From Basements to Bookmobiles

I have been an addict for over 50 years now. My earliest fixes were The Bobbsey Twins. I would ride my bicycle to my Aunt Merle and Uncle Claude's dairy farm . It was a four mile round trip in the hot humid sweetcorn summers of Illinois. I would be greeted with a hug by my great aunt given sugary iced tea and maybe a homemade snickerdoodle and then I would retreat into the cool dark basement filled with books over a quarter century old.

There were my summer adventures with Freddie and Flossie and Nan and Bert; I traveled with them to Holland Michigan, to a Dude Ranch in the West, to the Empire State Building in New York city... places that were so unlike my life of bean fields, tractors and Angus cows. I read the Five little Peppers and how they grew; sobbed over classics like Little Women, Black Beauty and Jack London's tales of wolf dogs.



The following summers I solved mysteries with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys but didn't really like the hospital settings of Cherry Ames-student nurse, but couldn't get enough of Trixie Belden .I eventually gobbled all the old tomes in the basement library and begged my parents for a membership to a public library.

We were 30 minutes by car to the closest library. At age 10 I was not allowed to ride my bike that far and so I waited for the weekly outing to the Hoopeston Public Library that became more sacred than a junkie's habit. This Andrew Carnegie architectural wonder was my portal to other worlds until I went a way to college and had a forced reading list of numerous texts.



My addiction to books have not faded over the years. There have been times when my half hearted pursuit of academics changed my reading habits. Semesters when the grading load as a professor strained my eyesight so that reading student essays had to become the priority. Then there was a time when I felt I should be writing not reading rhetoric.



When I rented my ocean balcony, complete with tiny kitchen and a bed, I was determined that the porch overlooking the ocean and town's gazebo was to be for writing books,  not reading them . Unfortunately I soon discovered the Oak Bluff library which was only a five minute walk from my house.

 The only words I wrote during those summers were postcards to my friends. I did spend allot of time on the porch mornings were spent drinking coffee and perusing the  newspapers and evening ended with a mudslide and D.H. Lawrence as the sun slid under the Atlantic's horizon. This procrastination of reading instead of writing remains even today despite my best intentions.

I never really had the habit of buying books....although recently a young neighbor came to our house and said he had never seen a home with so many books. I was surprised. We don't buy that many books, although my husband is a fervent reader too.



The books I have collected in my home are my non-fiction resources: writings about the historic West where we now live. There are shelves devoted to Native American literature, art, crafts, history, Anasazi sites and archeo-astronomy. With the abundance of varied species of hummingbirds visiting our homes we have been forced to identify  birding books, as well as pictured texts of venomous creatures of the Southwest, tracking books, and books about holes in the desert books have been recent acquisitions. Of course I must have my reference books- caring for my dogs, cats, donkey, alpaca and llama as well as Horses for Dummies and self help books by Dr. Oz , Dr. Phil, and cookbooks for cuisines from Japanese to Middle East to just carrots or chile pepper feasts.



We keep our fiction books by our favorite authors for our guests who are here. Tony Hillerman and JA Jance and Betty Webb who all write of the desert. My husband has some well worn manuals on electricity and home building and I have my secret stash of autographed books by authors I have met...not just their signatures, but authors I have dined with and had conversations and cocktails ...Maya Angelou, Rudolf Anaya, Chris Bojhiilian, and of Sand and Fog Fame. There are the books where I keep the pictures of myself with Annie Liebowitz (one of my pal's childhood friends) and a pix of Tony Hillerman and my mother who were Marines together in WW2.



Otherwise we purchase our books at thrift stores or yard  sales. When we have digested them, Cousin Bernadette also an avid reader is first on our recycle list after we score a new Baldacci, Patterson or Grisham . In return she shares her Costco new releases with us. After reading we pass these to Linda a prison guard with an addition for alpacas as well as books  or to neighbors  Tim and Theresea  who also share in our  habit.



Now isolated in the southwest desert; I must wait once a month for my big fix. It is one hundred miles to Tucson, and I really cant justify ordering the newest Swedish release of Sieg Larssen from Amazon.com.  Especially when the book mobile journies to Dos Cabezas near my home  the first tuesday of every month.



