THE TEXANS page 53

THE NORTHERN CAMPSITE, LOCATED SEVEN MILES NORTH OF ASH FORK, ARIZONA.

I was camped in Ludwig atop the White Elephant quarry until G.B. could bring the pink trailer north from the Sun Valley Pink quarry. I pondered how to use the day.

G.B. was busy with special order customers - the Cotters, ranchers from Texas. They were building a large stone house on their cattle ranch and they had come to Ash Fork to order finishing touches - white flagstone for their floor to ceiling fireplace and stone for their mantle and hearth.

I felt hot and discomforted. Ludwig was messy, London was dusty and I was grimey. I decided to clean and hauled out my blankets, pillows and the narrow sheet of plywood that served as my bed. Out flew the cooler and canteens. London settled himself on the pile of blankets while I continued to pull things out of the van. After unloading almost everything I was too tired and hot to continue. I decided to finish it all in the cool of the evening.

For a change of pace I settled myself on the shady side of Ludwig and called London over to be groomed. As I pulled the brush through his fur removing burrs, goat-heads, grass seeds and twigs, I thought, with G.B. busy for the day and no one working in the quarry, it is a perfect opportunity to dye my hair.

I lined up the hair dye, shampoo, conditioner and jugs of sun warmed water. When it came to ablutions in a campsite, I was a well practiced expert from all the years of camping I had done. I donned an old dye stained shirt, which suggested I had slathered it with red dye and after waiting the required time, I rinsed out the dye, by pouring the jugs of water through my hair until it ran clear.
I squeezed out the excess water, straightened up, pulled my hair back from my face and saw the company pick-up rolling to a stop in front of me. G.B. was grinning with mischievous pleasure and to my horror, beside him were the smiling faces of the special customers from Texas.

Omar, a tall impressive Texan wearing a big Stetson hat, western styled clothes and fine custom made cowboy boots, climbed out of the pick- up. He was followed by his wife, Cleo, who was tall, beautiful and chic.

"Charle, y'all guess who these people are." G.B. ordered with glowing enthusiasm. Before I could reply, Cleo hurried over to me saying, "Oh y'all are G.B.'s Canadian painter lady! It's so nice to meet y'all. G.B. just talks and talks about y'all." Her smile and gracious words set me at ease immediatly.

Omar slowly ambled over to me, stuck out his hand to shake mine and said, "G.B. shore is proud a' y'all."

While we stood talking, y'alls flew 'round and 'round our heads.

That evening we all met in Williams, twenty miles east of Ash Fork. G.B suggested dinner at Rod's Steak House and Omar concurred by stating, "The only steaks worth eatin', this side a' Texas."

By nightfall we four had started a devoted friendship that could be interupted only by God.


G.B. AND THE STRANGE CANADIAN PAINTER LADY by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994

LONDON'S TRAVAIL page 47

G.B. popped in to see if all was as it should be, and then he asked, "Have y'all explored the Indian ruin yet? No? Oh y'all would enjoy it. I don't have time to mess with it now, I'm fixin' to leave. But it's just past the big mesa yonder. There's a trail leadin' up the next hill an' it's up on top. But y'all take the car now, it's a long walk over yonder, carryin' water fer y'all and fer y'all's dawg."

G.B. lit fires of curiosity with that comment, so the next day, carrying water London and I headed across "yonder" . . . afoot.

I was accustomed to walking - it would not take long. It was not far as the owl flew but I was wearing thongs in the area of a cholla jungle. Necessity demanded a devious route, unless I planned on cholla acupunture.



"Hot London!" Too late, a cholla segment caught on his flank and nestled tightly into his fur. "Stay London." Instead he sat.



The movement involved in sitting allowed the barbed spines to pierce his skin. Abruptly and frantically he swung his head and took the vile thing into his soft fleshy mouth, where spines imbedded themselves.

It broke my heart to see him suffering and confused. Wanting to help, I grabbed a twig and tried to flick the cholla segment from his flank, instead I only managed to roll it deeper into his long fur. I needed more than a twig to help him. We had to get back to the trailer.

