There wasn’t a good place to be in the days after the election. For someone who believes that the candidate we’ve just elected disqualified himself years ago when he forsook his oath to defend the Constitution by choosing to watch TV while his supporters ransacked the Capitol, there was no escaping a sickening feeling of doom, or a feeling of uncanniness...
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The dead pinyon pine behind my shack still looks sturdy. For now, at least. Short and stout in the way of its kind, the tree is more than a foot in diameter, but just 25 feet tall. When I bought this place ten years ago it was almost dead, battered by the one-two punch of drought and beetles. It finally gave up the ghost during an especially dry summer a...
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At the hot, laid-back music festival in Arcosanti last month, I was struck by Angel Olsen’s haunting lyric: “All we’ve done here is blind one another,” from her song, Lark, on the 2019 album All Mirrors. Words have always resonated deeply with me, often overshadowing everything else in a piece of music. Olsen’s ethereal, brass tacks voice—both frank...
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The story goes that when my father’s parents divorced when he was eight, the reason given was not infidelity, moral lassitude, or drunkenness, but messiness. Theirs was an example of the inability of two people to share a life when one was messy and one was neat. There are many apocryphal stories in my family and this may be one of them, but I suspect...
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I had the privilege of introducing a friend at her book launch celebration in Flagstaff a few weeks ago. I admire her writing, and her. The essay she read that night is one that I teach in my class. Seeing the essay as part of a whole collection—a book that I could hold in my hands—delighted me. Many will now get to read her beautiful words and ideas. A...
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On a July day before my fifth grade school year began, Mom and Dad circled my three brothers, my sister and me. They told us we were moving to Indiantown, a one-stoplight village in rural South Florida. We’d be moving in a week to my grandfather’s cattle ranch, which was acres of palmetto scrub. We’d live in a doublewide trailer encircled by some scraggly...
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Shady Acres was exactly what I needed in August of 1995. That spring I had been living out of my pickup truck while waiting tables at Grand Canyon. In July I quit the job and set out to bicycle across the Great Basin desert–a fool’s errand writ large. On the afternoon that I peddled into Laughlin, NV, the temperature spiked at 117 degrees. Four...
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Let me introduce myself. I moved to this area in 1996, growing up with this column as a familiar voice. I’m feeling like I finally got invited to a cocktail party because it was weird not to. My son and I went to Jerome’s second annual music festival last weekend; we enjoyed the temperature in the shade and the jaunty vibrations of Jerome’s relaxed...
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Every summer I make a pilgrimage to New England where I did some of my growing up. In a rented car I drive the familiar roads of Massachusetts and Maine, reacquainting myself with humidity and the color green. The farther north I go the fewer people there are, and along the coast the air cools and becomes salty. I don’t pull off the highway to find a bowl...
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Stepping to each direction, pausing with both hands on the catwalk railing, softening my eyes, I pour all of me into one leg, then the other. My day on duty at the fire lookout begins with looking in the four directions before calling the dispatcher, “Flagstaff, Turkey Butte.” “Turkey Butte.” “I’m in service, winds NW at six, precip .35 inches.” He...
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Phil Donahue, whose 29-year, groundbreaking talk show spanned from the late 60s to the late 90s, died a few weeks ago at the age of 88. Headlines called him a talk show icon, a free speech champion, a pioneer. His New York Timesobituary dubbed him the king of daytime television. When Donahue began his show in Ohio in 1967, Lyndon Johnson was president, the...
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In August, the ticking of the world’s clocks grows ever louder. In part that’s due to the looming closeness of the school year, a tangled cliff that’s always been present at the edge of summer’s smooth plateau (and that through my lifetime has come to begin ever earlier). This is my fault: I have clearly exacerbated my sense of summer’s mortality by...
Read MoreThe flying ants showed up in mid-July, as usual. Each summer they whir into my life, unbidden and unwelcome, like the airborne monkeys in The Wizard of Oz–creepy and scary, highly motivated, seemingly guided by a dark force. These are red ants, good-sized, as ants go. Though not exactly warlike–I have never been bitten–they are,...
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When I was a chubby five-year-old in puffed sleeves and shiny red shoes, and people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I had one answer: I want to be famous. I had learned not to say I wanted to be a fireman. Everyone laughed at that. But I couldn’t say what people expected, a teacher or a nurse. I didn’t want to be a teacher or a nurse. My first...
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The last time my parents were in Flagstaff it just so happened to be the time my Letter From Home was in the paper edition of Flag Live. Although I’d sent hyperlinks of my essays to them, my dad held the paper and marveled that my essay was in print. “They gave you the whole page,” he remarked while folding it under his arm. I was waiting for him to say it...
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Last week, in the lazy thick of summer, my friend V and I woke up in her lake house, a small cottage on the edge of a town with no stoplights, no commerce, no noise. I read, she wrote, I napped, we hiked. The hours noodled on. The day was more like a cloud than a parking lot, and the unstructuredness of it all invited a burst of joy that I could only...
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This past week, toward the tail end of a backyard shed refurbishment project that had gotten a little out of hand, I found myself urgently in need of a simple box of nails. They had to be two inches long, a size I was freshly out of because I had used the last ones in the existing box to begin the process of putting up trim around the doors and windows....
Read MoreI pledge allegiance. To the pinyon jays at the feeders and the coyotes that woke me up at dawn, yipping at the moon. To the local ravens, jackrabbits and pronghorn antelope. Even to the black Angus cattle in my neighborhood, slow and stupid though they are. I pledge allegiance to the land, all of it: forests, meadows, deserts and bogs. Especially to public...
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The tree in front of my house is changing its leaves from green to a rich, red-brown. It is a chokecherry–at least I think it is. It doesn’t fruit. I don’t know if that’s because it’s a variety bred to be ornamental or if it’s just a Flagstaff thing. Even the trees meant to be fruit bearers tend to struggle here. This tree...
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Here, two big winter storms brought a few trees down. The grass is lush and the ferns my mother planted have grown in and spread along the new drainage ditch. The place looks cared for, as my parents used to care for it. The driveway has a fresh load of gravel and the house a new coat of paint. I got here last night and even in the dark I could sense the...
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My first nickname was Awie, not the gooiest name as it falls onto the ear, but it was mine. Brother #1, two years younger than me, came up with the name when he was first learning to talk and couldn’t navigate the L or R in Laura. Awie stuck with the durable adhesive of childhood nicknames even though it had a narrow circumference. Awie was solely a family...
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Where I grew up, in the upper Midwest, summer evenings were long enough that as a young child I was often sent to bed before it was fully dark. It always seemed a cruel sentence to me, especially on the longest evenings in June when I could still catch the sounds of usually older kids shouting or riding their bikes or otherwise enjoying the mild evening...
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The house is tiny, 40 miles from town, off the grid. It sits on the high plateau south of Grand Canyon, on desert grasslands dotted with pygmy junipers and pinyon pines. This morning, warm orange light from an oil lamp washes over the death’s-head painting on the wall, and seeps out the windows into the last hour of blackness. A wood stove chases off...
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On the first day this year that truly felt like spring, I spent hours outside. I watered the plants and sowed new seeds while enjoying the beautiful temperate weather. It was even a little overcast, so I didn’t have to hide from the harsh sun. I didn’t realize until that moment how much I had missed putting my hands in soil. Most of what I’ve...
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If you’ve never listened to the Hot Country Knights singing “Pick Her Up,” you may not be interested in reading any further because this Letter From Home is basically a paean to pickup trucks, including the lyrics they inspire. An example of this brilliance is: “If you wanna do right on a Saturday night/This is all you’ve gotta do/…Pick her up in a pickup...
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My husband and I have been traveling more in the southwest than we have previously. After realizing that we’ve lived in Flagstaff for sixteen years and have seen very little of the area, we decided to create a list of places to visit. Even so, we are still looking to visit places in Utah and New Mexico but haven’t made it to Walnut Canyon yet. A few weeks...
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In mid-January, a post from something called Februllage appeared in my Instagram stream. The post was dominated by a calendar of February with a word for each day. Beside the calendar, a small B&W collage of a schoolgirl wearing a hand-drawn crown and hoisting a pair of scissors significantly larger than her head. I clicked onto the post and read...
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I know I am not alone in feeling that the past winter was a tough one in northern Arizona. Though it didn’t feature the epic snowpack amounts of 2023, it amounted to a good snow year—over 100 inches total in Flagstaff—and simply to a long haul of cold days, so that it wasn’t until well into April that we crested over 60 degrees. In March and into early...
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I thought the last snowstorm we got might be the last. Actually, I felt like the last storm might be the last, but how I feel and what the weather does are two different things entirely. Maybe it is more accurate to say that I hoped the last storm would be the last, that we were on the road to spring, that I could finally get on with moving forward and...
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Ever since reading Alfred Kazin’s A Walker in the City, I’ve approached the art of the passeggiata with a new sense of awe. Far from being a simple feat of forward movement, a stroll is an act of discovery, a gourmet meal of the senses. We prowl and sniff and stop and listen and sniff again, just like the four-footers we know. Sometimes we’re purposeful,...
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Although Buffalo Park was a slip and slide mud festival after last week’s snowfall, I walked a mid-day lap on Sunday. People who had driven up the hill to see the snow clustered around the entry to the park, squealing as they made snowballs and snapped photos. I sloshed alone through the melting snow patches on the Nate Avery trail. About a half hour in, I...
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Every morning when I get dressed, I walk to my dresser, take two steps to the left, and dig through baskets, bins, and piles of laundry to find the clothes I will wear for the day. Some of it is clean, gathered into a basket to be banished to the corner of the bedroom for a few cycles of laundry until I finally get a wild spurt of motivation and put stuff...
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My husband, Marc, and I made it out to Lake Mary this weekend. First, a disclaimer: I grew up in upstate New York, about two miles from Lake Ontario. So, I am a “lake snob” for sure. But since visiting the upper falls of Lake Mary last spring during the snow melt, I’ve come to appreciate the charms of a small-ish lake surrounded by forest, hills and quaint...
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The year after I graduated from high school, I crisscrossed the U.S. in a flotilla of Greyhound buses with about 150 people my age. We were one of three traveling casts of Up With People, a wholesome performance troupe singing across small town America and spreading a message of global goodwill. I wasn’t selected because of my superior pipes or formal...
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Based on my recent and careful study of the social media zeitgeist, I have come to understand that public confession is the best and most efficacious way to combat private demons. Yet I am ill-equipped to do so there, as my personal engagement with social media tends to be pretty half-assed; I am a dabbler rather than a deep diver. So I have to find some...
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As I walk down my snow covered driveway to retrieve a package left by our gate, I am met by the dotted lines of cat tracks. One meets my path near our garage door, beelines east toward the fence, then abruptly changes direction when it becomes apparent this route will collide with a patch of weeds. The path reminds me of an animated transcription of a...
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It is hard to conjure up memories of childhood snows without a sneaking suspicion that they have been colored by the relentless mass-media momentum of the original Frosty the Snowman animated TV special, with its insistence on the sanctified magic of the winter’s first snowfall. But I know there are old family photos with that same vibe, images of cute...
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When I was a kid and admittedly a little on the self-centered side, I thought I would someday write an advice column for my hometown newspaper, the New York Times. I decided I would call it Dear Me, ME being my initials. The cleverness of that faded over time, as did the ambition to give anyone anywhere advice. But now I’m back at it, though you won’t find...
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The first candle I burned this morning was called “cedar balsam.” The next, “tree farm.” But I need only step outside into the frigid morning air to smell real wood. As I walk, I see Oregon juncos picking amongst the sawdust looking for birdseed. I survey the wood shavings and a freshly made stump close to the fence line; the only proof that a...
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It is the 1960s, and I am five. I’m with my mother in our suburban bathroom, watching her apply makeup. I am mesmerized. And I am imprinted. She holds her Maybelline oval cake of eyeliner under the faucet and coaxes a few drops of water, swirls it with a tiny brush, and swooshes it atop her lash line. She dabs at her nose with a powder puff. She...
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I’ve been wrestling with the idea of what it means to be cool. When I was in high school, I looked for cool in unconventional places—not among the “popular” students, but among those who were openly counter-cultural. Even though I didn’t talk to them overly much, I was interested in the goth kids. They seemed kind and interesting, and I liked the aesthetic...
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As a kid, nothing pleased me more than to hear a grownup cut loose with a volley of curse words. I was an East Coast city girl; we didn’t say “cussing.” We said “swearing” but that was confusing because sometimes you were meant to swear, to promise you weren’t the one who made the crank calls to the elderly neighbor or clogged the toilet with paper towels....
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I’ve been thinking lately about spirals. They are used in media to represent instability—the dizzy spells of injured cartoon characters or dysfunctional people who are “spiraling” out of control. Spirals stand in opposition to their cousin, the circle, which in western metaphors is typically stable, eternal, and complete. We are taught to pursue the...
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Good morning from the parking lot behind Darling’s Auto in Augusta, Maine where I’ve spent the night in fetal position on the back seat of my electric vehicle, waiting the required seven hours for it to charge. Oh, it’s a wonder, this new form of transportation. Drive awhile, wait awhile; drive and charge, drive and charge. What’s time to a weary traveler?...
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My first camera was a heavy manually operated 35-millimeter model that my parents gave me when I was about 14 years old. It was far from cutting-edge, as newer cameras had built-in light meters and other battery-powered accessories; this one didn’t. But I was satisfied. An older camera conformed to my ideal of what photography was supposed to be....
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I never think of the ocean. Even after having lived near one for a year, I’m such a desert dweller at heart that the idea of an ocean never really crosses my mind. Instead, I think of rivers. I think of western flowing water that hides at the bottoms of canyons as they cut across the arid landscapes. Water is such a powerful and persistent force. It can...
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When we take walks, my dog, Juju, trots along contentedly at my heels. Then, when the moment arrives to turn around and head towards home, she throws a little dog joy fit—first prancing on two legs, then full body wiggle-wagging. On the return, she gets out front, confidently taking the lead. She does this even if we are camping or on a hike and home is...
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My grandfather was a slender man with a high forehead and immaculate hands. He was a fly fisherman, and the reason we didn’t see him often was because he fished all over the world instead of staying home in Connecticut with his family. My father was his son. My father wasn’t a slender man; he was of normal bulk and had a full head of hair. His hands...
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This summer I joined a large group of broken people. After a torqued misstep and a hard fall onto a broken sidewalk, I ripped my meniscus and watched my knee swell into what looked like a head of angry cauliflower. Inside, it felt like a batter of hot lava spiked with razor blades. As I awaited orthoscopic surgery in July, I hobbled around the house, ice...
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It was toward the end of our latest summer of record heat and weirding weather that I finally got to go up into California’s White Mountains to see the ancient bristlecone pines. The mountains aren’t far from the Sierra Nevada with its ample lakes and waterfalls, but they are a world apart, baking in the bigger range’s rain shadow, a province of dry...
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I love to cook. Taking ingredients and making them into a flavorful, nutritious meal is incredibly engaging for me. It requires me to sync my creativity, my problem-solving skills, and my ability to learn new things in order to produce something great. When I’m at my best, the thing produced is not only delicious, but also useful—combining homegrown foods,...
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When I was a freshman in college, I decided to memorize “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” It was a weird year for me. I was living in a converted lounge, the best the formerly all-male college could do to accommodate its new female students. My dorm room had a beige linoleum floor, stark white walls, no windows, and two bunk beds placed randomly in...
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This morning, the ground was still soaked with rain water from the previous night’s storm when I went outside to let my goats and chickens out of their enclosures and into their respective yards. The weeds (mostly kochia, an invasive species in this area) have grown tall and hearty with the onset of the seasonal rains, and many plants—now close to my...
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Caring for aging parents is a rite of passage many of my friends, now in our fifties, are navigating with various degrees of grace. Despite the common human experience of parenting our parents and facing the inevitability of our own demise; for each of us it is uncharted territory. Luckily I have two sisters to share this journey, and support of my...
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It’s been 270 million years since Flagstaff might have advertised itself as a beach destination. Not the kind with vendors and umbrellas, boardwalks and roller bladers, people large and small squirming with sunburn and spilling out of their swimsuits. No humans—no mammals at all—no birds, not even dinosaurs roamed these shores. The ocean’s evidence is...
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I used to write occasionally for the Miami Herald, my local daily newspaper. One day some years back I visited the newsroom to make changes to a story I’d submitted. I sat amidst the din, my head bent over a computer keyboard in pronounced concentration. “May I have your attention?” I looked up to see a knot of people. One woman carried a...
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I will confess that I have not read the federal indictment, released last week, that accuses former President Trump of the improper possession and hiding of classified documents. But like many other people, I suspect, I did see the widely disseminated photos of heaps of banker’s boxes piled in various rooms in the Mar-a-Lago. The one that hit closest to...
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I set myself a goal this year to complete two related projects. The first is building a “kitchen garden” in a fenced area of the yard used by previous owners as a dog run, but never used by us for anything. The second is creating a multi-paddocked chicken run in the space where our primary garden used to be. Although these projects are part of...
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“We kept on dancing last summer though the dancing had been called subversive. We weren’t alone at the end of this particular world and knew it wouldn’t be the last world, though wars had broken out on all sides.” Excerpts from the poem In Praise of Earth by Joy Harjo appear in quotations throughout this essay. By the time Sunday rolls around in a farm...
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My first day in prison went better than I expected. The guards were patient with me, even when I was stuck for several minutes in a sort of no man’s land between two heavy doors, a security zone with cameras set too high to record the presence of a five-foot tall person. It took some jumping and waving on my part to activate the inside door, and by then I...
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I’ve always wanted a dog. In some of my daydreams, the dog is a cheerful, white and gold fur, blue-bandana-wearing Corgi named Joe. In others, she’s a sweet, gray and white Pitbull named Mira. When I was little, my parents gifted me a dog for Christmas, so I named her Noel. Our love affair was not long-lasting after she dug a hole so deep in the backyard...
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About 20 years ago, I was awarded a Fulbright grant to teach journalism in Tirana, Albania, the capital city of what was then Europe’s poorest country. At that time, Albania lurched and sputtered in its rebranding from a mysterious Communist outpost to a capitalism-fueled democracy. When I arrived there, the country had no ATMs, no constitution and...
