Fearless

I've always liked to think I'm fairly fearless.  I think it's time to face the truth.  I am afraid of many things. Most of my fears do not involve large, earthshaking events.  In fact, bigger things scare me less than small things.  Which makes no sense but neither do most of the things that make me shiver.

Spiders, for instance.  Give me a very large snake, of the non-poisonous variety, any day.  Spiders have far too many legs and they could be crawling on me without my knowing, moving about with their too many legs. Just writing about it makes an involuntary shudder run along my spine.  I regularly have my house fumigated, likely risking that all who enter here will glow in the dark.  But I rarely see a spider venture through and that's the way I like it.

Another thing that makes me weak in the knees is talking to people I've never met without a proper introduction from someone who knows them.  At our church we are encouraged to seek out visitors and welcome them.  After the initial "Hello!" I'm pretty much at a loss of what to say.  And I'm in mortal terror of saying something that will reveal that I'm in mortal terror.  I'd rather speak in front of a crowd, all of them total strangers, than to be stuck in a room with only one,

People who won't talk.  They scare me speechless.  Ask anyone who knows me; I talk a lot.  I mean, some of my friends probably think I never shut up.  But put me with someone quiet and I'm paralyzed into silence, frantically searching my cerebral cortex for things to say that will require more than a one-word answer.  I like having to wait for whoever I am talking to to take a breath so I can interject my own stream of verbalization while they in turn have to wait for me to breathe and so on and so on, back and forth.

Singing alone in public.  I tried it once at a choir rehearsal.  I couldn't breathe.  Neither could I sing.  End of any dreams in that direction.

Paper cuts. Give me a three-inch splinter to pull or an impressively bleeding wound to hold together - not a problem.  But those paper cuts you can't see that feel like hot needles every time you walk past a bottle of vinegar or a shaker of salt, those are frightening.

Mini-vans.  They are accidents waiting to happen.  Young mothers with four kids in car seats, two of them likely screaming and thus spurring mom to drive fast and furious to get where she's going, almost driving past her destination, then swerving in with no turn signals and no heed to traffic behind or oncoming.  Or she's trying to still the wails by reaching over the seat to hold a bottle in place, thereby restoring silence and possibly choking the child.

Offending my kids.  One of which drives a mini-van.  Fortunately my children are not the quiet type so there will be plenty of loud discussion with no one waiting for anyone to breathe.  Conflict resolution at its finest.

While I could make a much longer list my fear of boring people dictates restraint so I will wind down this blog with my fear of people finding out how afraid I am of so many silly things.

In church today I learned that unbelief or a lack of faith is a major cause of fear.  Funny, my son told me that the day after the election.  With great force and enthusiasm.  And he was right, as he often is.  I'd like to think it's my awesome child-rearing skills that have made him the wise person he is but unfortunately my fear of living in denial would force me to acknowledge that it's in spite of his upbringing, not because of it.

Back to the series of sermons we are hearing at church right now: " The Cure for the Common Life."  How much have I missed because of my irrational fears?  I mean, I can't go to Africa because there are really big spiders there.  I've probably missed meeting people who would have been life-long friends, because no one introduced us.  And some of those mini-vans out there are actually pretty cool, with all their sliding doors and leather seats and video players and sound systems.  But I can't own one because, well, what would people think???  The "what would people think" fear was handed down with great repetition from my very kind and sincerely well-meaning mother.  Fortunately my mini-van-driving daughter could care less what people think and I must admit her dexterity while sailing down the roadways is very impressive.  And she does use her blinker. Usually.

So now I have faced one of my fears.  Everyone who reads this will know I am not fearless.  It feels liberating.  Maybe I should get a pet spider.  Or maybe I should start with something small.  Like bear-hunting with a sling-shot.

Conversations With John Schmid

The four of us walked into the conference room of a nearby nursing home and straight into an Amish gathering, friends and family of the elderly lady we were there to visit. When John Schmid had invited my husband and me to join him and his wife, Lydia, in singing a few songs for “a shut-in” we said, sure, why not.  It was typical John:  turn an evening out into a chance to drop in on someone who would be delighted he did so.

I learned something about John that night.  He has the rare ability to hurdle the cultural and religious boundaries separating the closed Amish circles from the world of “Englishers” with an ease that renders the wall itself virtually unnoticeable.  The bearded men, all standing around one side of the crowded room while their women sat on the opposite side, were gearing up to sing. Small hard-cover German hymnals were scattered among them and they handed one to John who promptly joined in, enthusiastically belting out words whose meaning I could only guess given my limited knowledge of the language.  An Old Order Amish rendition of hymns is not unlike a cloister of monks holding forth in slow, mournful strains of Latin.

I marveled at the immediate acceptance John enjoyed from normally reserved and exclusive people.  When he told me later how much he loves their music, a world removed from his own style of singing, I learned his secret; he totally accepts them, they know it, and they respond in kind.

I wondered how Schmid, a musician well-known in our neck of the woods for his unique and relaxing country-flavored picking and singing, would segue from the somber feeling of spiritual weightiness permeating the room, into what he had come for:  to cheer the sick with uplifting music and song.  It seemed effortless as he shook hands around the room, talking to each in turn using their own first language, Pennsylvania Dutch. Soon everyone was smiling and seemingly as much at ease as he was.  After a few minutes of visiting, reminiscing, and acknowledging mutual acquaintances, he unpacked his guitar and the old classic “How Great Thou Art” flowed through the room.  Some of the Amish folk joined in; others simply listened in obvious enjoyment.

