But after he left, Dad called him the goddamn gestapo and said that
people like that got their jollies pushing people like us around. Dad was
fed up with civilization. He and Mom decided we should move back to
the desert and resume our hunt for gold without our starter money.
"These cities will kill you," he said.
AFTER WE PULLED UP stakes in San Francisco, we headed for the
Mojave Desert. Near the Eagle Mountains, Mom made Dad stop the car.
She'd seen a tree on the side of the road that had caught her fancy.
It wasn't just any tree. It was an ancient Joshua tree. It stood in a crease
of land where the desert ended and the mountain began, forming a wind
tunnel. From the time the Joshua tree was a tiny sapling, it had been so
beaten down by the whipping wind that, rather than trying to grow
skyward, it had grown in the direction that the wind pushed it. It existed
now in a permanent state of windblownness, leaning over so far that it
seemed ready to topple, although, in fact, its roots held it firmly in place.
I thought the Joshua tree was ugly. It looked scraggly and freakish,
permanently stuck in its twisted, tortured position, and it made me think
o f how some adults tell you not to make weird faces because your
features could freeze. Mom, however, thought it was one of the most
beautiful trees she had ever seen. She told us she had to paint it. While
she was setting out her easel, Dad drove up the road to see what was
ahead. He found a scattering of parched little houses, trailers settling
into the sand, and shacks with rusty tin roofs. It was called Midland. One
of the little houses had a for-rent sign. "What the hell," Dad said, "this
place is as good as any other."
The house we rented had been built by a mining company. It was white,
with two rooms and a swaybacked roof. There were no trees, and the
desert sand ran right up to the back door. At night you could hear coyotes