20th Century Tourists

20th Century Tourists
By Ellen Jo Roberts
March 2012
The Outs
The Noise




When we travel we aim for the authentic. Back before there was a matching Cracker Barrel at every interstate exit ramp, back before corporations created theme vacation packages, there were authentic places native to each region. In addition to natural highlights of the landscape, there were many distinctly un-natural landmarks not to be missed: Elizabeth, a building shaped like an elephant along the shore in Margate, New Jersey; The Corn Palace of Mitchell, South Dakota, decorated each year with new murals made from multi-colored kernels of corn; Dinny and Rex, colossal concrete dinosaurs presiding over California’s Coachella Valley; The Cadillac Ranch, a row of 10 graffiti-encrusted Caddies ranging in model year from 1949-1963, buried in a Texas field along Route 66. These places and others like them still exist, dotting the United States from sea to shining sea, along historic highways and forgotten roads, some kitschy, some artistic and all created with the intention of luring visitors. Arizona is lucky to have plenty of national parks, monuments and historic towns to lure travelers, but we also are home to more obscure attractions. The Hi Jolly monument in Quartzite commemorates US Army camel trainer, Hadji Ali. The actual real life London Bridge in Lake Havasu City was imported to Arizona in 1968 by Robert McCulloch. A mural and statue on a corner in Winslow, Arizona pays tribute to The Eagles’ 1972 hit (co-written by Jackson Browne) “Take it Easy”.

Fellow tourism state Florida is a perfect case study on the topic of new and old attractions.
Before Disney's corporate vision absorbed most of central Florida in the 1970s, small-time attractions like gator-wrestlin' and air-boat tours of the swamp land were prime tourism draws of the Sunshine State.



Me and Florida, we go way back. First time I was ever on an airplane was during a trip to Orlando when I was 10. Typical of early '80s style, I wore bright banana yellow pants to the airport with a striped yellow frilly-shouldered shirt. Florida seemed like a magic dreamscape: a balmy green jungle full of clowns, costumes, coconuts and palm trees, shells and sand, scented with sea and citrus and sparked with fantastic lightning shows. My husband's family caught the Florida bug in the 1980s too, spending many winter holidays in the Keys.



His folks later bought a condo in Key Largo, which provided us many tropical escapes over the decades, paddling sea kayaks through the saltwater Caribbean back country, skirting along the mangroves and manatees, hooking and cooking snappers and sheepshead and other abundant native fish. Even my Chihuahua has even been to Florida, more than once. We love it. It's an enchanting land, rumored to be the legendary fountain of youth! Our dry desert wrinkles vanish and our hair curls in the humidity making us feel like teenagers again. Despite all the magic, saltwater and sweet scents, we've just never considered moving there. Too many people, too flat, too many mosquitoes, too many hurricanes.

“Speaking about tornadoes,
The hurricane's the worst of all
They come and go through Florida
Blow down 14 feet of wall.


Hurricane is so powerful
Blow the house away where I live.
It make hair rise on your head,
Gives you fever and cold chill.


Winter clothes are not needed.
You spend money rebuilding your home.
When the ocean gets rough,
You're not in Florida all day long.


I really like Florida,
If the winds don't blow me away.
Lord I really like Florida
If the winds don't blow me away.
But if that don't never happen,
I'll be in Florida the rest of my days."

-"Florida Hurricane" c. 1948, St Louis Jimmy/ Muddy Waters

Florida juts to into the sea like a phallus. Almost an island, but settling for peninsula. All of its coasts are spring break meccas, so I always think of Florida this time of year. On St. Patrick's Day 1994, I walked the cool night night breeze of Key West in bowling shoes and cut-off shorts, sipping from a Tropicana bottle half filled with rum, my hair wild and wooly with salt water and sand from our three nights camping on an island in the Everglades. With its liberal strongholds in the south and conservative central and north, Florida is an interesting blend of old and new money, snow birds, immigrants from Cuba, Canada, the West Indies, Africa and Eastern Europe, all layered atop 300 years of Old South culture.



