During the 1970s my close childhood friend, John Flin, and I became something of an amateur treasure hunting team. We found coins, World War II relics — including plenty of old bullets and cartridges on a disused Royal Air Force base — and occasionally excavated the muck of the River Thames at low tide. Since city dwellers have been throwing, dumping, and accidentally dropping things into Londinuium’s murky waters since before Roman times, the slimy residue exposed when the tide flows out is rich with the discarded relics of multiple centuries.

Metal detectors operate on a fairly simple principle: A control box generates an electromagnetic pulse that is transmitted into the ground through a typically hoop-shaped coil. When that pulse encounters buried metal, the detector registers a disruption in the field and alerts the user via an audio signature, or a visual display, or both. In the old days, that was it. You heard a sound and dug up a target. Modern detectors are a whole lot more sophisticated and can often tell you what type of metal lies beneath your feet (iron, aluminum, or precious metals, for example). Some will even speculate what, precisely, your target could be (a dime, a ring pull from a soda or beer can, foil, etc.) and how deeply it might be buried.

The author in Chile’s Atacama Desert, with one of his favorite metal detectors, while filming Season Two of “Meteorite Men” the TV series

The vast majority of detectors are hand-held units that weigh a few pounds, but some are larger and far more complex. Viewers who have watched my television series Meteorite Men on the Science channel may have seen us employing gigantic metal detectors that are towed behind a truck or ATV. Recent developments in pulse induction (PI) technology have enabled designers to build larger and larger coils, such as those used on the show. An oversize coil will cover more ground on each pass, and will also “see” further into the ground, giving detectorists the ability to recover targets from greater depths than ever before. Since the strength of an electomagnetic pulse decays quickly over distance, the larger the coil, the greater its range. While filming Season Three of Meteorite Men in the forests of western Poland, we found a 75-pound iron meteorite six feet underground. Such a concept would have sounded like science fiction to me as a kid, when the range of an average detector was likely not more that a foot.

As my interest in, and experience with, meteorites and their recovery increased, so did my familiarity with metal detectors. I have used scores of detectors over the past few decades, and worked with equipment from all the leading manufacturers, of which there are quite a number. I have a long-standing professional relationship with Fisher Labs in El Paso, Texas and we used their excellent detectors (notably the F-75) in all three seasons of Meteorite Men. We were even invited to field test prototypes of new models on the show, and that was a great treat for a gearhead like myself. Fisher detectors (and the products of their sister company, Teknetics) are lightweight, highly sensitive, reliable, easy to use, and affordable. As such, they are a popular choice for many experienced detectorists and I have found meteorites on four continents using them.

Every search presents its own challenges and it is important to select the right equipment for the job. One of the most highly respected companies in the metal detector world is Minelab, and their sophisticated and advanced detectors are favored by many of the world’s most experienced relic hunters and gold prospectors. Minelab users have an extraordinary loyalty to the company and it is easy to see why. I am the proud owner of a GPX 5000 and it is easily one of the best pieces of equipment I’ve ever used. Minelab’s higher end detectors are probably second to none in their class, in terms of range and versatility, and the care with which they are manufactured is reflected in the price tag — but you get what you pay for. I’ve heard stories from the most reliable sources about experienced gold hunters returning to sites long considered to be “played out,” only to recover a small fortune in nuggets, due to the increased depth range of the newest Minelab. You might spend thousands of dollars on a Minelab, but you also might make all of that back in one day, and then some. As my co-host of Meteorite Men, Steve Arnold, once remarked: “You can have a really good year, in an afternoon, if you get lucky.”

An assortment of manmade metallic trash excavated during a recent meteorite hunt

The growing popularity of metal detecting, both as a hobby and as a profession, is reflected by this weekend’s second annual Go Minelabbing / National Metal Detecting Day events. Tomorrow, Saturday, May 18, Minelab is sponsoring four day-long events in Santa Barbara, California; Atlantic City, New Jersey; Toronto, Canada and Rio de Janiero, Brazil (we should probably think about changing that to “International Metal Detecting Day” next year!). As we did last year, Steve and I are appearing as featured guests but, this year, the Meteorite Men are straddling the continent. Steve will be at the Atlantic City event, and I’ll be in Santa Barbara, along with Tim and George, hosts of the NatGeo television series Diggers.

Metal detectorists are my people. It takes skill to operate a detector properly and it takes determination to make significant finds. A good deal of patience is also required in order to become a successful hunter and these qualities are attractive to me. Detectorists are typically intelligent, focused, thoughtful, and slightly whimsical gearheads. There’s also something existentially upbeat about them. You have to function with a certain positive mindset if that coil is going to keep on swinging, hour after hour, propelled by the hope or belief that the next big find could be just over there, under that tree, or on the slope of that hill.

If you’ve ever dreamed of finding buried treasure, join us tomorrow. Minelab will be displaying equipment, presenting organized hunts with purposely buried coins, sponsoring talks, kids’ events, and just about anything else that a seeker of buried treasure could wish for. I’ll be on the beach in front of the Fess Parker Doubletree Santa Barbara all day, reading from my latest book, Rock Star: Adventures of a Meteorite Man, giving a talk, answering questions, displaying meteorires, signing autographs, and generally reveling in the company of my like-minded and slightly but delightfully weird fellow treasure hunters. And if you want to see something really special, ask to take a look at my latest acquisition — a marvelous and recently-recovered piece of the Chelyabinsk meteorite that was part of the city-pummeling Russian fireball of February 15.

More information about National Metal Detecting Day / Go Minelabbing, or follow the hashtag #NMDD on Twitter

If you enjoyed this article, please connect with me on Twitter @geoffnotkin

Photographs by Pablo del Rio Larrain and Suzanne Morrison © Aerolite Meteorites, LLC.
Text © Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

Across a quiet and narrow street lies a flower-spattered triangular park where young boys are playing soccer in brightly colored but mismatched shirts. No semblance of team training here, just kids practicing and having fun. A splendid tabby cat sits patiently on a stone doorstep, waiting to be let inside a house decorated by wiry vines. Two old men, one with rosy cheeks and a grey and battered flat cap on his head, talk softly over their Saturday afternoon beers. An extraordinarily beautiful tricolor collie dog dozes beside one of the men, her long and elegant chin resting on the instep of his boot while she dreams, perhaps, of chasing rabbits in the nearby forest.

Spring comes early to the charming German village of Nagold

A lawnmower pipes up briefly as a neighbor precisely and efficiently cuts the grass in his minute but perfect garden — hardly the size of two pool tables placed side by side. A hundred or more dainty purple pansies are happily packed in an old tin washing bucket at the lawn’s edge. It is a perfect example of recycling in action, and the pansies’ mischievous little Rorschach faces stare out of their tub with whimsical and puzzling expressions. White cherry blossoms have started to burst from petite, well-pruned trees as have the crab apple flowers. Happy bees gorge themselves upon the sea of blossoms with such madness and enthusiasm that their buzzing sounds like engines.

I periodically hear a faint thud as, off in the distance, an experienced archer practices alone; feathered arrows thunking into the bullseye, one by one. Birds are chattering everywhere: sparrows and finches mostly, but occasionally a large woodpecker will peek cheekily out of the trees, or a raven will strut by, cocky and full of disdain, knowing that with his fine pickaxe beak and glistening black feathers, he is the haughtiest of birds.

Recycling in action: Pansies in an old washing tub in the little town of Bondorf, Germany

Every one of my senses tells me that I am back in the idyllic English countryside of my childhood. But the sign on the pub says “Schutzenhouse” and the woodpecker is a species I’ve never seen in the UK. Even though the sights, and smells, and sounds all whisper to me that I have stepped back in time and am home, I am, in fact, in rural Germany.

