ÿþ<head> <title>Phaedra Greenwood photographer and author of book, Beside The Rio Hondo</title> <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <meta name="description" content="Phaedra Greenwood photographer and author of book, Beside The Rio Hondo."> <meta name="keywords" content="Phaedra Greenwood, photographer, author, Beside The Rio Hondo, writer, Taos NM, New Mexico, short stories, book"> </head> <body bgcolor="#FFCC99" background="graphics/gp-bg-0702.jpg" LINK="#000000" VLINK="#999999" ALINK="#0000FF" TEXT="#330033" leftmargin="0" topmargin="0" rightmargin="0"> <div align="center"> <font face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" size="3"><b> <img src="graphics/t.gif" width="1" height="6" border="0" alt="spacer"><br> <font size="2"> <a href="index.html" title="Phaedra's Home">HOME</a> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <a href="book2.html" title="North With The Spring">BOOK&nbsp; INFO</a> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <a href="gallery-book2.html" title="Photographs of Phaedra Greenwood">BOOK ILLUSTRATIONS</a> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <font size="1">EXCERPTS</font> <!-- &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <a href="about.html" title="About the Book">AUTHOR'S NOTES</a> --> </font><br><br><br> <table width="660" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><tr> <td width="500" align="left" valign="middle"> <img src="img/title-0701.jpg" width="389" height="71" border="0" alt="Phaedra Greenwood"></a> <img src="graphics/t.gif" width="100" height="1" border="0" alt="spacer"><br> <img src="graphics/t.gif" width="1" height="10" border="0" alt="spacer"><br> <img src="graphics/t.gif" width="200" height="1" border="0" alt="spacer"> <font size="4">Author &amp; Photographer</font><br><br></td> <td width="160" align="left" valign="middle"> <a href="book.html" title="North With The Spring"> <img src="img/nwts-cover-m.jpg" 116 height="172" border="0" alt="North With The Spring"></a></td></tr> </table> <img src="graphics/t.gif" width="1" height="10" border="0" alt="spacer"><br> <font size="3"><b>Excerpts from<br> <font size="5">&quot; North With The Spring &quot; </font><br> By<br> Phaedra Greenwood<br> Published by Sunstone Press 2010</b></font><br><br> <table width="620" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><tr> <td width="620" align="left" valign="middle"> <span style="line-height:125%"><b> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;We stopped by the open market to buy some groceries and gawk at the surge and call of it: piles of gleaming silver fish, purple octopus, squid, shrimp, skinned rabbits and plucked chickens dangling from hooks, giant wheels of orange cheese, buckets of black and green olives, stacks of artichokes and the grinning face of a farmer tossing a huge orange in the air, catching it, with a wink at me,  Sicilia!  Si, Sicilia! I smiled and bought some. I had become addicted to the tangy flavor and rich color that made them seem so much more alive than California oranges.<br><br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;We spent our evenings in the hotel playing hearts or poker with animal crackers for chips. You could lose by gobbling too much of your winnings. We saw  Ghostbusters dubbed in Italian, and read prodigiously, but we were running out of English language books. We were still homesick from time to time, but felt better when we received letters from friends in New Mexico saying it was ten below zero with lots of snow.<br><br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;Fresh from my nap, I too climbed the path up the bluff and stood looking out over the Mediterranean, clear as glass and aquamarine below me, sky blue further out, a smudge of purple on the horizon. I ambled on until I came to a field of brilliant pink and yellow flowers, the size of my little finger, waving in the wind. I stood in wonder as the colors of the day sang around me: lime green, pink and yellow, purple and blue. The only sound was the sea pounding at the pocked volcanic stones beneath my feet. Here was the Sicily of the Gods, of Ulysses, the Cyclops and the Sirens.<br><br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;After my fight with Jim, I stalked the streets of Salerno alone, in rain that wouldn t let up. I brooded about the future of our relationship and got thoroughly soaked. So there we were, stuck in our little hotel without central heating, waiting for money from the States so we could go on to Rome. We would all come in with wet clothes and wet shoes and gather around Sara s hair dryer to warm our hands. God bless Sara s hairdryer, our onlysource of heat!<br><br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;Jim wrote in the journal: Sunday in Rome. Phaedra and I walked along the Tiber in themorning, church bells ringing, the water high and brown, carrying debris, a few men fishing, the sun out just as we imagined it me thinking of Belli, Pavese and Pasolini. Many Italian faces, alive and feeling good about it all. The man with brushes in his ears because he doesn t cut the hair out of them; the woman who sits on the ground watching a long row of suitcases and bundles at the train station day after day. (She sleeps there, I discovered.) The Catholic school children dressed in white smocks; the Roman matrons in fur coats . . . <br><br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;We took a day trip to Pisa by train. The landing was traumatic for Sara, definitely the low point of the trip for her. As the train pulled into the station we found ourselves trapped behind a coach door that opened in instead of out. I went to the other end of the car to get off, but when I reached the platform, I was alone. Sara appeared in the door. I was astounded to see the conductor push in the step and signal to the engineer. The train began to roll. I thought we were about to be separated. My heart was in my throat.  