California Dreaming along Highway 1

California Dreaming
Coastal Campout Along Highway 1
The Outs- Ellen Jo Roberts
The Noise
September 2010



California’s Highway 1 is just a road, just a narrow curving ribbon of macadam perched along the western edge of the USA. It’s also something legendary, lyrical, mythical, magical: from books, magazines, movies and commercials.
A National Scenic Byway, it’s been designated an “All American Road”.
We all dream of Highway 1, as part of our collective consciousness.

My husband and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary this summer, a milestone worthy of a special road trip celebration. We wanted to be part of the dream, so we planned a Highway 1 adventure. All year we poured over library books, maps, brochures, Google Earth, and the state park websites, plotting our journey, booking our reservations. For Chad, the planning part is sometimes even more exciting than the trip itself. For months he lay awake in bed at night, satellite imagery dancing in his head.



We travelled on the cheap, loaded up with camping gear and a picnic basket full of dry goods. Our only “luxury” was renting a Toyota Prius for its excellent fuel economy (averaging 50+ mpg), lower environmental impact, and modern comforts like satellite radio, climate & cruise control. We do all our longer road trips like this. Renting a car conserves both our vintage Volkswagens and our marriage.
The scenic routes Chad chose were both more direct, and more time consuming. After our first 13 hours on the road, we arrived in San Luis Obispo County, in a seaside town called Avila Beach, where we set up our tent after dark, at an area campground. The next morning we were up early, making our first memories of Highway 1, via San Luis Obispo. “SLO” as the locals call it, is hopelessly adorable, chock full of tidy Mediterranean bungalows and well-groomed yards. It’s home to California Polytechnic State University (“Cal Poly”), and the delightfully tacky 1950s “Madonna Inn”, with its outsized pink sign, and crazy gingerbread flourishes.





Highway 1 through the central California coast is one of the rare things that lives up to the hype. You fear a collision from gawking at the scenery. It’s also achingly slow moving, constantly curving, elevating, and bound to cause moments of nausea in even the sturdiest passenger. It is riddled with delightful pull-offs and scenic overlooks. The ocean on a cloudy day is grey, but when the fog lifts the water changes color to an unbelievable turquoise, with tangled forests of kelp floating offshore like vegetable soup.

Big Sur, from “El País Grande Del Sur” (big country to the south), a moniker given by Carmel’s early Spanish settlers, remains fairly remote and sparsely populated. Highway 1 wasn’t completed through the area until 1937, and electricity didn’t arrive until the 1950s. Vast stretches are unpopulated, and the mountainous terrain to the east is Los Padres National Forest. The area is historically wealthy with inspiration for photographers, artists , beatniks, poets, writers, and other free spirits escaping from large cities to the south and north.



"McWay Falls” is an icon of Big Sur, a t-shirt emblem just like the Bixby Bridge further north. Located near Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park, the waterfall tumbles west of Highway 1 onto a secluded seashore, sheltered in a stone cove. The only creatures on the beach below it were seagulls. It’s off limits to humans, though a boardwalk above allows views of the beautiful scene.


A few hours north on Highway 1, with every mile taking twice as long as we’d planned, we headed east to the quicker 101 to make up some speed to our next destination, San Francisco. It was nearly sunset by the time we arrived in the foggy city by the bay. Even the dreary weather couldn’t dim its loveliness, all vertical and cascading down hills in vintage perfection.



Cold in July, with everyone was wearing sweaters, coats and hats, I kept thinking of Mark Twain’s joke :” The coldest winter I ever spent was the summer I spent in San Francisco.” Perhaps it was a culmination of a long day of driving, the maps strewn everywhere in the cramped car, Chad arguing with the GPS lady-- I dunno-- but I burst into tears driving down famously steep Russian Hill. I was so scared!
We’ve driven on some hair-raising mountain roads before, crawling boulders in the wilderness, but nothing has ever frightened me as much as Lombard Street in San Francisco. I’m no “Bullitt”.
There are stoplights at the top of a 45 degree hill. There are points where you cannot see the road above/ below you and you must just have faith there is nothing in your way as the light turns green. And if your car isn’t in great shape- if the engine is weak or the brakes are bad-- you’d better just go home.



Our San Francisco night was spent at the Motel Capri, an inexpensive mid-century gem located in the Marina District, close walking distance to many interesting street scenes.



Time in San Francisco was too short: just a night and part of the next morning-- not nearly enough to soak up this vibrant city. Hiking up the steep streets on a Sunday morning with all of my cameras clattering, I was grooving on the big city life, being just a face in the crowd, one of many. No one batted an eyelash at me (unlike in my own tiny town where I am a featured landmark.) San Francisco is a smart, wealthy city, beloved by many who’ve left their hearts there. The streets are so steep it’s a full-on cardio work out all the time. A friend of mine lived there for 7 years and says, “Try walking up and down those hills every day, yeesh! I ended up in Delaware - flat as a pancake. To paraphrase Tony Bennett ‘I Left My Girlish Figure in San Francisco.’"



From San Francisco we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge north to Marin County, to have lunch with a dear favorite friend, an Arizona ex-patriot. She and her surfer beau live in a cozy 1910 built "love shack" near the sea in tiny Stinson Beach, and invited us to stay.



We cancelled our camping reservations at Manresa Beach State Park near Santa Cruz in favor of setting up tent in their garden amidst their surfboards, nestled between the fog-shrouded Mt. Tamalpais, “Birthplace of Mountain Biking”, and the cold grey waves of the Pacific.



Marin County is notoriously suspicious of outsiders. Nearby Bolinas is famous for removing their city sign, to discourage tourists. Hanging with the locals we were instantly accepted as locals by proxy. Romping and running wild with our dogs on the beach was a thing of pure joy. Our friends cooked us a wonderful dinner, we drank wine, laughed, and told stories well after dark. It was a highlight of our trip and finally felt like the vacation had begun.



Highway 1 north of San Francisco is fragrant with eucalyptus. The giant groves of quick growing Australian trees are not native, and have their detractors for this reason. Despite this, the willowy giants have somehow become synonymous with California. The gold rush and railroads brought the species here in the 1850s, when the state government authorized and encouraged their quick growing establishment. The astringent smell of the eucalyptus fills our noses.
Suddenly we are in love with this part of California. My mind wanders back to the beautiful eucalyptus tree we already have, in our own Arizona front yard.



Our next campsite was back down the coast at San Simeon State Park, followed by a night at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park. We’d reserved all of our campsites months earlier, most of them at state parks for about $40 per night.
Pfeiffer Big Sur, a popular park since 1933, is a bit magical, nestled into the redwoods, and delineated by the clear grey green Big Sur River. There were swarms of ladybugs everywhere when we arrived. I wouldn’t have been surprised at all to see a unicorn.



Side note: They sell beer (!) at California State Parks. (Hey Arizona State Parks, ya’ listening?) After setting up tent it’s customary to take a dip in the Big Sur River. Hot, sunny, drinking beer in the river—just like home.



Chad led us on a sunset expedition to nearby Pfeiffer Beach. Amazing, framed by giant sea bound monoliths, and smooth purple sand, Pfeiffer Beach was blustery cold, full of photographers, picnickers sipping red wine, unruly dogs, and loud crashing waves.



Our final night on the Big Sur Coast was spent at Kirk Creek, a federal campground. There are world-class resorts all up and down Big Sur, each charging hundreds of dollars a night. None would compare to this $22.00 campsite. When we arrived, our jaws dropped. Site #11 at Kirk Creek was the best campsite we've ever had in our lives: big, beautiful, carpeted by soft grass, high on a bluff overlooking the sunny Pacific, surrounded by sweet scented wild fennel, sage, and yarrow. A steep trail leads down to the rocky shore below.









Unpacking, setting up, breaking down, and repacking camp every day was hard work. The Prius was so small we basically had to unload the entire car, and reload the entire car every day. Thank God for Chad's engineering-style mind. The camping life is hard work, toting water, lifting gear, washing dishes outdoors, washing our hair in sinks—everything takes more time and energy.
And somehow, the food tastes better. The sleep in the tent is more restful.
The hard work makes everything more valuable somehow.







Without showers for days, we were kinda’ grungey, with our rock star hair and dirty feet like a couple of goddamn hippies. It didn’t bother me at all, until we took the dogs for a stroll through a field of tall dried thistle, just north of nearby Sand Dollar Beach. Headed to a special seashore Chad selected, I looked down at the dogs and noticed little dark dots all over them. Yanking my chihuahua up by his harness, my fears were confirmed. Ticks! The dogs are covered with ticks!! Panic sets in and a shriek wells in my throat. I start brushing them off of him frantically, brushing them off my bare legs, and looking for the nearest exit. Sitting on a barren bluff, high above the rocky beach, socked in with raging high tide, I managed to clear all the ticks off of Floyd, because they are easy to spot in his pale fur. Ivan, the Boston Terrier was not as lucky. We manage to find most of them in his dark brindley fur, but miss the final two until the next day.
That night I feel itchy all over, and wish for a shower.







