EXXON USA Second Quarter 1980 
Focus On Deaf Artists 

After a century as a subculture, 
the deaf are joining Mainstream America 
as an important element in the arts. 

DEAF PEOPLE like to tell a joke at parties about a flock of birds sitting on a telephone line. A man with a shotgun comes along and fires at them. All the birds fly away, except one. It stays .. . because it is deaf. 
Cut off from sound, the nation's 14.3 million citizens who are deaf, or suffer serious hearing loss, have often been left to themselves. Through the years they have evolved a culture of their own. They have their own parties, clubs, sports organizations. Thousands of them meet every otheryear at the convention of the National Association of the Deaf, which is 100 years old this year. And like many cultures, they have their own language (making signs with their hands), folklore, and art. 
Recently this subculture has begun to move more strongly into America' s mainstream of life, partly because of federal laws promot
ing equal opportunity for the handicapped. But also becaus.e of new and more effective methods of educating people with special needs. 
New organizations, as well, have sprung up to promote the interests and develop the talents of the deaf. One such organization is named " Spectrum -Focus on DeafArtists." This national, nonprofit group was formed in 1975 with offices in Austin and Houston, Texas. With the financial help of the National Endowment for the Arts and corporations such as Exxon, Spectrum has begun to attract national attention to artists, both visual and performing, who happen also to be deaf. 
Spectrum's founder and vice presi-
Charles Baird, is collectin,; photographs and reproduc tions of works by Brodersor and more than 300 other dea: artists. Himself a deaf artis1 and a designer of theatrica~ sets, Baird has included in thE collection one of his owr works. Entitled "The Mechanical Ear," the picture i~ Baird's satire of how, as a child, he was the subject oi tests for hearing loss in whic he was festooned with mechanical gadgets and meters. 
Along with easel art, Spectrum's visual arts collection features sculpture, batiks woodcarvings, stained glass. and other forms. One exam ple: a World War II memorial) on permanent display i downtown St. Louis, by Hillis Arnold, at 73, America's oldest known deaf sculptor. 
Eventually, Baird hopes, Spectrum will develop a

In his studio, deaf artist Charles Baird displays his painting, "The Mechanical Ear," satirizing his experiences in the hearing world. national archive whe r E 
dent, Jannette Norman, believes her organization provides deaf artists with the means for achieving success on a par with the opportunities that hearing professionals enjoy. This is important, she feels, because the deaf have "a special contribution to make to the arts, largely because of their different perception of the world." 
For example, deaf artist Morris Broderson, of Los Angeles, California, has painted a series ofcanvases depicting a child bending down to "listen" to a flower. Observers interpret his work not as a reminder of deafness but as a celebration of beauty and joy despite life's cruelties. 
Spectrum's visual arts coordinator, biographies ofdeafartists and 
photographs of the i r works can be accumulated. Someday he wants to take an exhibit ofthe works of deaf artists on tour around the country. 
By comparison, in the performing arts, Spectrum has achieved some major accomplishments. The organization's American Deaf Dance Company is the first and only one ofits kind in the United States. Its artistic director and choreographer, Yacov Sharir, came to head up the company in 1976 from the Demama Group in Israel. The latter, so far as Spectrum knows, is the only other deaf dance company in the world. 
Having no pool of professional deaf dancers to draw from, Sharir recruited young deaf people who had expressed an interest in dance. With Sharir's guidance, the young people are learning modem dance and classical ballet, beginning with such basics as rhythm and balance. 

"You and I hear rhythms all around us," Sharir says. One ofthe few hearing people associated with Spectrum, Sharir cites the putt-putt ofcarengines, the clink-clink of swinging keys, the thud-thud of footsteps as rhythms of daily life. "But the only natural rhythm that a deaf person knows is his own heartbeat," Sharir explains. With this as an example, and with proper training, a deafdancer can develop internal timing which takes the place of the music he can't hear. 
How can someone dance without music? 
"They rely somewhat on instrumental vibrations which they feel in the air," says Sharir. For that reason, most of the music the Spectrum dancers use is heavily percussive. They like the works of 20th century composers such as John Cage and Carlos Chavez, and of local composers, including Austin's Gene Menger, who incorporates percussion for their benefit. (For the same reason, disco music is especially popular among the deaf.) 
Because deaf dancers perform independently of music, Sharir has developed the concept of freed dance. Says Sharir, "The dance is a composition by itself; the music is a composition by itself. When the two cross, as they do sometimes, it is by chance." 
The result is exciting. When the dancer is freed from the music, "no dance ever comes out the same way twice," Sharir says. This means that Spectrum dancers don't perform "Swan Lake" or other classical ballets. Rather, they do original, modern dances on abstract themes that have titles such as "Circles," "Interactions," and "From Right to Left." 
The audience sees pure movement: languid bends, running steps, sweeping arms, stretching torsos, and even gymnastic leaps and handsprings. For hearing people in the audience, the music lends another dimension. It is a haunting, even eerie, succession of clicks, drumbeats, and humming marimba sounds. One piece in the repertoire, "Continuation in Silence," is performed without music altogether. 
The eight-member company has performed at The University of Texas, where Sharir is on the faculty, in a joint performance with the Dallas Ballet, and at Austin's Paramount Theatre, where they premiered a work especially choreographed for them by Michael Uthoff, who is artistic director for the Hartford Ballet. They have also performed at the Carver Cultural Center in San Antonio, and on two tours at schools for the deafin New York, Washington, D.C., Arkansas, and North Carolina. This year the company will appear in Fort Worth and Dallas, and will go on another touroutside the state. 
Wherever the Spectrum company performs, audiences and critics soon forget the dancers are deaf. Critics notice a tremendous physical expression, or as one reviewer writes, "the unique ability of deaf people to convey emotion through gesture." 
The latter comes naturally to the deaf, for gesture, mime, body movement, and facial expression are all fundamental to their communication process. The same highly developed faculty for physical expression is also evidenced among deafactors and has been an important moving force behind the formation of theaters for the deaf. Of these, there are several; some, such as the National Theatre for the Deaf in Waterford, Connecticut, have been active for many years. 
In forming its own deaftheater, Spec-
At an art class for the deaf, teacher Charles Baird signs "Do it now" to a student; Baird hopes to create a national archive of the works of deaf artists through Spectrum. 
trum emphasizes plays written or adapted by deaf playwrights and intended primarily for deaf audiences. So that hearing audiences may also enjoy the performances, Spectrum provides professional readers who sit in the front row offstage and say aloud what the actors are signing onstage. 
However, such was not the case in the company's first production, "A Play of Our Own," by Dorothy Squire Miles, who is a deafpoet and actress from England. The play is a comedy about the confusion that arises when a young deafwoman brings a hearing boyfriend home to meet her family. Readers were not provided. Clarence Russell, Spec
Jimmy Turner and Rosie Serna, of Spectrum's American Deaf Dance Company, perform a ballet trum's secretary-treasurer and acting without music. theater director, explains why: "It Photography by Jim Caldwell helps the hearing audience to experi
ence the frustrations that deaf people grapple with every day." Other Spectrum productions show the dramatic potential of sign language. In "Blue Angel," which Spectrum's then-president Charlie McKinney adapted from the 1930 film starring Marlene Dietrich, the cabaret singer is portrayed as deaf. "She doesn't follow the piano," McKinney explains. "Just the reverse. The piano follows her." Another production, "Sign Me Alice," which translates into English as "My Name is Alice," exposes the audience to the several different kinds of sign language available for the deaf to use. Among them are finger spelling, where every word is spelled out; signed En-
Coaching Rosie Serna, Yacov Sharir explains that deaf dancers develop an internal timing which takes the place of music. 
glish, where every hand movement represents an English word; and American Sign Language, or Ameslan, which is a different language altogether. 
Ameslan has its own vocabulary, grammar rules, and word order. Like a foreign language, it cannot be translated word for word into English. Ameslan is a language ofvisual symbols. One sign may stand for a whole idea, which would take several English words to describe. For many deaf people, Ameslan is their true native language, and depending on how they were taught at home and school, they may be bilingual, knowing Ameslan and English. 
Theater critics liken Spectrum performances to watching a foreign language film with English subtitles. One reviewer, after seeing Spectrum perform A. R. Gurney's "The Golden Fleece" at Houston's Equinox Theatre, commented on "how rapidly and fluently the nimble fingers of the onstage players can convey the 
Choreographer Yacov Sharir leads Spectrum's dance company; here, he guides company members Jimmy Turner, Bob McMahon, Rosie Serna, and Bonnie Ramsey in a modern ballet. 
dialogue in sign language." 

Spectrum has performed "Golden 
Fleece" in Austin at the Convention for 
the American Instructors for the Deaf 
and in Lexington, Kentucky. Joseph 
Papp has expressed an interest in bring
ing "Golden Fleece" to New York's 
public theater. 

When not producing plays, Spectrum sends deaf actors to perform in other theaters across the country. Liz Quinn, for example, played Helen of Troy in "The Trojan Women" at the Los Angeles Actors Theatre in January and has taped a part for one segment of the . "Trapper John, M.D." television series. 
Quinn, who has played the female 
lead in all of Spectrum's productions so 
far, has also adapted and directed a 
children's play, "The Beauty and the 
Beast." It ushered the company into its 
first television production. Indepen
dently produced by Dick Gibbe with 
Spectrum and KLRN, The University of 
Texas's radio, television, and film de
partment, the play has been aired o local educational television in Austi and San Antonio. Spectrum is negotiat ing with two national networks, AB and PBS, for future sho~ings. 

Spectrum sees the production as precedent for a series of children' classics to be broadcast locally and na tionally and to be made available fo classroom use. "Deafchildren need role models they can understand," Quinn says. "They need to see proofthat bein deaf will not hold them back from professional careers." 
Spectrum sees many other uses fo television: 
• 
Storing taped performances ofdance and plays as a reference source for fu ture performers. 

• 
Recording sign language folklor (jokes, stories, poetry) which has bee handed down for generations amon the deaf. 

• 
Using video tape in place of writte language for keeping official records, 



such as the minutes of a meeting. 
"Sign language is visual, so it makes sense to video-tape it," Jannette Norman says. American Sign Language, she points out, can't be written down exactly; there is no written form. 
For that reason, Spectrum offers workshops in basic techniques of video production. "Because deafpeople know sign language, they are the logical ones to be behind the cameras," Norman says. 
To house these growing activities, 
pectrum now needs a new home. "Our 
ope is to have a unique arts center," Norman says, "where deaf artists can hold workshops, rehearse, perform, and exhibit their works." 
First headquartered at a IO-acre ranch, and now cramped in a renovated warehouse in downtown Austin, Spectrum sought and received a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts to begin a year of architectural planning. 
Spectrum has pioneered in adapting television 
for performing and viewing by the deaf; here', 
Toby Silver directs the taping of a play. 

Working with architects and deaf art
ists, Spectrum will explore the special 
needs of deaf artists and audiences. 
"Every state builds institutions for 
the deaf," Norman points out, "but 
usually no one bothers to ask the deaf 
what they need." 
In Spectrum's planning, the needs of 
the deaf are paramount. For example, theaters for deaf audiences cannot now seat more than about 200 people be.cause the audience must be close 
enough to the stage to see the sign language being used. Spectrum hopes to develop a method to magnify sign language so that more may see it easily. Another possibility: a dance floor that vibrates in order to give deaf dancers better cues. 
Spectrum's foresight in architectural and arts programs has pushed the organization into a position of leadership among deaf artists. In October, 1979, 
In a workshop on video techniques, Toby Silver, r.ight, talks with actors Don Bangs. Brenda Leabhmann, and Lynette Faunt. 
Spectrum and three Houston arts organizations -the Museum of Fine Arts, the Houston Ballet, and the Cultural Arts Council -gave a workshop on Section 504 ofthe Rehabilitation Act of 1973, which prohibits discrimination against the handicapped in any program receiving federal aid. 
In coming months, Spectrum will help arts organizations in Houston, New York, and Los Angeles comply with the law through a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. Spectrum, deaf leaders, and arts officials will explore problems stemming from deafness, suggest ways ofhelping deafpeople enjoy the arts, and put them in touch with arts organizations. 
Thanks to such programs, deafartists 
are coming out of their isolation. Much 
of the credit should go to Jannette Nor
man, who got the idea for Spectrum 
while teaching art to deafchildren. She 
found a patron, Helen DeVitt Jones, of 
Lubbock, and enough other con
tributors in 1974 to start a newsletter, 
make contact with deaf artists, and begin holding summer conferences. The dance company started with a grant from the Texas Commission on the Arts and Humanities. Two theater productions were funded by the Arts Commission of the City of Austin. 
As the list of contributors has grown, so has Spectrum. Exxon's grant of $5,000 helps meet general operating expenses and pays for the newsletter's mailing list. At 7,000 circulation, it is now the second largest publication for the deaf in the United States. 
"We are impressed with Spectrum's 
Some plays performed by Spectrum's theater group employ a hearing interpreter for the benefit of hearing audiences; here, Lynette Faunt fills this role with Don Bangs. 
philosophy," says E. F. Arps, who coordinates Exxon's contributions program. "Their emphasis is on the abilities, not the disabilities, ofdeafpeople." 
By emphasizing the abilities of deaf artists, Spectrum is showing that they need not remain in the status of a subculture. With Spectrum's guidance, the work ofdeaf artists can enrich the lives of all Americans. BARBARA LANGHAM 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Barbara Langham works as a free-lance writer from her home in Austin, Texas. She has contributed several articles to EXXON USA, specializing in the general area of education. 
ABOUT SPECTRUM 
FOCUS ON DEAF ARTISTS 

Persons interested in learning more about 
Spectrum-Focus on Deaf Artists may write 
directly to Clarence Russell, Spectrum 
Focus on Deaf Artists, P.O. Box 339, Austin, 
TX 78767. 

