Notes to Me

A small notebook rests in my bag, another in my bedside table. I've discovered that I may wake in the middle of the night with a brilliant idea that mustn't be forgotten. Sometimes in the bright light of morning, the idea isn't all that brilliant. Sometimes I can't read my own writing and can't remember what I wrote. Sometimes the note is worth thinking about and sometimes the note turns into an article, a short story and--with a lot of time spent sitting at the computer--a book.

When I'm in a restaurant--shamelessly eavesdropping--I pull out the notebook in my pocket. The book is very useful during rides on the subway or bus. I never know when something will spark a note, a line or a name and once-in-awhile, I tear out a sheet and jot down the few groceries I musn't forget or the title of a book that must be read.

Christchurch, New Zealand

Vacationing in Australia and New Zealand a number of years ago, my husband and I stopped in Christchurch, called "The Most English City Outside England." This morning we turned on the radio just as news of the earthquake that killed and hurt so many residents and visitors was broadcast. Our thoughts turned to the people we met during the time we spent there, the magnificent ever-changing scenery of the Central Otago of New Zealand's South Island. Spiny, thickset shrubs of yellow gorse, beautiful but hated by farmers, grows everywhere. Pink, purple and white lupines, randomly thrown from some nature lover's vehicle, dot the sides of the road. Sheep lounge on the hillsides and lull bus passengers into a state of tranquillity.

We listened to stories of gold bearing quartz veins that found active faults formed by earthquakes--I had never thought of earthquakes again in this lovely land until the broadcast this morning but the history of gold in the Otago goes back 150 million years, when it was as mountainous as the Alps. Our tour was headed for Queenstown and the rays of the sun bounced off the 7,550-foot peaks of the Remarkables Mountain Range and shimmered across Lake Wakatipu which means Born Of Gold. The lake is the third largest in New Zealand stretching for more than 50 miles.

Torrential rains had washed away parts of the road leading into Queenstown, along with shops, homes, streets and restaurants, but the town was busy reconstructing and wherever we went we could hear hammers, drills and saws playing a jaunty tune, a tune, I'm sure they will soon be playing again.

Jade, New Zealand's "Stone of Peace," carries spiritual and healing qualities--a belief held by the Maori. We will hold that belief in our hearts and wish New Zealanders well.

Romance on Piazzale Michelangelo

Valentine’s Day and I remember a visit my husband and I made to the Piazzale Michelangelo in Florence, Italy where we stop to circle and admire a monument in Michelangelo’s honor. The monument, comprised of bronze copies of Michelangelo’s David and the allegorical figures commissioned by Pope Clement VII for the Medici tombs, is located in the square’s center. We wander past the souvenir stands scattered around the square crowded with film and postcards, water, sodas, snacks and calendars with photos of cats and cathedrals, finally we pause to admire artists who paint their impressions of the vast panorama that is Florence.
The Cradle of the Renaissance, opens before us–in the foreground the Arno River, on the left, the Ponte Vecchio, the oldest bridge and the only one not destroyed during World War II, crosses the river. Jostling shoppers crowd the bridge as they stop to gaze at jewels displayed in the windows of the boutiques-glittering replacements for the butcher shops banished in the 1500s. On the highest section of the bridge is the Vasariano Corridor, a covered passageway that links the Pitti Palace and the Palazzo Vecchio. For three centuries a private passageway for the Medici’s, it was opened to the public by King Victorio Emmanuel II in 1866.
The gate of San Niccolo, built in 1324 along with a tower as a part of the city walls used for defense, still stands, the only example of the original gates of Florence.
The cypress trees covering the Florentine hills present a magnificent backdrop for the towers and bell towers of this memorable city. Santa Croce, the gothic church built by the Franciscans, in the 1200s, with its tombs of famous Italians and Florence Nightingale is described as Italy’s Westminster Abby. In the heart of the city, Brunelleschi’s red-tiled dome crowns the Duomo. To the right, the intimidating Bargello, a castle in 1225, police headquarters during the 16th century, a dungeon and the scene of public executions and, in 1859, a museum, renowned for 15th and 16th century Tuscan sculptures, the arms and armor of war and della Robbia ceramics.
But this afternoon, our attention strays to a young couple; they kiss, then he reaches into a shopping bag, removes a tee shirt and pulls it over his head. On the shirt are stenciled the words, WILL YOU MARRY ME? The girl says, “Yes,” blushes and throws her arms around the boy as everyone in the square focuses on the happy pair. The boy’s grin is almost as wide as the Arno as he places a ring on her finger. Congratulations are offered in many different tongues followed by hearty handshakes. Photos are snapped and everyone will remember a romantic afternoon on the Piazzale Michelangelo.

