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