Away from the sea and back to the desert, we spent a night at a 1950s built motel in Palm Springs. San Francisco in July is cold enough for polar fleece. Palm Springs in July is like a blast furnace. It was still over 100 degrees when we rolled into town at 9pm, and already back up to 109 by 9am the next day.
Travel tip: Palm Springs motel rooms are cheap in July.



"Salvation Mountain", about 75 miles from the Coachella Valley in a remote sun-baked location near Niland, has been on my list of places to see for years. Our last day on the road, we head a lil’ bit out of our way down to see this amazing bit of folk art. The Colorado Desert sits below sea level, and is sparsely occupied during the summer. Bombay Beach along the Salton Sea is a 1960s resort town gone wrong, a post-apocalyptic paradise full of bombed out trailers and land locked boats.



Further south is “the last free place”, Slab City, a transient community setting up camp on concrete slabs left behind from a World War 2 military installation.



We arrive at Salvation Mountain, a massive bit of crazily colorful religious folk art created by Leonard Knight. Mr. Knight, 78, has spent decades carving and coating the side of a dirt hill with adobe, straw, thousands of gallons of donated paint, and various versions of “God is Love”, scripture, and testimony to Jesus.





Everything is fancifully painted: cars, trucks, bikes, boats. 113 degrees at high noon. I thought my Chuck Taylors might melt. Salvation Mountain was worth the many out-of-the-way miles. It is a true thing of beauty, and as important to American iconography as Highway 1.



Driving through the heat of day, we arrive back in our neighborhood by dusk.
The Verde Valley always looks really good after a long road trip, after driving through many random small towns of assorted quality.
“You know something, this place we live in is pretty damn good. It looks pretty great here.” Back at home we feel exhilarated, relaxed, as we pour over Polaroids, tip back cold California beers, and sit close to the eucalyptus tree.


http://www.madonnainn.com/index.php
http://www.sfmotelcapri.com/
http://www.parks.ca.gov/
http://bigsurcalifornia.org/
http://www.salvationmountain.us/

Ellen Jo Roberts lives in a historic brick bungalow in Clarkdale Arizona, with Bike Daddy Chad, 2 small dogs, a cat, and a collection of vintage Volkswagens, none of which have cruise control, air conditioning or satellite radio.
Read all about it at ellenjo.com

The Clark Mansion Fire

The Clark Mansion Fire
A Mysterious Tale of Wealth, Decay, and Haints
The Outs
Ellen Jo Roberts
August 2010



“The beauty of that jewel in the desert, a relic of Clarkdale's youth, fueled creativity and imagination. I always wished I could see inside and wondered what it was like to live there when it was new.” – Clarkdale resident, artist Sandy Boothe.

The Clark Mansion has been a town landmark since the late 1920s, created in Spanish-Revival style in the native colors of the surrounding desert, and flanked by two towering Italian Cypress. Originally built for William A Clark’s grandson, United Verde Copper Company heir, William Clark III, the house has lived many incarnations since young Clark’s unfortunate death in a nearby plane crash in 1932. During the last part of the 20th century, the 7 bedroom 5 bathroom mansion was leased for residential use, and also utilized as an auxiliary clubhouse and restaurant for the Peck’s Lake golf course. It had been used as a movie set several times, though no one can remember the titles of any of the films.

Over the past 15 years, Peck’s Lake has been in a state of decay mirroring that of the mansion. Once a vibrant part of Clarkdale’s company town amenities, Peck’s Lake was regionally famous for its dance pavilion, fireworks, town picnic, golf course, boat races, and other sporting events. The golf course closed in 1991. The dance pavilion burnt down, and the main clubhouse was vandalized (apparently by horny teens, and satan worshippers from the looks of the graffiti), a hollow shell of its former glory.
By the mid-1990s, the mansion was vacant and the windows boarded up. On January 1st 2004, Phelps Dodge closed off all public access to Peck’s Lake, blocking the road with an earthen dam, and wrapping the entire area, including the mansion, in barbed-wire-topped chain link fencing.



Even in its lonely neglected condition, separated from all of us, sealed off and empty, there remained something majestic about the Clark Mansion. It watched over us all from the edge of town. It glowed in the sunset, and fired up our inspiration. I made paintings and took photos of it. I called it My Dream House and imagined how I would fix it up should it ever miraculously be mine.



My friend and fellow Clarkdalian Brandi Lee Cooper said it was haunted--that a “haint” lived out there. Maybe it was dangerous to run past it after dark, and tempt the haint’s wickedness. My fear escalated as Brandi Lee told me the plane crash that claimed young Clark’s life took place in front of his wife’s very eyes, as she watched from the mansion in horror.



During the pre-dawn hours on June 25th 2010 a new horror happened at the Clark Mansion. Something terrible. Just after 4 in the morning, the mansion, haunted by haints and guarded by cypress, inexplicably began to burn. Quickly the fire grew out of control, with flames hundreds of feet high, according to witnesses, brightly visible from as far away as Jerome. Many called to report the blaze, though by the time the fire crews arrived, a power line had fallen onto the metal fence surrounding the mansion, electrifying it. Unable to spray any water until the electricity was cut, crews had to wait 20 helpless minutes for APS to arrive. The roof, interior walls and floors of the mansion collapsed in the fire, leaving just the heavy concrete exterior walls. According to Paul Peck of the Clarkdale Historical Society, the fire burnt so hot it severely damaged and cracked the remaining walls.



Like many locals, I slept through all of this, blissfully unawares. It wasn’t until I arrived at work a few hours later, the flames finally extinguished and the mansion still smoldering, that someone alerted me about what had happened, “The Clark Mansion burnt.” Immediately I ran outside to see for my own eyes what couldn’t possibly be true. At first I couldn’t even spot it. Without its red clay tile roof and sentinel cypress trees, it had become invisible, blending in with the color of the nearby earth. Then I saw the wisps of smoke still rising. The Italian Cypress had perished in the blaze (witnesses reporter hearing them “explode”). I burst into messy sobs. How could this be? Who could have been so evil to destroy this precious bit of Arizona history? My dream house! Perished!



Marsha Foutz, an artist and educator, has lived in her historic lower Clarkdale bungalow for 29 years. She included her home in Clarkdale’s first Home Tour specifically to highlight and educate about Clark Mansion by sharing her especially great view of it.
“During the many renovations to my home, I have always kept the view open and focused to the mansion. My studio was built to take in the view of the mansion as much as possible,” says Ms. Foutz, “From my house, I view the mansion many times a day. I have recently discovered that I used to ‘greet’ the mansion each time I saw it. I still get stunned and saddened 10 to 12 times a day as when I look up, there is nobody to greet!”



She’s always had hopes that the building would be restored. At the time of the fire, the mansion and its surrounding property was in the negotiations between current owner Freeport McMoRan, and local developers Verde Exploration.
Verde Exploration (UVX) reps confirm they had plans to eventually restore the mansion for commercial use. According to Clarkdale mayor, Doug Von Gausig, “Freeport-McMoRan was in the process of trading the building and 5 acres, as I recall, around it for some land that Verde Exploration owns adjacent to the Freeport land near Jerome. The deal would have been finalized about 30 days after the fire.”
This compounds the tragedy. Ms. Foutz adds, “Ironic that it was just going to a group that might have restored it… I've always heard that there were proposals to acquire and use it. The UVX trade might have made a difference in a few weeks. Too little too late for our friend.”



Mayor Von Gausig dedicated a recent town meeting to discussing the Clark Mansion, and initiated a resolution to encourage its restoration if at all possible. After all, the Old Town Theater, gutted by a 1998 fire, was able to be salvaged, restored and reopened after several years of renovation as the popular Tavern Grille. Perhaps there is also hope the Clark Mansion may be restored to something even better than its former glory.
“Has the fire been confirmed arson?” I ask.
“We don't know the answer yet,” answers Mayor Von Gausig, “The owner has engaged a structural engineer to assess the condition of the remaining parts of the building, but that assessment hasn't been made yet.” Fire inspectors have been unable to adequately access or assess the structure, due to its current instability. Initial inspection was done using Sedona Fire Department ladder trucks to view interior from the outside. The cause of the fire is confirmed to be of a “suspicious” nature.
“What's the next step?”
“Get the structural report. Then it's up to Freeport-McMoRan to decide what to do with the property,” said Mayor Von Gausig. “The town is on record with a resolution asking that they consider every possible alternative to demolition of the building.”

“NOW THEREFORE, BE IT RESOLVED that the Mayor, Common Council, and citizens of the Town of Clarkdale, Yavapai County, Arizona strongly urge the owners of the Clark Mansion and all other regulatory, public safety, legal and proprietary interests in the property to take no action that may preclude the possibility of restoring, renovating, or rebuilding the Mansion to its historic form and functionality without first exhausting all possible avenues that may preserve the building in as close to its former condition as possible” – from Resolution 1339, passed July 13th 2010.



“Years of indifference piled upon years of neglect and you get what happened,” said Chris Boothe, another long time resident of Clarkdale, “Yet, like the pyramids, we all wanted it to always be there, the icon, the sentinel, the soul of Clarkdale. I attended the Town Council meeting to support restoring what's left of the [Clark Mansion] but left dismayed to hear it's nothing more than a suggestion to Freeport McMoran. The bleak truth is that the company can raze what's left at any time. Perhaps with enough input from the public they will realize the importance of keeping a bit of Clarkdale DNA.”