Bests,

Elise

Identity Theft

Writing has been my refuge this week. Haven't spent as much time as I would like at the keyboard because I've been battling Identity Theft. Takes time-with hours spent on the telephone trying to reach the fraud departments of credit card vendors, banks, consumer reports and the Postal authorities.

Answering a mechanical voice or entering numbers on the phone is one of the most frustrating things I've ever encountered. I find myself shouting at the phone.

I hope I have stopped the thief that has stolen things that should be private and wonder why with all the computer wizards we have around, the banks and credit card companies can't safeguard the information they request.

Wish me luck.

Bests,

Elise

Blue Days

Writers--sometimes we wake in the middle of the night--we reach for a pad and pen and jot down the thoughts that came out of nowhere about our book, story or article. In the morning, the words may seem brilliant, other mornings we think why did I lose sleep over this? Sometimes we plant our rear ends in a chair, rev up our computers, and begin to type and the words seem to flow—dialogue, narrative, from fingers to keyboard to page. Sometimes we sit and stare and stare and stare at the screen. There are times we wonder if we can write at all—a blue day-- and times we shut the computer off and go for a walk but then we return, plant our rear ends in a chair, turn the computer on and begin again.

We write when we’re happy, angry, hurt, or sick and the words help when we’re distressed and need to escape into another world. Worlds we create, worlds with people we grow to love, tolerate or hate. We join forces with our characters, argue, fight and laugh together and the words grow into sentences, the sentences into paragraphs, then pages, chapters and books.

When the words don’t come and our characters retreat--a blue day--loneliness begins creeping in and sometimes we’re ready to throw everything away. But we tell ourselves-this has happened before and came out all right in the end-and we begin again and revise again and let it simmer until ‘til the magic day we know the piece is as ready as it will ever be and it’s time to let go and send our child to make its way in the world.

Improvization

Beginning with the Drama Club at the Y and continuing with classes in acting, the teacher always set aside some time for improvisation. Approaching one member of the class, he or she would speak in a low voice and say something like this:

Example 1:
“You are a spy and you must make this man fall in love with you. You must find out what information he has.”

The instructor would then approach your acting partner.
“Find out why this woman is here. What she knows. Do anything you have to but get the information.”

Example 2: The assignment for the next class was becoming an animal. Most of the class chose the ones with four feet. I lived closer to the aquarium and spent an afternoon studying a fish.

Sleepless one night, I began to think about those days as an actress and realized improvising had a lot in common with writing. You begin with your idea of what the characters should do, why they’re doing it and what the story and the theme is about. Then, sometimes without any warning, your characters decide they want to go in another direction. Your villain isn’t your villain anymore, an unlikely heroine emerges, and a chapter or two or three needs to be cut. You try to keep to your original idea but your characters are stronger than you and you think-Oh, what the hell, I’ll try it their way.
Usually they’re right.

I’m into the first draft of a new book and so far-so far my characters have behaved but my instinct tells me they’re biding their time and we’ll be having a few discussions about the right direction for the novel. How much of a say, do you allow your characters?