Germany was forbidden to me as a child. My father was Jewish and a United States Army World War II veteran. He saw heavy action in the European Theater of Operations in France, Belgium, and — very briefly and until he was partially blown up by Nazi artillery — in Germany. Dad took the Air Force exam when he was eighteen years old, with the intention of becoming a B-17 bomber pilot. I only learned this fact comparatively recently and was more than a little surprised, as my father was a kind and gentle man, not given to violence or hatred. “I thought that, as a B-17 pilot, I could inflict the maximum amount damage on the Nazis,” he added, in an offhand manner, as if merely commenting upon the weather. My father’s career as a bomber pilot did not materialize, due to the Air Force taking issue with his “poor” eyesight. I found that diagnosis extremely amusing as my father passed away last year, just shy of his 87th birthday, and never wore glasses a day in his life. I suppose I should be glad he failed that eye examination, else I would almost certainly not be sitting here, typing this, on a Boeing 767 flying back from Stuttgart; American air crew losses over Germany during World War II being as catastrophic as they were.

My father’s White Russian Jewish parents arrived in the States in the 1920s and they left plenty of family behind, both in Russia and in France. Even as a teenager, my father was aware — much sooner that most of the world, and with aching clarity — that something hideous was going on in German-occupied Europe. “One day,” he told me, “the letters just stopped.” My father had family who died in the concentration camps, including an adored cousin who — to the best of my knowledge — survives only in one small and faded snapshot. My father made it through the Battle of the Bulge, mostly in one piece, but his best friend from high school did not. They joined up together, but young Andrew Yeaple did not return from the war. I gather that many or most of Dad’s other comrades also did not come home from Belgium, but the little I know about his wartime experiences were pieced together from occasional stories he would relate to me when the mood took him, which was roughly once per decade. I know that he was twice decorated and that he was, unofficially, one of the very first Americans across the Siegfried Line into Germany, sometime near the end of 1944. That’s when his reconnaissance vehicle was hit by 88-mm cannon shells. He crawled back to the demolished jeep, under heavy fire, and emptied his rifle into the company radio to prevent it from falling into enemy hands. Real John Wayne stuff, except I never think of Dad like that, because he was quiet and modest and it is difficult to imagine him as a warrior. He took a sizable piece of shrapnel through the left foot and his war was over. Dad’s walking was a little impaired for the rest of his life but he never once complained. He recuperated on a floating hospital ship in UK waters, returned to the States in 1945, and once remarked to me that — as a result of being on serious painkillers for an extended period — he fully understood why some fell easily into morphine and heroin addiction.

My father (above left) and his army buddy, Norm Zuckerman, with the U.S. 99th Combat Infantry Division during 1944

My father did not care to talk about himself or his accomplishments. Much of his life, therefore, remains a mystery to me. He came from a poor family yet he graduated with a master’s degree from New York’s prestigious Columbia University, which he somehow managed in only three years on the G.I. Bill (evidently there wasn’t enough money to pay for a conventional four-year education). I once asked Dad how he accomplished such a feat and he replied: “We’d just come back from the war and nobody was going to tell us what we could or couldn’t do.” By “we,” I assumed he meant the others on the G.I. Bill who made it home, but I was never certain.

In his twenties, Dad went back to Europe and spent most of the next sixty years there. He once rode across Africa, entirely by himself, on a Triumph motorcycle, and was later granted top secret clearance by the State Department. He worked in the code room of the American Embassy in Paris, and that’s where he met my mother. In fifty years, my father never explained to me what he was doing in Africa, or the code room, or why he would choose to cross that continent, alone, on a gorgeous and somewhat unreliable British motorcycle. The only anecdote he ever shared about the African adventure concerned an Arab who attempted to steal the Triumph from him. Dad produced an oversized Bowie knife (in my cinematic imagination it runs very much like the famous “That’s a knife” scene in Crocodile Dundee) and the Arab, very sensibly, legged it.

During the 1950s, when my father was living in Paris, crossing Africa, and doing other mysterious things, the term posttraumatic stress disorder didn’t exist. Combat veterans who had witnessed or experienced things too horrendous to assimilate were diagnosed as having “soldier’s heart,” “shell shock” or “operational fatigue.” The symptoms and severity of PTSD were not properly understood, or even named until 1980, and among my father’s generation it would have been regarded as “unmanly” or “weak” to admit to having any such problems anyway. In her dissertation Combat Veterans Diagnosed with Posttraumatic Stress Disorder: The Effect on Their Children: A Phenomenological Study, (University of Phoenix, 2007), Monika Frenz notes that “four out of five Vietnam combat veterans portray persistent PTSD symptoms (Price, 2006).” Since PTSD wasn’t recognized as an affliction during the World War II era, many or most combat veterans from that time, on both sides, probably never received any sort of treatment or counseling and had to deal with it on their own, as best they could.

The “Old Castle” in the center of Stuttgart dates back to the 10th Century

My father doubtless carried the fallout of war — loss, horror, brutality, injury, and perhaps much more — deep inside. If it was a burden to him, he never showed it. His life during wartime did, however, manifest itself in one tangible way and that was the solid and unmovable edict that we, as a family, would never set foot in Germany. We traveled extensively when I was growing up, visiting almost every country that shared a border with Germany, some of them repeatedly. Further, we were forbidden to have German products, of any kind, in the house. I recall my mother bringing home a bottle of grape juice when I was about nine years old. She found it in a health food store and I loved the taste of it. My mother did all the shopping and all the food preparation in our household but, for some reason, Dad happened to notice “Product of Germany” printed on the grape juice label and when he asked my mother why there was something German in the house, it was one of the few times in my life that I remember seeing him genuinely angry.

As any headstrong boy knows, when something is forbidden it develops a shiny and irresistible allure. Unavoidably, therefore, around the age of nine or ten I became fascinated with World War II and German military technology in particular. Show me a picture of any Germany tank or airplane and I can tell you its history. Even more compelling was my fascination with the German rocket program. I searched used book shops for obscure and out-of-print titles, and became something of a young scholar on the subject. My ever-patient mother aided me, somewhat uncomfortably, in this quest for secret learning, almost as if we, ourselves, were living under a totalitarian regime and smuggling contraband literature. Looking back forty-odd years, it is easy to see myself as insensitive and disrespectful to my father’s wishes. In my defense, however, I was a little boy and I did not yet know suffering, pain, and loss. Now that I have witnessed such things for myself, it is easier to find understanding: reading German words may have been a trigger for Dad, or perhaps he just didn’t want to support German commerce with his money.

My fiancé’s brother, Gerry, is a master sergeant in the United States Air Force. He and his wife, Jesi, and their two young boys have lived in Germany for six years. They have — very wisely, in my opinion — chosen to live “on the economy” as the military calls it, rather than on, or near, the base in a predominantly American environment. My own parents, who were Americans but loved Europe, did much the same thing, but in England. They raised me in a foreign land, making me the progeny of two different cultures and I feel so much the richer for it.

In my adult life, I have been fortunate enough to make a number of valued German friends, primarily as a result of my science work, but I had still never visited the country. This past April the time came, and my fiancé, Libby, and I flew to Stuttgart to visit Gerry and the family, who live in a sleepy little town about forty-five minutes south of the city. Jesi picked us up at the airport after our ten-hour flight. She has learned to speak decent German and served admirably as translator (my German being slightly worse than my Russian, which is already quite bad).

Germany, at last.

I walked here and there, to town, or to the pub, along pretty, and quiet, and perfectly maintained streets, and was almost instantly overwhelmed by the endless similarities between rural Germany and rural England. In fact, the Germans and the English are much more alike than they will ever admit, with their love of socializing at the pub; their adored cats and dogs; soccer in the park on weekends; beautiful little gardens, often adorned with a petite birdhouse; tidy and functional train stations; small and efficient cars (because gasoline is so expensive in Europe) kept immaculately clean; country walks and bird sanctuaries; rolling farms, and barns and old churches, all lovingly tended. I don’t know what I expected to find in Germany, but it certainly wasn’t the sensation of journeying back to my childhood in England.

