More Random Musings from the Road
· A murder of ravens abruptly flushed from the tall grass beside the two-lane country road as my car approached. Each crouched and then sprang skyward, its strong wings extending and then pushing to get airborne. The highly intelligent raven has come to mean many things to people all over the world from the macabre harbinger of death (largely due to Mr. Poe) to the cunning trickster. As I travel through the Indian reservations of the Southwest, occasionally stopping at trading posts along the way, I notice the raven in Native American art and am reminded of its importance in tribal culture. According to one source, southwestern tribes, including the Hopi, Navajo, Zuni, believe the raven “flew out from the dark womb of the cosmos,” and “brought the light of the sun (dawning of understanding).” As a result, the raven is considered “a venerated bird of creation, for without the raven, humans would forever live in darkness.” The ravens that I startled by the side of the road were undoubtedly sharing a carcass, perhaps a deer, that was hidden in the grass. Flying skyward, circling and regathering in their murder as I moved further down the road, their ebony black feathers glistened in the sun. (Yes, a group of ravens is called a “murder.”)
As a side note, when I was in Bryce Canyon last week I stopped at one of the many scenic turnouts. A family was taking snapshots. But not just any snapshot. Two ravens were perched atop a stone fence post. A man was leaning on the post, his head and the ravens' heads nearly meeting as they all looked into the lens for a group shot.
· Fences do many things. They add an ornamental border to a manicured garden; keep cows in a pasture and their predators out; insure that criminals remain in prison; confirm the boundaries of neighboring properties; provide safety for humans and animals alike in zoos; warn us to stay away from precipices; direct our movement while standing in long ticket lines; prevent trespassing and theft for junkyards and storage facilities; and keep children and pets from wandering away. The thin wire fences, their wood or iron posts pounded into the soil every few feet, that run for miles along country roads fascinate me as I drive past them. Of particular interest are the fences that line the wide valleys of the desert canyons of the Southwest. Steep canyon walls loom over the valleys, an impenetrable mass of sandstone and shale. Massive boulders that have broken off and rumbled down from the heights over thousands of years lie at the base of the vertical walls. Some rolled to a stop hundreds of feet from their origin. What’s the purpose of the fence in that environment? To keep boulders at bay as they continue to be launched to freedom by the mother ship? That's not going to happen.
· As I was driving on a lonely country road south of Santa Fe this week, I noticed signs denoting land grant borders. I stopped at a small, ramshackle market with two gas pumps and a separate liquor store. Two bikers pulled up, checked their tanks and left without getting gas. I needed gas and wanted to use the restroom. A sign in the restroom instructed me to put the soiled toilet paper in the trash can, not in the toilet. “That is why there is a trash can!” it said in no uncertain terms. The last time I was instructed to do this was in a remote area of a poor African country where plumbing was less than adequate. The acrid smell in the cramped room was the same as the outdoor hut in Africa. The young woman behind the counter took my $20 bill and I went outside to pump the gas. It cost $19.65; I was owed 35 cents in change. She used her cell phone to make the calculation despite the cash register in front of her. I suggested that I buy a small bag of candy and deduct the 35 cents from its purchase. She nodded her approval. It took her a few more minutes of cell phone calculation to come up with the 64 cents difference that I owed her but I patiently waited as did the man who was now standing behind me. Pulling onto the road and driving on, I noticed several roadside memorials over the next few miles indicating fatal car accidents. The gaudy colors of the plastic flowers, shiny baubles, rosary beads and small white crosses glittered in the sun. Rarely had I seen so many of these hand-made memorials within such short distances. I thought back to the liquor store next to the market a few miles back, the rundown houses, their yards littered with rusting cars, that are endemic on the reservations, and the young clerk’s sad, vacant eyes as she slowly counted out my change.