IMO: Vivaldi’s Winter, The Four Seasons

Except for a small lamp, I am sitting in the dark and face the computer screen. It is four in the morning. I’m grading college English composition papers where students compared and contrasted Ulysses S. Grant to Robert E. Lee. After the fifteenth one, my mind wandered and entered that zone where it splits–one side hears music while the other grades. I lose myself. On Pandora, Vivaldi’s “Winter” from Four Seasons begins.

It occurred to me that it has been twenty years since I last listened to Vivaldi’s “Winter.” It was four in the morning. I lived in the wasteland of Illinois during winter. Icy, bitter below-zero cold. The stars flickered, the air crackled, and the sun rose and changed the black into a powder blue sky. The sun teased, but the hope of warmth would not come that day.

I drove ninety minutes from my hometown to Illinois State University. My teenage kids still slept. They would get themselves up and eat breakfast and cross the street to school without my orchestration. Excited was I to be in college, and I fell in love with academia. I was in my thirties at the time and amazed by how little I knew about everything–history, literature, classical music, art, architecture, foreign languages, philosophy, and geography. I was starving and ate it up.

There is nothing to look at during the winter in central Illinois. The corn fields have been harvested. The expanse and flatness and dingy colors combined with the cold temperatures–well, that’s why I live in Arizona now. Two decades ago, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played in the car. The first cup of coffee had worn off, and I was in that lull where one part of me heard the music while another part drove.

How wonderful then, today at four in the morning, that a time warp occurred. “Winter” by Vivaldi began on Pandora and triggered that long ride to campus. I was that non-traditional student traveling distances to learn. This morning, I am the instructor on the other side of the desk, that is, the other side of the computer who grades the paper I once wrote. Tied by Vivaldi, the music became a mirror, and I sat on both sides and said “Hello.”

Red Rocks, Valleys & Writing

The Verde Valley with Mingus Mountain at the horizon
Shaded mound, Sedona Red Rocks at the edge of Sycamore Canyon
hiking the Red Rocks
Devil’s Head plateau
Two Caves
Standing on Devil’s Bridge
All of it.

It’s 1928, and fictional characters Kay, the Hopi Indian, along with Sally and George are included in a gentleman’s exploration of Sycamore Canyon with a band of real-life characters.

     Sally sat on a tall, blonde horse next to the others and tried not show her nervousness. She had little experience riding, but she wouldn’t miss this opportunity to be around these many men who interested her: The director, William Howard, who she hoped would cut her a break and let her do more in his next picture than stand around now as an extra in The Thundering Herd. His cinematographer, Lucien Adroit,  who was excited to film footage for a future project. Jack Holtz was an established star in Howard’s westerns. Zane Grey was a famous writer and his stories were made into movies by Paramount Pictures. Adventurer Billy Clark was the grandson of William A. Clark, the copper baron. As a major stockholder, Billy oversaw the United Verde Copper Company and the company town, Clarkdale. Finally, she was sweet on Gary Cooper. This was his first film, and he had charmed Howard with his potential to be a star. His face was soft and his eyes dreamy. She saw them as a dynamic couple where they could help each other rise to stardom. She wanted to kiss him and mean something to him, but if not, at least he was good looking and more fun to flirt with than the other older men. This camping expedition had a purpose. Sally knew from her mother that it was the associations you made that got your foot in the door, not your talent. One of these men would bend her way and help her advance. She would see to it.

     William Howard picked her a gentle mare named Marigold, and as she sat there waiting, Sally relaxed a bit and let the anticipation fill her. They were on the top of a plateau looking north across the valley to a range of bluffs layered in red sandstone, limestone, and siltstone. To get there would take all morning after a gradual descent across exposed flat land through juniper and creosote bushes and a large mound which Zane Grey said was a volcanic deposit, but to Sally, the solitary hill made her think of a chocolate Hershey’s Kiss…

 

Photographer Edward Curtis and Indian Uses of Desert Plants in Arizona

Bear wandering about a plethora of desert plants waiting to be harvested. Sycamore Canyon Wilderness.

