I do not know why I decided to take a flashlight with me this time, but last night I walked across the yard and nearly stepped on a teenaged rattler who was coiled in a perfect circle right in my path. Even with the light the snake was barely visible: kind of dug into the sand with its rattle tucked neatly under itself. Its tongue flicked in and out as it lay there waiting for some critter--one that did not have a flashlight. I could tell you all about the snake and assorted vermin adventures we have had most recently, but I sense perhaps it is getting redundant in this venue. So I will save it for my memoir, which I will title: Running From Critters. So, in that regard, I won't tell you about the rattlesnake that was lounging by our friend Victoria's pool, which Kip slaughtered and which Ryan skinned, and which was subsequently cut up and fried...much to my sorrow, partly because it is sad to kill animals, but mostly because I arrived at the scene thinking I was going to pick Kip up and bring him home, but got entwined in this snaky adventure instead. I have not been so grossed out, quite frankly, in years. Um, no, I did not eat any of the meat. I tasted a tiny sliver and spit it out. It was like the yucky part of eating moules et frites; it was like chewing meat gum. And you will not read here all about the Mojave Shovel-Nosed Snake that somehow ended up in our kitchen and was as bewildered as we were about how it got there. Actually, that little guy was pretty cute. Oh and also, I won't tell you about the black widow that was making its home in one of our houseplants. And I won't tell you about the pair of scorpion pincers the size of lobster claws that protruded from under our back step slab. (Scorpions probably taste like meat gum too.) No, I would much rather write about (and ask you to read about) my commute to work at the Thermal/ Mecca campus of College of the Desert. I mean, in a way, it also involves a reptile or two. Not the two-legged variety like I encountered at my previous job, but the real thing. The first day I made my slow-motion winding way through Joshua Tree National Park (entering at the Oasis of Mara entrance and emerging at the Cottonwood Springs exit) I saw a desert tortoise off the side of the road. I stopped and snapped a photo, touched its shell, told it how much I loved it, and moved on. My declaration of love did not inspire the tortoise to come out of its shell, but then, as the wiser of us know, that kind of frankness rarely has such a result. The other creature I saw in the park was more mysterious. At about seven a.m., as I came around what I hoped was one of the final curves in the road to Cottonwood, a tall, two-legged figure emerged from behind the chaparral and help up a stop sign. You know, I had hoped to see maybe some ravens, a road-runner or two, at least a coyote. But no. What creature did I encounter deep in the wilderness of JTNP? A dude with a ponytail. I stopped, and the dude shuffled over to my curious car window. He said, "pilot car will be here shortly to take you through the zone." Huh? Oddly enough, it turned out that the roadwork that we all were assured would be completed by September first was, well, not completed. So I used the half hour wait to stretch my legs and finish my coffee, trying to respond to the hushed serenity of my geographical location rather than respond to the panic in my skull that was trying really hard to break the pretty silence. After the delay in the Park and the half-hour roller-coaster ride through Box Canyon, I made things even worse by getting lost in Mecca. The online map had somehow made it look as if the campus would be right at the foot of Box Canyon Road. But that road leads you right into an area of lush and sudden agriculture. Grape vines, fig and citrus trees, and date palms with bags hanging from them that (as I learned from my students) protect the dates from the sun. After a tour of Mecca or Thermal (not sure which one it was), I pulled off the road at a small Taqueria and called the administration office. The voice of panic was winning by now: I should never have taken this job. An eight a.m. call two hours from home? What an idiot! I'm not even ready for this! At least I was smart enough not to say any of that aloud to the administrative assistant at the other end of the line, who likely would not have had time to hear about my existential dilemma. A student named Norma was in the office when I called. An arrangement was made whereby Norma would meet me in the parking lot of the Mecca Boys' and Girls' Club (which was the only landmark I could identify) and lead me to campus. So there I was, a half-hour late, toting a huge bag of books and papers, hair all messy, no make-up (I had planned to put make-up on in the parking lot once I arrived with twenty minutes to spare), and dusty sandals. How the hell am I going to make these kids believe that I know how to use a comma, and, moreover, that I can teach them once and for all when AND WHEN NOT TO use a comma? Sigh. But they were all there. Waiting for me. So I pulled myself together (or at least provided the outward appearance of doing so) and smiled and became the reluctant extrovert that I must become for the two hours it takes to teach English 71. I really like the students so far. I also know that, by Thanksgiving, at least half of them will have disappeared. It has already started. Four students walked out of class inexplicably last Wednesday. I got the explanations for three of them later via email. One, it turned out, had to go with his parents to translate at the doctor's office. One had to be at a doctor's appointment with his wife and infant daughter. One, Norma in fact, had an oil leak and could not start her car. You know what? I am a teacher the first three days of the week and I guess I am glad. I prefer the latter part of the week when I am a musician, of course. But my eyes are open to new things, which can sometimes be a good thing. And they are actually finished with the construction in the Park. Now, instead of the dude with the ponytail, I see bats swooping around my car and lizards scampering across the fresh, hot asphalt. It's another world down there in the east Coachella Valley; it reminds me of the Rio Grande Valley in south Texas in some ways. The students are the people whose parents pick your fruit and work at the resorts in Palm Desert and Rancho Mirage. They are mostly native Spanish speakers. So I checked a Spanish language audio course out of the library. If you see me driving along through the Park at dawn or dusk, talking to myself in broken Spanish--I hope you will understand. Here is a song and a poem combined—the very song that popped into my head as I first drove into Mecca. And yes, it's by a dead white guy. Deal with it. Pastures of Plenty Words and Music by Woody Guthrie "It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed My poor feet have traveled a hot dusty road Out of your Dust Bowl and Westward we rolled And your deserts were hot and your mountains were cold I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes I slept on the ground in the light of the moon On the edge of the city you'll see us and then We come with the dust and we go with the wind California, Arizona, I harvest your crops Well its North up to Oregon to gather your hops Dig the beets from your ground, cut the grapes from your vine To set on your table your light sparkling wine Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground From the Grand Coulee Dam where the waters run down Every state in the Union us migrants have been We'll work in this fight and we'll fight till we win It's always we rambled, that river and I All along your green valley, I will work till I die My land I'll defend with my life if it be Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free"