You Don't Leave Your First Amendment Rights at the School House Door or "Gate" as Supreme Court Justice Abe Fortas Said.

 You Don’t Leave Your (First Amendment) Rights at the School House Door
                      or “Gate” as Supreme Court Justice Abe Fortas said.

You don’t leave your First Amendment Rights at the school house door.  You don’t leave your rights at the door of a college or university either.

You take your First Amendment Rights with you, and you may call on local, state or federal government officials to protect you as you profess those rights through the freedom of speech, which can take many forms, but you shouldn’t have to go to court to preserve your rights.

One of the most important Supreme Court decisions that dealt with freedom of speech was Tinker vs. Des Moines, 1969.   Mary Tinker, a 13-year old, argued that wearing a black armband to protest the war in Vietnam was her right, an expression of free speech.  The court ruled in her favor.  Wearing the arm band did not cause “substantial disruption” to her school, and the rights of students to express political  opinions were upheld.

Recently, in  Florida, an l8-year old in high school, with a painted wooden elephant in his truck in his school parking place, (which they could decorate as they wished) was told he had to remove the elephant because someone or some people didn’t like an elephant, Republicanly-painted with Trump on the side.

At the University of Kansas recently, a woman in a sorority was being “disciplined” for questioning on social media and in speech where the money for black lives matter was going.   Someone she lived with was offended and made a complaint. The student was not breaking any rules for her sorority or for her university in expressing her opinion. 

But these kinds of incidents are not new:  At Orange Coast College in California, immediately after the 2016 election, an instructor called out students in the class who had been wearing Trump t shirts.  She demeaned students who expressed their support for President Trump and used her classroom for her own forum, attempting to silence dissent, by her position and authority. I mean she did give out the grades after all.

Today, universities (most of whom receive federal funds, even for construction of buildings on campus or student aid) could be violating students’ first amendment rights. Surely, the universities are aware of 
Tinker vs. Des Moines, and that federal funds could be withheld for violating student rights.

Nothing good can come of those in authority who are unaware that students have rights to express their own point of view.  Do schools and universities really want to go to court every time a student exercises a first amendment right?  Universities pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for officials, who seem to be glued to positions that outlaw some sort of speech they don’t like.  Perhaps those officials are not aware of Tinker vs. Des Moines.  Could someone please let them know?

An Orange, a Banana, and an Apple

                                            An Orange, a Banana, and an Apple

It would come as no surprise to all of us in our seventies that many of our relatives, now gone, experienced quite different gifts from what we receive now.

Take my mother, for instance.  For Christmas in a family of eventually eight kids, before the Depression, she received an orange for Christmas. As did her brothers and sisters.  One orange.  With much enthusiasm, she would say, “It was such a treat.” My grandfather, like some of Vance’s relatives in the book, Hillbilly Elegy, worked in the steel mill. Tough work but since he spoke several languages, he could explain to newly arrived immigrants from Europe what to do, so he ended up as foreman  

 My grandmother made almost all their clothes, my grandfather repaired all their shoes. They canned produce, smoked meats, had geese and a milk cow.  One orange at Christmas for each of them.

Shifting to my husband’s family, with grandparents growing up in the wilds of Canada, a treat for his mother at Christmas was one banana, cut into three for her and her two sisters.  Such a different world from Reading England where they lived in somewhat of a more civilized fashion among others rather than out on a prairie, alone, in a small house that I would call “a cabin.”  My husband’s grandfather was a wheelwright in England, and when cars came in, wagon wheels disappeared.  So on to the promised land of Canada and later the U.S. where he became a general mechanic and custodian in a department store.

And then we were talking to a neighbor, who grew up in the Philippines.  He could remember his grandfather getting an apple for the holidays, trying to explain the smell and taste of such an exotic fruit from abroad, perhaps from the U.S., to his grandchildren, who saw apples in stores everywhere. Hard for them to understand joy at such a present.  

So each gift was exotic, something from somewhere else that was special, unique, and cherished.  I hope that it is the same for all of us this Hanukkah and Christmas, that family, health, and time together are not taken for granted, and remain simply and exquisitely part of exotic future memories, like an orange, a banana, and an apple, as we grow older and maybe wiser.

