My Christmas Letter...
It’s that tinsel time of year again. Even though I annually welcome the lights and trees, the proliferation of good will, music and celebration, somehow this year is different. I really want to believe in that sense of renewal and hope personified by the Christmas season. I’ll admit I’m getting older, but age and attitude do not have to wrinkle at the same rate. Maybe I can help myself somehow. Where to start? Making words visible somehow seems to add clarity to my understanding, so maybe…. instead of just reading Christmas letters, this year I will write one of my own, but to whom? The obvious choice is that jolly bearded fellow with the red suit and shaking “little round belly.” He does have a “ginormous” job, however, so perhaps I can find some additional helpers? How about my readers—whoever and wherever they may be? I suppose I need to explain. On November 5, I pulled into my driveway, a lone traveler completing a 2747.9 mile adventure. Thirteen days earlier I had entered US Highway 82 almost outside my Powderly, TX, door and followed those US Highway 82 signs all the way to Alamogordo, New Mexico. Along the way I discovered fields of blooming dwarf sunflowers in West Texas, dipped my hands (and feet) into the briskly flowing, cold artesian springs of Artesia, New Mexico, bathed in the moonlight of New Mexico’s full moon, appreciated the green of the Lincoln National Forest then visited with an RSVP volunteer in Alamogordo’s visitors center. Three of her four children live in Texas. Outside Alamogordo, the White Sands National Monument beckoned, and an empty McDonald’s cup was the perfect vessel for scooping some of the white sand from a highway right of way. My GrandBoys need to see and feel this. On to Las Cruces, truly a town with an international flavor. For example Malooly’s Carpet City, Rendezvous Café, Rodriquez Collision Repair and Pepe’s Restaurant appeared side by side on Quisenberry Street. 40
ALT Magazine
December 2013
Time now for my first interstate travel. It was a forced surrender, but the most direct avenue into Tucson and my special Great Old Broad friend, Saralaine Millet. Predictably, I-10 provided plenty of opportunities to dart in and out of lengthy truck convoys and feel more like a race car driver than a curious traveler. (OOPS! My prejudice is showing.) Just outside Tucson, an Arizona rest stop provided a welcome respite from the race track while offering an inexplicable view. Gigantic boulders piled on top of each other surrounded the rest stop’s perimeter. One reminded me of a whale opening its gigantic jaws for the anticipated rush of water. The randomness in which these boulders were arranged and no obvious signs of a dome or lava flow or even water reminded me of the cataclysmic events speculated in the formation of the Grand Canyon. I lingered too long. I hit the freeways of Tucson at 5 p.m. on a Friday afternoon. What fun it was to juggle reading the directions Saralaine had provided me to her house, the freeway signs to get me there and the brisk-and getting brisker-flow of weekend traffic. To top it off, the very exit I needed was partially blocked by a disabled vehicle. However, I was having an adventure. Fortunately, I managed the correct exit and headed over the little Tucson Mountains toward Saralaine’s desert retreat. After some corrective moves, I reached the “Primitive road. Proceed at your own risk” sign that introduced the passage to her house and pulled into her front yard later than I had intended. I was greeted by a delightful pair whose hospitality, senses of humor and unassuming intelligence made my stay a pleasure that defies description. After passing the inspection of Security Chief Dr. Tom (he suspected all us Texans are always “packin’”), I joined them in a welcome refreshment. We all rose early next morning, and I accompanied Saralaine on her daily walk route. She and Tom are