AREA 51, Nevada, 1987 by Ruth Nolan, from a memoir about working in the Mojave Desert as a helicopter hotshot crew member in the BLM’s California Desert District…

Area 51, Nevada 1987 is published in LUMEN Issue 1 

http://www.lumenmag.net/flip-the-switch

I’m on top of a mountain, somewhere in Nevada, but other than that, I have no idea where I am.  Just that I’m the vicinity of Area 51, home to top secret U.S. military activities and, some say, inexplicable alien sightings and extra-terrestrial activities.

I’m the only woman on a crew of 12, based out of the Bureau of Land Management Apple Valley Fire Station in the Mojave Desert, a two hour drive east of Los Angeles, but there are only six of us up here tonight.  We were flown in from tiny Caliente, Nevada, 180 miles northeast of Las Vegas, hours ago, as dusk was settling in across the sky, on the 212 Helicopter used for our initial attack flight crew. We are designated as a first responder crew throughout the desert Southwest, on-call 24-7 as a small, first responder crew when desert wildfires break out.

I have no idea what time it is, just that I’m shivering so hard, lying here on the rocky ground next to the rough fireline I cut earlier this evening with the guys on the crew, that I’ve woken up. I can hear a few of the others snoring, and it seems I’m the only one who’s awake.

This is one of my very first assignments. Lightning is the cause of this fire, and we’ve managed to keep it down to burning less than an acre by cutting down blazing Pinyon pine trees and clearing Juniper bushes away with chainsaws and Pulaskis. The Pulaski is a specialized two-headed steel tool with an axe on one side, and a grubbing instrument on the other, designed specifically for fighting wildland fires in terrain such as what we are seeing up here.

On the 30 minute flight here from Caliente, I looked down at the ground rushing beneath us, so that I could avoid getting airsick, and so I could convince myself that we weren’t heading too far from town, but there were no roads, no houses, no sign whatsoever of human life across the parched and moon-like desert landscape below us. Several times, our strapping crew boss, Mark “Buster” Hennessey, shouted over the through his flight helmet and the deafening noise of the helicopter, that the fire we were going to was in Area 51. By all appearances, it certainly appeared that we’ve dropped off the edge of civilization and entered a surreal sort of twilight zone, a sensation made all the more unsettling by how very dark it is out here now, how very quiet and still and lonely.

I look up, half-asleep, feeling stoned and dazed. Glass-cut stars beam down at me. There’s no light at all, except for a very faint smudge of light on the far away horizon, which I can detect when I lift my head off the ground. I realize that must be Las Vegas, and wish I were there, instead, tucked into a hotel room or playing roulette, sipping beer, with my boyfriend Zach.

And I remember Zack’s voice, thick with sarcasm, taunting me as I left the house a few days ago to go to work at the fire station, which isn’t far from our adobe desert cabin, where he lives with me. “You think you’re such hot shit, on a hotshot crew, don’t you?” I see his face, twisted in a smirk, hovering over me.  “You’re only doing it because you want to fuck all the guys on the crew, aren’t you?” I blink hard, willing the image and sound of his angry voice away, but it’s hard to erase.

So I sit up, teeth chattering, pull the Velcro tabs at the wrists of my yellow fire-resistant Nomex shirt as tight as I can, then fold my arms close to my chest and lean forward, trying to pull myself into a little ball to gather warmth into myself. I have no idea what time it is, because I don’t have a watch. This is many years before cell phones are invented, and it’s doubtful I’d be able to get reception anyway in this extremely remote place.

            It’s hard to believe how cold I am, remembering how hot I was just a few hours ago while cutting fireline, drenching the t-shirt beneath my Nomex shirt with sweat. That must be why I’m so chilled. My t-shirt never got a chance to dry off completely after the sun went down and the temperature, although it’s June and the day was hot, over 100 degrees, plummeted. I have no idea how cold it is up here on this desert peak, but it’s  enough to make my teeth chatter so hard it feels like they’ll break apart. Being exhausted and feeling the soreness creeping into my shoulders and arms from the hours of brutal work I did earlier this evening doesn’t help.