J.D. Vance Hillbilly Elegy Netflix

I didn’t think that Hillbilly Elegy, being a long narrative about growing up in a holler, could turn into a film with immediacy, dialogue and action, but under the direction of Ron Howard, it did become a story that works on the big screen.  A grandmother (Glenn Close) wants her grandson , J.D. to become someone. J.D. without a father at home, an addicted mother, somehow manages to escape this world, get educated, and find a woman to love.  Still, it is a mournful elegy of a tough childhood and adolescence.  Having grown up in Appalachia, I could see some of my family and friends bump into the people in Hillbilly Elegy, and fit right in.  A story well-told with a message to all of us  about the importance of believing in oneself and becoming self-reliant and holding on to love for those in the past that made it possible.  Sometimes hard to find good stories that hold together in feature films these days. Thanks to Netflix for getting this one out to us.  I hope you find it, not delightful or fun of course, but important as a way of seeing the world through a different lens.  

 

From Italy to the U.S.A.

From Italy to the U.S.A.
                 
He was five years old
When he got off the steamship
To the pandemonium of Ellis Island.

His mother's arms
Let him go.

Hands passed papers
Over his head.

Noise flowed from the mouth
Of the man in uniform.

The boy shrank back,
Leaning against a stranger
Who spoke Italian
Because it sounded good
To him.

Homage to the Rust Belt and Beyond

Part I

The Ohio River begins at Pittsburgh,
A smoky city in day and night,
Where coke fires burn from giant steel skeletons.

Downtown, dense haze crowds Hill District tenements
Fire escapes, ladders hang down to cracked sidewalks,
Dusty old Chevrolets parked alongside.

Uptown, sycamore trees frame cobblestone streets.
Fireflies pop from thick bushes behind brick houses
with tall narrow windows, white trim,
Clean, neat, orderly.

Allegheny, Monongahela, sung to the clackity clack
of the onehundredormore dizzying boxcars with doors shut,
Or open hopper cars mounded with coal and scrap iron,
Going, going, gone. 

Nurses in glaring white uniforms
Hover over very small children
Giving shots,
If she could only hide.
Her mother pulls her toward the line.
Fear. For her own good. She drops back.
Her turn.  No more tears.
Big people dressed in white.
They never seem little.
Even after she is grown up.

PART II:

Shards of glass rained down in the early morning dark,
When Al Capone's casino blew up
In the downtown section of Youngstown.

But there was always Squint’s Place.
With machine guns in balconies,
Crystal chandeliers hanging,
Poker playing, gin, shining bright
In swirled glasses, ice cubes crashing,
people knocking, always knocking.

Squint, hungry dog at the door,
Peered with his good eye
At newcomers in seal coats,
Silk stockings, Fedoras,
Shiny black Plymouths on the street.

Machine guns pointed from balconies
Over crystal chandeliers.
Noisy poker players leaned over tables.
Gin sparkled in swirled glasses.
Ice cubes crashed against each other.       

Everybody played, danced away the dawn.
Squint's never closed, not even when the cops came by,
Brushing bits of glass from blue work shirts.
Hey, they came in too.
Everybody had a good time
After Al Capone's place burnt down.

PART III:

Cold winds shivered her skin, swept over Lake Erie
To rough sand and driftwood.
Toads cowered against grotesque gray logs horizontal
Thrown to shore sometime long before.
The water leaped at the shore.  Waves shifted her feet
Back to the driftwood to toads paused in the shadows

She caught five toads, dumped them in a large tomato can.
They hopped around sealed in with a metal lid,
Holes punched, still alive, they popped around,
Banged against the sides.
Uncomfortable, she still took them home,
Scattered them into the green of woods
To the still cold winds, just a different place,
Like Squint's, the same, only with different characters
Shuttled around after Al Capone's place burned down,

She was playing God, like Caliban upon Setabos,
Or maybe even Lady MacBeth, who should have
Washed her hands of it, but couldn't really.

Part IV:

The old man with the horse pulled up close,
"Scissors sharpened," he yelled, "knives too.
Whatever you have I do."
"I`m afraid I have scissors done special," her mother said,
He didn't need to hear so many excuses.
His horse pawed the ground.
The winged chariot drew near that horse too, bent with age,
Tied to his master forever.
She, peering through the curtains,
Wished  for knives to sharpen.

A circus of clowns, and elephants, and big top tents
Never seen from the inside, but she could imagine the fat lady,
the tattooed man, the lions on stools, paws out, roaring,
Leaping through hoops, then behind bars.
She could see a long time ago,
Her mother under the Big Top.
Elephants escaped,
Thundered around the tent,
While she and other small ones hid
Behind  huge ropes.
Watching elephants shy away from ropes,
Wanting to be free, angry, and afraid,
Captives of locked spaces, like Squint's place,
But the elephants unable to leave
When they quit dancing.

