Its a Neighborhood Bar :: Essays Papers

Its a Neighborhood Bar For a group project assigned in our Advanced Composition class at the University of Arizona, four of us trenchant to research the Morenci Mine Strike of 1983. When we left Tucson early one morning, we had no idea what to expect. The story was so muddled and had been so misconstrued with the passage of date and the fermentation of emotion, that we started to feel like Scooby Doo and his gang of amateur detectives. We even tongue-in-cheek started calling my Nissan Altima the Mystery Machine. I had read round a parapet called The Refrigerated Cave in a book by Barbara Kingsolver called retentiveness the Line, and was interested in learning more about it, so arm with nothing but Morenci-Clifton-Safford phonebook we drove down the main thoroughfare in search of it. Our visit to The Cave turned out to be one of our most informative stops that day. We saw the sign on the side of the road through the window of the car, but finding the delight was an other wise(a) story all together. After we pulled into the dirt parking lot, the other three members of my group and I stepped on to a rickety flavor wooden bridge and looked over the side. The rushing water below looked to be maybe four inches deep, but the creek bed was completely infrared under the unnatural looking rust colored torrent. On the other side of the bridge, there was a staircase leading to a door, and a path leading around the corner of the building. After deciding that the staircase door looked more like a residence than a bar, we chose to pursue the path around the building. Around the corner there the path begins a steep decent to another door with a large substantive sign over it reading The Refrigerated Cave.When we walked through the door, I had to dart several times to adjust to the darkness. The bar was all but set down when we entered. It was only about 200 in the afternoon, so it was not strike that there was only one man sitting at the abrogate o f bar talking to a female bartender. They were situated in apparent motion of a large T.V., maybe sixty inches or more, with horrible reception. The word-painting Grease was playing and Olivia Newton John and John Travolta were singing about summer days and nights while we surveyed our surroundings.