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spring The evening grosbeaks have been peeping and cheeping pretty much every morning in April, snacking on elm buds and drinking from the creek that’s been running alongside the tracks since the deep freeze of winter left us. The grosbeaks aren’t unusual, as they show up every spring, but the creek is. Old Town Spring often leaks and trickles a bit...
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There is something meditative about hanging out with chickens. When my husband and I started farming, I thought it would be the goats that I would spend the most time with. Cute, energetic, weird eyes—what’s not to love about goats? Certainly we would be best buds. It turns out that when I am in the mood to spend time outside with the animals, what most...
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On the spring equinox, I was in the midst of arranging bouquets for the first week of my spring flower share when flood waters rose rapidly. Beaver Creek is across the street, 500 feet from our farm gate, and was steadily becoming more fierce from rain on top of snowmelt pummeling down from Flagstaff. Within minutes we were considering evacuation, as our...
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The story goes that my sister Julia, newly arrived at UC Santa Cruz, was sitting in class on the afternoon of October 17, 1989, when the ground began to tremble. The class was a large lecture class and Julia watched in amazement as dozens of her fellow PhD students jumped up from their seats and ran for the doorways. Believing it was nothing but the rumble...
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Medical procedures that involve anesthesia often put me in a mental tailspin, and my recent visit to a local surgical center offered no exceptions. Even though it was a routine procedure that many of us of a certain age endure, I carefully placed our outdated medical directives and wills on my home desk before going to the surgery center. They are from...
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About a decade ago I was invited by Dan, a jazz pianist, to be a participant at an artist’s retreat. I met Dan at a Nevada Arts Council meeting held in the conference room of a swanky Vegas mega-hotel. We were panelists awarding grants to arts organizations around the state. I could hear the faint musical encouragement of casino slot machines as we sat...
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The first day of spring—March 20, in this year—wasn’t very springlike here in Flagstaff, with rain and snow showers coming on a gusty day of clouds and near-freezing temperatures. More of the same, in other words. It’s been a harsh winter in northern Arizona. As storm after storm has pummeled the high country, the snow days have piled up as high as the...
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In between snowstorms last week, I braved the snowbanks in downtown Flagstaff to visit the Bright Side Bookshop. Inside the store, it felt like spring. Colorful words bloomed from book covers, and flowers, birds, and butterflies alighted from blank journals. I was searching for inspiration; in particular the poetic kind. Like the squirrels who have...
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I missed a big chunk of first grade because I was laid up with tuberculosis. As a result, by the time I hit second grade I could barely write my name. Everyone else in the class, I noticed, published themselves every chance they got. In blocky letters they scrawled their names across the blackboard, chalked them on the benches in the playground and on the...
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My husband, Marc, shares enthusiastically that he is meeting with a composer his local orchestra has solicited for a piece of music. As he tells me about her and how they will explore his percussion instruments, he drops the bomb. “She’ll be here at 2 p.m. tomorrow,” he smiles, as he walks into another room to pull out and display his instruments for her...
Read MoreMy father’s death in my mid-20s introduced me to grief. The sorrow I felt had a language and texture all its own. So I did what my journalism training taught me to do: drink more and dive into research. I learned about the stages of grieving, the physical symptoms, the scientific blah blah blah of it. Armed with all that information, I felt soothed and...
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By the time I got to The Drive, I’d gotten damn used to small-d driving: all those errands through suburban mall-land, returning home late through the mercury-vapor streets after nights out with friends in some Chicago neighborhood or other, the longer expeditions that took varied combinations of friends, often overnight, to visit someone at a college in...
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Winter seems like a good time to take a break from farming and travel somewhere warm and relaxing. Instead, I vacationed in snowy Vermont, taking time to help my parents, now in their early 80’s, prepare to sell the house they have lived in for over 50 years. Last year they decided it was time to move closer to my sister in a different part of the state....
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Often our partings are so frequent and casual we don’t even consider the weight of goodbye. Until the bed is empty, the pills and liquid morphine taken to the police station to be destroyed. Easier to comprehend the finality of medicine than the finishing of a human life. Today is my 70th birthday. Today I pass out of the tenuous grip of late middle age....
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I do what I always do when I haven’t heard from Hank – whose name has been changed for the sake of privacy – for over six months: I scan the obituaries. He’s still alive, as far as I can tell, which means something else. It means his emails must be in my spam folder. Alas, there’s no proof of life there, either. Which means only one other thing is...
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It was late morning as I sat in an emptyish Munich airport cafe, bleary from a transatlantic flight. Six hours loomed before my connection to Sofia. I decided to spend the time drinking coffee and feeling sorry for myself. A smartly dressed older man and woman came to the table beside mine and laid down their carry-on bags, coats, water bottles and...
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Every six weeks, when my time in the lineup comes up, the same question arises, or set of questions: What to write about, and how to write about it? So I went to the hot new tool of the moment: ChatGPT. ChatGPT is the new artificial intelligence writing software that has set academia abuzz, mainly in an alarmed way, because of its great potential to create...
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Most white women my age do not fear being arrested during a trip to the grocery store. But for a foraging florist like me, the thought has definitely crossed my mind, especially when I notice a police car in the lot. Armed with hand pruners, practicing what I call the art of “civic pruning,” I trim branches and berries to add to my flower designs. I...
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The man was dressed in stiff new Carhartt’s, a red flannel shirt and sheepskin vest. At his feet lay a mutt of disputable parentage—part pointer dog, part pit bull, a smattering of Labrador retriever. She lay uncomfortably, which I noticed was due to a bloated belly. Her large brown eyes were misty with cataracts, her soft muzzle tested the air. As I came...
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My first memory of sending Christmas cards was helping my grandmother at her kitchen table. Everything she needed was staged on a white plastic tablecloth covered with poinsettia designs. She had a damp sponge sitting in a saucer on the table for my job: to seal the envelopes and affix the stamps. It seemed that she wrote a letter in each card, but I don’t...
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It was in the late 1980s when I was indentured at the University of Florida and saw an ad in our campus newspaper looking for marketing managers for some unspecified “family focused” entertainment business. The ad promised the trifecta: travel, independence and big bucks. Even though I was in my senior year, close to the college finish line and anticipated...
Read MoreWhen I was a kid normal was both a state of being and a place. The place was easier to define. It was a town, for one thing, and it could be found on one of those folded (paper!) highway maps that could be acquired at gas stations: there it was, smack-dab in the middle of the great flatness of Illinois. Corn and soybeans, soybeans and corn; there wasn’t...
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It’s mid-October and the sky echoes with endless blue. A halo of deciduous trees embraces the change of season. The corn fields on our Rimrock farm have turned from green to golden, which means it is time to harvest. Fifteen people—many of whom I have just met—are wandering through the fields in search of ears, as if on a treasure hunt. Flint is a type of...
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When I first arrived in town—this town—in 1979, it was a low-built place, home to thirty-thousand people, all of whom seemed to know one another either by blood relation, marriage, or friendship. And romance, of course, for we were overwhelmingly young and romantic. Like many of us, I came to town in order to be closer to the canyon. The canyon always...
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My husband sent me a link to a book review this week by an author whose work is in my wheelhouse. The author’s new book extolls the mental and physical health benefits of walking in his neighborhood the past several years. Of small observations and large realizations. I think of my almost-finished manuscript of walking my own neighborhood. A world-weary...
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Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. No pessimist ever discovered the secret of the stars, or sailed to an uncharted land, or opened a new doorway for the human spirit. Helen Keller Mad respect to Helen Keller and her starchy endorsement of optimism, but I don’t subscribe to the notion that pessimists have never swashbuckled or furthered the...
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emporium n. Pl. -iums, -ia. [L f. Gk emporion, f. emporos merchant, per- to journey.] 1 A centre of commerce; a market. 2 A shop, esp. one that sells unusual or fancy goods. Chiefly joc. Of all the impacts of the COVID pandemic, one of the most enduring is—in my eyes—an increased awareness of the churning of stuff in the world or the way material goods do...
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Ten years ago I wrote this column for Flagstaff Live!. It was my coming out story. Prepublication, I was terrified of telling the story of how I came to decide to have an abortion. Afterwards, I felt committed, brave, vindicated. People told me their stories, and I made the Kevlar Kimono that I reference at the end of the essay below. It became a public...
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When you receive an invitation from an abuelita at a Mexican market to help her make tamales, the answer is always: YES. My July FlagLive column (link) begins with corn seeds in Oaxaca Mexico, and now Chelsea (my farm friend and traveling companion) and I find ourselves in a small village an hour outside of Oaxaca City. From the moment we met Marita and...
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Every Monday through Saturday, when I hear the clink of the mailbox lid, I remember a time in my early twenties when, dazed by all the career choices for which I didn’t qualify, I decided to give my life to the United States Postal Service. I didn’t have any idea how to make this happen, but I knew why I wanted it to happen, starting with my affection for...
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Each morning I ARISE, brush my TEETH, heat some WATER, make some TOAST and THINK about my day. But first I open Wordle, the tasty online word game less than a year old and more addictive than potato chips. In an interview with the BBC earlier this year, game inventor Josh Wardle said his aim was to make Wordle something akin to “a delightful snack.” And so...
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On the day you rode out of town for the last time, the west took you into her arms. The stars in the kingdom whirled overhead to light your way as you rode between canyons of red rocks. Coyotes gathered along the ridge to howl your name into the great vastness that waited for you. There were no more songs for you to sing, no more tall tales to tell,...
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It was almost on a whim that we decided, propelled by the latest bout of COVID claustrophobia, to spend a week this summer on the California coast. A day’s drive, no air travel, a rental within earshot of the surf: it was the easiest means we could manage for getting to a dramatically different ecosystem. At intervals I could not predict the fog rolled in...
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The full buck moon rose bright enough to illuminate clouds from an afternoon monsoon burst. The corn fields at our farm shimmered with beauty and aliveness; the sheer will and life force of these plants drawing me in. Although is only their third full moon, they have now surpassed me in height. This corn field is full of green arrows of purpose on a...
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The town of Wellfleet, Massachusetts, is famous for its oysters, its beaches and its Interdependence Day parade. The parade takes place on the Fourth of July as neighboring Cape Cod towns are hosting their own celebrations, but only in Wellfleet is the notion of independence scrapped for the higher ideal of interdependence. It seems to me, especially given...
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The river shush-shushes through Jane’s backyard as I catch the last of the afternoon breezes under the shade of several trees. It’s tempting to close my eyes, to call this a meditation, but another thought has taken over as I listen to birds calling to one another from the trees on the bank of the river—do birds have accents like humans? Is that why I...
Read MoreMy name is Ethan Perelstein. I was born and raised in Flagstaff where I lived until I moved across the planet to Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria, 18 months ago. Aside from the language barrier and other culture shocks that come from moving to Eastern Europe, Blagoevgrad is a very comfortable fit for me. It has a population of 75,000, the trees turn yellow and red...
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Surely you know some irritating over-achiever—for who hasn’t?: the annoying person who shows up in the classroom or kitchen or conference room, or on the athletic field, and seemingly without any effort at all pulls off a perfect meal or project or performance, showing up everyone else who has been working so very hard to accomplish at a lower level. The...
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Sometimes I just want to tell you who I am and where I come from, forget the need to write and polish a piece for a newspaper column. I want to leave behind my professional training, my writing skills, my accomplishments, and open the heart’s door. I’d start at the beginning if I knew where that was. Oh, so many ways to tell a story. I’ll just say there...
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“Thank you for creating such a positive and beautiful atmosphere. You looked at us as if we haven’t been broken just yet.” Note from a student I have been fortunate to find another teaching position at our local university and, although I don’t often write about my students, they have been much on my mind since I sent them off to their final exams...
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Something there is that doesn’t love a wall. These are the words of Robert Frost in his poem, “Mending Wall.” It’s been years since I sat down and read that poem. I spent most of the month of March thinking about walls and I was curious about what the old Vermonter had to say. If you’ve never read it, please do. Two neighbors are walking the wall between...
Read MoreI continue to be a work in progress. One of my most recent activities, aside from birdwatching, reading, and binging the second season of Bridgerton, has been trying to stop myself from typing I hope this note finds you well, on my email correspondence. The sentiment is true enough, although the words themselves are automatic and now meaningless after so...
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Slickrock domes and washes of cream-colored sand, groves of tall pinon, blackbrush meadows—the long trail to Rainbow Bridge had not changed much, as far as I could tell, in the intervening more than 30 years. Not that I remembered it in much detail. When I first visited the place I was a newbie to the Southwest, gobsmacked by the scale of mountains and...
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“Full of rage and fury and hate Here to obliterate your church and state Down with the government so we can be free We are Satanarchy!” With that immortal incantation, the Reverend Davey Wicked ushered in the dawn of a new musical age. The reign of Satanarchy had begun and the landscape of punk rock was irrevocably changed forever. The faces of the...
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Do you recall those times in your life when you never thought you would find home? We grow from family roots—maybe it’s a deep taproot, a creeping rhizome or a shallow one that breaks off to tumble in the wind. Yet rootedness does not come naturally for people. Instead, we have legs, cars and suitcases. We can roam freely and transplant ourselves....
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It’s the second day of March. This won’t go to print for more than a week. We all know what a week can bring. It was exactly a week ago that Ukrainians woke up to their country at war. But I am writing this now because the moment feels more important than a newspaper timeline. And because acts of aggression are timeless. Our friend Laura Kelly writes from...
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Scientists discover that sea slugs can self-decapitate. A childhood memory of hiding under my desk, hands over head, ready for the bomb. A paper cup filled with coffee and milk and swirls of chocolate. A pair of rainbow-colored go-go boots that I will never own. Scientists discover that, after decapitation, sea slugs can regenerate their hearts in about...
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It was about a week ago, a late Thursday afternoon. Outside the classroom windows, golden hour saturated the light with amber. My advanced writing class had just concluded. Seven students Zooming in through laptops vanished from the checkerboard of faces on the projector screen in front of the room. At my university, we are hybrid teaching, a...
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The fortunes of cities rise and fall with their connections to the rest of the world: seaways, airways, roadways, a principle so fundamental that the word “arterial” is defined not only as relating to our blood circulation but as a major road, period. For Flagstaff, I suppose the economically most important are the run-of-the-mill interstates that link us...
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On the first day of 2022, the sun rose into a cloudless sky, emerging from star-studded darkness and quiet. With my partner, Mike, I rang in the new year silently, savoring the last hours of a self-directed 10-day meditation retreat at our farm homestead. Outside, the garden chimes jingled in the cold morning wind. The quiet was ringing inside my body, an...
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There sometimes arises a subject matter so unextraordinary, so taken for granted, that by its own pedestrian nature it becomes something of a rockstar. I hope you’ll agree with me that this is certainly the case with pockets. Pockets. Those rectangular appendages we’ve come to count on, those utilitarian bits of fabric we entrust our lives too, lives that...
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Every group of friends has an organizer, and in our group it’s Ron. I’ve learned over the years that it’s more fun to say “yes” to Ron’s gatherings rather than following my usual inclination to stay home buried under cats and a pile of blankets and books and my usual state of introversion and torpor. So, on a recent early Sunday morning I found myself...
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On a muggy August day before my fifth grade school year was to begin, Mom circled my three brothers, my sister and me. She told us that we were moving to Indiantown, a scratchy, green patch of inland South Florida that we’d visited a few times. Indiantown was all I knew of “the country.” Mom said we’d be moving in a week and living in Indiantown in a...
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I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate the holidays during 2020. Reflecting on the turbulent and emotional events of the past year didn’t leave me feeling particularly thankful or put me in the “Christmas spirit.” By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, my mood hadn’t improved in the slightest. Past Christmas Eves were spent with family and extended family....
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The 16-year-old was surprisingly easy to roust from sleep at 1:30, even if the room was almost pitch black. The full moon light that had earlier been seeping its way around the edges of the blind had diminished to almost nothing. A wrap of a down jacket around his shoulders, and a minute later we were outside on the back patio, with its wintertime view of...
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As we enter the darker side of the year, the veil between the earth and spirit realm is a gossamer curtain. As the leaves fall and the days grow shorter, I sense the transience of each moment. It is time to say goodbye to the garden and I grieve the loss of all of my flowers. A few marigolds are still blooming, and I leave them for the bees and butterflies...
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Among my mother’s possessions when she died was a wooden box, a box exactly the size of the one in which we buried her ashes. It had a sticky latch, a latch that seemed to tell us no, not yet, there are other tasks to take care of. So for weeks the box sat where it had always sat, under a table—a handsome mahogany table—beside a bookcase filled with dozens...
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“The grief process is very fluid. Most of us do not proceed in an orderly fashion through the stages of shock to acceptance.” This was the first line I read on the handout from the campus counseling office before scanning the rest of the worksheet, wryly observing the neatly numbered stages one through 10. As a writing teacher, I wondered what kind of form...
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Fred went to prowl for vinyl. Audria was a frequent flyer who lasered in on collectible china. Aude and her husband had the eye for mid-century modern in the midst of cheap motel room castoffs. I was fixated on classroom globes from the USSR era. We weren’t a group, but almost every weekend we were regulars at The Bins, the unofficial name of a long gone...
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It’s strange that burnout hit me so early in my life. I pushed my personal life and hobbies aside to make way for long hours and weekend shifts, and after years of this routine, I found myself exhausted and creatively deprived. A couple of years ago, I took stock of my life and realized I needed to rediscover some of my old passions, one of which was...
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During the year of my birth Life magazine, at that time the carrier of the pulse of mainstream America, featured a ten-page spread on the fad of taking a 50-mile walk. The idea came from half-century-old executive order from President Teddy Roosevelt, no slouch himself when it came to physical fitness, who had mandated that officers in the Marines needed...
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Seeds are tiny miracles. I never tire of witnessing them burst from the soil — full of purpose. Our monsoon pumpkin patch grew fast and furious in the long, rainy and humid summer days. When I survey the tangle of vines bearing pumpkins — some over 20 feet long — it seems impossible that they were once tucked inside a teardrop-shaped seed smaller than a...
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The history of people gathering to protest, or marching to make their minds known, is a long one. Often peaceful by intent, and just as often the last stop before violence, every protest march is one side of a conversation, a monologue inviting dialogue. Or an act of extreme frustration, Not-Power speaking to Power and not being heard. Before this young...
