The Earth Presents Itself

I love the midwest: the rolling farm fields, big green trees, rampant weeds, rivers, streams and lakes, pale blue sky (or gray, depending on the day), cows, corn.  Every time I go I admire them all, even take special extra drives into the country.  But I don’t want to go back.  And when I return to Arizona, I watch the appearance of the rocky hills, the dry washes, the great dry open spaces, and feel a kind of relaxation, a letting go, a pleasure in the naked beauty of the earth.  I don’t quite know if I love it more, or just differently; but it stimulates a different part of me.  The desert is subtle in its beauty – you have to look more carefully to see the green, the differences between the summer and the winter, the slow growth of the desert plants.  The midwest seems almost ostentatious in contrast, with its heavy foliage, outsized plants (really – do they NEED to be that big?), lush grasses, abundance of water.  The sky is so wide, so blue here; and when there are storms, there are storms.  I feel more of the scope of the earth, even with the immediacy of the rocks under my feet, or the cholla just an inch from my knee.  The mountains rise up, the canyons cut down.  The earth presents itself.  I can see, can touch, the different layers of rock slicing through the slope I’m climbing.  The plants live here, as do the animals (and humans), but it’s not their domain – it is the earth’s.  And I find myself over and over looking at this or that rock, or mountain, or horizon, or wash, or canyon, and feeling the wonder of it move me.   And move me it does.  I don’t always know toward what; but is definitely toward, rather than away from.  It draws me, makes me wonder what is farther along – just over that hill, or beyond that horizon.  The midwest never quite did that.

Where do I know you from?

“Where do I know you from?”

“I don’t think you do know me.  I certainly don’t recognize you.  Leave me!”   She gestured dismissively.

“No, but really.  I’m sure I know you from somewhere.  Were you in the south of France last year?”  The persistent person of dubious national origin peered into her face solicitously.

“Why would you ask such a personal question?”  She allowed her glance to run up and down the person, in a way which suggested doubt about the legality and advisability of someone continuing to stand just there.  “If you do not leave, I will be forced to call the management.”

The person took a step backward, clearly struck by the force of the idea of the management entering into the discussion; but also clearly not intending to leave just yet.  “Why, it just seems to me that you might be a little kinder to the person who saved you from the clutches of the mercado pirate.  You recall – the one you had handed over your entire life savings to, and almost your – ah – reputation?” 

“Indeed.”  The direction of her gaze rose up, like bubbles floating to the surface, until they met the eyes of her accoster.  There they stopped and became like green lasers.  “You mistake me for someone else.  Now please be on your way, lest I mistake you for someone I once knew, and do what I ought to have done then.”  She paused.  “I’m sure you understand me.”

Book Blurb

Who’d ever choose to live in a town like Randallville?  Or, more importantly, who would choose to die there?!?

Three deaths in one week bring together a strange assortment of characters: a cowboy, who loses his boss at the ranch he’s been working for 40 years; a 10-year-old autistic boy, who notices things in ways no one else does; a detective, who finds cause for cool suspicion and hot desire; a female construction worker as confused by life as she is by her male co-workers; and a host of other town-folk just trying to live their darned lives. 

An epic of swirling emotions, earth-shattering plot twists, wrenching confrontations, and heart-warming connections and salvation!

Derek 2

I understand the sociological, even anthropological, significance of funerals as the markers of a death, the change in a family or community status.  That doesn’t mean I like going to them.  IMHO, in their current form they’re pretty useless.  To keep on the good side of the relations, I decided to go.   But no way would I stay more than 15 minutes.

Sitting in that funeral home, though, I regretted my generosity.  None of these people were the least bit interesting.  I looked at my watch – 10 more minutes.  The group of women chattered away, and the two guys I didn’t know just stood at the coffin – killing time, I guessed, and staying away from the chattering women.  I checked my watch again – 8 minutes to go.

Madeline 2

I was to be the distant cousin from out of town, on his mother’s side.  Cherry had coached me on my supposed lineage, so I figured I could get by if anybody quizzed me.   I had done this plenty of times before, but yeah, I had a few nerves.  We didn’t know if Borkfield would even show up – might just be a waste of time.  But might not.

I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror, tucked a few stray hairs into place, grabbed my purse and headed for the funeral home entrance. 

It was still early for the viewing, but there were about 10 cars already in the parking lot. No one outside, though. I walked through the doors, the blast of A/C sending my carefully arranged scarf back over my shoulder – damn.  Inside, like most of these places, it was rather dark, especially after the bright AZ sun, and plush, with dark yet subdued colors, comfortable chairs, lots of flowers, hushed voices.  I hate these places.  They’re like death – not the kind where you actually die, but the kind where your soul gets slowly sucked out and you eventually are - well, generic, I guess.

I glanced in a mirror in the hallway to rearrange the scarf, then headed purposefully toward Parlor C – Randall.  From the doorway – only seven people in the room, with Cherry in a group with three other women, one skinny, twitchy guy sitting in a corner looking at his watch, and the remaining two at the coffin.  Viewing.  Two tall, good-looking guys, side by side, looking down on the deceased.  Brothers, I guessed.  I headed for Cherry.

She looked up as I moved, and gasped slightly.  As if I was a surprise.  I almost rolled my eyes, but I was a good girl.

“Hello,” I said, as we had rehearsed.  “Are you Cherry?  I was so sorry to hear about Manfred.”  I waited a beat.  “Oh, I’m Marian, Marian Stragthorn.”  I extended my hand.

Derek 1

Thank god – they had wifi.  And it was reasonably fast.  It was one of those kinda old fashioned diners, so I was afraid they wouldn’t.  But Stevo insisted we meet there – said the food was worth it.  Whatever.