Toads, elephants, prisoners with numbers on their arms,
She saw them.  She did not want to know she saw them. 
They came back to Pittsburgh.
Not many came,, because there weren't many left
Over there,, because nobody took the lid off,
Let them out soon enough, to live, maybe sharpen knives,
Live forever with their horses, to die in due time
With the chariot coming by to take them home.

Part V:

A world of Oz, and tired tin men selling aluminum,
But then Lassie always came home, a dream,
Jumped through windows, out into freedom again,
Like the Black Stallion who wanted  run,
Never free to run as fast as he wanted to,
Only as fast as he could for someone else,
Peter Pan whisking people away to Never Never land. 
She believed it was just so,
But it wasn't that way anymore.
Squint's place torn down. Prohibition ended,
Too much competition.  The end of an era, everyone said,
But she said, things don't change, do they?

Part VI:

"Strike three, your out," the umpire hollered out
 to the Forbes Field crowd
Everybody booed.
Then the Pirates were up to bat.

PART VI:
Walking over trestles,
Waiting for streetcars, then trains
To squash pennies in Pittsburgh.

Walking and waiting
In California, along tracks,
Weeds coming up through,
The smell of disinfectant strong
Sharpening her nose,
Making her aware
Of how things don't fit like
When Kennedy died. Homecoming floats
Never finished, flowers strewn around,
No one working, everyone crying,
Sitting, wondering, never knowing either
After Korea, during Vietnam, or before Nicaragua,
For what?  someone asked, before fingering
Ban the bomb necklaces again
.
The old days of Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
One less step for mankind, breaking down
Form into dancing horses, and flowers
That swirled around each other,
Tempting the impressionist Matisse
Too crawl in and stay there, encapsulated
In line, color, form, and still life,
No numbers on arms, but
Wild prancing horses
purple and pink flowers
No graves.

PART VII:

The boat people have landed,
Clinging to each other, anyagestyle.
The waves sock them to the shore,
In their own war in time and out of time,
Repressed newspapers, Cambodia bombed and gone,
No boats to take them anywhere, except the River Styx,
In the light or dark of killing, he died
Flying over the Me Kong Delta, and beyond,
Up in the wild blue yonder of navigator
And button pressers.  He,
With the flowers from Hawaii,
Kissed her and made her laugh,
Played bridge better than anyone, gone.

Police beat up demonstrators in dark alleys.
No one objected, not even concientious objectors,
A large heavy-set man wanted everyone on the streets,
Like it was before, only too late after McGovern
Lost the election, too late to go down the dim lit alley.

Who are the peace officers of this society,
Maybe the pilot playing bridge, not playing flying ace,
Who never came home, from Vietnam,
From burnt out buildings,
Who could have known that it was all wrong.
Nothing was all right, the darkness of Picasso
Winning out over the lovely light of Matisse.

All is dark, velvety, and very real,
And absolutely perfectly colored
Into wartorn cultures.
No new portraits to save
Because everyone is gone
That mattered to someone.
Close the door, lock it tight,
And wait to find out who and where you are,
Because there is no sound.
All is quiet, no one is left
To hear the sound of one hand clapping.

