Where are the rocks?

When you grow up in the Southwest, you spend a lot of time looking at rocks.

Now the rocks we have are admittedly pretty cool (in a baking hot sort of way). Arches, Garden of the Gods, City of Rocks, Goblin Valley, Shiprock, Rockhound State Park, even White Sands if you want to count very small rocks. On the long drive from Albuquerque to Provo, the only thing to watch is the changing rocks, from the pink and yellow stone in central New Mexico, past the desolate stretches of plains broken abruptly by crumbling stone streambeds, alongside the bookshelf mesas, between the smooth stone mounds that start with the giant turtle, into the rich red rock cliffs of bizarre formations of southern Utah, and finally into the powerful gray mountains of central Utah.

But, much as I admire all the stone, I’ve often wondered we don’t look at the rocks simply because there’s nothing else to look at. The whole world is made of rocks, right? So what if everywhere else in the world has great rocks, too, but you can’t tell because there’s trees and stuff covering it up?

A quick trip to western Massachusetts to see the glacial potholes has confirmed my theory.

There, granite boulders rolling in the stone streambed under the force of a churning waterfall have worn deep cylindrical wells into the stone. The granite is gray swirled with pink and warm browns, and it looks entirely surreal. There aren’t many cooler rocks than that.

And why did we get to see them? Because they have rerouted the river to expose the site.

So the question is, should we go around tearing out forests, moving waterfalls, and melting ice packs so we can admire the rocks underneath? Or should we bring in water, plant trees, and scatter flowers so that the poor people who’ve spent their whole lives thinking rocks are interesting will have attractions like everyone else in the world has? I’m rather tempted by both.

Save the Whales

Recently my friend Sherilyn went to tour the USS Constitution (Old Ironsides. Which, by the way, has a fabulous museum: a Boston must-see). The Constitution was closed but there was a visiting German battleship (actual iron. Or maybe even steel. Much more effective). They were just in dock for a day or two and they said she could take a tour.

So Sherilyn was being shown around by young handsome navy guys who knew a lot about their job but not much about tour guiding. They took her up to see the main control room and showed her how they steer the ship. As they were walking out she looked up on the front window and saw a number of labeled drawings of a gray whale, showing it from different angles and in different positions. She asked what the drawings were for. And the navy guy said, "Oh. That is a whale. Sometimes when we are driving the boat, we drive over whales. This makes the Americans very angry. On our way here we drove over a whale. The Americans were very angry. So now we post drawings of whales to remind everyone to drive around the whales."

My middle school biology teacher always used to complain that campaigns to save endangered species always choose big attractive animals as their poster critters. “You see Save the Pandas and Save the Whales everywhere, but you never see a Save the Tapeworms T-shirt,” he would say.

While I *almost* appreciate his concern, it seems we still have some work to do on the whale front.

Happy Thanksgiving

Last weekend we celebrated Thanksgiving with a visit to Plymouth. The first thing we encountered was the Bronze Indian. One of the only other copies of Massasoit’s statue proudly breaks the Honor Code at BYU. This drove us all to speculate on why this hero of Pilgrim history also appeared in Provo. Here are three possible reasons, proposed by my brother Chris:

1. He was also known as Ousamequin, or “yellow feather,” and was a chief of the Wampanoag tribe. He was born in Pokanoket. All of those words are fun to say.
2. It was made by Cyrus E. Dallin, who also made the angel Moroni for the Salt Lake Temple.
3. The local Ute Indians are the mascots of the U of U, so we obviously couldn't have a sculpture of anyone from around here without compromising our rivalry.

Once we’d finished admiring the sculpture, we found a spot on the grass between an out-of-state couple whose camera bag kept rolling down the hill and a pirate who stood to salute every group of re-enactors who marched by. First opening ceremonies were performed by the USAF Tops in Blue, an extremely glitzy show choir sporting the most sequins I’ve ever seen. There performance was enthusiastic collection of jazzy show and patriotic tunes that reminded me somehow of a rodeo. But their tribute to all the veterans present (and there were a lot, from every division of the military) was truly touching, as was their rendition of “Proud to be an American.”

Then came the Plymouth Thanksgiving Parade, which starred Clydesdales and floats and an astonishing number of turkey hats. There were four or five full marching bands made up entirely of middle-aged adults. The absolute highlight of the parade, though, was the turkey floats. This first one, according to the announcer, is a replica of the wild turkey the Pilgrims would have hunted here in the wilds of New England. Not your typical fat, domestic turkey, these wild turkeys were lean, mean, and cunning. I’m sure the Pilgrim hat was part of this wily beast’s clever survival plan.

A few floats later, the domestic turkey came by to emphasize the contrast.

On our way out of town, we stopped for a snack at the combination gas station/Dunkin Donuts. Dunkin Donuts, which was founded in Massachusetts, is decidedly the most popular store in the state, and you can’t go more than a mile anywhere in Boston without finding one. The tourists visiting for the parade had cleaned out the entire stock, leaving only empty wire baskets with greasy pink paper liners. I guess the poor, domestic donut lacks the survival skills of the wild turkey.

Boston Libraries

Let’s talk about libraries in Boston.