Before corporate tourism homogenized everyone's holidays, old timey attractions drew visitors from near and far for their authenticity. Gatorland bills itself as "Florida's First Theme Park". Located in Orlando since 1949, the park catches interest with its toothy gator jaw front entrance, a local icon looming over the roadside since its early days. Gatorland features 110 acres of alligators and crocodiles from all over the globe. Shows like the "Gator Jumparoo" where alligators leap for raw chicken, and the "Gator Wrestlin' Show" can only be described as old timey American weirdness at its best. Many "problem" alligators are relocated to the park from throughout Florida, captured from communities where they've eaten too many pets and disrupted too many golf games. There are thousands of the prehistoric creatures here, everywhere you turn, and all of them so beautiful you feel like you really understand something important about Florida.



A close encounter with a Cuban Crocodile may leave emotional. She hypnotizes you with her soulful eyes and seems so docile (though the sign describes the species as quick and cooperative hunters, similar to the “Velociraptor” character from Jurassic Park, able to work in teams and leap high…perhaps higher that that fence she's behind). After we walk on to the next exhibit, I miss her and the amazing patterns on her leathery skin. The park also features a tiny train ride, an aviary and breeding marsh with observation tower, petting zoo, nature walk, and educational wildlife programs. But no frills, few gimmicks, no movie tie-ins. And on a winters day the parking lot is so crowded you must wait for a spot.

Not far from Gatorland, in an area known as Florida's Nature Coast, colossal fresh water springs gurgle sparkling blue, sending thousands of gallons of fresh water out towards the Gulf of Mexico each minute. In one of these springs, the one called the Weeki Wachee, there are mermaids! Swimming with their sparkly fins, sharing their stage with native fish and amphibians, the Weeki Wachee Mermaids have been performing in their underwater amphitheater since 1947. It's amazing to think that, in the world of pre-packaged Disney adventures with mega–marketing campaigns, something as charming and small scale as the Weeki Wachee Mermaids could still exist. They anchor the old time Florida with their three shows a day, performing 30 minutes submerged while sipping air from hoses.



Sitting in the underwater auditorium looking into the spring like an aquarium, I feel like a kid again. I’m so excited I can barely sit still on the hard wooden bench seats. The soundtrack is piped in over the audience and the performers gracefully pantomime along with the dialogue and songs in their sleek mermaid costumes, air bubbles acting as exclamation points. The price to see the show was something crazy cheap like $12, and afterwards you may pose for photos with one of the mermaids, a doppleganger for Darryl Hannah in Splash.

Another natural spring, not far from Weeki Wachee, offers an interesting modern tale of old tourism and new. Rainbow Springs in Dunnellon is now part of the Florida State Park system, but from 1930 until the early 1970s it was a theme park, complete with a monorail, zoo, rodeo, artificial waterfalls and glass bottom boat tours. Florida’s 4th largest freshwater spring is a crystal clear travertine blue, a steady 72 degrees year-round. Cornville resident Kim Poucher grew up in Dunnellon and has fond memories of the park, “My earliest and coolest recollections of Rainbow Springs was when they had the glass bottom boats and old man Captain Skipper Lockett reeling off the names of the fish and vegetation. Sounded like rap music! When it shut down, I guess mid-70's, we kids had a wonderful time sneaking around up there. There was a monorail about 30 feet off the ground that we would walk on top of through the whole park.”
Disneyland had already enjoyed 16 years of success in California before expanding the empire into central Florida. Disneyworld opened in October of 1971, inspiring a whole region of similar attractions, luring visitors away from old time parks like Rainbow Springs.



In 1972 the U.S. Department of the Interior designated Rainbow River a National Natural Landmark and in the mid-1990s it reopened the property as a state park. It’s a lesson in modern methodology, because in the 21st Century it’s unlikely that a beautiful natural feature would be “enhanced” with commercial venture, girdled with a monorail, and converted into an amusement park. The harnessing and redirecting of natural wonders is a notion that began to lose steam in the mid- 20th century, with the first wave of ecology consciousness. So, in becoming a state park, Rainbow Springs has been allowed to revert back to the wild. Ruins from the theme park days remain, adding to the intrigue. Pilons from the monorails stand guard and deserted cages of the small zoo are overgrown with tropical brush.



Walking the park gives an enchanted feeling, slightly surreal like a dream. The springs are a popular spot with swimmers, canoeists and kayakers as well as native birds, fish and reptiles.



