIONAL NEWSPAPER ASSOCIATION UTAH PRESS ASSOCIATION Samuel J. and Adrien F. Taylor, Publishers SenaT. Flanders, Editor Tom Taylor Circulation Manager, T--l Maps Press, Production Manager Zane Taylor Ron Flanders Franklin Seal Lisa Church Systems Manager News Writer News Writer News Writer Michael Gostlin Sadie Warner Dorothy Anderson Office ManagerSalesDesign Mail Room Jose Churampi Supervisor Distribution Writers on the Range I I Kelly Ericson, Bobbie Domenick, Jed Taylor Darin Hawk Layne Miller Betty Bailey. Ron Drake Ron George Oliver Harris Cactus Shepherd Backshop SalesProduction Regional Correspondent Green River Correspondent Castle Valley columnist Columnist Columnist Intern ls ul High Country News I I cElje three-generatio- light-colore- small stream in Idaho. Dad and I are both using willows cut from the bank as fishing poles. You can see the line tied to the ends of the poles. I remember that fishing trip I caught several fish, my dad carried me on his back as he waded back and forth across the stream, and we both slept in the same sleeping bag. The photos meant a lot to my kids at my reunion. I am impatient to see if the photos I took of the httle kids playing in the dirt come out. It was not your normal dirt. It was that thin, gray silt that squirts like water from beneath your boots when you walk through it. The adults did not intervene as the kids, aged about two over each others through four, dumped double-handsfover and themselves it lay down in it heads, poured making dirt angels. I got several pictures. In one, I called to little Charisten squatting in the silt. She looked up at me, blue eyes gleaming from a little face completely Covered with dirt. If that picture turns out it will be a treasure. Bath water was said to look like cocoa. Sometime Saturday afternoon, the "main day" of the reunion, I got to thinking that it surely must have been a perfect day. Every one of my children with their spouses and children were there. In addition, we had 35 friends and other relatives who stayed at the reunion or just dropped by to eat with us, to visit or to just hang out for a little while. I cooked 80 pounds of pork roasts over a bed of charcoal briquettes supplemented with lots of hickory chips and sawdust to add smoke. It was too much but none went to waste. The food was good. Everyone had eaten. The kids were happy. The adults seemed content As evening drew near, three and went for a leisurely or four couples got on ride up the mountain. They saw a bear. Ron Kartchner came with his guitar and sang 15 or 20 songs. Little kids danced. Some got into the spirit of things and sang songs of their own. Yes, it was a perfect day. Except, maybe, for the dirt. Mile markers: Encounters with an alternate West by Mary Sojourner Northern Arizona is southeastern Utah is western log "cabins Wyoming is western Colorado, where native forest once grew; kokopelli kandy booteeks, and tourists hunting the discount malls for what they can find a mile from their homes. This is the corporate West. Its easy to get here. Squeeze on the nearest dereguy lated airline and head for the setting sun, dropping red behind a thermal inversion. Stay in a chain hotel. Eat at a Mexican restaurant whose headquarters are in Japan. Youll find no surprises. You will leave, wondering what you missed, and you will not want to return. Or, you can hit the road, the black artery that carries you through the heart of such raw beauty youll be glad youre driving a beater pickup with a camper shell. You will rejoice in the low budget that keeps you away from the obvious, leaves you crouched over your camp stove, warming your hands at the coffee pot, sending its fine scent into the high desert air. Youll think back over your day and realize the mile markers glow in your memory like Zuni fetishes on a slender string of jet. Mile marker Mesquite, Nev.: Ive driven 12 hours I am hungry and straight from Wyoming, down tired, and the lights of Mesquite sparkle like an elusive lovers promise. The name of the casino doesnt matter. Theyre all, alike. I stuff myself at the buffet, dump my spare change in my Lucky Jackpot bag and saunter into the reason for being there. My minds on nickel Winning Touch, when I am stopped in my forward lunge by the best rhythm and blues Ive heard since 1963. A stocky guy finishes the last burnt-sugnotes of d woman "Really Got a Hold On Me," and a hits the stage. This is for the ladies," she says, and slow-coointo a 70s disco hit about freedom, her voice and the old guys and dolls around the song going white-ho- t, me actually turning away from their machines. Later we talk. Her name is Natalie. She and Daemine sing all over eastern Nevada, the Rainbow in Wendover, the Silverton outside Vegas, here, in a room blood-mone- ar long-legge- covered walls to ceiling with black mirrors. Weve been together 13 years," she says, came here from Jersey." I tell her theyre the best musicians Ive heard in a long time and I wish I was a rich record producer. Me, too," she laughs, but, see, this is just what we do." Mile Marker Jackrabbit, Ariz.: Headed east on Mike, and I make the ritual stop at Jack-rabb- it my Trading Post. Billboards guide you in, Here it is! Little black wooden rabbits crouch in a line across the top of the boards, utterly still, the way real jacks will freeze at your footstep. black papier mache rabbit as tall as a Once, a wind-tor- n short woman crouched outside the post. I have a picture taken in 1982. 1 am the short woman, grinning and believing I am, in the middle of nowhere. Tbday, that rabbit one mile off back to 1 982. A is gone, swept I like to imagine, by a dust-devsaddle with hunkers a in the dust, a bigger gray plastic bunny stained-glas- s bunny is set into the concrete shop. salt and Inside, shelves hold petrified wood, jack-as- s pepper shakers, and slices of geodes dyed neon blue. You can still buy a cup of cherry eider. The Indian silver is tarnished and distinctly not Owner Antonio Jaquez polishes the bracelet you choose and tells you, We want Jackrabbit to be true to what it always was. We believe in that." Mile marker Grants N.M.: Two days later, the heart of one of the last conferences behind us, Michael and I wake before dawn, drive the dark web of Grants streets, looking for breakfast. Tres Marias bakery windows pour light into the gray air. Two women move in the soft glow. We buy two donuts, an apple fritter, one lemon tart and four warm rolls for under three bucks. You gotta raise your prices," Mike says. The darkhaired woman shakes her head. No. We love this. Bake all night, go home at one a.m., come back at six, probably sounds crazy to you, but this is ours. Weve been here all our lives. This is what we do. Mile markers - marking a West that is still alive, a West a patient tourist can still discover, and in discovery, help to survive. Mary Sojourner is a writer in Flagstaff, Arizona. road-budd- y, il mass-produce- d. |