London endured extreme pain during the long hot walk home to the butte. Every time I looked at him with what appeared to be a mouthful of porcupine quills, my heart hurt and I thought of G.B.'s instructions, "Take the car!"

As soon as we reached the top of the butte I sat London in the shade of the trailer with a bucket of water. I settled myself on the ground in front of him with scissors, a pair of pliers and a metal bowl. I talked to London incessantly and cradled his head while I cut the fur and the cholla from his flank', and with the pliers I pulled out spines I could see in the short stubble of newly cut fur.

I did not know what to expect when I started on his mouth, but he understood I was going to help him. He whined and we cried while I removed hundreds of barbed spines from his lips, his gums and his tongue.

After more than an hour and a half, I was almost finished. There were two spines left in his bottom lip. I went for one and as soon as I pulled it out, he growled. I reached for the last one. London looked me in the eye and gave one commanding bark, "NO MORE!"

London rose with his head held high and with one large spine protruding from his bottom lip like a badge of courage, he trotted across the butte to "water a cactus."

G.B. and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady

by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994

CHRISTMAS DINNER page 43

One mile on from the quarry stood a mesa. I decided London and I would climb it and have our Christmas "dinner" high above the desert floor. It was a long, trial and error, difficult climb over large rocks, for both of us.

When we finally arrived atop the mesa I sat down with my legs dangling over the edge, feeling the rare noon time breeze and reveling in the amazing view. London stood at the edge, head low, reaching out and panting as he gazed at this new perspective of our abode.

We sat contentedly while we ravenously ate - peanut butter sandwiches. London gratefully allowed me to direct a squeezes of bottled water into his mouth, and I treasured and savoured every gulp of a Pepsi.

I settled, as had London, to rest and to enjoy the vista below us. I felt if I gazed long enough and hard enough, I would see First Nations people and pioneers out of the eighteen hundreds, re-walk their footsteps below.

What an ideal place the mesa would be for a puma or a javalina family, I thought, then realized; it would be, it could be, and it probably was!

We could not scramble quickly down the mountain. The climb down would have to be one step, one handhold at a time. For London it would involve clawing his hold over every rock he crossed and sliding between them. It had taken hours testing routes going up and it would take hours of trial and error going down . Those realizations suppressed any urge to explore the mesa top and sent us on our way back home.

Two thirds of the way down, I turned and saw below us on the desert floor, London's herd of cattle and their bull, waiting for retribution. I assumed since London had chased his girls, El Toro now had his chance to even the score. He would chase London's girl . . . ME!

I plunked down and jammed my feet between the rocks and London braced his four legs in random directions with all twenty claws dug into solid stone.

With a puma due to attack any minute from above, an incensed bull waiting to play "Pamplona" below, and incidental hazards like rattlesnakes who would leave the shade between the rocks as the sun began to set and small annoyances like scorpions and tarantulas, who could crawl over me faster than I could crawl to the next rock, I decided to keep working my way down, then sit high enough to be safe from El Toro. I would wait him out.

We sat in open sunshine on hot rocks and both of us looked longingly at the shadows cast by saguaros, mesquite and palo verde. We stared across the valley at our butte and I thought of London's water bucket and my Pepsi cans floating amid ice cubes in the cooler.

My legs were tired. I looked at Ludwig parked atop my butte and and I thought how wonderful it would be if he was right below us. Soft seats, gore proof protection and a powerful engine to carry us home to the pink trailer.

El Toro succeeded in terrifying me just by his close proximity, his occasional snorts, hostile gaze and impatient pawing of the ground. As a young woman visiting Mexico, I had attended enough bull fights to recognize bull-threat. I was sure he could not manoeuvre the rock up to us . . . but might he pretend to leave, hide and then while we were crossing the open cholla-flat below the butte . . . .

After sunset in the short afterglow I realized the "girls" were moving south, reluctantly El Toro followed them.