Florida is one of the world’s most popular tourism locations for its sand, surf, tropical climate and coastal beauty…and its epic theme parks. There is an old time Florida that still thrives along the back roads where stands full of fresh oranges entice motorists. Just as in any state, there are the authentic tastes of local culture: the places you cannot find anywhere else. Much as it’s important to be a locavore, consuming locally and regionally grown foods, let us also espouse the locatour, participating in locally-conceived tourism, imagined outside of a corporate headquarters. When you find a unique place on your travels, be it a mermaid show, giant dinosaur, weird museum or a row of Cadillacs half-buried in a field, you must go there. Someone wanted you to visit and you must heed the call.



Ellen Jo Roberts celebrates her birthday at the end of this month. Send cards and money.
www.ellenjo.com

Small Life- The Outs, May 2009- The Outs, The Noise

Small Life

May 2009 Outs
The Noise
Ellen Jo Roberts




















I live a small life in a small town. This is not to say I don’t have big ideas, larger than life friends, and huge adventures. It also doesn’t mean I’m small-minded, uptight, or xenophobic. I just live in a small place. Very small. So small that it is sometimes absent from abbreviated maps. And my life is just as small, because I both live and work here, in Clarkdale, a historic “company town” that never outgrew its waistband much. Surrounded by wilderness, and framed by vintage boulevards, I seldom have reason to leave.I savor the tiniest aspects of this small life. The random new wildflowers that appear in my yard. Lizards sunning themselves on the hot bricks of our house. A posse of javelina on my favorite running trail. Familiar faces and autos, folks waving and smiling as I walk my dogs up Main Street. The way the night air is scented with soap and static cling as I stroll past the laundromat, reminding me of a Mexican motel I stayed at once. The postmaster knows me by name, and remarks on the packages and letters I receive.






















It’s remarkable to me how small and specific my life has become, because I grew up in the biggest of places, a sprawling megopolis full of every technology, nationality, religion, commerce, and possibility. Any band you wanted to see, any fashion you wanted to buy, any type of food or beverage imaginable. World class art and science museums, prestigious schools, and an amazing network of public transportation and city services. It’s funny that I have almost none of that at my fingertips now, in my very small life. I grew up in the city of Chicago, a major urban area along the southwestern coast of Lake Michigan, named after the wild garlic that used to thrive along its marshy shores. I was a city kid, taking buses and trains, and hanging around downtown. My public high school had 4,000 kids (more than the population of the town where I now live). I lived there until my early 20s, prior to getting the itch for sunshine, big skies and wide open west.


Remember that ol’ Tex Avery cartoon, about the country wolf and the city wolf? They were cousins, those wolves, and they went to visit each other in each respective location. The country wolf was a total freak in the city, just completely overwhelmed by all the urban activity, while his city cousin was as cool as a cucumber. That is, until the city cousin got out to the country to visit and went completely bonkers himself, overwhelmed by the natural rural beauty (and a sexy rural she-wolf). I asked big city folk what they liked about the country, and asked small town folk what they missed about the big city. And vice versa. I got some very thoughtful and thought-provoking responses.Natasha Shealy, a much-beloved voice here at the Noise, moved from a rural western town--Cornville, Arizona -- to a rural eastern town, Marshall, North Carolina. She’s also lived an urban lifestyle in cities like Tucson, Los Angeles and San Francisco. Shealy takes her sultry big city swagger with her wherever she goes, captivating small communities with her energy. “I miss the exotic foods of the big city, the frenetic energy, the intellectual current”, she says, “In the city you can buy stainless steel trash-cans after 5pm. In the city men wear really tight pants.” (Shealy has this theory she is continually hashing out, about men in loose pants vs. men in tight pants, and what it means from a sociological standpoint. I’m not sure if we’ll ever fully find the answer.) “To quote a friend, I am a ‘small town-junkie’ and have lived in my share of charming one street towns ‘til I returned home to Marshall, North Carolina, which is hands-down tops for small towns across America. Old Town Cottonwood gets my vote for second coolest small town, for its proximity to the river, the naughty charm of Kactus Kate's, and the irreverent peacocks who have inspired many a late night poem”.


My brother Jim, a true city slicker who prides himself on never having lived more than 10 or 11 miles from Wrigley Field, thinks that I know everybody in the Verde Valley, and that folks here are, in general remarkably friendly to strangers. “The stars in the sky stand out a lot more in a remote small town, but I’ll gladly forego a few stars for access to an occasional 3:00am taco.” Accessibility to goods and services is definitely a common concern with city folk. They're accustomed to being able to get whatever they want whenever they want it, and are unsure how they'd deal with someplace where the sidewalks roll up at sunset.