SINCE HE'S A SCIENTIST with an arctic research unit, it is hardly surprising that Dr. Terry Ralston dresses for the job. Before setting off to work, he pulls on a pair of insulated thermal boots with heavy felt linings. Over his work clothes, he wears a bulky down-filled parka with a fur-lined hood. Huge mittens protect his hands. 
Properly outfitted, the young researcher braves the cold and begins his tests with the temperature down around 30 degrees below zero Fahrenheit. Yet, outside, it is a typical summer day in Houston, Texas: warm and muggy, in the high 90s. 
Indicative of today's oil industry, Ralston and his colleagues, all research scientists with Exxon Production Research Company, spend much of their time in three "cold rooms" at EPR's research center. There they are learning how to look for oil and gas under conditions that prevail north of the Arctic Circle. In their cold rooms, they can 
EPRCo. 

To provide engineers with knowledge on ice strength, scientists analyze ice crystal structure with the aid of polarized light photography. The photograph above shows the complex structure of salt water ice. 
duplicate climatic conditions in the Far North. At temperatures as low as 70 degrees below zero F ., they can analyze soil samples and ice specimens and test equipment and methods that will allow Exxon to cope safely with one of the world's most hostile environments. 
Working with counterparts in government and academe, Exxon's arctic research lab has amassed an extraordinary fund of scientific fact and practical know-how about the world's cold regions. While readily admitting that much is to be learned, these oil industry scientists now count themselves among the leading experts in such sub
jects as the properties of sea ice, for example. 
Their achievement is important to Americans, whose future energy supplies may well come from offshore lands that lie below the icy waters of North Alaska's Beaufort Sea. After decades ofpainstaking research and careful preparation, Exxon is now ready to test these promising areas for oil and gas. Given an opportunity to explore, the company will employ technology that had its beginnings around the turn of the century. 
In 1906, for example, Ernest Leffingwell, pioneer arctic explorer and geologist, formed an expedition with the financial backing ofJohn D. Rockefeller to explore the Beaufort Sea and Alaska's northern coast. His maps and geological observations helped to establish the probability of oil and gas deposits on Alaska's North Slope. 
Much ofthe nation's later research in arctic climes was militarily oriented, answering questions such as: Could Navy supply ships get through the arctic ice pack? Could a submarine navigate under the ice of the Arctic Ocean? What effect do arctic atmospheric conditions have on weather, or on radio and radar transmissions? 
But with the discovery in 1968 of North America's largest oil field at Prudhoe Bay, interest in arctic research intensified. 
One early effort to learn more about the permanent arctic ice pack came in 1968 in advance of the 1969 sailing of the S. S. Manhattan, an experimental ice-breaking tanker. As part of Exxon's $40 million exploration of the Northwest Passage, teams of experts flew by helicopter ahead of the ship's route, taking core samples of the sea ice, gauging its thickness and hardness, and measuring a host ofother aspects of ice dynamics. Their findings helped the Manhattan conquer the Northwest Passage in a voyage that contributed volumes to scientific knowledge of the North. 
While the world' s attention was focused on the great Prudhoe Bay field and the building of the $9 billion pipeline that would bring its oil south to market, Exxon's petroleum geologists were looking ahead to the day when even that vast reservoir would diminish its output. Geological and geophysical evidence pointed strongly to the possibility of other deposits of oil and gas in the continental shelf beneath the shallow waters of the Beaufort Sea. 
To test this thesis, Exxon and 17 other interested American oil companies contributed a total of $11 million to underwrite a Continental Offshore Stratigraphic Test on Reindeer Island, a short distance offshore from Prudhoe Bay. Information stemming from the COST well was helpful to the participating companies in evaluating the potential of leases offered in the Beaufort Sea lease sale of last December. 
When American scientists and engineers began their study of that region, they had a major advantage. Much work had already been done under similar geological and climatological conditions just 200 miles to the east in the same Beaufort Sea off the Canadian province of the Northwest Territories. Among the companies involved there was Esso Resources Canada, Ltd., an Exxon affiliate. 
Esso found that arctic ice is both thicker and stronger than that encountered by oil companies in other Alaskan regions such as the Cook Inlet. To operate in the more severe conditions of the Beaufort Sea, Exxon's affiliate pioneered in the construction of manmade islands in the shallow offshore waters. Beginning in 1972, Canadian companies began building islands in four feet of water. As these proved technically and economically feasible, they began moving into ever-deeper water. In 1979, Exxon's Canadian affiliate completed an island called Issungnak in 63 feet of water in the Beaufort Sea. The Canadians drilled 1 7 exploratory wells from as many islands in the Mackenzie Bay area. 
The uniform success ofgravel islands and the store ofscientific data accumulated about them by the Canadians suggested to Exxon USA that similar methods should be employed in Alaskan waters. "The experience ofour sister company in Canada contributed a lot of extremely valuable information," says Crandall Jones, who manages Exxon USA's exploration effort in the arctic. 
Exxon is one of three companies that have utilized man -made islands in Beaufort Sea exploration. Using gravel and other natural fill material, Exxon engineers built a small round island some 400 feet in diameter in just four feet of water. They named it Duck Island after a natural island that had once been found near there but that had apparently disappeared through natural erosion. Total cost for creating Duck Island: $2 million. It lies in a protected 
lagoon just north ofthe point where the 
Sagavanirktok River empties into the 
Beaufort Sea. Operating only in winter 
when migratory wildlife has gone 
south, Exxon successfully drilled two 
exploratory wells to depths of nearly 
13,000 feet over two winter seasons. 
Exxon's experts are satisfied that this 
is the best approach to drilling in 
shallow arctic waters. "All the gravel 
islands successfully withstood waves 
and tides from summer storms and ice 
forces due to the movement of the sur
rounding ice sheet," reports Dr. Hans 
Jahns, one of EPR's scientists, who is 
recognized as a leading authority on the 
polar regions. Jahns is a member of the 
Polar Research Board of the National 
Research Council of the National 
Academy of Sciences. 

"No significant environmental dam
age has been found," Jahns adds, "from 
construction of temporary man-made 
islands or drilling from them." To 
Jahns, this "demonstrates that man
m ade temporary structures are a 
proven safe and effective means of 
shallow water drilling in the arctic." 
Such solid successes take on new meaning as preparations get underway for large-scale exploratory drilling on the newly leased Alaskan Beaufort Sea offshore tracts. When the final goahead is given by federal and state authorities, the largest petroleum hunt in arctic offshore history will begin. In support of that effort, the staff of the Arctic Operations Section at EPR in Houston is going all-out. Laboratory research findings and field test results from arctic regions around the world flow into the section daily, some on a real-time basis. There, a staff that is probably the largest to be assigned exclusively to arctic studies by any oil company, examines findings and facts. Among the latter are such far-ranging items as satellite pictures of the arctic ice pack, electronic data produced by airborne lasers and radar, and crystallographic analysis of the structure of a single crystal of ice. 
In 1979 alone, these investigations enabled Exxon researchers to contribute nine papers to scientific conferences in countries as divergent as Denmark and Brazil. So valued is Exxon's work in ice dynamics, in fact, that at one technical conference in Oslo, Norway, five papers on this subject were presented. 
In addition to studies done individually, Exxon and other companies jointly underwrite costly experiments 
in which all share in information derived. Often, the Alaska Oil and Gas Association takes the lead in these studies. Since the pioneering work in advance of the Manhattan's voyage through 1979, AOGA members have spent $112 million on jointly-funded arctic-related research. A companion group in Canada, the Arctic Petroleum Operators Association, has invested $32 million in similar activities. Likewise Exxon has funded a number ofstudies ofthe properties ofice by academic institutions such as the University of Alaska. 
These investigations, coupled with a decade ofexperience, lead Exxon to the conclusion that it can successfully meet challenges that might await in the Beaufort Sea. "We are in an excellent 
Bill Bacon 
At Exxon 's man-made Duck Island, in the Beaufort Sea, scientists install ice pressure monitors along with other instrumentation to detect ice pressure and strength. 

Ditch-digging machines are used to slice through ice floes surrounding man-made islands so as to 
relieve ice pressure and encourage "pile-up." 
position to explore and develop our leases in the Beaufort," Crandall Jones reports. "We have the technology. We've done our homework. We can do the job without danger to the environment," he says. 
This should be welcome news to oldtimers in Alaska who fear that modern technology might be defeated by the rigors of the arctic climate. For example, Inupiat Eskimos tell of great masses of ice that sometimes appear almost from nowhere to grind into the shoreline and spread onto the land. They recall years when huge ice floes have drifted down from the permanent ice pack during summer months, sweeping through areas where the oil industry proposes to drill. 
Oil industry scientists and engineers 
listen to these warnings and take them seriously. As personal observers of sea ice, Eskimos have centuries of experience to offer. Bearing in mind these phenomena, scientists have been careful to examine the structure and composition ofice, monitor its movements, track bergs and floes in their slow revolution in the Beaufort Sea, and to measure ice pressures and temperatures. Secrets locked into ice itself have yielded to laboratory instruments and computer methodology. These, in turn, have shown scientists how to deal with ice by using, rather than resisting, its powerful forces. Their system for handling "ice override" is a case in point. 
Ice movement, triggered by winds and currents or by unusually high tides, can lead to ice override. The Inupiat 
Pressure sensors installed in the ice some 500 feet from a man-made is land as part of an Ice Defense and Monitoring Network relay information to a control center and to the Arctic Research 
Laboratory in Houston, Texas. 

