Joshua Tree Dispatch
by Leah Nagely Robbins
PALM SPRINGS
Palm Springs is still a desert oasis for snowbirds. The dry sun-filled desert is also an oasis for a Gen X’er from the Pacific Northwest. Even here winter brings unexpected storms. From the ADA friendly terrace at our mid-century modern hotel, I looked out into the night sky toward Mt. San Jacinto. Is that San Jacinto itself, or is it a general mountain range? I told myself to consult a map in the morning. I was too busy watching the wind push 30ft tall palm trees side to side, the noise of the roads a fierce flutter.
I compare the wind here to the wind at home and our huge fir trees sway in windstorms, weighted down by rain or ice or snow. The fir branches break with a loud CRACK and I wait for seconds to hear whether they will land on our roof with a bang, a floof, or a thud.
I drove in the dark to a Trader Joe’s, my map app directing me to avoid non-existent traffic by cutting through side streets. Myriad stop signs and speed humps slowed me down, slow enough to witness, and avoid, palm tree fall bits and bobs. Big shredded tree bits that look like they peeled themselves away from the trees. Driving a rental sedan much closer to the ground than my Subaru at home, I wondered was it best to drive through, over, or around?
Returning to our hotel, I drive toward San Jacinto Mountain with its steep vertical face. The points of the palms and the buildings slung low to the ground jumble my sense of scale. I keep driving toward the mountain but it stays far away, while the city scape advances toward me. At night, on these roads, it feels like the map of the roads is pulling toward me but I stay in place, motionless.
I look into the dark desert sky, filled with so many bright stars static from where I stand, with windy bits and bobs flying around me. I posted a photo of the dark sky framed by rustling trees, reminiscent of the dark blue sky of a Yo La Tengo album cover.
THRIFTING
Our speed puzzling friend @puzzlingsusie commented, “Are you here now? Are you going to do some thrifting? I made a map for visitors to thrift out here.” The next day she brought us a translucent blue folder full of her marked up maps and corresponding numbered list with names, addresses, and most importantly her rating system.
Thrifting in a new place is like a window into the soul of a town. What do people cherish? What do they give away? Who is buying what? And who are these people anyway? I imagine these shops as a way station, an in-between from the home these objects came from and the home they’ll go to next.
Near the entrance of Revivals (4/5 stars) stood a large vintage telephone switchboard for $150. Did someone collect these? Or was it the reminder for them of life before technology accelerated? In the back of the same store a yellowing white baby grand, for less than $500, sat at the end of the furniture section next to bicycles and a barbecue. The yellowed patina made me picture it in the living room of a chain smoker, but I didn’t get close enough to sniff its residue to confirm.
People milled around the furniture sections testing out couches and chairs. If I were furnishing a home here, I would definitely have purchased the large format prints of a person wearing rainbow socks and bowling shoes, and the one of a giant zebra’s butt.
We searched for puzzles. Susie’s rating system pointed us to Revivals and Angel View shops where she noted likely inventory and great prices. Our luck found us at the Mizell Senior Center (3.5/5 stars) where we found a vintage Springbok and an Art and Fable puzzle each for less than $3—unheard of!
My daughter found great deals on yarn. She picked up grab bags of remainders to use during our trip for her granny square blanket project. And a cone of green and white yarn for a new market bag project. These fragments of someone else’s detritus came together for a new unforeseen purpose. I think this is what we hope for when we leave things behind, donated to a thrift shop. We want a new life for the things we can’t just throw away.
JOSHUA TREE
The wind followed us to Joshua Tree, powering the turbines along state route 62 through the Morongo Valley. It grew intense inside the Airbnb, the rectangular building with a pitched shed roof seemed solid. And here there are Joshua trees, more shrub than tree, in the grass family. Short and unlikely to cause any damage.
But the wind howled like a wild animal looking for ways to get in, a wannabe intruder. We gathered for the first night of our writing workshop, communed over food, writing, our backgrounds, our aspirations for the weekend. Our voices beat back the howling animals, our voices louder together than the wind.
Ariel encouraged us to consider doorways and portals and the tension between leaving home and the journey back. The real or imagined houses that come in dreams – are they real place memories, or do they morph in some way?
In my mind there are houses but not homes. I wrote about a dream I had while living in a house that many generations of the Skagen family lived. But this dream was a Nagely dream.
In my dream, I surprise Grandma Nagely, visiting her in Netarts. I opened her front door and see she’s set her table for lunchtime. Lunchtime meant a spread of sandwich fixins: sliced tomatoes, onions, leaves of lettuce, slices of cheese. The plate always included Mrs. Neusihin’s pickles. They were my favorite, with their dill crisp. They don’t make them like that anymore. A fermented pickle, no vinegar. I found the recipe online.
Mrs. Neusihin’s Pickles:
Makes 8 jars of pickles
In each jar:
8 cucumbers, approximately
2 cloves garlic
1 hot red pepper
1/4 teaspoon dry mustard
1/2 teaspoon pickling spice
2 teaspoons prepared horseradish
2 teaspoons dill
1 cup salt, non iodized
24 cups water
8 grape leaves
Fill jars with cucumbers, make sure to prick the blossom end with a toothpick first. Put everything but the salt and water in the jars in quantity shown. Boil the water and salt to make a brine. Make sure the salt is dissolved, then pour boiling hot over cucumbers and spices. Put a grape leaf in each jar and then put on lid, but do not seal tightly for 5 days. During each day, shake occasionally. Ready to eat in 4 to 6 weeks. Enjoy!
As I looked at the table again, I was confused. She didn’t know I was coming and yet she set the table for two. I realize she set the table for her and Grandpa. My heart broke a little, I wondered, did she set the table for him to join her at each meal? Was it habit? Loneliness? Grief? All the above?
The pain in my heart felt real in the dream. When I woke up I felt a little of what I thought she felt. A series of repeated reminders that they were both gone.
I came down the stairs the next morning with the dream fresh in my memory and in the cells of my body. “Gretchen! I had the most crazy dream, and Grandma was in it.” She looked at me with her eyes wide, “I had a dream with her in it last night too!”
WORLD FAMOUS CROCHET MUSEUM
In between writing sessions, we got out and explored. Within walking distance was the World Famous Crochet Museum. This cross between an automat and a tiny house is the home to hundreds of crocheted characters and their accoutrement.
Through the bright orange door we entered a quiet space — too quiet. Clearly, if any of these creatures were animated, they weren’t talking in front of us. Bert and Ernie were there, as was a crocheted s’more. A clown and an alien made strange bedfellows near the door. In a meta move, we found a crocheted miniature crochet museum, complete with signage, “open” and a window full of minute miniatures.
There’s nothing for sale at the Crochet Museum, and Shari, the museum’s caretaker, had no hand in the individual creations. They’ve all been donated anonymously by people (or mostly grandmas) near and far. It is world famous though. This anti capitalist museum is featured in an ad campaign for an international bank, and its image has been captured in airports all over the globe including Paris and Hong Kong. You can visit it in windy Southern California, across the street from the Joshua Tree Visitor’s Center.
Leah Nagely Robbins, engineer, musician, and mom, is the author of Pink House, Blue House: Tales of a Gen X Chameleon. Her writing has also appeared in Tangled Locks Journal and Open Secrets Magazine. She writes about love, grief, music, and connection at her substack, Civil Engineer Into Pavement