Jeremy McReady was in my 3rd grade class. I'll always remember him as a freckle-faced trouble-maker with a twinkle in his eye. He now lives only about 6 miles from his childhood home. “I was born and raised in Chicago, but we used to take weekend trips to a small Michigan town," he said. "Some of my fondest memories are the ones of isolation and nature. The walks in the woods, the fishing, catching frogs, bonfires with family and friends. I always remember a feeling of dread when we would pack up, look for the cat, Winifred, and start the 3 hour trek back. When you drive back the radio stations change and the music seems more aggressive."


Clarkdale resident, Doreen Gribauskas has an urban tale to share. "When I moved to New York City, I had culture shock for 3 months. The city life is so extremely wonderful and terrible all at once. You can see Monet's water lilies one moment and a Vietnam vet with no legs asking for pennies on the subway the next. I used to work down on 14th street making costume jewelry. It was right next to a meat packing plant. There'd be sides of beef hanging on hooks right on the sidewalk, butchers covered in blood, dumpsters full of bones. After work sometimes we'd get a 40oz and sit in the park nearby and watch the transvestites get ready for the night. Full-on meat market, human and bovine. Nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there!"


Elaine Bell-Quinn is a Chicago girl, though, when it comes to big cities she prefers NYC for being just a tad more cosmopolitan. "Living in Chicago, I miss New York City. New York City was great for having my laundry picked up, laundered and delivered, undies folded and back to me in the same day,” she laughs, “Amazing sushi delivery, and hearing many different languages on the block. The awesome, fully-stocked corner deli. The neighborhood feel of the city is so different. When I've lived in smaller communities, well, let's say I stuck out like a sore thumb."




















Erik Kuska, a Los Angeles animator, artist and puppet master, grew up in Moscow, Idaho, a small town with gravel roads, county fairs, and a 4-H Club. “It was the slowest place on earth to me, but now that I’m racing away in my late 30's, I miss it,” says Kuska. “Small towns to me were people waving as they walked by. A nod on the sidewalk, or a greeting on the trail. Pleasantries. People stopping when you were in the ditch or helping when your horses got out of the pasture. Front door is unlocked, windows left open… But an early trip to California had me yearning for bigger things.” Kuska moved to the Chicago suburbs, then later Los Angeles, and later, overseas to London, England for a time. “Your speedometer picks up as suddenly you’re driving faster, and hoofing it on busy sidewalks to catch trains and make meetings. It’s almost like people become obstacles rather than conversations. You’re dodging rather than greeting, and that’s that. I think all your senses get assaulted with the constant white noise of the city and cars and construction… Emotionally you have a lot more to compare yourself with. The fancy car on the right, the guy’s ipod in the elevator, the houses, the restaurants, the wines… Cities also get you to buy into some ridiculous concepts like $12 beers at Laker games, and $20 valet parking. As a farm kid, paying to have some guy park your car is the silliest thing, right next to bottled water for $3 or a cup of coffee for $4. But soon that’s what you’re doing. Your life becomes linked to your car, and drive-thrus, and traffic.


“Cities were fantastic as they always provided some event, or museum or destination to get excited about...Growing up in a small town taught me to enjoy being with myself, and being around the cities and masses exposes me to multitudes of ideas and concepts. And I find strength in both of those.” Kuska makes another fine point on small town life. Everyone knows your private business in a small town. “My mother, who grew up in McHenry Illlinois, well, she disliked the small town for the main reason that everyone knew everything. The gossip between house-moms, and just being under the microscope of a place where everyone knows each other. Yes, that help is there when you need it. But that pressure is there if you have unique thoughts and the community does not share them. Go to a big city and your neighbors don’t really know you so you can disappear from all that. And even I can admit I’ve had some nights out, where I wanted to disappear and had the pleasure of knowing none of these people knew me or my parents, and I was gonna cut loose!”

In a place like Jerome Arizona, I imagine most people in town have seen each other naked, helped each other through the best of and worst of times, and shared gossip about their neighbors as regularly as breathing oxygen.



Laura Jones of Clarkdale, commonly spotted in the vicinity of Miller’s Market on Main Street, is a native of Long Island, NY, "In my small town, I love picking up my mail at the post office and running into neighbors and chatting. I love attending town meetings where you can actually voice your opinion and think that someone might actually be listening. I love sitting on my front porch and having neighbors just stop by for a chat or beer. In the city, I love reading a great book while riding the subway. I love not driving a car every day."




