One afternoon, I met Gerry at the entrance to the base. He was dressed very smartly in a sporty white jacket of the sort that one might wear while sailing. I suppose I unconsciously assumed that he’d appear in uniform and was therefore interested to learn that U.S. military personnel are required to travel to and from the base in civilian clothing. “We are still technically an occupying force,” one soldier informed me in a tone that was kindly and respectful and carried with it a subtext that said: “But we don’t want to be seen that way.” He added: “Uniforms can make the Germans nervous.”

The soaring Art Deco beauty of the Markethalle in Stuttgart

Gerry and I took the train into Stuttgart proper, and I could not help but stare discretely at the faces of a couple of old men riding along with us aboard the spotless public transportation that afternoon. A seventy three year-old retiree would have been five years old in 1945 when Germany was bombed into submission. How do you explain to a five year-old boy why his house has been obliterated?

I might be overly sensitive but I read pain and sadness in the older faces and I was conscious of a sadness in the landscape too. I imagined that the peaceful little town of Bondorf, where we were staying, had remained untouched by the ravages of conflict, but an elderly lady who lived through World War II stated: “No part of Germany was untouched.” I wondered what the wartime experiences of these old survivors had been like, but I couldn’t ask. The Germans have excellent manners and it is regarded as odd, or even rude, to say hello to people you don’t know.

I am not an apologist; I am certainly not a revisionist and I do not believe in visiting the sins of the father upon the children. The Nazis perpetrated terrible evil on the world, but the German people paid for it. In a sense, they still are. “The war casts a long shadow,” one long-time American resident told me. “And there’s still a feeling of national guilt.” Despite all of that, there is a kindness in the people; they are neat, and courteous, and they care about the world. German citizens take their own glass and plastics to central recycling stations, and you can’t walk thirty feet without seeing a house covered by solar panels. It’s a given that you don’t litter, mow the lawn on Sundays (because everyone is resting), make noise after 10 p.m., honk your car horn unnecessarily, or make rude gestures at other drivers (you’ll be ticketed if you do). Germany was the first country to begin separating trash for recycling and is a world leader in ecological awareness. The annual carbon dioxide emission of an average German citizen is less than half that of an average American, and Germany has pledged to cut their emissions by a further 40%. In the span of a single lifetime, Germany has transformed from the country trying to take over the world to the country trying to save it.

Stuttgart is a lovely city with parks and pedestrian precincts, young people out shopping, lively cafés, restaurants and shops, and I quickly discovered that I preferred to dwell on modern Germany, rather than wartime history. I found it impossible to imagine the estimated 142,000 bombs that fell upon Stuttgart during 53 air raids. Instead, I bought a stylish jacket in a favorite clothing store I recognized from England (one that we don’t have in the States) and explored the Markethalle — a luminous concrete and glass Art Deco building constructed between 1911 and 1914, and today housing an international food market that would delight even the pickiest of gourmets.

As I walked along sunny streets, I sifted through labyrinthine memories of my father in search of evidence that he suffered from PTSD. He was always a bit distant, but not emotionally cold, and he absolutely refused to be rushed or hurried in any way. He loved to entertain and enjoyed parties, long dinners, and pouring cocktails for his friends. He played chess frequently, read a respectable newspaper (or two) every day of his life, and watched the news religiously. He never criticized anyone that I can remember, except, very occasionally, and in a joking way, the Germans. He did not collect anything except for his modest library of classical music. He liked simple clothes and every car he ever bought had at least one previous owner. He was not abusive to my mother, my younger brother, or me. It is possible that Dad’s solitary adventures a decade before I was born, and his methodical, slow-paced life were his own way of dealing with PTSD, if he even suffered from it which, given what he went through, seems likely.

The author and Libby visiting a tulip field in Bondorf

In later years, and to everyone’s surprise, my father mellowed quite a bit. He became good friends with a German gentleman, Willy Feld, who had moved to London and was just about the same age as Dad. They played tennis every weekend, if the weather was fair, and went to the pub together on Friday evenings. Willy was almost certainly in combat during World War II, on the other side, but I’d bet a thousand dollars neither one of them ever mentioned it. I am sorry Dad didn’t mellow just a bit more so he could have visited Germany one last time. I think he would have, like me, fallen in love with the land of his former enemy.

If you enjoyed this article please connect with me on Twitter @geoffnotkin

Text and photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin.
All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

They are counter staff at a well-known (and, in my opinion, impressively overpriced) coffee chain.

To be paid their minimum wage earnings, the ladies must rise by 3 a.m. in order to arrive at work on time. Once the early morning café shift is over and ordinary humans are tapping on keyboards in office cubicles, my friends try to fit in a super-quick shower, and then head back to the studio for a 10 a.m. start to that previously mentioned vocation. One apprentice in the group routinely works at a fast-food joint until 4 a.m. — after daily putting in 6 1/2 hours of the most strenuous and taxing activity. She grabs a few hours sleep when she can, before the next punishing round of physical training begins. Why would anyone do that? What kind of devotion must you have, what kind of drive, to push yourself so hard, to believe so completely in what you do?

My friends are dancers with Ballet Tucson.

Last year’s art auction at Ballet Tucson’s Urban Picnic

Sadly, we live in a country where arts funding is one of the lowest priorities, probably slightly behind our nearly nonexistent space program. Artists, dancers, performance groups struggle to survive, and without the arts, why would any of us want to survive anyway? What is the point of working hard and putting away a few dollars if you cannot enjoy a great novel, a brilliant movie, a rousing live concert, or an alluring dance performance? These are the things that make life worth living — at least for the people I know.

Our celebrated local dance company, Ballet Tucson, just finished its short run of “Dance & Dessert” performances. It was the best BT program I’ve seen in the past three years (and I’ve seen all of them) — a period in which I happen to have fallen in love with one of the company dancers, become engaged to her, and also become a corporate sponsor of the dance company. One of the great things about Ballet Tucson is they don’t just hold out a cap and say: “Please give.” They organize enthralling events that delight attendees, yes with dance, but also with great food and wine, art auctions, invitations to open rehearsals, outreach projects to underprivileged school children, and other actions that demonstrate caring and dedication to their art and to their community.

“Do Cats And Dogs Go To Hell For Fighting?” an intriguing creation by William Skiles

Each spring, a small army of generous artists — some local, some nationally recognized — contribute a fairly dizzying array of original works of art for Ballet Tucson’s Urban Picnic. Funds raised go directly to help keep the determined dance company gliding through another year of performances. Donations include paintings, ceramics, Navajo rugs, unusual jewelry, pencil sketches, and charismatic custom lunch boxes designed specifically for the event (very much in keeping with the outdoor picnic theme).

I wrote about last year’s Urban Picnic, and I had a blast. It’s a chance to meet artists, dancers, and the generally interesting culturally-minded Tucson set — as charming and eclectic a group as I can imagine. The $45 ticket will admit you the event, win you a very tasty al fresco picnic lunch complete with mimosas, give you the opportunity to bid — in a relaxed manner — on a gallery-sized lot of underpriced art, enjoy live music and a live performance by Ballet Tucson dancers themselves, all of it in Tucson’s most delightful shopping venue, complete with fountains, La Encantada.

“Bird Song” by Jennifer Suhm, one of the specially-created lunchboxes on offer at the Urban Picnic art auction

The 16th Annual Urban Picnic & Art Auction will take place on Friday, April 12, 2013 at La Encantada Shopping Center from 10:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Admission is $45 and tickets can be purchased at the door, by calling Cynthia Hansen at (520) 400-5426, or safely and easily online here. La Encantada is located northwest of Skyline and Campbell, in Tucson.

“Tucson Blue” by Brenda Semanick, oil on canvas will be auctioned tomorrow at Urban Picnic

With the spring Open Studio Tour starting this Saturday, a brunch auction and dance performance on Friday is, without a shadow of a doubt, the smartest way to kick-start your Tucson art weekend. View the lunchbox creations here and the rest of the original art here.