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Every few days, I find myself rewatching The Matrix 4: Resurrections movie trailer as though it is the whole film and wonder how I can possibly wait three months until December 22 to be fully immersed in that world again. Certain cultural touchstones stay with each of us through our lives and one of mine will always be The Matrix franchise. It was one of...
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Longtime L’Oréal face Andie MacDowell showed up on my Facebook feed last week throwing shade on the anti-aging industrial complex. In an interview with The Zoe Report, MacDowell relayed that she was embracing her 63-year-old self by nixing hair coloring and showing her gray. After being cajoled by her children and living through the pandemic curtailment of...
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There are a few things that make me think of my grandfather. I think of him when I hear Johnny Cash sing about God and death. I think of him when the sunset casts the West in an orange glow. I think of him when I hold his old Buck knife in my hands, turning it over and over, opening and closing the blade, balancing it on my fingertips. I think of him when...
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It’s tantalizing how some of us who got to experience the privilege of working from home during the (we hope) worst days of the pandemic have been able to savor the obverse, the glorious and energizing feeling of being (carefully) back among other people after our long isolation. In my case, the place is a college campus, where after a year in which...
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The first day visiting my family in Vermont this summer began in my sister Kara’s garden. We sipped coffee and relieved our jet lag with a barefoot stroll through robust perennial islands displaying fireworks of color and texture. While we oohed and awed at the garden, Kara shared her ideas to revise and expand, yanking weeds as we walked. She inherited...
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My neighbor took a panel of siding off his house a few days ago in order to replace an outdoor faucet. Because I’m a bit of a structural archeologist, I was curious and went over early in the morning to take a closer look. The first layer under the siding was stucco, and under that, chicken wire. It was old chicken wire, a different gauge than you see...
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I moved into my new office in the middle of a monsoon downpour on a Friday afternoon. It feels auspicious when something begins in the middle of a weather adventure. Monsoon rains, moving up and down four flights of stairs, dodging a heavy and steady rainfall running under eaves and awnings as best as I could, trying to keep dry. Then, moving furniture,...
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Freshman year gym class was a nightmare. When I strolled into Sinagua High School for the first time, I decided I’d had enough of sports and exercise. This was it — one last painful semester of gym class, and then I was set for life. I’d never have to think about running, throwing a ball, or how many servings of vegetables I needed each day. My nutrition...
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In memory of Rev. Dr. Travis DuPriest (1944 – 2021)When I learned that Rev. Dr. DuPriest had died, I felt sorrow and that exquisite little spark of anguish that always flickers and stings when we look upon the distant past – the far away corners, the furthest past, the past when we, ourselves were newer, rawer, more innocent, more...
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It will probably draw some nods of recognition in Flagstaff, if not in a number of other lower, flatter places, if I suggest that much of what lures people to live at more than a mile above sea level is gravity itself — pulling us upward, so to speak, rather than pushing us downward as we might intuitively expect. It’s gravity that literally fuels so many...
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When you hang around with truckers and sailors you learn the language of knots. Climbers and wranglers, arborists and roustabouts — they speak this language too. You can go anywhere in the world and find someone tying a bowline. It may be called by a different name, but it’s the same configuration: the rabbit goes out of the hole, around the tree and back...
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Smoky Sunset Photo by Stacy Murison Even though our county government tells me that I should always be prepared for summer forest fires, I never really am. I have a better bug-out-bag for the oft-imagined zombie apocalypse or potential nuclear fallout (I am a child of the 1980s, after all) than I do for the realistic evacuation orders for fires. As the...
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Photo by Jake Bacon I was a kid at the circus the first time I saw someone eat fire. The circus tent was darkened and a man stood on stage in a circle of light. He wore a sparkly jacket, removed his hat, bent his head back dramatically and used what looked like barbecue skewers to insert balls of fire into his mouth. He closed his lips around each fireball...
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Photo by Heather Gruber. My sister, in town from Chicago for the first time in two years, caught this moment I shared with my students during the Flagstaff Arts & Leadership Academy Commencement ceremony. We did what we’d been doing for a long time: we held each other up. Outside of pictures like this one, I snapped very few photographs during...
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I knew before we got to the fallen tree that something had changed. All spring I’d been hiking up the Elden Lookout Trail, often looking up to see how quickly I was gaining elevation on the steep slope. On one of those hikes while it was still quite cold in early April, I noticed the stark bleached skeleton of a stately old pine that stood adjacent to one...
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June is National Pollinator Month and hopefully Flagstaff has made it through the last frost of the season so we can start to enjoy the benefit of pollinators in our gardens, both for joy and for higher vegetable yields. At Wild Heart Farm where I live and grow specialty cut flowers we are delighting in the daily drama of our pollinator garden. About a...
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Last week, the Alabama legislature reversed a 1993 ruling that prohibited teaching yoga in the public schools. The new ruling came with a caveat: yoga okay, but no Oms, no namastes, no Sanskrit names for the postures. To call the postures asanas, which is everyday yoga-speak, that too would be a no-no, as would the practice of meditation, guided imagery,...
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I think I’m late to the garden this year, although I’m not sure—I seem to have kept notes of everything last year except plantings. What I remember is that by the time I went to buy tomato starters last May, they were mostly gone. The person at one garden store shook her head sadly while telling me I was about two weeks too late. Because there was still...
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Dear Graduating Class of 2021 (but quite specifically Flagstaff Arts & Leadership Academy graduating class of 2021), I see you. You are brilliant. I love you. Remember this: if you were my student, at any point, you are always my student. What that means is that I want to hear from you, hear about you, and that I will carry you always in the lake of my...
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A half dozen of us gathered recently for Easter dinner, a collection of single friends. Jazz, rack of lamb, Alsatian wine, animated conversations about politics. It felt like the Before Times. As we tucked into our dessert, the neighbors dropped in—a youngish couple with their 10-year-old son, Andre. About half of the group drifted to the balcony. Andre...
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My Tuesday Evenings began in high school. I’m pretty sure that day of the week had always existed, and that evening, but never much differentiated from others. It was sophomore year when that changed, when I went to work for the student newspaper. I’ve never been the same since. Nor have Tuesday Evenings, which I feel I have to capitalize to highlight...
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I turned 50 years old this year on April 9. There was nothing I wanted more on this day than to wake up alone in the wilderness. It’s not easy to extract oneself from a life caring for plants, especially as temperatures reach the 80s. Fortunately Beaver Creek Wilderness is just a few miles upstream of the farm. By late afternoon I had finished my...
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An ex-boyfriend once told me that every day is an anniversary of something. I suppose that’s true, especially as I scan social media “memories” from one year ago. I was especially active that first month of the pandemic: sourdough starter photos, music playlists for students as we all scrambled to finish the school year online, and photos of a bluebird at...
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In the late 1990s I traveled with a friend to what was then called Burma, and is now called Myanmar. We never intended to go to Burma; our plan was to explore Thailand, and perhaps move on to India after that. We even obtained visas for Egypt in case we still had itchy feet. I had never been to Asia, and in my journal I described Bangkok, where we landed,...
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Unthinkable. This is a word I have returned to often—in the past 15 months—when “unprecedented” just didn’t cut it. Let’s face it, if the empty ubiquity of the word “unprecedented” has taught us anything this year, it has taught us that the English language is still very much in its infancy. So I lean into “unthinkable.” Not even the inherently negative...
Read More…out of growing actual physical necessity, sometimes, or maybe it’s just the power of suggestion, something about waking to the nearby sound of a freight train with the windows open for the first time on a warmer-than-it’s-been spring night, but in any event the reality of the premise doesn’t matter because once the thought has arisen that relieving...
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In early January I was planting the last of the daffodil bulbs, digging into the cold, not quite frozen earth, when my spade nearly sliced into a hibernating Woodhouse toad. I held the toad’s cold, stony body in my hands to try to detect a heartbeat. He looked vulnerable and yet peaceful. I immediately tucked him in to rest beneath the daffodils until...
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Who among us has not been comforted by the words, Let me tell you a story? In my family it was my father who held the talking stick. He was not only a brilliant exaggerator, but he and his three brothers learned the gift of Blarney from their mother who learned it from her Irish grandfather who, we were told, did a short shift as the mayor of New York...
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On a recent Saturday night, I found myself sitting on the floor reading notes from a graduate class in philosophy taught by Bud Ruf (pronounced “roof”). Even in my 30s, I could not bring myself to call him “Bud,” but always “professor” or “doctor,” to his annoyance. “Call me Bud,” he would say, and I would reply, “OK…Doctor Ruf.” I understand his...
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Education has become a political flashpoint. The grownups are arguing; at the center of the argument lies the stinking, rotting carcass of American education. Last Friday, Flagstaff Arts & Leadership Academy (a place I’m proud to call home as an educator) held an all-school assembly that centered issues impacting Black, Indigenous and People of Color...
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When I was growing up, girls didn’t skateboard. Girls did the dishes. I wasn’t forbidden to skateboard, but it was a boy thing, a thing my brothers did. Back then, breaking into boy territory meant wearing pants to school. We had a long, sloping driveway beside our suburban house in central Florida. After school my brothers busted out the boards and...
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Glowing from within: ponderosas in the snow. Photo by the author. To my eyes, adapted as they’ve been to the artificial light of the kitchen, the night appears complete as I step out the back door. Complete, but not dark: the waning moon is still up, its cold light reflecting brilliantly off the snowbanks, setting the surface crystals to sparkling. But the...
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Wintertime, with its lack of light, turns me inward. While my farm sleeps (its more like napping) I can reconnect with my writing practice. The first week of 2021 I retreated with my dearest friend, Karla, who I met while working on Grand Canyon trail crew in 1997. Since then, we have been seeking the truth of our lives through writing, wilderness...
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My friend, Ann, suffers from dementia. This is the way I prefer to say it, rather than she has dementia. Having something implies an ownership of and intimacy with, a kind of never-ending entanglement that can but won’t be relinquished. It implies choice. If she has dementia, can’t she let go her grasp and unhave it? If she suffers from it, that’s her...
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This English teacher’s heart beat more quickly this past week, reading quotes from so many people who seem to have read George Orwell’s work. Of course, it also was laden with the hope that people had actually read Orwell’s 1984. As time went on, I realized that it’s easier to invoke an idea of intelligence than it is to actually dwell in the realm of...
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As I write this, the US Capitol is still under siege by a group of American terrorists who were provoked by the words and actions (or inactions) of a small-minded conman who managed to slither his way into the Oval Office. Supporters of President Donald Trump climb the west wall of the U.S. Capitol on Wednesday in Washington. Photo by Jose Luis Magana/AP I...
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“I usually associate accordion music with Paris,” the audio story begins, “but I’m not in Paris. I’m in Sofia, Bulgaria… I teach here in Bulgaria, and usually I return to the States for the year-end holidays. But not this year.” Listen to the full audio story here.
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My favorite among my parents’ extensive LP collection was a goofy Tom Lehrer record titled That Was the Year That Was. The year referred to was 1965, at which time I was barely toddling and certainly too young to appreciate satire. But the witty songs by one of America’s greatest satirists stood the test of time into the 1970s—and clear through today, for...
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Last week I called my mom to wish her a happy birthday. In many ways her life is a miracle. The day she was born her mother, Lorena, died in childbirth. They were only able to save her. “I thought about my mother all day,” she tells me over the phone. When I hang up, a wave of grief flows out of me in great sobs. I still feel the loss of...
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Like many of us in our fair city, I came here from somewhere else. Or as we say in New England, I’m from away. I’m not actually from New England, though it wasn’t until recently I learned New York City was not part of New England. I don’t honestly know what it’s part of. New Yorkers don’t worry about things like that. Friends are initially astonished when...
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Once in a while, an idea takes hold of me and sets me off on a hamster wheel of adventure—always scrambling, but not quite arriving anywhere. My singular mission the past few weeks has been finding a recipe for pumpkin pie. Not any pie, mind you, but the ice cream pumpkin pie my mother made for Thanksgiving sometime back in the late 1970s. It was the first...
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When Sarah and I talked about places to live, if not Flagstaff (we loved Flag, but were reluctant to fully commit), I, naturally, wanted to return to Chicago—to green, to Lake Michigan, heavy thunderstorms, brutally cold winters, my sister, my parents, so many friends and extended family. Sarah always proposed Tucson, her hometown. (Funny how we’re partial...
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When I was about 8 years old, the scariest person I knew was a nun who taught fourth grade at my school: Sister Margaret Joseph. In my dreams Sister Margaret Joseph, or Maggie Joe as we called her, had a recurring, starring role. She mutated into a large bird with barbed wire talons and death-ray eyeballs that swooped down and pulled my hair for crimes...
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Sometimes it seems like one sentence is enough for an essay. No, I don’t mean that one. Or this one. I mean one like this: Yesterday morning, Saturday morning, I went outside on the patio and it had sprinkled a bit in the night and the air felt so much more alive than it has in many weeks, and within the next hours the election results were announced—the...
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I rang the bell in the October dawn light to open our first silent mediation retreat at Wild Heart Farm, our one-acre farmstead in Rimrock where my partner Mike and I have lived since early this year. When Mike and my friend Molly first proposed the three of us do a self-directed silent farm meditation retreat, I felt resistance. The idea of doing nothing...
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I first met Carmen twenty years ago when she lived on the corner of Third and Rose in a purple mobile home. We squeezed in at the kitchen table to study English while her three young kids came and went, hungry or cranky, needing this and that. I was a lousy English teacher, but despite my shortcomings, time did the work. We met at her kitchen table for ten...
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Recently, I dreamt that I wore a high-necked lacey blouse, hair done in a Gibson-girl bun, and had discovered a way to preserve lemons while standing in a farmhouse kitchen that was part of a farm and not a kitchen remodeling trend. Lemons were hard to get in dreamland, and in my current reality they seem to go bad within two days. They have become worse...
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When I first moved to Flagstaff about 15 years ago, I taught 12th grade English at Northland Prep Academy. The class centered on close reading of a handful of texts. One of my choices was Tim O’Brien’s raw carnival of a book, “The Things They Carried,” a cluster of interlocking stories informed by O’Brien’s service in the Vietnam War. I have a freeze frame...
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There are stories all across the land, and when we choose to tell one we set a course and decide which path to follow and which ones to walk past. We call that set of choices a narrative. Sometimes the possible paths are practically infinite, like the myriad ways to pick a route through the streets of downtown Chicago. Sometimes the land chooses the route...
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In the wake of Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s death this week I have been experiencing many emotions. The first is anger, seminal and cleansing. I am angry at the patriarchal system that we have still not been able to dismantle. Angry thinking about all the times Ginsburg sat alone in a room full of men and had to work twice as hard to be heard. Angry for all the...
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Consider the southpaw. She lives at first base, tends toward artistic genius, is only ten percent of the population but has occupied the White House six times in the last twelve presidencies. She is scorned, reviled, regarded with the utmost suspicion. In the Romance languages, she shares a Latin root with the word “sinister.” I’d like to shed some light...
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I always thought I was going to be an astronomer. But failing physics and trigonometry in high school put me on a different path. It’s good I found an astronomer to marry, I thought again as I packed our car with chairs and blankets. It was the second night of the Perseid meteor shower, and Marc knew a perfect place to observe the meteors. Although the...
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Toward winter’s end, it became difficult to listen to music. My world and the whole damn world had changed, was changing, so rapidly. Music, which has brought me comfort in some of my darkest hours, just wasn’t cutting it—every song a reminder of a life before. Even the songs I heard for the first time last September, when we took the kids on a trip to Los...
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This week, something a little different. Laura Kelly recorded this piece for Flagstaff Letter from...
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It’s the second year in a row the monsoon has gone largely missing, which leads me to a dire if irrational thought: maybe the wall is working. Because the purpose of the wall has always been more than the practical matter of deflecting people from crossing on foot. It’s been more about deflecting the whole idea of the South. It has been a symbol of how...
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One unexpected delight of the coronavirus has been the presence my sister Kelly on our farm this summer. She was en route to Vermont to visit the rest of our family, as her work in the school system allows for seasonal migrations. The painful reality of a worsening global pandemic dashed her plans and she decided to shelter in place with us. In the short...
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When I was a chubby six-year-old, I had a starring role in a little-known horror film called Blood and Guts. It was written, directed and filmed by a man whose friends and co-workers never suspected his Hitchcockian tendencies. He even had a walk-on role in the movie, á la Hitchcock, in which he played the part of a buxom nanny. This man was my father. We...
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I am up late, fighting with strangers on the internet. The feelings of my seemingly justifiable rage wash over me in an adrenaline-fueled mission to find the most accurate words to prove my point. The message has to be just so, my tone both biting and funny. My aim is true: I must prove to myself that I am smarter than my unknown nemesis. Or at least feel...
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I remember learning to swim. I think I was five. We were in Sanibel Island, Florida. My father and grandfather put me in water wings and made me paddle from one to the other as they distanced themselves further apart, like human goal posts. I was eager to ditch the inflatable cuffs. In the water I felt safe, which is a feeling I seldom feel anymore. Water,...
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Look at these faces. One of them could be yours. Look at the eyes. What do the eyes tell you that the mouth does not? Eyes are the epicenter of truth while the mouth pledges honesty to no one. Cover the eyes, as most masks do, and leave the mouth free to equivocate. Or cover the mouth with a band of bright color, an American flag, flowers, flames or...
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You may have seen a curious news item recently, namely that the Alaska National Guard used a Chinook helicopter to lift a deteriorating 74-year-old Fairbanks city bus out of the wilderness near Denali National Park. This never would have been newsworthy had it not been for the fact that it was probably the most famous decades-old bus in the world, being...
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This week’s guest columnist is Karla Theilen “All I need to kick this virus once and for all is lots of hot tea, some lemonade and a clean pair of underwear,” my patient announced as I fastened the blood pressure cuff around her arm. She paused and stared straight ahead, then her head flew back to release a laugh that sounded like the descending trill of a...
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Queueing at the post office yesterday to send a package. Social distancing, masking. I joined the chorus of obliging customers, willing to take our turns. I felt patient and cooperative in my waiting. Video conferencing a week ago with my sibs to discuss our ailing mother. Four there, one late. We small talked and we waited. And then we waited some more. I...
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I wake and pad out to my makeshift garden. I had cleared a small area in the yard to grow three lettuces, two cucumbers and five tomato plants. You might call me a COVID cliché with my gluten-free sourdough starter and a half-assed victory garden. But there is no sense of victory as I notice another leaf gone from the small bunch of romaine that had seemed...
