Message in a Minute Collection

Marfa, Texas, located west of Austin and north of Big Bend National Park, is a town with secrets. We have passed through Marfa twice before without discovering the art scene that is reputed to exist or see the “mystery” lights that put Marfa on the map. A large observation center has been built 8 miles east of town to view these lights. Some people have called this a hoax. So be it.

Determined to solve these mysteries for ourselves, we camped in nearby Alpine and drove into Marfa to discover its secrets for ourselves. This proved difficult. There are no visitor center signs, no information centers, nothing points to the jewels we finally uncovered even though we could see several galleries and workshops in old and rustic buildings in town.

Quizzing the proprietor of El Paisano Hotel, the librarian, restaurant staff, and the chance meeting of the Conservator of the Judd Foundation, the veil finally fell off and we spent hours on guided tours and on our own exploring the Minimalist world of Donald Judd, Daniel Flavin and John Chamberlain.

Books are needed to do justice to the collections and permanent exhibitions in Marfa and their place in art history. These books and publications exist as well as web sites (see below) that will give you a glimmer of what we saw and learned. Donald Judd arrived in Marfa in 1973 and his story and work is maintained in two foundations, the Judd Foundation and the Chinati Foundation. I have signed a release and cannot share any images I made of the artwork in a public forum. It is worth an electronic journey in the least to these web sites and if you can, a trip to Marfa, Texas.
www.juddfoundation.org
www.chinati.org

Oh yes, the mystery lights are still under a veil for us. If you do visit and see the mystery lights, please, let me know.
Photos of Marfa Town Hall and Chinati foundation welcome sign


Ann Carol Goldberg

The fire on the mountain rose in two pillars of white smoke. Our family had gathered for a winter reunion. There we stood on the dry grass in my son and daughter-in-law’s Virginia farmyard watching the smoke. The persistent drought was on all of our minds; is there a chance that the wildfire could blow our way? How did the fire start and how far away is the fire?

A truck roared up the driveway. It was marked Covesville Fire Department and driven by the fire chief. He requested permission to open the gate adjacent to Dan’s farm and drive up the road toward the fire area. The men in our group joined the chief to lend a hand. A dozen volunteers appeared in their pickups with their blue lights flashing. The driveway was jammed with their vehicles and anxious men standing and staring at the fire deciding what to do next.


All of us were wary. Could the fire be a threat to the farm? Would we have to evacuate? My son and daughter in law kept cool heads and discussed the possibility with the fire fighters. We had plenty of food and water to take and we could stay in town if necessary. The firefighters assured us that we were not in imminent danger.

My wonderful daughters in law, Malena and Miriam and I needed to grocery shop for there were five young appetites to fill. An opening was granted so we could drive down the farm road to the highway into Charlottesville to stock up. Until now, the road had been plugged with firefighters vehicles wending their way up to Hungrytown Hollow. We could see the smoke from Highway 29. There seemed to be two sizeable hillocks between the fire and the farm.

The location of the fire was remote and difficult to reach. Several the firefighters planned to hike to the fire to keep watch for the rest of the day and through out the frigid night. We did not envy them and did offer hot drinks and food. They were well stocked and prepared for this vigil. The cause of the fire was never relayed to us. One of our neighbors thought he had heard a loud noise and saw people walking on the ridge just before the smoke appeared. But this was most likely unrelated and coincidental, being the last day of deer hunting season.

We returned from town two hours later. The pillars of smoke had not grown in size and seemed to be contained. The trucks were gone; having dispersed the hardy firewatchers to their place for the mountain watch.

Life on the mountain farm is adventuresome. In a period of two days, we experienced the wild fire, fallen trees blocking the single road and icy driving conditions with a neighbor’s car going over the edge, incredibly with no injury or damage to the car. I am awaiting my first sighting of fox, bear or mountain lion; I will have to be very patient.

Ann Carol Goldberg

Submitted to Passeger Journal for winter 09 publication
The world turned pink the year I turned 10; the year I was allowed to enter the shiny realm of pink ballet toe shoes. Mrs. Raphael’s basement classroom was lined with mirrors and wooden railings that served as ballet bars. That November day was cold; the sidewalks coated with a crust of ice. I floated to class on an invisible layer of pink air, joyfully carrying my striped ballet box containing my new treasures. It was finally my day to go On Pointe.

I was a bit chubby with “pinchable” cheeks and black ringlet curls but one of the stars of the dance class. Mrs. Raphael greeted me with a knowing smile. She helped me apply the lambs wool pads over my toes and to properly slip into the hard-toed shoes secured by cherished pink ribbons that wound up the lower calf.

The room must have been bustling with noise as my classmates arrived, but today; my world was reduced to Mrs. Raphael, my pink wrapped feet and getting onto Pointe. I remember facing the bar while my beloved teacher encouraged me to stand on pointe, first with the right foot and then the left. She directed me to “do a Demi Plie in second position”, and then onward to Arabesque and eventually, Pirouette. My heroines of Pointe, Maria Tallchief, and Dame Margo Fonteyn danced in my head as I danced on the classroom floor. Life was perfect, pink and my dreams were fulfilled.