I didn’t even know people like this still existed in the world – there was a freaking cowboy in the corner.  Not to mention the gang of construction workers.  I guess I’ve been spending too much time online.  I thought the world was now composed entirely of people who were into World of Warcraft and cloud computing, and 15 year old girls who wanted to have sex with me.  Ha!  Just kidding. 

I linked up while Stevo ordered – like I care that much about food.  I had to check the status of my last comment on the OpenBHD coding problem.  Then, of course, I had to check Facebook to see who else had taken the latest “Which God Are You” survey – that I had created.  10,000 people since last night!  Not bad.

Especially considering the embedded code.

I glanced over. “Hey, geek.  You have coffee on your shirt.”

Madeline 1

I walked in.  It was 6:35, and lots of people were having breakfast – work day.  That’s why I was there.  I was looking for a particular man, who might have information about the Randall case.  I admit, I was hungry, too.

It was one of those seat-yourself diners, so I did.  First I took a good look around the place, to see if there were any guys there who fit the description.  Noticed the cowboy in the corner right away – odd to see a cowboy here.  He looked like the real thing, too, not a Village People clone, dust clinging to his shirt, calloused hands, wrinkled sun-hardened skin, tired eyes.  Not my guy, though.  At least, not my guy for the case.  Then there was the table of rowdy construction workers, all men except for one lone, quiet woman in the middle.  A couple of businessmen in suites – probably salesmen.  Why did I think that?  I don’t know.  But I did.  Then a couple of guys with their laptops open, typing away, sitting at the same table but not even looking at each other.  One spoke; the other smiled.  They didn’t look at each other, didn’t stop typing.  Then a table with one woman, quietly reading the paper and drinking coffee, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.  At the counter, a bunch of guys in suits, all with coffee.  And another table with some teenagers – at least, they looked like teenagers to me.  Might have been older.  Five of them, two guys and three girls, laughing a lot.  They looked like they might have been up all night – eyes a little red-rimmed, their energy just a bit too edgy and high for 6:30.  Well, 6:40 now.

I didn’t see my guy – maybe it was too early for him.  So I chose an empty booth and sat down, pulling out my iPad.

3 Golden Apples and a Princess

When, she wondered moodily, and by what means, had the precedent been established that Princesses, such as herself, could be bought and sold by means of golden apples?  It bothered her very much indeed that there was such a way to put a specifc value on her – and, not only that, but to compare her value to that of another princess.  The first time she had been purchased, by a kingdom severely lacking in princesses, it had been for one golden apple.  She had been a pint-sized princess then, quite young, and had thought the golden apple pretty – when she realized that she could not keep it, but instead it was going to live where she had been, while she went somewhere else, she had thrown a tantrum.  That was, she reflected, the first time she had realized that she was a princess.

Over the intervening years, she had been bought and sold a few times, for various numbers and parts of golden apples.  Most recently, she had been Princess-by-purchase in a kingdom that already had several princesses, but had wanted to “deepen the bench,” so to speak.  It needed a variety of princesses for formal occasions, and she had fit nicely into the put-in-an-appearance-at-the-ball niche.  Now, however, one of the local princesses was old enough to do that duty herself, and so word had been put about that there was an experienced princess available, for a reasonable price. 

And three golden apples was, really, a not unhandsome offer.  Moreover, they were quite good golden apples.  Still, she had heard that a princess two kingdoms over had gone for more than five golden apples; and she was not satisfied with it.  The new place, where she was going, had need of a princess to handle the happily-ever-after story with one of their princes.  This would be her first time in that role, and she was, she admitted grudgingly, looking forward to experiencing it.  Nevertheless.  Only 3 golden apples.

A knock sounded at her door.  “Madam Princess, Your Once and Future Highness, it is time.”  Sighing, she arose, throwing her long travel cloak about her shoulders.

Getting My (Family) Bearings

Wow – interesting that this is hard to define.  I know that, when I was in high school, my younger brother and my mother fought – argued – a lot, basically about nothing much.  And it was really upsetting to me.  So I was I suppose the rescuer in some sense, the good daughter who didn’t cause the same kind of trouble as her brother (and, really, given the vast range of troubles a brother could potentially cause, this was minimal).  Though technically not the oldest, I was practically speaking the first-born, or at least the first-maturing (my older brother is developmentally disabled), and so in many ways I was the one my parents got to hone their parenting skills on.  Or, maybe not.  Maybe they honed their troubleshooting skills on David, and were mostly grateful I didn’t require a lot of attention.  And Brian, the younger brother, did require, or at least demand, a lot of attention.  That’s probably what the arguing was about.  And what was my role in all this?  I guess I see myself as a bearing – you know, a little round thing that makes the turning of this part work smoothly, keeps it from grinding away at that part as it moves.  It was well within my capabilities – I was smart enough to get on well at school, adept enough to keep out of trouble both at school and at home, and generally preferred less attention to more.  That, perhaps, is the key: I preferred less attention to more.

Or, did I just get used to that?

Blue Impala Sun

We were driving, driving, driving, across the country. The blue impala station wagon.  I don’t remember if we were on our way TO visit the uncle in Las Vegas, or on the FROM the visit.  But I do remember that it was hot.  It was incredibly hot.  I was in the back end of the station wagon, and I was so, so very hot.  The sun coming through the car windows.  There was a blanket, so we could sleep in the car.  Maybe I was lying down.  But it was so hot.  I don’t remember the thoughts, just the feeling, the feeling of lying down, of piercing heat, of not being able to get away from it, of being caught by it.  The desert.  Driving through the desert.  My first experience of the desert, in a blue Impala station wagon, just driving, driving through it, as though we could escape experiencing it if we just continued to drive – with the sun holding us.