We'll Be Coming Round The Mountain

Since I was a little kid, I loved to gaze out of train windows and tell myself stories about the landscape, the tall buildings and the people who lived in every part of the country. One summer on a visit to Arizona, My husband and I heard about The Verde Canyon Railroad in Clarkdale, Arizona and being train buffs decided to board. We passed places that ignited my imagination.
The Verde Canyon Railroad, a standard gauge railroad built to haul copper ore, operates today as an excursion train. Our narrated journey took us up, down, around and through a rich geological hub; a natural habitat for raptors and mule deer, javelina (a pig-like animal), antelope, fox, coyote, elk and the occasional mountain lion. Foliage, trees, flowers and the Verde River contrast with pinnacles of red rocks and nature’s carvings of limestone and basalt.
We saw the mining town of Jerome, dubbed The City in the Sky and The Wickedest Town in the West, planted halfway up the side of the mountain on Cleopatra Hill above a vast deposit of copper.
Beneath the tracks, the Verde River, 160-miles long, plays host to carp, catfish, bass, bluegill and the Great Blue Heron. A river where we observed a Heron enjoying his aquatic lunch.
Cameras at the ready, we scanned the cliffs for dwellings inhabited by Pre-Columbian Sinaqua Indians between 100 and 1125 A.D. A cave outlined with soot from cooking fires is pointed out.
From a tent city to a prosperous company town to abandoned shops, homes and streets inhabited by lonesome ghosts-Jerome was restored to life fifty years later, in 1972, by flower children with a flair for the artistic. Today, about 500 residents, artists, writers, artisans and musicians, call the town home and welcome tourists who wander its streets, patronize boutiques and trendy restaurants and catch a glimpse of yesteryear in Jerome’s Historical Society Mine Museum.
Claims on Mingus Mountain were registered as early as 1876. Rough terrain hindered efforts to reach the closest railroad station in Pueblo, Colorado; a near impossible task. Completed in 1882, The Atlantic and Pacific narrow gauge railroad connected Jerome to the town of Ashfork (originally a stage depot) and eventually extended to Jerome Junction.
Close to the depot are the remains of The United Verde Copper Company purchased by Senator William A. Clark in 1888, the Senator reaped a windfall of $1 million per month in a seven year period. Clark learned the largest lode lay beneath the Jerome smelter; the smelter led to the birth of the town of Clarkdale named after the Senator who built the 38-mile United Verde and Pacific Railroad. Two hundred and fifty men, two hundred mules, picks and shovels and black powder explosives built the line in one year’s time, in 1895, at the cost of $1.3 million equal to $40 million in present day dollars. The coal-fired railroad soon switched to oil after embers from the coal-fire kept burning down the trestle above the town of Jerome.
The first Verde Canyon excursion train, powered by one diesel locomotive, pulled out of the Clarksdale yard with 180 passengers on November 23, 1993 – destination Perkinsville, Today, the forty-mile round trip to the Pekinsville Station takes about four hours at ten to twelve miles per hour.
We passed a hard, gray slag heap that covers about forty acres; waste material from the smelter poured in a molten state. Old timers tell tales of red-hot ribbons glowing through the night. The slag heap has been purchased for the purpose of extracting millions of dollars in gold and copper. The job will, it is estimated, take twenty years.
Beneath the tracks, the Verde River, 160-miles long, flows; it stems from a natural spring northwest of the canyon near Ashfork; eight major creeks supply the riparian river where carp, catfish, bass and bluegill thrive. The water plays host to the Great Blue Heron; the bluish-gray wading bird, who measures three to four feet tall, enjoys fishing. Unfortunately, the heron has taken the day off but we were able to observe an eagle enjoying his aquatic lunch.
The Verde Valley has been with us since prehistoric times; sediments deposited in what was once a great but shallow lake created layers of limestone throughout the valley. To the left of the lake bed, a red sandstone formation circles the towering volcanic Black Mountain (1,000 feet above the other rocks); its soil rich with plant life.