Climbing in the Big Horns

    The sun disappeared behind billowy clouds.  Eddie and Joanne climbed single file up the steep trail around the outcroppings.  Taking the lead with his long stride, Eddie distanced himself from Joanne.  He turned to look at her, knowing she was hanging back. 
    "You're not even trying to keep up," he said.
    Joanne stopped.  She resented his being first because he always set too fast a pace.  She liked it better when she lead up the trail.  Her pace would be more even, and they wouldn't fight about how she was slowing them down to be in control.  But then again, they would fight about how long it took them to get anywhere.
    "We have all day to get there," she said.  "What's your hurry?"
    He shrugged his shoulders.  What could he say?  He turned back to the trail, climbing much higher toward the summit. 
    Joanne shook her head and squinted as sunlight broke through the clouds.  She saw Eddie disappear around a switchback above her.  She thought they were supposed to be together on the trail.  Getting there was supposed to be romantic, supposed to make them feel more together, being in the mountains of Wyoming that they both loved.
    Eddie, though, wanted to get to the campsite and relax.  He imagined a fire crisp and crackling in the fall air and saw himself lying by it, playing his harmonica.  He had all the tunes in mind.  A perfect romantic time for the two of them, her special Chardonnay, even if it was in a plastic bottle, Swiss cheese, those yummy crackers that he loved, and she loved too. At least she said she did.
    Joanne looked down at the puzzle board of trees and lakes below.  She wiggled her feet in her tight boots.  She felt blisters forming on her heels.  Lowering her backpack, she shouted,  "I'm taking a break."
    From above, Eddie looked down at her.  He couldn't believe it.  They had been on the trail for only an hour.  A break already.  They'd never make it before dark.  He kicked his foot in the shale. 
    A small rock bounced down and crossed the trail before her, then continued rolling down the steep slope.   Kicking stones loose, she thought.  What a childish thing to do!  He always let her know when he was mad.
    Eddie stood where he was, but he didn’t like the quiet.  He liked the noise of the shale, letting him know he was making progress toward his camp at the top of the mountain.  He could see the wild animals of the past, trooping up the trail just like him.  The primitive past right here in the Big Horns. 
    Joanne set the backpack down.  White adhesive tape would help.  She took off her shoes and socks, and tore two pieces, putting them on each blister.  She was sliding her arms into her pack when Eddie came up, his feet pouncing on the terrain, scattering gravel and shale.  Honestly!  Oblivious to the noise he made, he scared all the wildlife away.  She sure wouldn’t be seeing the big horn sheep she saw years ago hiking with her father.  Unlike her father, Eddie had no sense of the harmony of the peaks and valleys or of the wild animals that chose to let themselves be seen. The animals, unannounced, caught her off-guard, but she loved them for that too.  It was the way it should be, animals in their world, wary of people.  That made her smile in spite of her hurt feet.
    Eddie waited for her to get her pack on.  "Are you ready now?" he asked.
          Joanne nodded. 
           She's not speaking, he thought.   She's upset with me.  So she had blisters on her feet.  If she'd worn her old boots, she would have been perfectly comfortable.  He remembered reminding her about the steep trail.  "Wear your old boots," he said.  She had argued that her new ones needed to be broken in.  Now she stood next to him.
    "Why don't I set the pace this time?" she asked warily.  "It would be a lot easier on both of us."
        "We need to get to camp sooner than you can get us there," Eddie said.  He looked up at the clouds.   "There's a storm's coming in pretty fast."  
         It was useless for her to argue with a Taurus.  How could she have married such an obstinate independent man?  And going on two years.  So what if it rained?  She'd been hiking in the rain, even in snow storms with her father.  She wasn't afraid of weather.  She loosely laced her boots, flexing her hot feet.  "After you then," she said.   Her sarcasm slipped into the air between them.
    Eddie set out ahead.  He was very aware that Joanne liked to be first, always first, but he wanted them to get there and have a romantic evening, even if it did storm.  Okay, so her pace was consistent, it still slowed them down.  He had timed them when she was in the lead, but he knew if he said that he had, she'd never forgive him for having to be right.  He needed to be right.  He liked being right.
      Joanne shuffled along the trail.  If the blisters got any worse, she wouldn’t make it to the top.  Ouch, that blister felt raw, even with the tape..   She bent sideways to adjust her left boot and felt her pack shift, the weight thrown to one side.  Her ankle collapsed.  A heavy shiver of pain darted up her leg.  She lost her balance, reaching out into nothing with nothing to hang on to.  She tumbled and rolled down the slope.  Her hands flew up to protect her face. She stopped abruptly, wedged against low bushes.  She looked up, trying to catch her breath.   