The air conditioned internet  friendly library on wheels  always arrives on time and parks next to the abandoned adobe home in the  ghost town just off 186 on its way to the Chiricahuas. My dog Dharma and I never missDharma.



I hungrily grab the latest Susan Miller Cummings, a geologist who writes mysteries occasionally set in our neck of the woods, and am surpsied find the trio  of Chelsea Handler's comedic exploits on the shelf. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is checked out, but Ted orders it for me along with the sequel. It will arrive in a few days or a week or two in my mail box. In the meantime I have filled my book tote with my mind meth-all free thanks to my tax dollars and work.
 
I marvel at this unexpected luxury in my life and anxiously take the monthly calendar from Ted to post at home on my frig .  I am retired now. There are household and animal chores as well as my special projects.  I have gourds to paint, alpaca fiber to card, the great American novel to write. I plan to do all those things this summer. But first,I just have to finish this book I started..

LOST ALLURES

My cousins are in NYC celebrating their 60th birthdays. They have wanted to do this for a long time-maybe 60 years?
I love that they want to sit in on the View...watch Joy and Whoopi take on Elizabeth-the Right, and maybe get some free goodies. I can understand that and I would join them if the View was filmed in Tucson, but not NYC.
There was a time when I spent both my free time and money in the city. New York is "the city" if you are cool and live within 200 miles. Back then I thought I was very chic, very sophisticated, and very hip whenever I went into the city.
My pals and I would get tickets for Letterman or Saturday Night Live; we would go to a coffee house in the "village" when Starbuck was only a literary reference. We would take the subway uptown, downtown, midtown. We would buy Willi Wear and Norma Kamali.
I would speak enough Japanese to get a few free dishes at a sushi bar before California rolls were invented. The Prixe fix dinner was our French friend and the Met and Guggenheim were the eye candy dessert.
My knees shook coming down the narrow stairs from crowded Lady Liberty's crown; and we got souvenir glasses from Top of the World revolving bar in the World Trade Center.( I should never have sold those at my yard sale in 1984). We hiked to the top of the Empire State Building and got lost in Chinatown after having a Sunday full of dim sum.
In Little Italy we ate the best puttanesca, had the most authentic espresso and had the guilty pleasure of incredible tiramisu. The restaurants were all a shade of shadowy red,(maybe to hide the blood baths?) the waiters either courtly men, or grandmas keeping the bread and butter baskets filled.
I drove my VW convertible, my friends new Toyota, or Penn's States bus with a group of screaming yet to be enlightened students in downtown Manhattan. We yelled and shouted and cursed always in quest of the perfect parking spot but always ended up in a dismal spot for an outrageous fee.
Clean bathrooms were found at the library in Midtown, at McSorley's in the Village and at an old grad school pal's apartment on the edge of Harlem.
I vowed to move there before Sex in the City was a TV show. However always after 3 days or 3 Broadway shows I would be out of money and ready to go home.
Patti Lupone was Evita in first run, songs in "a Chorus Line " weren't cliches, and Barbara Walters was lunching at the Russian Tea Room, High Tea was still affordable at the Plaza and there were still long lines outside Studio 54. These are my memories of New York.

I am now 3000 miles and thirty years beyond celebrating any occasion in the Big Apple.

Now lunch out is at Grandma D's along old business 10 at a picnic table with my dog Dharma munching a toasted hot dog, while I enjoy a sloppy Joe. Dinner is at one of two Mexican restaurants and the bill for my husband and I comes in under $25.00 and that includes our margarita and beer.
We occasionally splurge with a latte from Tom's in the tumbling down old antique store, or a dipped cone from the drive thru Dairy Queen.
We went to see Spy Kids in 3d in the 100 year old theatre while our shoes stuck to the floor and celebrated St, Patrick's Day with $1.00 lime jello shots in the Palace Saloon where Warren Earp (Wyatt's not so famous brother took a bullet in his vest.
I shop for clothes at Bealls where the closest to upscale duds is a Jjill or Coldwater Creek shirt with tags marked off 80%. wait until Monday when I get an extra 15% off with my over 50 senior discount.
Ah and the cleanest bathroom is the Maid Rite feedstore where I buy my horses hay and grain. I drive to town in my husband's pickup truck or my ptcruiser convertible-(some desires stay the same). Parking is free; I almost always park in front of where I want to shop. I smile when I pass Rex Allen's statue and his horse Koko's grave. The landmark of downtown.
For my 55th birthday I walked our lighted alpaca in the Apple Festival Parade, gave the kids lining the street candy canes, and took Pizza Hut hand tossed home for my birthday's haute cuisine.
I am not sure where or what I want to do when I turn 60, but New York city doesn't beckon, to me anymore. Its allure has been lost. I am changed-I laugh at the thought of being chic.

