Saying Goodbye

My Uncle Eli had been sick for a long time.  His hands were so gnarled with arthritis they were virtually useless.  At 91, his body was simply giving out.  All except his mind and his hearing.  Both were as sharp and acute as ever.  But finally he got his wish: to join his darling Amanda who had left him three years earlier when she passed on into real life.

When I was notified I immediately knew I wanted to make the trip to Florida to say good-bye.  And as things went, it all worked out.  I got the last plane ticket available at a super low price on one of those internet cheap ticket sites. Two of my cousins were on the same plane so I hitched a ride to the airport with them.  One of their daughters lives in Florida, so I had a ride at the other end as well.  Ohio friends with a business in Florida had a car available for me to use. And my Florida cousins offered us their recently vacated house to stay in while we were there.

I don't particularly enjoy flying.  It involves too many people in too small a space for too long.  And they won't open any windows so the air is stale.  Plus it's a really long way down if anything goes wrong.  The one hour, unexplained delay at the Cleveland airport did not help my nerves any.  I was imagining everything from hung-over pilots to bomb-sniffing dogs with my stomach getting tighter by the minute.  Then I heard my name paged overhead.

"Could we interest you in an exit-row seat?" the nice lady behind the counter asked me.  "We are trying to arrange seating to keep another group together"  Exit-row seating means a few more inches of space between me and the person in front of me.  And exit-row seating means I can be one of the first ones off should I want to abandon ship.  I mean, plane.  I thought about my cousin Lydia and how we had managed to finagle seats together when we bought our tickets.  Then I thought about those few precious inches of space.  I dumped Lydia and took the switch.  Visiting with a cousin I like (a lot) is no match for relief from my claustrophobia and I decided it was fate anyway.  I mean, what are the odds that I would be singled out for an upgrade from all the people on that plane?  It wouldn't have been right to slap that gift horse in the face.

After waiting over an hour we finally boarded the plane and I was informed by the elderly woman sitting one seat over that the problem was mechanical in nature.  This did not do anything to relax my abdominal knot.  She also informed me she had checked the flight manifest and the seat between us was empty.  Wow.  Leg room and an empty seat.  She already had her bag placed there, staking claim to her half of said seat.  I mentioned that my poor cousin is squished between two strangers a few rows back, but she gave me a blank stare and dared me with her eyes to try and change the situation.  I wilted back into my seat and tried to deal with my guilty conscience, living in luxury while Lydia tried to keep her elbows from entering her neighbors' spaces.  I dealt with it quickly and moved on.

There was a loud revving noise, unusual from any I had heard before in an airplane.  The little screens that had dropped from the ceiling and were reviewing the importance of placing your own mask before helping your baby with hers suddenly retreated back to the ceiling in mid-sentence.  The lights blinked on and off and all the little screens came back down and the tutorial resumed.  My knot tightened.

My seat mate proved to be a great conversationalist and we visited almost the whole way.  She was recovering from Cancer and had just completed chemo six months prior. The hair covering her head was curly rather than straight like before, she said.  We briefly touched on politics but I quickly realized if I didn't want to fight the urge to strangle her with my bare hands the conversation needed to veer from that subject.  So we talked careers.  She was a retired teacher. . .who hates to read. Is conundrum the right word here?  I should have asked her, I guess.

When we neared our journey's end, but before any noticeable drop in altitude, the landing gear ground out it's descent.  My companion commented that that was odd; we were still far too high to lower the landing gear.  I had been thinking the same thing.  She had a pilot-brother and a flight-attendant daughter so her comments carried weight.  My knot came back.  The flight-attendant, not her daughter, kept trying to communicate with us on our progress but the intercom was buzzing and it was difficult to hear.  He possessed a sense of humor which made us all laugh but I couldn't help but wonder if it was to distract us from our imminent crash landing.

We descended, made a turn, ascended and finally descended yet again, eventually landing safe and sound.  I don't think I was the only passenger that felt relief to be off that particular aircraft.

My cousin's daughter Katie was waiting to pick us up and wisk us to Sarasota.  Once there we connected with our loaner cars and made our way to see the Florida relatives, who greeted us with hugs and sincere welcomes all around.

I spent a week with my cousins and learned to know them in a way I had not before.  We shared memories of Uncle Eli and Aunt Amanda, both of whom would have loved hearing about our shady flight in.  I could almost hear them laughing when we talked about it amongst ourselves. 

We talked about the times we sang together at their house, when they were too frail to be out and about.  How much we all enjoyed belting out those old hymns they loved so much. The quality wasn't the best since we can't all be good singers, but we sang with gusto, nonetheless   (Yes, I'm talking about myself.)  My aunt and uncle spoke of heaven with anticipation and of meeting Jesus face to face in a way that made me long for it myself.

And we talked about what they must be doing now.  Greeting my parents who had gone on before, as well as the parents of some of my other cousins who were there.  How they must be enjoying themselves now!  What a party must be happening up there!  And we all speculated on what it must be like for Uncle Eli, to have strong, straight fingers once again, pain-free and dexterous.  I couldn't even remember a time when they looked like that.

And, of course, best of all, they were with Jesus, the One they couldn't wait to see face to face.

My week in Florida, celebrating the lives of two people I cared about very much, was unusual by the standards of most deaths.  These two people had been a great influence in my life.  They demonstrated, in a very real way, their great faith in a Savior who was as real to them as anyone of flesh and blood ever was.  Their passing was not a cause for deep mourning, even though they will surely be missed.  The loss is all ours.  The gain is all theirs.

As we walked the bridge spanning the bay separating Sarasota from Bird Key my cousin Dan and I talked about how much fun we were having and how glad Uncle Eli and Aunt Amanda would be to know that they were the reason we were all there together, enjoying ourselves. They would have been so pleased to hear our reminiscing and laughter.  They would have been so gratified to know they had caused our hearts to turn heavenward.   Maybe they did know.  I'll ask them sometime, when I see them again.

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.