Jump! <br><br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;Sara said,  I saw Mom down below and thought my whole family had gotten off the train and I was left behind, so I pushed past the conductor and jumped. I fell on my wrists on the cement, broke my turquoise bracelet and cut my hand. Dad ran back and pulled the emergency brake. Bells went off and people were yelling, but we didn t care. I was scared and cried all the way to the restaurant. I felt freezing. Dad said it was a reaction to my jumping from the train. </b></span></td></tr> </table><br> <table width="620" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><tr> <td width="390" align="left" valign="middle"> <span style="line-height:125%"><b> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;Jim wrote: We treated ourselves to a chicken dinner in a Pisa restaurant, bought ice cream cones and walked back toward the station. The streets were full of people in Renaissance costumes gathering for a parade. Drums! Crossbows! Chain mail! Banners! A knight smoking a cigarette. Young women in long velvet dresses and men who normally ride scooters and hang out, marching in step to the beat of the drums. I was moved by the continuity of community traditions. Brian said,  Awesome, rowdy. Sara said,  Colorful! It made even those people who weren t into their parts look good. We were all exhilarated.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;Lost in shadow, swallowed alive by this gaping stone cavern, we were swept along up the main aisle to the swell of the opening hymn. We seemed to be walking down a broad avenue between gigantic elms whose branches vaulted the dark space in perfect symmetry, drawing us up through suffering and loss to the muted splendor of long, stained glass windows above the altar. I paused and looked around, absorbing this miracle in glass and stone that is Chartres Cathedral, astonished by the grace and magnitude of it. As I absorbed the colors in the high rose window, my cup spilled over in grateful tears. I whispered to Brian,  If I never see another cathedral, this is enough. <br><br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;Over dinner at the B& B beside Loch Lomond we fell into a discussion about ironing.  I ve never ironed sheets, but my grandmother used to, I said.  I used to iron, the American woman said,  but then we moved to California and nobody noticed or cared. We got a dryer and started using wash and wear.  Oh, I iron everything, our hostess said with a lift of her chin.  The sheets and even Stuart s shorts. Everyone irons.  We went to a party once, Stuart said.  One of the fellows got hot and took off his jacket. We could all see that his wife had only ironed the front of his shirt and the collar. Just the parts that showed. Pretty shoddy.  <br><br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;It was cold and wet, but undeterred, I set out to visit Robert Burns memorial shrine and museum. My umbrella kept my head dry, but my shoes were squishing. By the time I got back to the hotel, I was waterlogged, bone weary and sleepy. At nine I went down to the lounge to catch the evening news. Every guest in the hotel seemed to be here, sitting in a large circle in the gloom, quiet and subdued. Soon the ruddy-cheeked innkeeper arrived pushing a cart with a large silver tray piled with teacups. He closed the red velvet drapes and turned on the chandelier. People smiled, leaned toward each and passed the cups around. Sugar cubes tinkled against china as neighbor urged neighbor to have another piece of shortbread. Soon the whole room was aglow with a lively chatter and the comforting spirit of tea while outside the rain beat against the glass and the waves sulked along the shore. All the better! The British and their tea. Suddenly I understood. <br><br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;When we arrived in New York Sara said she felt better right away because things were familiar.  It s more American! <br> But to me it seemed strange. Speeding along the freeway from the airport, I noticed wider roads, empty fields, a feeling of the land stretching away. In the U.S.A.  getting there is a big priority; roads take precedence as they slice through the landscape. I thought of the hotel maid in the Lake District who explained how roads are built in England.  If there s a badger that crosses the road in a certain place, they ll put in a culvert so it can cross safely. And frogs. If they ve hatched on one side of the road and have to migrate to the other a culvert for them, too. And what happens if they find a blackbird nest? The whole project comes to a halt until the eggs hatch out and the babies fly away! Imagine all those big blokes who knock each other around in the pub, hovering and clucking over the nest! <br><br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;Our European adventures were over; for me the journal closed with a sigh - -  gone, gone with the spring. I stood on a corner waiting for a light, struck by the large red orb of the sun that seemed to hang suspended between tall buildings. Summer sun. This must be the longest day of my life. I paused like a diver at the end of the board; anxious waves circled the still moment. Perhaps I sensed that I had reached another turning point. When I got back to the hotel, I called Dad in Michigan. The phone rang and rang. He couldn t be out. He s either in the hospital or . . . I called my brother. Tom said in a quiet voice,  Dad died yesterday. I gulped back tears and ran out into the street, looking for a steeple, a church door that wasn t locked, an altar where I could light a candle and say prayers for my father s soul to be guided, as we had been, safely home.</b></span></td></tr> </table><br> <!-- <table width="620" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><tr> <td width="390" align="left" valign="middle"> <span style="line-height:125%"><b> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; I was assigned to a work crew and we set out for the west end of the ditch. I threw myself into it like I do, widening the ditch, shoveling out stones and clumps of clay . . . We quit for lunch and came back at one. Our backs and arms were sore from wielding shovels and tossing stones. As the afternoon dragged on, sweat poured down our cheeks and we paused more often to gulp the lukewarm water from our canteens.