      Eddie plodded along ahead, the music of the shale in his ears.  His foot slipped.  "Careful, it's tricky here," he called back.  When he turned around, he didn't see her.  Now what?   He retraced his path back down the trail briskly.  She's probably sitting on another rock.  He was aware of his stride, feeling sure-footed like a mountain goat.  But he was aware his pacing was off for the high elevation.  He was out of breath too quickly.  He stood at the boulder where she had taken a break.  Where was she?  He pushed his feet on the trail harder now, heading again up the mountain. 
    I should have let her go first, he thought.  She's gotten lost.  Or maybe she's turned back and left me up here alone.  She’d have to be really angry to go down the side of the mountain without telling me.  He looked down over the narrow part of the shale trail toward the pines and blue water.  A bright piece of yellow caught his eye.  Far below, Joanne lay with her left leg hidden under her right.
    She was pushing at her pack, straining to pull herself up to the trail.   She didn't call out to him.  She held her head down trying to get more air in the high altitude.  Pain shot through her body from her ankle to her back.
    Why didn't she call out?  Eddie thought, as he headed down toward her.  He would have heard her if she had.  He cupped his hands to make sure she heard him the first time he yelled.         "Are you ok?"  The words echoed around him. 
           She turned her body, a twisted pirouette.  She looked up at him, and he heard her laugh.  But when he approached, he saw that her face was pale under her tan, pinched and tight.  He stumbled through the low bushes to her.
    Joanne was angry.  If he hadn't made such a big deal about her new boots, she would have worn the old ones.  He was always telling her how to do things.  Her ankle pounded with pain.  Still, if she held her leg still, the throbbing didn't get any worse.
         Eddie slid down next to her, making small switchbacks to keep his balance, rattling rocks that rolled past her toward the lake below.   He almost lost his balance. 
     "Something's torn in my ankle," she said.  "Help me up."  
    He braced himself, and finally had her sitting with her leg stretched out.  He removed her back pack. 
         She sat looking at him, her eyes staring far off into the mountains.  She felt stupid for letting him make her angry enough to leave her boots loose.
         She won't be able to place any weight on that ankle, he thought.  She will resent any more of my help.  So independent. But that was why he had married her in the first place.  He knew she would be offended by any suggestion he would make right now, but he plunged ahead. 
    "We can be back down to the base camp in an hour.  We'll leave the packs here, and I'll come back for them later.  All you have to do is lean on my shoulder, and I'll carry most of your weight against me.  It's going to hurt." 
        Joanne didn't like having to count on Eddie.  She moved her foot.  More pain.  She couldn't walk on it.  Why should she be the one hurt?   Why hadn't it been him?  She could rescue him, support his weight.  She didn't like being beholding to anyone.  Years ago, her father had made it very clear that a person shouldn't owe anybody anything.
    Every time they had gone hiking, he repeated the same thing,  "Don't let people take advantage of you or your feelings.  Keep them at a distance, like the mountains, until you go there.  Then make small hikes in to them now and then, but come away so you can be yourself, separate and alone."
    Eddie reached into the pack for the water bottle.  Everything would have been perfect, he thought.  Now it won’t be.  I’m not going to get to the top.  Why did these things happen?  All his life with everything he did, even his drawings, he tried to be ordered and careful.  The precise engineer.  That way nothing out of the ordinary could catch him off guard.  He figured he shouldn't have tried to pressure Joanne into wearing her old boots.  She might have worn the new ones to spite him.  Could he blame her?  He clipped the water bottle to his belt.
    Joanne had taken her father's absolutes for her own way of operating, and they worked most of time.  When she was single, her father's words had held her up.  Married, she tried to live up to the echo of his voice, but the words let her down.  Now she felt a giving-in feeling, something she hadn't needed to make before.  She squinted at the Eddie, now a dark outline in the bright light behind him.  Who was this man she married?
    She reached into her pocket slowly for her sunglasses.  She put them on.  "Okay, let's get going," she said. "Ouch."  Another  spasm of pain rocked her body while her ankle hung in space.
         Eddie lifted her up, pulling her arm over his shoulder.  He felt her body next to him.  Hesitant, he was trying to do the right thing.  He decided not to say anything about the loose boots.
    At least he's trying, Joanne thought.  And, there was something else--the change of his stride to suit hers.  She hopped next to him, slow in getting her balance. 
    Eddie waited for her.  He wasn't sure of anything and hoped he’d done the right thing..  He nudged her forward, and he felt her matching his step--a three-legged race down the mountain before the storm.
    Joanne saw the snow clouds.  Her father would have told her to get off the mountain.  And fast.  But maybe, for once, even with clouds like that, there wouldn't be a storm.  She gritted her teeth.  She was aware of how noisy they both were with shale slipping around them. 
    They headed down the trail, together,  toward distant trees and the lake that lay at the foot of the mountain.