I no longer need to travel to celebrate. Every day in the desert is a special occasion,but I am thinking when I turn 60 , I am gonna paint my horses nails gold and ride in Willcox's Rex Allen Day Parade.

View from my horse...

Depression hits; pills are popped. The head is fuzzy; the heart still sad. Effexor, Prozac, Paxil-all chemicals remain the same. Ahh but clarity can surface. The heart can be transformed; the mind can be revived.

The smell of alfafa, old leather, sweat and sage are my elixors. I head to the barn; I call for my horses. My burro is first looking for treats or to play a trick. Smoke my appaloosa stands in the shade of the sturdy mesquite. Pajon, my paso fino cannot stand to not get treats. He follows me to the hitching stand. His coat is brushed; his feet are picked. I remove my leather gloves, smearing the greasy Swat on my hands to cover his face. Endure is sprayed on his legs and the saddle is place. I grab my water bottles, stuff them into the saddlebags, and check the cinch and bridle buckles one last time; giving Pajon a last tasy apple oatmeal treat.

Alien my coyote'/golden retriever mix, and Dharma my Australian Shephard bark with ecstacy as I struggle nto the saddle. Almost any other horse would stamp and snort and heave as these crazy canines erupt, but Pajon somehow patiently waits as my arthritic joints find the stirrups
and settle in saddle.

We are off.

The western sky is blue. A red tail hawk leads the way. I ramble through the acacia brush, by the push up posing lizard, and watch the dogs chase the jackelope from their maze of holes. My horse and I climb the rocky path. I feel good. My head is clear. My happiness surrounds me. Below my husband is puttering patiently on fixing something that needs to be fixed. The dogs are back by my side, waiting to see what direction to turn.

But I am content and happy right where I am.

Why do you have all these animals?

Why do you have all these animals?

John and I get asked this question often,along with other animal related questions. Most are easy to answer, ,but some even we have to ponder.

Do you ride your horses?
Yes!

What do you do with a burro?
We feed him!

Don't you think three dogs are too many?
No-perhaps ten would be-if they were all the size of Nahkohee (100lbs)!

Do you let your cats in the house?
We try not to let them out of the house!

Why do you have a llama and alpaca?

Hmmm ....now that animal question is more difficult. We don't raise them for their fleece. Although some people are able to earn money for the alpaca fleece which is incrdibly soft and not scratchy like wool. Other love llama fleece for felting hats or bags. .

We do not show them at fairs or competitions, but we know people who do . Other owners we know spend much of their time trucking their critters to win blue ribbons or best of show. But our animals don't like leaving the ranch,nor does my husband John! I was informed that if Skippy , my 3 year old alpaca was in Peru, he would have been a rug a year ago, and Desi, my llama would be ever so humiliated to trot around a ring. He much prefers to chase after our donkey on forty acres.

Originally I thought having a llama would be the ideal answer for backpacking into the wilderness. About ten years I spent several days having two llamas carry my wine, luggage and small guitar to a lake ringed by wildflowers in the Rocky Mountains. I only carried my water trail mix and camera. These were wonder animals. They pooped ver y neatly off the trail, only leaving raisinettes . They nibbled the grass when we stopped for the night and were very satisified with llama kibble for deserts and snack that they lso carried in a small bag. They didnt spit, except at a racoon which they also alerted us when they screamed at our small campground intruder. Best of all my back didnt hurt from carrying a fifty pound pack.

So when Desi the llama was rescued and offered to us, shortly after we retired to Arizona -I quickly bought "Camelids for Dummies". Learning that it is never good to have just one camelid and with no camels or other llamas coming our way we accepted Skippy, the inquisitive doe eyed alpaca as a companion for Desi.