George Herben 
To haul equipment and supplies across sea ice, explorers use Rolligons, which ride on huge bag-like tires exerting about two pounds of pressure on the ice surface. 
have been observing the phenomenon for centuries, and their concern is justifiable. Ice override occurs when an ice sheet moves across the water in response to one of the forces described and slides up onto shore, sometimes completely covering small, low-lying islands. This leads Eskimos to worry that an ice override might sweep across a man-made gravel island and damage oil well equipment, producing a spill. The concern is one Exxon shares, for the company is committed to protecting the environment in all its operations. 
Studying the phenomenon of ice override, engineers .concluded that trying to halt ice movement could be as futile as attempting to stop an avalanche or a tidal wave. Instead, they devised ways to induce the ice to break 
itselfup and create what, in a scientific 
term ofrare clarity, is called a "pile-up." 
Therefore specialists designed gravel islands with a sharp upward slope at the edge, creating a steep, ledge-like berm. Ice riding up onto the grade, or berm, either buckles in front of the obstacle, or, riding over the barrier berm, breaks off behind it. In either case sheets of broken ice create a pile-up. The latter, also termed a "rubble pile," works to protect the island still further by preventing additional encroachment. 
"This is 'new frontier' technology," says Dr. John F. Prince, who supervises the work of the Arctic Operations Section. "And it works. The rubble pile forms a mass sometimes greater than the island itself, and serves as a barrier to continued ice movement." Prince likes a pile-up on the edges of Exxon's islands. "Itmakes the island higher and stronger and provides extra protection," he says. 
Canadian experience confirms the efficiency of the design. During the winterof1975-1976, a massive sheet of ice five feet thick surged against the man-made island called N etserk North. The floe advanced 300 feet and created a pile-up 40 feet high. Yet the island itself was unaffected because, as planned, the rubble pile served as a self-made barrier to further encroachment. 
Another Exxon technique for protecting an island drill site from ice damage led to the invention of the ice pressure sensor as a key item in an ingenious Ice Defense and Monitoring Network. Engineers place from four to eight pressure sensors deep into the ice around a man-made island. These continually relay information on the amount of force being applied to the island by surrounding ice. At the same time, other detectors implanted in ice up to one mile distant from the island reveal the speed and direction of any ice movement that might occur. Other devices monitor ice temperature, thickness, and growth rates. 
On the island itself, a full-time technician follows minute-to-minute changes in these forces. The same data are flashed by microwave radio to shore, and then by telephone line, transmitted directly to EPR's Houston lab. There, John Prince or Hans Jahns or Terry Ralston can follow the realtime changes that may be occurring 5,000 miles away in the ice of the Beaufort Sea. 
As an additional safety measure, engineers have devised a way ofrelieving ice pressure and creating a pile-up artificially, should it become necessary. When pressure sensors detect unusual ice conditions, they sound an alarm in the instrumentation building on the island. The supervisor has an operator fire up a ditching machine -the same kind of ditch digger used by construction companies to dig trenches for telephone cables or sewer pipes-and drive it onto the ice. The machine operator cuts a trench into and through the ice, creating a slot perhaps eight inches wide and as long as necessary. This relieves the pressure and encourages the pile-up process. It's simple, but very effective. 
Such methods assure that the petroleum resources ofthe arctic -ifindeed they exist -can be discovered and developed without risk to the marine life that calls the arctic home. In fact, the United States Geological Survey records that in the entire history ofAmerican oil and gas exploration in the arctic, there has never been a serious spill. It's a record that Exxon intends to maintain. 
"We don't belittle the problems we face," says Prince. "We respect the arctic and the forces of ice and weather which challenge us. But we don't fear the arctic. We can handle it." 
For the American consumer of energy, that's good news. NORMAN SKLAREWITZ 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Norman Sklarewitz is a full-time, professional free-lance writer who writes for many national periodicals. He makes his home in Los Angeles, California. 

New Jersey: 
The Word Is Surprise 

FEBRUARY'S ICY WINDS sear my face as I slalom down Hamburg Mountain's snowy trails. May brings dogwood in profusion to our Piedmont Plateau. The warm waves of August tumble me on the white sand beach at Stone Harbor. Then, every October, brilliant color splashes leaves across the state in renewal of the annual foliage miracle. 
I am at home -in New Jersey. 
My journalistic beat for 30 years has been New Jersey. My assignments take me constantly through the state, far from the teeming concrete. Few persons, if any, ever have known this region as well as I, nor should they. New 

A lifelong resident of New Jersey reports on the surprising attractions of his home state. 
Jersey is my full-time source of living, my full-time way of life. 
Ifonly one word could be permitted to describe my awareness of New Jersey the word would be surprise. 
Visitors who speed across the state's narrow waist between New York and Philadelphia, believe that in their twohour journey they have seen New Jersey. The New Jersey visible from car windows is a land of cities and industries; there is no cloaking the fact that the state is the most densely populated of all the 50. 
But judging any state by speeding along its superhighways is unfair. Such judgement is doubly unjust to New Jersey, for outward from the muchtraveled 20-mile-wide corridor between Philadelphia and New York there is a land of startling beauty and diversity. 

Do not scorn the corridor where people live and work, however, for these are basic to the so-called good life. I will return to that, but the too-familiar corridor vision must be set aside if this state is to be appreciated. 
I stand in July on a narrow macadam road in Cumberland County in the southernmost part of the state. Four giant machines, each half the size of a house, cut wide swaths through a field 

The outlet for prehistoric Lake Passaic, the Great Fal Is (left) drops 70 feet into 
New Jersey, helping to give the Garden State its nickname. Below, sailboats a rocky gorge; Paterson was founded here in 1791 as America's first planned race on the Inland Waterway, where dozens of large bays and sounds make industrial city. Much of the nation's crop of green beans (right) is grown in sailing and boating an attractive sport. 
that stretches over and beyond the horizon. They are harvesting green beans. "The Garden State" is not just an anachronism stamped on the state's license plates. 
Every April I walk beneath the 2,500 blossoming cherry trees in Branch Brook Park on the northern edge of Newark, the state's largest city. Every April I marvel anew that this display far outshines the publicized Washington, D.C., cherry blossom show, both in numbers of trees and in varieties of blossoms. 
Seemingly, the Jersey Meadows between Newark and Hackensack typify the modern industrial state. Yet, I park my car, follow a narrow trail between towering foxtails, and within three minutes the roar oftraffic is completely stilled. New York City is less than ten miles away, yet in this little-known wild land I will find muskrat trappers, pheasant hunters, and nature lovers. 
Persons who fly into Newark Airport get some notion of the New Jersey I know. Visitors arriving by plane exclaim: 
"I can't believe it! New Jersey is so 
green, so open, so full of trees!" 
They have seen something that is difficult to grasp from the highways. For all its population (about 7.5 million), New Jersey is still about 70 percent open land -about 25 percent in farms, about 45 percent in forests. 
To get some ofthe air traveler's view, climb with me up the inside of the tall monument gracing High Point in the extreme northern part of the state. At 1,803 feet above sea level, High Point has the highest elevation in the state. 
Except for the parking lot below and two clear blue lakes not far from the monument's base, everything else is a dense dark green. That is hardwood forest; from our vantage position the woodland stretches into eastern Pennsylvania and southern New York State, cut only by the swiftly-flowing Delaware River. 
The wooded spine of the Kittatinny Mountains runs southwesterly from the monument. Following that spine for 50 miles within New Jersey is part of the Appalachian Trail, easily reached by hikers who want to test their feet and legs against part of this monumental 
trail that could lead from here either to Maine or Georgia. Mountains? You might in justice ask for amplification. 
On the Kittatinny Mountains, I can hear wildcats yowl in the crispness of an autumn night. In winter, I might see a black bear ambling close to the Appalachian Trail. Rattlesnakes sun on the mountain rocks in spring. These days, for good measure, many ferocious Eastern Coyote are known to live in the Kittatinnys. 
Hardwood forests also roll southeastward, across the Highlands (a geological designation, not my fancy). Within the Highlands are two major sources of pleasure: ski runs and the lakes. 
A giant complex at Vernon ValleyGreat Gorge tests skiers of almost any skill, from beginner to advanced. One member of the U.S. Olympic ski team grew up and trained here, a feat made possible because when nature fails the slopes can be blanketed with snow made by ingenious snow guns, thus insuring skiing from Novemberto March. 
Lake Hopatcong is the gem among 

Nassau Hall (left), heart of Princeton University, was built in 1756. In 1783, it Fairleigh Dickinson University. Below, the Oswego River. deep in the Pine was capital of the United States when Congress convened there. Fall in New Barrens, is known mostly to canoeists and hikers, but to 18th century Jersey (right) is a spectacular event; trees here are on the campus of Americans, the Pine Barrens was the site of a thriving iron industry. 
New Jersey's Highland lakes. Seven miles long, Hopatcong's shoreline is so carved by coves and inlets that a hiker would walk nearly 45 miles if he stuck to the shoreline. 
Hopatcong is busy year-around. Swimmers, fishermen, sailboaters, and water skiers vie for space in the summer. The frozen surface in winter attracts hardy ice fishermen, those who enjoy long distance skating, and a small band of daring iceboaters who speed across the ice at dangerously high velocities. 
Hardwood forests edge down to Hopatcong's shores, creating a rich green setting for the sapphire blue of the lake. Small wonder that the Indian name Hopatcong meant "Honey Water of Many Coves." 
Still, when I think offorests, my mind must wander to the Pine Barrens that sprawl across more than a million acres of southern New Jersey. 
The Pine Barrens are under fierce pressures from those who see open spaces only as a challenge to build, to develop. Conservationists have rallied to oppose that challenge; it is certain that at least half of the region, perhaps more, will be preserved. 
I climb up three steep flights of stairs inside Batsto Mansion in the Pine Barrens, mount more stairs through an attic, and finally conquer the last steps that carry me to the lookout on the mansion roof. Mansion owners long ago used the lookout to supervise workers below. I use it to get an astounding view of a pine woodland known to botanists and zoologists throughout much of the world. 
Astounding is not too strong a word. 
Beneath the mansion, in every direction -north, east, south, west -a vast green sea seems to be rolling inward toward me. Those light green tops of pine trees are broken only occasionally by faint wisps of smoke or by the patches of very dark green that show the thick stands of cedar trees growing beside streams meandering through the woodland. 
As I look out, I mull over the name, Pine Barrens. 
Colonists bestowed the name 300 years ago. Unable to grow cornor wheat or other usual crops in the thin, sandy 
soil, those early settlers naturally considered the land to be "barren." They could not have been more wrong. 
Within that "Barrens," at least 400 different wildflowers grow in profusion, including more than 25 kinds of wild orchids, several ·insect-eating plants (such as the Pitcher Plant), and turkey beard, bog asphodel, gentians, sundews, pyxie moss, laurel, bearberry, blueberries, and cranberries, to mention only a few plants. 
Botanists most cherish the extremely rare curly grass fern (or Schizea pusilla), a tiny species found in the United States only in the Pine Barrens. Schizea is one of the reasons why some argue that the Pine Barrens ought to be preserved from development. 
North and South unite botanically in the Pine Barrens. A catalogue of the region's plants shows 60 usually associated with Canadian provinces and 160 "southern" (Virginia to Florida) that thrive in this exotic "barrens"! 
Curly leaf grass or a botanical union of North and South might seem compelling arguments for botanists who seek preservation. Farmore compelling 

Harvest time in a pumpkin field (left) reminds residents of New Jersey that percent of New Jersey re mains as forest. Ice fishermen (below) have their over 25 percent of the state consists of farmland. Hikers on top of Sunrise day during winter on Lake Musconetcong, one of the larger of New Jer-Mountain (right) looking eastward over the Kittatinny Valley can see that 45 sey's 1.100 lakes larger than one acre in size. 
~
is the fact that beneath the sandy soil there exists one ofthe firiest'fresh water aquifers in the United States. It is estimated that a series of underground reservoirs in the Barrens could provide at least a billion gallons of water daily! 
The "tea color" of Pine Barrens streams deserves explanation. It comes mainly from thick beds ofbog iron in the stream bottoms and banks. This thick mud-like iron was the basis for a thriving industry in the Pine Barrens 200 years ago. Batsto was just one ofscores of iron-making centers in the woodlands. Now only "ghost towns" scattered throughout the forest remind of past iron glories. 
Searching out those ghost towns can be an absorbing avocation. Canoeists who know and love the Pine Barrens streams (especially the enchanting, clean Oswego River) chance often on evidences of the vanished era when iron was king of the Barrens. 
I spend much of my time rolling over New Jersey's back roads seeking out evidences ofhistory. I should be called a "shunpiker." 
Shunpiker stems from early 19th century New Jersey times when travelers 

refused to pay at the pike (or gate) across toll roads, preferring to "shun the pike." Today I save little by turning my pockets against tolls, but I see much. 
My shunning the pike takes me through Morristown, where the American army nearly perished in 1779-80, a winter recognized by historians as the cruelest of the entire American Revolution. The campgrounds of 1779-80 and the mansion where George Washington made his headquarters are now part of Morristown National Historical Park, the first national historical park · in the United States. 
Princeton beckons often to me, not only because of its internationallyrecognized university but also because of its history. Here is Nassau Hall, still the heart of the university but also the building that made New Jersey the capital ofthe United States when Congress convened in Nassau Hall from June to November in 1783. 
Close to Nassau Hall is "Morven," an early 18th century Georgian mansion where New Jersey governors live. All of Princeton seems to be a manifestation of historical preservation, an architectural showcase for many periods. 