London and I climbed down the rocks while we could still see, and headed toward home. As we hurried along I kept recalling a book I had purchased for my children when they were young. It showed the many critters and varmints that prowl the desert in the dark of night. I decided to trust London's senses and instincts and follow him closely.

We reached the base of the butte and dragged ourselves up to the trailer. I called out a thank you to the moon for the blessed light it had given to us. While London ran to his water bucket full of still warm water. I flung open the trailer door and the cooler, plunged my hand into still cold water, grabbed a Pepsi and collapsed into the softness of bed, at seven P.M.

At three A.M I was awake and frying a pan of food. London stared intently up at me salivating and swallowing. "Merry Christmas London."

G.B. and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady.

by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994

A QUICK MESSAGE TO YOU

I DO NOT SEE HITS

IF YOU ARE FINDING THESE BLOGS, PLEASE LET ME KNOW WITH A "YES" COMMENT.

CHRISTMAS MORNING page 41 of 161

"Merry Christmas London!"

In the warmth of an early sun and in the freshness of a morning breeze London and I strolled down from the top of my butte toward the desert floor. We neared an owl sitting atop a young saguaro. He ignored us and stared intently at a cotton-tail quivering in terror under a rusted, decrepit old truck body. As the owl tensed to attack I shouted and waved my arms, London bounced and yapped, all to startle and distract the owl.

Finally with resignation, the owl reluctantly abandoned his prey, lurched into the air and swept down the hill. The cotton-tail took the opportunity, bolted and vanished into a nearby hole, thankful to be free of the owl, the dog and the wild woman.

"Merry Christmas Cotton-tail," I called and to the hooty-owl, "Owl . . . I'm sorry." I had ruined his Christmas dinner.

Over at the quarry we approached the tiny old quarry guard cabin, so wind-blown and weathered. I saw a stained crumpled paper flap between two small rocks. I bent down and picked up a typewritten poem: La Patrona. *

Inside the cabin stood a desk made of orange crates and a mattress ravaged by packrats. The floor was littered with rodent-chewed sheets of poetry, stained and almost buried in packrat nests of cholla and fluffed mattress packing. I gingerly picked out a few sheets and took them outside to read, each one so strangly appealing.

I would never have read a letter, but the poetry seemed like literature, meant to be read by all who enjoy the arrangement of words. Spellbound, I read on until one poem, tender and personal, flooded me with shame for having read any of the poems.

Quickly, I replaced all but La Patrona. If I left it inside, rats would be drawn to its new odour and add it to their poetic nests. If I left it outside, it would surley be destroyed by monsoon rains - I could not leave it. I had been enchanted by -La Patrona and her gift to the shepherd; three oranges and the nice apple.

*copyright to La Patrona held by the quarry guard.


by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright- 1994

DESERT NIGHT page 39 of 161 pages

G.B. was in Oklahoma visiting a new grand-baby, while I sat beside London in the darkness
listening to an old hooty-owl on a nearby cactus . . . I breathed the sweet essence of juniper
wood burning in the stone fire-pit at the edge of my butte. I saw the moon rise and etch outlines of desert mesas and stately saguaros. I saw sparks rise to join stars in the blue-black sky. I
heard cattle rustling in the darkness at the base of my butte. I heard the bray of the burro
tethered down the pass and yaps and shrieks of coyotes, who like I, lived this night, in this
desert place, on this wondrous Christmas Eve.

I stared past the fire into the darkness and thought, this must be like the first Christmas.

I looked up into the dark night sky, not for snow, not for Santa, I looked for an unusually large star.



by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994

THE INTRUDER page 37

One morning, after weeks of solitude and sunshine, I felt the trailer rock. I turned from the
stove to see a man leaning into my trailer totally blocking the doorway. He was extremely tall, heavy set, and appeared to be in his early fifties. He wore a dusty Stetson, a western style shirt, a red neckrchief and faded blue jeans tucked into elaborately tooled, well worn cowboy boots. His thick leather belt held a holster and a big gun.