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Last week, I said goodbye to my seniors, the class of 2020. We gathered, social-distance-style, at the Coconino County Fairgrounds. Graduates and their families decked out their cars like parade floats, tailgated with cake and sandwiches, and at the end of the evening each family turned on their headlights so graduates could step out of vehicles and throw...
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Story is how I move through unsettled times. Times when words like curfew, protest, tear gas, riot, fire, looting, violence, rage and justice take their place beside plague, pandemic, lockdown, quarantine, testing and n95. I write this on the last day of May, knowing that by the time these words come to you, four days hence, the world may have shifted...
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Until I had a treehouse to experience them in the gusty winds of late spring afternoons were always an ordeal to me. Back when as a young man I worked as a nomadic bird surveyor I found myself huddled in the meager shade of a government pickup on many afternoons, waiting for the wind to die down so that it would be possible to spot birds again, wearing a...
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The creeping tendrils of the COVID-19 virus has touched every aspect of life all around the world. The virus reminds us each day that we are an interconnected web of humanity and nature woven into a thick cloth. To realize this is a beautiful gift despite all the losses and hardships it has brought with it. With mother nature as my business partner, I am...
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“Laughing and crying, you know it’s the same release.” —Joni Mitchell I made my way back to the United States last Saturday after the completion of a disorienting spring semester at my university in Bulgaria. The notion of flying internationally unleashed trepidation, but my primal need to be near my ailing mother in Florida was the stronger force. As I...
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Q: What’s brown and sticky? A: A stick! I’m a terrible joke-teller. I never remember the punch lines and I have a poor sense of timing. I’m the friend you patiently wait for as I try out three or four endings before giving up on the joke altogether. But 20 years ago, my friend, Sarah, told me the stick joke and I wish I could give her a dollar for...
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Last Friday night, as I brushed my teeth, I heard loud music playing from a neighbor’s apartment and lifted open the bathroom window to put my face to the night air, my ears to the music. I couldn’t make out the song, but the sound was so close to the old normal I could hardly pull myself away. When everything changes, we become myopically drawn to what we...
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Even though it was almost empty you could all but smell the adrenaline in the international terminal. Tullamarine International Airport, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, one of the country’s principal travel hubs, a place where in ordinary times the world traffics: businesspeople, backpackers, retired vacationers on the way home, parents with children in...
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The list of things the coronavirus has taken from us is growing longer each day. I try to make it a practice to count the things I am grateful for instead of what I have lost in its wake. John Prine makes the top of both lists. He passed away on April 6 due to complications from COVID-19, but he lives on in his songs—songs we all know how to sing. His...
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If we were to take our cue from the denizens of New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco in the ‘80s and early ‘90s, we would be making our way through this rubble of loss, grief, anger and uncertainty by creating art. The photographs of Mapplethorpe, called by some pornographic, though they portrayed the truthful flesh of the most vulnerable; the memoirs...
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My brother called last night just as I’d climbed under my covers. We traded stories about emotional numbness and our lapsed personal hygiene. I’ve spent the whole day wearing nothing but my underpants, he said. I countered with the admission that I hadn’t showered in five days. He told me that my nephew—his 25-year-old son living and working in New York...
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Dear Friend, Thanks for your text. I’ve been thinking about you also and hate that we’re not able to see each other right now. While I am happy to hear that you’re able to work from home, I am sorry about the increased number of hours you are working. I cannot imagine an eight-hour conference call. How did you manage? How does your company handle restroom...
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I have to be honest: this lingering cold is beginning to concern me. I’m starting to doubt my own conservative assumptions about just how much toilet paper we actually need. Dread is encroaching. Last week, at my wife’s insistence, in the middle of a snow squall, we made our way to the grocery store to “stock up on supplies.” We bought cereal and canned...
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I’m a darn good bread baker, but my early works could have passed for geologic specimens. Not soft sandstones or limestones either. These were metamorphics, loaves of the Grand Canyon’s Precambrian, nourishment that could break your teeth. The problem was I didn’t believe in the delicate properties of yeast, or its shelf life—or recipes, for that matter. I...
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In south Texas the line really was a river, even if it didn’t look like much. From the window of the pickup that Rose used to pick me up from the bus station the land on either side appeared equally flat and bland, the unpainted houses and patchwork fields set amid groves of trees as brown as grocery store bags. Winter had leached the color from the...
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When my niece Carmen and her brother Lucas were children, I often babysat and stayed with them while their parents went on business trips. I am very close to my brother and sister-in-law. We lived in the same neighborhood, and I saw those kids almost every day. At times I felt like a third parent. But I am not a parent; I am something far more delicious. I...
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I dressed in layers and packed my knapsack until it was bursting. Too much water and not enough sunscreen, I would later learn on the trail—and that I probably never need to bring a paperback bird guide with me again as long as I have the eBird app on my phone. At the end of January, I decided to go on my first bird watching hike through Picture Canyon. I...
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In January, I was diagnosed with recurrent, metastatic, stage 4 breast cancer. Nine years ago, in Milwaukee, I felt relieved to only be stage 2, to only be halfway. However, from that day until last month, as I sat in a doctor’s office with a view of the Sedona red rocks, I expected stage 4 would someday come. After the diagnosis, despite my advanced...
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It turns out Henry VIII was not a very nice guy. Living in the dark ages of human history that preceded Tweeting, his version of the short and nasty was to chop off your head. Or eviscerate you. Or burn you at the stake. He is remembered most of all as an inveterate ladies’ man, but scratch the surface and you find a narcissist, an irascible whiner, a boy...
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Poetry lives in the rigor of its format. A sonnet: 14 lines of 10 syllables each, with a specific rhyming scheme. Haiku: 17 syllables, no more or less. Even a randy limerick has to follow a precise line structure. What irritations writers have felt when what seems precisely the right word in its meaning doesn’t fit the meter or the rhyme—what tyranny, they...
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It was during my early adolescence when I saw Alfred Hitchcock’s 1963 film The Birds. Critics were mixed in their reception. I wasn’t. It terrified me. Before I watched the film, I’d thought of birds as benign and decorative. I saw them as accessories for trees and the sky. They looked good sitting on docks and they made nice sounds. And they fly, which is...
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I’ve been bothered by the squirrels and chipmunks in my yard for the past month. Not because they are there—I did, after all, buy a special seed mix and some dried seed corn for them—but because I always thought they hibernated all winter. Instead, they bound through the snow as though there are mere flakes on the ground rather than hard-packed...
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By the time this article posts, I will know whether or not I have cancer. I enjoy teaching my students about writing hooks. Sometimes, albeit rarely, the moment you’re living in provides the best possible hook. I’ve also told students who wish to write, “Start with where you are right now.” So for this piece, I’m starting where I am right now: waiting....
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Imagine my fourth-grade classroom. A shelf of math books and stacks of Weekly Readers. The smell of cedar shavings and nose-wrinkling disinfectant. Pale green walls covered with maps of Marco Polo’s travels along the Silk Road. Two high windows looking out across the East River at the foreign kingdom of Queens. A dark December day outside but inside, on...
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Let’s begin with A. A for arroyo, also often known as wash: “often steep-walled . . . flat-bottomed or laden with boulders and gravel,” an attribute that comes in handy if you have an old Willys jeep, as my friend Jim has, and a need for a winter camp out of the way of the chilly wind, as we did more than once back when I lived in Tucson. You can drive up...
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Last Thursday was the final meeting of my fall semester Writing for Media class. Final exams loomed. Exhaustion etched shadows beneath everyone’s eyes. There were 21 students in the room, the survivors of three and a half months of composing and editing, learning the rigors of media writing in a language that is not their mother tongue. Bulgarians,...
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The quiet mornings after the recent snowfall had me marveling at the seemingly absolute silence outside. Friends discovered and shared articles about the physics of snow absorbing sound, and we agreed it all made sense. But I couldn’t get over exactly how quiet it was, the only sounds a neighbor making their way through snowy sidewalks or streets, trying...
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This week, I wanted to write about snow, but I didn’t want to sit with my own snow thoughts and so I enlisted the wisdom of my Intro to Creative Writing class, which consists of students ranging from eighth grade to senior year in high school. Most, though not all, have lived in Flagstaff all their lives. I knew they’d have some insight on the matter....
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Years ago, Tillie Olsen published a slim volume of short stories called Tell Me A Riddle. In one of her best-known stories, “I Stand Here Ironing,” she paints a picture of the regrets and realities of a sometimes single, working class mother of the 1950s. At the risk of conflating narrator and author, I’ll venture that this modest record of the life of a...
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The hip-hop artist and climate activist Xiuhtezcatl Martinez was in Flagstaff late last week for an address at NAU’s Climate 2020 summit and an evening performance at the Orpheum Theater. He made it clear up front that the rules of engagement for the two events were not the same. “I need you all right in front, in the mosh pit!” he commanded the sitting...
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I was 27 when my father died. I went numb and took a job in Japan as a group leader for 10 American high school exchange students. The job required that I also live with a family. When our bus pulled into the supermarket parking lot where we were to meet our host parents, all I knew about Yuko was that she was in her 40s, she taught English, and she was...
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The sun has just risen and I’m outside in my slippers and pajamas using a kitchen knife to no avail. The window screen, so easy to remove a few weeks ago during warmer weather, is firmly stuck, perhaps frozen, in place. The outdoor thermometer hovers around 30 degrees. I go back indoors, open the window and push the screen out, then run back outside with a...
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What used to scare me: the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz, that part in Raiders of the Lost Ark where the Nazi’s face melted off, escalators at the Woodfield Mall. These days, I’m scared by far more terrifying, albeit everyday, forces, but I do like Halloween, arriving precisely when hoodies and extra blankets are warranted. My students are passionate...
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My friend—I’ll call her P—came here from a warmer continent and has no winter clothes. When I first met her a week before school began, she had no place to live, no one here previously known to her and no work. She had no bed, no dresser, no towels, sheets, blankets or pillows. We shared a pot of tea and a sandwich that day in my kitchen while she told me...
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The first time I glimpsed it, the Big Stump from a distance loomed vaguely ahead like some oversized vacationer, perhaps some former football player out on the coast for a weekend of casual fun. But no. As I got closer I saw that it was taller and more wide-shouldered than even the biggest linebacker. It looked like a massive, solid block of dark wet wood...
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“Spring passes and one remembers one’s innocence. Summer passes and one remembers one’s exuberance. Autumn passes and one remembers one’s reverence. Winter passes and one remembers one’s perseverance.” ― Yoko Ono I grew up in south Florida and lived with two seasons: summer, which lasted about nine months, and summer without...
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When I moved to Flagstaff 11 years ago, I marveled at how wonderful it was to see so many people I knew wherever I went. It felt joyful to be able to stop and say hello and chat for a few minutes in the produce section or while walking to dinner with my husband. My friend, a long-time resident, expressed bemusement. “Just you wait,” she told me. “It’s not...
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We’re fostering kittens again. My wife is passionate about cats. In one of the first pictures I saw of her as a child, she’s proudly hugging a resigned Siamese to her little body. Without solicitation, she shows people pictures of our cats the way proud parents might show pictures of their children. While there are people who genuinely hate dogs (or fear...
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I don’t know if you remember Flagstaff in the late ‘70s. I was a newcomer here, living out in the wilderness of Doney Park. I shared a bungalow with an attorney who worked in town, and in the field next door lived two horses, one white, one gray. I was quite the romantic and named the white one Pure Thought, a name I also bestowed on my white truck. We all...
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September has always been complicated. Other months were easily defined in the Upper Midwest when I was growing up. February: Frigid, brutal, a sharp razor of a month that couldn’t cut its way out of town too soon. July: A saunter cut through with the scent of freshly mown grass and the whip-whip of lawn sprinklers hissing their way into the late dusk....
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It was Christmas Day, clear and sunny in south Florida, the sort of weather that makes even the most curmudgeonly among us entertain the notion that the world just might be rippling with unseen magic and possibili This was around 20 years ago. I lived in Miami then; my beau lived in north Florida. Christmas Day is his birthday, and in late morning, I set...
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I’ve been struggling the past few months with a feeling that I’ve come to describe as post-Brooklyn let down. I miss everything about the neighborhood I lived in earlier this summer: The school children down the block, the local book store around the corner (with a fat cat named Tiny) and the roses that grew in small gardens in front of many of the...
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When I was in second grade, I had a teacher, an energetic, funny, charismatic woman beloved by all her students, who used to routinely sing us a few lines from “On the Sunny Side of the Street”: “Grab your coat/ get your hat/ leave your worry on the doorstep . . .” This past week, my second grade teacher passed away and folks from my class (all of us now...
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The year I played the cello was the same year I voted for Nixon, and if I had to say which one was the greater act of conviction I’m afraid I’d have to go with Nixon. Tricky Dick had not yet earned his name because in that particular election he did not become the president of the United States. The Senator from Massachusetts did. John F. Kennedy. I was...
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A few mornings after returning home I wake up from a dream of Spanish. Not in Spanish, which is an idealistic beginner’s aspiration, but of: the entire language had become a dense tangled mass of plants, a vegetative riot rich with exclamations, scraps of conversations and whispers, and though most of the sense remained murky to me, here and there I could...
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WARNING: CONTENT MAY BE OFFENSIVE OR DISTURBING TO SOME AUDIENCES. Trigger warnings—alerts that material may trigger someone to re-experience trauma—have been deployed more frequently in the past few years atop news stories, in university course syllabi, on signage accompanying art exhibitions. Offensive. Disturbing. Who decides for whom? The headlines and...
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Summer ends earlier for teachers than it does on the calendar, which means that I’m now in peak anxiety season. Not about teaching, which I love. I can hardly wait to get back to the classroom and meet the new students. Instead, I am anxiously thinking about the list of projects I had hoped to complete over the summer with “time off.” Looking at my list...
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I love to travel, but I am a nervous flyer. While I’m not an engineer, or a math person, or even a science person, the principles of flight make sense to the logical part of my brain. It’s the primal part that can’t fathom the act. When I was a toddler there was a terrible plane crash at O’Hare. All 271 people onboard were killed, as well as a few people...
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Mr. Barclay’s Dancing School met every Wednesday afternoon in the ballroom of the Pierre Hotel in New York City. There, under the gaudy chandeliers and watchful eyes of our instructors, we learned the rituals designed to secure us future husbands, children and happiness. At the same time, across the Pacific, the war in Vietnam was heating up, and on our...
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In the hubbub over the Women’s World Cup it has been easy to overlook, in the U.S. at least, that there’s been another major soccer tournament underway. I heard about it on a plane to Paraguay. In the only announcement that didn’t have to do with routine matters of timing, altitude or weather, the pilot reported the results of two first-round matches to...
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Dear graduates, You have recently crossed a metaphoric threshold signified by diplomas decorated with inscrutable signatures. You wore a black mortar board and a muumuu. You radiated relief and accomplishment. Optimally, you are poised for change, ready to be launched and eager to embrace the next phase of your life. Realistically, you are stressed,...
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I saw the advertisement around February, which is the month when I think I can’t possibly drive the same five miles of Flagstaff anymore: “Studio apartment for rent, Brooklyn.” I wouldn’t say I have many regrets in my life, but there is something like a feeling of absence. I wish I had lived in New York City when I was younger and been an intern...
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Two weeks ago, my grandmother died. She was almost 94. Her death was not a tragedy, not unexpected, but as with all deaths, it was a painful loss, so although it was the second-to-last week of school, I flew to the Midwest to attend services. When I go to Chicago, I usually say, “I’m going home.” However, I’ve spent the last five years in the Southwest and...
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The Pine Tree Market sits between the newsstand and a Lilly Pulitzer dress shop on Main Street, Northeast Harbor. Its green awning offers shade from the weak sun and shelter from the soft persistent rains that wrap the Maine islands from June through August. Fog settles thickly in the harbor below the town, sometimes for weeks. The fancy yachts come in,...
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Back in the old days, most rivers gathered water from a wide area and delivered it to one place; they were gatherers rather than distributors. That seems profoundly old-fashioned now, at least in the hydraulically engineered West. That’s what I was thinking to myself earlier this spring as I stood in a field down in Eloy, in Pinal County. The field grew...
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One of my favorite students, set to graduate summa cum laude this month, came to my office last week with a handful of books. She told me she had bought some for her literature classes and others to feed what I have come to know as her effervescent intellect. She said she was divesting of most of her possessions to prepare for a year of backpacking around...
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The meeting starts as all of my meetings outside of familiar buildings start. Out in the wilds of a water tank parking lot somewhere in Kachina Village, I wonder two things: am I in the right spot? and, am I late? A short walk through the pine needle-covered parking area assures me there is no other “there” here and that I just have to be patient. I see a...
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As I pull weeds from the garden beds that, last year, yielded a handful of arugula and four withered peas, I tell my wife, “Maybe it will be different this time.” In the 1989 film adaptation of Pet Sematary, this is the same line the main character repeats to himself and God as he buries one body after the next in the haunted graveyard, only to finally,...
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The poet Jane Hirshfield writes, “A world—or book—that is felt to contain the hidden is inexhaustible to the imagination.” Poetry is the subject at hand, but she might as well be talking about fishing. Or about my father when she writes, “Hiddenness is the ballast in the ship’s keel, the great underwater portion of a life that steadies the rest.” I took up...
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Flagstaff Letter from Home recently posted its 500th column on the website FlagstaffLetterfromHome.com, where each column has been archived since late 2009. Ten Flagstaff writers, usually five at a time, have been rotating on a weekly basis since the column first appeared in May 2008. This week, two of the original writers – “homer”s – reflect on that...
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My initial exposure to America’s great national parks came as a perk with my first magazine subscription. Thanks to an inspired second-grade teacher who worked to instill a love of nature in her students, I became an avid reader of Ranger Rick magazine. As a subscription bonus I received a set of national parks color-by-number drawings, to be completed not...
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The poet W.S. Merwin died last month on the Ides of March. According to the Roman calendar, the Ides fall on the 15th. When Rome dominated Western civilization, the Ides of March was believed to have been a day to settle debts. Who knows what debt Merwin owed on this celestial plane. What many of us know is what he gave. His publishing house issued a...
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It was summer and, although my mother and I don’t remember exactly how old I was, I was old enough to read and old enough to know better. My mother held the box of effervescent denture tablets in one hand and, in the days before 911, dialed Poison Control on my grandmother’s rotary phone. I stood there stupidly in my grandmother’s kitchen, wondering how...
