The Turquoise Ledge: A Memoir

by Leslie Marmon Silko

  The huge toad that guards the front doorstep came out from her nest under the porch bricks, and sat awhile with us too. I like to think it is the same big toad I rescued from the cave-in of bricks under the front porch last year.

  CHAPTER 52

  At night before I fall asleep I read as many Emily Dickinson poems as I can. Her poems are full of surprises—their rhyme schemes unpredictable and brilliant as are her uses of the colloquial with the classic. The themes of the poems cover a vast range and are filled with ineffable and mysterious glimpses of transcendence and eternity. How sensuous and joyous this poem is:

  A Route of Evanescence

  With a Revolving Wheel—

  A Resonance of Emerald—

  A Rush of Cochineal—

  And every Blossom on the Bush

  Adjusts its tumbled Head—

  The mail from Tunis, probably,

  An easy Morning’s Ride—

  Emily Dickinson was famously reclusive, but how else to get the solitude and time to compose more than a thousand poems in one lifetime? She wrote many of her finest poems about bees or flies; her images of the sun and the light, of flowers and birds came to her in her garden. She wrote a wonderful poem about snakes that goes:

  A narrow Fellow in the Grass

  Occasionally rides—

  You may have met Him—did you not

  His notice sudden is—

  The Grass divides as with a Comb—

  A spotted shaft is seen—

  And then it closes at your feet And opens further on—

  He likes a Boggy Acre

  A floor too cool for Corn—

  Yet when a boy, and Barefoot—

  I more than once, at Noon

  Have passed, I thought, a Whip lash

  Unbraiding in the Sun

  When stooping to secure it

  It wrinkled, and was gone—

  Several of Nature’s People

  I know, and they know me—

  I feel for them a transport

  Of cordiality—

  But never met this Fellow

  Attended, or alone

  Without a tighter breathing

  And Zero at the Bone—

  Great thick whorled clouds fold over themselves bubbling up rising like silvery yucca soap suds. Veils of white rain soften and smear into pastel blues of towering sky dragons and cloud bears fishing in a fast river of wind.

  Giant vertical clouds behind the Black Mountain take on the form of revenant warriors descending to Earth in swirling fog and mist. In the distance a faint rumble of thunder from the southwest, and the huge cloud flattens as it empties a deluge behind the mountains.

  As the raindrops begin to fall from the cloud overhead the outline of the cloud begins to lose its edges, feathering into thin air. What lovely blue violet hues on the clouds along the west horizon.

  This morning was too dry for rain, and the mist from the clouds evaporated before it reached the ground; it rose and once again became clouds.

  CHAPTER 53

  Yesterday, September 6, the dogs in back were barking, so I went out. I found a Gila monster lizard outside the fence, and outside the reach of the mastiffs. Beaded in jet black and coral, the big lizard was breathtaking in his beauty and a blessing to see.

  The next day, Chapulin’s in-laws and their relatives were all here for a visit in my front yard. Lord Chapulin and his wife must have told them I am a friend.

  The grasshoppers prefer the white rain flowers over the pink flowers this summer. The foliage is what they like. They work unseen from the bottom of the stalks in the pot so the rain lily leaves get shorter quite rapidly.

  Black—obsidian black, coal black—Chapulin wants another portrait this year. As soon as I complete the manuscript, I will do it.

  Lord Chapulin’s kinfolk stayed for another day. They didn’t touch the four o’clock or jessamine; I don’t trust them with the datura. I lifted off any grasshoppers I saw in the daturas; otherwise I won’t have any datura flowers this winter. I am a little concerned by the number of Chapulin’s entourage.

  A pale green rain comes with a warm breeze out of the southeast. I hear thunder now, and more raindrops fall. Delicate threads of rain swirl into thick white draperies that fold across the dark hills.

  Two thunderstorms this afternoon and evening—thunder and lightning and good but not huge rain. I brought the dogs indoors early tonight because the tarantulas and big toads come out after the rain, and of course rattlesnakes and Gila monster lizards. The dogs can’t resist harassing them, and I don’t want my dogs to harm them.

