Memoirs of a Muppets Writer: (You mean somebody actually writes that stuff?) by Mr. Joseph A. Bailey Page A
Authors: Mr. Joseph A. Bailey
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cattle country. And, even though it’s still the United States, to an eastern city boy like me, it might as well be another planet.
I realized how foreign it was one morning in the hotel coffee shop. Three ranchers were having breakfast and talking very, very seriously about water. Water, to me, has always come out of the wall when I turn a tap. So, after a while, I became so intrigued, I said to them, “You guys talk about water the way we talk about closets in New York.”
That prompted an explanation from one of the ranchers of how scarce water was in that part of the country. Taos’s water comes from melting snow at the upper altitudes of the Sangre de Cristo mountain chain. The water travels down through an intricate system of ditches. The main ditch, the Arroyo Madre, is said to have been started by the Indians a thousand years ago. How much water is available, dictates how long ranchers are allowed to draw water from the arroyos onto their land.
When he was finished, the rancher asked me about my reference to closets. I told him that space in New York City is as scarce as water is in Taos. Then I asked him where he put his stuff. The, stuff, I explained, that he didn’t need right now, but he might need later or just didn’t want to throw out.
“That’s easy.”, he replied. “We just put it in the old barn.”
That’s when I knew it would be futile to continue that conversation.
Early one morning, Jon Stone and I went out to the Taos Pueblo to scout locations for the segments we were going to shoot there. Physically, the Pueblo hasn’t changed in 1,000 years. It rises from a valley floor up into the cliffs on both sides of a fast running mountain stream, which is the community’s only water source. Individual dwellings are carved out of the cliffs and hand made ladders are the only access from one level to another. On the “ground” floor, flat roofed, one and two story adobe buildings are separated by winding streets and small plazas, making it feel like a biblical Arab village.
The Pueblo is run much like a co-op or a condominium. Each dwelling is owned individually by local Indians and used primarily as a weekend retreat. These people can return completely to their ethnic roots with one short drive. Tewa Indian customs were rigorously observed. The most obvious was the Blanket Rule for Tewa men: If a man was outside anywhere in the Pueblo, he was required to wear an Indian blanket. It could be over his shoulders or around his waist, but he had to wear a blanket. A Tewa man without a blanket could mean he was preparing for war.
Since the Pueblo is, in effect, private property, tourists are restricted to certain areas and certain hours. Entry at any other time is possible only with a permit from the Pueblo’s Governor.
Jon and I had the Governor’s permission to visit the Pueblo that morning. The weather was just miserable. It was cold, overcast and windy. Occasional rain squalls blew down from the mountains. Because of the weather, the narrow streets were empty, adding to the sense of eeriness.
“This reminds me of a bad dream I kept having back in New York.”, Jon said to me. “I’m out here with a full cast and crew and I haven’t got the foggiest idea of what the hell I’m doing.”
“Jon,” I told him. “Please don’t ever say that again. The only thing that keeps the rest of us going is we all figure at least you know what the hell you’re doing.”
By this time we had worked our way deep into the Pueblo. We had come to a small picturesque square that Jon thought had possibilities as a location. We began discussing the square’s cinematic possibilities and the logistics of bringing in cameras, lights, crew, and shooting in the space.
Suddenly, an Indian woman appeared over us on the roof of an adobe building. She was tall and long legged in boots, jeans and a vibrant red Indian shirt with a sash. Her waist-length black hair was blowing in the wind. She was gorgeous against
I realized how foreign it was one morning in the hotel coffee shop. Three ranchers were having breakfast and talking very, very seriously about water. Water, to me, has always come out of the wall when I turn a tap. So, after a while, I became so intrigued, I said to them, “You guys talk about water the way we talk about closets in New York.”
That prompted an explanation from one of the ranchers of how scarce water was in that part of the country. Taos’s water comes from melting snow at the upper altitudes of the Sangre de Cristo mountain chain. The water travels down through an intricate system of ditches. The main ditch, the Arroyo Madre, is said to have been started by the Indians a thousand years ago. How much water is available, dictates how long ranchers are allowed to draw water from the arroyos onto their land.
When he was finished, the rancher asked me about my reference to closets. I told him that space in New York City is as scarce as water is in Taos. Then I asked him where he put his stuff. The, stuff, I explained, that he didn’t need right now, but he might need later or just didn’t want to throw out.
“That’s easy.”, he replied. “We just put it in the old barn.”
That’s when I knew it would be futile to continue that conversation.
Early one morning, Jon Stone and I went out to the Taos Pueblo to scout locations for the segments we were going to shoot there. Physically, the Pueblo hasn’t changed in 1,000 years. It rises from a valley floor up into the cliffs on both sides of a fast running mountain stream, which is the community’s only water source. Individual dwellings are carved out of the cliffs and hand made ladders are the only access from one level to another. On the “ground” floor, flat roofed, one and two story adobe buildings are separated by winding streets and small plazas, making it feel like a biblical Arab village.
The Pueblo is run much like a co-op or a condominium. Each dwelling is owned individually by local Indians and used primarily as a weekend retreat. These people can return completely to their ethnic roots with one short drive. Tewa Indian customs were rigorously observed. The most obvious was the Blanket Rule for Tewa men: If a man was outside anywhere in the Pueblo, he was required to wear an Indian blanket. It could be over his shoulders or around his waist, but he had to wear a blanket. A Tewa man without a blanket could mean he was preparing for war.
Since the Pueblo is, in effect, private property, tourists are restricted to certain areas and certain hours. Entry at any other time is possible only with a permit from the Pueblo’s Governor.
Jon and I had the Governor’s permission to visit the Pueblo that morning. The weather was just miserable. It was cold, overcast and windy. Occasional rain squalls blew down from the mountains. Because of the weather, the narrow streets were empty, adding to the sense of eeriness.
“This reminds me of a bad dream I kept having back in New York.”, Jon said to me. “I’m out here with a full cast and crew and I haven’t got the foggiest idea of what the hell I’m doing.”
“Jon,” I told him. “Please don’t ever say that again. The only thing that keeps the rest of us going is we all figure at least you know what the hell you’re doing.”
By this time we had worked our way deep into the Pueblo. We had come to a small picturesque square that Jon thought had possibilities as a location. We began discussing the square’s cinematic possibilities and the logistics of bringing in cameras, lights, crew, and shooting in the space.
Suddenly, an Indian woman appeared over us on the roof of an adobe building. She was tall and long legged in boots, jeans and a vibrant red Indian shirt with a sash. Her waist-length black hair was blowing in the wind. She was gorgeous against
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