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 turning the mulch and finding weed seeds and insects and treating the whole business like a day in the park. Rose says you’ve built a henhouse closer to the “big house” so you can guard against predators. With the exception of a few skunks and a magnificent Northern Goshawk, all our varmints in the last 30 years have been our own or neighbor’s dogs. We’ve served a lot of chicken dinners to undeserving dogs. The cost of organic chicken feed would make you gasp, Sam. Last winter I purchased seed for several varieties of millet to see if I could grow some for poultry feed, but at planting time God knows where I had hidden them. I continue to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in the dozen shades of brown and pale blue green eggs and their rich golden yolks on the plate.
Sue grew a patch of Northstine yellow dent corn for our meal this winter. She is husking and shelling it tonight as I write. The meal has a full rich flavor and makes a fine pan of cornbread.
I see that Brother Homer has a nice show of his paintings at Doss Heritage and Cultural Center—40 oils plus incidental canvases on display through April. Since Rosemary died he has really thrown himself into his work. He doesn’t look any older in his photos. I’ve spoken to him a few times and his spirits are good.
I think I told you attempts have been underway for several years to establish Mexican Gray wolves in eastern Arizona. My friend in the White Mountains tells me of hearing the wolves howling on moonlit nights. I want to hear that. Several times they have been sighted ranging 200 miles west to the Flagstaff area. About a month ago a wolf had been sighted and photographed in the Grand Canyon area. When its droppings were tested for DNA it was determined to be a female northern gray wolf from the Rocky Mountains. What a trip she made—just looking for love. It makes me smile.
I am reading Apples of Uncommon Character by Rowan Jacobsen. The photo portraits are luscious, drenched in deep color and detail and his descriptions are luscious and creative. About Gray Permain he says, “Lots of sugar, limey acid, and evergreen aromatics, like a pear wrapped in spruce bark—truly crisp and crunchy—like a Jerusalem Artichoke.” He gives complete histories of 123 apple varieties. It takes me back to the days I wandered through abandoned orchards in West Virginia and sampled nameless fruit from broken overgrown trees. Why I didn’t plant an orchard here 40 years ago? Flagstaff has such a challenging micro-climate for fruit trees: Do I plant for the seasons I see today or anticipate a coming warming trend?
I believe you’ve been getting more snow there in West Virginia than we have in Flagstaff. I know you have a very long drive just to get to a dirt road. I suspect being snowed in isn’t all that unpleasant a prospect for you. Having to read by the wood stove with a dog (it sounded like there were several the last time I called) at your feet is something you probably take in stride. I recall the un-white Christmases of our Texas childhood in the Annetta Schoolhouse. It seems like we usually took long after-dinner walks in the warm afternoons, often in search of arrowheads. I remember playing games of baseball too and once having old Rowdy join in the game and rip the sleeve of my new flannel shirt. Oh the delight we took in playing with firecrackers and our new BB guns.
Several of my grandkids are appearing in school and community holiday productions around town. Sue’s theatrical genes have passed down undiluted. I watched one granddaughter play an elf in Miracle on 34th Street and was I so proud of her talent and confidence. It’s the classic story of the man who proves he is Santa in a court of law. I had to leave directly from the curtain call to get ready for my own Santa gig at a Christmas party across town. Were you aware I’ve been playing Santa for the last 20 years? I was a reluctant Santa for a long time, typecast because I was fat and bearded and generally affable but actually a closet Scrooge—bah humbugging the commercial grasping nature of the season. And I hated the nylon rental suits with their nappy pilled surface and smell of sweat and dry cleaning chemicals.
My epiphany came on the beach in Baja, Calif., one vacation when a group of fishermen surrounded me and began to chant “Papa Noel.” I bowed my head and accepted my fate. I sought out master seamstress Renee Walker and she sewed for me of crimson crushed velvet and milk white rabbit fur a generous suit. A saddle maker double stitched a gleaming black 5-inch leather belt and Mayorga Welding forged a heavy brass buckle. The rest is history. There are still times I am not comfortable when children spin off long wish lists of electronics and plastic crap or parents drop a baby with a full diaper in my lap or treat me like a prop in their private photo op, but let me be clear, sometimes the magic happens, and I get to be there. Last week in a department store a five-year-old girl kept finding her way back to my knee where she would stroke the rabbit fur on my sleeve cuff and ask endless questions about the elves, Rudolph, the North Pole, my favorite cookies and everything Christmas. I presided at a party for children with epilepsy a few days ago and the organizers arranged for me to have a Skype call with a little girl recovering from brain surgery. She was so excited she could hardly stay in her bed. Santa has a pretty good record as matchmaker too. More than one young lady has given me the qualifications of what she was looking for in a man and reported to me later that he showed up during that Christmas.
So here’s hoping you’re enjoying a very Merry Christmas and maybe even roasting some chestnuts or pecans by the open fire. Sue sends hugs. Kiss the dogs and scratch Rose behind the ears for me.
Thanks to Leslie Connell for use of her photo of Santa.