Leaving the Lazy S Ranch in Meridian Idaho for the City Life in Boise

                                                                    Wings on Fire

                                                      
    In l974, we went "back to the land" in Meridian Idaho.  Not that we'd ever been there before. And not that we understood exactly what that meant.   To go back to the land was a dream, the ideal life maybe, for the two of us, having survived with our marriage intact at the beginning of the seventies.  In Madison, Wisconsin, with anti-war demonstrations, the hippie era, the chaos of it all, we had become politically crazy, or at least unstable.   We had read too many subversive texts (From the Land and Back, Five Acres and Independence, and The Whole Earth Catalogue).  We thought too much about a simpler life rather than the big city lives we had grown up with, and we dreamt way too much about going to a smaller town where we could have more space around us, like a rural setting in Idaho.
    "How could you," my mother said over the phone," get all that education, all those degrees, and still end up on the farm." 
     "It's the west, Mom, and it's called a ranch," I said, correcting her.  "Well, a small ranch of five acres," I said, correcting myself.   
    My Polish mother and my Italian father didn't get it.  They saw us going backwards in time, thrown into an unfortunate  reverse set of possibilities, one that reminded my mother especially of my Polish grandmother on a farm near Warsaw.  But I didn't see this woman doing backbreaking work, bent over rows of beets or carrots.  Instead,  I saw her as a young woman, strong, growing up there, changing with the times, heading west.  It didn't matter to me that my only memories were of how I saw her in her seventies, her richly wrinkled face,  with wisps of gray hair, floating free from her red baboushka.  I had no trouble imagining her tending an abundant garden, milking cows or planting wheat or barley.  Okay, so she had turned her back on the farm, the cows, and the crops.  She too was searching for a different kind of life.   
    Via a freighter, Grandma landed at Ellis Island in l908, hoping to hang her own hat on a brass post in a house in a city.  Her dreams had shifted to self-sufficiency, independence, freedom from the land, from the old country..
    Not for us though.  Paying inadvertent homage to an ancestral past, we wanted to go back to the land.  Overeducated, (six college degrees between the two of us) with a passion for books, we became novice land lovers.  At thirty years of age, our childhood imaginations of the west were still fully intact.  The frontier held shimmering images of cowboys and cowgirls with cap guns as six shooters..  A real estate agent walked us across a piece of property, showing us a  not too detailed map of the Oregon Trail, cutting across one corner of it.  Some money down and a land contract bought us a place in history.  I was convinced.
    It was the kind of space that didn't irrigate well (not that anybody for the last twenty years had tried) and one that you couldn't even see with all the overgrown weeds and alfalfa with roots going down deep, deep, deep to water they found on their own.  It was a huge trapezoid that had to be burned from green to brown for us to be able to see what was there.
      The day of the big burn we hoisted new shovels over shoulders not made for them and grabbed the rented burner.  Making a noise like some prehistoric monster, the wand on the burner had a mind of its own.  With flames roaring down the irrigation ditch,  the fire took off leaving us in the dust of dirt thrown from shovels when we tried to keep the fire on some sort of path.   Moving with the flames, created back burns.
    Anxious to see the lay of the land, we burned up the weeds, old and alfalfa, and were pleased that we were half-finished.  Then the fire chose to make its own path, accompanied by the not yet understood daily westerly wind, and the fire headed out right across our property line to the neighbor's field. 
    "Quick, where are the hoses? " my husband asked, really to no one in particular.  Who had a hose that was 700 feet long?   
    "Hoses?"  My question hung in the smoke.  You just can't know enough before you start a burn.  By the time we were finished, we had obliterated the landscape of green, both on our property and a quarter of the one to the east.  All lay black.  Such a large empty space. Quiet.  Burnt ash makes no sound in the wind.
    Leftover smoke from smoldering grass drifted across our faces and off towards the Boise front, where Shafer Butte wore a light cap of snow.   Some of the grass had turned to grey thin lines of ash curled in on themselves.. The field mice had disappeared, heading east, before the line of fire and the smoke.  We had scourged the earth.  We were so pleased with ourselves, with grimy shirts and shorts, and slightly burnt tennis shoes. Red bandannas, tied around our heads, were caked with sweat.  We were ready for our next adventure.
    Which meant that we needed a place to live.  You can't just go to the land, without a place to live on the land.  Over five years, we built a strong study Cape Cod home in the middle of the desert, with small windows facing west, an unplanned cooling feature along with the basement. 
