Our Family's First Writer Moves On

Her mother and mine were sisters, and with their husbands and young children moved from their family moorings in Michigan and arrived adrift at either end of California during the aerospace boom of the early 60's. Family now meant vast solitude between infrequent, brief, hasty hellos.

She was the eldest of my 28 cousins, and once told me she hated the nickname Cappie. But the name stuck until many years later when she changed it to honor her grandfather, Charlie Valentine. She was, to my everlasting envy, tough, savvy, fun and fragile as a bubble. She was creatively secular, while I was, sigh, a struggling catholic. She read anything and everything like most people breathe. Our only adult visit came as a mistake. Her domestic life was, at the time, just as tumultuous as mine. But somehow we were able to squeeze in one of those infrequent, brief, hasty hellos. She pulled out stacks and stacks of manuscripts. Her passion was mystery writing. Why mysteries, I asked, thinking of the tediousity of Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Holmes. Life is one fucked up puzzle, she said laughing, so why not take a back seat and your characters can sort it out for you? Yeah, but writing is so...crummy a way to make a living and besides, I insisted, it always involves somebody somehow getting dished a lot of dead. And then with her characteristic older-cousin rank-pulling, It isn't the death dummy, it's the mystery I want, that's what matters, that's what I LOVE!!

I would say that Charlie's now enjoying a lot of a-ha moments right now. She slipped those surly bonds a few days ago. To the rest of us still here, it seems her departure was unfairly premature. Most of her early life's "manuscripts" were solved, more or less to satisfaction. She was ever the disciplined writer, it was the axis around which her life rotated. There's always something out there, she told me, that needs solving. Now Charlie will have lots of pain-free time to catch up with her namesake and investigate her own defining mystery in, as they say, hot pursuit.

Post-Winter, Pre-Spring Skybeams

> The Outback is amusing. Our first major snow storm arrived about the same time as winter. Our second, and maybe our last, snow storm, dropped by on the skid end of the season. Our ski resorts are happily humming with action. The snow pack looks robust again, in some places too robust and keeping the avalanche guns booming. What happened inbetween? Nothing. Just weeks of warm, shirt-sleeve weather that caused animal and vegetable to wonder if something broke. I asked the Closet Crafters, keepers of the Outback's oral lore and traditions, if this meant we were now part of that broken global system. Aw no, hon, it's just life on the arse side of the Sierras...Don't let this place fool yuh dear...perfectly normal can seem kinda weird at times.

> Meanwhile Bob the trusty Wonder Dog takes no chances. Here he is on duty as my watchful copilot. Broke, robust, or booming Bob treats it all like coyote snooping where it ought not be. Ever vigilant and inexhaustibly intent on doing the job right, Bob insists on the front seat whenever the Other Big Dog is away busy. That I might venture the teeniest trip to the grocery store makes no nevermind in the summer to Bob. But once that cold white icy stuff arrives--the "snow" coyote--I do not drive alone.

> The "other" ruby. Had to put this picture in. I have no way of guessing the value of all these rubies. Each one is about 30-40cm long and 20-25 cm wide, and perhaps upwards to 45 carats each. These are are the Tanzanian rubies. My favorite. Value has no meaning here, nor what the number on the gem scale says. It is rather the profound beauty of Earth's treasure I find so eternally enthralling. Add some facets and a broad visible spectrum and that treasure emits a symphony of photonic music!! Each ruby's "music" is unique, taking in only the light it needs to sing its own particular song!

The Difference Between a Rock and a Stone

What you see to your left is a picture of what I see on my daily hikes. These are rocks. And as most would agree, rocks are rocks the world 'round. They aren't especially attractive, the loose ones clutter up trails, and I often wonder that a rock's purpose in life must be to hold down the dirt. My hikes in the Pine Nut Mountains do offer slight entertainment in rockish variation, from shiny red to rusty speckles to sleekly black and all, amazingly enough, from the same planet. I mention all this because I went to the Tucson Gem Shows last month. This is my 12th year in attendance and I am still spellbound by the planetary and interplanetary riches at these shows. The volume and dazzle continues to keep me utterly breathless even though the old timers assure me that most of the "really good stuff" is now gone, mined out. I arrived this year, as in previous years, wondering why these shows don't sell rocks. They sell stones instead. I suppose there's a difference?