We soon learned that having cameli (the genus of camels, alapcas, and llamas) are much like having cats. They do not always come when called. Treats are sometimes desired and sometimes Desi and Skippy act like they are being posioned when offerd a carrot or apple or slice of watermelon. I have discovered, however if I leave it in their dinner dish it always disappears, but never when I am watching. They also scream and wiggle and run away if they even think I might have a brush in my hand! They also do not want to be ridden and do not reallyenjoy it if i put on a halter or leash.

It has been two years and we have not gone backpacking with or without or llama and alpaca. I can not really blame it on the animals. It seems like too much trouble to head to the Chiricahuas or White Mountains to get away. We are away!

So what do we do with these creatures?

We spend our time watching our camelids. Whether it is Desi peering through the windows as we watch his antics outside,or laughing as Skippy dances while being sprayed with water while filling the horse trough, or laughing as both camelids take turns at chasing the dogs,we are amused. When Skippy puts his nose to the ground to check out a fluttering butterfly and Desi prances to the fence and stares at the cows on the other side , we have to watch too.

Our animals are our entertainment. We do not go to concerts, or movies, or sporting events. We
have our coffee in the morning and watch our animal interactions. In the evening we have a glass of wine , view the glorious Arizona sunset and watch our animals so more .

This is why we have all these animals.

.

Crying Wolf (berries)

Yesterday our neighbor called and told us the wolf berries were ripe. As new denizens of the desert, my husband and I were both clueless about this announcement. I was thinking that a wolf berry was an exotic cousin to the much hyped and sought after goji berry or a cousin to a mangosteen of Noni juice fame or perhaps it was the exotic wonder that my brother bought at Whole Paycheck err Food. Regardless I was sure it was something I too should be excited about.

Immediately I got on line and discovered that indeed this was a wonder plant from the nightshade family resembling tiny tomatoes. It was rumored to cure almost anything, very expensive to purchase and most people ordered it from some place far away like China or Sedona.

Even after looking at the leaves and the berry/fruit/globule pictures on the internet, I wasnt sure if it grew on the ground or high in the tree. Hoping it would be hanging aloft since it is rattlesnake season I opted for the wolfberry quest on horseback.

I gathered up empty plastic cartons to laden with berries, bottles of water as I was sure it would take awhile for me to find this holy grail of flora and a camera so I could take a picture of Smoke my horse and I proudly retrieving nature's bounty. I quickly saddled Smoke up with extra cantle pack and saddle bags to hold all the goodies and we took off despite the darkening sky.

When I heard thunder I didnt even consider turning around -our all knowing neighbor Raven said if I didnt get them soon- the birds would have them. I thought about how much the dried berries sold for on the internet and urged Smoke to keep going.

It started to rain. I hadn't included a jacket in this excursion-this is the Sonoran desert and early June. My head gear was enough to keep the rain off me. Of course my first hint of doom was when my large brimmed hat had blown off as I cantered down the drive. I had been to lazy to pick it up, convincing myself I really didnt need it and could use some tan on my face.

As the drops trickled down my face, I started searching the vegetation with blurry vision. All I could find were striped lizards scurrying among the rocks from the hoof beats or the rain. I saw nothing red.

When we had traveled three miles from home, I started to wonder just what I would do with these berries. Would they really give me more energy? Could you eat them on ice cream? Could I can them and present them as gifts at Christmas. Perhaps I could dry them and use it as tea? This would be a wonderful story to tell my Midwestern family and friends. However,

I was beginning to wonder if I was looking on the right trail?

I called Raven and asked again where he had seen the elusive plant. He repeated where they were and I repeated back to him that is where I had been. There was no sign of any wolf or berry along the deserted roadside-no birds feasting on anything and the only foliage was mesquite and a few pricklypears that werent yet bearing fruit.

Perhaps I had missed them in the rain. I turned around, Smoke quickened his pace. The rain came down faster. But still I kept looking . I must admit i was losing my fascination with the wolfberry. I had plenty of vitamins. My Christmas shopping were done. I already had plenty of stories about Gila monsters and rattlesnakes to entertain family and friends from afar. I just wanted to get home. I would be altruistic-the birds, deer and javelina needed this desert delight far more than I did.