    In l975, during the first winter in the shell of that house, the wind whistled through boards. A cube of butter on a plate, sitting on a plywood counter, froze.   It's hard to spread frozen butter on toast made on top of a Coleman stove.   Blackened toast doesn't taste so good that way either.  Temperatures dropped to zero at night and climbed up into the teens by late in the day.  I dreamt of a house with several fireplaces, wood cracking, heat, and indoor pipes with water running. 
    My parents bought us a refrigerator because they couldn't stand that we were using a cooler with ice and leaving other food outside in a world we labeled The Big Freeze.
    Cold too much for too long, we voted against waiting for some sort of proper central heating system.  A wood stove took over, loaded with coal, warmed our lives.   We never thought that hard hunks of coal would keep us so warm. My mother knew and told us a thing or two, without my asking.
    "Grandma has a coal stove, "she said over the phone.  "In the basement of her home.  Remember?   The coal bin hasn't been used much since she's had the house modernized with a gas furnace.  She wouldn't think of using the stove for heat anymore."
    "Mom,"I said, "the stove works just fine. We're pretty warm most of the time.  We can cook on it, and we don't have to use the camping stove anymore."  Somehow I forgot to tell her that we also had electricity, black wires that snaked through studs, one specifically for the toaster.  The other for ceiling light bulbs.
    My mother wasn't through talking.  She talked about how Grandma cooked on a coal stove and how she hated the gas stove upstairs in the real kitchen.  The new stove never did bake good bread.  Ah, the old stove.  At last, I thought,  my mother was coming over to our side.
    With some insulation, wall boards, and a fire down below, we curled up, cocooned in our long johns in a bed with a white down comforter, strangely like Grandma's rust-colored one on her old feather bed.  .   
     I waited for water.  My husband plumbed.  Matches, blow torches, copper tubing.  Water finally running, but only cold.   A heavy cast iron white tub delivered upstairs could be filled with hot water from pots on the stove.  Unfortunately, the tub wouldn't stay warm, not like the tub with a special heater, that we have now in our Boise home.  Still, we could take lukewarm baths and then voila, more pipes and then hot showers.
    Outside, spring came and went, and our acreage was filled with blown-in tumbleweeds that stood raked in piles over twelve feet high.  By then, we were seasoned fire fighters, with water hooked up to hoses.  We had blue work shirts, long pants, clunky books, gloves, and his/her own favorite shovels. 
    Somehow, we had become more cautious around a blaze, more respectful of the power of flames.  We were part of the culture of the west.  We knew about range fires first hand, and we knew that even if there were no trees to burn, fires could sweep through so fast, that you'd never have time to figure out what to do if you were caught in the middle of a field burn.  Summer newspapers highlighted fires and fire danger.  And so we became afraid, and rightfully so, of misguided fires.
    So much so that when the foothills were ablaze one summer day and a sky glowed red with heat and pungent smoke filled our nostrils, we convinced ourselves that the fire could jump the Boise River.
    "Well,  Boise would have to burn first," I said.
    "Well, yeh, it could -- all those frame houses with wooden shingles," my husband said.
    We looked up at our own roof and pulled the hoses out from where they lay perpetually coiled.  But you cannot seriously figure out distances easily here when the land flattens out and goes on forever to the horizon.  That which we thought was so near was so far away that planes dropping retardant were mere dots against the sky. 
    Year after year, until year V on the ranch, we burned off the old oat hay, the crop, to which both came to realize we were allergic.  Finally, we moved to something more civilized, more permanent, as we understood that the burns, the black, the haze settling in, were just not us.  Even though shovels no longer weighed heavy on our shoulders, other objects, like irrigation tubes kept us in l03 degree heat for too long each time we had to set pipes.  
    Yet, we were hooked to the land, craving self sufficiency (with two other full-time jobs). From the south along the Snake River,  rumblings of the wine industry in its infancy reached our ears. We read books on grape cultivating and  grape grafts.  A new crop.  We would be part of a burgeoning industry of Idaho growers.  Twenty seven hundred grape vines in quart milk containers entered the ranch and took their places in not so straight rows of  steel posts, trellises and guy wires. 
    We became vintners with a crop that, we were sure would yield a great harvest.  Wine grapes were going for a thousand dollars a ton.. Quick calculations meant that four acres would generate us a good chunk of money indeed.  Such is the wish of dreamy academics to imagine such a thing possible.
    We bought a green and yellow, repossessed John Deere, with all its parts and some to spare.  Running on diesel, the tractor flew down the field with smoke curled up in small plumes and away from its exhaust.  We had it made and just had to watch the money roll in.  And we would be somewhat more self-sufficient.  I was convinced. 