An old telegraph line is pointed out as the train begins to descend into the canyon; the crew carried a transmitter and would tap into the line, the only means of communication in the early days. On the left side of the train is a basalt cliff, a 300 million-year-old formation composed of huge blocks of sandstone with irregular deposits of fine-grained shale that decomposes into mud when exposed to the atmosphere. On the far side of the river is a circle of stones; the long ago dwelling of Hohokam Indians. Seams and scraps of calcium carbonate in the cliff’s fissures are a legacy of the water that covered the area before it evaporated.
The natives chased wild game into an arroyo (a deep gully) where hunters trapped the animals. The area is home to mule deer, javelina (a pig-like animal), antelope, fox, coyote, elk and the occasional mountain lion. We searched the Red Rocks but a lonesome cow was the only animal in view. Meat would supplement the Sinaqua’s diet of corn, squash, beans and peas. Cactus (Ocotillo and Prickly Pear used for jellies and hand creams) and Banana Yucca (Native Americans ate the fruit, made soap and braided the fibers for sandals) as well as wild-flowers decorate the scene. The Sinaqua left the area around 1400; some archeologists believe they moved to northeastern Arizona and were absorbed by another tribe of Native Americans.
The train passed Sycamore Canyon -known as The Little Grand Canyon-. Beyond Sycamore, the lands on both sides of the river are part of the Coconnino or Prescott National Forests. Red-tailed hawks, black hawks, owls and ravens make their home along the Verde River and several pairs of bald eagles-the birds mate for life- migrate to the North Verde Canyon each year while at least thirty-five bald and golden eagles winter from December through March. Black and Decker, a pair of resident Bald Eagles, fledged an eaglet in 1993 and have hatched progeny including twins ever since.
The Sycamore Creek and the Verde River meet and our train entered Verde River Canyon. Beliefs, yarns and secrets thrive in the Sycamore Wilderness Area. The tin roof of an old ranch house came into view and we heard the story of Mr. and Mrs. Packard who homesteaded 60 acres between 1890 and 95. Mr. Packard lacked moral restraint; Mrs. Packard forged his name on a quick claim deed, sold the property for $1,800, bought a rifle and two horses and disappeared. A 19th Century version of the television show Without a Trace. Then there’s the saga of a lost Spanish goldmine, discovered in the 1760s, with a rich vein of gold, five to ten miles east of Perkinsville. All but two of the conquistadors were killed by Apaches but the mine has never been found.
A purplish-brown rock called Tapeats Sandstone came into view as we left Sycamore Canyon. Above the sandstone is Martin Limestone with some layers that contain materials that have an oil-like odor that are thought to date back to the Age of Fishes 416 million to 358 million years ago when bizarre, diverse and abundant lobe-framed fish swam in the Devonian Seas. Redwall Limestone, a mixed reddish-pink called Mottled, tops the Martin. A majority of the caves are in the Redwall.
Trees to the right of the train are plentiful: white-barked sycamores, cottonwoods, willows with their heart-shaped leaves and walnut and box elder, ashes and oaks fraternize with juniper and mesquite and add a wealth of cool, verdant green to parts of the region providing shade for the water.
The Red Rocks, sculpt into fantastic shapes by nature are given fanciful names by whimsical residents of Sedona. Cameras are aimed at Elephant Rock, Turtle Rock, Whistler’s Mother, Balancing Rock and The Budweiser Frogs. Clouds streak across the sky and hover over the cliff; a screen of watercress tries to hide a stream of cold water, called Big String, spilling over rocks into the Verde River.
We removed our sunglasses as we pass through a man-made 680 ft. curved tunnel carved out of solid limestone; we emerge and cross a steel bridge. The walls on both sides of the track have dropped away and we were now in the Perkinsville Valley. In 1912, the railroad placed a station on a ranch owned by A.M. Perkins. The buildings are all old structures: a bunkhouse, the base of a water tower, the old depot and a house originally occupied by the Santa Fe station master. The stop became a ghost town in the early 1950s. An additional eighteen miles of track, still used for hauling freight by the Clarkdale Arizona Central Railroad, runs to the town of Drake and meets the Santa Fe Line.
The engines on our train reversed and our return trip to Clarkdale began. An opportunity to see sights missed, moments to be captured on film and in memory and a chance to watch an eagle, as we did, glide high above the rocks, wheel, salute, and bid us farewell then soar higher and higher into the sapphire sky.

Bests,

Elise