However this afternoon adventure was not without treasure. I didn't find the wolfberry, but the sun came thru the rain and the gleaming rainbow appeared with the tail disappearing behind the hill where my house and husband were waiting. I took out my camera; the rain dissipated, I took the shot, and I went home with empty cartons , but a great picture and memories of a rainy day in a dry desert. But I am beginning to think Raven was just crying WOLF "berries".

On friends and family!!

Friends are the family we choose. A loyal friend is worth a thousand relatives. These sayings are hanging from my kitchen wall in ceramic tile, the other in bedroom hand lettered on wood. I think about them often and find great comfort from the truth that is painted on those signs.

I am blessed with an abundance of fabulous friends. In fact I often wonder why I am so lucky when it comes to friends, but family is a different story.

As an only child for almost seven years, I cannot recall any childhood friends only family. Usually kids have lots of buddies,but my friends were classmates in Sunday school or a member of my small now extinct school. I remember two friends growing up from first grade to twelth-one was my beautiful exotic cousin Nancy who lived part-time in Florida , another a neighbor on a nearby farm, Ruth Ann , another tomboy who wasnt allowed to wear jeans who rode bicycles with me for miles on the gravel roads surrounding the fileds of corn. Lving on a farm, kids were separated by both miles and lineage and , play dates were a rare treat. Mostof the time it was me and the dog-at least that is the memories of yesterday that are with me today.

The story of true friends begins at Illinois college in Jacksonville in August of 1972. Instantly I had dorm friends, college pals, enough dates to be considered popular. There was always someone to borrow books from ( I usually spent my book money on beer not required text), another to borrow a new dress for the dance, or Jean my roomate (now living in Frisco, Co who just made her 3rd visit to spa with me Arizona -who would lend me her super wide bell bottomed Levis ;38 years later we are still sharing clothes . Those are friendships to endure. In fact I felt like I had so many friends I changed roommates every year always wanting to live on a different floor with a different friend expanding my network.

After college was a return to my hometown to teach for a year- I only remember too many margaritas, too many lonely nights with Monty Python and Mary Hartman. I ventured to graduate school -I immerssed myself in my classes and substitute teaching to pay for my .20 cents a carton of mac and cheese, or 10 for a dollar ramen noodles. I lived so much in the darkroom in the photography wing-I became allergic to chemicals. There were no friends; there was no family. It was a dark and stormy night that lasted from teaching high school to Sangamon state thru teaching at Danville Junior College. This three year vacumn of friends ended when my brother and I went to the University of Illinois together. He was a freshman and I was both teaching and studying in Shampoo-Banana.

When I went to graduate school for the second time in the fall of 1979 I found myself once again swamped with people to do things with ...walking dogs, hitting Murphy's the grad bar or Garcia's for a slice of pizza, riding bicycles into the country, walking around Allerton, taking up golf to meeet men or occasionally even studying for exams. It was a wonderful time to sit in a darkened theater and watch foreign films; it was a time to protest the treatment of the Iranians on campus by the FBI, and there was always time it on the shady porch on Green street with my housemates and lament and wonder about our lives.

In 1984, I moved to Williamsport, Pennsylvania. I was released the summer of 1991. This was my time without friends. I was a college professor in a land of people all over thrityand I was 29, aquaintances who were right wing Rush Limbaugh lovers who went to the local Holiday Inn to hear lounge lizards sing songs from the fifties. My true friends were the neighborhood cheese steak shop with extra onions and peppers please and my canine companions, who were too furry to be allowed to accompany me to any of the wonderful Italian dining establishments where I also met my friends Ravioli, Pizza and Eggplant Parmigiana.

I had two colleagues who were kind and caring,but were busy with their own careers and pursuits. It was a time when a few wonderful studentswere my family and with whom I share many memories of laughter both in and out of the classroom. However there were no real compatriots who were able to share my life, my loves, my interests.

I found my true friend mecca in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. Everyone I met was on my page. We were all reading the same book, wanting the outdoor life, the green path, the explore nature-how many days did you ski, backpack and hike this year life. Everyone had 2.4 dogs and took them everywhere with them. I was home. Even tho I was a thousand miles away from where I was raised. These people shared my story. This was a community of 6,000 comrades.