“Summer Street” by award-winning Indiana artist Chris Griffin-Woods

Arts funding is down, attendance at many arts events seems to me to be down. People are worried about the economy, as usual. I moved to Tucson nearly a decade ago, largely because of its astonishing arts scene. Our thriving and quirky creative community is way out of proportion (in a good way) to our modest little city. I want to keep it that way, so I donated a $400 custom piece of meteorite jewelry to Urban Picnic. It’s not in my nature to ask people to support something unless I’ve done so myself.

And I quite like the idea of taking lunch to the office from now on, in a one-of-a-kind specially-created, hand made food transportation vessel, the purchase of which may just have helped win a modest company dancer’s salary for a talented young woman (thereby allowing her to give up the soul-destroying 4 a.m. coffee crazies thing and concentrate on her art). Now, that’s a worthy cause.

 Follow me on Twitter @geoffnotkin

Text and auction photograph © by Geoffrey Notkin.
Artwork photographs are © by respective artists and are used with permission.
All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

]]> http://tucsoncitizen.com/lizard/2013/04/11/ballet-tucsons-urban-picnic-on-friday-funds-local-dance-recognizes-local-artists-and-comes-with-mimosas-too/feed/ 0 http://tucsoncitizen.com/lizard/2012/12/20/chestnuts-fairies-and-a-sword-wielding-mouse-king-make-ballet-tucsons-christmas-nutcraker-a-must-see-this-weekend/ http://tucsoncitizen.com/lizard/2012/12/20/chestnuts-fairies-and-a-sword-wielding-mouse-king-make-ballet-tucsons-christmas-nutcraker-a-must-see-this-weekend/#comments Thu, 20 Dec 2012 22:23:00 +0000 Logical Lizard http://tucsoncitizen.com/lizard/?p=712 One of my happiest holiday childhood memories revolves around chestnuts. As a little boy, growing up in London in the late 1960s, I would look forward, with great anticipation, to the arrival of roast chestnuts. These decidedly December-flavored treats never seemed to be available during the rest of the year and I, therefore, have always associated the tasty nut with Christmas.

My favorite childhood haunt was the British Museum, sitting in all its Greco-Roman splendor on Great Russell Street. Londoners call it “The B.M.,” and its paved forecourt always seemed dizzyingly awash with visiting students and scholars, meeting, laughing, hugging, comparing notes, and poring over guides and floor plans to the museum’s astonishing collection of artistic and archaeological treasures. Around the middle of December, each year, the throngs of budding intellectuals were quietly joined by a solitary, hardworking and — in my mind at least — somewhat melancholy old man hunched, slightly, over an incandescent steel barrel. He was the Chestnut Man. I took him to be a World War II veteran dressed, as he was, in a faded military jacket, with a grey, flat cap, and palm-sized woolen gloves that exposed his fingertips. I found the Chestnut Man fascinating and — aged perhaps six, and clutching my mother’s hand — I would trade him two shillings for a small, white paper bag filled with chestnuts, hot to the touch and freshly plucked from his roasting barrel.

Not to be confused with the horse chestnut — an unpalatable nut common in the United Kingdom and used by school boys in the strange game called “conkers” — the edible or “sweet” chestnut is actually produced by a beech tree of the family Fagaceae. When properly roasted, and once the hard, reddish brown shell has been removed, the sweet chestnut is a heavenly snack: pale yellow in color, with a meaty consistency and a taste similar to macadamia nuts.

And so, each December when Ballet Tucson’s award-winning production of the ever-popular Nutcracker opens with an alluring and solitary dancer, The Chestnut Lady, elegantly serving her wares, it cannot fail to strike a chord of memory and delight in my heart.

Nutcracker was first performed in St. Petersbug, Russia in 1892, based on a story by the German author E.T.A. Hoffman, and choreographed by Lev Ivanov and Franco-Russian ballet dancer Marius Petipa. It was first performed outside Russia in 1919 (Budapest), and in the Twentieth Century went on to enjoy tremendous worldwide popularity, especially in the United States.

Kendra Clyde as Clara in Ballet Tucson’s “Nutcracker.” Photo by Ed Flores

The decidedly cosmopolitan origins of Nutcracker are well reflected by the international flavor of Ballet Tucson’s company: long-time principal male dancer Daniel Precup is of Romanian origin; Kyle Peterson was born in the United Kingdom; Akari Manabe joins the company from Kobe, Japan; while Canadian dancer Kate Kaupas’ home town is Calgary. And Kate’s success story with Ballet Tucson is particularly noteworthy. She joined the company three years ago as an apprentice; in her second year she won the Kim Terry Memorial Scholarship for excellence in dance; and is, this year, a featured soloist as the Dew Drop Fairy. Perhaps one out of every class of young dance students will be fortunate enough to land a job as a professional company dancer, and perhaps one in twenty of those will experience the thrill of performing onstage as a featured soloist, so the Friday premiere of Nutcracker will be a big night for Ms. Kaupas.

“Performing with Ballet Tucson is one of the most inspiring experiences of my professional dance career,” Kaupas said. “I feel very privileged to be cast in such an important role and I look forward to bringing Dew Drop Fairy to life this weekend at Centennial Hall.”

Kate Kaupas performs as the Dew Drop Fairy this weekend in Ballet Tucson’s “Nutcracker.” Photo by Geoff Notkin

And it’s not just the dreams of professional dancers that will manifest themselves this weekend. Ballet Tucson is committed to sharing the uplifting experience of Nutcracker throughout our community. “We give 1,000 free Nutcracker tickets to underserved children and their families, and to social service agencies in our community,” said Operations Manager Cynthia Hansen. “The Board of Directors goes out and raises money to support this program. We travel to Tucson’s most needy schools to teach dance with our ‘Put Your Best Foot Forward with Ballet Tucson’ educational outreach. In addition Assistant Artisitic Director Chieko Imada and her team of Ballet Tucson dancers teach five classes per week to elementary students in some of Tucson’s most impoverished areas.”

As I have said in this column before, it is one thing to talk about supporting the arts and another to actually do it. Ballet Tucson brings excellent classical and contemporary ballet to Tucson, while reaching out to underprivileged communities to foster an appreciation of the arts at a grassroots level. That is more than supporting the arts; it is building an artistic community from the ground up. And, perhaps most important of all, Founder and Artistic Director Mary Beth Cabana’s Ballet Arts School is training the next generation of professional dancers. Her students have gone on to win scholarships and/or perform professionally with New York City Ballet, American Ballet Theater, San Francisco Ballet, Pacific Northwest Ballet (PNB), The Kirov Academy and many other world-class companies. That is quite a remarkable accomplishment for a school in our small city. You have to start somewhere, and many of Ms. Cabana’s youngest students will be appearing in this weekend’s Nutcracker, some of them in their first-ever public performance.

Operations Manager, Cynthia Hansen, says it perfectly: “We believe the arts have the power to transform lives and we do our part by introducing children to the discipline and wonderful world of dance.”

Jenna Johnson as Sugar Plum Fairy and Stuart Lauer as Her Cavalier. Photo by Ed Flores

So, if the Chestnut Lady, the feisty Mouse King, the Fairies, the Snow Queen, and the Snowflakes are still not quite enough excitement for you, bear in mind that this production of Nutcracker may just introduce some of the great dancers of tomorrow. One of the mice children making his or her debut this weekend could be soloing at American Ballet Theater ten years from now. That is the stuff of Christmas dreams.

A few days ago, and to my considerable amazement, I discovered a small stash of fresh, sweet chestnuts at the supermarket.”What are these?” the lady at checkout asked, wrinking her nose and holding them up close, then peering, quizzically, at their dark and streamlined shapes. Unroasted, and still cased in tough, sanguine shells, the pretty chestnuts looked nearly identical to the ones a little boy used to wolf down during cold winter evenings on Great Russell Street.