Gerhard Mayer, is the CEO of MGL Development LLC, a solar system manufacturer and construction company based in Sedona. He’s lived and worked in the Verde Valley for almost 30 years, and used to golf at the Peck’s Lake course. At the July 13th town meeting, Mr. Mayer spoke passionately in favor of any preservation efforts for the remaining structure of the Clark Mansion.
“We are all stewards of our history and need to preserve our heritage respectfully for all future generations to build on. The Clark Mansion’s destiny was predictable, a building, not the most impressive one of all of Clark`s mansions, but a landmark for the Verde Valley, neglected, unoccupied, vandalized, torched by an arsonist and now facing the ultimate sentence, leveled, rubble for a landfill, erased, history wiped out.”
“We all have an obligation, the owner who neglected the mansion for decades, the city and citizens of the Verde Valley to stop this from happening. When I drive up 89A to Jerome and see a building along the highway being brought back to life from a near rubble, crumbling state, then I think this could be possible for this blackened historic jewel as well.” Mr. Mayer acknowledges such an undertaking would be expensive.
“It will not be cheap, but copper has reached $ 3.18 a pound. Freeport just announced that they are activating some of the dormant mines, the shares are traded at $ 66.06… It should be in the best interest of Freeport to have this mansion restored. What a great PR and image enhancing action.”

Perhaps Ms. Foutz speaks for many locals in calling the mansion fire “a death”.
“A senseless murder most likely. I am much more sad for this death than for the death of my father. My father was cared for. This home was abandoned. And so lonely! Its only friends were the cypress trees and now they are gone too. It was so loved and yet was so isolated!”
I was inconsolable for days after the fire. Even now, a full month later, all the air escapes from my lungs whenever I catch a glimpse of the Clark Mansion’s burnt hulk.
A ghost at the edge of town, a haint lingering in its crooked shadows.



If you’d like to lend your support by word or deed in favor of saving the Clark Mansion, please contact the Town of Clarkdale for more information.www.clarkdale.az.us

For photos of the Clark Mansion Fire
visit Doug Von Gausig’s Critical Eye photography site at
http://www.criticaleyephoto.com/Other/Clark-Mansion-Fire-6-25-2010/12691510_rfY89

Ellen Jo Roberts has a keen interest in vintage architecture, because she wakes up in a historic Clarkdale Arizona bungalow every morning. She also likes other assorted old stuff like neon road signs, air-cooled Volkswagens, cassette tapes, and antique cameras. Read all about it at www.ellenjo.com

Instant Gratification: Momma, Don't Take My Polaroid Away

Instant Gratification:
Momma, Don't Take My Polaroid Away
The Noise- July 2010
The Outs
by Ellen Jo Roberts


“Don’t undertake a project unless it is manifestly important and nearly impossible.”

- Edwin Land


"The world is a terrible place without Polaroid."- John Waters


It seems incredibly unlikely. In fact, it seems darn near impossible!
How is it in the year 2010, the second decade into our 21st century digital age of instant communication, smart phones, status updates, tweets, and viral videos, that any attention would be paid to something so distinctly 20th century as instant film? Instant film is like TV dinners, or remote control: harkening back to our earliest notions of a speedier future world, in a quaint 1950s sorta’ way, like the Jetsons. Polaroid was imploding, hemorrhaging 25% a year in profits, when it slowly ceased production of all varieties of instant film in the 2000s.
How has it suddenly become the fresh hot new image-maker? Ironically, it’s due to an internet community of artists, hipsters and analog buffs that instant film is being resuscitated from near death.

Edwin Land was an American inventor born under the sign of Taurus in 1909. He first gained success and created the Polaroid brand by inventing polarizing filters for sunglasses and camera lens. He developed his eponymous Land Camera in 1947. Polaroid initially underestimated how popular the camera would be. When first offered at a Boston department store during the 1948 Christmas shopping season, all 57 Land Cameras in stock sold out in one day. Though Edwin Land, a complicated and stubborn genius, invented all sorts of amazing optical gear for the government, he considered the development of SX-70 film and camera to be his crowning achievement.

An explanation of “instant film”: It contains all of the chemicals and components needed to develop, fix, and print an image. Unlike standard 35mm film, which requires a complex series of external procedures to create an image negative and print, the instant photo developed itself, without use of a dark room, enlarger or vats of chemicals. Nowadays when every camera and every cell phone shows you your image instantly, it may be hard to imagine what’s the big deal.
In 1948 this was huge, and it remained a great novelty for about 50 years.
Generally speaking, the image quality of instant film is not as richly detailed as a 35mm image, or that of the much larger medium format negative. Rather than crisp detail it casts glowy nuances. The instantaneous of the print proved to be helpful in various applications. Police found it useful in documenting investigations and making mugshots. Similarly, instant photos were ideal for passports, drivers licenses, and identification. Hollywood utilized Polaroid for checking lighting, and continuity of costume. Artists took hold of the medium. Andy Warhol was perhaps one of Polaroid’s biggest fans, using their “Big Shot” portrait camera to capture images he would later turn into silkscreen portraiture of New York night life.

The number one factor in Polaroid’s success? It was just plain fun, to have that photo develop in your hand at the party. Your iPhone might show you your photos as you take them-- but are they something real in your hand, or simply an electronic stew of code in a format that will also one day no longer exist?



Fred Slavitter is a friendly retired fellow from Needham, Massachusetts. A graduate of Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, he worked for Polaroid from 1969 until 1995 as New Products Development Engineering Manager, supervising development engineers and creating new photographic devices. Mr. Slavitter holds 10 patents on various items of photographic equipment, including an SX-70 lens. He drove his family bananas always testing new camera products on them. “Instant cameras provided instant photographic gratification. They provided instant enjoyment at special events, parties, picnics, etc., and gave assurance that you got the picture you wanted or gave you the opportunity to take a second picture.” Mr. Slavitter feels Polaroid’s heyday took place from the mid-1960s through the mid-1970s, faltering by the 1980s.“This was due to Polaroid not investing enough in improving their instant film. Fuji came out with a better film.”

There are two basic varieties of instant film —the peel apart type, and the integral type. Peel apart came first, but integral film may be the kind most are familiar with, “shaking it like a Polaroid picture”. Integral film spits out of the camera with a click and a whirr, no muss no fuss, fully sealed, and just a moment or two for the image to take shape. First developed for the SX-70 Land Camera in 1972, integral film was produced by Polaroid up until 2006. Since 2006 there has been no alternative available, and SX-70s around the globe sat dormant, discarded, abandoned…until now. Film is available again via “The Impossible Project”, a New York City company that is slowly reviving assorted instant film products. In March of 2010, The Impossible Project, founded by Florian Kaps, began selling brand new experimental instant film, after purchasing an old Polaroid factory in the Netherlands.

Their first test batch of “PX 100”, while dreamy and strange, suffered from various problems: leaky emulsion, unfolding edges. These issues have since been corrected, and the company strives to create a whole new generation of unpredictably spirited instant film. It was quite something to unfold my dusty 1970s SX-70 and hear it whirr back to life when I put the first pack of Impossible Project film into it. This new generation of instant integral film ain’t cheap, running $3-4 per shot. Makes you really contemplate what you are photographing.



David Bias, the Vice President of The Impossible America Corporation, explains the inspiration behind their venture, “We all know that when the mainstream goes one direction, there are always those who search for other things. A growing portion of these ‘others’ have a healthy respect for physical things - things made out of artistic ambition or simple handcrafted love. The inspiration for The Impossible Project is Edwin Land, plain and simple. Instant film photography is the best of both worlds - the immediacy we love about digital, along with the organic warmth of film.”

I’m a fan of Polaroid type 100 cameras, the kind that use peel-apart or “pack” film.

The peel-apart variety dates back to 1963, supplanting the first generation of roll film, which was far more complicated and fussy. I have a big beautiful roll-film camera dating from the 1950s. It’s huge like a piece of furniture, or a Buick, and it pops open like a parade float. Polaroid buffs have converted these old roll film cameras to pack film, but I’m a poor engineer and prefer my cameras ready-made.

My favorites are from the clunky-looking “Colorpack” series (c.late ‘60s-early ‘70s).

Pack film requires a short series of procedures to get your photo. Unlike integral film, which spits self-propelled out of the camera, pack film needs to be pulled out from the camera, via paper tabs. Rollers crush the chemicals in between a negative and photo paper. After about 90 exciting seconds, the negative is peeled back, revealing the finished print. The negative is then discarded-- though many artists prefer to scan and manipulate the negative rather than the paper print. It is the peel-apart variety that artists use for Polaroid transfers, and emulsion lifts. Roll film operated on the same principal, but utilized 2 separate rolls that met in the middle- one photographic paper, and one with negative and processing chemicals. It was discontinued in 1992.

Polaroid’s pack film production ceased in 2008, but Fuji-Film of Japan has continuously produced peel-apart film since 1981, thus keeping Type 100 Polaroid cameras active. I avidly consume Fuji’s FP100C (color) and FP100B (black and white) films. I devour them like candy. It cannot be found at the grocery store, but can be ordered online with ease, from Freestyle in L.A., or B & H in New York City.

