I grew up the son of jewelry wholesalers. I won’t get into much about that right now (it is a fertile field I will return to, however), other than to say their small business thrived in the heavily inflationary period of the 1970s off the resourcefulness and hard work of both my parents. They travelled around much of the western portion of the United States, alternately purchasing extra stock of gems from retailers, and then selling their findings along with other inventory to other “rocks shops” in disparate, often hard-to-reach areas. They filled a supply niche that no longer exists in the era of the internet, but at that time proved quite profitable for those willing and able to reach a needy customer base. 

As is this case with many professions, there were and are many trade shows and conventions that cater to the gemological crowd, but few are as massively open-air as those held annually in January and February at Quartzsite, Arizona, a town located not far from the California border. I was born and raised in Palm Springs, CA, a town I returned to and have remained a resident of in my adult years. The Coachella Valley, of which Palm Springs is arguably its most famous city (although Coachella has, of recent years, become quite famous due to the eponymous concert series held there), is the last major population hub one encounters when driving down the I-10 into Arizona, so Quartzsite was always an easy trip for my parents to make compared to some of my family’s other business sojourns. My father died when I was seven and my mother ceased going after his death, but I retain many happy memories of those dusty shows filled with tables hocking a panoply of gemological delights in front of an endless series of Airstream trailers. 

In my home hangs a picture of us three, my father in his typical light blue shirt, my mom with her perm, and me, looking to the side, a frown-of-the-moment on my face that belied how happy we all were. I have a plastic scoping sound noodle in my hands that made a cavernous bellow when flailed around, a toy my parents gratefully tolerated my use of. The gem faire wasn’t quite a trade show and there were many rockhounds there with their families, so leisure items such as this toy were hocked at tables right alongside various geodes in bins and an endless other shiny delight. I am sure many of those who will read these words have the memories of a similar bend. I love my family. I am sure you do too.

I mention all this because I include a scene at Quartzsite towards the end of the first book in my Doppelganger trilogy. Without spoiling things too much, the character finds himself there in an abandoned former fairground and has a vision standing on a sign that announces a gem show that was hosted there. He imagines he sees a heat mirage in the sun, one that reveals to him a description of the moment my described photo was taken. I teared up when I wrote that passage, and I tear up every time I reread it. It’s the closest I will come to being a character in the series. I am fantasy to my protagonist, as he is to me. In the story, the little boy smiles, and waves at him. He returns the favor. It was a kind of authorial indulgence. As I write this, another such indulgence, my eyes are welling up once more. The protagonist says he is grateful the boy shared his world with him. I am grateful I got to share this with you, too.