A strange day. The weather had turned from blazing hot, clear sunshine to a gloomy, overcast atmosphere. I was glad that it was cooler than expected because I had come out to old Sonoita to collect the red clay that I love to sculpt with, but it wasn't easy. First I found the site fenced off from the road with very firmly stretched barbed wire. It's a State Land fence to keep cattle off the road, so supposedly we are still allowed to get clay there, but it sure looks very reinforced right where the vein of red soil surfaces. I had to cover the sharp rocks underneath it with a towel to be able to roll under it. I thought it had been raining in that area, but the soil was like rock, and digging it was hard work. I needed to get some of this well-tested clay because I'm planning to enter a few primitive wild-clay sculptures to the jurying of a local ceramic group. I also planned to bring some to a lady in our pottery group who promised to chip in for gas. So I got my buckets filled up, and then rolled under the fence again.
As I was close to Marsh Station Rd, with an old clay mine and traditional source for brown clay that both Andy and DC at Romero House mentioned to me I decided to take a look. Of course not in this preserve, but I took pics of the colorful sign because by then there seemed to be no color left in nature - like something was sucking it up. I was really beginning to feel somewhat depressed by then so even the grafity on the old, interesting bridge seemed to provide some relieve.
The clay out there went with the theme: though it supposedly fires brown, on the ground it's a ghostly pale gray. I collected some without testing its quality by adding some water, a sign how dispirited I was by then. Maybe it's going to surprise me.
Back in Tucson I found the lady's home way on the SE side - diagonally across town from my own. Her contribution indicated that she'd missed out on the latest gas price development. Oh well, gas prices are falling again I hope.
Having to cross town anyway, a short stop at the Romero House to pick up a recently fired little sculpture seemed a more cheerful idea. Except across Mainstreet an endless snake of double stocked containers snaked east on the train tracks. Then 2 engines, and still no end of the container line in sight. I'm patient, having grown up close to the Paris-Moscow line through Dortmund, Germany. But this train stopped. And stood. One after the other, the cars in front of me began to angle out of line to turn. I think I too could have tried to find my way to Stone Ave which has an underpass, but by now I did not trust my luck anymore: Romero House was always open when I visited, but probably not on this very strange 4th of July.
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