Fuji instant film averages about $11.00-$12.00 for a film pack of 10 images, so at over a dollar a shot they’re not completely beyond budget, but they do exceed the 30 cent per photo processing for 35mm shots. And it’s all far more costly than digital. Digital photography is essentially free once you’ve purchased the equipment and the software, hence its stronghold and vast popularity.

Everyone knows I am a hardcore analog snob. The reason I shoot film nearly exclusively (besides the staunch belief the quality is better and the results more interesting), is that the costliness makes it something precious, and therefore encourages better photography. Unlike digital images, in which one prize-winner can be culled from a hundred similar variations, analog photography requires more thought prior to the shot, rather than excessive editing, deleting, and post-production afterwards. Shooting on film also allows for a bit of happy accident magic that digital does not. There’s a level of unpredictability and magic. Double exposures, accidentally or on purpose. Strange lights and colors you don’t see ‘til long after. Digital encourages fidgeting with the gadgetry. With film you just have to wait and see.



Michael Raso is a photographer, and the owner of New Jersey’s Pop Cinema Studios. He’s also the producer of the “Film Photography Podcast”. Mr. Raso is always generous with his enthusiasm and knowledge of analog photography, “Digital photography is a great advance in technology but not an alternative for the chemical process of photography. It’s all personal choice and I choose film as my medium. Chemical manipulation, image transfers and emulsion lifts give me so many opportunities to make each image its own work of art. I love it. Polaroid instant film has a quality and esthetic like no other. A Polaroid image has a color palette as unique as, let’s say, a Kodachrome slide. Simply original. Whether the integral SX-70 type or the amazing --as I call it-- ‘crack and peel’ 100 type film – the retirement of Polaroid films created a huge outcry from artists around the world. Photographers want the film.”

Justin Craigen is a UK born graphic designer working in Ames, Iowa.
“I love instant film because it allows for a wonderful break from digital photography, which is part of my work as a designer. It's nice to have a unique physical object to handle rather than a bunch of 1s and 0s on a screen that's not good for viewers' eyes…There are also the qualities of color, and sharpness that are unique to the films. People go to some lengths to fake those qualities digitally, but as of yet I haven't seen a single effort that actually does it even half-arsed well.”

Sean Rohde is a Phoenix-based Polaroid whiz, working desert-baked magic on expired films. He writes all about his extensive efforts and instant film adventures on a fascinating blog called Moominsean. “Digital cannot match the qualities of instant film. You may be able to make an effort to replicate instant film on a computer, but there is something special about a product that does these things on it's own without digital trickery,” Mr. Rohde says. “The Impossible Project? I think it's great that there is enough interest to support such a venture, and there are people willing to go the extra mile to make it happen!”

“Why do people seek out instant film is this digital age we live in?” I asked my panel of experts and instant film enthusiasts.

“The same reason people seek out things that are difficult, rare or temporary, because it’s worth it. The same way we love and celebrate the brief blooms of the cherry tree, or stare with breathless joy at the view from the mountain we climbed, so it is with Polaroid. It’s special because it’s not everywhere. Digital is all around us and we are a bit desensitized to it,” says Ashley Russell, a media artist from Vancouver, British Columbia, “Polaroid is like a magic lens that reveals the beauty in everything. Looking at the world through Polaroids makes one realize how much beauty this world holds.”

I am rich in Polaroid cameras. People give them to me all the time. The digital age has benefited me big, with folks passing me off all of their old analog gear, including a complete darkroom set up. You probably think owning a Polaroid camera is like owning a VCR or a pet dodo bird. It’s something extinct, displaced by more modern creatures. But I see the film culture as something akin to the survival of albums on vinyl, kept alive by a select group of aficionados. I see the Polaroid as some type of fantastic time machine, translating this sharp-edged modern world into something of a softer vintage. Perhaps now too you’ll see the value, and walk a bit slower through the gadget aisle at your local thrift shop.


For more information:
http://www.blogger.com/www.theimpossibleproject.com
http://www.filmphotographypodcast.com/

http://moominsean.blogspot.com/
http://www.bhphoto.com/
http://www.freestylephoto.biz/

Ellen Jo Roberts will probably take your picture, if she hasn’t already.
She lived in a vintage bungalow in Clarkdale Arizona with her oft-photographed spouse, pets, and Volkswagens. Read all about it at http://www.ellenjo.com/

Being Mexican is Not a Crime: SB 1070 and the Boycott of Arizona

Being Mexican is Not a Crime:
SB 1070 and the Boycott of Arizona
The Noise

June 2010

The Outs
Ellen Jo Roberts


Just when the rest of the country had almost started to forget the 1990s Martin Luther King Holiday debacle, Arizona is back in the daily headlines for a poorly presented pseudo-racist government policy. Governor Jan Brewer’s quick acceptance of the vaguely worded State Bill 1070, in a bid to curry Republican votes for election season, has polarized the state and the country. Arizona, heartbreakingly beautiful love of my life, has been reduced to a punch line, a punching bag. It pains me to see it so mishandled.

Arizona’s survived bad governors before. Remember Evan “Pickaninny” Meacham, the first Arizona governor to be impeached? Fife Symington was a swindler who resigned office after being convicted of fraud. Jane Hull used the state’s helicopter for personal travel. Now we have Jan Brewer running roughshod over the landscape, closing state parks, deregulating gun permissions, legalizing fireworks, and cutting the Arizona Office of Tourism’s budget by 70%, with seemingly little thought of the impact. The ill will generated by SB 1070, closure of parks, and the snuffing of a proactive tourism program will have a long lasting impact on our state’s reputation and economy, long after Brewer’s appointed term expires.

For a country so lion-hearted as the USA, always running to the assistance of countries half a planet away, it’s a bit incredible we’d not invest more thought and positive energy into the situation with our very own next door neighbors.

There is a silver lining to all this. There is a correct answer on immigration policies that could eventually take shape from all of this uproar. But, as of today, it’s not yet arrived. Both right wing and left wing arguments hinge on something sensational, partial truths, fear. Perhaps at some point, folks could discuss this reasonably, rationally. There’s a sense of general disappointment that our former Governor Janet Napolitano, now Secretary of Homeland Security, hasn’t yet championed something more proactive and positive at the federal level in regards to illegal immigration. Arizona’s answer, building fences and questioning citizenship based on a hazy set of suggestions seems distinctly negative, backwards, and so very 20th century.

Mexican President Felipe Calderon calls the new law “discriminatory”, and warns that Mexico will not support the criminalization of migration. He blames the United States’ big appetite for illicit drugs as a primary cause for border breach. The Mexican Foreign Ministry issued a travel advisory for Mexican nationals visiting Arizona, warning, “It must be assumed that every Mexican citizen may be harassed and questioned without further cause at any time.” President Barack Obama had cautioned Governor Brewer against signing the bill, though acknowledges the bill arrived as a “misdirected expression of frustration” due to the lack of solutions at the federal level. The president is enlisting the federal judicial committee to review 1070, line by line, due to his concerns it has the “potential to be discriminatory.” One week after the bill was approved, additional modifications to the bill, HB 2162, were passed, addressing and correcting racial profiling aspects to 1070.

Those supporting the bill are generally proud of Arizona’s tough maverick stance on illegals, attempting to take control of a situation the federal government hasn’t.
Those against the bill say it’s unconstitutional, fascist, against civil rights of American citizens, who now may be targeted by patrol simply for being of Mexican heritage. It sends an unfriendly message to international companies and travelers.
“Show me your papers” sounds a bit Gestapo.

Governor Brewer insists the bill would only apply to people who commit suspicious and potentially illegal acts. Such as speeding, loitering… or perhaps just appearing the slightest bit like an illegal alien, the overwhelming majority of which in the US are from Mexico. Brewer’s F.AQ. info sheet assures if you’re an American citizen you don’t need to carry documentation (…unless maybe you’re a Mexican American? In which case, you’d probably better.)
Enforcement of 1070 falls squarely on the shoulders of Arizona police.
Police support of the bill is mixed, with statewide police officers generally pro, and the Arizona Association of Chiefs of Police generally against. They already have their hands full with daily local situations, in addition to attempting enforcement of immigration policies, technically an issue that falls under federal jurisdiction. President Obama expressed concerns that 1070 “would undermine the notions of fairness that we cherish as Americans, as well as the trust between police and our communities that is so crucial to keeping us safe.” How will 1070 be enforced? A DVD with complete step-by-step instructions will be sent to all Arizona Police departments prior to the bill taking effect in July.