Less than 20 miles away is the sandstone building known as "Old Queens," a reminder that Rutgers, the State University, was founded before the American Revolution. Princeton, founded in 1746, and Rutgers, founded in 1766, give New Jersey the distinction ofbeing the only state with two universities founded before the war with Great Britain. 
Deep down in southern New Jersey, I find old Greenwich, almost unchanged from the December night in 1774 when rebels rode into the village to burn British tea. At the state's southern tip, I revel in Cape May City, a community that has used an urban renewal grant to take giant strides toward preserving its past; scores of restored Victorian houses gleam in Cape May. 
Cape May means Victorian customs 
and architecture to me. For most people 
it is a beginning (south to north) of the 
notable Jersey Shore. 
The Jersey Shore can be all things to 
all persons. 

center of the Florham Park campus of Fairleigh Dickinson University. From
Iceboats (left) careen across Budd Lake and other New Jersey lakes, as wel I as the Navasink River near Sandy Hook. The 100-room, 100-bath mansion March to November, surfers (below) flock to the Jersey Shore in search of (right) on the former estate of Florence and Hamilton Twombly is now the the perfect wave along a 126-mile coastline from Sandy Hook to Cape May. 
If I seek quiet, I find it. Cape May is scarcely the mecca for the disco set. Stone Harbor is an enclave for beach lovers who nurture huge beds offlowers in the middle of their streets. At Brigantine National Wildlife Refuge, northwest of Atlantic City, I can see 30,000 snow geese at once or as many as 100,000 ducks and geese during 
spring and autumn migration times. 
Atlantic City, on the other hand, is changing from "The Grand Old Dame" ofresorts, to the casino gambling center 
of the East. Whether that will be an improvement only time will tell, but no one ever has accused the city of being restful. 
State-owned Island Beach Park, well north ofAtlantic City, is much as it was when Indians visited there 400 years ago. High dunes shelter beach plums and wild heather; broad beaches are a dream come true for surf fishermen. 
The Jersey Shore ends (if coming north from Cape May) at Sandy Hook, part ofthe new National Gateway Park. Sandy Hook has been preserved because for nearly two centuries it was a military reservation. Now it is public 
land. Out on that thin peninsula can be seen the oldest continuously-lit lighthouse in the United States; a fort built during the Civil War (and never used), and the oldest forest of American holly trees in the United States. 
Such history is but passing phenomena when considered in terms of geology. If geology is a pleasure, and it is mine, there likely is no other state that offers as much geological diversity as New Jersey. 
Franklin, in northern Sussex County, 
is a prime example, known to geologists and mineralogists in nearly every nation in the world. Once the center of a thriving zinc ore industry, Franklin now is recognized as the place where "rock hounds" likely will find more varieties of minerals in a single day than anywhere else in the world. 
The state's most startling show of 
geology would be the basaltic cliffs that 
tower loftily over the Hudson River in 
northeastern Bergen County. These are 
the Palisades, named by explorers who 
thought that the rows ofbasalt columns 
resembled upright logs. 
Ancient volcanoes created the 
Palisades 100 million or more years ago, forcing molten lava through fissures in layers of sandstone. Time wore away the sandstone. The Palisades stand firm, open to sightseers, picnickers, and mountain climbers. 
Geology also provided the potential for the Great Swamp National Wildlife Reservation in Morris County, close to Morristown and one of the most unusual wildlife reservations in the nation because it is within such close reach of so many millions of people. 
The Great Swamp is the remains of a glacial lake that about 40,000years ago burst from its boundaries, tumbled over a rocky gorge and drained away the waters of old Lake Passaic. Left behind were large areas of swampland, including the Great Swamp, plus the Great Falls of the Passaic River, a 70-foothigh waterfall. 
The Great Swamp is a place of serenity in the midst of urban New Jersey. That brings us back to the corridor of intensity, the heartland ofmodern New Jersey. It is not a place to scorn. 
More than 75 percent of all New Jerseyans live in the corridor. More than 70 

than does Washington, DC's better known display. Lake Hopatcong (below),
Deserted shoreline of Delaware Bay in Cape May (left) is typical of hundreds 
New Jersey's largest lake, is seven miles long with a shoreline of 45 miles. It
of miles of sandy beaches that make up the famed Jersey Shore. Branch 
Brook Park in Newark (right) has more cherry trees (2,500) and more varieties 	is located in the northern New Jersey Highlands. 
percent of the state's highly-diversified industry is in that corridor, including the Bayway Refinery of Exxon Company, U.S.A. Most of the state's financial strength is found there. Nearly all ofthe state's more than 60 colleges and universities are in the corridor. This strip is vibrant, alive and admittedly urban. 
I live in Florham Park, close to the Great Swamp, a scant four miles from Washington's Morristown headquarters, less than a half hour from Lake Hopatcong, 45 minutes from Broadway. One of my neighbors is the Exxon Research and Engineering Company's Headquarters and Engineering Center, a genuine reminder of the Florham Park hallmark. 
Exxon occupies about halfthe former estate of Florence and Hamilton Twombly, who in the 1880's combined their first names to create Flor-ham 
Farms. The Twomblys, largest taxpayers in town, asked the local body in 1899 to rename the village of Afton Florham Park. Not surprisingly, the village surrounding the "little redhouse schoolhouse," (still standing as 

Florham Park's symbol), easily accepted the name. 
When the Twombly family died out in the 1950's, the 900-acre estate could have become anything, including another 2,000 homes, another three or four elementary schools, another high school. 
Fortunately Fairleigh Dickinson University bought a large piece of the property, including the 100-room mansion, and Exxon purchased the rest. My use of the word "fortunately" obviously denotes the mind of a payer oflocal real estate taxes. 
An engineering center is an admirable neighbor; Exxon is no exception. The Florham Park engineering center also is evidence of another important 
New Jersey role: leadership in research and development. 
Research has been a tradition within 
the state since 1876, when Thomas A. 
Edison opened the world's first or
ganized research laboratory in Menlo 
Park, New Jersey. Edison spent the re
mainder of his creative years -until 
his death in 1931 -in New Jersey. 
Organized research has grown tre

mendously since 1876 and this state has grown with it, thanks in large measure to its strategic location among the Middle Atlantic states. New Jersey has more than 600 research laboratories, running the gamut in research concentration from solid fuels to solar energy to cancer studies to new tomato varieties. It has been estimated that about one of every six research scientists in the United States works in a New Jer
sey facility. 
Research sets us on the edge of tomorrow. There is no evidence that New Jersey will take a back seat. 
But I remain more interested in the 
present and the historic past. Both pro
vide far more than enough to sharpen a 
journalist's senses. 
New Jersey is my state. I know it, I 
respect it, I am home. 
JOHN T. CUNNINGHAM 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR A lifelong newspaperman and resident of New Jersey, John T. Cunn ingham has written 18 books and countless articles about his favorite state. He makes his home in Florham Park. 
Photog raphy by John Cunningham 

and as many apples each year. Vis itors who arrive by air (below) are usually Skiers flock to Vernon Valley (left) because snow-machines keep Hamburg 
Mountain white from November to March whether nature cooperates or not 	surprised at the extensive open space adjoining the state's 20-mile-wide industrial corridor where three-quarters of all New Jerseyans live. 
New Jersey orchards (right) produce about 100 million pounds of peaches 


Celebrating A Century Of Salvation 

In its one hundredth year in America, The Salvation Army fights on an ever widening front against society's ills. 
ONE MORNING LAST YEAR in late November, almost 400 neatly uniformed men and women took up positions on the street corners of New York City. Thousands of others made similar appearances in cities and towns across the country. They were, of course, the foot soldiers of The Salvation Army, armed with kettle, bell, brass band, and ready (if half-frozen) smile to raise money for the luckless and friendless at Christmas. To the average passerby, it was the same folks doing business in the same familiar way. 
Behind the prim appearances and beyond the Christmas kettles, however, The Salvation Army is doing much ofits work in a quite unfamiliar way. Yes, itis still feeding the hungry, housing the 
homeless, cheering up servicemen, and 
drying out drunks. But in this, the Army's lOOth year of service to Americans, it is also setting up programs and managing institutions that address many ofour most vexing contemporary social problems. Among the latter, for example, Army leaders list: 
• 
Storefront agencies that deal one-onone with drug addicts and runaway teenagers. 

• 
Hospitals, counseling services, and secondary education for unwed mothers. 

•
Day-care and senior citizens centers. 

• 
Home-care facilities for the severely handicapped. 

• 
Large-scale efforts to ward off juvenile delinquency, ease about-tobe-released prisoners back into society, and break the cycle of chronic lawbreaking. 


Under the aegis of The Salvation Army, one might think, any such program must be conservative and unimaginative in approach. In fact, many of the Army's "new" social efforts are highly innovative. So, too, are its methods of organizing them: through pilot projects, federal grants, and pragmatic cooperation with municipal governments and a host of other welfare agencies. 
In Florida, for example, the Army has stepped in to help the legal authorities deal with the high rates of recidivism 
General William Booth founded The Salvation Army in 1865. His daughter, Evangeline Booth , served as national commander of the Army in the United States from 1904 to 1934, when she became the Army's top officer worldwide. 
in cases involving misdemeanants. Under the "Salvation Army Act," passed by the state legislature in 1976, the courts in 30 Florida counties release to the Army persons convicted of any of three dozen types of misdemeanor. The Army supervises their rehabilitation and collects from them "restitution" money due the state for the crimes committed. A second Florida program has established the Army as the custodian of nonviolent federal prisoners who are nearing their release date; at a special "halfway house," these prisoners are advised how to cope with emotional and practical difficulties of returning to life outside the walls. Says Colonel Ernest Murray, the Army's national chief secretary, "We can take advantage ofthe latest techniques we can 
find." 
If all this seems a long way from the 
traditional work ofThe Salvation Army, 
from sermons against Demon Rum and 
exhortations to save lost souls, it is not 
far at all. For one thing, prisoners were 
paroled into the care of the Army way 
back in the organization's earliest 
years. Even if that hadn't happened, however, today's Army would be receptive to the idea that it should lend a hand to help solve a pressing contemporary problem. According to the Salvationist -an Army member who has 
formally embraced the faith -that is what their work is all about. 
To be sure, there is less emphasis nowadays on old-fashioned religion in the Army's activities. Publicity brochures touch only lightly on the "spiritual" side of programs, and Col. Murray readily admits that, in the trenches of community involvement, secular activities are a lot more prominent now than when he was a line officer three decades ago: "We held religious services every night except Monday, and on Saturday nights we took the services out into the streets," he recalls. Now, many of the Army's centers have only two services a week, and just a few on street corners. "They've been replaced by other activities," Col. Murray says. 
Since Salvationists follow their own 
religion based on 11 Methodist-like doc
trines, one might conclude that the Ar
my's leaders are distraught over this 
apparent falling away ofthe faith. To be 
sure, some stalwarts are concerned 
over what they regard as creeping 
secularism. The majority, however, ac
cept the changing emphasis as a con
tinuation of the Army's fundamental 
mission. Top officials stress the organi
zation's historic dual emphasis -"re
ligious and charitable," as the litera
ture phrases it, "based on love for God 
and love for man." Social work, an 
Army spokesman explained a couple of 
decades ago, is "Christianity in action, 
the social forces of practical religion 
applied to the problems of day-to-day 
living." 
Certainly William Booth felt that 
way. Booth was the maverick minister 
who founded The Salvation Anny (as 
the Christian Mission) in England in 
1865. He preached the social gospel 
with a passion that alarmed and at 
times enraged his listeners. His written 
manifesto, the quaintly titled In 
Darkest England and the Way Out, 

Salvationists served coffee and doughnuts to the unemployed in New York City during the Great Depression, operating 52 relief kitchens in New York alone. 
was a highly specific attack on the social ills of the day, decades ahead of its time in perceiving problems and solutions. 
The Salvation Army reached American shores on March 10, 1880, when eight uniformed figures, one man and seven women, arrived in New York City. Their reception in the new world was no more cordial than in the old. Rowdies disrupted meetings and services with catcalls and even violence, and the Establishment offered little assistance. "Christian ministers as well as tavern owners inveighed against the Anny and its methods ..." wrote Herbert A. Wisbey, Jr., in Soldiers Without Swords. "When the Salvationists turned to the police for protection, they found themselves arrested for inciting a riot or disturbing the 
peace." The attitude of New York City judges and politicians soon led the . Army to move its American headquarters to Philadelphia. 
Organizational disputes formed another hindrance. Although the U.S. command was held for 50 years by one or another ofWilliam Booth's offspring, the family succession did little to ease the transition from an authoritative, Anglican organization to one that was somewhat more democratic and very American. Yet the work went on. Invading saloons and theaters as well as more conventional venues, the Salvationists pounded home their message and gradually attracted large numbers of converts. (The first of these was a New York ne'er-do-well, "Ash-barrel Jimmy" Kemp, who'd gained his nickname when a cop found his feet pro-