I haven’t posted about my novel for a while and thought I’d give you an update. I made a lot of progress last summer but when the school year resumed, I become inundated with responsibilities and lacked that long-ago ambition to get up before the sun rose to work on it before I began a long, hectic day. So, I work on “Inside the Gold-Plated Pistol” it in my spare time. Which is why I’m still not done with it. BUT! I’m getting close to completing the first draft.

Edward S. Curtis photograph “Hopi Girl and Jar”

There’s one character you know little about. She’s taken up a lot of my time with research which is half the fun of writing historical fiction. Kay is a Hopi Indian and the Hopi are a prominent, matrilineal society like the Navajo with a large reservation they share with the Navajo in the four corners region of the United States (Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado).

In my story, Kay was separated as a young girl from her family and raised by a German couple who leased a farm in Clarkdale, Arizona. I live in Clarkdale and the scenes in the novel occur at real spots I’ve hiked around next to the Verde River.

There are certain decisions I’ve made regarding what to focus upon in the novel. It’s 1927, and I want to avoid stereotypes like the plague and create a realistic Native American girl who has lost her identity. At 19, she is in a position to figure out who she wants to be. For Native Americans, there were three choices for adopting an identity whether consciously or not. First, return to the Hopi tribe and “be” Hopi. Two, reject the Hopi tradition and assimilate into white culture. Three, become a hybrid of sorts, holding on to and existing in the white culture while honoring parts of traditions discreetly.

As Kay figures herself out, she is befriended by an old Apache grandmother who tries to teach her Apache ways. From the 1880s to the 1950s, Yavapai, Apache, Hopi, and Navajo tribes shared traditions because of the forced removal and tribal integration on the reservations.  Over the years, tribes blended versions of dances and art forms. While there is a fierce pride in keeping with tribal traditions that are distinct as “Hopi” or “Navajo”,  Native Americans instinctively bond with other tribes first before they would bond with whites. This is a generalization and exceptions are always found. What fascinates me is how an individual chooses their cultural identity. Native Americans see themselves as unique and they are; a minority group trying to be autonomous while surviving in a larger culture. I find their grace and artistry and traditions fascinating.

That leaves me to play with Kay (Hopi for “elder sister”). I’ve given her a set of situations and she must figure out which direction she will choose to adopt. Will it be the Apache way? The Hopi way, or the white way?

Edward Curtis photographer 

Edward Curtis self-portrait

I’m a big fan of Native American photographer and ethnographer, Edward “Shadow Catcher” Curtis. From the 1880s to 1930s Curtis recorded thousands of wax cylinder recordings of music, language, and mythologies of Indian tribes in the Southwest. His expansive photography captures the grace and beauty of Southwest Indians. His photographs are now famous although he had little fame or fortune during his working years. I recommend reading Edward S. Curtis: Coming To Light or  WATCH THE AMERICAN MASTERS DOCUMENTARY    for more information about his extraordinary life. Particular to this post, I love his photograph of the young unmarried girl holding a jar featuring the traditional Hopi hairstyle; it had to be the inspiration for Geoge Lucus when he came up with the Princess Leia hair-do.

Desert Plants and Their Indian Uses 

Creosote bushes, Sycamore Canyon Wilderness

One aspect of the Indian tradition that they all shared was their way of harvesting and use of wild desert vegetation. I recommend James W. Cornett‘s informational book Indian Uses of Desert Plants (ISBN: 9978-0-937794-45-6) by Nature Trails Press.

Looking toward the Red Rocks. The band of riders heads out across the valley.

In the novel, the band of adventurers with Zane Grey, William Clark III, and 1925 Western film director William K. Howard and star Jack Holt and the three principal fictional characters, George Hero, Sally Vandenberg, and Kay the Hopi Indian cross on horses into the Sycamore Canyon Wilderness. Kay has been asked to harvest certain desert plants for medicinal purposes like the Creosote bush, the Ocotillo, and the toxic Jimson Weed. Scenes in the camping trip will incorporate these and other common desert plants and how Indians used them.