“It’s what I’d call a Trojan Horse law. The government expands its powers in ways we’d normally see and agree are unconstitutional by wrapping said expansion in an emotionally charged set of circumstances.”- Phoenix Arizona man

Right wing fundamentalists will attack you personally if you disagree with them. They will question your education, your religion, your patriotism, make threats, and could very well show up at your front door with a shotgun. They title their jingoistic letters to the editor “Illegals Go Home!”or“America First” and bark in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS.
To hear them tell it, their family arrived here “legally” via the Mayflower, or Ellis Island, learned English immediately, worked steadily, paid their taxes promptly, and every one of them fought in our armed forces. None of them ever even so much as made an illegal U-turn, or ripped a “do not remove under penalty of law” tag off a pillow. To them, the Mexicans are a faceless flood of humanity streaming over the border unabated, not speaking English, not paying taxes, stealing our government services, living on the dole, and getting free health care. And unlike we Americans, the Mexicans are criminals! Gangsters, murderers, pimps, drug dealers, rapists! And if you don’t agree, then maybe you’re a commie pinko and you’re part of the problem, ya’ damn hippie bleeding heart liberal. The truth, like everything else in the United States, is a bit more complex. The Mexicans are like us in more ways than they are different.

“White people are so quick to forget their Italian, German, Polish and Irish ancestors also faced persecution when they came over here; many ‘illegally’ as well. How quickly we forget…or find some reason to justify this racism.” –Chicago man.

The left wing, on the other end of the spectrum, shout through the streets with signs and swastika t-shirts, demanding Arizona be boycotted as punishment for this affront to human rights. They demand the Lakers wear “Los Lakers” jerseys when playing “Los Suns”. The Arizona Boycott was actually initiated by one of our own politicians, Congressman Raul Grijalva of Arizona’s 7th Congressional District. Seattle now joins the ranks of several other West Coast cities officially “boycotting” Arizona, including San Diego, Los Angeles and San Francisco. Heavily Hispanic pro-baseball teams
have entertained thoughts of relocating their spring training camps from Arizona. Phoenix officials estimated a potential loss of $90 million dollars in canceled tourism and conferences. I’m basically a lefty, a Democratic fish swimming forever upstream in Republican stronghold. I’m accustomed to people disagreeing with my politics.
However, the “activists” and their boycotting are just as unreasonable as the fear mongering right wing. One must wonder how many of them have even read the bill, and how many have merely jumped on a bandwagon of negativity because it’s currently the cause currently in vogue. Boycotting Arizona is wrong, and it will hurt all the wrong people: the working class folks, the small businesses, the school and park systems.

Arizona has only been a state for 98 years. Prior to that, it was a territory. And before that, for much longer than it’s been any part of the USA, this land was property of Mexico, shared with the native tribes who’ve inhabited the land since time immemorial. The Chicano culture is the fabric that holds Arizona, a state full of snowbirds and transplants, together. This stirs much of the anger surrounding the new law. Mexican families with history here far longer than many of us more recent arrivals will now be potentially suspect.
“Clearly, and bluntly, the state law is racist and discriminatory against so-called ‘illegal immigrants’ crossing the borders from the South, namely from Mexico,” said Simon Ortiz, a Native American Studies Professor at Arizona State University, “Many of the border crossers are indigenous peoples who are directly affected. Without any doubt, the law is wrong headed; it targets people who fit a certain profile.”

Self-righteous supporters of SB 1070 conveniently neglect to mention that however “legally” they believe their ancestors arrived, they were still setting foot on land forcibly taken from Native American tribes. Perhaps Arizona’s Hopi, Navajo, Yavapai Apache, Havasupai, Pima, Maricopa, and Tohono O’Odham tribes should start asking us all for our paperwork.

“Bottom line is, we’re ALL illegal! We stole this country from the Native Americans! They should tell us all to get the f #!&* out!”- Jerome Arizona woman.

The Federal Immigration and Nationality Act, already in effect nationwide, states that any alien citizens present in the U.S. must present documentation upon request. American citizens are required by law to present drivers licenses and proof of insurance if stopped by highway patrol. Traveling through most European nations requires frequent presentation of identification, even within borders. In Texas borderlands, police strictly monitor roads, asking for documentation from all.

“Don’t even get me started. Here in El Paso, Border Patrol and police are pulling us over and checking our identification all the time… I think illegal immigrants are a slap in the face insult to people like my father who immigrated here legally.”- Texas woman.

People (from all countries) immigrate here illegally because we have a demand for cheap, below minimum wage labor. Many industrial and agricultural economies are carried on the backs of illegal laborers. This is 100% our fault. Despite rigid laws already in place in Arizona, sanctioning business owners with substantial fines for lacking proper documentation of their employees, illegal immigrants still find work easily. Most of the Mexicans I know, legal and illegal, are extremely wary of the government, being basically distrustful of their own, and tend not to go anywhere there’s paperwork. This includes any type of social services. According to Department of Homeland Security statistics, illegal immigrants are estimated to pay about $7 billion dollars per year into Social Security, a system from which they will never reap any benefit.

“US Immigration allows illegal immigration, in fact encourages it! The nation’s cheap industrial food production and processing depends on immigrant labor. Folks want cheap food, but they fail to link the fact that it requires cheap labor!”- Washington state woman.

Fact: It is not easy to become an American citizen. You cannot just show up and sign the guest book, like people joke. It’s grown a bit more complicated than it was when the Statue of Liberty waved folks into Ellis Island. Back then, you got photographed, examined, quarantined, perhaps given American-ish new names to better assimilate, and sent on to your way. In order to apply for citizenship in the 21st century one is generally required to have family already here, or marry into one. You need to have special work skills, and/or an education of value to our country, or be seeking political asylum.
After 5 years of “Resident Alien” status, one may apply for naturalized citizenship.
It is a lengthy process.

“Approximately 140,000 immigrant visas are available each fiscal year for aliens (and their spouses and children) who seek to immigrate based on their job skills. If you have the right combination of skills, education, and/or work experience and are otherwise eligible, you may be able to live permanently in the United States.”
- United States Citizenship and Immigration Services

100 years ago, when my maternal great grandparents arrived on the Cunard Line’s “Ultonia” from Serbia, all you had to do was pretty much show up. In 1910, as the Ultonia entered New York Harbor, my grandmother was born on board and became an instant citizen. My great-grandmother, Ana Komlenich, lived in Chicago for 75 years without ever learning more than a few words of English. She signed her name with an “x”. She laughed uncontrollably at The Three Stooges. Despite her lack of assimilation, my great grandmother was part of our nation’s story just as much as anyone.

A woman requesting to be known only as an “Anonymous Business Owner and Long-time Tax Payer in Arizona” shares her thoughts about SB 1070:

“I am against any frivolous law. It is already illegal to be here illegally. If you get stopped for a traffic violation and you don't have a valid US driver's license, it is already in the authority of the officer to request additional documentation…As a US citizen, if I was pulled over, could not produce a valid driver's license AND lied to the cop about my address, I am going to JAIL, regardless of my citizenship status,” Ms. Anonymous continues, “People on both sides of the argument (and let me tell you, I have had knock down drag out fights with people on both sides) have completely lost sight of what this law actually says. Most of the arguments I hear for, and some against, have absolutely no bearing on the actual content of this absurd law…

“I know ranchers along the border, and there is no way that this law is going to stop coyote and drug violence as they cross over. In fact, all this law is likely to do is catch a few illegal immigrants who have already been here for a while and are too dumb to A) not get a fake social security card, then valid driver's license and/or B) not get stopped for violating a traffic law--all this is likely to be LONG after they have crossed the border…

“Yes, immigration is a problem, but SB1070 isn't going to actually DO anything but piss off everyone. If Jan Brewer's only intention was to call national attention to a problem, then this was inarguably a tremendous success. Arizona is now the object of hatred the world over. Yippee!”

Obviously, an immigration reform needs to happen. For the safety and dignity of all people, both citizens of the US and citizens of the world. Checking documents will not keep out the drug cartels and the high dollar criminals who can afford the best paperwork and bribes money can buy (-just like banning guns will not prevent the criminal element from owning them.)

People don’t just cross the border in the dark of night. John McCain’s fence won’t keep them at bay. They cross on the highway in broad daylight. They arrive in cars, planes, boats, trains. They come as tourists and overstay their visas. And despite popular belief, they’re not all from Mexico.

“I don’t hear that they’re going after all of the illegal Irish immigrants working in New York bars.” – Brooklyn woman, currently residing in Scottsdale AZ.

Illegals pay thousands of dollars to unscrupulous middlemen to be stuffed into trunks, or packed tightly into the backs of vans. In Arizona, coyotes dump them off in the most dangerous stretches of lonesome desert, to battle the devastating heat of summer, and risk death by dehydration. Leaving trails of garbage, clothing, blankets, plastic, diapers throughout the desert, depending on the kindness of far flung ranchers to supply water.
It’s truly surprising that capitalist America hasn’t realized they’re missing out on a real goldmine here! A big money maker for our weakened budgets. Instead of paying coyotes for illegal passage and risking their lives to arrive in the U.S., immigrants could pay the U.S. government, to register into work program, complete with legal documents, and safe journey into the United States. Illegal immigrants already here could register for such a program as well, perhaps with references, background checks, employers and sponsors getting involved.

Hey smart people of beautiful Arizona!
Let’s entertain some better ideas on how to deal with this issue.
Instead of shouting over each other ALL IN CAPS, maybe instead we hash out the best of our ideas, stir them in a melting pot called America, and make something good out of all this.


Ellen Jo Roberts lives in an undisclosed location in Clarkdale Arizona.
She wrote a letter to Governor Jan Brewer. She’s not yet heard back.
www.ellenjo.com

Homes of Jerome- History on Every Corner

Bob Bradshaw photo

Homes of Jerome
May 2010
The Outs
Ellen Jo Roberts

When we lived in Jerome, people always asked us how we did it. Tourists would stop their rental cars in front of our house, as we sat on the porch eating our breakfast. They’d bellow: “Where do you buy your groceries?!” and take photos of us like we were monkeys at the zoo. It always gave us a chuckle. People want to know how you Jerome folk do it. It’s a bit more magical and inconvenient than most other towns. Everything is vertical there. The outrageous views, picturesque buildings, vintage style, and overall dreaminess are tempered by the crooked, crowded parking, nosy neighbors, narrow side streets and crumbling infrastructure. Jerome is simultaneously everyone’s fantasy and nightmare. It takes a hardy breed to inhabit it, and keep it alive.

The first Jerome Home Tour took place in 1966, making this May’s tour the 45th annual, and longest running tour in Arizona. Jerome in 1966 was still a ghost town, just newly being discovered by hippies, artists, and counter culture types who brought it back from the dead. In the past 45 years, Jerome has become something quite different: a bustling economic success, a major tourist draw full of fabulous art galleries, boutiques, adorable accommodations, and an amazing collection of premium restaurants and cafes — far more than you’d expect in a town with a population hovering right around 350 residents. On the weekend of May 15-16, you can see for yourself how Jerome folk thrive and survive with their antiquated plumbing, steeply angled streets, and awesome 75-mile view.

This year’s home tour will feature a great selection of both vintage and modern homes on the seldom seen side streets of Jerome, as well as commercial structures, like the Connor Hotel, the United Verde Apartments, and the recently restored Audrey Head Frame. The Christ Church of Jerome, built in 1927 and now home to the Jerome Historical Society, is also part of the tour’s itinerary. Tours will take place from 9AM to 3PM each day. Transportation will be provided to each location, but the tour, with many steps, and steep paths is not wheelchair accessible.

Cheifetz Cottage
Steve and Karen Cheifetz are Phoenicians who purchased their historic Jerome cottage 8 years ago. The simple structure was home to Jerome miner, Damian Gutierrez and his family. Señor Gutierrez corralled burros near the house, as a tourist lure for photo ops.
His talented son, Alfredo, was born in 1929. Legend has it, when Alfredo was a child, his incredible singing voice and dancing style earned him tips from miners each pay day when he performed on top of the bar at the Spirit Room. Young Alfredo would often return home with more money than his father's weekly salary. A Hollywood talent scout wanted to sign him up to become the next Mickey Rooney, but his strict parents forbade it. Alfredo's boisterous personality did not let up in later years.
As an adult he continued to perform music, and opened a restaurant where he would entertain guests in between cooking meals. His restaurant was in the location currently home to Cottonwood’s “Georgie’s.” Alfredo later shared the Gutierrez family home with his fashion designer wife, Ava Dering. Known popularly in the jet set as “Alfredo’s Wife,” she achieved some nationwide notoriety in the 1970s and ‘80s for her wild and colorful fashions.
How did the Cheifwetz family become part of the home’s history?
“It's a long story,” says Ms. Cheifetz, a native Ohioan who arrived in Phoenix in 1983. ”Steve introduced me to many different towns in Arizona years ago. When he decided to share Jerome with me, he said I would fall in love with it instantly. We had hopes of getting a place there someday. While sharing Jerome with our kids years later, we spotted a for sale sign. We called to check out houses and bought our home the next day!”

Attracted by “the beauty, the lifestyle and people, the music, the historical preservation and of course, the natural surroundings,” the Cheifetz family is now part of Jerome’s story. With extensive garden and stonework, the cottage boasts one of Jerome’s loveliest yards.
“Some would see the town’s commitment to preserving Jerome’s history and character as a challenge, but that is one of the things that drew us to town. The fact that new and long time residents feel a sense of honor and duty to keep out commercialism and contribute to the community is heartwarming,” says Ms. Cheifetz.


Ron Chilston photo

The Mills House
Perched high above town on “the Boardwalk” of Company Hill is a renovated Victorian, named for past mine supervisor, Carl Mills, who lived there with his family. Their son, Mark Mills, a Frank Lloyd Wright disciple and one of the foremost architects of his time, was born in the house. Originally built in 1898 for use by mine managers, this beautiful Victorian home was occupied by the Mills from approximately 1921 to 1950. They were likely its longest-term residents.

During the last half of the 20th century, the home suffered much neglect. By 2003, the roof was partially collapsed, and much of the house was filled with earth from the hillside above. The beautiful redwood facade was held in place only by vines of ivy. Many of the beautiful Victorian accents had vanished due to weather or vandals. Local resident and realtor, John Scarcella, renovated the home, utilizing the original interior floor plan, raising the roofline and adding dormers to create a full-size second story.

Tucson residents Deneill and Bill Phinney purchased the home in 2006. At the time, Mr. Phinney was preparing to retire from his career as a railroad engineer for the Union Pacific, and the couple began entertaining options for the next stage in their lives.
During the summer of ‘06, the couple headed off on an unstructured vacation, wandering north towards Utah. “At a stop in Phoenix, we picked up a brochure for the Verde Canyon Railroad and saw Jerome marked on the location map. My husband had never been to Jerome and the last time I had been was when I was in my early teens. I had fallen in love with the place then, so we decided to see what it was like now … We fell in love with the area, the town and the people … and then we fell in love with our house. We were walking around one day and saw the ‘for sale’ sign.” Fate struck.

Ms. Phinney continues, “One of my dreams has long been to live in a Victorian. I used to live in San Francisco and would walk around looking at the houses with all of their bright colors and charming gingerbread. While we were in the process of buying the house, we would periodically sneak up to sit on the front porch and look at the view. The front porch is probably our favorite part of the house, even now. Well, with the exception of in front of the fireplace, when it is snowing. And the garden when the lilacs and roses are in bloom. Oh, and the quiet corner of the bedroom upstairs which is set up for meditation and reading … I guess we just love everything about it! "



Ron Chilston photo

The Sullivan House is the oldest home on this year’s tour, dating from 1886.
It was also one of the earliest historic preservations, as part of the 1970s Restoration Commission’s project to conserve and restore the Victorian homes of Company Hill. The Restoration Commission was formed by a group of Jerome hippies who had a notion to save the old architectural gems of Jerome. Saved by the counterculture, just like much of this eccentric little city!
At the time, the structures were all owned by Phelps Dodge, and the mining company agreed to the hippies’ plan, charging each commission member $50 a month rent to caretake each home. Sherry MacMahon purchased the home in 1987, as part of “Society Hill Preservation, Inc.” and has lived there with her husband Curtis Linder ever since.
The home acquired its name from Con and Mary Sullivan, who inhabited it with their eight children. Con arrived from Ireland and served for a time as a head honcho of the mine. The large Sullivan clan spent many years in the Victorian gem and even today, later generations still return to visit the old homestead.
The one thousand-square foot house, in its current incarnation, boasts a new foundation, a new wood burning stove, roof, paint, wood flooring, cabinetry, bathrooms, railings, and plumbing. Ms. MacMahon, owner of Papillion Antiques, has filled the home with vintage treasures, and details that make it one of Jerome’s loveliest homes.

The Kinsella House.
Built in 2007, this 3000-square foot, three-story home features 675 square feet of deck space, and according to the owner, “One hell of a view!”
“This property had no building on it throughout Jerome’s history, which was good, since this whole area was demolished due to the slides of the 1930s,” wrote Jay Kinsella, a longtime Jerome local, all around “go to” guy, and perhaps the town’s next mayor, “During the 1930s subsidence (slide), every building was lost from the east side of Main Street to Juarez Street. All the buildings were pushed down the hillside between the Sliding Jail and what is now the end of Rich Street.”

In the late 1940s, a two-story foundation was built, but construction did not go any further. “Just a two story shell sat ‘til the late 70s,” Mr. Kinsella continues.
In the early 1980s, the second story was removed and pieces were used as retaining walls on the street side of the property. Jane Moore owned the property during the 80s, and used the foundation shell as a corral to keep her horses. Jay’s brother, Jim, owner of the house across the street, was next to purchase the land. In the late 80s, the concrete foundation remnants were used as a burn area by the Jerome Fire Department. Jim Kinsella passed away in 1999, and his family inherited the property. In 2007, Jay and his wife Pam began construction of the single-family home.

“It took 5 months 27 days to complete the house,” Mr. Kinsella says, “This was from the removal of the old foundation to the first meal in the kitchen.”

The Audrey Head Frame is the largest and oldest mining structure in Arizona. Tour takers may peer down the 1900-foot shaft. The bottom 200 feet is full of water!

The United Verde Apartments, an art deco set of three buildings overlooking the upper park and the road to Prescott, once housed offices and clinics, and now is home to a variety of hip and clever shops (including Puscifer and Jerome Tattoo) as well as restored apartments. The ceilings in each apartment are remarkably tall in a way modern apartments would never be.