I’ll be roasting them tomorrow afternoon, so if you see happen to see a TucsonCitizen.com blogger and dance enthusiast outside Centennial Hall this weekend, with a smile on a face and a little white bag of chestnuts in his hands, that’ll be me.

Ballet Tucson performs Nutcracker this weekend at Centennial Hall. Show times are Friday, December 21 at 7:30 pm; Saturday, December 22 at 2:00 pm and 7:30 pm; Sunday, December 23 at 1:00 pm and 5:00 pm. Ticket prices range from $17 to $56 and are available through the Centennial Hall Ticket Office.

Text © by Geoffrey Notkin. Photographs © Ed Flores and Geoffrey Notkin, as noted above.
All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

“2012 is our first year here,” said Alan Traino, “but we are going to build on it, and Tucson will be the center of the astronomy universe within five years.”

For this weekend’s Tucson expo, Alan and his associates have put together a stellar lineup of speakers, including NASA astronauts Story Musgrave and Donald Petit; Canadian scientist Dr. Carin Bondar, “The Biologist with a Twist, a brilliant science writer, blogger and television personality; Dr. Phil Plait, AKA “The Bad Astronomer,” who delights thousands of fans around the world with his illuminating writing and lectures; astronomy writer and podcaster Dr. Pamela L. Gay, solar telescope expert Stephen Ramsden; Adam Block from the Mount Lemmon Sky Center, and Dr. Steele Hill of NASA’s Goddard SOHO mission.

Celebrated scientist and blogger, Dr. Phil Plait is a featured speaker at this weekend’s Tucson science expo. Photograph © Phil Plait.

I was honored by the invitation to put together a meteorite panel entitled, “Out of the Sky: How Meteorites have Changed the World.” The panel begins at 10 am on Sunday, November 11, and will be moderated by asteroid expert and former Meteorite magazine editor, Dr. Larry Lebofsky. The panelists are Dr. Melissa Morris from ASU’s Center for Meteorite Studies; world famous meteorite hunter Sonny Clary; Director of Operations for Aerolite Meteorites, LLC and Meteorite Men location photographer, Suzanne Morrison; and myself. NASA Edge TV will be filming the panel for live broadcast, and interested parties are invited to watch it live on the web.

Dr. Carin Bondar, “The Biologist with a Twist,” will delight audiences at the expo this weekend. Photograph © Carin Bondar/Kim Mallory Photography.

In addition to the scheduled speaking events the Arizona Science and Astronomy Expo will be offering remote telescope viewing with the Mount Lemmon Sky Center, imaging workshops, ongoing digital planetarium shows, daytime solar observing and night time viewing through an impressive array of telescopes. The expo “will be featuring exhibitors and manufacturers of astronomical products from around the world, including telescopes, binoculars, mounts, cameras, domes, and all related accessories. You can also shop for all your extras including meteorites, flashlights, gifts, and much more.”

The Mule, the special expedition vehicle seen in action on Meteorite Men, Globe Trekker, and How the Earth was Made will be on display for the entire weekend.

In addition, NASA has generously loaned an extraordinary collection of historic memorabilia and artifacts to the expo, including flown space suits and their display collection of meteorites.

ASAE will feature a spectacular display of space rocks, provided by NASA and Aerolite Meteorites of Tucson. Photograph by Suzanne Morrison © Aerolite Meteorites, LLC.

“We are trying to engage our young people and show them that it’s cool to be a science geek,” said John Joseph, President of Starlight Instruments and an exhibitor at the event. “We may not have a space program anymore, but some of the kids attending ASAE this weekend are going to grow up and start their own.”

Admission is only $10 each day and includes access to all exhibits and talks. Kids under 12 receive free admission with an adult, and veterans are invited to accept complimentary admission on Sunday.

Visit the official website for more information >>>

I, myself, provided numerous images for Dorothy and Richard’s new book, What’s So Mysterious About Meteorites?, as did my staff photographer, Suzanne Morrison. We offered these photographs gladly because everyone wanted to see Richard’s last work come into the world, under Dorothy’s guidance. As such, some might think me a little biased towards this new publication, but I am not. With a wealth of fascinating new books seeing print each and every year, I choose not to waste time discussing works I did not enjoy. So, this review is mixed with delight at holding Richard’s posthumous final work in my hand, and sadness at the realization that there will be no more.

In Dorothy’s introduction she writes:

“O. Richard Norton passed away before he completed work on What’s So Mysterious About Meteorites?, a book that meant a lot to him. He had always wanted to provide a basic introduction to his beloved meteorites that could be read by young adults and anyone else interested in the subject of rocks that fall from the sky. While finishing it, I could hear his voice in my mind, explaining some detail about meteorites to students or to the many people who showed up at our door with boxes of rocks. He was a wonderful teacher, a great husband, and a generous friend to all who studied and searched for these curious rocks.”

Amen to that.

What’s So Mysterious About Meteorites? (Mountain Press, 2012) runs exactly 100 pages, is 8 3/8 x 9 inches and, with its lively, colorful cover, is clearly aimed at younger readers. And that’s good news because I already have two overly large shelves filled with highly technical tomes on my favorite subject; works that will not appeal to any but the most eccentric school kids (I’d be a little concerned if anyone under the age of fourteen was, for example, tackling Buchwald’s Handbook of Iron Meteorites). What’s So Mysterious About Meteorites? is packed with pictures of meteorites in the lab, in studio settings, under the microscope, in the field, as well as images of me and my more-than-a-little-offbeat comrades doing what we love best — scouring the wilderness for space rocks. The most amusing of these images is a picture, on page 46, of my friend Tim Heitz gazing rapturously into the sky, while sitting atop a 37-ton South American iron meteorite known as El Chaco.

Many times, over the years, I have been told: “Geoff you really should write a children’s book about meteorites!” I chose not to pursue such a thing because I knew Dorothy had already embarked upon a similar project, and because I was already busy with existing book projects, but mostly because I knew that with Dorothy’s caring spirit, extensive knowledge of the subject, and attention to artistic detail, she would do a much better job than I could.

An image on page vi, opposite the “Table of Contents,” admirably sets the tone for the book. The full-page color photograph depicts Manuel, a young Argentinian boy, pointing at a just-found specimen of the Berduc meteorite (fell April 7, 2008) lying in the dirt. I well know that look on Manuel’s face. It is awe and wonder, mixed with amazement and triumph; the expression of a successful meteorite hunter who has, against all odds, discovered that most elusive of quarries.

In a clear and friendly tone that will be easily assimilated by younger readers, Dorothy begins the book with a brief explanation of what meteorites are, how they differ from meteors, comets, and asteroids, and later adds pleasant doses of astronomy and space exploration to the mix. She jumps straight into the action with an account of the Park Forest fall (March 26, 2003), the only meteorite shower in recorded history to have landed within the confines a major city, that being Chicago. 14 year-old Robert Garza narrowly escaped injury when a loaf of bread-sized space rock crashed through the roof of his family’s suburban home. Thousands of other smaller meteorites landed nearby. Robert’s father called the police, believing some mischief-maker had thrown a rock through the roof of his house:

“But who could throw a rock with that much force? The police took the rock away and put it in an evidence bag. Under ‘offense’ they wrote, ‘N/A (Act of God).’ The rock in the bag at the police station was soon joined by more mysterious rocks. One had hit the roof of the local firehouse. It quickly became clear that these trespassing stones were meteorites. As word got out, people started looking for them. And they found them all over the place.”

I was one of those people. I found seventeen Park Forest meteorites, and gave one each to my meteorite-hunting colleagues, Professor Jim Kriegh and Twink Monrad, both of them also close friends of the Nortons.