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When I was a little girl, my step-grandfather made my siblings and me small cedar chests with bronze hinges. I’ve kept mine. Ever since I left home for college, it’s moved with me. Inside are decades of concert ticket stubs (Violent Femmes, Blur, Morrissey), postcards from Wisconsin, Bali, France, notes from friends that date back to my junior year in high...
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Every other Wednesday, at the unlikely venue of Bigfoot BBQ, the Italian language students meet for conversation. The air is abuzz with questions and answers: “Dov’è la cucina?” “Non lo so.” “Che cosa hai mangiato?” “Non lo so.” For those who have never set foot in Italy, as well as those whose visits number in the dozens, the exercise is the same: Learn...
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Like good Christians, most thoughtful Americans have readily admitted that our current state is always one subject to improvement. Why else would the preamble to the Constitution underscore that the document’s purpose is to establish the arc of our shared journey toward “a more perfect union”—or, for that matter, why would so many voters believe the...
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As I approached my apartment building in Sofia, Bulgaria, a few days ago, I saw a necrolog, the Bulgarian version of an obituary, pasted onto a window beside the front door. In the States we read obituaries in newspapers or on websites, but the Bulgarian way to announce a death is to make simple, letter-sized notices and distribute them into public life....
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Most Saturday mornings start the same: I ask my husband who will make us pancakes for breakfast. Since the cats are not quite teenagers yet (and do not have opposable thumbs, nor are they tall enough to reach the stove), our options are limited. Sadly, I have yet to perfect making pancakes at high altitude. I never remember if it’s more flour, more milk or...
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My wife calls them “smallidays”—small holidays, St. Patrick’s Day, Labor Day, Valentine’s Day. Last month, as I glumly removed ornaments and got ready to chuck our tree, she reminded me, “There’s still a bunch of smallidays to look forward to…” This was little comfort as I haven’t put stock in those holidays since I was a kid. Most years I don’t even...
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Last fall, in the spirit of the Medici family and a handful of Renaissance popes, we built an art shed, a pretty little 13 by 13 building with an open nature and north light. The idea was to draw itinerant artists, artists without studios, to the back yard by creating a kind of diurnal flophouse. Not being a painter or sculptor myself, I imagined men and...
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For the second time since the onset of cold weather, on the same morning walk with my son to the bus stop, a dead raven lies immobile down in the next block in the strip of gravel between the street and the sidewalk—the utilitarian zone that many people call, appropriately enough, the “death strip.” The lightest possible dusting of snow encrusts the...
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It was Christmas Day 2007. My sister Julia, my friend Audria and I motored on I-40 from Albuquerque to Flagstaff through a light snow that blew sideways like confetti shot from a winter cannon. We had spent a few days in Santa Fe, reveling in the New Mexico slant on La Navidad—ambling down Canyon Road singing Christmas carols on streets lined by luminaria,...
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I bought Marie Kondo’s book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, while traveling for Christmas a few years ago. We were staying at a rental house that was incredibly clean and sparsely decorated—I was ready to occupy that space permanently. Reading Kondo’s book made me eager to return home and tidy the hell out of everything; it seemed possible I could...
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Over winter break I spent some time listening to a podcast and reading a book about The Donner Party. While I would like to say I became spontaneously interested in Westward Expansion or the notion of Manifest Destiny, the truth is a friend made a reference to the Donner Party during a conversation and I was reminded of this little American History blip...
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On days just like this there’s a frozen quality to everything I do or say or write, as if the north wind brings with it the curse of contraction. I know others feel differently. Winter is a quiet time, internal, full of family and firelight, warm drinks, good books. They see the stars reflected in the snow. I see an icy plain that sparkles with the...
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The dark-eyed juncos have moved in in force, hopping around on the bare dirt beneath the bird feeder. They tend to have a greater fondness to feeding on the ground than the finches and chickadees and house sparrows that perch up high. Or maybe it’s just that the latter species—full-time locals—are more brash and don’t make way for the more diffident...
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“There is no there there.” ~ Gertrude Stein “There is.” ~ Laura Kelly I am one of the nearly six million Americans in the past week who zipped a suitcase, lumbered through security, double checked my boarding pass and wedged my posterior into an airplane seat so I could fly somewhere. The end of every year means this annual marquee holiday with...
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The holiday gifts are purchased and wrapped. Now is the time I buy one thing for myself to help me in the year ahead. I can spend hours in a single day looking and still not find it. I’m in search of something so perfect, so uniquely me that I will not know exactly what it looks like until I see it. In between holiday concerts year-end work and...
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Last week was World AIDS Day, it snowed in Flagstaff, George H.W. Bush died and my AP Literature class began reading Tony Kushner’s Angels in America — a play about AIDS, ancestry, politics, community, America itself. The present moment often has a way of colliding with my curriculum. About this, I feel conflicted. On one hand, my students and I...
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Every December, in the hallway outside the kitchen, my mother tacked up a large piece of construction paper divided into five columns. This was the Christmas list, and on it we five kids were invited to write our wants, our desires. From age 8 to 14 the only things that appeared in my column were two words: rowing machine. Some years it looked like this:...
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I well remember standing down at Imperial Dam all those years ago, a budding journalist, and thinking: this is going to be interesting. I meant Arizona. I meant the Southwest. I meant me, in the Southwest. But deep down what I really meant was that I wanted to live in a story. It was winter, and the camping was perfect. My friend Tim and I went for a fast...
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Last Tuesday, 23 of us sat around a sturdy conference table in the middle of our university classroom. It was my biweekly Advanced Writing for Media class, and the upcoming assignment: food memoir. Each student was to write a 1,000-word personal story about eating or cooking or something about food. Glorious food. Before the story writing was the...
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I had dinner recently with a group of writing colleagues while we were at a conference. One writer shared part of his talk for his panel presentation on the concept of home. My colleagues then shared the journeys they had taken and the many places they had lived through the years. We talked about where we were from, where we live now and if we considered...
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When the rain stops falling in the Catalina Foothills, my father-in-law takes me outside to smell creosote. He gestures broadly to the vast desert before us: “All that’s glistening is creosote,” he says, and leans over the adobe wall bordering his property, picks a small clump of leaves from a tree, puts them to my nose. “Smell that.” As I’m inhaling...
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John Kennedy was killed on a Friday. The following Monday, our 6th grade teacher, Mrs. Taliaferro, wrote the words “What freedom means to me” on the board. We spent the class period writing our thoughts on this hard-to-grapple-with topic while she put her head down on her desk and wept. I don’t remember what my thoughts were. I do remember that Mrs....
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The news broke earlier this month on a Sunday. Viktoria Marinova, an investigative journalist, had been killed in Ruse, Bulgaria, a city in the northeast corner of this country. The Danube, on its epic flow, runs through Ruse. Bulgaria is on the river’s southern bank; Romania is to the north. Marinova’s death had been brutal, and the hypotheses swirled....
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A tourist descending the Kaibab Plateau toward Marble Canyon on Sept. 22 could have been forgiven for thinking there was a rock concert taking place somewhere down in the House Rock Valley, or maybe some sort of Colorado Plateau Burning Man knock-off, for the line of cars raising dust along the Wire Pass road was of a magnitude that had rarely, if ever,...
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The season of The Great Pumpkin is upon us—I hope you have figured out where the most sincere pumpkin patch is in our region. It’s also the season where spirited discussions happen about the pervasiveness of pumpkin pie spice and all things pumpkin-flavored. Every year, I think I will lose a friend or two over how it is too early for pumpkin-flavored...
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While he drove me and my brother to school, my father listened to traffic reports. The newscasters spoke so fast their words smeared together and I always heard, “Inbound on the outbound Kennedy you’re looking at an hour five,” causing me, from an early age, to believe (somewhat correctly) that navigating the Chicago expressway system was one of life’s...
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Dear Ms Dyssegaard, My agent, Malaga Baldi, has informed me that you are interested in my novel and its author. I am forty-eight years old, a published writer working under the pseudonym Hereafter Brown. I have never worked under a pseudonym before but the publishing climate of 2001 is different than when I began to write. As the emphasis now is on new...
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It is a fascinating fact, albeit one that perhaps leans in the direction of TMI, that the manna from heaven which the Israelites relied upon for sustenance in their flight from Egypt was, according to some entomologists, the sweet gathered secretions of a scale insect that congregates in large numbers on tamarisk trees in the Middle East. It’s similar to...
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In August I sold my car Thor to a friend’s daughter who lives in Salem, Oregon. I offered to drive Thor to her doorstep, envisioning a nostalgic road trip punctuated with serendipity and fertile solitude. I had begun my cross-country drive-a-thon earlier in the summer when I flew into Miami Beach, where I had deposited Thor before returning to the...
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The women in my family were sailors, the men fly fishermen. From fathers and grandfathers we learned the dubious art of exaggeration—“It was this long! No kidding! A shame it got away!”—useful for future con men and writers. From the women we learned the practical skills of navigation, patience and how to predict the weather. We learned to plot a course,...
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Tap, tap, tap. I was in a dream somewhere, trying to catch a bus or somehow navigate my way through a strange city. What language did they speak here? And who was that strange guy in the black outfit, tapping me on the shoulder as if he wanted to get my attention? He faded as I turned. I wanted back in so that I could ask a question, but the fabric of my...
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In our fridge, the shelves lining the door are colonized by condiments. Shelf after shelf of condiments. The condiments jostle for limited real estate, obscure their labels behind the plastic railings that corral them into place and rattle a glass-on-glass chorus when the door is opened. Sound familiar? The rest of the fridge holds food from 2018. But the...
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Dear Flagstaff, I am sorry. Truly, madly, deeply sorry. If you’ve noticed an increase in mosquitoes this summer, I have to take the blame. If you’ve been ambushed by a swarm, if you’ve slapped more than the usual seasonal dose, if you’ve returned home from a walk in the forest with what looks like a constellation chart of bug bites on your arms and legs,...
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You could say I settled into Flagstaff for good a decade and a half ago, when we bought our house. It was a beat-up old place. “Lots of potential here,” the sellers told us. They were right. Some was readily apparent—scuffed wood floors, southern light, a sizable yard with an outdoor fireplace. Some of it we wouldn’t see for a long time—yes, you actually...
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The house has good bones. The morning light falls on walls and sills and floorboards, and on the old kitchen stove. Here is the kitchen table where I used to write. There’s the painted chair my friend Malaga rescued from the corner of Broadway and 92nd Street. For 200 years the house has occupied this overgrown hollow. This used to be my home on Cape Cod...
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There was a forest between my grandmother’s house and the cliffs that rose from the sea. Spruce and balsam in equal share, white pine, red pine and a collection of towering hardwoods—single masts of maple and oak sailing along in an ocean of evergreens. For my purposes I needed the firs, the balsam. I’d take myself to the place where they were dominant and...
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It’s always the edges that are most interesting, the half-shadowed interface that’s not quite field and not quite forest, the crust where the dough crisps and takes on its own new texture, the border area where people mix two otherwise separate languages and cultures and foods. Just as sunrise and sunset are the most beautiful times of day, I like to think...
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It was late afternoon earlier this week, day eight of my road trip from the tip of Florida up the East Coast to Vermont. It was time for coffee to fuel the next 200 miles I needed to bank to reach my final destination. I pulled off Interstate 88 in verdant, undulating eastern New York. Two women sitting on a stoop directed me to the town’s only coffee...
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In the late 1950s, while American families blew up in size and the seeds of the turbulent ‘60s sprouted and began to grow, my parents went through what I call their Mini-Mammalian Period, a microcosmic span of time reminiscent of the mid-Jurassic. It was characterized by an unbridled proliferation of undersized pets, beginning with the patriarch Templeton....
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An egg is perfect: The flawless curve of its nacreous horizon, the shimmering gloss, so like the Earth’s atmosphere seen in photos from space, of a rounded surface that never ends but is always beginning. An egg holds all the makings for life without any of the messiness to come: The blood, the hunger, the scraggly and wet down feathers of the newborn...
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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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This summer I went swimming, this summer I might have drowned, But I held my breath and I kicked my feet and I moved my arms around. This summer I swam in the ocean and I swam in a swimming pool Salt my wounds, chlorine my eyes, I’m a self-destructive fool. ~ “The Swimming Song” by Loudon Wainwright III When I was in my early 20s, I was a recent...
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The first camera I owned was a pinhole camera. I made it myself at summer camp in New Jersey. It was 1963, the year of a July solar eclipse, and the good people of Camp Red Ram came up with a plan to keep us from looking directly at the sun. We’d spent many days making keychain lanyards and plaster casts of raccoon prints. We learned how to sew our own pup...
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Almost as regularly as cold fronts the driftwood used to come in to the beach. It was a wild mix of shapes and sizes, from sticks to logs and everything in between. Much of it was waterlogged, so heavy that as it bobbed in the frigid lake water you could scarcely spot it. But if it washed ashore on a day of waves, and if it didn’t get buried too firmly in...
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A little more than 10 years ago, Michael Wolcott was writing a weekly column for Flagstaff Live!, but he needed a break and floated an idea to Tony Norris: “I…would like to generate a column that uses each of our voices….Our voices are representative, I think, of a certain cast of characters who’ve chosen to live on this great ocean of...
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Those who wish to sing always find a song. ~ Swedish proverb When I was in fourth grade, we got a new teacher at our Catholic school: Dr. Leone. She had tight, permed curls and a gruff voice. In the beginning I was a little afraid of her. We all were. She wasn’t mean to us, but her voice made her sound mad all the time, even when she wasn’t. I had...
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With a well-intended but somewhat unorthodox show of manners, I once picked up a roadkilled pheasant to bring to a friend who invited me to dinner. The bird was still warm. It had a broken wing but no visible trauma to the meaty body. It had clearly been hit by a passing vehicle only moments before. I was headed for the hills, the Knobs of Kentucky, on a...
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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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During the year in which I turned 21 I lived in Germany, in Munich. Ostensibly I was taking classes at the university but in reality this was a pretty light load and so I spent as much time as I could walking the streets, marveling at how different it all was than the Suburbia Americana I knew from home. Here was the filigreed city hall, with a...
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After seven years of being conscripted into Catholic school and wearing a uniform every day, I was thrilled when I deserted to public school because I could choose what I wore to school. But no pants. Though it was the 1970s, pants on females were still considered radioactive and radical. Pants were part of the school’s no-fly, dress code zone along...
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As I entered the bosque of adolescence, I was lucky. I had my particular bible. It was a thin book with brown and brittle pages that had not held up well to use and age. On the cover was Perseus, winged sandals on his feet, a thick sword in his right hand and in his left the head of Medusa, her scalp dripping with snakes. The book was called, simply,...
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The story begins with a wolf standing by the side of the road. This isn’t the story you might think. There’s no helpless girl, no feckless pigs, no trickery. What there is, is hunger. Hunger for food, as always, and a hunger to roam. The woods are broad. Even though they are cross-stitched with fences and pocked with houses that must be avoided they extend...
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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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The first time I passed through a metal detector, I was walking into a high school to attend my first day of class in Sao Paulo, Brazil. I was 16 and an exchange student. It was my first solo experience abroad, and Sao Paulo was an eye-opening warren of skyscrapers, frenetic traffic and the kind of big city-ness I had only seen before on television. The...
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About 2,500 years ago a man was seen walking the byways of India, a bowl in his hands. He was bald-headed and simply clad. His clothing covered him but did not speak of preference or fashion. He was variously barefoot or shod, depending on who he had met in his peregrinations and whether or not they themselves needed shoes. If the need was there, they...
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We were away when the shooting happened. We were perhaps listening to Annette McGivney read from her fine new book about a murder in Havasu Canyon, Pure Land or hearing Four Cornered Room play sweet melodies or watching a funny feminist-liberation scene from the Flagstaff Shakespeare Festival’s production of The Merry Wives of Windsor. It was lively at the...
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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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A month ago, I made a pilgrimage to Weeki Wachee, Florida, a dot of a city on the marshy Gulf side of the state at about the same latitude as Orlando. Weeki Wachee is little more than one square mile, has a population of 12 and is all about cold water. I went there to watch mermaid auditions. Weeki Wachee means little spring in the language of the Seminole...
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For many years I lived in a very small town at the tip of Cape Cod, Mass. Cape Cod is shaped like a Turkish slipper or an elf’s shoe, and where the slipper finishes its curl, or where a bell might hang from an elf’s shoe, is a town called Provincetown. It’s a town of artists and writers, poets and actors, gay men and women, teachers and plumbers and bakers...
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Time was when a bunch of trees waving their branches overhead was enough. I’d lie on my back, on the lawn, and watch the clouds catch in and release from their branches. That was enough to pass a summer afternoon. The trees, in my case, were Midwestern oaks, ashes, maples, but that didn’t really matter; it was a timeless occupation, a fullness that...
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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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In early December last year, my friend Dan and I met in Amsterdam for a brief winter vacation. It was sunny, hat-and-gloves weather when we arrived. During the next few days, temperatures dropped and slushy snow fell with what felt like malicious zeal. The Dutch are stalwart bicycle riders, pedaling sturdy, black bikes that are the style equivalent of...
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On this day, one year ago, I was on my way to spend the winter at a Zen Buddhist monastery in California. I have done this for many years. It is a recurring three months of my life that I spend in relative silence and contemplation, and although it is difficult and different and I have never tried to describe it as “an experience,” there is a great beauty...
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I have taken my three pots of geraniums, my small Boojum tree and a willing gnome to visit with a St. Francis statue in a Tucson home that has a courtyard where a fountain gurgles and a black bird, a Phainopepla with a punk hairdo, dips his beak to drink each warm day. Arugula and lettuce still put out flavorful green no matter how much I pick to have with...
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I was living in Miami Beach when I turned 36. For my birthday, my friends pooled their money and gave me a fish. I named the fish Omar. Omar is an arcing, six-foot long Atlantic sailfish, a showy and regal sea creature adorned with a dorsal fin that stands like a starched cape along the length of its body. The bill is an elongated sword spackled with what...
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When I was 11 or 12, I developed rituals around perfection in order to enshrine it. A certain chaos ruled my house—five kids, two parents, several dogs, cats, rodents, even a skunk and a raccoon at one point. My siblings were born loud and messy, and I was not. I was born tidy and reflective. I developed ways of preserving a comfortable space around me by...