If you thought a Hornet was an insect to be feared with a barrel body and a big sting, think again. Picture a shiny azure-blue, jet propelled flying machine. This marvelous machine combines ”high power, light weight…maneuverability,” unmatched “climb and acceleration” and is devoted to both combat missions and the incredible choreography as demonstrated during the Blue Angels’ air shows.*

Standing on the ground while the Blue Angels perform their legendary and amazing maneuvers above diminishes the spectator to the realm of miniscule. The planes loop, dash, turn, return and spin while maintaining a distance of only 1 1/2 to 2 feet apart. Viewers must concentrate on the reality that what you are seeing are airplanes, not circus acrobats The Blue Angel pilots are trained with ultimate precision leaving no margin for error

I hadn’t given much thought to these magnificent men in their flying machines until we began trekking across country in our “driving machine” taking us to El Centro, Ca. and, most recently to Pensacola, Fl. The Big Bend campground in El Centro provided quite a surprise our first day there—the loud roar of jet planes. Paul and I ran out of our motor home to view blue streaks soaring on by. We were soon to discover that El Centro is the summer home of the Blue Angels, the Naval answer to the flying trapeze acts of the past but with intense precision and danger built in.

During our stay in this part of California, we could rub elbows with pilots, family members and friends of pilots and hear tales of their skills. Many of these encounters occurred in our favorite Mexican restaurant, located in a remote agricultural area about 30 minutes from the campground.

This year, we visited Pensacola, Florida, and the incredible Naval air museum. Pensacola is the winter home of the Blue Angels. Inside the museum, suspended high above our heads were 4 F/A-18 Hornets, the planes flown by this team of expert flyers. The story of this flying core and their support squadron is incredible. They have recently celebrated the 50th anniversary of their founding underlined by the 100th anniversary of powered flight. Their safety record is impeccable. I can’t imagine the concentration, skill and raw nerve it takes to fly “elbow to elbow” in this vast circus ring in the sky.

*Quotes taken from the Navy Flight Demonstration Squadron (Blue Angels) flyer from Pensacola, Florida

Her name is Chelcie. That is the way she spells it as displayed on her nametag. She is in the 8th grade at Whitwell Middle School.

The place is the small, rather poor town of Whitwell, Tennessee, population 1600. Whitwell is nestled between two mountain ranges just west of Chattanooga in the Sequatchie Valley.

The Paperclip Project story began one day in the year 1998 in a middle school classroom studying the holocaust. The students were appalled that people could be so cruel, that people could treat others like dirt and that so many were killed. One student exclaimed to his teacher, “I just want to see what 11,000,000 looks like, referring to the number of estimated dead,

That was the beginning of the Paperclip Project and the Children’s Holocaust Memorial in Whitwell, the extent of which could not have been imagined or believed on that day.

In writing this blog, I wish to avoid violating my premise of brevity for “a message in a minute” or to evade redundancy in the telling. I refer you to the website www.marionschools.org/holocaust for a more accurate and engaging history of this project than I can provide. I strongly URGE you to visit the web site and to view the documentary “PAPERCLIPS” now available for rent in video stores.

Whitwell, TN served as a railroad town a long time ago. No tracks even remain in the town today, except a short span of track at the Children’s Holocaust Memorial. The Paperclip Project memorializes the 11,000,000 dead and is centered in a German railroad car that was actually used for transport of Jews to concentration camps.

This car sits on that short span of track and contains upwards of 11,000,000 paperclips; more than 25,000,000 have been received to date and they are still counting. The paperclip served as the Norwegian symbol of protest against the Nazis during WW11 and was chosen as the symbol for the project after that fateful day in the Whitwell classroom in1998.

Chelcie, Logan, Robby and her other classmates in the 8th grade serve as student guides and skillfully share what they have learned about the holocaust and fully explain the scope of their Paperclip Project. The video mentioned above has played around the country and indeed around the world. People of all walks of life, all religions, and backgrounds and with varied agendas have visited in person or sent memories, photos, materials and contributions to the school. The program will be expanded next year to include the 9th grade and some students will travel as far as Poland and Capetown, South Africa to meet other young people and exchange country visits.

Because of the great international interest and significant financial support, Whitwell Middle School will have a new building and a new domed arena to contain the Children’s Holocaust Memorial railroad car and to allow display of more of the collectables and paperclips, butterflies and other symbols now in the school’s archives (currently stored in the railroad car, the library, under the gym and everywhere there is space).

Through the years, I have visited several holocaust memorials, including Yad Vashem, met many survivors, visited camps, museums, Jewish communities and various cities in Eastern Europe. However, the emotions I carried away from Whitwell are hard to match. It was hard to leave, but the 8th grade class had to continue their schedule for the day. Chelcie gave us a hug at the exit and sent us off with her big smile and a cheerful, see ya’all again soon, I hope. You will see us again Chelcie or your counterparts now in a lower grade. We will never forget what we have learned this day.