When my mom disappointed me by not showing up to my first wedding,but I had four friends who traveled two thousand miles to be there(Jeanette and Darla from Pennsylvania and Karen and Tim from North Carolina) . Madeleine made my wedding dress and luminaria, and helped clean out my closet and we had only known each other for a year. These friendships have had the occasional lapse but I know I can call or tap the keyboards and they are still with me. My father' cousins and their children and my aunts and cousins came across four states to see me married for the first time at age 38.

When my brother and his family didn't bother to make it to my second wedding 15 years later, I had even more friends who showed up , who cleaned my house, arranged chairs, and read from the Bible for the wedding. My cousin Bernadette married us. My Swartz cousins, once again made the trek and I had both friends and family.

I now live with the best friend I have ever had in my life (well that is not counting canines of course). When we met , he promised me he would be my best friend-I didn't believe him but he has proven true. John and I do not live in Steamboat anymore, but I have discovered I still have a family of friends even here in the wild west of Arizona..

My pal from Illinois College days has moved here to teach in Bowie. One of my bestest buddy's and her hubby from Steamboat are moving to Arizona in July and bought twenty acres just a short horse or bike ride away. Another Colorado pal is splitting her time between Colorado and Tucson and we are able to sip martinis and munch sushi and hit resale shops as frequently as I can afford. My cousin Bernadette, her husband Paul and son Bob share their Christmas dinner with John and I each year. It is a family tradition and we dine off our grandmother's state plates. Friends and family meld and in a good way.

Even within this sparsely populated Cochise County I have managed to make new friends, Dusti and Tony who live across the sage and cactus and who were professors in Montana, Tim and Therese, Midwesterners at heart who are our social directors for all of Dos Cabezas parties, Kas who helps me with my U of A job, and Diana who shares my love of horses. Our neighbor Raven who gives injections to my horse, helps John with building and shares storie sof the Salados, and Mogollons and other peoples of the past.

There are others too who have re-entered my life via Facebook and email including extended Swartz family -long neglected by distance and time but now re-connecting for this chapter of my life.

My husband has called me a maven in people interactions; others have suggested I am starting my own hippy enclave here in the high desert foothills. Margret Mead the famed anthropologists has said No matter how many communes anybody invents, the family always creeps back.

And that is okay too.

Unexpected delights in the desert...

Life as a retiree in rural Arizona has a plethora of unexpected perks:


~Rainy days and Mondays never gets me down.

~Fuchsia cholla blossoms

~Gila monster sightings; these are exquisite creatures...salmon or pale yellow beading on black velvet...just don't let them chew on your toe.

~ Incredible lightening shows during the monsoons.

~Javelina parents parading with their young down the driveway.

~Free tomatoes from Eurofresh-almost every week.

~Ringtail cats playing on the bedroom balcony.

~Birds of paradise flowering by the thousands in our wash.

~Roadrunners running...

~Basha's Food City in Willcox, limes only 50cents a pound for my Coronitas...

~Prickly pears' lemon yellow blooms, followed by magenta fruit being made into prickly pear sorbet and syrup...

~The mail lady calls me when I have an important package arriving-great service!

~Neighbors who give my horse its needed injections, coz I am too squeamish.

~A patient and well mannered farrier who gives me much needed advice on my equines, when my veterinarian is out of town.

~The poem DHARMA by poet Billy Collins tucked in a Christmas card by my vet. ( Dharma is my always charming much too psychic Australian shepherd).

~St. David's monastery tucked away under gigantic cottonwoods.

~Pumpkin tamales sold at the grocery store at Christmas time.

~The smell of fresh roasted chiles anytime.

~Hiking Muleshoe canyon and discovering a troop of coatis scrambling up the side of a hill. They are sooooo cute.

~A picnic at 9,000 feet in the Chiricahua National Monument

~Sitting outside for Friday night dinner at Coronado Vineyards with live music by Whiskey Girl and Nowhere Man.

~Fort Bowie Historic Site .

~Wine tasting at Crop Circle .

~Rooftop campouts during the Perseid Meteor shower

~UFO sightings while sipping dirty martinis with old friends.(this seems to always happen-do aliens like vodka or what ?)

~Dawn breaking on Cochise Stronghold.

~Going to a dinner party with new friends in Dos Cabezas

~Old friends deciding to move here too-just a few more and we can have a commune!