One year I made up a story to help a friend and I complete a walk. We’d left her car near a ranch at one end of a desert canyon and taken my truck to a side drainage to walk back through and have a day outdoors together. Even with ice at the edges of pools, the full sun and a cozy warmth with lunch on a big slab of granite made it a classic Arizona December walk. We looked at petroglyphs, and hawks glided above us to settle on the canyon rim. But the boulder hopping made progress slow and mindful of days being short, we were a little fitful with the last mile back to the car. I started spinning a story aloud to pass the time.
“Once there was a shepherd gal who loved finding new trees to lean against. Nothing pleased her quite like memorizing a new view from under the branches of a tree. She also didn’t like strangers, so when three camels appeared on the horizon looking like ants toting bits of leaf, she waited until they were close enough to show glinting crowns and vermilion capes and then she turned her flock in the opposite direction.”
“A contrary gal. Good for her!” my friend said.
“Yes. By sundown the amazing star she’d been watching for days was at her back. Instead of being bewitched by its glow, she thought about the highlights of her hours outdoors. She’d noticed spiders walking across pools and a flicker in a willow tree who seemed to strum the branches with invisible melody. And water trickling between rocks seemed to make curling letters, bright j’s and delicate e’s, graceful p’s and lovely c’s. Settling next to a gnarly mesquite tree, she dozed off to the sounds of animals chewing, the murmuring of the wind, and the breathing in and the breathing out of her dog.
“She missed the party then,” my friend said, screwing the lid back on her liter Nalgene bottle. “Bet she was annoyed when NPR reported a miracle the next morning.”
“Oh, but there was a party,” I continued. “In her dreaming javelina waltzed with jack rabbits, a quail stroked a roadrunner’s cheek and hummingbird and the curved bill thrasher sang a merry carol. Bobcat and badger exchanged gifts.
“Pudding?”
“Neon red prickly pear jelly and mouse songs.”
“Of course.”
“Then, like candlelight spreading across a wooden table to illuminate paper and pen, sunrise arrived and revealed a single word etched in sand at the edge of a desert pool.”
My friend looked up from where she sat rinsing sand from between her toes before putting on dry socks.
“The letters looked as random as delicate prints from lizard feet until she bent closer to drink. What do you think it said?”
“Giardia.”
“No.”
“Mastercard?”
“PEACE it said. Peace she found there and peace she tucked into her heart all the rest of her days, forever grateful to go the opposite direction of kings.”
“But she missed a miracle!”
“Did she now. Guess she’ll have to come around again to do another life. Maybe next time she gets to be a slab of granite where two women picnic and laugh.”
“Or a dirt road where camels tread.”
“Or a tree with a view.”
We both got home to our apartments before dark, which is a real gift on a December eve when roads are icy and elk lurk in the shadows. The light-draped trees in Wheeler Park were just beginning to sparkle with color as I steered by the post office to pick up my mail. On Cherry Street I emptied my pack and caught up with my messages from the day and was thrilled to find an invitation to dinner from my friend Duart. I called her up to ask what was she making, what could I bring?
“Shepherd’s Pie,” she said brightly.
I could have brought a story, I guess. But I got shy and went by the Wine Loft to pick out a red wine instead, which poured around the bright table that evening became stories anyway, became a winter made merry, became what winter holidays unveil: points of glowing fun like stars shining on a dark and chilly night.
