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.