The Adventures of Fric and Frac: Adventure 211: Covered Wagon RV Park/Phoenix, AZ/Post O

Half a day well spent and more possible for those able.

Albeit a bit chilly for most of the locals, it was just another day in paradise for us. We met the Valentines at the Heard Museum just after 10 A.M. The museum, which focuses on Native Americans, is simply spectacular. The building has evolved around the original Indian School in Phoenix. The art work is placed in a way that suggests the peace and beauty of the desert. The exhibits pull no punches in terms of Native pride and the abuses of the Great White fathers. Of special note were the exhibits in the school itself. The orderly classroom, the organized barracks, and White man's sports offered a stark contrast to the temporal nature of the desert. Quote after quote recounted the pain of mistreatment, mistrust, and mismanagement. One quote that echoes in my mind sums up the government policy of the day: "Kill the Indian, save the man." The idea at the time was to take infant Indian children from their natural homes, gather them in faraway places, and "civilize" them. The schools were run like military institutions, full of daily regimens, long days, and lonely nights. One photo that spoke volumes pictured a cemetery. The names on the stones were those of Indians from all over the Southwest and further. One Indian sentiment related mournfully, "The only way to go home was to die." In contrast to the sobering nature of how the white man treated the Indian, the exhibits presented the creativity, pride, and excellence of the indian peoples in ways that showed compassion, understanding, and appreciation. One room detailed the history and separate lives of various tribes. Around the room at ceiling height was a striking series of murals chronicling the painful Native American history as seen from the Indian perspective (I can't remember the artist's name-sorry). Once again, my ignorance (Or the corruption of my education) showed through. I had no idea how many Indian schools were managed by our government, or for how long. It reminded me of how little I knew of Texas history last year. It's one of the best parts of traveling because if a person has eyes to see, many things can be seen. Judy's knee began to tire after about three hours, and the Doctor got a little winded, too, so we headed for lunch at the top notch St Francis Cafe. We had to wait about twenty minutes, but a very cordial and efficient waiter brought us water, lit the heat lamp (Can you imagine?), and we waited in a very comfortable outdoor seating area. Our lunch was stupendous. Judy had the flat bread (Oblong pizza, really) special of the day; Rita ordered the meatballs on the advice of her son-in-law; Jim had an Italian cold cut sandwich; and I had Pork Chili Verde. We also had a head of roasted cauliflower. I'm always happy eating food that's better than I can prepare myself because I love the fact that someone brings it to me, and it's always a joy to experience eating great food. Our waitress, Heather, was quite cute, very pleasant, humorous, and efficient. The decor was warm, and since it was lunch time, the place was jumping. I'd recommend the place for those who like an upscale lunch (Or dinner-the evening menu looked good, too). We parted ways and Judy and I headed back to the trailer just in time to button up the awning, chairs, and table before an amazingly dark cloud full of powerful wind and thrashing rain rushed through. We watched the trees shudder, the leaves flutter, and the rain drops splatter. An hour or so later, the bright sun came back out, the fresh blue air settled down, and we decided to enjoy a short afternoon walk. Like many places, the stormy weather here comes in like a lion. Not too long later, it got so nice, we decided to give Frac a bath, and now she's as shiny as a brand new penny. Therefore, as you can imagine, life is good, especially today.

Sculptures, deftly placed, accented the museum's presence.

A well of deep sadness filled the space.

These murals actually circled the room at ceiling level, telling a painful story. The intense colors screamed in the silence. See if the agony bleeds through of you.

The first thing that happened at an Indian school was a haircut. In the government's eyes, it was the first step to citizenship. In the Indian's eyes, it was a stripping of identity.

Thousands of artifacts filled the museum: fearful masks, incredible pottery, intricately woven baskets, glimmering silver and turquoise jewelry, blankets and shawls, and about a thousand Hopi dolls from the collection of Barry S. Goldwater. Come see. I couldn't post them all.