The Okie and the Artist.

BLIND AUCTION.

2010-05-06T21:05:00.000-07:00

SUNDAY MAY 9 AT 5 P.M. I WILL CHECK EMAILED BIDS FOR "SUN DRIED RISTRA" AND NOTIFY THE HIGHEST BIDDER. TRY A LOW BID FOR PRACTICE, MORE PAINTINGS TO COME. THE PARTICULARS ARE ON MY WEBSITE ON www.MyArtClub.Com and www.cmstudio.ca

WHAT'S NEW

2010-05-04T09:43:00.000-07:00

I STILL HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO TRACK OR GET HITS.

I WAS PAINTING A DESERT SCENE ON A BENCH TO AUCTION FOR THE AIDS ORPHANED CHILDREN IN AFRICA - NAN GO GRANNIES CHAIR AFFAIR.

NOW I AM GOING TO BLIND AUCTION ONE OF MY PAINTINGS EACH WEEK - LOW BID GETS IT! TO SEE DETAILS CHECK OUT CHARLOTTE MADISON ON: http://www.myartclub.com/ OR cmstudio@shaw.ca

JANUARY 9 2010

2010-01-09T23:12:00.000-08:00

ARE YOU FINDING THIS BLOG? I WOULD APPRECIATE EVEN A ONE WORD YES COMMENT IF YOU ARE. I MUST BE DOING SOMETHING VERY WRONG AS HITS COME UP "0"

THE CENTURY PLANT page 61

2009-12-15T13:44:00.001-08:00

THE NORTHERN CAMPSITE page 57

2009-12-11T19:41:00.000-08:00

My northern campsite was seven miles north of Ash Fork. G.B. pulled the pink trailer half way up the mountain side, below the White Elephant quarry, then settled it under wind-twisted old juniper trees.

He filled the trailer's water storage tank and connected the propane tanks for the fridge, stove and water heater. To guarantee ample water for the shower, G.B. had his carpenters build a stand which held two water barrels behind the trailer. I thought he was carrying my water supply to an extreme when he had the men brace a third barrel in the fork of a juniper tree by my door. But G.B. knew I would run out of water, no matter how much I had.

The first morning at my new campsite, for a special treat, I fried a pan of bacon, onions, potatoes and an egg.

I carried my aromatic plate and a cold Pepsi outside into the cool, early morning sunshine and climbed up onto Huff, a loader G.B. had driven out from the stoneyard the day before.

As I ate my breakfast slowly, I scanned the scene below me; Mt. Floyd, Old Pocatch, and cinder cones along the horizon. I looked north but the valley soon disappeared behind the skirts of my mountain. South, the valley reached out to Ash Fork and beyond into the early morning haze.

My attention was drawn to the ground close below my campsite by the arrival of a huge, long legged jack rabbit. He sat quivering, wide eyed and still, then bolted on his zigzag path at the sounds of a passing cotton-tail. I looked up into the deepening sky and into the branches above my head. I called to a little bird who replied, "com'ere, com'ere."

Just where the valley road crossed the Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fe railroad tracks into town, I noticed a puff of dust. Dust traced a vehicle's progress down the valley. Eventually the vehicle swung onto Quarry Road, crossed the cattle-guard and flashed between the trees along the frontage road. It was G.B. in the company pick-up bringing rock doodlers who did not have transportation up to the quarry.

In order to open the office at eight a.m., G.B. dropped off the men at seven-thirty, checked their water barrels and their equipment, gave his orders for the day, then roared back toward town.

On his way down the mountain, G.B. skidded to a stop by my campsite, saw I was gazing at the view below and asked me, "Charle, how can y'all just set thar doin' nothin'? Y'all git yer giddle on up the hill an' paint some pictures. I'll be back this evenin'."

He was off in a big puff of dust . . . and he was back at noon and at three o'clock and at five o'clock, but he never did come back the evening.

The next day I learned "evenin" is any time after twelve noon and G.B. had come back three times last evenin'

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

THE TEXANS page 53

2009-11-27T23:27:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-25T10:26:00.000-08:00

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

CHRISTMAS DINNER page 43

2009-11-24T09:50:00.000-08:00

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.