One small town concern I’ve heard expressed from many of my singleton chums, is echoed by city girl Dianne Tennison of Chicago, “After having stayed in Arkansas for a few weeks during my divorce, and after having seen what my dad got stuck married to where he lived... the dating pool sucks for us singles in small towns."


Mark Dolce is a photographer in Cody, Wyoming. “We, as humans, not necessarily man or woman, cannot live without altering our environment. To what extent is shown in the result of towns, villages, cities, campsites, roads, urban sprawls, golf courses ... a Circle K stuck out in the middle of nowhere or a farm or a field of corn or cotton,” says Dolce,“I prefer small towns - especially since 9-11 when every large environment with tall buildings and highly concentrated areas of people became potential targets. They always were but since 9-11 it became a reality. I do not like to see the air I breathe, I prefer wide open spaces, the landscape is pregnant with meaning ... even the cement jungle and asphalt playground we create in cities each has their own energy to offer.” Katrina Djberof is native to the Pacific Northwest, but she’s lived all over the Americas, both North and South, in cities big and small. “Life in the city that I love,” Djerbof begins, “…the diversity of city culture, food, music, independent media and film, community-owned radio. Individual fashion, dumpster-diving, community activism, reclaiming public space. Riding bikes all over, public transportation, avid recycling, community gardens. Lots of people, the small districts in contrast to the downtown bustle. The geography of Seattle, the walkability of San Francisco, the greenness of Portland, the absolute hectic-ness of Lima & Quito, and the architecture in Buenos Aires - lots of socializing,” flipping the coin, she continues, “Small town living that I love: conservation/preservation activism. A broad spectrum of ages in almost every enclave of activity. Knowing your neighbors, people pulling together to help one another out. The lack of traffic, beautiful sunrises & sunsets, little to no light pollution, spending more time at home and in the garden nesting."


Tina Raymond, grew up urban on the east coast, and now lives in Clarkdale. She rhapsodized over Jerome’s “Mountain Stranded Time” mentality, where time just moves more slowly, where people get sweetly stranded unawares. Raymond waxed poetic about its “2 lane highways, ‘get there when we get there’, walking main street at 2:00am of a misty morning, alone, window shopping.” Mountain Stranded Time hypnotizes us. The pace pacifies us. People just end up here, en route to somewhere else, they just end up staying. Driving to Sedona for a mundane errand I always think, “This is someone’s dream vacation.” The thrill never gets old for me. Maybe because I’m from another place, and I will never lose the romantic notions that drew us here. Sedona realtor extraordinaire, Jolynn Greenfield, offered some interesting opinions on this topic, as she deals with city folk all the time, seeking their own bit of wilderness and big sky. “Recently I sold a home in a [Sedona] neighborhood to a client who also has a penthouse in Minneapolis. She shared that they love the quiet, for a little while -- thus the Sedona purchase-- but they really love the shows, the food, the proximity to the action that they enjoy from their penthouse in ‘the city’.”


My cousin Johnny is a Chicago policeman, though he recently lived in Wyoming for a year or so and it put a spell on him. He's always debating heading back, despite the lower wages, "I gotta say that I liked small town living. It has its drawbacks, like no real place to eat, the shops are limited, the restaurants close early, etc. But life is slower. There is less tension. Maybe it’s where I lived as opposed to small towns in general. The mountains for me, and Jackson specifically, is the place to be. It offers the things that Chicago cannot. I missed my family, friends, home, all of that. But I liked the pace, the feel, the people, the fact that you can leave every door open to everything you own and no one will come in."

Michelle Hayman of Clarkdale sums it up with, “I have lived in the city, and it has its pluses, but I like where I am.” My small life is fully portable to every location. I have a different way of seeing since I’ve lived in the boonies so long. Spotting details I probably used to miss in the hustle and bustle of big city life. On a recent summer visit to Chicago I pointed out a large electric-green katydid in the shrubs near my brother’s condo. I plucked it up into my hand. He was duly impressed saying he’d not seen a katydid “in years”. As I set it back down on a leaf I thought, “I’m sure it’s always out here. He just didn’t see it.”

Artist and photographer Mark Foltz lives in Rimrock, a quiet community on the fringes of Camp Verde, AZ. “If you think of the total of your sense perceptions as a bubble that surrounds you, small towns allow that to expand. Your awareness increases,” says Foltz, “In the city, we have our defenses up to some extent, 24/7. That bubble of perception that surrounds us becomes smaller and harder; natural self defense, and less overall awareness. I like it here way better. I'm less stressed and more aware than I ever was in Akron or L.A.”


Big cities, despite their often times overwhelming metropolitan areas, are generally a collection of neighborhoods, knitted together, each with their own version of small life, with each neighborhood full of folks who seldom need to exit its bordering intersections. Each neighborhood has its own cast of characters, and favorite haunts. In certain regards, I am forever a city girl, since I need that structure of a community. I don’t know if I’d thrive living in a remote cabin in the forest, no neighbors, no library, no parades, nor pals. When I was finishing college and told an art professor my plan to move to Arizona he scoffed at me a bit. "You’ll be a big fish in a small pond there,” he said. I think he was sometimes right and sometimes wrong. I do miss some aspects of big city life, and have wondered where I’d be now had I remained there. But I also know this fact: fish will grow as big as the space allows them to. Maybe we’re all big fish with lots of room to brew up our big, huge, brilliant ideas.


Ellen Jo Roberts has lived in Chicago, and DeKalb, Illinois, and Flagstaff, Jerome and Clarkdale, Arizona. If you see her walking her famous dogs be sure to holler and wave as you drive past. Visit http://www.ellenjo.com/ for abundant silliness and good-natured amusements.

Hobos and Weirdos I Have Known and Loved

Eventually I'd like to stockpile all of my old favorite articles from the Noise, in one easy-to-read location-- maybe here.
This one, a favorite of mine, was published in May 2008. My recent visit to Flagstaff inspired me to revisit it....


















Hobos and Weirdos I Have Known and Loved
May 2008 "The Noise"- The Outs
By Ellen Jo Roberts

Flagstaff is a railroad town with a long history of hobos arriving via boxcar. Despite downtown's current boutiquey chic, it wouldn't take much to scrape away the glossy veneer, revealing a seedy underbelly populated by vagabonds. Summer breezes bring an abundance of weirdos, rolling in with their knapsacks, all enjoying the mild climate of outdoor living and the plentiful public land. I have known my share of hobos and I have adored them all. Their certain je ne sais quois adds invaluably to the flavor of any town.




















First of all, I'd like to clarify what I mean by hobos. I do not include trust fund hippies ("trustafarians"), all traveling in artfully disheveled colonies, resting under downtown shrubs with at least 1 vaguely feral looking dingo mutt. They are hobo-wannabees, easily outted by their good teeth, expensive faux bohemian sandals, and a fanciful romantic notion of what it means to be a tramp. My ol' pal Brian called them "hippycrites". Hippycrites were a pet gripe of ol' Bri. Hypocritical hippies that complained about the government yet "used federal highways and got food stamps".

When I speak of hobos I mean the true busted, broken down, woolly weirdos who are living on the fringes of reality and the thinnest margins of society. They may have at one point had normal lives, jobs, families, in some land far away-- but in their current incarnation they have become "that weirdo". Often times with a geographic designation---"that weirdo who hangs out on Leroux" or some other modifier-- "that weirdo in the white jumpsuit on the bike", "that midget weirdo who pushed the baby stroller", etc. Even people who do not know their names have created a name for them and recognize them from the details.




















I grew up in a big city and took public transportation so I am well conditioned to the presence of vagrants and vagabonds. My father, a Chicago policeman, called them "bust -outs". Just a catch-all term for folks living outside of regular society. Maybe homeless, maybe not. Maybe crazy, maybe not. Maybe broke, maybe sitting on a big bank account that nobody ever seemed to discover until long after their death. There were many weirdos in every neighborhood, weirdo mascots specific to a certain street or park, and while not all of them were harmless, the majority were as more frightened of us than we were of them. Each had their own eccentricity, a funny walk, a bad hairstyle, pants pulled up too high or hanging too low. Most shared the common characteristic of muttering to themselves.


Flagstaff attracts a wealth of weirdos. The rails and major interstates all converge on the picturesque mountain town. It is easy to blend in with the eccentric mix of natives, foreign tourists, and college students. It's a place where everyone is passing through, for a day, a week, or a few years. There were many favorite weirdos and freaks in Flagstaff. Remember that mystical fellow with the cape and the staff, fancying himself a wizard of some kind? What was his deal? How about that guy who rolled his VW Bus, then had it towed to a parking lot where he continued to use it as habitation for himself and several cats. There was that old fellow from Virginia who smoked a pipe and occasionally donned his army dress suit, complete with a chest full of medallions. I still think of that lil' guy called Herman, the small slumped wanderer of downtown, in his sweaty trench coat and slicked back hair. I never heard him say a word, but I once saw him smile. When Herman died many folks truly lamented his passing.