I was mulling over the differences in worship styles when John asked the silver-haired lady, wrapped snugly in her wheel-chair, if she had any requests.  Without a moment’s hesitation she said, “Reuben James!”  I laughed before I could stop myself.  I expected a matriarch of her conservative variety to have no knowledge of music other than what her family had just sung. But John showed no surprise and serenaded his appreciative audience in grand style.  My husband, Paul, joined him with guitar and vocal harmonies.
 
Growing up north of Fredricksburg, Ohio, in a family not prone to church-going, John spent his youth surrounded with local Amish boys, many of whom became his friends.  Learning their language with little effort, he shared in their escapades and was accepted into their circle more closely than most “outsiders.”  

John  believed his grade school teacher when she told him he had no singing talent . . . and then he heard Johnny Cash.  His voice was similar.  And people listened.  Maybe he could sing!  So John joined several friends in a start-up band, a place to play their guitars, sing their songs, have some fun and dream of greatness.  Eventually, most of the musicians in the group returned to their Amish roots, joining the church and giving up their instruments.  John kept singing.

One night during a Nicky Cruz rally at a local high school, John gave his life to the Lord.  He told me, tongue in cheek, that “Jesus ruined his career” in the wild and rowdy country music world. And he went on to tell me of the adventures he’s had since he teamed up with his Saviour.

John and his wife, Lydia, moved to Costa Rica soon after their wedding in 1980, working together at teaching, hosting a house for visiting missionaries, and leading youth ministries in association with Latin America Mission and later, Young Life.  Two children, a son and a daughter expanded their little family and seven years later they returned to Holmes County. Another daughter arrived and they settled in the small town of Benton, serving two years in their local church, again in youth ministry.
 
In 1990 the music John enjoyed became a full-time calling.  A tour with the Gospel Echoes during one of their prison-ministry journeys gave him the focus he had been looking for: visiting prisoners, bringing hope to devastated lives by spreading the truth that Jesus is the only real answer to their overwhelming need. And his music was a great vehicle with which to carry the Good News. Being on the road much of the time, going from one dreary institution to another, would leave many people drained and stressed but John says, “I love life; I enjoy every day.”  He jokes about the incarcerated being a “captive audience” and he tells stories of inspiration received and given during interaction with inmates.

Lydia and John

Always a self-proclaimed admirer of the legendary Johnny Cash and with a voice that lends itself to an uncanny likeness of the Man in Black, Schmid has sung many of his songs throughout the years.  In 2010 he realized a dream: he recorded a Cash tribute CD, traveling to the Cash Cabin in Tennessee to record it.  Added to the great variety of other recordings he has done before and since, he has twenty CDs to date with three of his best-selling entirely in Pennsylvania Dutch. With versatility in style and range, his vocals demonstrate a depth of talent that appeals to large crowds of locals including Amish, English, and everything in between. Sometimes he is joined by one or more of his children, sometimes Lydia. Often it's just John and his guitar.  And of course the Galilean that “ruined his career” way back in 1972.

Often away from his family, he wanted to do something special, something unforgettable, with his then eighteen-year-old son Adam, just graduated from high school, so they joined the wheat harvesting teams in America's breadbasket for six weeks, helping gather acres of the golden grain from Texas to Nebraska. While Adam drove a massive combine, John drove a big rig, together they worked on cutting and hauling from morning until night.  Utterly exhausting physically and strangely satisfying psychologically, it was a shared experience neither will ever forget.

In an effort to create more memories with one-on-one time together, John took daughter Amy on a “graduation trip” to Ireland and later, when his youngest, Katie, finished high school, they went to Maine and worked on a lobster boat. 

I asked John what his biggest adventure has been so far.  There was no hesitation at all.  “Lydia,” he grinned. And I could tell he meant it.

Journey's End

Cousin Betty

Saying goodbye to the family makes me feel melancholy.  At least they left piecemeal instead of en mass.  Several of us were staying around for a day or two and Cousin Ed from Indiana persuaded us to head for Canyon Lake out past Apache Junction.  After chauffeuring those leaving for home to the airport we negotiated some beautiful roads to reach the lake.  It was tucked into deep canyons a few miles beyond the easternmost edge of Phoenix.  A dozen of us clambered aboard a rented pontoon, armed with snacks, drinks, suntan oil, cameras, and hats.

Rumor had it if we were lucky we would spot some wild sheep, although it seemed a remote possibility.  How anything could survive on these rocks, I could not fathom.  Even the scattered saguaros, perched on minute ledges, seemed to be breaking through solid rock.

At first glance the lake like a large pond surrounded by rock walls reaching hundreds of feet straight up.  Cruising along the edge, we eventually found the opening between the sheer precipices facing each other on every side.  It was disconcerting and it happened time and time again throughout the two-hour ride.  Just as we were about to run into rock walls, a whole new section of lake opened up magically before us.  Reminiscent of the invisible staircase Indy faced in The Last Crusade, the landscape made me feel like I was in a place where anything could happen.

A few miles in we saw the sheep.  Scrambling up miniscule ledges on the rock face with ease, they held our attention for a spell and we snapped photos like crazed tourists.  The weather being perfect, the scenery otherworldly, the company good, the snacks tasty and the drinks cold, we had an altogether enjoyable time with everyone in our little party..

For some reason, being on the water always seems to increase the appetite.  We continued on down the winding road toward Tortilla Flats where, Paul and I assured the others, a great restaurant experience awaited. We had been around for two weeks so we were experts.  And we were right. We had a boisterous time of it and the food was great.

With Cousin Joe on Canyon Lake

My cousin Joe told us when he first arrived in Arizona, he was dismayed to see nothing but desert out the plane windows.  Turns out he landed at the wrong airport.  On this day, however, we were glad he had; it meant a few more hours of fun together.  Mesa was close to the lake and we delivered him to the airport entrance on our way back to the city.