I’m scared. I wish I had a blanket, but out here, that’s a ridiculous thought. Each of us only has what we can carry on our backs, including as much water as we can clip onto our belts in one-quart plastic bottles issued by the BLM, a headlamp that fastens onto our plastic yellow hard hats, and, of course, our tools, which weigh a considerable amount. I’m using my mandatory fire shelter, folded and bundled into a pack the size of two boxes of brown sugar – our only defense against a fire blow up and to be used only in emergencies, at the direction of our crew boss – as a sort of pillow. 

I’m thinking of unpacking my fire shelter, also known as a “shake n’ bake” for obvious reasons, to wrap myself in to get warm, but I’m too well-trained to do that – we’ve been repeatedly told that opening a fire shelter without permission is actually grounds for a felony charge.  I’m cold, but I am too scared to defy authority.

I look to my right, and see one of my crew-mates, Josh McKinney, curled in an uncomfortable position, his hand under his head. He’s shivering, too, but it looks like he’s still asleep. He’s only about five feet away from me. I slowly crawl towards him, getting as close as I dare without touching him, hoping to generate a mutual body heat, but not wanting him to think I’m being suggestive. Soon, although I’m embarrassed, and hope he doesn’t wake up and get angry at me, or think I want to have sex with him, I’m curled up behind him, in a spoon position, and I begin to feel a little bit warmer, and not so alone.

Down the fireline, Buster snores loudly, not a care in the world, and getting deep rest. He’s a big, blonde, rough guy, 6’4,” with a pregnant, petite blonde wife at home, and he yells at all of us a lot. He seems to yell even more at me, and sometimes his tone is snide or downright cruel.

“You were scared to get out of the helicopter tonight, weren’t you, Ruth?” Buster had sneered in front of the rest of the crew as we’d devoured our awful, dehydrated chicken casserole dinners out of our military-issue, plastic green MRE (meal-ready-to-eat) pouches.  “I saw you hesitate to jump out. I know this is a lot for a girl like you. Maybe you shouldn’t be out here, you think?”  I’d ignored him, and smiled politely, smoldering inside, and thinking of all the things I wanted to say to him, but was too insecure, and frightened, to voice.

I tell myself firmly to forget about it, and try instead to concentrate on staying warm, on trying not to guzzle the little bit of water I have left in my canteen, even though I’m thirsty, and on trying to feel less like breaking down and sobbing. I feel like hugging Josh, maybe waking him up and telling him how cold and scared I am, and seeing if he can help me, but I don’t. Josh is one of the nicest guys on the crew, and he’s 24 years old, like me, and he’s cute, and I want him to respect me.

I’m glad he’s next to me, especially when I start remembering, like I always do, on my many sleepless nights during the past seven years, the baby I gave away when I was 17. Her face seems especially clear tonight, layered across the Milky Way, and, through my exhausted and spacey daze, I look into her eyes,  which blink back at me,  and I search for some indication of who she is in her newborn awakening. I wonder hazily where she is tonight, and hope she is sound asleep, and safe in her little bed.

I remember what it felt like to hold her in my arms before the social worker took her away, three days old, and hear my father’s voice, telling me I’d soon forget about her and get on with my life, and that I was saving our family from being ruined by the shame of my disgraceful behaviors. I haven’t talked to my parents in over a year, and they don’t even know where I am tonight. They don’t know I’m working on the fire crew.

I know I should try to sleep. We’re supposed to start working again as soon as it starts to get light, and mop up any remaining embers or flare-ups in the charred area that’s already burned, and make sure the fire is entirely out, and that will probably be soon.  I hear a gentle crackling noise, and open my eyes. The fire is still smoldering and just a few feet away from my face, I see a small flame leap up, stoked by the light wind, then settle down, and disappear. It sounds like a soothing lullaby.

I have no idea when we are getting out here, no idea when Helicopter 554 will return.

WHY I HATE AND LOVE MOTHER'S DAY

Earlier today, Mother’s Day, 2015, I sat with my mother, Beverly, who is in her 70’s, and other family members, at a table at a posh resort in the Coachella Valley, one of the most prestigious vacation destinations in the world. If you’d have happened to pass by our table, you would have seen a family celebrating Mother’s Day 2015 with joy, love, at an all-around happy gathering. We had cards, we had flowers, we had balloons, we had smiles, and it was all genuine. I truly have enjoyed Mother’s Day this year.