  We haven’t seen Godzilla lizard for about two weeks. There are baby lizards in the front yard now, and on the south-facing wall, a baby lizard no longer than my thumbnail. All the good rain we got nearly every afternoon in July and August may mean plenty of roaches and other insects off in the aloe patch or under the greasewood bushes. No need to show oneself to the predators in the front yard if the weeds are full of bugs. However we are beginning to worry that the largest and boldest of the mesquite lizards met an unfortunate end.

  Again the following day as we sat out on the front porch, we wondered about the Godzilla lizard and what became of him. Just then I noticed motion in the top of the big mesquite tree and heard the characteristic rapid beak rattle of a roadrunner. Speak of a likely suspect in Godzilla’s disappearance—there was Roadrunner, that cuckoo bird, clown and thief, death on snakes, lizards, baby tortoises, baby birds and rodents. Our suspicions grew after Roadrunner’s visit.

  A clan of roadrunners was already living here when I moved in. They built one of their nests inside the impenetrable arms of a six foot tall cholla cactus with spines so thick and sharp few predators ever try to rob their nests.

  All the rain this summer brought many sorts of insects. There are a great many very large butterflies this year—mostly shades of gold and bright yellows because the wild flowers late in the summer are mostly hues of yellow or white.

  I welcomed Lord Chapulin and his wife last year and invited their return. But the grasshoppers’ visit this year gave me quite a surprise.

  Chapulin’s entourage glutted themselves on the leaves of the white rain lilies and moved into the pink lilies and to the four o’clocks which they don’t eat but use for their siestas. The grasshoppers are so gorged they can’t fly.

  These grasshoppers are sneaky and crafty and quickly take cover when humans come around. Lord Chapulin and his wife were entirely different—so gracious and regal at all times. What a disappointment.

  Today the grasshoppers in their wild celebration ate the white rain lilies flat to the dirt in the pot; luckily the lilies don’t mind as long as there is plenty of water. I picked the revelers off the white four o’clock plant and the geraniums although they didn’t really eat those plants, they merely rested on them.

  I didn’t take any chances after I’d seen what the black grasshoppers did to the rain lilies so I tossed the hoppers over the fence. I didn’t realize one of the mastiffs was on the other side of the fence catching and eating the grasshoppers until that evening when the mastiff threw up a pile of black grasshopper legs and red wings all over the doggy bed.

  Early the other morning after a night of an apparent grasshopper fiesta, I saw one big grasshopper eat the thorax of a fallen companion.

  I remember that when I first read the web site reports about the black grasshoppers I thought they must be referring to “black grasshoppers” and not my beautiful green Chapulin with rosy magenta wings.

  But now that I’ve had the entourage here for a few weeks, I am beginning to understand. The black grasshoppers, unlike their Lord, are furtive, sly guests. I had no idea Chapulin would have so many followers this year. Still I haven’t killed any of the grasshoppers out of regard for Lord Chapulin.

  Were the stories about black grasshoppers that I read on the Internet the reason for Lord Chapulin and his wife’s sudden departure, and for the other grasshoppers to behave so boorish
ly? They hadn’t done me any harm in the past—because of their majesty and beauty I invited them to eat the rain lilies. But after I’d read the infestation reports on the Internet, each time I saw a black grasshopper I recalled the stories of havoc, instead of seeing their majesty and beauty as I had at first. The negative energy of these stories must have touched Lord Chapulin, and his wife; they must have felt a change in me when I recalled what I’d learned on the Internet. So they did not visit for long. They did not feel I was their friend anymore.

  CHAPTER 54

  About two weeks ago in one of the rainstorms a big saguaro fell, and shattered into five or six large pieces about ten feet from the odd knob of basalt above the Gila Monster Mine. The big segments of the cactus blocked the trail so that horses had to detour around them. Within a few days the heat began to ferment the cactus, which gave off a strong wine odor.