</b></span></td> <td width="230" align="left" valign="middle"> <img src="img/pj-0703-m.jpg" width="214" height="162" border="0" alt="Convergence of the Rios"></td></tr> </table><br> --> <!-- <table width="620" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><tr> <td width="620" align="left" valign="middle"> <span style="line-height:125%"><b> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; The last hour was the worst. Dust dried our throats; weeds itched under our collars and down our shirts. With one eye on our watches, we stumbled and faltered. We had forgotten the why of it.<br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; “It’s like purgatory,” Freddie said.<br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; “You mean hell?” Emilio laughed. “Yeah, I can agree with that.”<br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; “No, purgatory. It’s never gonna end.”<br><br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; I offered my young friend Karen six bucks an hour to clean the ditch with me on Sunday. She hitchhiked to work every day and I picked her up whenever I saw her. She was tall and lanky and looked as strong as some of the men. I thought she might enjoy the novelty of working in community. She came by the house wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt, but no hat, though I offered her one of mine. I was better prepared than I had been on Saturday. I carried a bottle of water, changed my billed cap to a straw hat and traded my shovel for a rake and clippers. We started at the top of the ditch and worked our way down to the highway. It felt good to have help as we shoveled and cleaned the section that crossed our land. I showed them the muskrat holes and they stuffed them with sandbags. Together we pitched into the beaver dam that blocked the ditch and cleared it in five minutes. Again, Armando warned me to keep the beavers out.<br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; “These damn willows,” Armando said. “We’ll never get rid of them. We’re supposed to be able to walk the top of the ditch.”<br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; “It never used to be this way,” Emilio said. “People let their goats eat the willows down. But nobody keeps goats anymore.”<br><br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; It was a perfect day for photos--the fields greening up, a pure azure sky behind snowy peaks. I tucked my camera in my fanny pack and shot two rolls over the course of the day, from early morning when we were still going strong, until late afternoon when we were beaten to our knees, dazed by heat and fatigue. I tried to capture the wrinkled brown faces of the old men, the shy young boys working steadily, whispering to each other, the patient, determined women. But there was no way to capture the musical Spanish phrases that flowed between the men as they chatted and teased. “<I>Mucho calor</I>,” very hot, Esteven said, wiping his dripping forehead.<br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; “<I>Cansado</I>,” I’m tired, Ramon said, plopping his butt on the bank. He was tall with shoulder-length black hair. He offered his canteen. “<I>Aquí--agua</I>.”<br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Estevan took a swig. “How come you’re here? You don’t own land.”<br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; “I’m a <I>peón</I>,” Ramon said. “I’m working for the Zamoras. <I>Mucho trabajo, poco dinero</I>. ” Much work, little money. They both chuckled.<br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Estevan turned his sharp, brown face to me. “I remember when you first started working with the crew. You had a big knife. The guys said, ` That woman is crazy. Stay away from her.’”<br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; I slapped my gloves against my knee. “<I>¡Cuidado!</I>” Watch out.</b></span></td></tr> </table><br> --> <!-- <table width="620" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><tr> <td width="230" align="left" valign="middle"> <img src="img/gj-0701-m.jpg" width="216" height="160" border="0" alt="Painting of the CASA"></td> <td width="390" align="left" valign="middle"> <span style="line-height:125%"><b> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; At noon Karen and I trudged back to the house. I took a shower and changed my underwear. Karen and I ate salad at the outside table. Her face was bright red. “I don’t know how you can stand it,” she said. “That’s it for me. I think I have heat stroke.”<br> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; “You’d better go in and lie down.” I hefted the shovel and went back to work.<br><br></b></span></td></tr> </table> --> <img src="graphics/t.gif" width="1" height="10" border="0" alt="spacer"><br> <font size="2"> <a href="index.html" title="Phaedra's Home">HOME</a> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <a href="book2.html" title="Beside The Rio Hondo">BOOK&nbsp; INFO</a> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <a href="gallery-book2.html" title="Photographs of Phaedra Greenwood">BOOK ILLUSTRATIONS</a> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <font size="1">EXCERPTS</font> <!-- &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <a href="about.html" title="About the Book">AUTHOR'S NOTES</a> --> <br> <img src="graphics/t.gif" width="1" height="10" border="0" alt="spacer"><br> <a href="gallery.html" title="Photographs of Phaedra Greenwood"> PHAEDRA'S&nbsp; PHOTOGRAPHS</a> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <a href="about.html" title="About the Author">ABOUT PHAEDRA</a> </font><br> <img src="graphics/t.gif" width="1" height="20" border="0" alt="spacer"><br> </b></font></div> </body></html>