On your left is a stone worth $18,000. It is found in only one place on the planet, in the foothills of Mt. Kilimanjaro, and starts out as a rock best described as ugly. After a bit of "natural treatment" (ie, a 500F bake), the rocks are shipped from one specific port in East Africa to Thailand, India, or China to be sorted, graded, and "cut." This is tanzanite. It is a controversial rock. Not only is the supply tightly controlled but, according to the Wall Street Journal, those who control that supply are linked to certain terrorist cells who enjoy substantial financial profit from its sale. Nearly all tanzanite merchants I've spoken to about this alleged "link" have vehemently denied the Journal's carefully documented "opinion." I should mention that those same merchants assure me their tanzanite is not heat treated, which is, of course impossible. ALL tanzanite must be heat treated. In any case, this rock is called a stone because it's color is absolutely hypnotic and thus highly desirable, it's price is...well, pricey, and each stone is part of a much larger, mostly uncertain, story.


This particular merchant showed me an excellent supply of stones for me to "consider." You see there on the left, one of his many trays. Needless to say, I was bedazzled. Conservatively speaking, the value of that one tray might be "in the neighborhood of the high eights or low nines," he said, "of course, it depends on your clients' desires." We are speaking in hundreds of thousands of dollars--wholesale. "I see," breathless with deep appreciation. I wondered how he could part with such "beautiful children." He laughed and relaxed a bit, from his salesman's eager hover to that of a poet about to reflect on years devoted to his true love. "Ah, yes, well it is hard, but some here are just cousins and far easier to send away."


Integral to discerning a rock from a stone is the calculator. Here a Chinese merchant who owns an Australian mine of gem quality chrysoprase "rough" is showing my jeweler friend, Leslie, his price for 120 grams. It was truly spectacular material, of exquisitely homogenous color, and so the asking price was shown, not spoken. Evidently a rock's value can be spoken while that of a stone can not, or, in the case of the tanzanite merchant, politely debated. Rough gem material like this--turqouise and jade are others--can be confusing. One might approach it as a rock (as Leslie and I did here) but the merchant regards it with the tender reverence reserved for stone. The reverse, sigh, is also true.


This is a star ruby from Burma. Burmese rubies are very expensive, highly coveted, and regarded as the ruby's ruby. Burma isn't the only country producing rubies. Vietnam, Sri Lanka, Tanzania, among others, do too. I personally prefer Tanzanian rubies for the depth and saturation of color. But a worldwide embargo forbids the sale of Burmese rubies as the mines are controlled by the Myanmar Junta. Sale of burmese rubies directly supports the oppression of the Burmese people. The United States enforced this embargo until 3 days before George W. Bush left office. Bush signed a waiver that allows these rubies to be sold in the U.S. for reasons of "national security." Such a "george" thing to do. Anyhow, this gorgeous piece weighed about a pound, was a challenge to wear, and could be hazardous to innocent bystanders if it happened to slip off the hand in the middle of a gesture, and so I asked the merchant to wear it for me. This describes a rock to me, not a stone.


Lastly, the diamond. Here is 28 carats of a "fancy" canary yellow diamond encircled by 4 carats total of flawless white diamonds. The price was the same as the Burmese star ruby: "If you have to ask..." The picture here does not, as they say, do it justice. This stone was, by turns, flashing with fire and brilliance and color paralyzing me with fascination. That's my hand, by the way, and one of 20-some pictures I asked the merchant to take because I was...uh, busy being fascinated. I told the merchant I couldn't buy the ring because I would spend too much time watching it! I'd get nothing done, nothing written, nothing accomplished. My life would dissolve away into the black abyss of....well, you get the idea. This is where stone and rock become the same. Nothing in our planetary system outcuts or outlasts the strength and durability of a diamond. Even my speckled, trail-littering granitic rocks take a back seat to THIS stone borne from the guts of a volcanic eruption.

So...the difference between a rock and a stone? This is what I know, so far: A stone has something either undefinable or extraordinary about it, while a rock is never described by a calculator. This, of course, is not yet the definitive answer. For that, I think I'll need another trip to Tuscon for the 2010 shows.