  The saguaro was part of a small grove of the same size—sister plants ten feet tall with many long branching arms which marked their age at one hundred fifty years or more. I took a close look at the rocky ledge where the fallen cactus once stood but could see no apparent cause for its demise. Its companions in the grove appeared untouched by the wind and other forces that had taken down their sister.

  Years ago during an evening thunderstorm a saguaro fell across the road, and a friend who’d just left our house returned to get help to move the big saguaro so his car could get by. The toppled saguaro had broken into five or six sections in its fall. Most of the sections were at least two feet in diameter, and weighed hundreds of pounds each because saguaros store water in their tissue and weigh more than a ton. Many cacti are able to regenerate from severed branches or pads, but not the saguaro.

  I went to help roll the sections of broken saguaro out of the middle of the road. After the rain the evening air was cool so I was surprised, even shocked at the body heat that radiated from the broken pieces of the giant cactus, just as the body of any dead thing remains warm for a while.

  By daylight, the saguaros are spectacular enough with their towering strange presence. But the first time my younger son saw them he was six years old and it was dark. He saw them in the car headlights and he asked me why there were so many telephone poles here.

  After dark, especially in the moonlight, the saguaros come to life. You can feel a subtle energy as from the gathering of a large clan. They move gracefully, and sway in the wind.

  The fallen saguaro becomes a home and resource to a great many beings—insects, rodents and birds that help devour the moist fermented cactus pulp, and later take up residence in the wooden ribs of its skeleton. Over the years the skeleton turns to a grayish white dust that leaves a white outline or “shadow” of the cactus on the ground where it fell.

  The saguaros are mighty beings who are linked to life and death for all living creatures in this desert. From the saguaro fruit the Tohono O’Odom brewed the sacred wine that put them in the presence of their beloved ancestors during the summer ceremonies to welcome the rain clouds back again.

  In the big arroyo near the rusted steel culvert half buried in sand, I glanced to my left and there was a turquoise rock on the ridge of freshly washed sand and pebbles. I found another smaller turquoise rock near the place of the sound of air rushing out.

  One of Godzilla’s heirs, a tiny mesquite lizard about an inch and a half long, was out under the mesquite tree eating tiny golden cockroaches after I moved my rain lily pots to try to discourage the grasshoppers.

  If Godzilla lizard were still alive he’d never allow the baby lizard to eat any roaches. Now the territory under the tree and the aloe patch belongs to the two or three baby lizards that recently appeared. They are so tiny they are nearly impossible for a predator at some distance to see.

  Godzilla the mesquite lizard reached a critical size—once he got so big and able to chase off rivals and to eat even more cockroaches and grow even larger, he became much too visible. On the ground or the wall or a branch of the mesquite tree, Godzilla became an easy target for roadrunners and racer snakes.

  My most vivid memory of the Godzilla lizard is the morning I was watering, and moved a pot of red geraniums on the porch. Out came the most beautiful golden scorpion the size of my thumb. The sunlight made her glitter like solid gold and on her back, perfectly formed and curled in perfect rows, were dozens of golden translucent babies too young to leave their mother.

  How beautiful they were in the sunlight, I thought, and an instant later Godzilla lizard raced up, fearless of me, and in two gulps ate the mother scorpion and the babies on her back, just like that. So we eat and then one day some hungry creature eats us.

  Last night the local TV news reported that baby rattlesnakes are being born now, and the mothers protecting the babies “seem more aggressive” than usual. Despised and maligned since the Europeans invaded, rattlesnakes were thought to abandon their babies at birth. Two or three years ago researchers found that mother rattlesnakes remain close by to protect their newborn babies for at least ten days.

  The eradication of ignorance about rattlesnakes moves slowly in Tucson. People here still believe that “relocating” a rattlesnake found in their yard does no harm to the rattlesnake. The fire department dumps the snakes out in the middle of nowhere in the heat of the day with no shade or shelter from the burning sun, in unfamiliar territory. Most of the relocated snakes will die.