There was no sign of London and I was instantly awash in panic. No phone, no quarry guard to whom I could call and my only exit blocked. G.B. my protector was one hundred fifty miles away. I wanted to scream and run. Instead I stared, waiting for whatever horror awaited me.

He growled and then added in a confident cultured voice, "Do you know where the jaspar deposit is?" "My rock hound map shows one in this area?"

Oh Gad! Only a Snowbird, the harmless, joyous breed that flies south to the Valley of the Sun each winter. They don boots, hats, guns and turquoise jewlery and then they play rock- hound, prospector, gold-miner, cowboy and golf until Spring Training and "Canada Honkers" signal the the trip north for the summer.

I pointed to the yellow jaspar deposit down below my butte, but I knew the assessment
work had all been stolen because G.B. and I had already hunted in vain for pieces of his yellow
jaspar to make book ends and a belt buckle.


by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994

THE OUTHOUSE. page 35

An outhouse in Arizona gives one pause for thought, especially if it is old,
cobwebby, packrat nested and if the night is hot and dark. One can not help but
wonder what might be crawling about.

At night I set off for the outhouse armed with a flashlight, the dog and a roll of
paper.

If I left the paper hanging and a wind arose, a curious updraft would send the
paper roll spinning. The next time I went to the little house, I would find it
necessary to pull reams of t.p. streamers from the surrounding cholla, barrel and
saguaro cacti.

If I left the paper sitting by the hole and the wind blew, the paper disappeared
altogether, wafted by the wind-blown slamming door, which could only be

latched from the inside.

One morning I scrambled half way down the butte to the outhouse and found
the door had come off its hinges and taken flight. I found it nestled amidst a bed
of cholla. I dragged it back to the doorway but could not make it stay in place.

Modesty demanded a solution, just in case a cowboy rode closely by. I walked
in, held the door sideways, then I pulled it to lean against the doorway of the
little building. Delightful! With only my head above the door I could gaze out
over an early morning vista and watch London herding cattle he had found.

During the day while people stared at porcelain bathrooms, I gazed at
distant mesas or cactus, cotton-tails, coyotes and whatever else chose to walk,
crawl or slither by.

At night while people stared at lightbulbs in their porcelain bath-rooms, I
watched the rising moon and falling stars, while I listened to owl hoots and
coyote calls.



G.B and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady
by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyright 1994

REPLENISHING STOCK - page 31

Each Friday morning London and I headed to town for water and food. It was

twelve miles from Coyote Pass to the "thriving metropolis" of Black Canyon. After

a week of solitude the two block "business district" was a delight.


I had the car fluids tended to and the jerrycans refilled with fresh sweet water at

the gas station. In the market I purchased a week's supply of food; spicy V-8

juice, orange juice, Pepsi, ice, dog-food and "bickies" for London. I checked the

post office for mail and posted my letters.


Next I went into the only other shop in town, a second-hand store. It was not

long before I knew every article in the store, but my only purchase ever, was a

week's supply of western novels which I could read, often surrounded by the very

local described in the books.


Once a month for a special treat I swung the car into Rock Springs before I

headed back onto the southbound freeway.


Rock Springs had been a stage coach stop back in territorial days and little

had changed. A battered old screen door led me from the heat of the desert

sunshine into the darkened cool room enclosed by thick adobe walls. As my eyes

grew accustomed to the change of light, an old fashioned general store revealed

itself. Grand show-cases were loaded with groceries, supplies, large jars of stick

candy, poke bonnets and Navajo jewlery.


The ceiling beams were hung with antiquated necessities of life from the

nineteenth century. There was a side saddle, cowboy saddles, saddle bags and

cowboy boots - all worn and weathered. There were flat irons, branding irons

dutch ovens and frying pans - blackened and resting from their labours. Rusted

gold-pans, rifles and hand-guns were hung high, as their owners may have been

one hundred years ago.


A small doorway led me into the store's hardware room. It catered to

Snowbirds so the stock reflected their tastes - with a fine selection of new,

shinning gold-pans, coal oil lamps, picks, canteens and ten gallon hats.