Jim and Bear in front of an Ocotillo Cactus.

Take a look at the top of my blog and hit the “Second Novel” tab. You’ll get a rundown on the three principal characters. For now, here’s a brief introduction to Kay the Hopi Indian:

     Kay watched Sally pull out a folded Chinese fan and snap it open it with a dramatic snap of her wrist. She fanned her face vigorously combatting the moisture that pooled in drops on her upper lip. She smiled at Kay pleased with herself for getting the free ride and swirled into the front seat and leaned as close to the door as she could. Kay spat the dust from her mouth and climbed up in the back of the truck and sandwiched herself between the two older calves. She guessed they were about eight months old, large enough to be pulled from their mother. The calves bellowed and Kay rubbed their ears and spoke German to them. She offered the calves a drink from her canteen by pouring the water into a metal pan. She leaned against the one next to her and felt comforted by his wiry hair and noisy breathing. She recalled Sally’s criticism that she stank and rubbed the sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand.  She thought about her deceased caregiver, the submissive Mrs. Weese.

     Mrs. Weese was a quiet woman, but when she did speak, she only spoke German. She was mopish yet obedient to the wishes of her husband as she taught Kay how to scrub away the dirt from everything surrounding them in and outside of the house. Kay learned how to cook German dishes including how to stuff the pork casings with sausage. Mrs. Weese taught Kay how to pick the vegetables from the garden and the fruit from the orchard. They canned their harvests in mason jars and set them in rows on wooden shelves built in the dirt cellar below the house. At the end of a day’s work, she taught Kay how to change without exposing herself. Nacktheit ist eine Sünde. Kay alternated between three smocks and a nightgown, ever mindful to hide her body because nakedness was a sin. The bathroom in the house was so tiny when Kay’s growth spurt elevated her beyond both Mr. and Mrs. Weese in height, her long legs wouldn’t fit in the space between the commode and the closed door. The porcelain tub was tiny, and she could barely cross her legs and fit in it. When Mr. Weese installed a utility sink in the barn, she started washing in the barn.

     Soon thereafter, she left the mudroom porch at the back of the house with her wooden WWI cot and moved out to the barn which was larger than the house. With scraps of wood, she made herself a wider, longer bed frame. She put straw on it and nailed folded thick blankets over it and slept on the covered straw. In the barn, she could stretch and have all the privacy she wanted. She was in charge of the animals anyway, so their warmth and their sounds were her comforts while the Weeses tended to themselves inside. When she was older and she required no watching over, they came to ignore her for most hours of the day as long as she went to the Reservation School school during the morning and did her daily chores in the afternoon. She ate supper with the Weeses in the evening and helped clean up the dishes, saying nothing unless spoken to. She’d do her daily business in the toilet, then head out to the barn to sleep.

     She had free time to practice her reading and she thought about numbers and rearranged them in her head. She counted and wrote on the walls of the stalls until she acquired notebooks to write in. Kay learned how to make ceramic bowls by a girl named Sue at the Reservation School who was Hopi. Someone had donated a kiln and it stood at the back of the school. Sue shared the secrets of her mother and how to create bowls and dishes. When Sue moved away one day, Kay felt sadness and her first stab of loneliness. By memory, Kay practiced making dishes and bowls. She liked making numbers and geometric patterns around the rims. After a year, she thought she was pretty good at it and gave a vase to Mrs. Weese. Mrs. Weese gave her a rare hug and kept flowers in it during spring and summer months.

     Kay’s life annually followed a predictable pattern of chores and maintaining the running of the farm around the expectations of the season with an obedience that she never questioned or thought different than other girls her age. When Mrs. Weese coughed up blood and spent time in the infirmary, Kay hadn’t accompanied Mr. Weese. She stayed back and took care of the farm. Eventually, a coughing spasm took the life out of Mrs. Weese.

Kay was nineteen, and she surmised she had a pretty good life up to this point.

Thanks for reading, friends.

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