    Somehow, though, as we hoped for a miracle crop, we must have known that the land could only do so much for us.  From that field of green vines, we could look back and see that huge shapes concealed our home.  Over seventy-five trees and shrubs blocked the bright desert sun.  Bright red and orange tulips flopped on tall stems close the house, white star magnolias touched a northeast corner, lazy locust flowers hung in huge spicy  clumps from trees shading a vegetable garden..  A Japanese pond with bridge and water fall whirlpooled light and outlines of gold and orange koi.  We had filled the space of our lives. 
    Into that space, two wood ducks with fiery red eyes would land in the pond every March..
    So each year, we waited for them.
    They haven't come yet?  They should have been here by now?  My questions bounced across the thin sheet of ice over water.     They came.  A bullfrog entertained us in April.  We learned to wait patiently for his chant. 
    We took bets on who would hear the first meadowlark   Pheasants that had avoided hunters each October, squawked through the spring and summer.  And the grapes grew.   The tractor kept the weeds down.  The drip system kept the grapes happy.  
    The first harvest time in the cold snap of a September frost came too fast for us.  With neighbors, we picked bunches quickly.   Held in our hands for just seconds, a grape clusters became treasures in weight and light and color. The first crop of  Chardonnay went to St. Chappelle. 
    The crop wasn't big that year.  From then on, sometimes there was a good year, sometimes not.  And the prices dropped. More grape production in the Napa Valley, Washington, and Idaho halved the price of grapes.  More zero degree temperatures and little water in winter meant ground kill.  With grapes killed to the ground, we started over, bringing the grapes up again on the trellis from small green vines poking from the earth.  We were two years away from a crop. 
    Around our house, trees grew past twenty-five feet.  Lilacs hit ten feet.  Violets and violas perfumed the Japanese garden.    And we put in more and more plants. We lived on a desert "oasis," a place that diffused the heat and acted as a green barrier against surrounding dry fields, and firebreak for flames that might come from the west.  Sprinklers watered the garden.   Forget-me-nots near the breeze way wall came back year after year, more profuse with time passing.
    The years went by.  Tiger swallowtails, bits of yellow flew brightly around under the canopy of sycamores and Carolina poplars.  Then one day, we woke up.  Something was different. It was  summer, and we walked out into the hot desert air, and then turned back under the shade of the trees.  We sat near the pond and we talked about the land, the grapes, the last crop. 
    Well,  it wasn't as good as the one before, and the crop before that not as good as the one before that.  The winters seemed more severe.  We were old hands, pioneers meting out the hard punishment, berating ourselves for not being able to subdue the land, take it over, make it our own.
    All the leaves would be falling soon.  Like all farmers, we were constantly thinking of the next season, working and worrying ahead of it   It would take days to rake millions of leaves from  sycamores, maples, poplars, and locusts.  At thirty, days seemed to stretch to infinity, but at fifty-four, they ended too quickly for us.  We thought perhaps we could leave the land, that we had been somewhere, figured something out..
    Later, in that summer of l997, a flicker of a shadow crossed the lawn.  I looked up to  the bright orange and black wings of a Monarch butterfly.  I walked below it, dazzled by this color in all the green, and I followed it around the Japanese garden. As I walked around our house and stood at the edge of the pond, I saw another.  Then another.  Then more. Wings on fire.  Seven butterflies danced in the sky over my head.  Psyche, I thought, our souls on the wing.  It was the perfect time to think about saying goodbye, to let go of the land.  
    Now I look down at the city of Boise or straight out at the sky, brushed with red and orange, a touch of aqua above lavender.  The ridges of the Owyhee Mountains peek out from the distance.  Most mornings, a pink dawn flames across the sky.  With binoculars, I am on lookout, checking, just seeing what is out there really.  Sometimes I see wisps of smoke.  Fires from barbeques mostly, but once a house going up -- terrifying smoke in the distance. 
    I am keeper of the sky, like anyone who wishes to stretch their arms wide.  The foothills that I saw from our country home for so many years, are now familiar terrain where we walk.  The rounded hills surround me, pull me towards them, but we don't need to lay claim to them.   Far to the west, the wide open sky caps the horizon line, where we lived on five acres that we once called home.  We paid our dues, farmed the land, felt our earth beneath our feet.
    Memories of the pioneer spirit go with me.  Some wind must have pushed us to the land, propelled us forward to the years spent there.  Now a gentle breeze moves strands of my hair, beginning to turn grey.  It is the same wind.  I am convinced.