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This much is true: it was another year when the world was going to hell. 1939. Over in Europe, the Nazis were buzzing like a nest of stirred-up hornets soon to boil over their neighbors. In the Pacific, the Japanese were off on their own adventures in conquest. But in Flagstaff, J.A. Bostwick was rendering a peaceful landscape. I don’t have the full...
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Solitudinarian is a word. It is entry number 922.5 in my Roget’s International Thesaurus, Third Edition, a word grouped with recluse, hermit and, get this, “closet cynic.” Well there is nothing like the fall and winter parade of holidays to bring out the closet cynic in me, old solitudinarian that I am. When you elect me president my first...
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It was dark outside but warm—always warm and humid—when the truck dropped off the newspapers strung into bundles too heavy for me to lift. They thudded onto our front porch, divided into two or three stacks: the main section and the special sections to be tucked inside before we folded the paper into thirds and cinched each midsection with a rubber band....
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In New York City where I grew up, we were all veterans of the Cold War. Even the youngest kids, before they could read, knew what the words Fallout Shelter looked like. And the sirens that ushered us off the streets to practice taking cover, we knew what they meant. We couldn’t articulate the end of the world, or the end of our world, the end of us, so...
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In our family, spoons have come handed down through earth and air. The first is easier to explain, as I’m sure the cupboards or other reliquaries of many have been enriched by the addition of silverware from long-dead grandmothers and great-aunts. As have ours. But we have also literally unearthed a few. Every year there is occasion to dig in our rocky Old...
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“Oh gross!” I say aloud to pine tree and cabin, bright day and sky. “No, no, no,” I add, startling butterflies and quail. “Say it isn’t so!” A ripped-open long envelope from my twin sister Joyce flutters off the porch into the dry yellow grass. Usually mail from Connecticut brings me cartoons she knows will make me chortle or a photo from the...
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This is not a technophobe’s lament. This is not an anti-smartphone screed. This is an ode to the untethered glories of my July road trip without a screen, a signal or a network. The passenger manifest: me, my 12-year-old niece Eva, my beastly driving machine Thor, and all the gear and brio needed for six nights of camping in southern Utah. Her parents—my...
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This is what you should know about me: I own a gun. It’s a honey-colored 20-gauge shotgun. The metal barrel smells like cold fire, and the gun has a heft to it that I’ve never grown into. It was a gift to me from my mother when I turned 18. The stock was too long for me then because I was expected to lengthen out. Whenever I shot my gun I’d have to do a...
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Danielle Stephens can vividly recall the bomb’s early light, the brilliant early-morning flash seen on horseback from ranch country up in the Aquarius Mountains. Everyone knew it was coming. The bomb tests were always announced in advance and planned for days when the wind was blowing eastrather than west toward populous California. Sometimes the tests...
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Recently a friend and I gave in to the urge to walk to a place with pictographs. Even with the directions to Picture Canyon Natural and Cultural Preserve in hand, it felt strange to skirt a mall and water treatment plant to get to a waterfall, but we found the parking, leashed her dog and happily headed out on a trail new to us. We strolled and peered at...
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It wasn’t my mother; my mother doesn’t watch soap operas. Maybe it was the woman who came over to iron and babysit some afternoons or the mother of one of my friends. The soap opera was “Days of Our Lives.” Even though it was about pretty grownups in shiny clothes doing mean things to each other, it wasn’t the show that mesmerized me; it was the opening. A...
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It’s first thing on a Monday morning and I’m sitting in my folding chair pew at the Church of Mary. There are about 25 of us circled around singer songwriter Mary Gauthier under a tent canopy on the grassy lawn at Planet Bluegrass. The festival stage is nearby, and just beyond, the St. Vrain River flows fresh from the Rocky Mountains. Part preacher, part...
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The day before the eclipse, the Middle Fork Cafe in Lander, Wyo., was bustling at lunchtime, the usual crowd of Sunday locals and Yellowstone-bound tourists vastly swelled by twosomes and families of eclipse chasers. They were on their way somewhere else: Lander was right on the edge of totality. If you’d already traveled hours or days to get there,...
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On my way to watch the eclipse of the century, I didn’t fuss about a reservation or add miles to the odometer of my old truck. Instead, for four mornings in a row, I worked on my whole-body tan and read a book. I did consider joining the crowd wearing the funny glasses on Mars Hill. (Don’t those glasses make people look like they are in a scene from a...
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My 17-year-old nephew, Will, is the eldest of my Vermont sister’s six children—her first teenager. She has been expressing concern about his regular retreats to the Internet and his lack of plans for after high school. I remember this time in my own young life. I felt bound by the smallness of rural Vermont. I wanted badly to be free but the future...
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After I savor my morning cup of coffee, I walk the two-mile loop in Buffalo Park as my way of coming into the day. Morning Edition pipes into my skull, the mountains embolden and soothe with their nearness, and well-being coats my central nervous system. About a month ago, I was midway through my second lap in the park when I saw a man and woman stopped...
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There wasn’t much selection among the postcards, and I picked a standard canyon scene, the rock walls and sloping scree slopes careening up high over the river and somehow all squeezed inadequately onto a four-by-six rectangle obviously far too small for the grandeur of the canyon but bigger than a standard postcard so that you had to fill up more space...
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When I told an old friend that the sale of my Maine house was closing 100 years and two days after the July moment when my grandfather signed a deed in 1917, he said, “How Finns flip houses.” I laughed and felt a fluttering of scenes from family history parade across my inner eye, like a small flip book making a jerky movie of the Finns landing in...
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I returned to South Florida last week for a family gathering. Humidity textured the air, temperatures edged into the low 90s, and thunderstorms rumbled each afternoon, shaking mangoes off trees and creating steamy, spectral patches that rose from the baked asphalt. Under an overcast sky and a warm, weak rain, I rode my bicycle home from a friend’s house...
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There is nothing like the love of a good dog. Like so many things in life, you don’t realize what you have until it’s gone. A year ago I lost my 9-year-old English Labrador, Charlie. She passed suddenly (in a matter of hours) when a mass ruptured internally. Charlie was a Seeing Eye dog school dropout. Although she was exceptionally smart, she had some...
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I was at about 11,000 feet when the last of the sunlight vanished. That’s where the trail grows steep and the trees begin to give out, the bristlecone pines and subalpine firs increasingly stunted and wind-sculpted. That’s also the elevation where I always feel the thinning atmosphere, and have to stop more often to pant. But from here there was no...
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I’m on the Metro in Washington, D.C., in a crush of pink-hatted (mostly) women, many carrying protest signs. We are really doing this. We are feeling our power, many of us for the first time. It is an extraordinary thing to witness and be part of. Successive subway platforms are jammed with more people in pink hats. There seems to be enough space on our...
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Here’s almost everything I know about trains. Trains are great generators of white noise. This is good if white noise helps you sleep. Trains and the people inside them also generate plenty of the other kind of noise. Is black noise the opposite of white noise? You’re never quite still riding a train. That makes it nearly impossible to write legibly on the...
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Last Thursday as two friends and I loaded the truck for our road trip to a music festival, we paused in front of 60 red roses corralled in a bucket on my friend’s kitchen counter. “What should I do with these?” she asked. Her 60th birthday had been the day before; the long stems were a gift from her husband. The blooms were open, showing off their...
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Farmers market season is in full swing, and if you are like me, this is the highlight of your week—a chance to socialize with the community and interact with farmers, sampling the array of what can be grown in our region, booth by booth. Last year I worked at Whipstone Farm’s market stand in Prescott and Flagstaff. The hours flew by while ringing up...
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I never thought speaking German would come in handy in the Southwest. Wouldn’t learning Spanish have been more useful? But I’d been in Arizona only a couple of years when I found out about an intriguing job: drive vanloads of German-speaking tourists around the Southwest, guiding them on hikes in the national parks. I signed on at once. It was far better...
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“I am a member of the Bitter Water Clan, born for the Salt, Many Goats, my maternal grandfather and Tsi’najinni’, my paternal grandfather.” This is how we begin a conversation. Soon the canyon walls will be echoing the sounds of revelry as we commence the ninth annual Shonto Rock the Canyon event in the canyon of my Arizona community of Shonto. This will...
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The Boss, Chuck, Jeff, Chris and I sat in the shade of pine trees with lunches at our knees. A couple of the fellows enjoyed wife-wrapped leftover chicken and Tupperware squares of salad from home gardens. Jeff the Vegetarian smelled like garlic but not because of his lunch. He wore cloves around his neck to prevent something, I forget what; perhaps he...
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In the first mile I saw what I needed so I went no further that day. That is to say, though the topo map and my memory presented me with a 4.7-mile trail to the highest point in Arizona, within the first mile flower color slowed me down again and again. Purple and yellow caused me to bend over and finally stop altogether, take my hat and pack off, and...
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It was the Thursday before Easter. I faced 23 university students clustered around a conference table. We were just past the halfway mark of our course called Writing for the Ear. Today we are going on a soundwalk, I said. No talking, no texting. Remain silent and amble behind me at a comfortable pace. Try to take in the world through sound. Turn down your...
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Spring is the most intoxicating season, even more so in the company of fruit trees. I descend the switchbacks of Oak Creek Canyon in the morning quiet before the tourist cars crowd the road. They are still waking up at their campgrounds, the smoke from their fires signaling a vacation day ahead with coffee and bacon. I stop at Sterling Spring and fill my...
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You know it when you see it. There it is, gathering again on the bookshelves and under the bed. It crunches between your teeth on windy days. You feel it underfoot while walking to the patio; wipe it off the windowsill with a moistened rag; scrawl “Wash Me” on the back of a delivery truck that’s been down a rural road. Everyone knows it....
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I dreamt again of a young boy cradled in the wings of angels, while ancestors moved gently into the light. In my recent ceremony of sound healing, I saw the boy again in my trance. It was a beautiful moment, a healing moment. As I went deeper into calmness, I heard the hum of the universe. It is this boy I traveled with in many dreams. Three-and-half years...
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I looked through three closets, two trunks and assorted boxes; I found love letters I’d forgotten and folders to support taxes filed in the ’70s. I found my first bolo tie and the softball glove that caught stinging line drives in 7th grade. I came back to the search the next day and thought of a plastic bin stored in a crawl space and after a tricky reach...
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It was a fall night. A friend was helping to present an acoustic music concert at the Unitarian church in Doney Park. She was stationed in the lobby, selling tickets. I didn’t know anyone else there, so I sat by myself until a man edged into the seat beside mine. A woman was behind him. They held hands. As soon as he settled into his chair, he turned...
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Editor’s note: This column originally ran in the Nov. 18, 2010 issue of Flag Live. I confess, the natural disasters Flagstaff has experienced in the last year have honed my survival instincts. With Nov. 2 looming on the horizon I interpreted the low tea-colored clouds as an impending landslide of poor judgment and I headed toward the Mexican border before...
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Cancer. The word spoken aloud can pierce your heart with fear. It’s not possible to live without being touched directly by this disease or watching helplessly as it affects someone you love. My dear friend Kristin, a botanist, river guide, herbalist, healer and Hopi language activist, has been struggling with breast cancer since she was diagnosed five...
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Mr. Philyaw was the cool English teacher, the one with the shoulder-length mane of wavy silver hair, the one the girls talked about, the one who could teach Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance with some authority because he rode a motorcycle himself, as was readily evident on early spring days when you’d see him strolling the halls in...
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Oh sure, tell me there is a time for every season, what goes up must come down, what swings left will swing right, but echoes of homilies don’t make a dent in the flushed swirl of sleeplessness I feel at 3 a.m. Too often inside the long hours of a winter night I blink at the dark, staring down shapes I can’t see, dark forms I can’t name. But not this...
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Recently, I did a school visit with Ms. Julia’s second grade class in Cornville. As with most school visits, it was a treat and inspiring to see them. I drove through Oak Creek Canyon, through Sedona, and down into the expansive Verde Valley. Along the way, I pulled off the road a couple times to sit atop my camper shell and draw the beauty of the space....
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It was in the evening a few Mondays ago, and the city center was empty as I walked home from the university. I rounded the corner onto a side street. About half-a-dozen kids huddled in front of a shuttered storefront just outside of the cone of light the streetlamp cast. We were the only people around. From their height I pegged them at about...
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“Jan 4th snowing Today and Cold. 3 days work with team.” I have been reading my grandfather Henry New Year’s pocket calendar. It is about 4 inches by 6 inches and bound in red cloth. The cover reads Physician’s Memorandum for 1906, but grandpa’s entries span the following 20 years. The book is filled with testimonials for Gudes Pepto-Mangan, a patent...
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It was two years ago that I left my job at Grand Canyon Trust and my home in Flagstaff to learn how to be an organic farmer in Santa Cruz, Calif. I spent my last month at the Trust’s Kane Ranch headquarters, a central part of the geography of my heart. This cowboy outpost cobbled from limestone in the 1870s is nestled at the foot of the Kaibab Plateau...
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It was a good thing I didn’t grow up in Arizona. I was too much of a pyromaniac for that. I well remember a time when I was in fourth or fifth grade and playing with the slightly wild kids who lived across the street. Jonathan and Danny: their house was a mess, and they didn’t have an established dinnertime like we did. I envied them no end. They ran...
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I was just standing on the edge of the stopped again by deer tracks. I like to stand with my feet on deer tracks. Don’t ask me why. Don’t know why. Not a habit, or compulsion, I’m sure. But there I was, out to get air between waves of weather, and I can’t not pause with my new Merrells to stand on sharp, heart-shaped prints in damp ground. Do my toes hear...
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At the back of the head between shoulders and skull there is a stalk of tender plant; it is the rise of spine sturdy enough to hold the sunflower-like head of a body and bendable like a flower twisting toward healing sun. That few inches of neck one can’t see without a mirror, that place with the hairs that stand up with fear, that few inches of neck I...
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I caught an episode of The Twilight Zone last night. A grade school-aged sister and brother sit beside a pool with wet hair. Towels drape their bony shoulders. The father looks dressed for work; the mom looks as if she is off to the country club for mahjong and Mai Tais. The parents glare at one another and give the children the news: We don’t like each...
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Solstice morning breaks clear but for a few thin grey clouds on the eastern rim. They are stippled with a warm rosy light. The crisp air smells of snow to come and frosted sage. The patchwork of honey-colored grama grass, tufts of fuzzy-topped rabbit brush and small continents of wet-black cinders flare brightly in the first Jesus rays streaming across the...
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The darkening days of December are a struggle for me. I should be sleeping but the process of turning inward keeps me up all night by the fire, reading and dreaming and scheming. This is the time of year to plan the next farm season. For a novice, landless, itinerant farmer this means a great deal of uncertainty and unrest. On a recent long night, I...
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When I was a boy haircuts were tears compensated with lollipops, a reward that seemed adequate only afterward when the whole ordeal was done for another couple of months. I can’t say I’ve changed that much. But like many things first approached with a bit of trepidation, haircuts have provided me with some of the most memorable of moments. Maybe it’s the...
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This is part two, continued from last week’s issue of Flagstaff Live.… The wind blew all through the cold night. The protective covering I rigged over our shared tent flapped frozen against the outside. I was too tired to even be bothered by it at all. I laid there hoping I didn’t have to go empty my bladder soon. Fortunately, the sleeping bag was...
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I went up to Standing Rock Reservation in Cannonball, N.D., to join in the alliance of Water Protectors, one more among thousands. We gathered here to protect the Missouri River from the Army Corps of Engineers, putting water in jeopardy for all downriver. The Dakota Access Pipeline is the “monster” whom we are here to defeat in peace. To speak for the...
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Football game white noise from the wood-paneled den. The curling perfume of dinner rolls in the oven. Dad wears an apron and wields the electric carving knife over a golden hump of overcooked turkey. Again we gather at the big family table for Thanksgiving. We are seven Kellys and a shaggy assortment of strays—South American exchange students, a foster...
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I have been a performing musician for almost 50 years. I have enjoyed the variety of events I’ve played for; from river trips through the Grand Canyon to bat mitzvas, to groups of partying investment bankers, to wide-eyed kindergarteners. When I answered the ringing phone I didn’t recognize the name of the caller. “I’ve heard you do programs at the senior...
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This year, in Flagstaff, we were fortunate to enjoy a long, lingering autumn. I drank in the last warm days surrounded by the ripeness of the world, just as it is at its peak, before yielding to the natural cycle of rest. I relished the shock of gilded leaves falling to the ground and the pungent perfume of summer decomposing into the earth, appreciating...
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I’ve always had a thing about mud, which is to say, about in-between places. As a boy roaming the Lake Michigan beaches there was nothing better than climbing the “clay hills,” an eroding bluff whose bare gray face was constantly calving off in sharp-edged chunks during the summer, or oozing slowly downhill during the wet of winter. That mud...
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“Gently, gently into the trees,” murmurs a small voice on the window sill. “Morning light tickles all of the leaves.” Bear is singing to the dawn as I wake from a dream of a trail in the Grand Canyon, an old friend smiling by a wooden post with mileage on it, my feeling sense of one decade pleasantly knitting to the next. Then I think, the day must be...
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For days, Old Lady Smallcanyon complained of weakness. She had seen 84 winters without an illness. She had walked miles after her flock of sheep. She said her body ached and vision blurred. Medicine men were called upon and they came and went. “She has Lightning illness,” one proclaimed. Another diagnosed a Skinwalker witch infection. Finally, it was...
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That’s Feri in the photo. He lives in Romania. He is the son of a friend of a friend, and I think he is 8. Maybe 9? Whatever the number, he is a lanky boy child, gooey with curiosity and miles away from the swampland of adolescence. I met Feri a few weeks ago. I had gone to Romania to visit my friend, who was launching her first book. When Feri heard me...
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“Will the circle be unbroken/By and by, Lord, by and by/There’s a better home awaiting/In the sky Lord, in the sky.” — Lyrics from “Will the Circle Be Unbroken”, as performed by Johnny Cash Dark, rain-laden clouds boil up from the southeast horizon and roll overhead. The air is scented with pine and sage. Autumn temperatures have staked their claim...
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If you’ve ever started over in a later stage of life, you may relate to the challenge and frustration of humbling yourself to the daunting task of learning something entirely new. When I decided to delve into the occupation of farming in my 40s, I encountered the walls I had constructed in my own mind around learning. Because I worked in the field of...
