Letter from Home appears weekly in Flagstaff Live! each Thursday, and is written by a rotating cast of Flagstaff-based writers, including Tony Norris, Shonto Begay, Jean Rukkila, Peter Friederici, Darcy Falk, Laura Kelly, Kate Watters, Margaret Erhart, Allison Gruber, Stacy Murison, and an occasional guest writer. Click the Read More button below any of these posts to read the full version and view any images that the authors have shared.
First Snows
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 blond sprites, including me, bundled up in our winter coats and snowpants, pommeled hats and clumsy mittens, out for a walk with our parents like dutiful penguin chicks, or else gathered around...
read moreThe Trials of Now
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 pearls of wisdom here, only a few pebbles I’ve carried in my pocket over the years. Some of them came home with me from the river, others I picked up off the road, and yet others were good...
read moreThe Tree
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 mighty ponderosa was there as recently as yesterday. Tree farm, indeed. No candle required. It started two months ago, when I called an arborist to come consult on what to do with the wayward...
read moreMy Lipstick, Myself
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 darkens her brows with a pencil. And then the ritual de la resistance—the lipstick–always the final, dramatic act. She swivels the lipstick up from its tube, leans into the mirror. She...
read moreDaring to wear cool boots
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 in which they chose to dress. A part of me always wanted to make friends with them, but I was held back by the feeling that I couldn’t live up to the level of “cool” that I perceived in...
read moreTales of the Inverted Jenny and Other Philatelic Surprises
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. The use of naughty and forbidden words was music to my ears, a whole string of them a symphony. I didn’t have to understand what was said, it was the way in which it was said that intrigued...
read moreThe Joy of Recurring Hobbies
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 qualities of circles, to make predictable and long-standing decisions that will not get away from us, however unrealistic that proposition actually is. According to encyclopedia.com, “A spiral is...
read moreThe Future Has an Electric heart; A cautionary tale
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? A parking lot can feel like home! Yes, this could have been my fate but for a sliver of luck. In another scenario, I and my Chevy Bolt might have arrived at our destination on the back of a...
read moreUnrecorded
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. Photographers were taciturn loners, mainly men, who roamed the world wearing rugged expressions and wearing complicated vests whose many pockets they actually needed to hold the many light meters,...
read moreRiver of Grief
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 wear down just about any solid matter given enough time. When I think of struggle or of hardship, my go-to metaphor is water—not the repeatedly crashing waves of ocean upon beach, but the...
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