The Mexicans call the great river, Rio Bravo. North of the border, the river is called Rio Grande. The channels of a river are never permanent. They meander and wander, flood, and even disappear. This is the story of a region called the Chamizal, also the name of a bush indigenous to the Rio Grande Valley. The history of the border covers an area of 1900 miles along the Rio Grande and Colorado rivers forming a geologically unstable border between El Paso Texas and Juraez, Mexico.

In 1849, a Joint Boundary Commission was formed becoming the first effort to survey the wandering borderlines. This difficult and slow process led to the understanding that erosion from one bank and accretion to the opposite became the basis of international guidelines leading to significant agreements between the two nations leading to the Convention of 1884 that declared the boundary to be the center of the deepest channel of the river.

Anyone living along a body of water knows the rules of Mother Nature can change dramatically. Early flood control was attempted, but as usual, the river took over. The river channels flooded and receded in their own time and choked off large tracts of land that had been considered Mexican owned. The boundaries now extended to the north of the border. The dispute grew into an impasse of international proportions.

The significance of the Chamizal dispute and the fact that so captured my attention was the peaceful solution involving sharing and mutual concern that has lasted for almost half a century. When this is contrasted with today’s repeated news reports of failed agreements and treaties, Chamizal stands out as being very special. In 1962, Presidents John F. Kennedy and Adolfo Lopez Mateos acted to break the deadlock. Technology overtook international law in this case and concrete-lined channels for the Rio Grande were built to maintain the boundaries, making north and south banks permanent.

After JFK’s death, President Lyndon B. Johnson also a strong advocate of U. S. Mexican relations, signed the Chamizal Treaty of 1963 and final agreement of 1967. The mural (see the photograph and the portraits of the presidents) is one of 100 murals depicted on the walls of the Chamizal monument in El Peso, Texas and elsewhere in the cities of El Paso and Juarez.

Chamizal celebrates the joy of sharing and peace that this place has come to represent. Every spring, a large festival celebrates the Mexican American cultures and the long lasting friendship and goodwill that have become associated with Chamizal. What a lesson for the rest of the world.

The setting was deep in the mountains of the Anzo Borrego desert. Coarse sand, desert trees and wind-sculptured mountains surrounded our campground. Peering out of the dining area window, I could see a woman in a wheel chair being rolled onto a ramp and lifted into her motor home. Her spouse stands lovingly by obviously making sure she is stable and secure.

In another setting, a man “drove” his wheeled cart along the pathway in White Sands National Monument, expressing joy and wonder at the beauty surrounding him. He was hooked to an oxygen pump that sat at his side.

So often, friends ask about the people we meet on the road and park next to in the campgrounds. I often reflect on those we meet; who they are, where they come from and where they are “going”—their stories. Clearly, they are not the stereotypes people had in their minds when asking the question—lesser educated, of lesser means, sloppy and boisterous.

Mostly, we have encountered (on the average, retired) doctors, teachers, lawyers, professors, business entrepreneurs, administrators, diplomats, law enforcement officers, anti-terrorism personnel, artists, craft-makers, missionaries, truck drivers, school-bus drivers, widowers, widows, single folk traveling alone, same-sex couples, pet-lovers and avid birders, fisherman, sports fans, people of all religions, nationalities, races and creeds. OK, you get the point; RVing is for everyone and anyone. Occasionally we have encountered some who are noisy and inconsiderate but they are few and far between and usually don’t stay for very long in one place.

People are all so friendly and eager to tell their stories. We have made long-term friends and that list gets longer: folks that we communicate with regularly and schedule to meet along the way. People are full of life, anxious to teach and to learn, share stories of life and travel on the road. But they are not always in top physical health, sometimes lacking energy, or the ability to keep a full daily schedule; which leads me to a point I wish to share. There are those we have encountered with severely limited physical capability, heart disease or verging on Alzheimer’s and other afflictions of aging, but sustaining an unlimited love of life and adventure. Perhaps they are restricted to using canes, walkers, motorized carts or are confined to wheel chairs. Many in early stages of Alzheimer’s are lucky to travel with highly supportive and dedicated mates.

Their rigs are specially outfitted to meet special needs. The burden is on the spouse to do everything from driving, campground setup and take down, maintenance of exterior and interior, cooking and medical care. What is striking is the devotion and positive attitude of these folks, living to their fullest, always pushing forward, happy to be on the road and not giving up for as long as possible. It gives me pause. I am reminded time and time again, not to dwell on a cold day, a broken part, spilled milk or other inconsequential disappointment.

I just wanted all of you to know that life on the road is full of the same wonder you encounter in daily life, a cross-section of humanity, glimpses into reality and a chance to experience all sides of living. Thanks for reading and listening. I am going out the door to feed the birds, hike in the mountains and talk to our new neighbors. I know I will make more discoveries before the day is over and before we hit the road again.