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The artist Shawn Skabelund was in Ashurst Hall on a recent Saturday afternoon, surveying what has surely never been seen before in the oldest building on the Northern Arizona University campus: a dwarf forest of charred logs ranging from head-high to stubs no taller than a monsoon mushroom. There were many hundreds of them, perhaps a few thousand—Skabelund...
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“To eat lambs quarters,” murmurs one friend to another, “pick them when they’re small then add them to your omelet. They are little triangular leaves of surprise.” Surprise like unexpected syllables wafting between tables on a Friday morning. The piquant flavors of overlapping conversations at the coffeehouse can add zest to sipping and nibbling of latté,...
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Like drunkards we are, we staggered along in the rain-soaked clay. The rain continued steadily on, mocking our slow progress toward our goal: the teacher’s housing project in the distance. Alcohol and rain haze made it difficult to judge space and time. We slipped simultaneously and fell side-by-side in the mud; this was the fifth or sixth time. We...
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A few weeks ago, I continued the nostalgia tour of my South Florida childhood with my cousin Kathleen. Kathleen is a few years older than I and lives near the small, suburban island where we both grew up. After plundering our former neighborhood, Kathleen and I knocked on the door of the lakefront, two-story house where our grandparents used to live. No...
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My granddaughter came downstairs the other night long after the rest of the household had settled in for the evening. I was communing with my laptop. She works a couple of jobs and attends college. I’m awfully proud of her. “Grandpa, I need your help,” she said. “How do you address a letter?” I was startled. Don’t they teach that in school anymore? What...
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I left Flagstaff last year on a windy spring day in April. I was going to be an apprentice at the University of California Santa Cruz Farm and Garden to learn how to be an organic farmer. As I drove west on I-40 my heart was swelling with emotion. This dream was planted 15 years ago and now I was on my way. But I was also leaving everything I knew and...
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The red cabbages in the garden are fattening up nicely with the monsoon rains—knock on wood, right now!—which pleases me because as someone who grew up in a household of German background, I look forward to stewing them up with some apples and red wine and vinegar, and some cloves or a bay leaf depending upon mood, to create a nice big pot of what they...
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Of course it dates me to describe a time and place where a cold draft of a tame American beer was the answer to the summer end of day craving of a GS 3 firefighter in a mountain town. But it was the early ’80s and we liked our tall Buds in brown bottles and cold cans of Olympia. Heineken was as close as we got to differently brewed. There weren’t the 50 or...
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In the Diné world, this is the season of ceremonies, the time when the clans come together to heal collectively through summer N’daa ceremonies. N’daa, also called Enemy Way Ceremonies, is performed exclusively in the warmer seasons. Their announcement marks the first moaning of early summer thunder and the first lightning to the very first chill of fall....
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When my nephew Lucas was in fourth grade, he gave me a mobile he’d made for his Earth science class identifying common clouds. Yarn tethered four napkin-sized squares of light blue construction paper to a clothes hanger. On each square, cotton balls had been tortured into puffy or stringy shapes and affixed with generous dollops of glue. His wiggly...
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This week, a legacy essay from Tony Norris. A few yards from my front door stands my favorite tree to pee under. It has ever been so. I imagine a delta rich in potash and nitrogen beneath the pine needles feeding the coyote gourd that twists and spreads downhill in a luxuriant profusion. From this sheltered vantage point I’ve surveyed many a...
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Four years ago I spent a long weekend in a Reno conference room as one of five panelists charged with evaluating grant applications for the Nevada Arts Council. Dan was a fellow panelist and jazz pianist. He and I sparked when we heard ourselves voicing similar language to publicly register our thoughts about the applicants. After tedious days of haggling...
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Sometimes a rock is just a rock. And sometimes it’s something more. I had the occasion to experience a lot of rocks last week, in Labyrinth Canyon on the Green River in Utah. It was a hot and buggy time for a river trip, but our small party was driven by vacation schedules and buoyed by ignorance: of the five of us, only I had been there...
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“Jean. Jean! I found one!” “Wait a minute, Vennie. There’s a bar whispering to me.” Last fall my friend Vennie came down from Albuquerque to meet me in Lincoln County, N.M., as I drove across the country. She’d read about the Little Free Libraries in Carrizozo. These are more than a dozen decorated 36 inch long by 36 inch wide by 36 inch tall boxes around...
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I go home often, out into the heart of the Diné country, out to the Shonto area to be specific. This is the land that carved features in my character. This land that gave to me lessons on life and how one should speak with her. Recently, I took my love to meet her as well. It is an amazing thing to experience the newness of this land through...
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Every once in a while there is a day in your life that you never want to forget. I’m thinking of one of a day in Yellowstone National Park a few winters ago that reminded me why I am committed to conservation work. I was at a leadership retreat in Montana with a group of people working for conservation organizations. We had spent days inside...
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“The North thinks it knows how to make cornbread, but this is gross superstition.” — Mark Twain My editor recently observed that I hadn’t written about corn in a while. He recognizes I’m obsessed with that commonest of vegetables. As the buffalo was to the Sioux prairie dwellers, so corn was to my ancestral culture. My forefathers hacked clearings in the...
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Presently, I am obsessed with tractors. I feel the longing to drive one like a teenager who is counting the days to a driver’s license. When I was a kid we moved dirt and made fortresses with our Tonka trucks. Big machinery has always meant power, freedom from the drudgery of hand tools, and entry into another dimension of scale. Tractor time also brings...
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It is the daily pileup, delivered by someone I never see but sometimes hear when I am awake early, a light thump! that is as good an indicator as anything going on in the sky that dawn is about to come. There it is, the daily paper, and I know I will sound like an old fart here when I write that it is how I prefer to get the day’s news even though once in...
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The driveway to the front door of the cabin where I live is a steep 50-yard lunge off a dirt road. Much of the year I goose my old truck up it without incident, but sometimes the travel of the gravel results in wavelike potholes that require a head start to gun through. Last week with gritted teeth I clutched the steering wheel of my old truck and felt the...
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I will be attending a wedding soon back East as a guest—something I know a few things about. It is always a journey of hope, promises and pitfalls. Rather than dwelling on the latter, let me just say that I am honored to be among the throngs of well-wishers and metaphorical breezes that launch this ship of dreams. I have attended many weddings out here in...
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I motored westward on I-40 toward Death Valley. My car, Thor, was loaded with gear, a funk CD compiled by DJ Don Durango, and directions to a top-secret campsite with views reputed to induce something akin to Nirvana. I was little more than an hour into my getaway when I nosed up behind a swarm of RVs living large in both lanes, chugging away at top speeds...
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Two weeks ago when I visited my friend Tony Norris in the intensive care unit at Flagstaff Medical Center he was on life support. His large and loving family gathered around him shell-shocked while machines kept him alive, and I tried to imagine how I could help. In the intensive care unit you can’t even bring fresh flowers. Besides trying to sing him back...
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Letter by letter, word by word, a story expands from the smallest of kernels into something more, reminding me when the work is hard and grinding of that annoyingly perky gardening song: inch by inch, row by row, gonna make my garden grow. And it is springtime, the time of year when every element of life seems attuned to new purpose: through the window the...
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The woodstove that keeps heat in this cabin has changed into a sleeping bear. A match put to the teepee of crumpled newspaper and kindling offered an hour of warmth two mornings ago, and I approved. The flames were easily coaxed, miserly with woodpile leftovers, quickened by low humidity and higher temperatures. I went back to bed but then got up later to...
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I am nine years old. I am lying in our Hoghaan awake in the middle of the night. To my left and right my brothers and cousins are sleeping soundly beneath the blankets, dreaming dreams sheepskin bedding brings. I am awake to the full rhythmic snoring and occasional cough and sleep mumbles. I am trying to fall back asleep. My mind is full of terror and...
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I read Abbey’s quote last Wednesday morning. It was typed onto a sheet of white paper and posted on a bulletin board in the Mojave National Preserve. The taste of freedom and the smell of danger sound a little like the mantra of a Cold War spy, but Abbey’s words about wilderness become an anthem in the vast high desert of the Mojave, one of my treasured...
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Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me. Psalm 42:7 (King James Version) The fingernail beach that welcomes the Sea of Cortez into Cantu Cove is about a mile long. During the final days of the old year I stood in the center of its arc and looked seaward. I sometimes get the startling sensation...
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Toot—toooot goes the whistle every night, a clean repeat that after you’ve heard it a few times ever after has to be a pair, just like Romeo and Juliet, or peanut butter and jelly. The twin tones echo a few times off Cherry Hill and Mars Hill, fading into the background hum of the city just before the sound of the train itself comes into earshot. A minute...
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Memo to Mr. Zuckerberg: why isn’t there a Facebook emoji for, “I appreciate this delicate ripple passing through my heart?” Dear Shonto Begay, Peter Friederici, Darcy Falk, Laura Kelly and Tony Norris, I am cured of highway numbness when my smart phone tosses a two by three inch pebble of you into the blurry pond of my road fatigue. It is a long reach to...
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The Viola Awards celebration is just around the corner and the excitement in the arts community here in Flagstaff and beyond is almost tangible. The nominations are out; I am sure many fingers are crossed. I wish all the nominees much luck and that the eyes of the judging panels are kind, and not as divisive as the Academy Awards. I believe I...
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Once more my deeper life goes on with more strength, as if the banks through which it moves had widened out. — Ranier Maria Rilke You get the call. You have gotten the call. You will get the call. Mine came from one of my brothers a few weeks ago. Flat voice, naked, no artificial sweetener: “You need to get here, Laura. She is in the intensive care unit,...
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Texas 1960 My sister Kathy was trying her wings a little. She was dating a wild boy. Mama was concerned about her so she asked our elder brother Eldon to have a word. I was with Kathy in the park, an oak-shaded area near the well house where we spent summer hours. Eldon pulled up in his two-tone Desoto and took a moment to light a cigarette before he...
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Snow was as appealing to me as to any kid growing up in the Chicago suburbs. In those pre-Internet days we huddled eagerly around the radio, listening to the long list of school districts that had canceled classes. In memory, at least, ours closed down only rarely, but when it did, that was occasion for celebration. And then we’d have to go shovel the damn...
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In a mood for big city recently, I scooted down to Phoenix in my little truck and noted with pleasure the sparkle of the Agua Fria downhill from Sunset Point. I took the exit to Rock Springs not to have pie but to have a closer look and sure enough, curley cues of snow melt laced together rocks under the bridge. I paused an hour for a walk on the Black...
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As I peered past the hard rain against my windshield, I saw multiple shades of gray composing my new world in a wiggly abstract. The Sierra disappeared from my rearview mirror and was replaced by beacons of headlights urging me forth. Welcome to the Golden State for this dusty Rez boy. I was definitely in uncharted water and there was no turning back. The...
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I had dinner with a friend last week; she is about 20 years younger. We were next door neighbors a while back, and a friendship bloomed between us even though a generation separates us. She is radiant and thoughtful, and our friendship continues the way it began—unedited candor and shared problem solving about whatever our hearts grapple with. As we traded...
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The winter solstice is always significant to me. There is something powerful that happens when the Earth stands still. Darkness and light face each other as equals—the longest night and the shortest day. After the winter solstice there are only longer days to anticipate. I celebrate with friends, fire, food and poetry. On this long, dark night we...
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Usually I skip the nightly news. It’s not out of lack of interest, but because there are too many other things to do: work to catch up on, a kitchen to clean, lunch to prepare. Or it’s because it’s too cold out, or because once I do decide to pay attention the signs on grass and hard-packed dirt and sidewalk are simply too hard to catch, demanding too much...
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Because this year the full moon peaks in the wee hours of Christmas morning, I found myself imagining Santa straying in his rounds. I pictured him in a fit of lunacy landing on the top of the Weatherford Hotel to look for a pine cone, and then entranced by the vision of the big moon from the balcony of the Zane Grey, he wanders the streets seeking a gin...
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It has been many years since I broke through the beauty that is the rainbow that surrounds our Dineh’ homeland. I exited innocence of all that I knew and loved, which sustained me, but the hunger of new places, people and experiences is too powerful a drive to let pass. Each time I have embraced newness, it was not without some cultural shock. Much of what...
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Do you ever just have a moment where you fall to your knees thanking God and everyone else responsible for the creation of poems? In the short weeks of early October before my apprenticeship at the UCSC Farm and Garden ended, I was wandering the streets of downtown Santa Cruz slightly bereft, and came across a man sitting behind a vintage typewriter. This...
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Los Indios who live high in the Sierras of Mexico tell a story about a contest between deer and frog. When deer insisted his eyesight was the sharpest, frog suggested a test. The first to see the sun’s rays in the morning would be the winner. “And the wager?” asked the deer. “Twenty heel flies,” said the frog. The proud deer snorted agreement. In the...
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This week’s guest columnist is Peter Friederici. When I first moved to Arizona I vowed I would practice restraint. I won’t go there, I thought. Everyone does; it’s too easy, too obvious. Besides, there were any number of other canyons and peaks and desert vistas and high-mountain vales to explore, many of them spectacular, full of adventure, grand-ish. But...
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This week’s guest columnist is Molly Wood. It is a rainy Tuesday morning in Flagstaff. I sit on the dry side of a coffee shop’s large pane window and watch drops of water traverse the glass, eventually making their way to the ground and from there to the drains along the streets. I watch water collect in puddles and wonder if I am too old to jump in...
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As late summer’s warmth relents to the early chills of autumn, I am reminded of how these changes affected my observation from the threshold of my mother’s hearth and home. From a very young age, when I first learned of the cycle of seasons, I learned to gauge those stages in the changes of the Earth’s tone. Before and aside from the intrusion of U.S....
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Sunday morning. All Saints Day. I had spent the night at a friend’s house; a group of us were there tucked into a honeycomb of bedrooms. In the wake of the previous evening’s Halloween shenanigans, we all awoke slowly and shambled toward the kitchen to begin the sacred ritual of coffee making. We clutched our mugs and stood around the kitchen counter. In...
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Author’s note: “From a live performance, best if read aloud.” Better than 100 years ago Flagstaff, my rough and tumble frontier town, had more saloons than churches. There was a young woman named Maria. Maria was probably the best looking girl in northern Arizona and she knew it. She would talk to her abuelita, her little grandmother:...
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This week’s guest columnist is Peter Friederici. Even after a decade living here, there’s no way not to notice a train nearing, especially when the diesels are putting out the deep bass rumbling they need to pull 100 cars up the hill going west. The sound fills the backyard, drowning out the birds and the whine of cars and occasional sirens down on...
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When you drive an older white Toyota truck with Arizona plates in mid-coast Maine it’s not hard to bump into conversations here and there. You already look like an odd duck by having a white truck in a land of dark vehicles, and how strange, there’s no rust on your truck. “Maybe you want to sell that handy little truck?” asks the fellow in the pit changing...
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As the season changes in the waning year, I hear once again the voice of my elder as the story of the great legends of Creation is retold. When our animal family begin their slumber for the winter, it is deemed safe to settle around the hearth of the hogan to embark upon this journey, again. To the blazing wood fire of winter’s night, to the aroma of Navajo Tea and cedar smudging, we await on the first lines of our origin. “Aal,kiida’, Haaji’na’b’daa de’.”
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I didn’t recognize the incoming phone number when I took the call last week. It was a friend from college days. He and I have kept in touch over the years, but he lives in Florida, he’s not a big Facebook guy, and it’s been three years or so since we’ve seen one another or conversed.
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Almost 20 years ago Dr. Henry Poore sat across from me in the studio of KAFF Country 93.5 FM and allowed me to interview him about his early days in Flagstaff for the show Under Western Skies. He talked of waiting for a pack train of burros to cross Highway 89 on its way to restock a sheep camp on the peaks. He spoke of the Navajo families with horse-drawn wagons coming in from the reservation and camping in the town park for the big Pow Wows. Then he told a story about an old man living out his last days just a mile from where my home stood, who looked to the compassion of a dying country doctor to feed him through an old fashioned Flagstaff winter. Time stood still as a master storyteller held forth. Dr. Poore finished talking and I looked at the tape recorder to make sure it was rolling. It was not the first or the last time I had heard him relate an engaging tale, but I sensed there was something about this experience that was a landmark for him. I was hardly the first person to encourage him to write down his experiences to share with a wider audience and in 2006 Goose River Publishing released Lessons Remembered: Memoirs of an Audacious Country Doctor. Dr. Poore was generous enough to share this telling of “Two Men Named Charlie” from his book.
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Sometimes the best we can do is quote the smart, funny, insightful people we know. In the early 1980s, when Mike was in grad school working as a teaching assistant his roommate, Harry, who worked as a bartender at the Pinckney Street Hideaway in Madison, brought home jokes for Mike to tell his class. I wonder, when was the last time I had a truly...
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I tip back in a stout red wood chair to read mail at the lookout. When I leap up excited to write a reply to a good letter—BAM!—the feet crash with a metallic bang on the catwalk before I go inside to make the typewriter chatter with sentences. Beginning with Flo who sent a calligraphic meditation on the letter R until a couple of weeks ago...
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There are many mysteries I grew up with that remain a mystery. I welcome that. As in the new world I am thrust into, the mysteries of technologies and beliefs in guidance from different gods. I welcome that. I do not know how cell phones and computers work from such a small format. Halloween and Santa Claus: mysteries. I do not know much of what is in nature, such as what keeps millions of tons of moisture above our heads in these fantastic summer thunderheads. How nature works and all that maintains life has always been explained to me through the creation stories and through the voices, songs and the antics of animal kin. My forebears passed those on as tenets of living life as Dineh’.
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When my 21-year-old niece Carmen moved in with me six months ago, we visited the Humane Society one rainy Sunday to select a cat to bring into our petless lives. Before we got there, I decreed that the animal would be named Walter Cronkite, no matter the gender. Carmen was unfazed. She knew of my propensity for naming cats after broadcast...
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Stark white cumulonimbus clouds collide over the San Francisco Peaks and pile up like pins in the bowling alley. The crack of the lightning strike turns my head. For a moment the silver wire burns against the sky and then it dances behind my closed eyelids. The thunder rolls from beneath my feet and the black cinder hills toss it back to the towering...