Later chapters discuss, in considerable detail, where meteorites come from, what they are made of, and explain meteorite-specific scientific terms such as ablation, strewnfield and rollover lip. The “Fireball Observer’s Checklist” is a handy reference for those fortunate enough to witness a very large meteor in flight. Other sections include “Mars Has Meteorites Too,” a comparison of different meteorite types, and a look at impact craters. The chapter “How Can You Find Meteorites?” provides tips for the would-be searcher, and there is guidance on how to start a collection. What’s So Mysterious About Meteorites? is rounded out by a list of helpful print and online resources, and a glossary of terms.

One of the many interesting space rocks featured in the book. This meteorite is Canyon Diablo from Arizona. Photo by Suzanne Morrison © Aerolite Meteorites LLC

During the past three years I have hosted an international television adventure series called Meteorite Men. The show has sparked a great deal of interest in space rocks, especially — to my considerable glee — among younger viewers. Parents often telephone, or email, and tell us how thankful they are that our series has inspired their kids to walk away from the box and go dig for rocks, instead, in the fresh-air world. Well, except for one slightly frustrated parent who complained: “My garden now looks like the surface of the moon, thanks to you guys!”

For those who want to learn more, we often recommend my first book, Meteorite Hunting: How to Find Treasure from Space, which is a technical, hands-on field guide for those smitten with the desire to go out and recover their own cosmic visitor. My books are written for an adult audience, although they have been enjoyed by some precocious young readers, one of whom reportedly carries a heavily dog-eared copy around with him, daily, at school. His mother told me that he sometimes gets teased by other students and called a “nerd.” I asked her to pass along to him that he should not worry about any of that, because he is a whole lot smarter than the other kids, and they will all be bitterly envious, anyway, when he finds his first thousand-dollar meteorite.

Musings aside, my point is there has been a vacuum in the meteorite world until now. What’s So Mysterious About Meteorites? is not a technical book, but it covers the technical aspects of the complex science of meteoritics in a kid-friendly manner. It tells the amazing story of meteorites in an easy-to-read and easy-to-understand manner that will engage children and young adults who yearn for something more cosmically puzzling and stimulating than reality television or Xbox.

So, parents of kids who dream of being astronomers, or astronauts, or meteorite hunters when they grow up, here is your chance. What’s So Mysterious About Meteorites? will make a wonderful gift for your science-curious progeny and, who knows, perhaps it will ignite a spark that will send them — a couple of decades from now — rocketing across the globe (or into space) on the adventure of a lifetime. What could possibly make for a better present than that?

All photographs and text © Geoffrey Notkin and/or Aerolite Meteorites LLC.
Book cover © by Mountain Press.
All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

Telescopes are, for me, a three-pronged recipe for delight. Firstly, they are mechanical and technological wonders. In another life I might have been an engineer, or an optical designer, fascinated as I am by gears, mirrors, prisms, and the arcane details of how machines work and how they are put together. Secondly, vintage telescopes, with their brass tubes and lovingly hand-ground lenses, are a palimpsest of the early days of scientific inquiry. They are elegant time capsules from an era when the disciplines we take for granted today—astronomy, chemistry, physics, geology, botany, and so on—began crawling, painstakingly, into the public consciousness; fighting, sometimes, for their very survival in a world of flat Earths, religious dogma, and narrow thinking. Something about an old telescope whisks my mind back to an imagined “Golden Age of Invention and Discovery,” when adventurers wore pith helmets and carried long-barreled revolvers in brown leather holsters; a time when we first began to realize that our little planet does not exist at the center of the Universe and that we are, almost certainly, not alone in the night. Thirdly, and perhaps most significantly, it is the telescope-as-tool that allows us Earth-bound humans to peer, entranced, through delicate glass discs into the cosmos.

When, therefore, Steve Arnold, co-host of my television series, Meteorite Men, and I, were invited to appear as the keynote speakers at the 2012 Stellafane telescope and astronomy convention, I jumped at the chance. My friend Geoff Cintron, a noted amateur astronomer and fellow meteorite aficionado, smiled and stated, with considerable gravitas: “Stellafane is a pilgrimage, a right of passage for everyone who is serious about astronomy and telescopes. They all make the trip, at some point in their lives. You’re going to have a great time.”

Telescopes doze during the afternoon at Stellafane, waiting patiently for the sun to set

If I am to be entirely accurate I will admit that Steve and I were, in fact, already booked as keynote speakers for the 2011 Stellafane event, but we had to cancel due to a grueling Meteorite Men Season Three shooting schedule that put us in rural Russia at the precise time we were meant to be appearing atop a windy, tree-shrouded hill in rural Vermont. Some things are worth waiting for, and a visit to Stellafane was one of them.

My girlfriend, Libby, and I flew to Vermont early. A private tour of the Springfield Telescope Makers underground museum of astronomical history, in the company of biographer and telescope expert, Berton Willard, had been arranged for us and I was not about to miss a moment of that. We stayed at the Hartness House, outside of the sleepy town of Springfield, and I described my visit to the museum in last week’s edition of The Logical Lizard, “Looking at the Night Sky Through the Past.” Hartness is one of those grand old bed & breakfasts that looks magnificent on the outside, but is not quite so impressive on the inside. Our little room skulked at the end of a dark corridor, and was as damp as a Welsh sheepdog just returned from November hills. Living in the desert, I forget what aged New England wooden houses are like. Yes, the hot water failed, and yes all of our group reservations were messed up; a pipe got blocked and flooded half of our living quarters, but the scientific history wrapped up in the place, the Steampunk-ish Hartness Turret Telescope ensconced in a bunker across the lawn, the friendliness of the staff, and the marvelous museum tucked away in the basement made it difficult to stay annoyed at minor service failures for more than a few minutes.

On the other side of Precision Valley—once the home to a hub of American commerce and industry—there resides a steep hill known as Stellafane. Every August, stargazers and telescope builders converge upon that hill to camp, cook, drink, swap stories, and set up their prized possessions. And how passionate are some of the members of Springfield Telescope Makers—the club that organizes the Stellafane Convention! When the site they once used for the event was downgraded into a Christmas tree farm, two senior Stellafane members mortgaged their homes (allegedly, without telling their wives) and bought the hill where enthusiasts from all over the country now convene. The rest of the club pitched in and, within ten years, the courageous mortgagers had been paid back in full. That is dedication to your hobby.

This camaraderie, this “anything for the stars” attitude permeates the event on every level. Some travel hundreds, or thousands, of miles with a beloved telescope in tow, in order to pass a weekend with the like-minded. Stellafane exuded, all at once, the feel of an outdoor folk festival, swap meet, comic book con, science fair, engineering festival, and weekend camping trip. In other words, I was as happy as a hummingbird in an orchid blossom.

The Meteorite Men at Stellafane 2012

I first met my friend Patrick Manley through Twitter. Later, we connected in person at the Northeast Astronomy Forum in New York. We share an interest in meteorites, and I always thought of Patrick in that capacity, and as a space program enthusiast. I did not realize that he is also an expert amateur astronomer. Patrick invited me to join him, after our keynote address on the Saturday evening, on a nighttime tour of the heavens, courtesy of him and his pals.

Steve and I presented our talk and slide show to an outdoor audience of about 500 people, at night, under the stars, in a lovely natural amphitheater. I was given a friendly advisory by our friend and events coordinator, Wayne Zuhl, that we should keep our show to under an hour. With dark and clear Vermont skies waiting, astronomers would likely not want to give up too much observing time to hear about space rocks. After about 70 minutes, I asked the seated audience—most of whom I could barely make out in the darkness—if we should stop. “I know you all want to get on with the, you know, stargazing. You can listen to a talk about meteorites almost any time.” My question was greeted by calls of: “Keep going!” and “We want more!” and similar. I really was quite flattered. Half an hour after that, we started wrapping things up and I asked for one final question.

“Who is your favorite Doctor?” a lady called out from the concave hill face.