In 1925, Salvation Army Social Service Centers gave men and women a chance to learn useful skills. Today's centers provide therapy and counseling as well. 
truding from an ash can.) The Anny gradually expanded its East Coast beachhead, dubbing each new facility "Fort Salvation." 
World War I brought a critical turning point in public attitudes toward the Army. Salvationists set up canteens that provided front-line troops with coffee, conversation, and, most memorably, doughnuts. "Sallies," as the Salvation Army's female volunteers were called, made doughnuts with rudimentary implements and distributed them throughout the battle zones. That homey gesture carried the Army's public relations so far forward that by 1917, President Wilson was issuing a plea for Americans to contribute $1 million to its war efforts. 
Salvation Army lassies won the hearts of fighting men in World War I when their warm smiles and fresh doughnuts became a symbol of home to 
American doughboys in France. 
During the Great Depression, Anny relief activities took up where inadequate government welfare programs left off; in New York City alone, Army emergency reliefincreased 700 percent in two years. In World War II, thanks lar~ely to Commissioner Edward J. Parker, the Army led the way in estab
lishing the United Services Organization -the USO so dear to the hearts of American servicemen. In the "black power" period of the mid-Sixties, when "whitey" was being driven from many inner-city ghettos, the heavily white corps of Salvationists held on tenaciously. The ghetto, they argued,,.was the Army's historic turf; in some cities, 

like Chicago, its staffand programs ac youngsters live in the Army's Pioneer  not stop at the Corps-Community Cen 
tually increased.  House, which is actually part of an  ter door; "outreach workers" consult  
The Salvation Army today could justly lay claim to the title of world's  apartment house. Pioneer provides a family-style setting, but its residents  with juvenile court officials, teachers, and parents in an effort to probe be 
leading social welfare agency. Salvationists laborin 82 countries, preach are not confined to the premises. "We get them outside, too," says Robert  neath the young person's antisocial behavior and determine the best means of  
ing in 109 languages, with their single  Gutheil, director of social services for  changing it.  
largest component in the United States.  children for Greater New York. "The  With the juvenile delinquency pro 
The four U.S . "territories," each  kids gain stimulation from trips to  gram, as with many ofits counterparts,  
strongly autonomous, contain a total of  school, stores, museums." Neighbors,  Army officials confidently predict good  
about 1,100 "Corps-Community Cen Gutheil adds, resisted the idea of a  results. "We said we'd substantially re 
ters" and 6,700 local "service units";  Pioneer House. "But once we were in,  duce juvenile crime or crime referrals  
the latter are staffed almost entirely by  people saw that the youngsters were no  in the five cities," says Captain Fred  
volunteers, who bring a remarkable  threat and the building wasn't going to  Musgrave, who directs the project from  
range of services into small towns and  deteriorate. Now local people come to  the Atlanta office. "In four ofthe five, in  
rural areas. Yet the Army's focal point  visit and even to throw parties."  the first year, we did just that." Al 
remains the major cities, particularly  Unwed mothers have long been a  though the program may well expire  
their poorest, most trouble-ridden  concern of the Army, and its care of  next fall for lack of funds, Musgrave  
neighborhoods.  them has progressed markedly over the  hopes its success will make it a model  
Inflation, general economic uncer decades -from "rescue" homes to  that communities can emulate on their  
tainty, and cutbacks in government  maternity hospitals to a sophisticated,  own.  
funding have hampered Salvation Army programs. Nonetheless, the Army has maintained a fairly steady growth and -taking the four territories  A Salvation Army counselor helps a retarded child to learn how to close a zipper at New York's Pioneer House, where handicapped and retarded children are taught useful skills.  multiservice approach. The Booth Services School in Des Moines, Iowa, exemplifies the current state of the Army's art. Booth houses almost 200  In New York City. the Army operates a home for the impoverished elderly as one service in a broad program aimed at dealing in a practical way with the contemporary problems of people.  The Salvation Army's future? Uncertain in specifics, but certain indeed in the kinds of social battles it will fight and the terrain on which it will fight  
together one of the largest church $60,000 (over a three-year period) to Across Manhattan, in West Harlem,  unwed mothers and mothers-to-be  them. "The General," notes Col. Mur 
related social service budgets in the  building campaigns in Baton Rouge, the Army has for eight years been push works with local officials to solve local  ray, quoting Arnold Brown, the current  
nation. The Greater New York Division  Louisiana, and Newark, New Jersey, ing a 700-unit, federally subsidized  problems. The Florida effort germi top-ranking Salvationist, "has put it  
alone will spend $69 million in 1980.  respectively; it also gave $10,000 toapartment complex. Ralph E. Cham nated when a county judge in Jack this way: 'The Army's main front line is  
The Army's reputation for honesty  ward a capital drive in its headquarters berlain, director of development for  sonville asked the help of the Army's  through the center of the city.'" Given  
and efficiency in handling money has  city of Houston. Greater New York, hopes to break  state commander in coping with re that strategy, the war is sure to remain  
made raising it much easier. Local cen On its face, The Salvation Army apground for it in the spring of 1980. "It's  cidivism. The resulting program spread  long, arduous, and worthy.  
ters fund their own operations, primar pears to be an anachronistic throwback virtually the only new housing project  throughout Florida, with the Army  ROGER M. WILLIAMS  
ily through direct solicitations of  to the age of The Founder, as William in all of West Harlem," Chamberlain  eventually handling 80 percent of the  
individuals and businesses, but also through the United Way. In cities where Exxon operations are concentrated, the  Booth is reverently known. There is the straightlaced uniform, little changed in a century, and the military nomenclasays. "And it's the first time, we're told, that leaders from the area's entire political spectrum have united behind a  state's 7,000 cases. Typically, the Army counsels offenders once a month for six months. It also recovers from them any  ABOUT THE AUTHOR As a free lance, author Roger Williams contributes to several national periodicals. He  
company has made respectable contri ture; there are the symbols and mottoes single project. I think the general cre sums involved in their crimes (such as  makes his home in New York City.  
butions to capital drives carried out by  and homilies -like "promoted to dibility of The Salvation Army has  merchandise stolen from a store), col 
local centers. For example, in 1979,  glory," the euphemism for a Salmade a real difference there."  lects any fines imposed by courts, and  
Exxon contributed $10,000 and In Houston . The Salvation Army operates Harbor  vationist's death. Yet this is simply the glue that holds the enterprise together as it veers onto paths dictated by changIn housing and treatment of the handicapped, the Army has demonstrated national leadership, all the  passes these on to the state. The collection and restitution rate has been running to almost 80 percent, millions of  A Women's and Children's Residence in Houston enables the Army to offer temporary shelter and aid to the destitute, to abused wives, or to runaway chi ldren.  
Light, a shelter for needy transients; the facility also houses a treatment center for alcoholism. J  ing times and social problems. The Salvation Army has become a genuine more welcome in an era when mental hospitals are releasing great numbers  dollars a year, and the recidivism rates have dropped sharply. Because of Flor 
leader in the field of social welfare and of their patients. Army officials in San  ida's success, other southern states  
an active participant in its endless Diego have established a "transit liv have undertaken misdemeanant proj 
rounds of conferences and symposia. ing" facility for the developmentally  ects of their own.  
"At all the national meetings I attend," chuckles Lieutenant Colonel Mary E. Verner, national consultant for health and social services, "they tell me I have disabled and mentally ill. Some twodozen patients, mostly young adults, live in an Army-operated apartment house and receive instruction in per The Army's emergency ambulance service in New York City provides poor people who are sick or injured with transportation to a hospital for prompt attention and treatment.  In a single Florida city, Pensacola, and in four other southern communities, the Army is about to complete a notably successful pilot program in  
my fingers in more pies than anybody." sonal hygiene, cooking, money man prevention of juvenile delinquency.  
The colonel means fresh pies, made agement, and so on. "Our g.oal is to  ranging in age from 14 to 21, as well  Under a three-year grant from the fed 
from today's problems. They are scatteach the skills needed for independent  as more than 80 of their children.  eral Law Enforcement Assistance  
tered from Harlem to Pensacola to San living," says project coordinator Vic  Teachers from the Des Moines public  Administration, Army officials and  
Diego, a spread that is as vast culturally Doughty, "and then to send these  school system provide high school in specially hired counselors have been of 
as it is geographically. In East Harlem, people out on their own. The large  struction on a standard school sched fering an imaginative variety of ser 
two former drug addicts, now Army majority of them are able to make the  ule. The classes are held at Booth, be vices to youngsters who seem headed  
workers, operate a storefront program transition."  cause most of the girls P!efer what one  for trouble with the law. In Pensacola,  
that helps area residents kick their The New York City borough of  ofits staffdescribes as its "cozy, relaxed  which handled 1,200 clients during the  
habits. The program deals with about Queens has a similar facility that tack setting."  first two years of the grant, youngsters  
400 people each month -a total of les even tougher cases: mentally re Both the Des Moines and Florida  are given sports and crafts classes,  
more than 19,000 since it opened in tarded youngsters who are also con misdemeanant projects demonstrate  group therapy, and intensive tutoring in  
1968. fined to wheelchairs. Ten of these  the way in which the Salvation Army  basic school subjects. The services do  
14  15  

During the arctic's short summer, flora and fauna flourish: Top left: arctic bell heather (Cassiope tetragova); top right: whistling swans (Olar columbianus); center left: caribou (Rangifer tarandus), here crossing a glacier; center right: dwarf fireweed (Epilobium latifolium), bottom: common eider duck (Somateria mollissima) on its nest. 

An Arctic Summer 

In a land where winter lasts for ten months, summer is a brief but breathtaking experience. 
sUMMER IN THE HIGH ARCTIC, far beyond the range oftrees, is one crystalline day that lasts for eight glorious weeks. Across a million square miles of North America from Greenland to Alaska, the sun seems to wander about the sky, a little aimlessly -not at all the way it marches purposefully across the sky farther south. At midnight it rolls lazily along the southern horizon, casting shadows incredibly long and turning the tundra grass to gold. With no real night to intervene, there is no need to hurry. Life seems wonderfully carefree. 
But to wildlife, an arctic summer is anything but carefree. Endlessly, that tireless hunter, the jaeger, skims over the tundra, back and forth as methodically as a farmer reaping a field, until it startles a lemming or nesting bird. At Prudhoe Bay, photographer Dan Guravich and I stopped our truck to watch a jaeger hunting among the oil wells. All at once it flushed a snow bunting that flew straight at us and crouched below the vehicle. The jaeger darted in pursuit. But in a split second, two gulls dive-bombed the jaeger until it flew away. In an arctic summer there is no letup for hunter or hunted. 
Summer was just beginning early in July when Dan and I pitched our tent on lonely, wind-swept Brevoort Island off the southeast coast of Baffin Island in the eastern arctic. Below us on the bay, still thick with ice, hundreds ofseals lay sunning themselves. Surrounding us on the rocky slopes were deep snowbanks, and as the day wore on, tiny streams of water began flowing from them, tinkling across the flat rocks. By late afternoon, the tinkle changed to a distant roar as thousands of little freshets merged into a cascade down the rocky ravines. And then, as the sun sank below a mountain at midnight, every stream turned silent. 
And what silence -as real, as elemental, as rock and ice and sky. A lone snow bunting called; he seemed to shatter the air. Two glaucous gulls passed over; we could hear the soft beat of their wings. There was no other sound as we lay in our sleeping bags, although some time during the night a wolf stopped to look us over. 
Flowers in the brief arctic summer are little less than a miracle. How can 