First of firsts there’s the Boston Public Library, the world’s first public library. (Lots of libraries claim similar titles, but this was the first one that was truly free and public for everyone.) What’s it like? Inspiring. I have a bad habit of tearing up when I think too much about libraries, and this one had me nearly as choked up as the Library of Congress. The library’s founders created a building deliberately intended to evoke lofty thoughts about literacy and democracy and freedom using a stately combination of windows and marble and murals. The holdings are extensive, the rooms are grand, and the entire experience is spectacular. I recommend the architecture tour as a must-see of Boston. A few weeks ago I spent the day in the library reading about Magna Carta and feeling all-around inspired by liberty and the power of the word and such.

Then there are the university libraries. I’m particularly fond of Simmons’ library, which has a Bibliomystery section full of mysteries that take place in libraries. (Books I recommend about libraries include The Brixton Brothers, Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians, Bats in the Library, and The Library Lion. And of course there are The Librarian movies.)

Then there’s the local library. Our Watertown library (part of the MinuteMan network) has a lovely modern and historic design with high windows and neat shelves of shiny plastic-jacketed books. There's even a bright local history room full of genealogies where my roommate has already found several books about her ancestors. And just up the road from the Watertown library is the Armenian Library and Museum of America.

Then there’s the convenience library: Somerville West Branch right next to my work. Just thinking of it makes me happy. It has a stone façade with pillars that makes it look like an old bank: very impressive. Walk inside and what do you find? Two tiny rooms with ancient wood floors and a few stands of romance novels and videotapes. After two visits I got up my courage to descend the rickety stairs by the entrance and at the bottom I found . . . the children’s dungeon. I mean children’s section.

What a place! Wrought iron frames the medieval murals painted on literally crumbling walls. I’m not sure if chunks of the wall were deliberately ripped off to give it an ancient feel, or if someone thought, Gee, our walls are falling apart. How can we make that look intentional? In either way it’s simultaneously the most homey and terrifying library I’ve ever visited.

Boston the City

After spending the weekend in DC suburbs, I’ve been reminded of how very unusual Boston is. I know my view of Boston is still decidedly romantic, but nonetheless, it’s unlike any city I’ve ever lived in. More than anything it reminds me of London, a younger sister city that escaped the WWII bombings and also the modernization of rebuilding.

To begin with, Boston doesn’t feel like a traditional American city, with industrial complex, downtown, inner city and suburbs. And unlike most places, where dozens of little towns have been gradually engulfed by sprawling city, here the towns have instead spread their influence onto the city so that the entire metro area feels very much like a small town.

What makes it feel that way? It may be that the roads are winding little paths with at most two “lanes” each direction and no painted lines at all. It may be that the perpetually jay-walking pedestrians hold a sovereign right of way so that the drivers keep slow and on the lookout, ready to stop for anyone even thinking of wandering into the street. It may be that the houses are all tall old buildings of wood siding or brick, fronted with creaking porches and towering trees. It may be that there are hardly any of those standard American shopping centers with their wide aisles and vast parking lots. Instead the roads are lined with tiny shops that cluster among residential areas.

Yesterday, for example, I walked two blocks to reach the little Armenian markets along our “main” road. The shopkeeper was shouting in Armenian at the boy putting pomelos and red peppers and quinces into the cardboard boxes that serve as display baskets. There was hardly room to move, between the racks of pita and Turkish delight, the fridges of Greek yogurt and the buffet table with eight varieties of olives. (MIT's Lebanese clubs posted these photos; they'll give you a sense of the shops in the area.) When I was ready to go, the shopkeeper and I conversed in English and then I listened to him practice his Spanish on the El Salvadoran customer behind me. This store captured for me the feeling of Boston: both small town and big city.

I got home with the onions and potatoes I’d gone for. And also with rosehip marmalade, which I ate on scones that made me feel like a Boston Londoner.

Longfellow House

This week I went with friends to the Longfellow House http://www.longfellowfriends.org/index.php. I’ve been in a lot of historic houses, and this is definitely one of the best. (One not-best example: the Handel House. The place had been home to many exuberant remodelers after Handel so when the historic societies got hold of the place they stripped it back to the Handel-era interior and stocked it with various furniture and draperies from the time . . . but not a single thing in the house had belonged to Handel.)

This house, however, was great. It wasn’t just a literary site; it was a patriotic one. The eighteenth-century mansion was made famous by George Washington’s 1775­­-76 stay during which he mustered troops to face the British force occupying Boston. Sixty years later Longfellow rented a few rooms in the house and then got the whole thing as a wedding present from his father-in-law.

And it wasn’t just the site that was significant; the artifacts were there too. The people who lived there cared about the history, and they kept everything.

And seeing all of it wasn’t just an interesting historical experience but a poetic one since so many things we saw had been elevated by poems I’m attached to: “The Children’s Hour,” “The Cross of Snow,” “The Village Blacksmith,” etc.

And our visit wasn’t just touristy; it was behind-the-scenes. The girls I went with study library science, so they asked about the house’s archives and next thing we knew we were in the basement looking at refrigerated books and furniture and learning about the cataloging system.

And to top of the whole experience, it wasn’t just historical or literary or poetic; it was rhetorical. On our way out, I passed Gary Hatch going in.