I wound my way between the show-cases to the back of the general store, where

another small doorway opened onto the dinning room boasting tables covered

with red and white chequered cloths. The room was large and on the walls were

old west relics, pottery bells and Rock Springs T-shirts for sale.

Whether I chose a chuck-wagon breakfast, a Mexican lunch, a ranch house

steak dinner, a sandwich or a good old hamberger, I knew it was to be, as G.B. had

assured me, "the best rip-snorting meal y'all'll ever eat!"

Despite protests of being sated, I was led with great ritual to the seven foot

pie keep. There I chose a foot high wedge of lemon merange pie from an

incredible selection of berry, fruit, cream and custard.


Each pie was homemade with the freshest, tastiest ingredients baked to

perfection, then placed in the pie keep and illuminated like England's Crown

Jewels.


Phoenix executives brought New York and London businessmen to this ''taste"

of the Old West and locals just brought their appetites.


But Ahhhh, the trip to the bathroom revealed the piece de resistance. I

walked to the back of the dinning room, edged right through an open doorway . . .

and there it was, in all its glory shinning through from the long lost past - the

Saloon!


A gleaming brass rail and brass spittoons accented the massive wooden bar where

a gigantic, glistening mirror reflected back the amber and green bottles before it.

Above the heavy oak tables and chairs, hung an immence wagon wheel encircled

by fresh unlit beeswax candles. The people who breathed life into this echo of

the past were local cowboys and gun toting Snowbirds.


Maybe I didn't stay until evening because I was afraid of having a flat tire or

breakdown on my way back to my butte; maybe I feared G.B.'s reaction to me

alone at night in a saloon. But I wanted to stay. I wanted to see the candles lit. I

wanted to sip Pepsis and watch logs burning in the fireplace. And most of all, I

wanted to stay until the piano player pounded the ornate honky-tonk piano back

to life.



G.B. and the Strange Canadian Painter Lady
by Charlotte Madison and Nana Cook copyrite 1994

THIEVES IN THE QUARRY - page 27

ONE CLEAR STARLIT NIGHT I WAS INSIDE THE TRAILER AND LONDON WAS SITTING AT THE EDGE OF THE BUTTE LISTENING TO COYOTE CALLS. I OFTEN LOOKED DOWN ALONG THE PASS AND SAW ONE OR TWO SINGLE HEADLIGHTS, ALWAYS IT WAS ONLY MOTORCYCLE RIDERS ENJOYING THE DUSTY BUMPY ROADS.



ONE NIGHT IN PARTICULAR, WHEN I LOOKED OUT I SAW A PAIR OF HEADLIGHTS. THEY TURNED INTO THE QUARRY AND IN THE MOON'S LIGHT I SAW TWO MEN CLIMB OUT OF A CAR BY THE STONE COMPANY'S EQUIPMENT. EACH MAN TURNED ON A FLASHLIGHT AND BEGAN MOVING ABOUT.



LONDON STOOD PREPARING TO BARK, BUT I DID NOT WANT THAT TO HAPPEN. IT WOULD DRAW ATTENTION UP TO THE TRAILER AND THEY MIGHT CONSIDER IT RIPE FOR PLUCKING, DOG OR NO DOG. I WENT OUT QUIETLY TO GRAB LONDON'S COLLAR BUT HE DARTED AWAY AND STARTED TOWARD THE ROAD WINDING DOWN FROM THE BUTTE. IF I CALLED OUT TO HIM, I COULD NOT MAKE MY VOICE SOUND LIKE A MAN'S VOICE AND THE SOUND OF A WOMAN'S VOICE MIGHT BRING THEM TO ME.



IF I MOVED AGAIN, LONDON WOULD TAKE IT AS A SIGNAL FOR A WALK AND BOLT, AND THEN I REALIZED, IF I WHISTLED NO ONE WOULD KNOW WHETHER I WAS A WOMAN OR AN ARMED QUARRY GUARD SIGNALING AN ATTACK DOG. I HAD ONE CHANCE TO DO IT RIGHT. I LICKED MY DRY LIPS, TOOK A DEEP BREATH AND WITH LUCK, GAVE ONE SHRILL WHISTLE. LONDON CAME RUNNING TO ME.