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This week’s Letter from Home is brought to you by the color yellow: egg yolks from free-range chickens, aspen leaves in the fall, and sunflowers that bloom along roadsides in August in northern Arizona, in fields and yards all over town, playing against the clear blue sky and swaying when the wind comes up. And tiny goldfinches and pine siskins perching on...
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Dawn light overtakes the candle I’ve been writing by, sleepless. Sleepless with too many thoughts for one lifetime Sleepless with guessing at how friends fare far away Sleepless because my pillow nests by the Milky Way. Awake where stars witness meteors. Look. The Universe. Then the red smear of dawn rewards my attention. On the first walk to the...
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At the age of 15 I broke through the horizon of the familiar. From a remote sheep camp, with $5 in my pocket, I left home. I remember that day as I packed a few pieces of clothing and exited innocence. I offered a quick farewell to my family; leaving them thinking I was just going overnight at some distant relative’s place. A thick sheep camp...
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A few weeks ago I was staying the night at a friend’s house. It was well past dinnertime. Clean dishes nestled into the drying rack, and a spirited conversation had ebbed. My friend’s 6-year-old daughter held my hand as she guided me up the stairs to the guest room. I kissed her good night and told her I was going to sleep. “But where do you go?” she...
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I sat in the dim room with a group of early risers and watched my son’s performance. He had the first slot in the folk festival. On his knee rested a 1976 Gibson Heritage guitar. It had seen better days. Although it wasn’t visible to the audience, I knew there was the scar of a repaired crack where the peg head meets the neck. As my son worked his way...
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Eight weeks ago, I began what should have been a three-day project to empty my studio, clean and vacuum, spray for spiders (I know, but the studio’s been infested with black widow spiders, and I have a zero-tolerance policy on that score), then sort and replace the contents. I worked for the three days, and then realized it was a bigger project than I’d...
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“Actually,” I say, “I’ve been a fire lookout for 22 seasons because I like how I can sneeze as loud as I want and no one laughs at me.” The hiker on the catwalk isn’t sure what to make of this. Am I teasing? I peer through binoculars at the dust kicked up on the 776 Road and remain inscrutable. “Actually, what I most love about solo,” I tell the next pair...
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That late evening when the shadows blended thick I walked away from the festivity of lights and laughter into the night. I stepped beyond the perimeter of flashing lights and carnival barkers. Before me I see only the sweltering evening heat of the night. It held another population as I negotiated alleys. I walked deeper into the unlit city...
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I am 13 or 14. It’s a school night. Mom and I work in the kitchen, rattling plates into the dishwasher. My brothers and sister cluster in our wood-paneled family room watching Adam 12. Dad is away on business. I ask my mother about love: When does it come? How will I know? What was it like to fall in love? Mom answers matter-of-factly. Her tone suggests...
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Some of my ancestors on my Daddy’s side came out of Tennessee in the 1700s and for more than 50 years worked their way north across Kentucky to Illinois growing bloody butcher corn and Jacob’s beans in patches of rich soil they hacked from the endless forest. They ate game and hunted their own herds of half-wild pigs that ran free and fattened on...
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I was 7 or 8 when Mom enrolled me and my younger sister in ballet class with Miss Eileen. Even though I am more of a jazz hands and tap dance kind of girl, I was enthralled with the shoes and the costumes, the pale and milky leotards, the discipline. Someone decrepit sat at the piano plinking music. Lines of coltish girls followed Miss Eileen’s...
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After I wrote my first letter of the summer, I asked a hiker who stopped by the fire tower to put the envelope into his pack and walk it the five miles off the mountain and mail it for me. I hoped he wouldn’t forget and find it a month from now stained by orange peels and smelling of sunblock-stained handkerchief. In the past six summers, I think most of...
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As late spring rolls out its verdant carpet for summer’s entrance, I will once again step into its promise of the season’s fullness and festivities. This is the promise I yearned for as a child. It is called Shii’ in Navajo (Summer)—The Time When Late Snow Showers and Thunderstorms Mingle. The late storm we call Aye’he ne’dinni’yoodi (Chasing...
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Enclosed you will find your copy of the 1959 Britannica BOOK OF THE YEAR … This handsome book provides you with unbiased, accurate information on every important phase of world affairs. It enables you to discuss current events and world developments with authority … At my mother’s urging, my parents stretched their meager budget to buy a set of...
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As a child, I often found myself reading books I heard my sister Kathy talk about. She read aloud poems that moved her or passages that just demanded sharing. She guided me into The Harvester by Gene Stratton Porter at about age 10. There I first engaged a consuming romantic love that suffered greatly and played out against the world of medicinal herbs....
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On a July day before my fifth grade school year began, Mom and Dad circled my three brothers, my sister and I. They told us we were moving to Indiantown, a one-stoplight village in rural South Florida. We’d be moving in a week to my grandfather’s cattle ranch, which was more Roseanne than Ralph Lauren. We’d live in a doublewide trailer encircled by some...
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“I often conduct an orchestra in my sleep; my orchestras are so huge that the back desks of the violas vanish into the horizon. And everything is so wonderful,” wrote Finnish composer Jean Sibelius to a colleague in 1943. I had to call my violin-playing sister in Connecticut to ask her about the “back desks of the violas.” “Oh,” she said from her desk at...
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This was my third Passover Seder/Shabbat observance. This year, I accompanied my girlfriend Tamar and my adopted son Daniel to this wonderful celebration of the shedding of the bondage of darkness in any form. It was the Navajo Moon of the Earth’s stirring. The moon was early full and all the hills, free of lights, showed its muted shine. The hills of the...
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My first grade teacher was scary. That’s what I remember, anyway. Mrs. Appel was old, for one thing. (Probably about my current age.) I remember her as intimidating, and not gentle or particularly kind. She was doing the best she could (aren’t we all), but she was harsh. Shouldn’t a first-grade teacher be sweet and young? Or at least sweet and middle-aged?...
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Time folded back upon itself recently and the fabric yielded and tore slightly beneath an unseen pressure. I had received a friend request on Facebook. I didn’t recognize the name so I did my usual private eye routine and began by looking at the profile picture. Thank god it wasn’t a kitten or cartoon avatar. I studied a photo of a bewhiskered...
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When my father died, I was 27. I went numb and took a job in Japan as a group leader for 10 American high school exchange students. The job required that I also live with a family. When our bus pulled into the supermarket parking lot where we were to meet our host parents, all I knew about Yuko was that she was in her 40s, she taught English, and she was...
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In winter I miss them. Without the windows and doors open I don’t come across them as often, those others who live where I live, the lively silent ones. I like finding ants, spiders, moths and other tiny beings on my windowsill, under the sink, outside the door and on the kitchen counter. I peer at them closely. I gather them onto paper or shoo them into a...
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“Drawing is more than a tool for rendering and capturing likeness. It is a language, with its own syntax, grammar, and urgency. Learning to draw is about learning to see. In this way; it is a metaphor for all art activity. Whatever its form, drawing transforms perception and thought into image and teaches us how to think with our eyes.” — Kit White, from...
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Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been thinking about snow, and about the color white, which led me to think about Agnes Martin and her serenely abstract (and mostly neutral) paintings. The simplicity of them caused some to discount her work, but in the end, she was awarded a National Medal of Art in 2004 for her contributions as an abstract...
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The engineer lowered the needle to the record and a momentary scratch and pop was followed by the haunting guitar notes of the Ventures playing “Apache.” I spoke into the mike. “This is 1450 AM RADIO KENA Mena, Arkansas and you’re listening to … the Bearcat Prowl.” The year was 1967 and with several schoolmates I was hosting a weekly radio show of news and...
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About six of us clustered in the kitchen of a friend’s house recently. We had gathered for a party to share food, wine and stories. One friend congratulated me on my new job, and our group conversation topic veered. Our stories became tales of High School Hell. We took turns one-upping each other with our memories of misery: our geekiness, our awkwardness,...
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A couple of Halloweens ago, the first knock on my front door once darkness descended was from two pre-teens who are daughters of a friend. One was a princess, decked out in a costume of pink meringue and froth. The other wore a strand of pearls, a chaste sweater set and a knee-length skirt. She looked like someone in front of a microphone at a political...
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The headlights revealed only more sand ahead of us as we negotiated our way down the Mexican dirt road. As the passenger, my feet worked the phantom pedals. Tamar and I were both strangers here and we had no way of contacting our hosts somewhere there on the beach of the Sea of Cortez. The street we were on had no signs. It abruptly turned to dirt and...
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This past weekend I participated in a panel discussion: “Life as a Successful Artist.” When I was first asked to do this a few weeks ago, I balked. I thought about what it means to be a successful artist. And whether (or not) I feel like one. Sadly, the success label can kill the creative impulse for some of us. I have to be very careful to apply the label...
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We sit around a desert fire; a few hardened sticks of ironwood are yielding a small steady flame and little smoke. The calm waters of the Sea of Cortez a few yards away are murmuring companionably. Orion has just careened from behind the shadow of El Morro and he flashes his Concho belt against the black velvet sky. A young coyote yips “I been to Austin”...
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My legs tire of being tentative with steps. My eyes glaze with looking so closely at the danger lurking in sidewalk ice or trail snow. Eventually one winter morning between the whirls of Christmas/New Year’s holiday events and SuperBowl/Valentine’s Day partying, I wake up starved for planet delicacy. I need rocks, not snow. Time to go south for an...
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The full color movie ad in the New York Times makes me do it. I pull the Kodak slide projector from the back of the closet and aim it at the white refrigerator and click through slides from 1967 until I find me on my first backpacking trip, which was through Aravaipa Canyon. The projector hums; I look at a 10-inch version of me in an orange T-shirt with an...
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I had a brother once that I looked up to, to no end. I had a brother once that loved me through expressions of the face and words, and yet still he beat me up when I transgressed in my young boyhood as I learned to be a man. Nelson was two years older than me and my closest sibling. He was a charismatic child, and at an early age even the animals...
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Now that I’m finished procrastinating – the dishes are washed, the laundry is done, and my desk is cleaned off – I can sit down to write with a clearer head. Today is a day for being inside. After a temperate fall, snow has at last coated the bare aspens: white on white. Late in the afternoon the sky cleared enough for a peek of blue. In the northwest,...
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Greetings from the Global Warming Research Zone #10 where we received our first measurable snow since last May this past weekend. It was only a dusting but now the San Francisco Peaks look like the optimistic winter scenes that have been flocked on store windows since early November. Sue turned her chickens loose in the spent garden and they are faithfully...
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It is two weeks before the end of fall semester. Two weeks until I will return to the United States and close out my year of teaching journalism and storytelling here in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, a Central Asian nation slightly smaller than South Dakota. Soon I will return to my beloved Flagstaff. But today I am here in these tender days of goodbye. I teach...
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Our father kept a wooden ladder permanently leaning against the eaves of the cinderblock duplex he built to house his family. It was not a ladder like you’d imagine poking out of the dark well of a kiva. Instead of hand-shaved poles, it was nailed together from wood leftover from various projects, and it was heavy, so maybe that was why it was always...
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As we enter another season of feasting, gift giving and love, I want to talk about what that is all about for me. I was always under an impression that a great prophet was born in the season and through him we are promised salvation. It is about saving lives and opening up heart and hearth. Our collective story of our vulnerability and our saviors come...
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It wasn’t that long ago, late October, mid-day, mid-week. I was in a classroom on the third floor of our four-story university building, readying the projector for a PowerPoint I was going to present when my storytelling class began in about five minutes. Above the din and swirl of students in the hallway, I heard what sounded like a bell and then an...
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I do dream my dreams dreaming me, where my reality conscience is folded onto itself. We all do. It’s the world we populate nearly half of our living and breathing state. A plane of conscience we give little credence to. A powerful place and space we all know too well. I visit that dimension each night where all my angst and triumph resides. Where I either...
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I rendezvoused with a graduate school friend a few weekends ago. Verena and I were in a class of about three dozen journalists who marauded Washington, D.C., in 1990. Most of us were print reporters. All of us were swashbucklers, young and hungry, enamored of journalism for its appealing audacities and the principles that undergirded the field. We were...
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This week’s guest columnist is Naima Schuller. I grew up in Show Low in the 1980s when the population hovered somewhere around 5,500. I felt like I lived in the backwaters of some social wilderness area, designated just for Mormons, Jack Mormons, rednecks and assorted hermits and hippies. Going to Stake Center dances and snipe hunting definitely...
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Earlier this month “Star Date” on KNAU caught me at a stoplight, so it sunk in through my idling split attention that pieces of meteors might delight one’s eyeballs in the wee hours of a Sunday or Monday morning. I even looked for more details at the Sky and Telescope magazine website. There it said the radiants of the Orionids would be near the raised arm...
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My friend, René, is on her way to Oregon, where her husband has a new job. I met René years ago in a workshop. She handed me her card: “René Westbrook: Gluing Things to Stuff Since 1989.” I laughed, and knew immediately that I wanted to be her friend. After living at the South Rim of Grand Canyon for 11 years, she moved to Flagstaff so her daughter could...
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She considereth a field and buyeth it, with the fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard. She looketh well to the ways of her household and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her. — Proverbs 31:16, 27, 28 I dream. I’m sitting on wicker furniture with a friend in an apple...
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“Is this Kelly Laura?” It was a she on my cell phone, someone I didn’t know. Someone who sounded like she wore thick eyeliner. Someone whose Russian accent made the question seem as if it were spreading itself onto a slab of dark bread. She said she was with Human Resources at the university where I’m teaching. The post office had called; I had a package....
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On a Sunday morning at the cabin where I winter, a delicate clunking of deer hoof against rock stirs me out of easy dreaming. When I go from window to window looking outside for spindly legs, I blink the night out of my eyes and see nothing but light caught in bird wings. Below the front porch new marks in the dirt look as delicate as elf footprints. A...
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Once again, I am in the company of wonderfully talented landscape painters. I will spend this week here at the rim of the Grand Canyon trying to capture and interpret, in my own way, the grandness of the Canyon. As one of 20-some painters from all over the country, I am thrilled to be here among this inspirational throng, among peers, fellow visionaries...
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My mother taught me to use her putty-colored electric Singer sewing machine when I was 4. The toy sewing machine she bought me didn’t work right, and being practical, she figured she might as well teach me to use her machine. In the years after, I learned well how to follow a pattern to construct a garment from yardage. When I was in college, I would...
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The storm clouds boil up the eastern sky until a wall of gunmetal gray curls over and above me. A westering sun fires up the corn and pole beans and the tall shaggy pines that border the over-achieving garden. They stand like cardboard cutouts against the backdrop of the approaching monsoon storm. Blunt fingers strum the strings of my pensive heart. I get...
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It was 1987. Prozac, disposable contact lenses and The Simpsons were introduced into American culture. The average gallon of gas was 89 cents, and airwaves were dominated by ’80s hair bands. No cellphones, no internet, no GPS. I moved to Miami that year and bought a car that seemed fitting: a heavily used, white, 1972 convertible Cadillac. The top was...
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These sunflower days are smearing the hillsides with a daily wash of yellow and I want the color to paint truth for me, help me tuck the summer into memory. My fire season flew by with almost no fires. My side of the mountain slept through the summer it seems. Now I watch 25 violet-green swallows make passes by the windows of the lookout as if they are...
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In many of my past writing journeys here, I speak much of growing up Dineh’—about the uniqueness of the culture I come from—about the sacredness of ceremonies and the brutality of the government boarding schools. I speak of life and living within the horizon that is my universe. I want to speak more on the beauty and the magic that makes my own life as an...
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My mother has always been deeply interested in houses: their layouts and locations, and most importantly, how they function. She would have been a really good architect, I expect. Instead of studying architecture, though, she married my father and spent many years moving around the world. They bought, remodeled and sold several houses in the 17 years I...
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It was a hunt to remember. Ken Ralston and I had muzzle loader permits for elk on the North Rim. Ken had been my companion for many adventures through the years and I looked forward to his company and the scenery almost as much as the hunt. I was not familiar with this territory, but Ken assured me he knew the deep canyons and ridges like his own mama’s...
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“Those who know they have enough are rich.” — Lao Tzu I spent the December weeks before last Christmas boxing and storing my stuff to make way for an incoming tenant. Part Two of my holiday follies was folding into a torturous origami and cramming into two suitcases all the possessions I anticipated I would need to live abroad for a year. If we can put a...
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Except for a small misgiving that haunts the echo chamber that is my heart, I am very happy these weeks out at the fire lookout. What a relief to be done with the windy tense drama of June. What a pleasure to voyage through the shadows and rain festivals of July. Now I record an inch of rain one day, a quarter of an inch the next. The night lights up vast...
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My mug of coffee steams like a sentient being and hums between my palms. The clerk smiles when I place a dollar tip in the jar. She has a purple streak in her hair. I wait my turn at the fixings table. The woman in front of me adds one Sweet’N Low and a shake of non-dairy chemicals to her cup and selects a wooden stirring stick from the open container....
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Three deer grazed in the forest behind my house, skittish but hungry. One headed for the penstemon flowers growing in our yard, but seeing Mike and me, and Kelly the (unthreatening) Labrador, opted out. A yellow swallowtail butterfly was briefly trapped under the shade shelter on the patio, fighting the winds that signal yet another red flag warning....
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It occurred to me when I saw the babushka tottering toward me on the sidewalk that she most likely did not understand the large English words on the front of her T-shirt: BLOW ME. What I immediately wanted was to make eye contact with someone nearby, someone like-minded whose look would fleetingly telegraph they thought this as odd and destabilizing as I...
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Some months ago when the preparation for my new exhibition at the Museum of Northern Arizona was beginning, my friend and brother of a lighter shade, glassblower George Averbeck, approached me with the idea of collaborating on a piece for the museum gala auction. In our continuing support for this fine institution, I readily agreed. George has shown his...
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I threaded my way out of Doney Park along dusty roads lined with lush patches of feral rye grass heavy with seed heads. The trim coopers hawk watched from its perch above on the phone wire for the mice gathering for the harvest. Plump prairie dogs stood at alert as I passed. They are too big for the coopers hawk to manage, but red tails and northern...
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It is a leisurely spring evening on the Kane Ranch front porch and the doves are moaning away in a chorus of mournful harmonies. But there is nothing sorrowful about the golden hour in Marble Canyon. The horizon is a wide, panoramic expanse stretching for miles. Here you can look and look and fill your head with the possibility of anything. A desert spiny...
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