A visit to the Flagstaff library always was a certain opportunity to catch a bustout snoozing in a comfy overstuffed chair. Many of these random characters had been 86'ed from most of the bars in town, and several of them had a tendency to piss their pants. At one time, in the not too distant past, rivers of piss polluted downtown Flagstaff. "Dolores the Dwarf" was one of the famously incontinent. She was, as her moniker implies, a dwarf. She was elderly, with a mop top of shaggy white hair, and could often times be seen awakening from her favorite sleeping spot, in a doorway on Aspen Street. She would push a baby-stroller full of all of her meager belongings, swearing at cars and pedestrians, calling everyone foul names, muttering "hippies, punks, communists, polacks!" under her breath as she struggled with her stroller.
"I wonder of she has a family somewhere?" I mused, one day.
"They probably dumped her off here, like a stray dog." I was sworn at by Dolores, and it brightened my day every time. Every encounter with a weirdo enriches my life and adds another tale for the archives. Their outlooks are so vastly different they may as well be from a different planet, or a time traveler from a different millennium.






























Grubbs was a favorite character in my Flagstaff story. Sometimes called "Chuck", or "Shiloh", but mostly just called Grubbs. A religion could be built on his teachings, and in fact, my friend Alice created one—she called it The Church of Grubbs. He lived in a motel on Route 66 and went to the Monte Vista Lounge every day to play the ponies at the off-track-betting. Legend has it he once got arrested for peeing off a roof. He was tall, robust and rumpled, with one pant leg tucked into his boot and one left untucked, a sure sign of craziness. There was something Bill Murray-esque about him, something endearing, crooked and oafish like Carl Spackler in Caddyshack. He talked in a blurred, deep, rolling mumble. Most of the time he talked about Eva Braun, Idi Amin, and the Playboy Bunny, a stream on non-sequiturs, though this was occasionally punctuated by sudden bout of clarity. Sometimes he bordered on the brilliant and profound.

He told me he had been a cop. I said, "Wow, that had to be a tough job!" He responded, suddenly articulate, "Nope, easiest job in the world. You put on that uniform and (*snapped fingers*) you get anything you want." Another time, out of the blue he said, "How many people do you think went to Harvard and don't remember it?"
One time he said, "You're my girl, right?" as he walked by and I went weak in the knees. I am Grubbs' girl! He thinks I am his girl!

Perhaps his most enduring comment was his common salutation: "How's yer politics?" I myself have used this to greet people for years. It is perfect.

Grubbs stole a waitress' tip from off the counter and left 3 cigarettes in its place. Some kind of fair trade in his mind. One time I saw him eating flowers out of a planter on Route 66. He was enchanting. Alice asked to take his photo. "For 'The Winner's Circle'? Sure," he said. I'm not sure what the Winner's Circle was, but he for sure was in it, in his mind anyway, wrapped in flowers standing next to his favorite horse. We were also winners, because his image was forever captured for posterity. In the shadowy photo he is sleepy-faced, slightly crooked, with tilted posture, his eyes half closed, and his mouth half open because he of course he hadn't stopped talking the whole time. I wonder what ever happened to Grubbs. Maybe he is still around, playing the ponies now at the Museum Club, eating flowers along the roadside and trading for cigarettes. Maybe he drifted on to greener pastures, or was finally collected back up by his family far away. Maybe he had escaped and they'd been looking for him for years. I wonder if he had any children or was ever married. Maybe he finally made it to the Winner's Circle.

Despite my mom's best teachings I have a habit of talking to strangers, the stranger the better. It is because I know they will always share some nugget of wisdom, even though it may be cloaked in crazy talk and gibberish. I also know that most of us are only a few degrees removed from being hobos ourselves. You never know what is down that next road, and where those rails might take you.

Ellen Jo Roberts lives in the old railroad town of Clarkdale Arizona. She shares a 94 year old house with a 35 year old husband, and several pets of random ages. They are surrounded by assorted 1970s vintage Volkswagens. Read all about it at www.ellenjo.com