Caribou spend the summer in the High Arctic, most of them migrating south with winter's onslaught. 
they survive and grow and reproduce in temperatures that plunge below freezing when clouds cover the sun, in winds that may reach a hundred miles an hour and more, and where precipitation is less than in many deserts? 
A few flowers were already in bloom on Brevoort, among them arctic bell heather, its mossy branches strung with nodding bells like lily-of-thevalley. At noon we sat around the campfire, soaking up the sun. The temperature was only 54 degrees, yet deep in the heather where we placed a thermometer, it was 62 degrees. Some days when winds blow across the icy bays, the mossy surface is 20 degrees warmer than the air. 
This, then, is one answer to the conundrum of how plants survive in the arctic. They live in their own microclimate, a world oftheir own no more than an inch or two high, snuggled against the earth. No more than inches above is a different world where brutal winds sweep over, freeze-drying everything in their path. 
We found many ofthe same flowers at Prudhoe Bay, oil center of Alaska, on the shores ofthe Arctic Ocean. Heather was there, and the splendid little diapensia, a tuft no more than an inch across, studded with white blossoms. What we first took to be clumps ofmoss turned out to be moss campion, and as it burst into bloom, the lavender flowers 
nearly obscured the cushion of green leaves. Arctic poppies were pushing out ofthe ground, the buds arising from the surface, continuing to lengthen as they flowered and set seed; then, safely fertilized, they pushed their stalks still higher to capitalize on the wind for seed distribution. 
Everywhere around the camps that ring the shores ofPrudhoe Bay, flowers were blooming and many as early as mid-July were setting seed. Arctic cotton, a sedge, was white with plumes that protect its developing seedhead with an insulating ball of cotton; the temperature within might be 20 degrees warmer than the surrounding air. 
Surprisingly, the tundra surrounding the oil field, despite the feverish activity of drilling, looks all but unblemished. Except for a coating of dust immediately adjacent to roads, flowers and vegetation were as untouched as any 

At left, black bran! (Branta nigricans) are among the several varieties of geese that raise their fam ilies in fresh water lakes of the arctic; at right, saxifrage (Saxifraga herculus v. propinqua) is one of the miniature tundra plants that flower and set seed in a few summer weeks. 
At left, Arenaria maritima, a type of sandwort, thrusts its flowers high on long stems to encourage distribution of its seeds by the wind: at right, a family of moose (Alces alces) wanders along the braided courses of the Sagavanirktok River that empties into Prudhoe Bay. 
part of the wilderness we saw in our 
journey across the arctic. Years ago at 
the start of seismographic work, heavy 
vehicles sliced through the vegetation 
here and there, exposing the perma
frost to thawing, but most ofthese scars 
are disappearing. Today, the only ve
hicles that traverse the tundra in sum
mer are Rolligons, with tires so big and 
broad they require only two pounds of 
air pressure. They exert less force on 
the ground than a man's foot, and far 
less than a caribou's hoof. 
In a land where plants grow no taller 

than a few inches, wildlife looms up 
larger than life. In the fog, a family of 
black brant looked enormous. It was 
easy to spot other species of geese. Sev
eral families of Canada geese lined the 
roadside, the parents stretching out 
their necks at us while the young raced 
away to the safety of water. There was 
at least one family of white-fronted 
geese. Two flocks of snow geese each 
had about 40 young. 
Magnificent arctic loons and redthroated loons sat on their eggs on the margins of ponds as we passed by every day. Angus Gavin, a Scottish ecologist who has researched the wildlife of Prudhoe Bay for the past 11 years, counted 11 nesting loons between the Exxon camp and the East Dock, a distance of only half-a-dozen miles. Late nesters, they were only starting to bring off their young. How do the flightless young, which can only move on the ground with labored, frog-like leaps, manage to reach the security of the ocean a mile or more away when shallow pools begin to freeze? Last summer Gavin saw an adult flying with a young bird on its back. Swimming adults often carry the young that way, but I have never before heard of an aerial hitchhiker. (It was probably an accident rather than normal behavior.) 
Tundra pools were aflutter with smaller birds. Dainty phalaropes whirled like tops on the surface of the water, jabbing at tiny morsels ofanimal life. We flushed an occasional male bird -who does the customary maternal chores of sitting on eggs and caring for young -but could find no nests, so cunningly were they hidden. Outside the work camp where we stayed, a beautiful buff-breasted sandpiper was 
The peregrine falcon (Falco peregrinus), an endangered species in the South 48, nests along the bluffs of the Sagavanirktok River south of Prudhoe Bay 
nesting, but once again she had con
cealed her nest too cleverly for us to find. 
Arctic wildlife seemed indifferent to the 24-hour activity of drilling. Along the road beside the pipeline, young ptarmigan the size of bluebirds fed along the road with the gusto of a flock of chickens. When we stopped for pictures, they flew up and scattered as the mother raced up to attack, chattering and fluffed up to double her size. Tawny arctic ground squirrels fed busily, pausing briefly to rise to their hind feet and look us over. In a few weeks, they mate, rear their young, and pack on enough fat to keep themselves alive during nearly eight months of hibernation, when their body temperature drops to 34 degrees and their hearts beat only a few times a minute. 
Within a few miles of camp we 

counted perhaps a dozen families of 
whistling swans. A few were still incubating (a job that lasts from 35 to 40 days) but most of them already had young that were feeding voraciously. The growth of a cygnet must be phenomenal to enable it to begin at freezeup the long journey southeast all the way to Chesapeake Bay. Their cousin, the trumpeter swan ofsouthern Alaska, weighs half-a-pound at hatching and grows to 19 pounds in only 10 weeks. 
Periodically, an arctic summer gives way to what seems like winter. On July 
20, snow fell thickly enough to stop all flights by airplane for that day. But life seemed only to quicken. A determined least weasel raced across the road in the snow with a mouse in her mouth. 
During summer, small groups of caribou totalling about a thousand roamed the tundra around Prudhoe Bay. From our window we watched mothers nursing their wide-eyed calves. Born early in June, calves grow at a stupendous rate. In 10 days they double their birth weight of a dozen pounds. Inside a month, short spikes appear, precursors of the antlers that both sexes grow and shed each year. The animals paid little attention to vehicles, but ran when we tried to approach them on foot. 
A running caribou is a sight to behold. Few things in nature are more beautiful. Head and antlers are thrown far back over the shoulders, knees rise high 
Below, the fittle tundra plant, Diapensia Lapponica, no more than an inch in si ze, puts up blossoms as big as itself; at right, a family of snow geese (Chen hyperborea) one of two flocks nesting near Prudhoe Bay, takes its 40 goslings for a swim. 
Above, left, the Central Arctic herd of caribou, about 6,500 in number, summers along the shores of Prudhoe Bay. At right, temperature inside the wooly cluster of Senecio congestus, also · called mastodon flower or marsh fleabane, may be 20 degrees warmer than the surrounding air. 
and free like a proud stallion. Newly born caribou run with that same majesty. 
Flies torment the animals during the warmest part of the day. That is when they like to gather for reliefon air strips or empty parking lots around camps in groups of50 to 100. Lone animals seem to suffer most, and often you see one race across the tundra as if its life depended on flight, pause for a moment, shudder, shake its head, and go off again. Many caribou stand under the pipeline and occasionally in hangars, whether for shade or to escape flies, nobody seems to know. The flies ease off as the sun drops near the horizon. It is then that the unblemished green of tundra, sprinkled with grazing caribou, looks like an English baronial park. 
Summer in the arctic normally means a host ofmosquitoes. Not so last summer. There were few lemmings or snowy owls. Gavin says: "If there is anything constant about the arctic, it is its inconsistency." What you find one year will be quite different another year. For this reason, conflicting reports come from observers who spend no more than a single summer in the arctic. 
Late in July, we flew for several days by helicopter with Angus Gavin as he censused wHdlife. Besides the flocks of snow geese, only a few miles out we saw a grizzly foraging for ground squirrels. The day we censused eiderducks on the barrier reefs offshore was unforgettable. Most islands were crowded with birds, each female nestled into the sand behind a bit of driftwood, her neck outstretched on the sand to escape detection. Surrounding the eggs was a frothy mound of the famous eider down, dark gray with white flecks. Some eggs were hatching, and a few youngsters were leaving to go out to sea. How they can survive with ice floes all about them is a mystery. During his years of counting all kinds of wildlife, Gavin has found only minor changes in waterfowl populations. 
Summer was nearing an end on July 23 when we flew south along the broad, braided Sagavanirktok River that empties into Prudhoe Bay. Two cow moose with their big calves had gatheredin the willows, theirsummer a 
success. A grizzly mother and two honey-colored cubs ambled along the water's edge. For her, too, the summer was successful. 
We followed along the bluff high above the river, where the peregrine falcon, a rare and endangered species in the South 48, nests; the young had already flown. We put our helicopter down on the tundra back of the bluff to photograph a nest of rough-legged hawks. Two of the young flew; one remained, not yet fledged. Fall was in the air. Asters were blooming. Blueberries were laden with big, acid fruit. Bearberry leaves were crimson. Heather was in seed. To Gavin it was "like a walk across the Scottish moors" of his homeland. 
The sun warmed us as we sat for a moment looking over the magnificent uncluttered, unpeopled hills. As so often in the arctic, the time and the place seemed unreal. Nothing of the common world we knew was here. We sat poised on the edge of outer space. 
A bird whose song I couldn't recognize got me to my feet. Gavin responded to my question. It was an exotic -in keeping with the place -a white wagtail, common in Europe but nesting here only in Alaska and Greenland. As I searched for it, I found upturned clumps of tundra at the cliffs edge. A bear had been digging for ground squirrels. Reluctantly, we left the spot. 
A few days later we said goodbye to an arctic summer as we left by truck along the pipeline road for Fairbanks. It was evening as we started and beginning to rain. Along the road caribou were grazing, untroubled by flies. Families of geese and brant were feeding up close. A red fox loped easily beside us. The frenzied activity of an arctic summer seemed over. Winter would shortly ice the ponds and .whiten the tundra and cold would settle upon the world of the arctic for 10 long months. But that day seemed ages away. 
RICHARD C. DAVIDS 

"ABOUT THE AUTHOR Richard C. Davids, who calls both Bagley, Minnesota, and Washington , D.C., home, is a veteran free lance whose work has often been seen in the Reader's Digest. Specializing in nature and wi Id life subjects, Davids is the author of a popular book, "How to Talk to Birds." 
A member of the mustard family, Cardamine protensis, flourishes its lavendar flowers as part of the tundra display of arctic miniatur.es 
Photography by Dan Guravich 
. 21 



Focus On Deaf Artists 

After a century as a subculture, the deaf are joining Mainstream America as an important element in the arts. 
DEAF PEOPLE like to tell a joke  Charles Baird, is collecting  
at parties about a flock of  photographs and reproduc 
birds sitting on a telephone  tions of works by Broderson  
line. A man with a shotgun  and more than 300 other deaf  
comes along and fires at  artists. Himself a deaf artist  
them. All the birds fly away,  and a designer of theatrical  
except one. It stays . .. be sets, Baird has included in the  
cause it is deaf.  collection one of his own  
Cut off from sound, the na works. Entitled "The Me 
tion's 14.3 million citizens  chanical Ear," the picture is  
who are deaf, or suffer serious  Baird's satire of how, as a  
hearing loss, have often been  child, he was the subject of  
left to themselves. Through  tests for hearing loss in which  
the years they have evolved a  he was festooned with me- 
culture of their own. They  chanical gadgets and meters.  
have their own parties, clubs,  Along with easel art, Spec 
sports organizations. Thou trum's visual arts collection  
sands of them meet every  features sculpture, batiks,  
otheryear at the convention of  woodcarvings, stained glass,  
the National Association of  and other forms. One exam 
the Deaf, which is 100 years  ple: a World War II memorial,  
old this year. And like many  on permanent display in  
cultures, they have their own  downtown St. Louis, by Hillis  
language (making signs with  Arnold, at 73, America's old 
their hands), folklore, and art.  est known deaf sculptor.  
Recently this subculture  Eventually, Baird hopes,  
has begun to move more strongly into America's  In his studio, deaf artist Charles Baird displays his painting, "The Mechanical Ear," satirizing his experiences in the hearing world.  Spectrum will develop a national archive where  

mainstream of life, partly be
cause of federal laws promoting equal opportunity for the handi
capped. But also because of new and 
more effective methods of educating 
people with special needs. 