I immediately shouted back: “Hunter S. Thompson,” which brought a chuckle from some. I quickly followed with: “Oh, do you mean my favorite Dr. Who?” I then proceeded to talk about how much I have always enjoyed Tom Baker in the role, but—in light of more recent events—had to say that Christopher Eccleston is now my favorite Doctor. A fairly detailed discussion ensued, after which Steve described me to the audience, with some amusement, as: “A big science fiction geek,” and that received the biggest round of applause of the entire evening. And there’s my life story in a nutshell: Applauded on a Vermont hilltop, in the middle of the night, for being a sci-fi geek.

The author with two young “Meteorite Men” fans

Patrick patiently waited around after the talk, while we signed autographs and chatted with attendees. At around 11 pm he guided us on a slow walk up the hillside, where a wide swath had been cleared of trees, allowing for undisturbed celestial views. Almost the entire expanse was covered in telescopes. It was a bit like a cross between Mos Eisley Spaceport and a science museum.

Maintaining your night vision is an important part of astronomical observing, so you don’t see any regular white lights being used—anywhere. Astronomers carry small tinted flashlights that emit a very weak red beam; it’s just enough to get around and adjust a few insturments here and there, without temporarily blinding your night-focused neighbors. Every now and then some unfortunate person would be the butt of brief good-natured booing and shouting, when they moved a car or opened a trunk to get an extra fleece, therby unintentionally activating startling white lights that seemed impossibly bright to our night sky-adjusted eyes. Most Stellafane attendees are practiced in leaving their car lights off if they have to relocate a vehicle, but those annoying automatic headlight thingamajigs were the undoing of a couple of well-intentioned people.

Patrick took us to his campsite (“Watch that brick”; “Look out for this rope here, it’s hard to see”) all in total darkness, save for our dim red lights, themselves hardly brighter than a distant galaxy. He had his own telescope set up, and effortlessly directed it to a binary star here, a globular cluster there. It was a fantastic device. After a while he said: “Do you want to go further up the hill and look through some of the big ‘scopes?” And that was much like asking a dolphin if he enjoys frolicking in the water.

Filming a STEM education video at Stellafane with director Rebekah Fraser. The antique telescope was kindly loaned to us by one of the club members. I even got to take a class in telescope mirror grinding!

Our first stop was a twenty-inch telescope, more than twice the size of my own largest instrument. Through it, I gazed, stupefied, at the Swan Nebula and the Lagoon Nebula, both of which were more spectacular than anything I had ever seen in the night sky, and—apart from the near absence of color—might just as well have been special effects shots from Star Trek: The Next Generation.

People share at Stellafane. They share their telescopes and also their love of the heavens. As we tiptoed among expensive instruments in the dark, it seemed that each was larger and more impressive than the last and, every few minutes, some friendly stranger in the night would half whisper to anyone within earshot: “I’ve got the 32-inch set on M22″—that being a globular cluster 10,600 light years away—”Who wants a look?”

The parallels between my passion and theirs is obvious: I scour the planet looking for meteorites; they stare into the night skies from whence my quarry came. All in all, we’re a pretty starry-eyed bunch.

Text and photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin.
All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

Special thanks to Wayne Zuhl and the Springfield Telescope Makers

Abandoned factory building on the banks of the Black River in Springfield, Vermont

James Hartness moved the Jones & Lamson Machine Tool Company (J & L) there in 1888 and the Fellows Gear Shaping Company opened shop eight years later. Hartness was an avid amateur astronomer, and completed construction of his groundbreaking Hartness Turret Telescope, situated imposingly on his own grounds, in 1912. It is connected to Hartness House by a narrow and eerie underground tunnel that enabled Hartness to view the heavens, enclosed and in comfort, even during the chilliest of Vermont winters. In an era before highway lights, electric billboards, and modern sports stadiums, Hartness’ skies must have been as black as a villainous raven.

A chimney holds silent vigil over Springfield’s derelict industrial past

The term “Renaissance Man” could not be more aptly applied to any individual than Russell Porter. Born in Springfield in 1871, he was an architect, telescope builder, wonderfully talented artist, and daring Arctic explorer. Porter went to work for J & L, and Hartness, in 1919 and, later in life, worked on the 200-inch telescope at Mount Palomar. Porter and Hartness shared a keen interest in mirror making and telescope design, and with the abundant energy provided by the Black River Falls, a wealth of innovative manufacturing equipment, and Hartness’ position as superintendent of J & L, almost any moving part that the prototype stargazers dreamed of was theirs to build.

Hartness encouraged and supported Porter, and in 1921, the 50 year-old artist/engineer gave a class in mirror making to sixteen students, including Oscar Fullam and Frank Whitney, both of whom went on to be noted optical instrument designers in their own right. Two years later, that small group became the Springfield Telescope Makers, and the world of astronomical observation changed forever. Porter and friends built the Stellafane clubhouse in 1924 (from the Latin for “star shrine”). It survives to this day and is now the locus of the annual Stellafane astronomy convention.

The Springfield Telescope Makers hold their annual general meeting at the Stellafane club house. Porter’s Turret Telescope, completed in 1930, is in the foreground

In the early 1920s, Porter put his considerable talents to work on designing a telescope that was not only easy to use, but could be left outside year-round. Part Art Nouveau sculpture, part lawn ornament, and part scientific wonder, the Porter Garden Telescope was an exquisite creation made of cast bronze, with a hinged lid that cleverly concealed and protected its delicate hand-ground mirror, which the owner would use to study the night sky.

The original retail price of $250 was later raised to $450 and, in 1923, that was the price of a grand automobile. They were expensive indeed but, for the first time, telescopes that had previously been almost exclusively the purview of prominent scientific observatories, were available to the public. That, combined with the instruments built by Fullham, Whitney, and others, brought the capability of exploring the cosmos from garden lawns to the people.

Vintage telescopes by Fullam and Whitney in the subterranean museum at Hartness House in Springfield, Vermont

Each of Porter’s Garden Telescopes bore a serial number, stamped into the metal, and it is rumored that 75 were built, though the highest documented example is #54. The whereabouts of most are today unknown, and some must still languish forlornly and unrecognized in garages and sheds. Those that survive are cherished and admired, and a fine example recently sold at auction for $18,000. One, stained green with patina, somewhat weathered and with various components missing, stands proudly, if somewhat crippled, on the lawn in front of Hartness House. Another, in immaculate condition, resides at the end of the tunnels below the house—dank corridors that could easily have been a filming location for Dr. Who. Once an illegal speakeasy (and the outline of the old bar can still be seen demarcated in flaking floor paint), the subterranean rooms are now a museum dedicated to preserving the history of the earliest days of amateur astronomy. Berton Willard, curator of the museum, a highly regarded member of the Springfield Telescope Makers, and Porter’s biographer, gave me a private tour of the exhibit, and I was entranced from the first moment. “It’s not a coincidence that it [amateur astronomy] grew up here,” Willard told me. “In what is known as Precision Valley,” after the tool-making industry that once dominated the area.

Author, curator, and astronomer Berton Willard with one of the surviving Porter Garden Telescopes

That industry is now long gone. Feverish workers and gear cutting machines remain only as whispers in fading memories of the elderly, and the once-thriving manufacturing complexes are abandoned and dozing, slowly crumbling alongside the Black River like majestic fossils. But Springfield’s industrial might and legacy of discovery live on on in the eyes of amateur astronomers across the country and around the world, particularly during the annual Stellafane convention. Every August, over a thousand telescope makers and stargazers gather on Breezy Hill, just outside of town, where they delight in the speckled stars peppering dark Vermont skies. Russell Porter’s children—telescopes of brass, wood, aluminum, and even cardboard, gently cradling meticulously ground glass lenses and mirrors—peer relentlessly into the cosmos, illuminating our imaginations, and baffling our minds with unanswerable quandaries of time, space, and distance.

Vacant industrial buildings slumber beside the Black River

Occasionally, a bright meteor streaks overhead, prompting cheers, applause or an: “Ooh, did you see that one?” from the assembled astronomers clustered in the blackness upon Breezy Hill. And, at last, I fully understand the valediction that is universal among stargazers: “I wish you clear skies and dark nights!”