A QUICK MESSAGE TO YOU

2009-11-23T10:42:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-19T19:18:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-11-18T19:21:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-17T13:32:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-16T21:54:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-15T19:40:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-14T13:26:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-14T12:54:00.000-08:00

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

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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

2009-11-07T19:12:00.000-08:00

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.

RETURN TO ASH FORK cont.- page 18

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G.B. turned off Route 66, drove onto the open ranch land and searched to the horizon line.

"I want y'all to watch fer antelope." he said with charming enthusiasm.

I gratefully took the opportunity to turn away from his face and stare through the passenger side window, while I listened to the dear familiar voice. Skin stretched over bones isn't important, I thought to myself. What matters is all the beauty inside.

I turned back from the window and again I looked at G.B.'s face. This time I saw brilliant turquoise eyes, a colour I had never seen. I saw his proud Teutonic neck, and felt compassion sweep over me as I inspected the narrative scars by his mouth and on his chin. Such a nice chin, he may have been quite handsome as a young man.

This is a fine strong man, I thought, a protector to stand between me and the world. Then I looked at his hands. Such beautiful hands. I wondered what makes a hand beautiful? Maybe it is loving the person whose hand it is. I looked back to G.B.'s dear face and he turned to look at me. He smiled, tears spilled down his cheeks as he said, "I've got so much to show y'all Charle."

We watched for the antelope, and I thrilled to the dusty ride across the Arizona high desert ranch land.

G.B. stopped the pick-up at a whole lot of black and stated, "Charle, this is a black cinder pit, I'm fixin' to show y'all somethin'."

I stepped down from the old pick-up and gazed at the vast expanse of land which encircled the volcanic cinder pit. Despite my fascination, a strange thought . . . . What if this rather odd man is crazed - kills me, then buries me under the cinders? I felt an adrenalin rush, then I heard again the beautiful music of his voice.

"Look Charle, 'cross yonder - at that white scar n the mountain. That's my quarry, the White Elephant.

"Where?" I asked, as I scanned the long line of mountains.

G.B. moved behind me to the right. He reached across my back with his left arm and gripped my left arm with his powerful hand. H closed tight around me and pointed to the scar on the mountain. Either this man is going to kiss me - or kill me!

We stood alone in the world under a clear blue sky and G.B. kissed me with all the strength, confidence and emotion of his nature.

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

RETURN TO ASH FORK - page 17.

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Excitement mounted as I drove the last twenty mile stretch from Seligman to Ash Fork, and I musted to calm myself. I had seen G.B.'s face, but only in short bursts of light from passing cars, so I had left Arizona with at most, a vague impression of his head. I did not know if he was tall or short, fat or thin, handsome or homely. I only knew I loved the beautiful music of his slow southern voice and the tender loving words he spoke each time he phoned me in Canada.

I decided he would be wearing gorgeous hand tooled leather cowboy boots, a big Stetson hat and a western style suit.

Our rendezvous was the "Bus Depot" at eight-fifteen a. m. When I walked into the cafe' "dressed and groomed," I stared intently into each man's face. They looked, but no one rose to greet me. I turned when I heard the front door open and saw a man of medium height standing in the doorway. He was dressed in khaki work shirt and pants, steel toed work boots and an old straw cowboy hat.

"Are you G.B.?" I asked the man.

"Oh. . . " he replied, "a red-head, I thought y'all was a blonde."

G.B. had a fine straight back, but a decided bow to the legs, and I couldn't see any sign of hair beneath his straw hat. This was definately not the Adonia for whom my mother was hoping. "Before I take y'all to y'all's motel, I'm fixin' to show y'all somethin'." I left Ludwig Van Volkswagon parked at the cafe' and London my faithful sheepdog and I climbed into G.B.'s company pick-up.

G.B. drove in a westerly direction through town and on down Route 66. I studied his face as he chatted and I thought it looks so , used. His chin had been split and mended in several places and his nose. . . was one of a kind. I could not associate my new love with his face.

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

THE ENCOUNTER cont. - page 13

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The Encounter cont.

"Hello Lady, y'all waitin' fer a ride?" asked the man driving the Buick.

"No, I'm waiting for the bus." I replied.

"Oh, people most times wait fer the bus at home or in their motel rooms. " "Well, I'll just stay with y'all, 'till y'all's bus comes." He pondered a moment, and then he asked. "Would y'all like to go to supper?"

Where? I thought, "No thank you."

"Well," He reiterated, "I'll just stay with y'all, 'till y'all's bus gets here."

"Oh you don't have to bother." But the man totally ignored my response.

"Y'all'r a-shiverin' like a line wash in a wind storm. Get in the car an' I'll turn on the heater."

"No, I'm fine - thank you." I stated through chenched teeth.

He offered me something warm to wear, reached into the back seat of his car and pulled forth his overcoat.

"No, really, I am fine. Thank you." I did not want some stranger's coat all over me.

"I feel responsible fer y'all, 'cause I own the bus depot." He announced with pride.

What bus depot? I snorted in my mind. It was obvious that this man was going to wait with me and see me safely onto that bus. There was an earnest sweetness about him and I found myself thankful to have his company.

"I'll tell y'all about me an' then y'all can tell me about y'all. My name is G.B., that's short fer Good Boy . . . ."

Hours later when the bus pulled into view I thought my adventure on Route 66 was coming to a close.

"Won't y'all stay or stop in on y'all's way back from Santa Fe? Let me show y'all the places to paint 'round here."

G.B. did not list the Grand Canyon, Jerome or Sedona, instead he continued, "Out on the big ol' ranches 'round here are rusty ol' windmills, with chains a-rattlin' in the breeze. Y'all could paint them."

Windmills! I was halfway to being in love with G.B. Madison.

Four months after I returned home to Canada, I received a copy of Arizona Highways and a letter that had been wandering about, returned for insufficient postage, mailed again, misdirected here and there and addresseed only to: Charlotte, Ganges, Canada. It was an outspoken letter, ordering me to call him collect. I called immediately, filled with joy, and heard a sob in his voice as he said, "Oh Charle, it's been so long. I'd given up hope that y'all would ever call."

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

THE ENCOUNTER cont - page 12

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The Encounter cont.

I continued on for several more bloc s and was approaching the eastern end of town. The last relic before the range land and hills was a Shell gas station - my last hope. I passed a junk yard, and hanging on a rope that stretched from one rusted and wrecked vehicle to another, was an old long-john washing, kicking in the breeze. Issuing forth from one of the old cars was a joy filled voice, heartily singing a happy old-fashioned song. All this made me smile, and when a trucker honked out a greeting I was able to laugh and wave back. I was not alone in Ash Fork any longer.

The Shell gas station was open. I walked in and asked the men who were staring at me, "May I paint in your field today?"

Nobody answered, they just stared.

"Do you have food and pop dispensers?" I asked.

"We have sodas," one of the men replied.

"May I fill my canteens and use your rest room?"

Again they just stared, so I took that for yes, thanked them profusely and took advantage of the amenities. I walked out to the field where I donned a paint covered Hawaiian muumuu, a flower covered sun-hat and began to wallow in paint, finishing paintings through which I had previously rushed.
Off and on throughout the day vehicles which I presumed to be local traffic slowly cruised by me. One in particular, a sleek, new white Buick Electra, must have driven past ten times. Something about me struck these people as odd.

The gas station closed as the sun began to drop close to the hills. I packed up and trudged back to the "bus depot" where I set up my canvas stool, sat down and looked longlingly at the cafe', wishing it would open. To add insult to injury, behind the greasy window I could see the family who ran the cafe; eating their dinner at the counter. As I sat alone and cold I was tantalized by the aroma of their fried onions.

The sun set early, and with darkness came unexpected high desert cold. Grimy, hungry and shivering from the drop in temperature - I was not happy.

Again the white Buick appeared. Slowly it drove up onto the sidewalk and parked beside me.

"Hello Lady. Y'all waitin' fer a ride?" asked the man in the Buick.

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

THE ENCOUNTER cont. page 10

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The Encounter

Vibrant hues enliven my paintings, so I scanned the town for an inspiring subject to paint. But this town had to be the most monochromatic sight I had ever seen. It had sun-bleached wooden buildings, heaved up grey pavement, slate colored Santa Fe Railroad water towers, silver railway tracks, hoary leafless trees, dry cracked pinkish-grey earth and dust - dust everywhere. The town did not appear to be alive, yet it lacked the magic of a real ghost town.

I decided to stay in sight of the "bus depot," as it had become my safe place in this ramshackle old town. But I did have to go in search of water, food, facilities and a subject to paint.

I looked west. The road passed by the water towers and several strange, little stone houses, before it disappeared around a curve. I looked east and saw the familiar Union 76 orange ball. It looked encouraging, so I headed that way.

The sidewalk was encompassed a variety of hazards. There were potholes, sections of unevenly set flagstone, rocks strewn everywhere, whole sections of sidewalk covered in broken glass and cement steps that went up for no apparent reason - and then back down.

I stopped at a closed shop and peered through one of its filthy windows. Inside, frozen in time, I saw the interior of a circa 1940's fifteen cent store. Old familiar lables and price tags hurtled me back to my childhood and to the first time I was allowed to walk alone to the shops, where I purchased a twist of variegated pink wool for my spool knitting.

I continued on past a boarded up old theatre and the old Union 76 gas station. The front window of the station was solid house plants, all green and thriving - an encouraging sign. Next to closed old station sat a general store with sun faded posters, signs and sun shielding devices covering the windows. I could not be sure if the store was closed or out of business.

What if the entire town is vacant and all these passing vehicles are just driving throu? I thought to myself, Can I go for twelve hours without a drink? No! I'll have to stop a car and beg for water. I felt a rising panic. The Chicago to L.A. traffic was increasing, but there was no sign of local activity.

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

THE ENCOUNTER - page 9

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The Encounter

I set sail for the desert onboard a British Columbia ferry boat, and stood on the deck weighted down with canteens, back-packs and canvas boards. I held a tattered copy of Don Quixote in my hands and as the ferry glided down Long Harbour, away from my home on Salt Spring Island I whispered into the wind, "I too shall tilt windmills."

My plan was to crisscross the American Southwest by bus at night and to paint Franciscan missions by day. After two months I had perfected my technique - until that October Sunday morning when I got off the bus in Ash Fork, Arizona.

The bus pulled away and I was left standing in what appeared to be a deserted town, without a mission in sight.

I crossed the road to a dingy cafe located beside a vacant pool hall and an old fashioned wooden hotel, which was also vacant. There was a Greyhound sign above the pool hall window and as I neared the cafe a woman turned the open sign to closed and locked the door. I called out, "When does the next bus to Santa Fe come through?"

"Eight fifteen tonight." she barked. I was stunned. Twelve hours in what appeared to be a ghost town with closed shops, vacant hotels, caved in roofs, broken store windows, scattered floor tiles on the sidewalk, abandoned gas stations and what might be a cafe/saloon on a good day.

I felt disheartened until my eyes lit on a westbournd Route 66 sign. Route 66- a highway to adventure and I began to wonder what mine could be.

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

The Strange Canadian Painter Lady - page 7

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Charle, the Artist.

I keep my head empty, so I can feel the gentle breezes blow through.

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

PROLOGUE AND G.B. cont. - page 5

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G.B.

"Charle, June sixteen, nineteen and fifty, I stepped off 'a that Greyhound bus in Ash Fork, Arizona, sad, broke, busted an' mad as Hayll. I was mad as a snortin' bull on the wrong side of a barbed wire fence. I got a lift out to my uncle's flagstone quarry an' I asked him fer a job. Uncle Frank handed me a hammer, some wedges an' a pry bar. He told me, "Rock's over thar - start a-workin'"

"Will someone show me what to do, or will y'all learn me?" G.B. asked.

"Yall got tools Bremond." Uncle Frank told me, "An I reckon y'all got a brain, an' I told y'all where the stone is . . . y'all want me to do y'all's work fer ye?"

G.B. learned, earned and saved enough money doodling rock to buy an' old rock hauling truck. He slammed down his tools and began to haul stone for his uncle.

When stone company drivers were off for the night or home because of inclement weather, G.B. was out driving loads of stone into town, or he was digging his truck out of the mud.

G.B's bank account began to grow and with it his knowledge of Arizona's geology and the business of producing flagstone. He was hired as foreman when the company owner left Ash Fork to make major changes and open a sales division in Phoenix. G.B. was promoted to "Superintendent of Operations, Ash Fork Production Division."

I ate in cafes an' I worked hard from dawn 'till late. On weekends I played just as hard. I slept in a stack a'pallets at the stone yard 'till I got a chance to buy a cheap house. I'd be DAMNED if I'd pay rent with my hard earned money just so's I could sleep in someone else's house. I'm a-goin' an' a-blowin', steamin', dumb ol' Okie boy. I'm fify-seven an' I own a third a' this town. I'm a rich, bald-headed, son of a bitch, stingy ol' landlord, but I never did work a man cold, thirsty, hungry or without a house to go home to. Oh I've lived a hard life Charle, an if any danged renter tries to tell me what to do, why I tell 'em - DAMMIT - IF Y'ALL DON'T LIKE IT - MOVE!"

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

PROLOGUE page 1 AND G.B. - page 3

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PROLOGUE

I live by the sea and I hear eagles and herons and such.
But oh what I'd give to hear one "com'ere."* Oh I'd give so much.
I live by the sea and I sea rain and clouds and such.
But oh what I'd give for one desert storm. Oh I'd give so much.

Cotton-tails, jackrabbits scamper galore.
An antelope pounding the desert floor.
Sweet sound of a coyote in the moon-lit night.
But I'm here by the sea . . . and it's right.

I live by the sea and I see whales and seals and such.
But oh what I'd give for the mouring doves. Oh I'd give so much.
I live by the sea and I hear ducks and sea-lions and such.
But oh to hear the diamondback's rattle! Oh I'd give so much.

Jimsonweed, prairie dogs, cactus in bloom,
The silhouette of Junipers against the moon
"Com'ere." says that little bird with heart so light.
But I'm here by the sea . . . and it's right.

* the call of the little bird at the northern campsite.

G.B.

"I am what I am an' I don't give a damn! They call me G.B. That's short fer good boy. 'Course most people say its short fer gone bad."

August 14 1917, G.B. Madison was born to a share-cropping family in Chickasaw, Oklahoma.

"When I was a little bitty boy, had to learn to walk real fast so's I could help with the chores. Us boys went barefoot all summer. Couldn't go to school in September each year 'till we'd picked cotton 'nough to buy shoes an' books. Oh Charle, that cotton tears up a boy's hands real bad."

G.B.'s father was an ethical, religious, dominant, stubborn, hard working man who had demanding expectations for his five sons.
According to G.B., his sister was favoured by their mother and his father ruled the boys.

"I've taken many a beatin' from my Daddy, but he was the best man who ever lived. If me an' my four brothers couldn't find a friend to fight with, we beat on each other, or we teased our li'l sister 'till 'er screams brought our mother a runnin'. Either way, we got a whippin' from my Daddy.

"I recall how after dinner, an' after Daddy read some from the bible, he'd get out his fiddle. With us all gathered 'round, an' with the least little bitty one a-ridin' his leg, my Daddy played his fiddle an' beat out the rhythm with his foot."

On special winter nights, our mother made popcorn balls. Made 'em with our very own home-grown popcorn an' parched peanuts. Even had our own home-grown sorghum molasses. Big as softballs they was. Oh Charle they tasted larrupin'."

As a young adult, G.B. rose early to milk his cows and drive the milk into town, picking up other people's milk cans along the way. Next he put in a day's work in his feed and seed store. After dinner he put in a late shift at his "beer joint." Between marriages he squeezed in two years at the University of Oklahoma. G.B. rapidly learned to channel his quick mind and endless energy into hard work and steady financial growth.

"A full night's sleep is a downright waste a-money."

At thirty-three G.B. left Oklahoma. He left everyone he loved, the children he adored and he left his "beer joint" in the hands of tenants. He was fatigued by the quirks of his nature and by the twists of fate that had left him cash poor, alone and sad. Like many an Okie, G.B. headed west on Route 66.

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