FLASHLIGHTS WENT OUT, CAR DOORS FLEW OPEN AND SLAMMED SHUT, THE CAR ENGINE ROARED AND WITH SPINNING TIRES AND A CLOUD OF DUST GLOWING IN THE MOONLIGHT, THEY PEALED OUT OF THE QUARRY STRAIGHT THROUGH THE CHOLLA, MISSING THE DRIVEWAY ENTIRELY. IT WASN'T UNTIL THEY WERE WELL ON THEIR WAY DOWN THE PASS THAT I SAW RED TAIL LIGHTS COME ON AND THE FLOOD OF ILLUMINATION FROM THEIR HEADLIGHTS.

I FELT SO PROUD OF MYSELF. I SCARED THEM OFF, SAVED EQUIPMENT AND THE THIEVES WERE MORE AFRAID THAN I.

ON G.B.'S NEXT VISIT, AFTER I HAD TOLD HIM MY STORY OF THE THIEVES IN THE NIGHT, G.B. SAID TO ME, "CHARLE, IF Y'ALL WON'T USE A GUN, Y'ALL TAKE MY PICK-HANDLE."

"OH G.B. THERE ISN'T ROOM TO SWING IT IN THE TRAILER AND I HAVE TOO MANY OTHER THINGS TO CARRY ON WALKS."

G.B. GAVE A LOUD SNORT, MOUNTED HIS FAITHFUL PICK-UP, CIRCLED DOWN THE BUTTE AND BOUNCED ALONG THE PASS, BARELY MISSING STARTLED CATTLE WHO SCATTERED AS MY WILD OL' OKIE BOY PASSED BY.


BY CHARLOTTE MADISON AND NANA COOK COPYRITE 1994

SIGNS - page 25 cont.

I FOLLOWED G.B. AND WAYNE, HIS CARPENTER, SOUTH TO THE SUN VALLEY PINK QUARRY NEAR PHOENIX. G.B. TOWED A PINK TRAVEL TRAILER UP ONTO A BUTTE FOR LONDON AND ME. AFTER A DEBATE WITH HIM, I RELUCTANTLY AGREED TO A PROPANE HOOK-UP TO THE STOVE AND FRIDGE, BUT I REFUSED PROPANE TO THE LIGHTS AND THE HOT WATER HEATER. I TOLD G.B. IF HE FOISTED THEM ONTO ME I WOULD MOVE BACK INTO LUDWIG.

"G.B., I HAVE THE NICETIES OF LIFE AT HOME. I'M HERE SO I CAN GET AWAY FROM THEM." I ASSERTED.

HE LOOKED AT ME WITH FLASHES OF PRIDE, ANGER AND CONFUSION AND THEN TURNED TO WAYNE AND ASKED, "ISN'T SHE STRANGE?"

FILLED WITH CONCERN, G.B. HEAVED A SIGH, THEN HE AND WAINE HEADED NORTH, BACK TO ASH FORK, THE FLAGSTONE CAPITOL OF THE U.S.A., HOPEFULLY HAVING LEFT LONDON AND ME SAFE IN THE LITTLE PINK TRAILER.

WE CAMPED ON THE BUTTE AT THE DORMANT SUN VALLEY PINK QUARRY FOR SIX MONTHS. WHILE WE ROAMED AMID TOWERING SAGUARO AND EVIL JUMPING CHOLLA CACTUS, I KEPT FINDING WEATHERED OLD SIGNS BLEACHED BY THE SUN. THE ROUGHLY PAINTED WORDS WERE BARELY LEGIBLE. I WONDERED WHETHER THEY DATED BACK TO TERRITORIAL DAYS. THE WORDS WERE A STRANGE COMBINATION OF BIBLE-THUMPING, HELL AND DAMNATION QUOTES, WILD WEST PHRASES AND THREATS.