The Connor Hotel.
A Jerome icon, a handsome building on a picturesque corner, the Connor is home to the popular Spirit Room, and an adorable collection of twelve well-kept historic rooms. The hotel was built in 1898 by an Irish American named David Connor, so it seems only fitting that a fiercely proud Irish American named David Conlin purchased the hotel with his business partner brother, Robert, in 1980. The hotel was in continuous operation from 1898 until 1988.

“In that year, the town closed it due to numerous code violations,” said general manager, Anne Conlin, “It had become sort of a flophouse. You know, get a room from the bartender for five dollars, or sometimes nothing at all!,” Ms. Conlin laughs, though acknowledges that even during those bleak days, the hotel still wore a proud mystique, with countless fond memories for many generations of locals and visitors. She exhibits the same fresh faced charm and twinkling grin as David Conlin, her father.

In 1999, the Conlins began renovations, and the hotel was reopened in 2000, complete with fire sprinklers, new fixtures, wiring and everything up to code. The hotel will have four rooms open on the north wing of the building for the Home Tour, “They’re really nice rooms. All fully renovated, yet they all retain their historic character,” states Ms. Conlin. The renovation contractor kept as much of the original wood work, doors, and other vintage fixtures as possible through the renovation.

This year’s Jerome Home Tour will also include a “living history” time line, events of the years ranging from 1860-1898 re-enacted in the streets throughout the day by actors in period costumes. Highlights include Civil War mock battles, complete with camps, uniforms and vintage weapons.

If you ever were curious about how Jerome people live, now is your chance to get up close and personal. It’s an interesting dichotomy. The folks on Cleopatra Hill are a hardy breed, determined, resolute, and tough as nails, but not lacking one bit of charm, beauty or magic. It’s no easy feat to live life perched on the side of this mountain, but it is worth all the extra effort for those who call Jerome home.

All proceeds from the Jerome Home Tour will benefit future projects of the Jerome Chamber of Commerce. Tickets are $12 for adults, and $6 for children 3-12. Kids 2 and under are free. For more information, contact Colleen at (928) 649-3837. Special thanks to Gallery 527’s Donna Chesler for sharing great information and details on this year’s tour. jeromechamber.com

Ellen Jo Roberts may let you tour her historic home some day, except she is afraid her attack Chihuahua will rip your face off. She lives in Clarkdale with Bike Daddy Chad, some pets, and Volkswagens. Read more about it at ellenjo.com

There's No Such Thing As The Perfect Couple

Drinking rum cocktails watching the sun set over Clarkdale Arizona on a perfect spring night, adorable pets, fantastic climate, newly planted flowers--we are keenly aware of what a great life we've got.

Friends are splitting up all around us, married couples biting the dust.

We've seen it before and all it does is make us hold each other more tightly.

One thing I've learned in the 14 + years we've been married is that there's no such thing as "The Perfect Couple"....because every couple I've thought to be perfect has ended up crashing and burning in tremendous flames.

The Perfect Couple is a figment, something concocted by Hollywood and Hallmark.

Chad and I are far from perfect, be we work at it. We disagree much of the time, and our methods of dealing with the outside world and the challenges of life are 180 degrees different.

Astrologically speaking we just clash on every level. Never a dull moment.

He is analytical, scientific, overly sensitive and easily wounded. He is shy at parties, and sometimes awkward with new friends. He is distrustful of human motives, thinking everyone is out to get each other, or more specifically, out to get him.

I am light hearted, usually never taking things personally. I always think the best of people. People have their own things going on, and probably aren't even thinking of me, much less actively trying to sabotage me.

He is slow moving, and thoughtful. When he says something it is usually because he's given it a great deal of thought, and it is very meaningful. He sometimes cries at children's dance recitals and during heart-tugging films.

I am rash, shoot my mouth off without thinking, and sometimes make foolish detours, or neglect to read directions.

He thinks with enough pre-planning and list making one should never have to encounter anything bad. Never. You can circumvent anything bad simply by doing as much advance research as possible.

I think that you can never plan for every variable that could possibly happen, therefore I minimize the planning and just go with it, riding the world as it rotates, taking it as it comes.

He doesn't get angry quickly, but when he does it's a slow boil that lasts all day.

I get mad quickly, but forget it just as quickly.

We are night and day, yin and yang. I see the world through rose colored glasses, and he is a bit more realistic. I like to think these differences are complementary--that we make each other more well-rounded and a stronger team in the long run. Chad has taught me valuable lessons- like, foremost, "Not everyone thinks like you do, Ellen". Everyone's mind works differently. I am not always right. I do not always know everything. Stop and read the directions. Enjoy the silence and the scenery. Being the wife of Chad has made me a better person. Though sometimes the reality of being so different from each other also amounts to a major pain in the keester.

Yet still here we are together, after 17 years, almost 15 of them hitched as husband and wife.

In the 15 years we've been in Arizona, just about every couple we've known has since split up. With the exception of older baby boomers born in the 1940s and '50s, currently celebrating their 25th, 30th, 40th wedding anniversaries.

We sit in the yard sipping our lime crushed rum, and wonder how it is we've survived this minefield, with our peers crashing and burning to the left and the right of us. Couples more alike, more beuatiful, more seemingly together and in love than we've ever seemed to be. Was it all just an act for the public? Behind closed doors was it something else entirely? If they couldn't make it, how they hell can we (the obviously imperfect) ever make it?

"Maybe our values are more old fashioned, like the previous generation?", offers Chad.

His parents celebrated their 40th anniversary this year. They were high school sweethearts, first loves.

My marriage model is far different.

My parents were married for less than 8 years when my dad died in a car crash. I was 5, and my brother, Jimmy, was 3. We were raised by a single mother, and it seemed perfectly normal to us because we didn't know anything different. I certainly never thought I'd be married at 23.

For my generation marriage was no kind of commodity. There certainly wasn't the same importance placed on it as say, 30 or 40 years earlier, when women went to college to get their "MRS." degree.

My view to marriage was mostly based on my bickering grandparents who spent 58 years together before Gramp died at age 78. Would they have ever gotten divorced? No. Never. Unheard of. They toughed it out, even when they drove each other bonkers. I'm not saying this is good or bad-- just the way their generation did things. I never saw them be outwardly affectionate with each other, but I knew they cared deeply about each other. Could they have been happier with other people? Possibly? Would they have lived longer if they'd gotten hooked up with someone else? I don't think so. When Grandpa died, Grandma fell apart. She lived less than 2 more years, then was gone too. That's what happens when couples have been married for almost their whole lives.




Why are people so quick to hang it up? This is what always confounds me.

I bet they've not had nearly the number of challenges Chad and I have had, yet they hang it up.
Do I put up with an unusual amount of stress and drama in being married to such a different person than myself? I don't think so. Marriage is a tough gig. Anyone who signs up for it oughta realize. You think it's 50/50, but truth is a lot of times it's one person giving 100% and the other giving far less. Sometimes we take turns.

A key to happiness that occured to me recently, while running along the river on a glorious new spring day. The kind of day where the sprouting leaves are freshly green, the herons and hawks fly overhead right on cue, and the world just seems impossibly awesome.

The key to happiness is that you've got to be able to make yourself happy. You cannot be reliant on someone else for your happiness. For one, you're bound to be disappointed. And two, it's just not fair to that person. The key to happiness is to be happy alone, doing your own thing, generating your own good cheer. If you can do that you will be happy, I promise you.

You'll also be a valuable asset to your loved ones-- such a self-contained source of happiness will provide delight for all, with all the extra you'll have to share.

If you rely on your spouse, your friends, your family, any other person, to supply you your happiness it will end up a big mess.

A car club pal of mine recently pointed out to me that Chad and I are the only married couple still married from the club's early days. I also should have pointed out to her that I also still have the same car for the past 12 years. I pick something I like, and stick with it. Even when is gives me grief. I stick with it.

Ellen Jo Roberts was born a Dahlberg in 1972. She became a Roberts in 1995

Read all about it at www.ellenjo.com

Local Character: The Bee Man of Clarkdale AZ

This story appeared in the Noise last Spring, though in revisiting with Locy this past weekend, and taking new photos, I thought it would be good to post his story online too...

Local Character:
Locy Rogers,
The Bee Man of Clarkdale AZ
The Outs
March 2009
By Ellen Jo Roberts

Locy Rogers just turned 80. He was born February 24th, 1929. This octogenarian has more energy and industriousness than many men half his age. A fixture in Clarkdale since 1960, Rogers is perhaps best known as “The Bee Man”. Everybody in the Verde Valley calls The Bee Man when they have a bee problem, such as a wayward hive in an inconvenient place. He will remove the bees and return them to his hives where he “works them” for honey, and will give them away or share them with other beekeepers.

“About three-fourths of ‘em, about half of ‘em, says ‘the police department, the fire department gave me your number,’” explains Rogers, with a twinkle in his eye as he starts to laugh and claps his hands together, “Oh-uh- I don’t want no trouble with the police!”

He lives in an 80 year-old house, on nearly an acre of ground near the Verde River in Lower Clarkdale, with a large irrigated plot for vegetables, abundant fruit trees, and a 30 year-old pecan tree that towers over the neighborhood. The pecan tree is a topic of jest for Rogers, who kids about it numerous time, how unusually large it is for its age, and how much the tree surgeons wanted to charge him to trim it back. He is full of quick smiles and sweeping gestures.

