Is an odd duck.
In my 30’s I traveled a great deal, crossing
the country numerous times. Always alone or with my shepherd mix Jessethedog,
(to distinguish her from Jessie the girl or Jesse the boy, naturally) I drove
the back roads, farm roads and ranch roads of America looking for the unusual
and the absurd. Sometimes just looking.
To harken back to ducks for a moment, my first car, a red
Datsun B-210, had a line of duck decals on the bumper. I placed them there so I
could truthfully say that there was one place I had my ducks in a row. That car
also had an Anderson for president bumper sticker. But I digress-
One of my early trips involved a southerly route, for no
better reason than I wanted to visit Joshua Tree National Monument. A fine
reason in and of itself, I felt, and after admiring both the trees and my
favorite part, a series of signs at the entrance to the park- YOU ARE NOW ENTERING
JOSHUA TREE NATIONAL FOREST, then immediately afterward- JOSHUA TREE NATIONAL
FOREST, and literally five feet after that, a large sign with an arrow pointing
to the only type of vegetation visible for miles,
-> JOSHUA TREES.
Astoundingly enough, that was another digression. You see,
the more I type, in an odd duckish way (is duckish a word? And what is an odd
duck anyway?) the more I remember other things. But . . .
To get to the point, (Oh, please, Margo, get to the point!) after
getting my fill of the wondrous twisted alien creatures that are Joshua trees I
decided it only made sense to continue my southerly route by heading towards
and through Death Valley.
After all, it was winter, and I had a jug of water. I also had almost
bald tires and an odd clattering noise coming from somewhere in the chassis but
fortunately that was before cell phones. plus I’d been camping the last few
nights so hadn't heard a weather report and had no way of knowing this was a freakishly hot week with strong winds.
Don’t worry. I did not break down and die a horrible death
in the desert. That’s yet another story. Years later.
I was, however, engulfed in clouds of borax whipped from the
old mines by sirocco winds, thick dust that rapidly overtaxed my air conditioning
filter. A lucky twist of fate as without the need to wait out the blowing clouds it’s unlikely I’d have
ventured into the tiny town of Death Valley Junction.
Although once there, I couldn’t pass up the chance to visit the
Amargosa Opera House. If only because this
was a town far too small and quiet to have a movie theater, let alone an Opera
House. Basically pre-Internet, I had no
way to Google any information, so had to explore on my own, with my actual feet and my
actual eyes.
Thank heaven for
clouds of borax.
There was no performance at the opera house that day, but the lobby door was open. I could just glimpse the lavish, faded interior from a bygone era and the mural filled auditorium walls. It looked as if a bizarre, colorful audience had been painted in, patiently waiting for something to happen. I wished I could join them, and almost stayed around. But it was hot, and there was no place to camp. So the dog and I moved on, heading toward the bright lights of Vegas, or at least some place with a Ford dealership.
There was no performance at the opera house that day, but the lobby door was open. I could just glimpse the lavish, faded interior from a bygone era and the mural filled auditorium walls. It looked as if a bizarre, colorful audience had been painted in, patiently waiting for something to happen. I wished I could join them, and almost stayed around. But it was hot, and there was no place to camp. So the dog and I moved on, heading toward the bright lights of Vegas, or at least some place with a Ford dealership.
Several years later I happened upon a documentary about Marta Becket and realized what I'd seen, or almost seen.
I wrote a poem about the experience. I’ve
unearthed and present it here. I made some corrections, as it was an early and
not very good poem. (It’s still not a very good poem, but it’s better than the
original. Trust me.)
The Diva Of Death Valley Junction
You’re almost embarrassed
for her,
this pretend
prima in her own ghost town,
until with a
grand gesture
she unveils her
scrapbooks-
yellowed
programs, curling 8x10's
herself,so much younger,
nearly famous.
Not a star, but
if she’d stayed
in the City. . .
Look past her mask-like
makeup,
flesh out the
skeletal body
over which her
best costume’s draped, and
you almost feel
you should remember
her name.
So you keep
watching,
a part of you
dances with her
as the camera
follows her down
the hall.
Pirouetting
around a pile
of fallen
plaster,
exposed water
pipe for a barre,
she leads her
audience
into the ancient,
crumbling opera house
A Grand Entrance
onto her personal
stage.
Twice daily
she'll perform here
for passing
tourists or alone,
and you'll think
of her
each day at two
o'clock,
dancing for the bright murals
she has painted
on three walls.
Her vision of the
perfect audience:
nuns,
conquistadors, her ex-husband
as the King of
Spain.
The point of this whole story is that this memory was
triggered by a sad news story this week. Marta Becket, the Diva of Death
Valley Junction, died last month at the age of 92.
I wish I'd stayed around a day.
I wish I'd stayed around a day.
Find out more of the story at:
