Eulogy for Frankie

One of my neighbors got killed the other night. I’ll not use his real name, as what I have to say is not entirely “nice.”

The young man was out roaming around at 3:30 AM. He was driving a “borrowed” truck. He was driving at an excessively high speed. Other neighbors observed him to have been drinking beer earlier – although his family says that he wasn’t. He was about 16 years old.

I personally observed this boy all of his life. My own history with him hadn’t been all that pleasant. I believe he graffiti’d my vehicle a few years back – he was arrested in the neighborhood that same night for the same offense (to someone else's property). I simply polished the spray paint off the side of my vehicle and went on with life. I’m not entirely happy about that, but that is what I did.

An older half-brother grabbed an officer’s pistol one night across the street and tried to shoot him with it, right in front of our homes. He was sent away for a long time and I have not ever seen him since. I remember passing him, walking on our street and noted the obvious anger and hatred that showed in his face and his eyes when he looked at me.

This begs the question, how do the boy-children of a couple of fairly decent people get to the point where they crash pickups in the middle of the night at high speed, or try to shoot police officers with their own guns? This family has in some other significant ways been good neighbors for many years.

This boy (along with other children in that family) was NEVER held accountable for anything he ever did. He was allowed to do whatever he wished from the time he was off the floor and running. Among other things, this young man rode motorized “toys” including ATVs and scooters around the neighborhood streets, with other children clinging on for dear life, from a very young age. He was a nuisance in this neighborhood, outside at all hours of the night and not quietly either – neighbors called the police on several occasions to complain about the loud music and voices emanating from that yard. He was regularly truant from school and quit altogether months and months ago. He illegally drove vehicles, with the knowledge and acquiescence of his parents, in the local area at least for several years – I think since he was about 12. I know his Mother was told by others (relatives of mine) that this could result in lawsuits and even the loss of her home if he got into “trouble” doing it. Not two weeks before his fatal crash, he had an altercation with another motorist at the end of our street (and that vehicle subsequently disappeared from the yard, reportedly because it was totaled).

Even yard work has been a problem – they “clean” their paved yard by using a power-blower and most often the dust they blow out of their yard is directed right across the street at our home. The boy (I’ll call him “Frankie”) never considered the fact that his dust might be a problem for us. Not to mention the noise. As I mentioned above, lately he reportedly has been drinking large quantities of beer, openly provided to him and his friends by other residents of the home. When the police showed up to investigate any of these disturbances, I have personally heard both parents lie to the officers, denying any wrong-doing.

Was “Frankie” a “bad” kid? I think so less and less. He was often friendly, if a bit suspicious and stand-offish. I think with some guidance and upbringing he might easily have been a successful adult. But now he is gone. The only surprise for me is that he did not take several other innocent people with him. That’s what I always expected – that he would kill others through his unrestricted negligence and reckless behaviors. I never considered that it would be him that would die. He did take one friend with him, but that was all (small consolation for that boy’s parents.)

Children do not raise themselves. If you want a successful outcome, you have to put some effort into the process. I don’t pretend to be an expert at child-rearing. I’m not sure I was very good at it at all. But I do know this – that boy never had the guidance of a father – I never once saw the father do anything with any of his children. I never saw him discipline any child – I never saw him even play with a child. All he does is make them. And the mother? I do not know. I know that she has a good heart. But I also know that she was rarely (if ever) present when this kid was outside at all hours of the night, making noise and disturbing her neighbors.

Just my opinion, but that is not a demonstration of real love. Parenting is a job and a responsibility. Parents need to think about what kids really need and then fulfill their responsibilities (as best they can). Parents need to be present and involved. These parents were always present, but never involved that any of us could see. Even when we are involved with our children and do everything "right," the best outcomes are not always guaranteed. But tragedy of some kind is unfortunately almost assured if you leave children to themselves completely. And that is what happened last week.

So now they are all full of grief. The cars and trucks have been arriving and departing in a steady procession day and night since that “tragic” night. Everyone is shocked and in disbelief. But where were they (the uncles, the aunts, the cousins, the brothers, the sisters and the sobbing friends) when they might have had some positive impact on this boy in life? In the minds of many, I see that “Frankie” is dangerously close to being anointed for sainthood; to me, this smacks of denial.  And it is too little, too late.

After death, none of it really matters, all of this concern and grief. The thing I mourn in this is that he deserved better from his own – would things perhaps have been different if he had been shown by example (and some kind of discipline) that good people must be responsible, concerned in real ways for the welfare of the others around them, that self-restraint is a virtue and that these things can sometimes be the difference between life or an early death?

Recklessness is not a healthy way to live. I mourn the lost potential for good that he could have done in his life. I saw sparks of good in this boy, in my few personal dealings with him recently. I am sorry that his friends and family are grieving; I do have feeling and sympathy for them. But they created the increased chances for the tragedy that did, in fact, lead to his death and that of another in the mangled remains of a pick-up truck that was literally destroyed in a high speed crash, less than a half mile from our homes.  He was only 16.

Thoughts on December

What I like about December...

Short days. It’s not so much that the days are short; it’s that the nights are LONG! When I get up early once a week to drive to a class location in the hinterlands, it is dark the whole way. I love driving at night. The quieter highways, the dimmed dash lights, the mystery of what’s around the next bend, driving at night is romantic in the classical sense! Saturday morning last, I was scheduled to teach at Flagstaff and it was still dark most of the way. The sky was crystal indigo until the morning light started swelling up in the east – and I could see the contrails* of the early transcontinental flights overhead in almost three-dimensional glory with the starlight behind them. It reminded me of how the dark side glows in the first couple of days of the waxing crescent-first quarter moon.

Crystal clear skies. Summer time atmosphere in Arizona with its heat, sun and dust, is often indistinct and yellow-hazy in terms of visibility. Not so the winter. Starting in about October, the skies around here get what pilots call severe clear. You can see definition on the hillsides of mountains nearly 100 miles away. When I can see deer running along the ridges of Table Mesa (35 miles north of here), it makes me want to get out and go!  OK, so maybe I exaggerate a tad…

*Contrails! Along with those crystal clear skies, there is a certain moisture content at high altitudes in the fall and winter that breeds jet contrails. When the hot dry air of a jet’s exhaust hits that cold moist air, it immediately condenses and leaves that tell-tale trail and we can watch them for miles. I love that.

Snow. One of the best things about living here is I don’t have to shovel snow off the sidewalks, but any time I want to play in it, from about December through the end of February, I can FIND it within a one or two hour drive. And even then, unless the storm is happening right at that very moment, the roads are still going to be clear. There’s nothing prettier than Flagstaff after the snow has begun to melt off, and there are patches here and there and some on the Ponderosa branches all around – or pristine white snow contrasting with the red rocks of Oak Creek Canyon.

The Electric Light Parade. We have our traditions, and one of the best is the Electric Light Parade in Phoenix in early December. We used to have a rodeo parade years ago, but that is no longer held; heck, we don’t even have a Jaycees Rodeo anymore. What’s up with that? We do have a Veteran’s Day Parade, and you can always find a 4th of July parade, but there’s something really great about seeing the floats and the horses and everything all decorated with Christmas lights – there can’t be a prettier parade anywhere. I don’t always, but I should go every year.

Friendly People. Once we start getting closer to the holidays, starting right after Thanksgiving, people (some of them anyway) start to be a little warmer. The pace of activity (despite the bustle of Christmas shopping and the heavy traffic) is a bit less frenetic. I especially like that part – most folks are not as serious about working as they are at other times. Maybe it’s just my imagination. I think that is one reason why January is so depressing! It’s back to the normal and the holidays are O-V-E-R. I will have a much more difficult time trying to come up with a list of what I like about January, I think.

Sleeping in a cold room. Summer is very expensive for me – as I don’t sleep well when I am too warm. In December, I can open my windows and run the ceiling fan and sleep surrounded by blissful frigidity under a mountain of blankets and quilts. There’s a down-side though – a person does not want to get up when the room is 40 degrees! So my natural tendency to stay in bed all damn day is amplified. There’s a remedy, but I’ve never implemented it. Maybe there’s a New Year’s Resolution for me… I don’t usually do any of those but that might be a good one!

Autumn Leaves. We don’t get the vivid colors of the Midwest or northeast, but here in the desert southwest, wherever there are deciduous trees along a watercourse, or planted along a boulevard with an irrigation ditch, we do get some fall colors! Because it stays warmer here longer than other places, the colors don’t always come at the normal time – but later – like in December! Yay! Today, I drove along north Central Avenue from Missouri to Northern, and all along that route there were hundreds of yellow, gold and brown-leaved trees. The afternoon sun was shining through them at a hard western slant – and the effect was magical – the air underneath those trees just glowed. I’m going back again tomorrow just to have another look.

Hot Chocolate. 'Tis true, you could drink chocolate or cocoa any time – but think about it – in the summer when it is 110, it’s just not as attractive an idea, right?  But when it is cold outside, there’s nothing quite as perfect as a steaming cup of hot chocolate. I like mine with whipped cream or even ice cream floating in it – I’ve been making Nestle hot chocolate out of the little paper packages. I use milk, not water. And I find it is much easier to mix completely if you whisk it. I hate little bits of un-dissolved chocolate floating in my hot chocolate… yuck. Another treat of a different kind is to float just a touch of rum or bourbon in it. Just a touch. Smooths the "harshness" of the chocolate right out...

Tamales! December is tamale month! For such a simple food, the humble tamal can contain a wealth of complexity in its constitution. I especially love a green corn tamal with just a touch of green sauce on the side. Done well, it is like dessert! And one of my cardinal rules of food enjoyment is you always have dessert first! One of the best parts is the “surprise” in the middle. Why is December tamale month? It is part of the southwestern (or if you prefer, Mexican) tradition to make tamales at Christmas time – it is often a family affair and everyone helps make the labor-intensive little buggers. If you want to see a culture that knows how to celebrate Christmas, just check out the culture of Mexico and the Southwest. We know what we’re doing when it comes to celebrations (y fiestas)!

May your December holidays be happy, warm and filled with everything (and everyone) you love! May you find peace no matter your circumstance. Uncle Bob

Restaurant Review: Authentic Mexican Food at La Parrilla Suiza

UPDATE JUNE 2013 - MY FAVORITE LOCATION NEAR PV MALL HAS CLOSED. THERE ARE OTHER LOCATIONS (TRY 35TH AVE AND PEORIA), BUT THIS ONE IS GONE. I WRITE THESE WORDS THROUGH A PRODIGIOUS FLOOD OF ALLIGATOR TEARS.

What does that mean to you – “authentic?” I’m not a food snob, not in the least. As a child of Arizona and the Southwest, despite my northern European bloodlines, I am probably more like my Mexican neighbors in tastes and attitudes than I am my American cousins from the eastern USA; and… just like there are differences in American cuisine (meaning USA, and no slight intended to all the other Americans) from one part of the country to the next here in the good old US of A, our neighbors to the south can boast massive differences in their cuisine from one state to the next, from east to west, from south to north, and all along the long Mexican coastline!

Authentic, to my way of thinking, is simply this… does the food or dish use the tastes and ingredients common to that place? Here, in El Extremo México del Norte más allá de Sonora, authentic is most likely going to elicit opinions that Sonoran-style food is what is auténtico! Broaden your horizons, my friends! If you find someone from Jalisco to cook for you there will be subtle differences in tastes and styles from those of their neighbors in Tamaulipas.  Likewise, if the chef is from a coastal town farther west, say in Colima, you will find differences there as well.

Around here, with our strict blinders on for las comidas del Sonora, if a cook prepares a dish that is in some way not common to the far north of Mexico, well, some folks will say that dish isn’t authentic… it’s just not MEXICAN food. Hogwash. Food and its preparation changes over time, and a new-fangled chimichanga made in Tucson is just as Mexican in style, ingredient and spirit as the simplest, homeliest tamal. Get over it – and chow down!

So, with this in mind… my favorite Mexican food restaurant here in Arizona is La Parrilla Suiza (for the remainder of this essay, simply La Parrilla). This being so, I will try to remain objective while I review it for you; this will be difficult for me, as I get quite excited just thinking about going there... Later on, I will tack on a quick suggestion for those who simply want excellence in the basics of Sonoran-style Mexican cuisine (a different place altogether). La Parrilla, by the way, has several locations in both Phoenix and in Tucson. "Mine" is located near Paradise Valley Mall, in NE Phoenix.

La Parrilla serves what they term “Mexico City-style” foods. Those of you not familiar with a little Español might not know the name means “the Swiss Grill.” Why Swiss, I don’t know. Most people understand “grill” though. Much of the food is slightly different than the Arizona (or Sonoran) norm – but La Parrilla also makes a few of the Sonoran dishes for those folks who are trapped in the Sonoran rut! You can get your enchiladas, your tamales, your refritos, but if you really want to taste the foods La Parrilla excels at, try one of the Mexico City-styled dishes! If you cannot pick them out, ask your server; I have never met even one at La Parrilla who was not gracious and helpful. They are even patient enough to patronize my sad attempts to speak Spanish (despite the extra time that this takes!).



The dining room with a view to the kitchen through the glass

I have my favorites. I find quite frequently that a simple dish can often be as good as one a little more complex. I find this especially true when it comes to the flavors of Mexico. There are several things that I usually order to get a feel for a Mexican place – for Sonoran food it is usually a green corn tamale, the green chile, chiles rellenos and flan; maybe a simple enchilada.

Except for the flan, I rarely order these things at La Parrilla. Here, for me, keeping simple means something grilled -- something in the "Mexico City style" -- perhaps a taco alambre, a bowl of charro beans (and the obligatory flan). This is enough food to satisfy me for several hours – on the other hand, if I order a plate, so much food is included that I can barely walk out the door. I try not to do this so much; I have learned that enough is as good as a feast -- bastante bien.  Unfortunately, in my quest to get some good pictures, I did order more than usual today... and I almost ate it ALL.

Tacos Alambres y chilaquiles, arroz tambien!  Combo No. 17, pienso.

A taco alambre (ordered a la carte) is a small fresh (soft) corn tortilla, open face on the plate. It is topped with an abundance (in relation to the tortilla) of your choice of diced chicken or beef (I much prefer beef) and onion, peppers, bacon and seasonings. I may order an extra tortilla as there is enough of the meat mixture to split it between two of the little corn delicacies. About the only thing I add to them is a bit of the salsa (perhaps the pico or the green avocado) and a slight bit of the lettuce that is served on the side. More likely, I ask for a side of the house dressing, and make a little salad out of the garnish. The dressing is a sweet vinaigrette and it is very tasty.

Charro beans are a simple bean side dish – pintos (or perhaps pinks) simmered in a rich broth with a bit of (bacon?) for flavoring along with other herbs and spices. I’ve been trying to duplicate these at home for over ten years with no luck. Mine don’t even come close. At La Parrilla, all I add to attain perfection is a touch of black pepper.  These beans are very flavorful... ¡Muy sabroso! If you click on the photo, you get a larger view and you can see the beans in the little bowl beyond the plate.  They even look delicioso!



Flan with caramel sauce

Dessert for me is always flan – a rich egg custard somewhat similar to Crème Brulee except the sugar is not carmelized on the top – it is nestled underneath while the custard bakes. When the custard is tipped out onto a serving plate, the caramel sauce drips over the top and down the sides. This dish is a bit of heaven on Earth. Sometimes the custard is velvety smooth – other times it is a bit thicker and “mottled” in texture (more correctly, the cream curdles a bit when baked). There are people on both sides of this issue – some are upset if it isn’t mottled – others think it’s not right at all if it isn’t perfectly smooth. Hey, I like ‘em both.


Chips and the salsas!  ¡Me gusto mucho!

Finally, the beginning! Like most Mexican establishments, La Parrilla serves tortilla chips and salsa at the beginning of the meal. These are complimentary for the first round and one refill. After that there is a charge for them. This doesn't bother me; if you eat more than the 1st refill of the chips and salsas, you're not only a pig you're not going to have room for your entree either.  So there. The chips are served with three (count ‘em!) salsas, whereas the norm with other places is one.

Upscale places usually serve a pico-style salsa (chunky and sometimes fresh or raw); more traditional Mexican cafés serve only a spicy red sauce. But at La Parilla, you get the red sauce, you get the fresh pico de gallo, and you also get a green avocado-based sauce. All three are great and I cannot name a favorite – although I tend to eat more of the green with the chips than anything else. I try to save the chunky fresh pico for the meal – I’ll likely put some on the top of my tacos. The green salsa is cool and smooth and subtle to start, then the heat grows on you a little bit. None of these are hot enough to burn you too badly, but they are not totally mild either. So if you are sensitive to such things, start slowly. I’m just sayin.’

There are many other entrees and selections that are very good -- from the combinations to the appetizers. I have many times enjoyed the chilaquiles, the fajitas, or La Parrilla's very different take on "Taco Salad." Chilaquiles are a house specialty and they are like a cheese enchilada in a bowl -- layers of tortilla, sauce and cheese. The sauce is a very light tomato-based mixture and has a delicate and bright tomato flavor.  It's a stand-out in terms of great flavor.

The more you stay with the specialties of the house, the better your experience will be -- in my opinion. As you leave, be sure to grab one of the lime and cream hard candies in the bowl by the door. These are not your normal restaurant peppermint. Perhaps, like me, you’ll find yourself addicted to them soon.  Oh... like most places these days, many of the beverages are bottomless.  Not the specialties of course, but the soft drinks, teas, etc.

Now, for all of you folks who just cannot abide anything that isn’t just like every other Mexican food place in Arizona, you maybe won’t like La Parrilla all that much, perhaps. That’s fine, less of a crowd I’ll have to deal with when I go there! There are a few places that are simply better than the others when it comes to Sonoran-style food, and I cannot name them all here. Probably every Southwesterner who loves Mexican food has their favorite. But if Sonoran is your only thing, you might try El Bravo on north 7th Street in Sunnyslope. When it comes to Sonoran, there simply isn’t a better place. It’s inexpensive, the operation is friendly (run by La Familia Tafoya), and the food is great. Sometimes the service is a little slow, but those of us who love the place don't care about that so much. Try the green corn vegetable tamal or a relleno. You can’t beat it. If you go at dinner time, expect a crowd and maybe a wait... everyone else knows this "secret" place too.

But when I take visitors or friends for the best Mexican food to be found north or south of the Gila, an authentic taste of the real Mexico, I take them to La Parrilla Suiza.

Adventures in Camping

I have loved camping since I was little and can remember camping trips from the time I was three or four years old. I can tell lots of great stories about these adventures.  Camping (for me) has nothing to do whatsoever with trailers or "campers."  I am a tenter -- or I sleep totally exposed under the broad, clear western skies.  There is nothing in my mind that is dangerous about this -- but I am not defenseless either.

One of my very first camping memories was a trip to Flagstaff back in the 50s for the All-Indian Pow-Wow. The interstate highway did not exist then and the road to Flagstaff (partially) was the present day route of 89A from Cottonwood through Sedona. The campground where we stayed was along that stretch of 89A that runs straight to Flagstaff from the top of the Oak Creek Canyon switchbacks through those tall old growth Ponderosa pines; it was on the east side of that highway. I can sometimes still pick out the spot where that camp was today, given the opportunity to watch the scenery. What was memorable about that night was I saw a porcupine! I think I have only ever seen two of them in my entire life – on that camping trip and then one in Juneau, Alaska in summer 2009 at the top of the aerial tramway. Porcupines must be fairly reclusive (that, or there just aren’t that many around here).

In the 60s, as Tina and I got older, Mom would take us on camping trips around Arizona. One summer, we went over to Mt. Graham and camped up on the mountain. We had bears in camp and heard mountain lions screaming in the night. We cowered in our borrowed tent until morning and then fled north to Luna Lake where there wasn’t so much excitement. Of course mountain lions are still scary critters, but I have become woods-wise enough to know that a black bear really isn’t much of a threat – no more so really than a coon and for the same reason – they’re usually just foraging and if you don’t provide them a source of food, they avoid you. I’m more likely to sit up and watch a black bear, than I am to run, as we shall later discuss. I like bears. ‘Course, there ain’t no Grizzlies ‘round here… anymore.

Motorcycle camping… when I was about 16 or 17, David Beaver and I undertook a back country camping trip on our motorcycles. David had a Kawasaki 175 and I had a little Honda twin (125cc). We rode up north past Cave Creek and slept on the picnic tables at the Seven Springs campground. I had bought a little “pocket warmer” at the Yellow Front store – it was like an over-sized cigarette lighter (Zippo variety) and it had some kind of long burning wick inside. Once lit, you kept it in your pocket in a little flannel sack to warm your hands, etc. As I slept on the picnic bench, every so often the danged thing would get uncomfortable in whichever pocket I had placed it – so I would move it to a different pocket, a different part of my body. In the morning, nearly frozen despite all the effort, I discovered I had little “pocket warmer” shaped burns all over – wherever there was a pocket the thing had resided in.

Later that day, covered with uncomfortable little pocket warmer burns and riding west through the rugged wilderness toward I-17 on Table Mesa Road, the nut fell off my rear axle on the side of a steep mountain – on a 4WD road and 20 miles from West Bumfuzzle. We sat there trying to figure out what to do next. David is one of those people who has an ability to think things through and come up with practical solutions – and as we waited there on the mountainside, we saw far below us on the road a Toyota Land-cruiser that was working its way up the hill. When it got to us, we could see the lone occupant trying to figure out how to get around us without stopping. Oh, he tried... but there was no possible way. David checked with him to see if he had anything we could use to get my motorcycle rolling again. He had a wire clothes hanger. David took the front axle nut off my bike, reassembled the rear axle with it, and then wired the front axle in with that clothes hanger. His impromptu repair lasted long enough to get me home and I’ve always considered him somewhat of a genius.

When Jannie and I got married in 1972, we couldn’t afford a real honeymoon. So we went camping. We drove up toward Flagstaff and pitched a little rented tent under some trees off the road – next morning we discovered we had camped in a neighborhood, with houses all around. We hadn’t seen them in the dark the night before – and we were practically on someone’s doorstep! Three years later, in May 1975, we took a two-week trip up through the national park country, then over to the Pacific coast and south to San Diego, one end of the country to the other. The first night out, at Zion National Park, the wind came up and blew our tent down around us. Who needs tent stakes anyway, right? The next night at Bear Lake, Utah, we almost froze to death – I think it may even have snowed. I know there was still existing snow on the ground. The campground where we stayed wasn’t even open, but we pitched the tent anyway.  This time WITH the tent stakes.

The next night, we were ready for a break, so we got a room at Jackson Lake at Grand Tetons National Park. The lake was still frozen solidly enough that the locals were driving pick-up trucks on it. Then we went on up through Yellowstone – and had one of the strangest camping experiences of all – there was 5 feet of snow on the ground – but we stayed warm and comfortable camping at Mammoth Hot Springs.  The temperatures around the hot springs and geysers were probably 40 degrees warmer than the rest of the park; the difference between that area and the surrounding park, which was still gripped in winter’s cold, was nothing less than amazing.  Later on that trip, at Manchester, California on the Pacific Coast highway, we slept outside the tent on the ground in our sleeping bags. I think that was the first time Jannie had ever done that – she was a little scared about the idea at first, but soon was enjoying herself as we lay in our bags staring up at the stars. We were on a bluff high above the Pacific surf and we could hear the waves crashing onto the beach far below.

On one of our first camping trips together, we rented a little tent and of course we weren’t very good at setting it up (even though I’m sure it was pretty simple). We camped at Christopher Creek, and in those days, the camp sites were right on the creek. Unfortunately, it began to rain in the late afternoon as it often does on summer afternoons along the Mogollón Rim. But unlike most days, the rain didn’t stop… it was still raining at 9 o'clock that night. So we burrowed into the tent for the duration, ate our dinner in there and played cards until we figured it was time to sleep. About midnight, we woke up and looked out and the sky was clear – so I decided to raise the tent’s flap outside the entry, so the inside could start to dry out.

Not being familiar with the tent, this took quite a number of minutes. I had a very weak flashlight. After I finished the job, I flashed that very weak light around the campsite, and was greeted by two enormous yellow eyes staring back from about five or ten feet away. I jumped back in the tent and sniveled until I fell asleep... In the morning, we discovered bobcat tracks in the wet dirt outside! He probably stood there the whole time I worked on that flap, trying to decide if I was “worth” killing and eating.

When my kids were small, we often went camping in the summers. Once, all four of us went up to Valentine Ridge – John was only four or five at the time. Sleeping in the tent, I sensed that something was amiss, and I looked around – John was standing over Mandy and… uh… relieving himself “in her direction.” I guess he thought he was outside the tent… but he was only half-awake. I’m not sure that Mandy or Rod slept too much after that; they probably both kept one eye open. John, on the other hand, slept pretty well.

Another time, at Oak Creek Canyon, we were all four sitting around the picnic table and eating our supper – one kid says to another kid – “stop touching me” – so I looked under the table to see if I could apprehend the most-guilty culprit. It wasn’t kid touching kid at all – but skunks touching kids. There was an entire family of skunks under the table hoping for scraps to fall. I very quietly told the children not to look, and not to move. We sat there stock-still until those polecats got tired of waiting and ambled away, leaving us unmolested, “unfragranced” and extremely relieved.

In the late 80s, the whole family took a camping trip to Vallecito Lake, near Durango, Colorado. Most of us anyway. On the trip home, Mom and Dad got a head start on me and the kids by about 20 minutes. We were to meet at a highway junction near Four Corners to regroup. I thought I’d have a good joke on them by taking a short cut (which I saw on my map) and which would cut off about 30 or 40 miles from the distance to the meeting point -- I would still get there before them -- or so I thought. Halfway into that shortcut, I found the road completely blocked off and closed. So I had to go all the way back around and then cover the original miles as well.

Meanwhile, Mom and Dad were waiting at the aforementioned highway junction – and they finally thought maybe they had the wrong one. So they drove south to Shiprock, and then east toward Farmington to another junction they thought might be the one. While they were doing their little eastward leg, I arrived at the original junction, and not finding them there, went on south toward home as I thought they must have done. This is in the days before any of us had cell phones. When they got to the new junction, and of course we weren’t there, they drove back to Shiprock, and then north again to Cortez, Colorado to look for us there.

Meanwhile, 20 miles or so south of Shiprock, I broke down. With three kids in the car, I am stranded 20 miles in the middle of northwest New Mexico. A Navajo fellow on his way home to Dulce stopped and offered us a ride back to town – once in his truck I realized he was fairly well lit by spirituous liquors… but we were already in there and we made it to Shiprock thanks to him. I got a tow truck to take us back out to get the car. The tow and repair took most of the afternoon (just fan belts), and it took almost every penny I had. I was a starving college student at the time and had no credit cards.

From Cortez, Mom and Dad had the forest rangers and the county sheriff looking for us. I figured out by this time they were probably wondering where we were, so I called Ruth at home to see if they had called there. They hadn’t yet, but they eventually did, and the kids and I headed for home with about $5 left in my pocket for supper (McDonalds) and just enough gasoline. We beat Mom and Dad home by several hours. Dad was disgruntled, Mom was still laughing.

Then there was the time...  Some friends and I went up to the White Mountains, and we camped near Big Lake.  John and I were hanging out in the morning, after a good rain, and we were making breakfast for us and for Ms. Minette, who was camping with us.  We had everything set up for cooking underneath a vinyl-plastic canopy -- and with the rain that canopy trapped water and filled up just like a lake. It was four poles, topped by a big flexible lake of icy cold water. As the rain continued lightly, the pool of water trapped on the top got larger and larger and eventually tripped (or more correctly, tipped) past the point where the canopy shuddered and shifted so that the 35 degree water could drain off right down the back of my neck as I prepared the breakfast bacon. 

On one of my last camping trips, a few years back, Mandy and I went to one of my favorite places. She and I both know where it was, but I won’t mention it here as it is our family’s secret place. Keeping it to ourselves ensures we will never find a crowd there. We were sleeping in the tent and I woke up about 5:30 AM – it was starting to get light, but still very dim outside. I heard something. What I heard was the biggest black bear… brown actually…. that I have ever seen in Arizona. Bears hereabouts are usually the size of large raccoons, but this boy was huge. He was trying to see if anything was in the back of my truck that he might want to eat – and when I sat up on my cot, he backed down, turned around and started ambling away, looking at me out of the corner of his eye as if to say, “hey, I ain’t doing nothing, I’m just passing through…” He was just a big doofus brown black bear. Well, I wanted Mandy to see him – so I touched her arm and whispered her name. When I did, the bear bolted off up the hillside. I think all Mandy got to see of him was his big brown butt scrambling up the hill.

Despite all of this mayhem, I still enjoy camping. I don’t know why. But there are no bad memories in camping, not for me. Except maybe that one time I fried up a fresh trout inside the tent because it was raining outside up at Hawley Lake… took ten years or so to air that tent out. But I’d go again tomorrow if the weather was warmer, smelly fish, cold rain and all.

Thanksgiving 2010

I am smoking the turkey for the first time this year – I have done breasts before but not a whole bird. I got a smaller one, about eleven pounds and have it in the smoker with some apple wood at 325 degrees and steady. It should be ready in about two or three more hours at the most. My part of Thanksgiving dinner will be the turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy. I will make a pumpkin pie; Mom is doing the rest – a fruit salad and green beans. We will eat well.

Things for which I am thankful… I am thankful for being born in this, the free-est country in the world. There are others like us in the free world, but my nation started the movement 250 years ago. I am especially thankful for the men and women who came before us, struggled and made this possible. When I think of those in other parts of the world, even civilized parts of the world, like China, who cannot even speak their thoughts without risk of retribution, persecution, even death, then I think that I am most fortunate.

We acknowledge that things are not perfect, but we can grouse and complain without fear. And we truly can change some of the things we don’t like. Oh yes, it is a struggle and sometimes we fail when we find there are overwhelming powers that are arrayed against us, but there is unresistable power in our citizenry when we unite.  May we never forget that.  And someday, our rights and freedoms will be universal for ALL Americans; we will make that happen.

I am thankful for my health as good as it is, and for the medical care and science that helps me maintain it. I should take better care of myself! I could make better choices sometimes, but Nurse Teel is a goddess!

I am thankful for my lovely dottir, who is finding her way in the world and making a success of herself as a human being. I am glad that all my children are healthy; I love them all.

I am especially thankful for the extracurricular privileges I have been afforded; so many others struggle just to survive, but I have an easy existence and in particular, I have been able to travel and learn beyond my equitable share, beyond what was even imaginable for an average human being just 150 years ago.

I am grateful for many simple things; sitting outside in the evening to watch the sunset or the stars, campfires, rich coffee with chocolate, or just chocolate… hearing waves crash onto a shore, a good book…my warm and snug bed in the early morning – or the LATE morning as the case may be. I am so fortunate to have the few good friends that bless me… Dave, Gloria and Jim, Dick and Susie, Minette, Chad and Lisa, and some others.  I am also fortunate to have such a simple, uncomplicated life.  I treasure the warmth of the Arizona sunshine on my face and am most thankful for warm, home-made apple pie.

I am lucky beyond measure to have a profession that I love; one that can have a positive impact on others’ lives, if they would just LISTEN to me!

I am thankful for my family, especially those that came just before me, many of whom I knew and loved but are no longer present in this particular world. Life is short, fast and by no means certain. The older I get, the more I realize that each moment is essentially stolen time. I am thankful for all those stolen moments and for those still to come should there be more.  I am thankful to be living in this exciting time.

I am thankful for all of these things.

Rex admirabilis
et triumphator nobilis,
dulcedo ineffabilis,
totus desiderabilis, totus desiderabilis.

In Search of William Swain

In the spring of 1849, William Swain rode away from his family’s farm in Youngstown, New York and joined in one of the seminal adventures of American history. He caught a lake steamer to Chicago, another boat to St Louis, and a third to Independence, Missouri, where he bought into a “joint-stock company” of Michigan men who then set off on foot, horseback and wagon to the California goldfields. Narrowly avoiding disaster, they barely made it before winter snows froze the California mountains.

He waited out the winter of ’49-‘50, then labored for little gain along some California rivers through the summer and fall before his family convinced him to give up his golden dream and return home to New York. He left California, traveled by packet ship to Central America, and there trekked through the isthmus jungles from the Pacific to the Atlantic coast. He boarded a steamer to New York City via Havana, arrived ill, but his ever-steadfast brother George found him there and brought him home to Youngstown. He lived out a long life and died an old man as he worked in his garden.

William was “everyman,” participating in a national adventure that changed America and that shapes our lives and thoughts about ourselves even today. It is difficult to overstate the impact the California gold rush had on the history and development of the United States and its people. What made Swain even more significant to history is that he wrote a literate, complete and coherent account, a diary, of his journey to California. He also communicated by letter from along the California Trail. He continued writing letters while he waited through the winter and then worked in the California gold “diggings” the following summer. These documents were treasured by his children and grandchildren and finally were offered to historian and professor J. S. Holliday who used them to complete a book; that book is one of the most engrossing and interesting accounts of the Gold Rush migration available today. (J.S. Holliday; The World Rushed In)

What I found most fascinating about William Swain was that he didn’t disappear as many of his gold rush contemporaries did. Even the ones who wrote about their experiences tended to be a part of that one national moment and then nothing else; there were a few exceptions of course. In general though, where did they go? How did the Gold Rush experience shape their subsequent lives? Like few others, you can easily find the answers to those questions for William Swain. History is a composite of all the little stories that made up our ancestor’s lives – and here is one of them, laid out in detail for us to enjoy. Forget how the study of history “helps us not to repeat the mistakes of the past,” and “if you want to see where we’re going, you have to look where we’ve been.” With Swain’s diary and letters, presented in Holliday’s book in concert with the larger history of the 1849 gold rush as a background, we can see how one extraordinary citizen, along with his friends and family, participated in one of the greatest mass migrations in any nation’s history. This is exciting stuff!

I have stood on the ground where Washington accepted the British surrender at Yorktown and touched the seam of his tent (on display there). I have walked in Travis' footsteps at the Alamo. I've seen the track of the Wright Brothers’ first flight at Kitty Hawk. I know at ground level the place where Crazy Horse was murdered at Fort Robinson, NE; where Custer surveyed the Little Bighorn Valley in Montana from a mountaintop just before his last fight, and the exact spot where Geronimo stood to have his photograph taken at Fort Bowie, AZ one September day in 1886. I can pick out and match the foundation stones in now-ruined frontier Army post homes as I compare them against historical photographs. I have read the inscribed signatures of 49ers and others on the Register Cliffs, along the dry-desert route of the California-Oregon Trail. And I have stood where William Swain stood, both on the trail, and at home in Youngstown. Being in these places, on the ground where our ancestors stood and knowing the history that took place there is moving – and exhilarating.

After re-reading Swain’s diary in The World Rushed In for about the third time, I thought that if I was ever able to visit Youngstown, NY, I would see if I could find William and his family. He lived in a “cobblestone farmhouse” on the “River Road.” On his return to Youngstown in 1851, he became a prosperous farmer, a peach-grower, one of the largest in western New York in his day. His brother and best friend George, also in Youngstown, was a public servant for most of his lifetime. Would there not still be some traces of them around their life-long home?

Looking at maps of the Youngstown area, I found Swain Road. Given the description of the farm in the book, I could almost guess where the Swain farmhouse was built (in 1836). I made plans to go there, look for the house and see if I could find the graves of William, George and their families.

I drove to the corner of Swain Road and Main Street in Youngstown in October 2008, and from there to the place where I thought the cobblestone house would be. There was nothing there but a very small pump-house. Disappointed that my satellite photo and map-sleuthing were errant (how can one mistake a six-foot tall pump house for a farmhouse!), I headed back out toward the highway – but stopped when I saw a resident and asked him if he knew anything about the Swains. He did. He directed me to the nearby home of Betty Van Zandt – and said I should speak with her about her home – which I found had been built by William for his daughter Lila (or Eliza). I was in the right neighborhood after all. Betty Van Zandt referred me to Margery Stratton, who, she said, could help me with further information about the local area, she having sold most of the houses in the area, some more than once.

Swain's home

It turned out the “cobblestone farmhouse” so often mentioned by William in his writings was immediately next door. I took photos, walked around, and looked for any peach trees that might have descended from those that William and his brother had planted. I didn’t find any -- but peach trees aren’t known for being long-lived.

I read the monument near the house about the battle that took place in pre-Revolutionary War times on that very spot. I took photos of the foundation stones in the bridge across the drainage in front of the house – figuring they were most likely original to the time the farm was built. I wondered which upper-story window Sabrina Swain might have sat behind as she wrote letters to her absent and sorely-missed husband, and where in the yard William’s garden and grape vines might have been. Then I went to meet Margery Stratton.

I spent an hour or so with Ms Stratton at the local historical society’s library, reading some of the letters and information written about the Swains, who were prominent local citizens. Armed with information provided by the helpful members of the society, I set off to the Oakland Rural Cemetery to find the Swains.

It took some time, but I found all the last resting places of the family – except for father Isaac, and his 2nd wife, Patience. Perhaps they are in a different part of the cemetery – or in an older cemetery somewhere close by. William and Sabrina’s youngest son is also not with the rest of the family

After reading so much about them, I feel almost as if they are friends. Seeing their home in Youngstown and the places that were familiar to them, when I read the passages they wrote I can imagine more vividly what their lives were like; what they saw, almost what they felt at certain times.

As William returned home from the California gold fields in 1851, he and George topped the hill south of Youngstown in their wagon, probably about where Ridge Road above Lewiston is today. They stopped, and William stood up to survey the valley he had not seen for almost two years. He pronounced it the most beautiful of all the scenes he had witnessed. Don’t we all feel that way about our homes? You can see that same view today – just as he did when he returned from his long gold-rush quest. When I last saw it, it was cloaked in the beautiful autumn colors of northern New York State. And based on the description in J.S. Holliday’s book, I knew exactly what I was looking at; William had seen and vividly described the same view in 1851.

Now that I've seen William and Sabrina's New York home, perhaps I can see his diggings on the other side of the country. I think I just might be able to find the spot where William and his partners built their cabin and dug for gold on the beautiful Feather River above Sacramento, California. Today, the exact site is under lake water, but I might be able to get close.

Las aventuras en México: Gen y Bob fue a la playa...

Gen on Los Algodones Playa, San Carlos, Sonora

A few years ago, my friend Gen and I went to the beach… in Mexico. We both like the beach; we both like Mexico. It seemed a natural thing to do. Now, it was a great trip and we both have many wonderful memories from it I’m certain. But Gen has made dark allusions to our adventure on this blog and I must set the record straight and clear my good name.

There are many things to tell about this journey… all about getting through customs without getting arrested for faulty paperwork, how we drove into town and walked around after dark without getting kidnapped or killed, how we ate the fruit and drank the water… how we survived a federale roadblock and drove on a narrow mountain highway with Mexican truck and autobus drivers and actually lived to tell about it. How we negotiated the rush hour downtown traffic of Hermosillo with calmness and tranquility… Not least, I could tell how U.S. Customs was so hungry and deprived of ripe red apples that they confiscated mine just so they could have one. After all, that must have been the reason because it was an American apple, not a Mexican apple. But these fine stories will have to wait for another occasion.

Today, I just want to tell you about the beach. Since Ms. Genevieve has brought it up… We both wanted to spend some time on the beach so we drove out to Los Algodones beach just about an hour before sunset. The beach was a few miles north of Guaymas (and San Carlos) and we were told it was one of the nicest ones around there. On arrival, we discovered we had it all to ourselves. This made us both a little uneasy but we stayed anyway. There was no parking lot, of course, so we pulled my ½ ton truck onto the seemingly hard-packed sand of the beach.

A couple of words about the beach itself – it lies next to a scimitar-shaped “bay” and trying to reconstruct its dimensions from my memory, I’d say maybe ¼ mile long. It was a couple of hundred feet wide at the most – maybe much less. But it was a beautiful little beach with a beached boat on it (see photo) and some islands offshore that lent a ruggedness to its scenic appearance. Some of the scenes from the film “Catch 22” were filmed there. Again, there was no parking lot. We drove out onto the sand… for a few feet; the sand was fairly hard-packed and was no problemo. Farther out, it got softer and thicker, even, you might say, fluffier. Gen kept saying “go a little farther out” and “park over there, why don’t you…” So I did.

We got our ice chest, spread an old sleeping bag on the sand and enjoyed the remaining rays of the sun and watched a beautiful sunset. Gen had a glass of wine and I drank a Diet Coke… and we smoked cigars! These were not big stogie-type cigars, but thinner cigarillo-type cigars. And I swear I did NOT inhale… So the sun goes down. It gets dark. And we start to feel very alone and vulnerable.

Gen, another beach, another day...

By and by we decide to head back to town. We loaded up the truck and I thought it might be easy to just turn around in a circle instead of backing up. Had we stayed on the harder-packed portions of the beach, this would not have been too much of a problem. But on that softer, fluffier sand, it was. Pretty soon, the truck was dug in up to the wheels. Well, we investigated all our options. No help in sight. Not too much in the way of tools to dig ourselves out. Several miles to walk back to town, leaving the truck on the beach unprotected. None of this seemed of any promise, exactly. What we did have, was a sleeping bag. 

So I jammed the sleeping bag under the rear wheels to gain a little traction and then we both tried to push but that didn’t work. Then I got Gen to push and I steered and depressed the accelerator just so. This took great finesse… and got us a few feet at a time before we’d run out of sleeping bag. Then we’d move the remnant of the bag to the front of the tire again and repeat the process. And repeat, and repeat, and repeat. Finally, we reached the firmer sand and we were both able to get in the truck and ride. Genevieve was really great at pushing though, I have to say; she is quite a truck-pusher.

I learned several lessons on Los Algodones Playa…

1. Never drive your street pick-up truck on the beach. ANY beach.

2. Make sure you take tools, so that if you do get (inadvertently) off-road and find yourself mired, you can get out easily. At minimum, at least have a nice, thick, sleeping bag.

3. Make sure you have a strong and healthy young person to “help” push – while you steer of course and finesse that accelerator. No one knows how to do this better than you.  I mean, it's your truck, right?

4. Alternatively, you might wish to confine your beach adventures to those strands where you will always have plenty of company. It is a sinking feeling to find yourself hopelessly mired on a lonely beach five miles from the nearest town…

It sure was a pretty beach though. I was very happy to share it with my friend.