MY CURIOSITY WAS SPARKED. IF THAT WAS WIT, IT WAS THE BLACKEST OF HUMOUR. IF IT WAS ANGER - THE MAN WAS RAGING.

ON ONE OF G.B.'S TRIPS SOUTH TO THE PHOENIX HEAD OFFICE OF WESTERN STATES STONE, HE CHECKED IN WITH ME AND I ASKED HIM WHO MADE THE SIGNS.

"OH, THAT WOULD BE ONE A' THE QUARRY GUARDS. SIGNS CAN SAVE 'EM THE TROUBLE A' SHOOTIN' PEOPLE WHO TRESSPASS, BUT MOST AND ESPECIALLY THE POET WOULD AS SOON SHOOT Y'ALL AS BOTHER TALKIN TO YE. I WORRY ABOUT LEAVIN' Y'ALL ALONE HERE, WITHOUT A GUARD."

"OH G.B., I LIKE THIS PLACE BECAUSE I AM ALONE."

OBVIOUSLY CONFUSED BY THAT IDEA, HE TRIED TO CARRY ON, "THAT OL' CABIN YONDER, THAT'S WHERE THEY USED TO STAY - THE GUARDS. SOME ARE DRIFTERS, SOME OL' ROCK DOODLERS AND SOME ARE JUST HERMITS. SOME LIKE THEIR DAWGS BETTER'N PEOPLE . . . LIKE Y'ALL." HE LOOKED THOUGHTFULLY AT ME AND ADDED, "Y'ALL ARE A STRANGE CANADIAN PAINTER LADY CHARLE."

RETURN TO ASH FORK cont. Page 22

The final destinations on the tour were the flagstone quarries north of town. We

crossed the tracks and headed for the White Elephant, Geronimo and Santa

Cruz. As I glanced back at Ash Fork nestled amid green leaves and blossoms of

spring, I began to see beauty in G.B.'s beloved woebegon little town.

A few hours later at the Santa Cruz quarry, G.B. proposed marriage to me. I

accepted, and soon after, London, Ludwig and I followed G.B., who was towing a

pink travel trailer, one hundred fifty miles south into the low desert north of

Phoenix, where I could paint.

RETURN TO ASH FORK cont. Page 20

When we arrived back in town G.B. drove me through the stone yard where he

was employed, then up and down every street in Ash Fork, which proved to be two
miles long and five blocks wide. With his left arm out the window as a pointer he

told me, "I own this here trailer house an' I get good rent fer it. I own these three

lots, an' as soon as I do some work on the cesspool an' septic field, if that GOD -

Dammed building inspector will keep away from me, I'll put three mobile homes

on them. Now, I own six houses in this block, four on the north side." The

strange little stone houses I'd seen on my first visit to the town. ". . . an' five an'

six there on the south side."

With every corner he turned, G.B. kept his arms waving and the list growing.

"If I owned it all Charle," he said, referring to the town, "I still wouldn't be a rich

man - but I'm finaglin' another old house anagoglan from here. That fool wants

four thousand dollars fer it! Wayll he can GO STRAIGHT TO HAYLL, before I'll

pay four thousand fer that shack! But I will pay two thousand fer it, an' I'll rent it

fer twenty-five dollars a month. That's fifteen percent interest on my money!" he

said with obvious relish.

G.B. traced the the history of the oldest building in town for me, several of

which he owned. In one historic structure he showed me a bullet hole in the

ceiling, which dated back to territorial times a cowboy, a night on the town, a

woman and whiskey. He took me to the site of the old Escalante Hotel: a Harvey

House built before nineteen ten, to accommodate the Santa Fe Railroad

passengers. Some of the original floor and tiles were still intact, and as G.B.

related historic facts about the building. I envisions the elegance of the Escalante

encircled by the rugged simplicity of the little cow town.

Each building had a story to be told and each person I met greeted me with

warm familiarity. I even met Moon John, the old fellow who lived in the junk

yard, and whose joy-filled voice I'd heard on my first visit to Ash Fork.