Phoenix, at 517 square miles in land area, is one of the biggest cities, geographically, in the country.  It took an hour to get from one side to the other, using the four-lane bypass at 70mph.  By the time we congregated with the remnants of family still in town it was close to sundown.  We met at Byler's Amish Kitchen, owned by the local cousins.  The food was great and the company even better.

I spent my last day in AZ breaking myself gradually from vacation mode.  Laundry has to be done eventually and I have an aversion to packing dirty clothes.  Happily there was also time to read by the pool, soak in the pool, and do nothing by the pool.  Well, I did say, gradually.

Paul took advantage of the chance to quad up the mountain with Cousin Lydia and husband John.  After the third or fourth time he told me I "would have LOVED it!"  I requested he tell me about his day without uttering that sentence again.  Ok, so I was a hair jealous.  They had invited me but I'm one of those people who eventually starts to hyperventilate if I don't get any down-time.  I'm also one of those people that hates missing out on the fun.  And, the melancholia was threatening to come back with the flight home looming on tomorrow's horizon.

I'm not a big fan of air travel.  It's a great way to get somewhere fast but I don't like being trapped with a lot of strangers in a place where open windows are impossible.  This trip, though, I had no reason to complain.  None of my flights were cancelled.  My seatmates on the window side, both coming and going, slept soundly most of the way.  The crying babies were so far away I could barely hear them.  The turbulence was minimal.  And I had Paul on the aisle side to patiently let me out whenever I felt the need to visit the two-foot-square cubicle mistakenly referred to as a restroom.  I could probably do a whole blog on airplane lavatories.  I will resist.

A flight plan that left Cleveland around 9 AM and landed in Phoenix several hours before lunch was not as kind on the return trip.  We left Phoenix around 11AM and after arriving in Cleveland we stopped to eat supper.  It was dark before we got home.  Flying east makes time disappear.  My blue mood had disappeared as well.

Yes, I was back in cold, windy, rainy, Ohio.  But so were two seven-year-old granddaughters with the best hugs around.  And two tiny grandbabies I just recently met.  It's amazing how much six-week-old infants change in two weeks.  Instead of blank stares aimed somewhere over my shoulders, the babies looked me in the eyes, smiled, and even treated me with a coo or two.  Eternal sunshine and warm breezes don't have a chance when put up against the drawing power of sweet little faces waiting for kisses.

The Reunion

Finally, the days we came for.  Two days to spend with family from all over the country and Canada.  There will be cousins from Washington, Idaho, Montana, Florida, Pennsylvania, Virginia, South Carolina, Michigan, Arkansas, Ohio, and everything in between. Even a few who live on an island off the northeast coastline.  We've had these reunions about every three years or so since I was a kid.  One by one my aunts and uncles have passed away; most of them lived long lives, several were taken suddenly via the heart attack route. Three remain, still, and it's a privilege to spend time together when we have the chance.

So now it's the cousins, many of whom are older than the aunts and uncles were when this reunion got started. Not nearly all of them can make it every time; coming together from such great distances, we seldom meet, except for the funerals that thrust themselves into our lives.  Those of course are sad, whereas the family gatherings are fun times, catch-up times.

Day one found us at Canyon Creek Ranch, a place tucked 'way back in the desert, ringed by rugged mountains and the ever-present cactus, sand, and scrub.  The Ranch is a miniature old-west town complete with church, saloon, inn, jail, shops, horses, roping, ax-throwing, and food, food, food.  A giant mesquite tree with huge over-hanging branches sheltered rows of picnic tables.  Two bonfires were crackling and drawing us to their edges because on this day of all days, it was overcast, rainy, and a stiff breeze was keeping us all chilled.  The Arizona relatives told us they would be rejoicing at the few drops of rain that fell were it not for the reunion plans.  The Ohio relatives volunteered to accept responsibility for the rain since rained-out events are a way of life in their part of the country.  The Idaho crowd figured the blame was theirs for much the same reason and in the end they were allowed to keep it.

The heaps of roasted meat, baked beans, corn-on-the-cob, salads, and desserts helped to warm us all and kept starvation at bay. Before we could digest lunch it was time for supper.  Most of us were willing to put on a show of hunger though and we ate with gusto again.  Pork chops with kraut, potatoes, more salad, more dessert.

After supper a couple of the guys got out guitars and the music started.  Requests were called out and played.  Songs in English, songs in German, silly songs, serious songs, hymns.  Finally, too tired to hold a tune and too full to eat more food we all returned to our hotels to rest up for the next day.

Day two was at a park in Black Canyon City.  Bright, sunny, and perfect.  We met for church, out by the ball field.  A guest speaker, a local pastor friend of the Arizona clan, spoke words of truth that cut to the heart of things.

We made our plans for the next reunion, three years from now, to be in Idaho.  Brainstorming started in little clusters about who can take off for how long and travel by car, train, plane, or motorcycle.  I think planning these things is almost as much fun as doing them.  And then it was time for brunch.  Breakfast casseroles, pastries, fruit, and an end to all diets.

In years past, my uncle John and his daughter, my cousin Ruth, were both laid to rest in the cemetery out back.  Groups of us wandered by and spent time visiting them, talking about them, laughing with memories of them, missing them.

In the afternoon some of us decided to hit the walking trails surrounding the park.  Beautiful plants, a flowering cactus here and there, a landscape as foreign to this Ohio girl as the moon.  With the sun shining down on a lot of pasty-white snowbird skin, sunscreen came out, hats were put on, and my cousin Clara from back east carried a bright blue umbrella; seeing it bobbing up and down as she wound her way along the trails just made me feel happy.

We took pictures of the plants and pictures of each other and pictures of each other with the plants.  We took family pictures, cousin pictures, sibling pictures, cute kid pictures, crazy pictures and even food pictures.

The cousins

For many years I took my family for granted, barely giving them a thought.  But the older I get, the more I realize how important they are, how much they had a hand in making me who I am.  Several of us cousins hadn't seen each other in decades.  Renewing acquaintances, reminiscing about childhoods spent together and sharing tragedies and triumphs since - these are literally the ties that bind us together and give us a sense of stability and solidarity, a sense of belonging.  Our families can drive us crazy but they can also hold us when we're falling apart.  There's something about seeing your nose on someone else's face that defines the genetic glue bonding you together.

All too soon it was time to say good-bye again, with always the unspoken thoughts in many of our minds.  What will take place before we see each other again?  Will we see each other again?  These are the times I am grateful I believe in an afterlife that's so much more than here.  Whether it's here, or whether it's there, I will see them again. With a whole new bunch of memories to laugh and talk about.

Arizona Day Eleven

Jerome, Arizona, once known as the "wickedest town in the west" is now visited by ghost hunters trying to prove it really is inhabited by beings from the other side.  Once close to abandoned completely, it has been revitalized as a destination for tourists with many thriving shops, the famously haunted Grand Hotel, and a view that is priceless.

Situated on the side of a mountain with Route 89 twisting and turning its way through the town, Jerome is bustling with activity yet the faded buildings reveal a place steeped with history.  Inquiries pointed us to a small road leading out of town a short distance, to an old gold mine and the "real" ghost town.  A weathered store front surrounded by abandoned vehicles, rusting tools and mining equipment proclaimed itself "open" so we wandered in.

"Can I help you?" came from the back of the interior as we pushed the old screen door open and entered.

"Are you real?" I asked in the direction of the voice. In this place so far removed from civilization it seemed highly possible one of the ghosts we'd heard so much about might be running the place.  A young girl stepped out of the shadows; she smiled and seemed real enough.  Bluegrass music was playing on some unseen audio equipment.  The wooden floorboards looked ancient but the merchandise was all tourist tripe.  We picked up a few baubles for the grandkids and asked about the self-guided tour advertised on the door leading out the back of the store.  It seemed the older one was, the cheaper the tour.  For Paul and I it was $5.00 a piece.

Someone had told me to be sure and pay the $10.00 to hear them start up Big Bertha.  I had no idea who she was, but I obediently asked the young lady how we get her started up.  She indicated the back door.  "Just have someone out there start her for you."  Since there was no evidence of another living person on the planet besides my brother John, his wife, Paul, myself and the young girl, I was fully intrigued.

The four of us stepped through the old squeaking screen door and into another world untouched by time for the past hundred years.  The path was lined with more rusting tools, I assumed more mining equipment.  We came upon a leaning wooden building with signs indicating it belonged to the resident dentist.  The door was wide open so we made free to enter.  By the looks of it, the Doctor walked out one day and never came back.  All the tools of the trade used before the comforts of Novocaine and laughing gas were in vogue, lay scattered about, covered with a thick layer of dust and grime.  Being afraid of my own dentist, armed as he is with all the modern pain-relieving drugs, I felt a shiver travel up my spine at the small, peeling board that advertised bargain rates for multiple tooth extractions.  With implements of torture arranged on a rusting tray and the leather from the chair moth-eaten and corrupt, as they say, it looked like the perfect setting for a Hitchcock film.

Passing further into the twilight zone we saw more buildings, all weather-beaten and leaning here and there.  No sign of life anywhere as we wandered up and down the various pathways, but we did find Big Bertha with a sign advertising the cost of getting her running.  A huge metal contraption that Paul says may have provided power to run the mine, sat housed on a platform in a three-sided lean-to.

Two men materialized but paid us scant attention.   I called out that we want to see Bertha run.  One of them said, "Okay as soon as I get the sawmill warmed up."  He then proceeded to start up another contraption behind me,with belts flapping and a motor putt-putting.  I could almost see the OSHA people squirm in  anticipation of coming horrors.

The backside of Bertha with the man who makes her tick.

We milled about, waiting.. . and waiting.. . and waiting.  Finally the sawmill fellow took my ten dollars and tried to make Bertha sing.  She was obstinate and uncooperative.  After a time another man appeared, by the look of him, straight out of the old west, and took over the Bertha Operation.  In spite of, or maybe because of, his grizzled, unkempt, appearance, I had total confidence in his ability to handle the stubborn  grey hulk that was Bertha.  He had grey hair flowing down his back and clothes that looked like they had withstood the test of time. And he did know how to beat Bertha into submission.  The belching backfires, according to her handler, could be heard from thirty miles away.  From my sudden onset of deafness, I have no doubt he was telling the truth.

While our eardrums recovered we strolled around looking into sheds.  We peeked into the hole that was the entry to the old mine and discussion ensued on potential incentives to explore the gaping black abyss behind the dilapidated fence.  I have yet to hear a price sufficient to induce me into the claustrophobic darkness of that mine shaft.  The stuff of nightmares, that's what abandoned mines are.

We came upon some chickens and goats, fenced in among the ruins outside the mine entry.  Speculating as to who would take care of the animals in this abandoned place, we noticed a small sign proclaiming a private residence, indistinguishable from the rest of the ghostly dwellings and we realized this place wasn't empty. Another rusting sign read: "Trespassers will be shot.  Survivors will be shot again." And the little hairs on my neck that felt like they were being watched, probably were.

We managed to find our way back to the parking lot, through the little store, and we drove back to Jerome.  I felt like I had escaped something otherworldly.

We ate at a beautiful little bistro called Quince and I had to try the Avocado Pie.  It sounded gross, so I ordered it to see if it was.  It turned out to be quite tasty.  Like a cross between cheesecake and pudding-filled pie with only the slightest hint of avocado taste.  Proof once again that adding enough sugar to almost anything makes it edible.

We drove on toward Prescott and the road was a curving, majestic snake, winding its way around hairpin turns with sheer drops off one side and steep rocks on the other.  I rarely get carsick but I was popping Dramamine before we got off the last mountain.

We passed through horse country and saw beautiful farms, fenced in with white rails. Eventually we made it to Phoenix and found our hotel where we connected with relatives arriving from all over the country and Canada, all looking forward to our real reason for this trip:  family reunion in Black Canyon City the following two days.

We finished a full day by eating at a place called The Buffalo Chip Saloon.  The food was great but we left before the bull riding contest started.  No, I am not joking.  Actual bull-riding.  At a restaurant.  If we wouldn't have had family we wanted to visit, I would have loved to stay and see the mayhem.

Arizona, Day Eight, Nine, and Ten.

After breakfast at LaBellavia, a perfect little local spot tucked off the main drag, we searched out Sunset Crater, the site of a thousand-year-old volcano twenty miles north of Flagstaff and were duly impressed with the river of lava frozen in time for over ten centuries.  Seeing that liquid rock flow down the mountains would have been heart-stopping; even all these years later its awesome destructive power taxes the imagination.  John, Paul and I trudged to the top of a nearby mountaintop, lungs burning from the thin air.  The view from the summit was well worth the effort.

Sedona!  I've heard about it many times and always with the same promise. Unmatched scenery that will leave me speechless.  Not an exaggeration. The drive from Flagstaff to Sedona on Route 89 was indeed incredible.  The red rocks with contrasting deep green growth of trees and vegetation are beautiful.  The sheer magnitude of the mountains, cliffs, and canyons cannot be described adequately; it needs to be seen to be believed. It literally almost brought me to tears and I don't tear up frivolously.  Enough said.

We made arrangements to meet cousin Dorothy and her husband for supper and upon the recommendations of a few locals we had a wonderful meal at Cafe Jose's followed by frozen yogurt from a unique, serve-yourself place across the street named Zainey's. There were twelve flavors.  Run-of-the-mill flavors like strawberry and chocolate mixed with not-so-normal varieties like cake batter and cookie dough. A bar of toppings held things I've never heard of before.  All delectable. We waddled out holding our swelling bellies, vowing to return.

And then, after a good night's sleep, we turned our car toward Montezuma's Castle.  Set high above the ground in a sheer face wall, the Sinagua people carved their homes into the rocks more than 800 years ago. No one knows why they abandoned a place that is still impressive all these centuries later.  My mind was filled with possibilities, most of them somewhat creepy.

Moving on, we returned to Sedona and found the "church on the rock".  High on a hill, with windows reaching from floor to ceiling, the little chapel has breathtaking views.  I'm not sure how anyone can concentrate on anything the preacher has to say.  Maybe he doesn't say anything.  Maybe the congregation just gazes out the window in silence.  In truth, that would be a better sermon than some I've heard. We finally tore ourselves away and moved on.  But not before noting the address of the monstrosity of a mansion someone built immediately below the Chapel of the Holy Cross. I felt compelled to investigate whose it is and how it came to be there.

If you're interested, here's a link to the information I found on "the house". http://sedonablog.blogspot.com/2008/02/sedonas-huge-house-by-chapelwho-really.html.  I assumed the house was there before the church, but discovered it's the other way around. I fail to comprehend why anyone with limitless money would want to live where thousands of people will look down on everything happening on their property.  Exhibitionism on a grand scale. I found interior photographs indicating time spent watching HGTV for decor tips would be in order.  Pink and gold are all good when it comes to little girls and financial investments, but as a design color palate they leave me wanting.

We drove more back roads thus cleansing our minds of the pollution brought on by "the house" and ate a picnic lunch at yet another pull-off.  On the advice of fellow-hikers from Flagstaff we sought out a unique shopping area in the city called Tlaquepaque.  Saying the name is as fun as visiting the place.  It's an enclosed shopping and restaurant complex that looks like a small South American town.  Giant sycamore trees provide shade and the buildings are designed around them, their white-barked limbs literally rising up through the walls and courtyards.

Evening found us at the local airport, perched high atop one of the beautiful Sedona mountains.  We were told to see the sunset from there.  But it was not to be.  After a sunny, warm day, thick clouds rolled in, bringing with them a chilling wind and obscuring any sun, setting or otherwise.  The views were amazing anyway.  We said goodbye to one of the most beautiful places I've ever been and consoled ourselves with more frozen yogurt at Zainey's.

Arizona, Days Six, and Seven

I could write a lengthy article on the Hoover Dam. But I recommend you travel to where Arizona meets Nevada and see it for yourself.  More than eight miles of tunnels, countless man-hours of work, thousands of tons of concrete, incredible genius and ingenuity resulting in the harnessing of the mighty Colorado.  I always thought it was done to provide electricity for millions of people; it turns out that was just a byproduct of the real goal:  water management.  All-too-frequent floods and, conversely, devastating droughts held large portions of seven states hostage.  Now this same destructive power is used to provide electricity for those states and part of Mexico.

Having learned all these facts, what did I find most amazing?  This mammoth dam is floating, held in place by the water itself.  Somewhere in there is a life lesson.  The water is holding itself captive.  Think on that for awhile and I believe you will grasp a truth about our own captivities.

My brother John and I climbed to the new bridge above the dam, so high above those eight miles of tunnels, the people scurrying below looked like ants running about.  Big rigs hurtled across the span on the new bypass, causing the entire structure to shudder.  Incredible rock formations towered even higher into the bluest of blue skies, confirming my own status as a microscopic speck in the universe at large. Time to move on to the next adventure.

It's always fun to see places I've heard so much about and Route 66 was no exception.  We stopped for ice-cream mid-afternoon at a quaint establishment in a small town whose name I can't remember.  The entryway was covered with business cards, ceiling, walls, and I suspect the floor would have been had it been logistically possible. Our own card now resides there as well.

The eatery's owner had aspirations as a comedian and I have to admit he made us laugh.  He offered Paul mustard and shot yellow silly string all over,  getting the desired result.  He kept a running stream of silliness going until our cones were ready and we retreated outside to the brightly colored, appropriately shabby tables and chairs scattered about under a 50s metal awning.  Old cars and trucks were tucked amongst the trees, many of them painted with eyes to look like the characters from the movie Cars.  The town itself looked like it was straight out of the same movie.  And everything appeared to have been there, virtually untouched, for decades.  I suspect that may be the case.

We reached Flagstaff, cold, crisp, and judging by the ear-popping, much higher in altitude than Phoenix.  Arizona is a state full of contradictions.  Desert expanses with dry riverbeds, stark, hot, and arid.  Elevations with snow, towering pines, green hillsides and pastures.  Cities teeming with life and wilderness with no sign of habitation for miles.

After a good night's sleep we were ready to see one of the few natural wonders visible from space: the Grand Canyon.  We stopped at every pull-off and over-look.  We oohh-ed, we ahhhh-ed, we gaped, we acknowledged repeatedly there are no words to describe what we were seeing.  And it was true.

Why is it there are always people who have to prove they can dangle off the edge of overhanging rocks, a mile above the canyon floor?  Do they really think we are all impressed?  We're not.  My first instinct is to get away quickly, before they fall and I feel obligated to do something about it.  Fortunately we did not witness any deadly endings to the actions of idiots.

Paul and I hiked a short (very short) distance down one of the trails cut into the edge of a canyon wall.  And I have an addition for my bucket list.  I want to hike all the way down and, of course, back up.  From the burning in my chest on this little trek, I realize a major conditioning campaign needs to proceed this effort.  And Paul has assured me he will not be joining me in the conditioning nor the hike.  

We drove through miles of barren territory, close to the Navajo reservation, contemplating the decision of our forefathers to so generously give the Native American people only what land the government could find no possible use for.  Empty booths were set up at frequent intervals, most likely used for flea market stalls during tourist season.  From the barren look of the desolate landscape and the run-down buildings that passed for homes, income prospects in the area would seem to be bleak.

Spying yet another turn-off, miles outside the park, we pulled in and strolled to the edge of more canyons, dropping with frightening suddenness, thousands of feet to the rocks below.  Bordering the precipices, more booths were set up and a few displayed wide selections of turquoise jewelry with Navajo women creating original pieces as they waited for the few buyers that straggled by.  I left with several beautiful works of art to remind me of a proud nation, virtually destroyed by the greed and avarice of my own race.  I felt shame for us. I felt sadness for them. I felt admiration as well, for the fierce survival instincts and strength of will that have kept them from extinction.

Miles down the road we stopped at an isolated outpost for coffee.  I was leaving when I heard my name.  Relieved to know I wasn't hearing voices that weren't there I saw my cousin Dorothy from Ohio, also in Arizona for the upcoming reunion.  We hugged, we laughed, and we exclaimed over the strangeness of life that chanced our paths to cross so many miles from home and in such a remote location.

Arizona, Days Four and Five

On day four of our Great Adventure we slept in, or I should say I slept in.  Paul doesn't sleep in.  He is one of those people who can bounce out of bed in the morning, all cheery and annoying.  I need time.  Lots of it.  And coffee.  Lots of it.

About an hour away, on the other side of Phoenix, lives Paul's niece.  I believe I mentioned in a long-ago blog that we have family in virtually every corner of the globe.  So of course we wanted to visit and she graciously made us feel most welcome.

Janice took us to Betty's Nosh Mushroom Bar.  An Excellent choice.  We dined on delectable stuffed mushrooms and caught up on years of happenings in her life and ours.  She offered to play chauffeur when we left for the airport to pick up more family, this time my brother and his wife arriving from Virginia. 

After the airport, it was off to The Cheesecake Factory where pastry indulgences bordering on the sinful found their way into our digestive systems.  My Facebook friends accuse me of doing little else on vacation but eat.  I admit it is at the top of my list.  There are few things more enjoyable than enjoying delicious food with those we love.  Anyone who adheres to a diet on vacation should not go on vacation.  But I digress. . .

Having left the cold blustery winds of Ohio behind for the warmth and sunshine of the southwest, our moods kept pace with the climate.  We strolled down well-lit sidewalks, filled with other pedestrians out enjoying a lovely Saturday evening about town and we knew, as my granddaughter loves to say, this is the life.

Easter Sunday found us heading north with my brother John and his wife. This may have been the only Easter ever I was not in church celebrating the resurrection of Jesus.  I have learned worship and celebration are not restricted to a building or place.  In fact, experiencing the beauty of God's creation can be its own worship experience from time to time. 

The plan was to tour the Hoover Dam on Monday before turning east toward the Grand Canyon.  We stayed the night in Kingman, the last town of any significant size between Phoenix and the dam. When we asked the waitress at the local diner what she would recommend in the area for sightseeing she assured us there was nothing to see.  I remain convinced there was plenty but her jaded outlook prevented her from seeing anything of interest around her.  Probably the same way I tend to be in my hometown, which, by the way, happens to be one of the most popular tourist destinations in Ohio.

Janice had told us to search out the historical section of downtown; it would be a great place to stroll about, stop for a drink, enjoy the architecture and scenery.  We drove aimlessly about for an hour with no luck and had pretty much concluded that this city had no downtown and maybe the waitress knew what she was talking about.  Since it was Sunday, the tourist bureau was closed along with many other businesses so we overcame our boredom with banana splits from Sonic and plans for an early start the next day. 

Arizona, Day Three

Another beautiful day in Arizona.  I hear it's possible to get tired of the sun, but I am skeptical.

Boothill and Tombstone are today's destinations.  The stuff of legends and all that. Legends have a tendency to infuse the facts with romance and intrigue, leaving out the stench of reality.

Boothill overlooks a panoramic view of desert and mountain ranges, breathtakingly beautiful, raw and stark. Over two hundred bodies lay beneath the mounds of rocks heaped up to discourage predators.  The grave markers elicit a mixture of gallows humor and muted melancholy.

The late 1800s seem especially deadly.  Infants succumb to diseases that are treatable today. Two  young brothers, drown, one trying to save the other.  One especially well-marked site, surrounded by decorative cast iron fencing is the final resting place of a new mother, dead from an overdose of chloroform given during childbirth.

Then there are the hangings, stabbings, shootings, murders in general, and suicides.  One marker reads:

Here lies George Johnson

Hanged by mistake in 1882

He was right and we was wrong 

But we strung him up and now he's gone 

It seems poor George innocently bought a stolen horse and was mistaken for the thief.  It is easy to forget these were people not so different from us; they lost their lives during a violent time in an unforgiving and harsh landscape, far from law, justice, or medicine.

The desert town of Tombstone sprang up to serve the men working the silver mines in the desolation and heat of the southwest.  The real money-makers were the merchants and pimps.  Soiled doves, as the ladies of the night were called, worked from dawn to dusk, plying their trade for virtually nothing, trying to survive, while their handlers made fortunes.  Many of the girls eventually died of alcohol and drug-related illnesses. Some died of disease, others of suicide.  A few made their own fortune and managed to escape back to "civilized society." I study their faded photographs and wonder at the story that brought each of them to this place.

Movies like Tombstone glamorize the town's harsh history with heroes like Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday.  Were they heroes? Or villains?  It's impossible to say.  Whatever they were, it affects me to see the place they lived and died. 

The Birdcage Theater raises the hair on my neck, or at least it feels like it as I walk through the dim, musty rooms, largely untouched since the long-dead residents of Tombstone worked and played in them. Courage and grit, violence and abuse played their hands here.  I see the table that hosted more than eight years of non-stop poker, played 24/7.   Cards and chips still lay scattered and the smell of old dust and forgotten memories permeate the place with a stifling and oppressive aura. I can feel them here, the men and women of legend who once filled these rooms.

Nine years after it opened, a flood shut down the theater.  It remained locked for fifty years, until it was reopened as a museum, although mausoleum might be the more accurate term. I am relieved to get back into the sunshine, to see the actors staging drama on the town's streets.  Wyatt and his brothers come back to life as they harass the McLowrys and set the stage for the upcoming shoot-out that kills three men, all buried now at Boothill.

I am glad I came. And I am glad to leave. The weathered boards and stone walls held in place with straw and mud, crumbling after more than a century, leave an impression on me I can't shake.  The shoot-em-up westerns fail to convey the truth.  The sacrifices and sorrows of those who pioneered the harsh and unforgiving landscapes of the west can be sensed in Tombstone.  The determination and unflagging spirit of the men and women who dealt not in a fantasy of legends, but in the bitterness of reality, is a tangible presence in this old desert town where death stalked both young and old, righteous and evil, men and women.  What courage to face the unknown! 

They must have been heroes after all.

Arizona, Day Two

Today we visited Tortilla Flats.  Tucked between towering outcroppings of rocks, old buildings lined one side of the road, blending new, touristy attractions with weathered buildings, supposedly dating back to the late 1800s.  A man dangled from his neck by a rope, moving gently above the doorway of the souvenir/ ice-cream shop.  Closer inspection showed it was most likely a dummy.  An ancient bathtub outside the front door made claims to having Wyatt Earp bathe therein.  Since there is no way to prove or disprove this we decided to believe it since that seemed the fun thing to do.

Strolling down the rickety boardwalk we ate lunch at a quaint little restaurant, lined from ceiling to floor and wall to wall with one-dollar bills, each bearing the name of the person who put it up for display.  The rafters, the ceiling, every available surface was covered.  Lunch was delicious and the atmosphere was all we could have hoped for.

Back out in the sun, I saw my first Saguaro (pronounced swhor-oh) spine.  My niece and her husband had been telling us about them, but I was amazed when I actually saw one.  Looking like a large, hollow driftwood log, riddled with holes and fissures, it gave the impression of having washed up on a beach somewhere.  Except the color was a reddish brown, whereas most driftwood is greyish white.  Since Saguaro are native only to Arizona, they are strictly protected so the spines can only be procured from cacti that are already dead.  This makes them rare and valuable finds.

Inside we enjoyed a break from the already stifling heat, sheltered as we were from any breeze chancing to find its way down the canyon.  Prickly pear ice-cream, made from cactus by the same name, reminded me of strawberries.

Back on the road we wound our way to a small mining town from back in the day.  Just a short distance from Phoenix, it looked like it was miles from anywhere.  Surrounded by stark wilderness and mountains, it set my imagination alive, thinking what it must have been like to live in such a place without ready access to water and air-conditioning.  Being addicted to showers on demand, I would have been a less-than-stellar pioneer woman.  After watching a shoot-out in the streets we retreated to our cool and comfy car and headed to our final destination for the day.

Supper at the Mining Camp Restaurant was a modern re-creation of Old West eating.  With tin cups, plates, and glasses set on long tables in a room lit with lanterns (electric, but dim and nostalgic- looking), we wolfed down beans from a cast iron pot and put away large quantities of BBQ'd ribs, chicken and slaw.

After filling our bellies way too full, we got an unforgettable look at the Superstition Mountains at dusk, just outside the door.  Well, they were probably miles away, but the looked close by.  The easily visible blackened area, high overhead, was eerie evidence of a plane crash some years ago, just one of the many tales that lend the mountain its name.

Arizona, April, Day One

We left home last Wednesday morning in the wee hours for our latest cross-country adventure.  The Byler branch of my vast family tree is having a reunion in Black Canyon City, Arizona.  These reunions not only afford a wonderful time with seldom-seen family but provide an excellent excuse to take a few weeks to play tourists.  It's our turn to be obnoxious, avoid using turn-signals, drive at least 15 miles per hour under the speed limit, ask dumb questions, and make general nuisances of ourselves.  And we do it well.

Our airport experience, for once, afforded no fodder for a good story.  We entertained ourselves by sending photos of Paul and his man bag (his idea, by the way, lest you think I mock him without his consent) to our friends.  Everything went smoothly and on schedule; we even scored upgrades to seats with more leg-room.  The plane was devoid of any crying infants and the flight-attendants were friendly and catered to our every whim.  We left Cleveland at 8:46 AM and landed in  Phoenix shortly after 10:00; a miracle of modern flight and changing time zones.

Then, things started to get interesting.  The car-rental guy tried his best to talk us into extra insurance (37 plus a day), extra driver, me, (10.00 a day), a bigger car (9.00 a day) and one or two other needless additions.  We haggled, ie, Paul asked polite questions and I used my sarcasm to it's best advantage.

Car man: You don't want to try to make it up those mountains to the canyon in a four-cylinder.  Paul: are you saying it isn't capable of getting us up those roads?  Me: We'll get out and push then. I assured Car Man we will not be increasing our car size at the seemingly going rate of 1.5 million.  He assured us there is NO WAY he can do anything extra for us at Paul's offer of $100.00 more than our reservation contract AND he said they are completely sold out of cars.  We left with a bigger car (surprise, surprise) and a two-driver contract for  95.00 more.

Phoenix greeted us with sunny skies, warm temperatures, and the promise of no rain.  For two winter-weary Ohioans, a literal oasis in the desert.  We spent the  evening with my niece, her husband and a cutie-pie grandson.  Swimming, BBQ brats, catching up on twenty years of life. As long-time residents of Apache Junction, they had a full itinerary planned for our enjoyment over the next two days.  Fun times. 

Relaxation is gradually becoming more than just an abstract concept.

Miracles in Winter

If you dislike sentimentality, you may want to skip this post.  I generally don't meander down that road but the past three weeks have made it impossible to avoid. Twenty days ago I looked into the eyes of the son of my son.  And he took me to places long forgotten.

Thirty-two years have passed since our firstborn landed into our domestic bliss.  What plans I had when I first held him!  I would raise up this child the way children SHOULD be raised.  I would not make the mistakes of my parents.  I would show love when love was needed and discipline when firmness was in order.  I would provide this child with all the opportunities he deserved and he would grow up to conquer the world. My resolve was replaced by exhaustion before the first fortnight was over but in spite of his perfect upbringing my son has grown into a man I am proud of.  In hindsight, I can appreciate the wisdom of the two people whose mistakes I vowed not to repeat.

Three decades later I hold my grandson and remember, like it was yesterday, as they say, how I felt when I first held my son.  What is it about this helpless, tiny person that confirms the existence of God to me?  No cosmic coincidence has dropped this dependent little creature, perfectly formed and already with a mind of his own, into my life.  After counting fingers and toes and feeling relief the numbers add up correctly, I confirm all other features are in their proper place and notice the resemblance to various family members, happily, mostly the ones I like.  Yes, there is a God.

Ask any grandmother and they will tell you their grandchild is the smartest, prettiest, most amazing creature ever made.  If they are too modest to verbalize it, they will think it nonetheless.  I confess, I am not above this particular blindness.  This child of my child, with his black, sticky-up hair, dark eyes, olive skin and pouty mouth, is without equal among mortals. Excepting of course two seven-year-old girls, one his sister and the other his cousin .

Nine days later my daughter calls just after midnight to tell me it is time.  Before nightfall of the same day, the daughter of my daughter arrives.  Another bundle of perfection.  Another confirmation of God's existence.  Another trip down a long lane of memories.

I feel supremely blessed these days.  The past three decades hold many wonderful times.  They also hold times I would like to forget, much less repeat.  The children I vowed to protect with my life grew old enough to make their own decisions. I watched for a decade as my own little girl, grown-up, but still my little girl, passed through valleys that would have challenged the strongest among us.  She came through with a strength that humbled me and brought with her a baby girl of her own, the first of my beautiful granddaughters. Proof that difficult times come with their own compensations.

It is impossible to prevent all negative experiences from touching those you love.  Many times I wondered why God had ever trusted me with another life.  When my failures to protect, to guide, to do the right thing, fell woefully short. When all I wanted to do was keep the world at bay. I would make a much better parent now then I did then.  Herein lies the conundrum: I would make a better parent now because I practiced in blissful ignorance on my own children for years.  Thanks to the mercy of God, they came through relatively unscathed.  I hope. 

And within the span of nine days we have two new miracles to enjoy.  Two more small bundles of sweetness and warmth.  Two little bodies that will grow until they, too, reach independence.  How wonderful and how frightening.  Nothing and no one has more power to inflict pain and joy into the heart of a mother and a grandmother than those whose lives gave her the titles in the first place.