New organizations, as well, have sprung up to promote the interests and develop the talents of the deaf. One such organization is named "Spectrum -Focus on DeafArtists." This national, nonprofit group was formed in 1975 with offices in Austin and Houston, Texas. With the financial help of the National Endowment for the Arts and corporations such as Exxon, Spectrum has begun to attract national attention to artists, both visual and performing, who happen also to be deaf. 
Spectrum's founder and vice presi
dent, Jannette Norman, believes her organization provides deaf artists with the means for achieving success on a par with the opportunities that hearing professionals enjoy. This is important, she feels, because the deaf have "a special contribution to make to the arts, largely because of their different perception of the world." 
For example, deaf artist Morris Broderson, of Los Angeles, CaUfornia, has painted a series ofcanvases depicting a child bending down to "listen" to a flower. Observers interpret his work not as a reminder ofdeafness but as a celebration of beauty and joy despite life's cruelties. 
Spectrum's visual arts coordinator, biographies ofdeafartists and 

photographs of their works can be accumulated. Someday he wants to take an exhibit ofthe works of deaf artists on tour around the country. 
By comparison, in the performing arts, Spectrum has achieved some major accomplishments. The organization's American Deaf Dance Company is the first and only one ofits kind in the United States. Its artistic director and choreographer, Yacov Sharir, came to head up the company in 1976 from the Demama Group in Israel. The latter, so far as Spectrum knows, is the only other deaf dance company in the world. 
Having no pool of professional deaf dancers to draw from, Sharir recruited 
young deaf people who had expressed an interest in dance. With Sharir's guidance, the young people are learning modem dance and classical ballet, beginning with such basics as rhythm and balance. 
"You and I hear rhythms all around us," Sharir says. One ofthe few hearing people associated with Spectrum, Sharir cites the putt-putt ofcar engines, the clink-clink of swinging keys, the thud~thud of footsteps as rhythms of daily life. "But the only natural rhythm that a deaf person knows is his own heartbeat," Sharir explains. With this as an example, and with proper training, a deafdancer can develop internal timing which takes the place of the music he can't hear. 
How can someone dance without music? 
"They rely somewhat on instrumental vibrations which they feel in the air," says Sharir. For that reason, most of the music the Spectrum dancers use is heavily percussive. They like the works of 20th century composers such as John Cage and Carlos Chavez, and of local composers, including Austin's Gene Menger, who incorporates percussion for their benefit. (For the same reason, disco music is especially popular among the deaf.) 
Because deaf dancers perform independently of music, Sharir has developed the concept of freed dance. Says Sharir, "The dance is a composition by itself; the music is a composition by itself. When the two cross, as they do sometimes, it is by chance." 
The result is exciting. When the dancer is freed from the music, "no dance ever comes out the same way twice," Sharir says. This means that Spectrum dancers don't perform "Swan Lake" or other classical ballets. Rather, they do original, modern dances on abstract themes that have titles such as "Circles," "Interactions," and "From Right to Left." 

The audience sees pure movement: languid bends, running steps, sweeping arms, stretching torsos, and even gymnastic leaps and handsprings. For hearing people in the audience, the music lends another dimension. It is a haunting, even eerie, succession of clicks, drumbeats, and humming marimba sounds. One piece in the repertoire, "Continuation in Silence," is performed without music altogether. 
The eight-member company has performed at The University of Texas, where Shariris on the faculty, in ajoint performance with the Dallas Ballet, and at Austin's Paramount Theatre, where they premiered a work especially choreographed for them by Michael Uthoff, who is artistic director for the Hartford Ballet. They have also performed at the Carver Cultural Centerin San Antonio, and on two tours at schools for the deafin New York, Washington, D.C., Arkansas, and North Carolina. This year the company will appear in Fort Worth and Dallas, and will go on another touroutside the state. 
Wherever the Spectrum company performs, audiences and critics soon forget the dancers are deaf. Critics notice a tremendous physical expression, or as one reviewer writes, "the 
Jimmy Turner and Rosie Serna, of Spectrum 's American Deaf Dance Company, perform a ballet without music. 
Photography by Jim Caldwell 
unique abihty of deaf people to convey emotion through gesture." 
The latter comes naturally to the deaf, for gesture, mime, body movement, and facial expression are all fundamental to their communication process. The same highly developed faculty for physical expression is also evidenced among deaf actors and has been an important moving force behind the formation of theaters for the deaf. Of these, there are several; some, such as the National Theatre for the Deaf in Waterford, Connecticut, have been active for many years. 
In forming its own deaftheater, Spec-

At an art class for the deaf, teacher Charles Baird signs "Do it now" to a student; Baird hopes to create a national archive of the works of deaf artists through Spectrum 
trum emphasizes plays written or adapted by deaf playwrights and intended primarily for deaf audiences. So that hearing audiences may also enjoy the performances, Spectrum provides professional readers who sit in the front row offstage and say aloud what the actors are signing onstage. 
However, such was not the case in the company's first production, "A Play of Our Own," by Dorothy Squire Miles, who is a deafpoet and actress from England. The play is a comedy about the confusion that arises when a young deaf woman brings a hearing boyfriend home to meet her family. Readers were not provided. Clarence Russell, Spectrum's secretary-treasurer and acting theater director, explains why : "It helps the hearing audience to experi
ence the frustrations that deaf people grapple with every day." Other Spectrum productions show the dramatic potential of sign language. In "Blue Angel," which Spectrum's then-president Charlie McKinney adapted from the 1930 film starring Marlene Dietrich, the cabaret singer is portrayed as deaf. "She doesn't follow the piano," McKinney explains. "Just the reverse. The piano follows her." Another production, " Sign Me Alice," which translates into English as "My Name is Alice," exposes the audience to the several different kinds of sign language available for the deaf to use. Among them are finger spelling, where every word is spelled out; signed En-
Coaching Rosie Serna, Yacov Sharir explains that deaf dancers develop an internal timing which takes the place of music. 
glish, where every hand movement represents an English word; and American Sign Language, or Ameslan, which is a different language altogether. 
Ameslan has its own vocabulary, grammar rules, and word order. Like a · foreign language, it cannot be translated word for word into English. Ameslan is a language ofvisual symbols. One sign may stand for a whole idea, which would take several English words to describe. For many deaf people, Ameslan is their true native language, and depending on how they were taught at home and school, they may be bilingual, knowing Ameslan and English. 
Theater critics liken Spectrum performances to watching a foreign language film with English subtitles. One reviewer, after seeing Spectrum perform A. R. Gurney's "The Golden Fleece" at Houston's Equinox Theatre, commented on "how rapidly and fluently the nimble fingers of the onstage players can convey the 

Spectrum dancers rely on vibrations felt in the air to maintain rhythm; original dance, performed here by Bob McMahon, Mario llli, and Jimmy Turner, is scored for percussion instruments. 
• 
Choreographer Yacov Sharir leads Spectrum's dance company; here, he guides company members Jimmy Turner, Bob McMahon, Rosie Serna, and Bonnie Ramsey in a modern ballet. 
dialogue in sign language." partment,.the play has been aired on 
Sp·e-~tru'rii .ha§' 'perfo'b~e-d "Golden local educational television in Austin Fleece" in Austin at the Convention for and San Antonio. Spectr:um is negotiatthe American Instructors for the Deaf ing .with two national Je·tworks, ABC and in Lexington, Kentucky. Joseph and ·PBS, for future showings. 
. · Papp has expressed an'i~t~restin bringSpectrum sees the production as a ing "Golden Fleece" to New York's precedent for a series of children's public theater. classics to be broadcast Locally and naWhen not producing plays, Spectrum tionally and to be made available for sends deaf actors to perform in other classroom use. "Deafchildren need role theaters across the country. Liz Quinn, models they can understand," Quinn for example, played Helen of Troy in says. "They need to see proofthat being " The Trojan Women" at the Los deaf will not hold them back from proAngeles Actors Theatre in January and fessional careers." has taped a part for one segment of the Spectrum sees many other uses for . "Trapper John, M.D." television series. television: Quinn, who has played the female • Storing taped performances ofdances lead in all of Spectrum's productions so and plays as a reference source for fufar, has also adapted and directed a ture performers. children's play, "The Beauty and the • Recording sign language folklore Beast." It ushered the company into its (jokes, stories, poetry) which has been first television production. Indepenhanded down for generations among dently produced by Dick Gibbe with the deaf. Spectrum and KLRN, The University of • Using video tape in place of written Texas's radio, television, and film de-language for keeping official records, 
such as the minutes of a meeting. 
"Sign language is visual, so it makes sense to video-tape it," Jannette Norman says. American Sign Language, she points out, can't be written down exactly; there is no written form. 
For that reason, Spectrum offers workshops in basic techniques of video production. "Because deafpeople know sign language, they are the logical ones to be behind the cameras," Norman says. 
To house these growing activities, Spectrum now needs a new home. "Our hope is to have a unique arts center," Norman says, "where deaf artists can hold workshops, rehearse, perform, and exhibit their works." 
First headquartered at a 10-acre ranch, and now cramped in a renovated warehouse in downtown Austin, Spectrum sought and received a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts to begin a year of architectural planning. 
Spectrum has pioneered in adapting television for performing and viewing by the deaf; here, Toby Silver directs the taping of a play. 
Working with architects and deaf artists, Spectrum will explore the special needs of deaf artists and audiences. 
"Every state builds institutions for the deaf," Norn1an points out, "but usually no one bothers to ask the deaf what they need." 
In Spectrum's planning, the needs of the deaf are paramount. For example, theaters for deafaudiences cannot now seat more than about 200 people because the audience must be close 
enough to the stage to see the sign language being used. Spectrum hopes to develop a method to magnify sign language so that more may see it easily. Another possibility: a dance floor that vibrates in order to give deaf dancers better cues. 
Spectrum's foresight in architectural and arts programs has pushed the organization into a position of leadership among deaf artists. In October, 1979, 
In a workshop on video techniques, Toby Silver, r.ight, talks with actors Don Bangs, Brenda Leabhmann, and Lynette Faun!. 
Spectrum and three Houston arts organizations -the Museum of Fine Arts, the Houston Ballet, and the Cultural Arts Council -gave a workshop on Section 504 ofthe Rehabilitation Act of 1973, which prohibits discrimination against the handicapped in any program receiving federal aid. 

In coming months, Spectrum will help arts organizations in Houston, New York, and Los Angeles comply with the law through a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. Spectrum, deaf leaders, and arts officials will explore problems stemming from deafness, suggest ways ofhelping deafpeople enjoy the arts, and put them in touch with arts organizations. 
Thanks to such programs, deafartists are coming out of their isolation. Much of the credit should go to Jannette Norman, who got the idea for Spectrum while teaching art to deafchildren. She found a patron, Helen DeVitt Jones, of Lubbock, and enough other contributors in 1974 to start a newsletter, make contact with deaf artists, and 
begin holding summer conferences. The dance company started with a grant from the Texas Commission on the Arts and Humanities. Two theater productions were funded by the Arts Commission of the City of Austin. 
As the list of contributors has grown, so has Spectrum. Exxon's grant of $5,000 helps meet general operating expenses and pays for the newsletter's maHing list. At 7,000 circulation, it is now the second largest publication for the deaf in the United States. 
"We are impressed with Spectrum's 

Some plays performed by Spectrum's theater group employ a hearing interpreter for the benefit of hearing audiences; here, Lynette Faunt fills this role with Don Bangs. 
philosophy," says E. F. Arps, who coordinates Exxon's contributions program. "Their emphasis is on the abilities, not the disabilities, ofdeafpeople." 
By emphasizing the abilities of deaf artists, Spectrum is showing that they need not remain in the status of a subculture. With Spectrum's guidance, the work ofdeafartists can enrich the lives of all Americans. BARBARA LANGHAM 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Barbara Langham works as a free-lance writer from her home in Austin , Texas. She has contributed several articles to EXXON USA, specializing in the general area of education. 
ABOUT SPECTRUM 
FOCUS ON DEAF ARTISTS Persons interested in learning more about Spectrum -Focus on Deaf Artists may write directly to Clarence Russell, Spectrum Focus on Deaf Artists, P.O. Box 339, Austin , TX 78767. 
ple, met the highly organized agricul
tural society of the Pueblo Indians. An 
infusion of new ideas led the Navajo to 
shift their religious concepts from in
dividuality to ceremony. Itwas a time of 
creation, when the Navajo were shap
ing their new world and seeking their 
own cultural identity. 
An artistic blossoming took place. Elaborate ceremonies and rituals entered Navajo hfe. Medicine men created a system of chants and songs describing and invoking deities believed to live among the rocks of the canyons. To give order and shape to their world, they devised symbols for the deities, which they carved and painted on the canyon walls. 
From this creative explosion, the unique traditions and concepts that enrich Navajo life today began to take on depth and meaning. Still, the Navajo borrowed only elements they desired, which they treated with artistic and economic freedom . They adapted from Pueblo styles ofreligious paraphernalia, architecture, manufacturing techniques, origin myths, rituals, basketry, weaving, and social patterns such as the preeminence of the mother with matrilineal descent and matrilocal residence. 
Results may be seen in many aspects of Navajo culture as represented in the rock art ofthe canyons, and even in the sand paintings of today. By preserving these records for use by the Navajo people and others, we hoped to narrow the information gap between what is known of early Navajo history and more recent knowledge. Study of these cultural origins may help the Navajo to achieve a higher degree ofcultural historical integration. 
We began by interviewing Navajo medicine men, and proceeded to field and library research. In the field, some of us lived for weeks at a time on locations such as Crow Canyon, Gobernador Canyon, and around the confluence of the San Juan River and its tributary canyons including Largo, Blanco, Carrizo, Delgadito, and others. Medicine men and their families joined us to examine the rock art and discuss their meaning in that environment. One medicine man told us that his own ancestors, his clan, had lived in Crow Canyon in earlier times. We also talked to chanters and attended ceremonials, such as the Night Chant, to obtain first-hand knowledge of the ritual sand paintings. 
Recording the knowledge ofmedicine 
Typical of the New Mexico canyons of Old Navajoland is Crow Canyon, the site of Shaft House, now a ruin, where Navajo ancestors would hide in times of danger. 
A pictograph illustrates a Plains Indian warrior with headdress and two types of bows. 
In Delgadito Canyon, Pueblo dancers are shown with Zuni Indian rain rattles, evidence of the intercultural exchange then taking place. 