  My neighbors dump “relocated” rattlesnakes in the big arroyo below my house because they’ve heard I am a friend of snakes. I keep the area around the old corrals hospitable with a water trough and places for snakes to hide and to find rodents, but it is difficult to say if any of the snakes that were relocated here survived. The resident rattlesnakes stake out their territory and don’t easily accept refugees because the overpopulation of an area will bring starvation for everyone. Then the relocated snakes have to deal with the roadrunners that live here, and with the great horned owls that kill and eat whatever they please. The odds for survival even at my place aren’t good.

  Last year Lyon and Snapper together managed to smash and tear to pieces a huge rattlesnake that lived under the dog house. The two mastiffs worked together, and while both were bitten, they had little swelling or pain. Lyon was emboldened by their success and became very aggressive with snakes. I found myself on alert and whenever I heard the mastiffs barking out back, I’d run out to make sure they were not killing a rattlesnake or other reptile.

  Last Thursday evening I went for a swim. While I was away, Lyon tried to smash a big rattlesnake that had come into the dog yard. Maybe Snapper had learned her lesson last year because this time she apparently didn’t participate in the attack. Last year she had helped divert the snake’s attention, so Lyon could kill it without danger to himself. But this time he met the snake alone; most likely Lyon had brought down his huge right front paw to smash the big snake’s head, but the snake had struck first. Ordinarily a snakebite into muscle is far more dangerous to a dog than a bite to the dog’s head or neck. Luckily Lyon had developed enough immunity from previous bites to the skin on his head and neck that a bite into the muscle wasn’t life-threatening.

  But Lyon’s front paw swelled up as big as a catcher’s mitt. I gave him antihistamines and pain pills prescribed by Dr. Christo the veterinarian. By the following morning the swelling had gone down and he seemed fine. I was curious to see whether the dog had managed to kill the snake that bit him, so I searched the dog yard but found nothing.

  By Saturday night Lyon had developed a secondary infection in his right paw and leg, and by Sunday morning, the veterinarian had to come to the house.

  The site of the fang holes sloughed off necrotic tissue, and I wondered if Lyon was going to have further damage to his leg. Humans who get snakebitten on their limbs often suffer permanent withering of the muscle and nerve tissue; but they would not have previously built up as much resistance to the snake venom as Lyon has. The vet left antibiotics and antioxidant vitamins, and I let Lyon sleep on the floo
r in the bedroom because sleeping near their master helps mastiffs to heal. Monday morning the swelling had decreased dramatically, and Lyon wanted to return to the dog yard with the other three mastiffs who know enough to leave snakes alone. Will he stop attacking rattlesnakes? Time will tell.

  Lyon is the smartest most beautiful dog I’ve ever lived with. He is black, silver and apricot brindle. He came from a renowned breeder and a great lineage created by Mrs. Greco, after World War Two when the English mastiff and other mastiff breeds were in danger of extinction in Europe due to the war.

  So few old English mastiffs remained there was danger of degeneration from inbreeding unless a radical step was taken. The old English mastiff registry in England gave Mrs. Greco a one-time permit to breed a German mastiff to one of her English mastiffs, and the off spring were registered as old English mastiffs. This step gave the Greco dogs enough genetic diversity to be intelligent, gentle, free of hip or other problems and they are very beautiful—especially the brindles.

  My English mastiffs learn human routines quickly; they dislike interruptions of these patterns. Once a house-sitter took Lyon with him while he fed the horses. The house-sitter forgot to turn off the faucet at the water trough. As he began to walk back up the hill to the house, Lyon stood next to the water faucet and barked until the house-sitter came back and shut off the water. Lyon knew the routine of feeding and watering the horses because he accompanied the humans, and he knew the last thing he and the humans always did was walk over to the water faucet to turn it off before they went up the hill.

  Lyon has a strange routine with the long dry fronds of the potted pony tail palm by the clothesline. He slowly walks under the fronds so that they drag over the entire length of his head, back and tail, lightly touching, tickling him. He slips into a trance of quiet ecstasy, and continues to move back and forth under the dry palm fronds for minutes on end. Once or twice he’s caught me spying on him but he maintains his dignity as he continues to let the dry fronds flutter down his spine.