The Bee Man first started working with bees about 45 years ago, in an effort to help his son, “My oldest son had bad asthma, and they said honey would help. It helped some, pollen also, probably better than honey, but the pollen has to be from where you’re bothered. If your allergies are here, you need the pollen from here.”

Rogers was born and raised in Joseph City, AZ., along the old Route 66, between Winslow and Holbrook. At age 19 he left for Utah, working there a couple of years, prior to heading for Nevada where he worked in small independent mines. He soon moved to Mesa, Arizona, spending 4 years as a bus driver for the Gilbert School System. In June of 1959, Locy married his wife, Evelyn. By September of that same year the young couple had moved to the Verde Valley, for a job Rogers was offered here. They lived in Cottonwood for 6 months before finding a property in Clarkdale that appealed to them. In the late 1960s the Rogers moved to this current location, and together they raised 5 children, all of them attending local public schools. His children, and 11 grandchildren live in Arizona, California and Idaho. Quite a bountiful crop comes from this almost-acre. Locy Rogers proudly displays abundant family photos on the brightly-colored walls inside his house, telling me the names of all his children, and grandchildren. His wife passed on last year, at age 73.

He is very active in the LDS Church in Cottonwood. I am fascinated by the connection between his Mormon roots, and his rapport with the bees-- as bees and beehives are a traditional symbol of the cooperative and industrious nature of his religion. “Beehive is the Utah emblem,” he said, “but it can go on a lot of our stuff too”.

Since Rogers has lived in the Verde Valley for 50 years, I ask him what kind of changes he’s seen in our area. “Cottonwood was about that big when I moved here”, he says, gesturing, making a small circle with his hand, which he then expands, throwing his hands wide, “Pow! Clarkdale and everything else has grown, too.”
“What do you think about that Mountain Gate stuff up there?” I ask, referring to the ill-fated and over-ambitious subdivision in Upper Clarkdale. “Well it would be quite a lot bigger, if they hadn’t run out of money,” he laughs.

The Bee Man’s homestead is well kept, and tidy, yet not without its eccentricities. Folk art abounds-- quotes carved into concrete, a white plaster tiger in a cage, handmade stepping-stones, one for each grandchild, with their names made up of bits of tile and broken glass. Rogers has made much of this art, including a wooden sign above his front gate, welcoming visitors to “The Rogers’ Neighborhood”. His garden-themed work is featured in the yearly “Made in Clarkdale” art show each December. “You’re an artist, Locy,” I declare.
“I’m not a big expensive artist,” he responds, “Just a lil’ ol’ cheap one.”

I tell Rogers that I’ve admired his yard for years. I imagine it would be a fun place for a kid to grow up (since it always makes me wish I was a kid who lived there, running around that garden and playing on that vintage, sun-baked swing set, like some crazy 1930s dream). He continues to show me around the yard, “I had a little frame up there, I had 6 hives set on it for a number of years. And then I done this ‘n’ that and gradually got rid of the bees, and just catch ‘em and get ‘em going and then give ‘em or sell ‘em to somebody. That’s what I’ll do the rest of my life, is catch ‘em and get ‘em going. If you’re interested, and have a place to have ‘em, well, I’ll work out with you so you can go ahead and work with them.”

Beekeeping is not a hobby for the average homeowner--it’s not like maintaining dogs, or goats, or chickens. You can’t just buy a bag of bee food--they need to find their own food. You must just live in a good spot with close proximity to blooms. Arizona summers are sometimes a bit too dry for the bees to produce enough honey to survive the winter. According to Rogers, “They need seventy-five to one hundred pounds of honey in the fall, when it freezes, to survive the winter.” Bees do not go dormant or hibernate during the cold seasons, though they do move more slowly, and cluster up in a “basketball shape” for warmth. “When they run out of food they’re done, “explains Rogers, “Your pantry gets empty, you couldn’t go to the store, and your neighbors wouldn’t loan you a few bites of food—you’re gonna get hungry.”

I ask Rogers his thoughts on the current concerns about bees dying off-- the epidemic, virus or whatever it is that is killing them. “Well, I’m not sure just what it is, whether they know yet or not.
But, they talk like, summer before last, that the bees a lot of ‘em left and never come back. Why, I don’t know. Every so often, so many years, a cycle like this happens, so many years later the same thing happens again, and the same number of years again it happens. It’s a kind of sequence, why or what I don’t know. I had an article or two that talked about sixty to ninety percent of bees are leaving but not coming back.”
“What do you find here in the Verde Valley—do you notice that there is a drop off in bee population?” I ask.
“Not that bad, but because most of the times I’ve been catching bees –water meter boxes, hanging on the trees, hanging on the corner of something, under houses, and I catch them and bring them to the hives and get them going.”

Rogers says that if bees were to disappear completely, we’d be in big trouble. What would pollinate all of our fruits and vegetables? Then, further along the chain, with no crops, what would livestock eat? It would have a far-reaching and drastic impact. “If the bees are going down, and go out, ‘n’ we lose ‘em all… we got food to last us 4 years and then we’re out of food!”
“What do you think will happen, Locy?” I ask.
“I think they’ll come back in another few years”, he responds, “They’re blaming cell phones, global warming, and I think pesticides, is what I’ve heard. They’re blaming about three things, which one, or whether all three of them. Pesticides, people, you spray your yards, the pest control guy comes around your house, and different things and that’s the point for getting rid of some. And global warming, I can’t quite myself know why it would discourage them, or make it bad. But then your cell phones, as I understand it, if I’m not mistaken, the frequency, whether that is too much interfering with their system of life, I don’t know.”

Rogers predicts honey will become a commodity if the bee population continues to dwindle. “About 25 years ago I was selling honey for $8.00 a gallon. The last year or two years I’ve been selling it for $10.00 a quart.” Most of honey is made during the summer months. “If you have a rainy wet winter, and a big hive of bees, you need to be extracting honey every week to ten days, from the same hive. When they’re strong and really bringing in,” he says.

He currently has a small collection of active hives near a dry arroyo that runs alongside his property. When asked about Africanized bees, Rogers says that though he’s had some hives “go aggressive”, “killer bees” are generally much over-hyped by the media, “Most people are scared to death of bees. And then the news media the last three, few years have been every time you find a report on a bunch of bees, are ‘KILLER BEES!’ You’re not really maybe not scared of ‘em, but you don’t wanna’ be around ‘em much. And they start to talk about ‘killer bee’ or ‘Africanized bees’ and that makes you that much worse. I talked to a bee friend a couple of years ago, about them, and he said, ‘Locy, there’s no use of fighting the news media. They’re big, powerful, lotta’ money, they can do whatever they want.’ And I thought, eh, that’s about right.”

If you are unable to find someone to remove a crowd of bees from your property, Rogers recommends a novel, and non-toxic method: soapy water. “You get a bucket of water and dump it over your head,
and you’re almost completely wet, then you get them [the bees] clear wet and in 3 to 5 minutes, they’re all done. I’ve told people for the last 3 to 4 years, probably like you get a soft plastic bag over your head, and a rubber band around your neck, how long you gonna last? Okay, to me the soap would be sealing their breathing system, like the plastic bag would us, and when you run out of air, you’re gone. You don’t have to put this here poisonous spray, and stuff like exterminators do on’ em. But, a few of em that get aggressive. Anyways, in these water boxes I can’t get all of ‘em out of it into my box to bring home to put in hives to work ‘em. I just have to get soapy water and spray ‘em and close the lid and go home. I can’t save em all, but I saved most of em.”

The Bee Man drives a red truck, with an amusing and memorable logo designed by local sign-painter John Alvey—it’s a bee with a man’s head. When on a call to remove a hive, Rogers uses a veil to cover his head, but otherwise works with bare hands. I ask him if he gets stung ever. “Sometimes quite a few and other times not at all.”
Rogers shows me how he collects the bees with his bare hands, with gentle and slow movements. It’s not unlike how people might respond to your movements-- a gentle nudge is acceptable, whereas a harsh shove might be taken as a sign of aggression.
“You be gentle to me, I’ll be gentle to you, and we’ll get along,” he explains.

Locy Rogers is preparing his garden for springtime, sowing seeds and tending to the soil. He has onions and garlic already growing, with plans to sow squash, corn, and his famous 4 O’Clocks that will line the fence. He grows a hybrid version with multi-colored flowers. He estimates he’s shared thousands of his special 4 O’Clock seeds with folks over the years, “You’ve heard of Johnny Appleseed? Well, I’m like Locy 4 O’Clock-seeds!” Rogers is a real gem of a person -- cheery, straightforward, generous and full of life-- a genuine local character. Though his bee rescue dance-card is full most of the year, he asked me to publish his phone number for folks who need his assistance.
His card reads “Bee Happy!”
Thanks Locy!

To contact Locy, please call (928) 634-5937.

Ellen Jo Roberts is not allergic to or afraid of bees, though she is not too fond of wasps, hornets, or those damn “no-see-ums”. She lives in a historic brick bungalow in Clarkdale, with Bike Daddy Chad, several killer dogs and one noisy big-mouth cat. You can read all about it at Ellenjo.com