This ceremonial panel in Delgadito Canyon contains Yeibichai (Night Chant) deities such as Humpback, Fringed Mouth, Female God, and Male God. 
FOR THOSE WHO KNOW WHERE to look, some of North America's most important cultural records may be seen in the pictographs and petroglyphs of "Old Navajoland" in North Central New Mexico. And for those who know how to read them, these works of rock art created by the ancestral Navajo tell fascinating tales of gods and rituals of a bygone day. 
Butyou'd betterhurry. Weather, time, and vandals are rapidly erasing these precious pictures of prehistory. In anticipation of the day when they are gone, a group of scientists and Navajo medicine men, with the aid ofan Exxon grant, recently entered the seldomvisited interior of this rugged canyon land. Their mission: to find and preserve through photography these records of a vanished culture. 
Field surveys for locating the rock art sites were in charge of Harry L. Hadlock, surveyor, engineer, and respected amateur archaeologist. His knowledge of the San Juan River drainage and Gobernador Canyon is unsurpassed. 


Recording The Roots 
Of NavajoCulture 

A team of scientists and medicine men seek to preserve rock art before it becomes lost to history and to culture. 
Photography was the responsibility of Len Bouche of Santa Fe. Research, interpretation, and preparation of publications (including this article) were directed by Caroline B. Olin, an artist · with a Ph.D. in art history and a special-

David Kindle, a Navajo medicine man , shared his knowledge with the research team until his death in February, 1979, at the age of 86. 
ist in Navajo sand paintings. Sally Hadlock, an expert in Navajo symbolism and mythology, assisted in the work. Dr. Bertha P. Dutton, noted archaeologist and former director of the Museum of Navajo Ceremonial Art, and Martin Link, then director ofthe Navajo Tribal Museum, acted as chief investigators. 
The project was sponsored by the Navajo Tribal Museum, at Window Rock, Arizona. Several Navajo medicine men, educators, artists, and their friends and families gave assistance. Interpreters of Navajo to English were Richard P. Evans and David Evans, brothers who grew up on the Navajo reservation and have spoken Navajo from boyhood. 
Yet these investigators were not to explore the Navajoland of today, most of which lies in Arizona, but Old Navajoland, in New Mexico. Archaeologists believe the ancestors of today's Navajo migrated from the north to these New Mexico canyons and high mesas in the sixteenth century. There, the ancestral Navajo, a nomadic peo
Above: From Delgadito Canyon, a ceremonial pictograph of Night Chant deities has been recovered for display in the Navajo Tribal Museum at Window Rock, Arizona. 
At right : This pictograph of th e Navajo corn plant, signifying the creation of mankind and the 

. tree of life, was discovered in Upper Crow Canyon. 
Opposite page : Early Indian 
artists used white pigments sometimes a mixture of gyp
sum, aragonite, and 
halotrichite-pickeringite -to 
depict color symbolism. 

Below: This well-organ ized Pueblo mural uses a horned mask, terraced cloud symbols, lightning, and horses to tell a story of the origins of the people who created them . 
men gains significance when one realizes that most of them are of advanced age. Few young people are willing to devote the scores of years necessary to the required training. Even fewer are willing to impart or share their knowledge of their culture. Yet, some recognize that the ceremonials are being forgotten, and are concerned that Navajo traditions and history be preserved. One medicine man told us that his religion is not just for the Navajo but for everyone. 
Not all the rock art ofOld N avajoland could be explained in terms of contemporary religious significance. A number of deities used in sand paintings have not been found in the rock art, and some ofthe symbols in rock art are unknown 
Navajo muse, Mrs. David Kindle, the daughter of Navajo medicine man Slim Policeman, helped researchers by pointing out significant 
details. 
to medicine men. Some of the older examples show influence of the Anasazi ("Ancient Ones," who preceded the Navajo in Old Navajoland) and the Pueblo Indians. Other influences have come from maurauding Ute and Comanche Indians from the north, from Spanish intruders and missionaries, and from the Apaches, linguistic cousins of the Navajo. In fact, harassment from the Utes and Comanches eventually caused the Navajo to migrate southward and westward to Chaco Canyon and Canyon de Chelly, thus ending the period of their rock art tradition. 
One of the significant features of Navajo art is that of function. For example, each sand painting is created for a special purpose, to promote healing through the focusing of spiritual powers. In a similar way, certain medicine 

men believe the Crow Canyon rock art damentals of religion and mythology. 
may have been used ritually. Some • To seek supernatural aid. 
symbols may have been used to pro•To mark an individual's or a group's 
mote hunting success. Others may presence. 
have been used in agricultural pollen or • To identify celestial bodies. 
seed blessing rituals. Among other uses • To give directions. 
and purposes: • To establish the presence of a clan. 

•
To preserve ceremonial knowledge. • To protect and shield against injury in 


• 
To teach novice chanters and other combat. 
youth about traditional values and fun-• To commemorate events, such as a 



As shown in this hunting scene, the Navajo hunted deer and antelope, and employed the proper ceremony to give hunters power over their game. 
The mask of a female yei of the Night Chant, shown here by courtesy of the Museum of New Mexico, appears often in pictographs; the terraced ear flaps provide openings for the winds to inform and advise the yei . 
migration, or the deeds of particular personages. 
• 
To indicate the number and occurrences of seasonal changes. 

•
To serve as shrines and communicate with supernatural beings. 



A hunter eager to kill a deer would picture the animal on a cliff wall, and through sympathetic magic, procure power over deer. Other means of securing supernatural aid were by imitative magic and contagious magic. The idea was that any part of something was the equal of the whole. Thus, a footprint or handprint in a petroglyph or pictograph represented the entire person, or in some cases, the supernatural being's presence. Sometimes drawings were superimposed upon others as a restitution ritual, or to show power. Also, through drawings, supernatural beings 
.~ 
6 
Q) 
.~ 
e 
ro 
u David Kindle explains the relationship of a petroglyph in Lower Crow Canyon with certain plants and pollens useful in medicinal ceremon ies. 
were able to be in several places at once. Ideas important to the Navajo such as pairing, the balance ofopposite forces, symmetry, interlocking relationships, repetition, motion, place, and locality, all could be represented through symbols. Medicine men explained, "That is the way it was done in the myths. That is the way the Holy People taught us." 
We talked with medicine men about instances where designs were redrawn or retouched. They explained that retouching the design reactivitated its power. Pigments used in coloring the designs were primarily earth colors: 
• 
Red from iron oxide of hematite. 

•
Yellow from limonite and goethite. 

• 
Blue and green from copper ores, 


Above: These human depicti ons from the Rosa Phase of th e Anasazi era (circa 700-850 
A.O.) may rep resent a shaman, two sets of dancers, and two flute players. 
At left: This Plains Indian, complete with headdress, rattle, and bow, may represent one of the two "daylight dancers" of the Yeibichai who come out on the day before the last day of the chant 
At right: Directional swastika symbols, a yei figure, and a coyote (or wolf) with lightning shooting from its head may te ll a story about the presence of supernatural beings. 
Below: Symbols in this Navajo petroglyph are believed to represent First Born Boy and a Shooting Chant warrior with bow and arrow. 
such as azurite, malachite, serpentine, and blue clay. 
• 
Black from manganese ore, charcoal, and roasted graphite. 

• 
White from gypsum, kaolin, chalk, and clay. 

• 
Tan from adobe clay. 


The painters used binders made of animal fats, seed oils, blood, urine, resins, milkweed, and the yolks and whites of birds' eggs. Pigments were applied to the rock with brushes made of frayed yucca leaves, fiber bundles, twigs, pointed sticks, and the painter's fingers. Handprints were sometimes made by blowin g pigment around the 
outline of a hand or a painted palm was pressed against the rock. 
It appears that Indian artists of the past did not consider or experience art as we comprehend it. They experienced their symbols as the thing itself-reality. To the minds of these artists, the symbol and the object for which it substituted were one and the same. This idea represents a subtle fusion of form and content and a reciprocity between the forces of nature and mankind. Thus, for the Indian artist of Old Navajoland, his symbols unified man and nature in harmony and balance. 
CAROLINE e. OLIN, with SALLY HADLOCK 
ABOUT THE AUTHORS Dr. Caroline Olin and Sally Hadlock live near Santa Fe, New Mexico , and have shared an interest in art and archaeology for many years. As the authors for the rock art research team, they expect to publish a more extensive paper that wi ll examine the team's findings in much greater detai l. 

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E)){ONUSA 
SECOND QUARTER, 1980 VOL. XIX, NO. 2 ABOUT THE COVER 
Photographer Dan Guravich found a field of arctic cotton (Eriophorum vaginatum) in bloom at Prudhoe Bay on the North Slope of Alaska, as he and author Richard Davids sought to chronicle a summer in the arctic. The story begins on page 2. 
2 EXPLORING THE ARCTIC FOR OIL, by Norman Sklarewitz 
Research enables Exxon to look for oi I in Alaska's frozen waters without risk to 
environmental values. 

6 NEW JERSEY: THE WORD IS SURPRISE, by John Cunningham 
New Jersey's many and varied assets make it one of the nation's most attractive and interesting states in which to live. 
12 CELEBRATING A CENTURY OF SALVATION, by Roger Williams 
In a century of service, The Salvation Army has become what some say is the most effective privately financed social welfare agency in America. 
16 AN ARCTIC SUMMER, by Richard Davids 
A naturalist spends a summer in the High Arctic where oil companies are searching for deposits of oil and gas. 
22 FOCUS ON DEAF ARTISTS, by Barba1a Langham 
A unique organization strives to help deaf artists who seek to JOin the mainstream of American culture. 
26 RECORDING TtiE ROOTS OF NAVAJO CULTURE, by Caroline Olin 
A team of scientists and medicine men seek to preserve Navajo rock art before it is lost 
to time and vandalism. GETTING IT RIGHT • In our Fourth Quarter, 1979, edition, Exxon USA identified Michael Palmer as a student maestro, when in fact, he is an experienced conductor. Palmer was Exxon/Arts Endowment conductor with the Atlanta Symphony for the last three years of his 10 years as associate conductor. He was hired in 1977 to ti II the position of music director of the Wichita Symphony Orchestra. He also serves as coprincipal guest conductor of the Denver Symphony Orchestra and as a guest conductor of other orchestras including the National Symphony Orchestra, Wash ington, D.C.; Detroit Symphony Orchestra; Houston Symphony Orchestra; and St. Louis Symphony Orchestra. Exxon USA regrets the misleading statement. 
EXXON USA is published quarterly by the Public Affairs Department of Exxon Company, U.S.A.; Otto W. Glade, Coordinator Publications and Film Services Section; Downs Matthews, Editor; Richard Payne, Art Director 
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