But earlier today, I read an essay called “Why I Hate Mother’s Day” by Anne Lamott, and I instantly felt a twinge of recognition and solidarity, and, judging by how many likes there were at the bottom of her story, and how many times I’ve seen this story shared on Facebook in the last few days, millions of other women can also relate. I applauded Lamott, for her usual courage and humor in writing honestly about feelings and experiences that so many women have, but feel unable to speak of, let alone even admit to. 

I applaud Lamott, especially for her honesty. It’s the first time I’ve seen an article like this that speaks to one of the core emotional truths about this yearly May motherhood charade. Because, you see, I have always secretly and self-ashamedly hated Mother’s Day, too. 

Until now.

Now, I don’t just hate Mother’s Day. Now, to my great surprise, I love Mother’s Day, too. I hate Mother’s Day, and I love Mother’s day, because in a world of deadlines and punctuality, where honest feelings are to be hugely avoided where displaying our true emotions is regarded as a sign of weakness, Mother’s Day is a holiday that makes me feel. 

Mother's Day is like the powerful, paradox of the yellow, rose-like blossoms emerging from the bulbous limbs of the desert's prickly-pear cactus, right in time for this maternal holiday: something beautiful and rare, right in the heart of something - the finely-fuzzed thorn pads on the prickly pear -  that can cause great and lingering pain if you don't handle it carefully and with great respect. And I don't know anyone who lives in the desert who hasn't had an unpleasant encounter with a prickly pear cactus at one time or another. 

And as I stare in awe at a prickly pear in my desert garden this Mother's Day, stunned again at how these perfect flowers co-exist within the unkindnesses of the prickly pear, perhaps even thriving on them, I feel a lot of things, some of them unpleasant and some of them wonderful.  Mother’s Day triggers for me, and so many other women, and maybe even a lot of men, a lot of feelings and memories that make our hearts hurt. 

But for all its artifice and overload of flower fragrances, and for all of its tendency to force upon so many of us an overload of “mother” memories and losses and strained relationships and desires that we’d rather not think about, there’s a lot that matters to it all. There’s a lot more that matters, to Mother’s Day, beneath all the commercialism, sentimental greeting cards, and cutesy fluff. And here’s where I want to dig in a little more.

For years, most of my adult life to date, I have hated Mother’s Day. I’ve not only hated it, but I’ve completely lost my shit, year after year, when it came around. My daughter Tarah can tell you how many Mother’s Days have sent me into an emotional tailspins, or how many times she has threatened to nominate me for Drama Queen Mom-of-the-Year on Mother’s Day. There’s the year I threw all the boxes of cereal in the pantry against the kitchen wall, and there is, to my great shame, the year I sent dishes breaking against that very same wall.

And we won’t even mention the time I threatened to run away from home on Mother’s Day the year Tarah turned 11, or the time I had a meltdown and stormed out of a fancy family brunch in Palm Springs in front of 14-year-old Tarah, and my own mother. Year after year, pretty much since I became a mother, the holiday of Mother’s Day has tended to bring out the worst in me. I can only hope that Tarah forgives me, and I think she has.

But the truth is, I never really fully understood it myself. 

I’ve hated myself for not being able to properly commemorate Mother’s Day, to be able to just sit back, enjoy the flowers, nibble on savory omelettes cooked by professional chefs, and happily sip bubbly mimosa from fluted stemware, let alone just keep myself from falling apart. After all, I’ve reminded myself every year, I have a beautiful daughter, surely one of the biggest gifts in my life, and a widely-beloved mother who is still alive. What the hell, I have repeatedly asked myself, is my problem?

Every Mother’s Day, Tarah has showered me with love and gifts, as has my own mother, and even, year after year, one of my own brothers. I’m not the kind of mom or daughter who expects a Mother’s Day gift, or to be treated any differently than on any other day of the year. Because I dislike sentimentality, I could easily live without Mother’s Day, but on the other hand, I’m always happy to receive flowers and cards, just as I was always happy to get home-made pancakes and gifts made by Tarah during her elementary school years, in spite of my tendencies towards meltdowns and malaise. Today, I was beyond joyed to get a “Happy Mother’s Day” phone call from Tarah and 21-month-old Baby Simon.

There is a dark side to Mother’s Day for everyone, let’s face it. I have so many friends trying to conceive, who aren’t able to have their own babies, or who have miscarried, or even lost a child to death, and my heart hurts for them. I have so many friends who have lost their own beloved mothers far too soon, and my heart hurts for them, too. I have friends who may have chosen to not have children, in their younger years, and now crave the comfort of having young adult children, as they themselves face their aging years alone.