All photographs and text by Geoffrey Notkin
© Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

Dad saw heavy action during World War II with the 99th Combat Infantry Division. He had originally enlisted in officer training school and was slated to serve in the Pacific Theater of Operations (it is lucky for me that he did not, because I probably would not be sitting here typing this if he had landed at Iwo Jima or Tarawa), but long-term plans for the invasion of Europe in 1944 took him out of the officer stream and he served his time as a private, first class, in France, Belgium, and Germany. He was twice decorated for “meritorious achievement against the enemy” during the Battle of the Bulge in the winter of 1944, after crawling back under fire, while wounded, and emptying his rifle into the company radio, so it would not fall into the hands of an advancing SS panzer division. Dad’s best friend, Andrew Yeaple, after whom my brother is named, did not come back from the war. Dad did not speak about his military experiences much, if ever, and it was only a few years ago that I was able to extract details from him during an interview I conducted for the book Duty, Honor, and Valor. I am familiar with this phenomenon among veterans; some of their experiences must have been so horrific they did not care to relive them in later years. That being said, my father absolutely loved a good war movie.

My father, Sam Notkin (above left), and his army buddy, Norm Zuckerman, with the U.S. 99th Combat Infantry Division in 1944

In the early 1970s, there stood quietly on one of the main roads in South Croydon—a suburb of London—a charming little independent cinema named The Classic. It had a single screen and, in classic fashion, placed framed still photos from the current featured movie by the entrance. The building is long gone, replaced now by some drab, modernist office block—a grim fate shared by so many unique indy movie houses, crushed under the heavy boots of characterless, multiplex mall-based cinemas (and what a bitter irony that the “American” Multi-Cinema chain, better known as AMC, has been taken over by the totalitarian Chinese; a topic for a future blog, no doubt).

When I was about ten, fairly late one evening, Dad took me to see the World War II epic, The Longest Day, at The Classic. It is a long film. We sat in the balcony, and watched the entire masterpiece in its original black and white. Despite my young age—an age at which I firmly believed girls and romance to be mushy—that evening seemed like the first time Dad and I went out to do something together as “men.” As we were waiting for the lights to go down, he winked at me, and said: “This is one of the great movies. There is no kissing in it.” So began my lifelong fascination with military history, particularly the European Theater of Operations during World War II, and particularly in particular, the D-Day landings in Normandy on June 6, 1944.

The Longest Day immediately became one of my favorite films and so it remains. Some years, while I was growing up, the dear old BBC would screen The Longest Day in all its magnificence on June 6—and commercial-free to boot, since it was the BBC—to commemorate the D-Day landings. At some point in the 1980s, our family acquired its first VCR and my mother recorded the film for me. Thus began a happy ritual for me, in which Dad and I watched The Longest Day every year on June 6. After I moved to Tucson we were no longer able to sit in the same room and relive the adventure together, but Dad never failed to call me and leave a voice mail including the phrase: “Jean has a long moustache,” that being a coded message alerting the French Resistance of the pending invasion. I wrote, at some length, about this small but heartwarming annual event, and the movie itself in The Logical Lizard last year.

So, yesterday, I was more than a little sad. Of course, I watched the movie, alone, but there would be no coded message from Dad this year, or any other years. And then my friend Howard Streitfeld, a witty fellow with a mischievous yet kind sense of humor, called from New York to remind me, slyly, that “Jean has a long moustache.”

Thank you Howard.

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At Ballet Tucson’s annual fundraising event, Urban Picnic on April 15—a delightful mix of al fresco dining at La Encantada, live dance performance, live music, and an art auction of works by highly-respected artists—principal female dancer Jenna Johnson gave an entertaining talk about the mechanics of ballet shoes. Many will be surprised to learn that professional quality hand-made ballet footwear, as worn by a dancer of Jenna’s caliber, can run to $100 a pair. While, under normal use, they might last for a week of rehearsals, Jenna went on to admit that during a particularly energetic period of practice she might demolish a pair of said shoes in a single day. Multiply that by the number of dancers in a company, and the number of rehearsals required to prepare for a single program, and you will get a very small glimpse into how expensive and challenging it is to keep a cutting-edge professional ballet troupe working and performing in the modern world.

Daniel Salvador of Ballet Tucson displaying "Lunchbox" by Tom Spitz, at Urban Picnic, April 15, 2012

Following her talk, Jenna auctioned off a pair of her own shoes, used during rehearsals for Cinderella, to the fascinated crowd. With all proceeds going directly towards funding Ballet Tucson’s operating costs, the winning bid of $1,150 received an enthusiastic round of applause. That is how you support the arts.

Jenna Johnson, one of Ballet Tucson's principal dancers discusses the intricacies of ballet shoes at Urban Picnic

Ballet Tucson’s Artistic Director, Mary Beth Cabana, has, during her impressive career, appeared as a principal dancer with Cleveland Ballet, Ballet Oklahoma, Arizona Dance Theater, and San Diego Ballet. She is to be admired and commended for fighting to keep her dream of a regularly-performing ballet company in Tucson, alive and well. In addition to the surprisingly high cost of just the shoes, there are always ongoing expenses associated with original costumery, complicated stage sets, salaries for dancers and the administrative staff, dance studio fees, and so on. In the current political climate, with arts funding being cut, left and right, Ballet Tucson, and other leading arts groups in Tucson cannot rely on grants and Federal funding; they need direct support from arts patrons and aficionados.

Ballet Tucson’s repertoire is much more sophisticated that one might expect from a regional company. During the 2011–2012 “Season of Transformation” they have boldly performed rarely-seen work by influential choreographer Anthony Tudor, original pieces by local choreographers associated with the company, as well as established favorites such as The Nutcracker. Original choreography for this weekend’s Cinderella—a ballet in three acts, and one of the world’s most popular dance pieces—is by Assistant Artistic Director Chieko Imada and Mark Schneider, who has worked as a Principal Artist with Ballet Met in Columbus, Ohio, and numerous other companies. Additional staging is by Artistic Associates and internationally renowned dancers Amanda McKerrow and John Gardiner, and by Mary Beth Cabana herself. That list represents a remarkable amount of talent and expertise devoted to the staging of a single piece, and “this magnificent and critically-acclaimed ballet,” set to Prokofiev’s alluring and—at times, almost magical—score, should delight art lovers of all ages.

Jenna Johnson stars in "Cinderella" this weekend at Centennial Hall. Photograph © Ed Flores

There will be only two performances of Cinderella: Saturday, May 5 at 7:30 p.m. and Sunday, May 6 at 2 p.m., both at U of A’s Centennial Hall—one of the finest venues in town. Ticket prices range from $26 to $41, with group discounts available, and may be ordered through the Centennial Hall Ticket Office at (520) 621-3341, or online at www.uapresents.org.

When I decided to move my operation to Tucson, from New York City, years ago, my choice of a new home was largely based on the exceptional arts community that our small city enjoys. The preponderance of visual artists, performing artists, musicians, and independent cinema and filmmakers, is joyously out of proportion to the size of our town. Such an environment can exist only with vigorous and continued support from our citizens. Last year, my company, Aerolite Meteorites LLC, became an official corporate sponsor of Ballet Tucson, because it is one thing to say “support the arts” in my column, and another thing to actually do it.

Ballet Tucson is actively seeking new corporate and private sponsorships. Donations of any amount are gratefully accepted and will go directly towards keeping engaging live performance thriving in Tucson. Corporate sponsors receive complimentary tickets to performances, invitations to VIP events and rehearsals, and—most importantly—they have the amazing opportunity to bring a young dancer’s dreams to life.

If you play your cards right, you might even end up with a pair of Cinderella’s slippers.

Text © Geoffrey Notkin
“Cinderella” photograph © Ed Flores
Additional photography © Geoffrey Notkin
All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission