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.

Christmas

I remember my father standing at the white enamel stove in our old country farmhouse, stirring his sugary candy mixture until it formed just the right consistency.  To my ten-year-old mind it seemed he nursed along his concoction for hours until it was perfect.  Then it was cooled and rolled into balls while he melted chocolate in the old double-boiler.  Finally the fun part:  dipping the candy into the rich brown coating with a fork from which he removed the two inner tines, bending the outer ones to form a perfect scoop.  As soon as the chocolate hardened I was allowed a taste or two.  They were so sweet even I couldn't eat more than a few at a time.

Since we lived in the snow belt of northern Ohio, just miles from Lake Erie, we were assured of snow.  As the wind howled outside the kitchen windows, wrapping itself around the eaves and trying its best to find entry, we were snug as could be, munching on Christmas delicacies and waiting with anticipation for my older brothers and sisters to arrive with their families.  They were scattered across several different states and we rarely saw them more than once or twice a year.

While our neighbors' houses boasted beautiful lights and Christmas trees with presents beneath, we had no decorations of any kind.  Our church forbade anything that smacked of secularism surrounding the birth of Christ. Since I was from a family of meager income and many siblings, gifts were also not done. I looked longingly at the forbidden, marveling at the bright colors and  wondering what lay wrapped under the beautiful trees shining behind the uncovered windows.

When my nieces and nephews arrived with their parents I forgot all about what we didn't have.  Our house was filled with chaos, fun, and laughter.  And always plenty of food.  While the adults caught up with each other on the happenings in their lives, we kids played.  There were no video games, no TV, not even a radio.  Not because I'm so old they didn't exist, (well, okay, the video games had yet to be invented) but because, along with the decorations, we were not permitted any of those worldly distractions.  There were board games like Sorry and Carom.  There was hide-n-go-seek and leap-frog and whatever other game we made up on the spot.  And there were always tall tales to be told and books to be read.

As the years passed, the last of my siblings left the old farmhouse and started families of their own.  After Paul and I married Christmas was still celebrated with my parents and my brothers and sisters. No longer in the old farmhouse, but still with the chocolate-drop candy and all the fun and games of tradition.  When our son and daughter were still toddlers both my parents passed away and everything changed.

With the feelings of loss and sadness came the resolve within our own little family that it was time to start a few traditions of our own, Christmas customs our children could remember when they reached adulthood and maybe some they could even carry on in their own families someday.

Probably in part because of the restrictions of my own childhood, I embraced the enthusiastic decorating of our house, inside and out, starting the day after Thanksgiving.  While Paul grew up in a household even more restrictive than mine, he somehow failed to grasp the importance of the decorations and the role they played in a truly fulfilling Christmas experience.  When I insisted on a trip to the local pine tree farm to cut down our own tree, Paul and the kids cooperated but made free to verbalize their reluctance to find the perfect tree.  Any tree would do for them, certainly the closer to the car the better.  I insisted on a search that usually lasted until we were all rosy-cheeked and numb from the cold.  We followed this with a steaming hot-chocolate in the old barn where the trees were wrapped and paid for.  The complaining usually evaporated at this point.

Another tradition was started by one of our neighbors.  Wouldn't it be fun, she said, to have the whole neighborhood put out luminaries on Christmas Eve.  And she even gave us all a hand-out on the meaning of the luminaries.  The history of these candle-lit bags can be traced back to the 16th century when they were placed along the roadway to help people find their way to midnight mass.  Later they were used to symbolically remember Joseph and Mary as they tried to find a place to have baby Jesus.  And they look pretty.  So most of our neighbors enthusiastically embraced the placing of the lights along their property and now our area of town resembles an airstrip on Christmas Eve, even though the person who started it all has long since moved away.

While Paul did his share of complaining the first twenty years or so, even he has gamely continued with the lights.  Our daughter always helped him to carve the openings in the milk jugs and place the sand inside to hold the candles. Both our children are now married with children of their own. Soon it will be our granddaughter taking the place of her mother, helping her pappy with the lights. And, because of the lights, the kids spend the night here on Christmas Eve, with a walk after supper to admire the neighborhood in the cold winter air.

And then there are the tarts.  We live in a neighborhood whose population has changed little in the past thirty years.  At least in our immediate corner.  And we like to give each other little treats during the holidays. The lovely lady who began the luminaries has given us a pastry wreath every year for decades, even continuing since her move to a different part of town.  Pecan tarts are my delicacy of choice.  Paul and our oldest granddaughter made the rounds;  Kara, dressed in her red velvet Christmas coat, enthusiastically belted out a verse of We Wish You A Merry Christmas and then handed over a tin of tarts to each of the wonderful people we are privileged to live among..  They in turn graciously praised her efforts and made one seven-year-old young lady feel like a rock star. 

I have heard a lot about the commercialization of Christmas, and I know there is truth in what is said.  Yet, I can't help but be amazed and delighted that over two thousand years after the birth of our savior in a humble town and in even more humble surroundings, most of the western world celebrates this event in one way or another.  Call it what you like, bemoan the failure of us all to celebrate it in a manner you may think appropriate, it is still being celebrated.  Name any other person ever born whose arrival induces millions of people to spend over a month preparing for the party.

Old Photos

Tonight I saw an old photo of some friends, taken in the 70s. Yikes, "old" is actually accurate when talking about the 1970s. How is that possible? That would mean I'm getting on in years and that can't be right.

In 1976 I married Paul. He was 21 and had already been living on his own for four years. I was 18. Barely. And I had been living on my own for just under a year.

We head to the courthouse to get our marriage license. It's back in the days when it takes two weeks for the license to come through, so I am still, technically, seventeen. But since our wedding is four days AFTER my eighteenth birthday that shouldn't be a problem, right? Uh, wrong. The dour, humorless number behind the counter assured us with the stern, self-righteous backing of the law that we cannot even apply for a license until both parties are legally of an age to do so. We explain that all the preparations are made. The preacher is booked, the reception hall is reserved. Deposits have been made. Plans are set.

"Too bad." she says and I have the strong feeling she is thoroughly enjoying her power in all its minuteness, although her face gives no evidence of ever having experienced joy of any sort. "Unless a parent or legal guardian signs for you, there will be no wedding."

"Well," Paul says immediately, probably to stave off my rising panic, "That's no big deal. We'll just get married anyway and come back for a license after she's eighteen."

It is satisfying to see the look of horror on the face of the Joyless One. And she is speechless. Also satisfying to both Paul and I. We do an about-face out the door and four days after my eighteenth birthday I became a married woman. At least in the eyes of God and that's all that really matters to either of us.

True to our word, we are back in the courthouse several weeks later where we apply for a license to do what we have already done. Thirty-five years later, it appears the marriage "took" since neither one of us is entertaining the slightest notion of giving up on it. I mean, really, would I seriously want to move on and be forced to learn all the quirks and habits (both pleasant and uncouth) of another person? Even worse, would I want to subject myself to the discovery, by any other man, of all my idiosyncrasies. I think not.

I know a lot of people would think we got married too young. And I would tend to agree. However, there is something to be said for growing up with each other. Neither one of us was so maturely molded into a certain mind-set that changing came at the risk of self-destruction. Instead, we stumbled along, making lots of mistakes but leaning on each other with the total confidence of youthful ignorance, in the ability of the other to hold us up. And usually we succeeded. Had we known better we probably wouldn't have made it. Of course it helped that we both entered this union with no thought that anything short of death would ever get us out of it. Fear of our families came only a very slight second to our fear of God in that regard.

So where are we now? Slightly beyond middle age and getting ever more comfortable with each other. Not to say we never enthusiastically discuss things with opposing views at high volume. We are both verbal creatures. We are both opinionated. Sometimes in opposite directions. No matter. We agree on what matters in the long run. Religion and politics.

And we are both far too stubborn to become statistics. We enjoy many of the same hobbies together. We allow each other to enjoy a few hobbies independently. We enjoy reading in bed, sometimes late into the night. We enjoy going out for dinner and a movie, even though our tastes in said movie often differs. We travel together by car, by plane, by motorcycle. He emails me political commentary. I email him jokes. We rail at one and laugh at the other. So the obsessive, possessive, rather suffocating "in love" of youth is history? Now there is strength that can be counted upon to stay immovable during the storms. A love that's exclusive even though I've gained weight and he's bald.

We have countless good memories outweighing the bad. We've been together more than twice as long as we haven't. The knowledge that we are together in the good, the bad, and the ugly is something that can't be traded for anything.

And all this from seeing one old photo.

John

Paul and I attended the funeral of a friend on Monday.

We were invited to John's 80th birthday party, the day before he was buried. He was one of the most influential people in our lives; Paul says he doesn't know where he'd be if it weren't for John. But maybe I should start at the beginning.

Over thirty-five years ago, when Paul was nineteen, he moved to Holmes County, to start a new life. When he was younger still, he had told his old-order Amish family that someday he was going to get a guitar and he was going to play it in church. They found this highly amusing, and Paul later admitted to me that he, himself, had never heard of such a thing as anyone playing a guitar in church. Unsure where his desire had come from, he nurtured it none-the-less, buying a guitar and struggling to learn a chord or two. Musical instruments were strictly verbotin in his parents' house, as was pretty much anything that smacked of enjoyment. So he left, when he was seventeen, to work for an "English" farmer. Eventually he made his way to Ohio, where he met John.

One evening, through his open window, he heard the music. Guitars, drums, and singing. What it lacked in perfection it more than made up in enthusiasm and he was drawn to it like a fly to honey. The sound was coming from a small, nondescript building with a sign boldly proclaiming it to be the Berlin Gospel Tabernacle. He watched as people loaded their various instruments into a small white trailer with "Johnny's Gospel Team" emblazoned on the side. He watched as the old car pulled out with trailer in tow, off to some unknown place, full of fun and singing, no doubt.

Paul says he was pretty disillusioned about religion, having had an unhealthy, dysfunctional, and legalistic form of it shoved down his throat from the day he was born. One day, though, he couldn't stay away any longer. Venturing into the little white building he saw something he had never before witnessed: guitars, music, and joyful singing. . .in church!

The small group of enthusiastic musicians welcomed him in and before long he was a part of them. They encouraged him to sit on the front pew and keep trying, to practice, to learn, until he could play along, although not very well. John teased Paul later about his lack of musical skill in the early days, but back then they had done nothing but encourage his determination, spurring him on.

An old girlfriend convinced Paul to go with her to visit her church. A congregation of souls who were no longer Amish, they drove cars and had electricity and telephones. And even more rules than the Amish they had left behind. After his second visit to the church, the preacher's wife mentioned her concern with the radio antenna on Paul's car, and the bicycle-print on his shirt. He shook the dust from his feet, as it were, and never looked back.

John was the first glimpse Paul had of a man who lived his faith, without dogma, without hypocrisy, without apology. John always said that even if there were no heaven, if there were no hell, Christianity would still be the best way to live life. And he proved it.

When Paul found himself needing a place to live, back when he was still pretty much alone in the small rural community, John and his wife Marie took him in. And then Paul got to see up close, what true religion really means. Complete acceptance of a stranger. No attempt to make him into their version of a cookie-cutter convert, they passed on the simple message that Jesus loved him enough, just the way he was, to die for him.

Later, when Paul and I decided to spend life together, John officiated at our wedding. And then it was my turn to learn what true religion is all about. A little white church filled with people who accepted me the way I was, and loved me through the hard times when I was not easy to love. We went to that church for over thirty years and we knew what it meant to have family. We learned what it had cost John and Marie to leave the comfort of their own families, and the churches they had grown up in, to start this little church. This church with the simple message of God's love for His people. Without dogma, without hypocrisy, without apology.

I've seen a lot of changes since that time in the little church. Over the course of years a larger building was erected, new people came, other people left, babies were born, including two of our own, older people died, and some not so old too. Eventually Paul and I moved on but some things didn't change. Even though life sent some storms his way John's love for his God never wavered. His corny jokes, his passion for his church, his love for his music, they were the same as they were all those years ago.

Someone said at his memorial service that we should all live lives worthy of a good funeral. John did. And I'm sure his 80th birthday was far better than it would have been had he been here.

My Brother Jonas

My sisters Barbara and Elizabeth and my brother John, along with two of their spouses and a daughter, were on their way to Missouri when the call came. They had planned this trip for a long time, to visit my brother Jonas who had been struggling with increasing health troubles. The plan was to take him fishing,to visit, relax, and enjoy just being together.

The call changed everything. Jonas was gone and there would be no visiting, fishing, or anything else, not with Jonas, not here, not ever again.

Paul and I had just returned from vacation and were catching up on things at home. I said only the day before I didn't know how I was possibly going to do everything I had committed to do in the next few days. It turns out it is possible to make time for what is really important, to rearrange the mediocre obligations of one's life, and the world does not cease to turn.

My Ohio siblings, brothers Tobe and Emanuel, my sister Sadie and I, made our plans quickly and set out early in the morning for Jonas' house seven hundred miles to the west. I had always said I should go visit, but I had never followed through. Interestingly, one can make the time to do the distance, when it comes right down to it. All the things I thought were so important, so obligatory, dissolved in an instant. There was never any thought of not going. To say good-by to the first one of my siblings to take the great journey into the next stage of life, well, it was unthinkable not to do it.

We arrived at our destination after dark and drove straight through town, pretty much missing it entirely. I called my brother Bill who had arrived earlier from SC, and he talked us through to the church. How we ever found anything before cell phones, I am not sure. Several miles down a dusty gravel road, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, we finally reached our destination. We were almost the last to arrive and were surrounded immediately with family from all corners of the country.

Jonas always loved family gatherings. Our biennial family reunion was an event he never missed. Until his health prevented him from coming to the last one. Someone called him from there and turns were taken to talk to him. His tears could be heard through the phone; he said he was so glad we called. I couldn't help but think how much he would have loved to be here, in the middle of all of us, handing out hugs and asking about the latest happenings in our lives. I wondered, as I often do at such occasions, if the departed are allowed to see how much they meant to all those they left behind.

After hellos and hugs all around, we were pointed to tables of food in the church basement, and we were thanked over and over again for coming. As if anyone could have prevented it. Even the crazy man in St. Louis, possessed by road-rage and possibly a demon or two, did not deter us in our journey. But that's a story for another day.

We finally left to go to our hotel. The only hotel around. And I think we filled it entirely. There were about 7 or 8 rooms, all left unlocked for us. An envelope on the night stand instructed us to leave our money in it when we left. The note on the office door said we were pretty much on our own. Two beds in each room left only space for one small stand between them, no lamps, just a wall sconce or two. One sink, one metal folding chair, and one tiny washroom with a tub and toilet. Simple but spotlessly clean. And to me, that's all that matters. I am and always will be a country girl at heart.

My siblings with spouses had their own rooms. Those of us who left our husbands and wives at home doubled up and settled in. My brother Bill and I, the two youngest, ended up roomies. He turned on the tiny TV which was suspended above my bed, I hoped securely, but we soon realized the sketchy reception on the two or so available channels negated any serious viewing. So we talked while we munched on the food he had, with wonderful foresight, packed along. He even had drinks packed in his ice-chest to wash it down. This, by the way, is a family trait. My father had an appreciation for good food. So do his children. But I'm heading down a rabbit trail. Hence the name of my blog.

I talked more to my brother that night than I had done in my whole life before. I realized the wealth my parents have given me. A wealth that has nothing to do with material things and is worth far more. Family members that will always look out for each other are truly priceless.

While we talked and ate and let our weariness take over, we got reacquainted. Separated over the years by age (a six-year difference is a big deal when you're kids, not so much when you pass the half-century mark), by distance, and by life in general, I discovered we have a lot in common and I wished it would not have taken Jonas passing to realize it.

The next day we all gathered at Jonas' house. It was filled to overflowing with brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, and friends. My nephew Delbert, Jonas' oldest son, encouraged us to share memories of our brother, and we did. Some made us laugh and some made us cry. I learned things I had never known before. I discovered he had joined the old-order Amish church in order to win his bride, Lydiann. I heard tales of his escapades with a wild horse and buggy ride that ended with a buggy in pieces and ammunition for years of story-telling. We talked of a frantic trip to the hospital when one of his sons was born, and the record-breaking speed of a flat tire change en route. We reminisced of his love for fishing and spending time with his children. I saw him in a new way. As a young man, fun-loving and full of life, free of the oxygen tank he had been forced to drag with him everywhere in the last few years of his life.

After a funeral at a small, packed country church we drove in procession down a long, dusty road to a graveyard tucked far from the highway. Under trees at the crest of a gently sloping hill, Jonas was laid to rest. I looked out across the hills and realized no finer place could there be to have as a final resting place. And I wondered if he could see us. Was he watching, along with his two sons, his father, and his two mothers who had gone on before? Or were they all too busy celebrating their reunion to think about those of us left behind? With each loved one that leaves this life, the future and all that lies beyond our ability to see, become more real to me. What sights are they seeing? What are they hearing? What incredible things are they experiencing?

As is the custom among some of our kind, family and friends took turns with the shovels, covering the casket with earth. The first time I saw this, it jarred me, seeming cruel in a way. But I've come to see it for what it is meant to be. A final act of respect and farewell. From dust we came and to dust we shall return, the scriptures tell us. And so it is.

I left that place determined to stay connected, to take those trips, to make those phone calls, to find the time for what's important. I left there determined to separate the trivial from the essential. I left there richer than when I came.