Letter from Home | A collection of essays originally written for Flagstaff Live!

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Dirt roads through the decades; My drives into solo

Dirt roads through the decades; My drives into solo

Posted by on Jun 7, 2018

Music curled through the saloon in Crown King like a breeze of good will, lyrics a swirl of lively truth-telling, a three-chord aching antidote to firefighter woes and worries. Who scored hazard pay, who missed a fire on a day off, who was sleeping with who—the human shapes of fearlessness and foibles—stirred into the graceful guitar, sturdy drumming and...

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Bee odyssey; Of the plenipotentiary

Bee odyssey; Of the plenipotentiary

Posted by on Apr 19, 2018

Early in State Fair, the only musical Rogers and Hammerstein wrote directly for the movies, a young woman leans out her bedroom window and sings, “I’m as restless as a willow in a windstorm/ I’m as jumpy as a puppet on a string. I’d say that I have spring fever/ But I know it isn’t spring…” which is about what I feel like on this April day, with a piece of...

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A rock is a rock is a rock; In the land of hard and soft

A rock is a rock is a rock; In the land of hard and soft

Posted by on Mar 15, 2018

Some of you looking at a crack in a rock think, “Treasure?” Others of you cringe, thinking, “Snakes.” Or perhaps you consider weight, balance, rock integrity and think, “Handhold.” Rocks beg me to climb them, to use friction and muscle to ascend. Where did I learn that? It is a Sunday afternoon in the early ‘60s in Phoenix and cars go up and down Central...

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Dirt road Valentine; Kisses for where our breath takes us

Dirt road Valentine; Kisses for where our breath takes us

Posted by on Feb 15, 2018

Small notes of music floated from a fountain of oak grove that had sprouted far enough off the dirt road to catch my eye but not draw my footsteps. The reedy small note of a harmonica sawed through an unfamiliar tune. From where I leaned against the hood of my truck, I couldn’t see the human source of the sounds. I looked for movement like I might look for...

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I don’t collect Mac trucks. (Glad to be a paperholic.)

I don’t collect Mac trucks.  (Glad to be a paperholic.)

Posted by on Jan 18, 2018

  It started with a bottle of French wine. Like a romance? An affair? A hazy remembrance from a night in Paris? No. Just a label that looked different from the bottles of Boone’s Farm which we 20-year-olds passed up, laughing, and different from the Blue Nun which we usually bought, thinking that must be good, it’s foreign.   What IS Liebfraumilch...

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