Skip to main content

Bisbee and Elliot


 The Oregonians in our family--
I cannot say, "Oregonian" without wondering at what a strange word it is--came to see us in Tucson, not so much because the sun shines here, but because the sun keeps forgetting where Oregon is.

The plane with Daniel and Eliza and our newest grand-daughter, Elliot, came into Arizona trailing fog like a crop duster, sharing Pacific Northwest humidity with the whole Southwest.

Going to Bisbee was first on our agenda.  "Bisbee" is a real town, a very old town, a town once made famous for its copper ore; lots and lots of copper ore.  Today it is a thriving arts town, having taken occupation of what copper magnates built when copper was king.  The stone-working skill of immigrant miners is everywhere.  We five stayed at what had once been a grand, old hotel:  The Copper Queen.

It was not in the plan, but we bounced between the downhill-side annex to the main building itself.  Renovation of the main building edged us out of the old building, and a plumbing leak moved us to the Queen itself, or herself.

With the help of the Federal government--Do you remember when we believed the government ought to be active in building a better nation?--helped finance the repair of the mine so that people could tour the mine.  More than a million people have gone down into those seemingly endless mine shafts and tunnels.

 Bisbee was built for pedestrian traffic.  The hillsides are steep.  The old high school, for instance, was four stories high, with a ground level entrance on each floor.

On our last visit to Bisbee, a thunderstorm turned Main Street into a river, something like a bobsled run for running water, but this time we maneuvered our way on the edge of shirtsleeve and sweater weather, with sun.


Elliot, especially, was impressed.  She speaks in whole sentences, you know, with proper intonation, but with a vocabulary that eludes all of us.  We worried, the whole time, that when we were stopped by Border Patrol, that she might say something and be deported as a glib alien, but who could not talk English good like the rest of us.

Bisbee is a delight, as is Elliot.  A treasure is a treasure!  Elliot is still talking about what she saw and learned, I think.








Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Friends-- My step-father of 35 years died this morning. His name was Conrad Royksund. He was 86 years old. He was born into poverty on a farm near Puyallup, WA. He was the first member of his family to attend college and earned a PhD from the University of Chicago. He paid his way through all of that by fishing in Alaska. He spent his professional career as a college professor. I met him when I was just 3 years old and don't actually have any memories of my life befor e he was in it. He was intimidatingly smart, funny as hell, and worked his ass off. He taught me to meet people with kindness and decency until I was certain they could not be trusted. He taught me to meet ideas with carving knives until I was certain they could. I will remember him as one of the bravest, most curious, and funniest people I have ever met. He left this world with a satisfied mind. We are so grateful. Dan Hubbard

Caliche Busters and Government Work

When I was young and both stronger and smarter than I am now, I put my might and brain to work doing nothing useful, unless it might be thought that hand/foot/eye coordination might come in handy.  Those were skills to be learned and practiced.   I found an iron bar our grandfather had shaped in his blacksmith shop.  He took old car, truck, or wagon axles, and made tools from them for digging post holes.  He sharpened one end to a tip, and the other to a blade.  Washington State, like many places, had a hard layer of soil, probably created by water and limestone, or some such materials, that made digging holes a miserable chore.  The bar chipped through the natural concrete so that a shovel could take it up.   I found Grandpa's iron bar, and since I was young and dumb and strong--or so I thought--decided to punch a hole down to hardpan and ultimate truth.  I knew how to do that.  Raise the bar vertically with both hands, and then slam in straight down.  On the second try, aimi

The Sea is Rising

Let us just step back:  two hundred and fifty years ago, or so, the ships of England and Spain had drifted onto a whole new continent, as they saw it, from far north to a savagely cold south; pole to pole, as if there were such things. Millions of people already lived here, some of them still hunters and gatherers; some of them very wealthy, indeed!  Gold and silver stolen from the southern Americas funded Spanish and English dreams. There was land, lots of land, under starry skies above, rich land, and oil and coal and iron ore.  The whole western world learned how to build industries not on simple muscle power, but on steam and oil.  We farmed, too, of course.  All we needed was cheap labor--slave labor from Africa, mostly, so the ships came with slave labor.  Chinese labor built railroad beds where there had been rock cliffs. Europeans, long used to killing each other for good, religious reasons, brought their religious savagery with them.  Even when all they wanted to do w