And I have friends who are in middle age who are pained by Mother’s Day, understandably, because it invalidates their own choice to not have children; it makes them feel they are somehow not as worthy, in the social scheme of things, as their sisters who have chosen to be mothers. And also, Mother’s Day tends to reinforce, for many women, their own lack of worthiness as women and mothers and daughters in a society that places so much pressure on all of us to be perfect, especially in our roles as mothers and daughters.

I have friends who are mothers who are estranged from their own children, and I have countless friends whose relationships with or memories of their mothers are painful and fraught with road kill, to put it mildly. Today, on Facebook, I saw Mother’s Day postings that made my smile – the picture of friends who are celebrating their first special day as new moms – and postings that made me cry – the picture of a friend sitting by his mother’s gravestone. There is no one who can experience a perfect Mother’s Day. For all of us, this can be quite a rough bag of tricks. And it’s unavoidable, like all of our other major holidays, even if you try.

My own Mother’s Day issues may be somewhat unique for me, but I’m certain other women can identify. For one, Mother’s Day has always triggered a subconscious reminder that I have another child out in the world who I’ve never known, the progeny of a teenage pregnancy that almost killed me so many years ago and that I was coerced by guilt and shame to place up for adoption. 1980 was another time, and teen pregnancy was not as widely accepted as it is now. Mother’s Day was also, for so many years, a pained and infuriating reminder for me at how hard it was to be a single mother, something I didn’t sign up for.

A lot of my rage, I realize now, came from my frustration with my daughter’s father, who has been incarcerated for most of her lifetime; rage at him for not being there for she or I, and rage at him for his lack of financial support, stemming from his lack of functionality. I also know that I had a lot of anger at my mother for so many years, because she was so emotionally inaccessible to me, although physically present; our relationship was strained, at best, until recently, when I started to fully understand how overwhelmed she was by my demanding father and a family of four born-too-close-together children, not to mention the death of her own mother (when my mom was only 32 years old), but for many years, I carried a lifetime of abandonment issues and resentments because of it. 

Finally, there’s the strong feelings I couldn’t shake, when it came to Mother’s Day: that it was a day of hypocrisy, a day to patronize women, as it were, and thank them for doing so much for so little appreciation or praise or monetary compensation. I used to get very, very angry about all of this.

So what’s changed? Why do I now read an essay like Lamott’s, which I cheer for, and identify with in so many ways, but also say, “Wait….!”? I hate Mother’s Day. But now, miraculously, serendipitously, I also love Mother’s Day. I hate it because it feels contrived, and because it makes me feel so much that is so ambiguous. 

But I love it now, too, because it’s now an incentive for me to take a close look at my life in a wider context, and see that the tricky territory of Mother’s Day doesn’t have to control how I feel. It is going to make me feel things, no getting around it, but now, I somehow have found the grace, as I realize that I have a finite number of Mother’s Days left to live through – perhaps through the promised wisdom of my new middle age – to fully embrace this holiday, for all its good and bad.

This year, I hate Mother’s day and I love Mother’s Day. I have laughed a little bit, and I’ve cried a little bit, too, for myself and for women (and men) and sons and daughters and love and loss everywhere. I choose to savor Mother’s Day now in all its bittersweet, not wanting to miss a beat, and somehow, I feel more complete than I ever thought I would. This Mother's Day is, for me, so full. It's so bittersweet and full of the ripe nutrients of life, like the chunk of pomegranate on my plate from today's buffet. 

And so, I choose to face this traditionally difficult day head-on this year, and in doing so, I surprise myself when I find rays of joy mixed in with the pain, and see how the net of motherhood in my life continues to expand; I'm in the middle of three generations of a still-living mother-child chain; I'm both mother and daughter and mother to a daughter who I now see in the role of mother. And all of this is something to be savored, for all its ups and downs. 

And on this Mother's Day, I find a stunning yellow flower, so beautiful it melts my heart, beaming up at me from a cactus plant I know better than to touch or get too close to, because it will bite back; these are things I must admire respectfully and with care.  And I know what I must do today: water the prickly pear, even against the odds of the thorns that challenge me, and enjoy its delicious offering.