Nancy Elliott

 DESERT SNOW (C)  Duane Lawrence and use by permission.                    

    Back in my “radio” days, also known as “when I was a police communications dispatcher” for Arizona Highway Patrol, we faced plenty of widely varied calls. Our training was intense, pretty much boot camp for the mind. It was apparent from the beginning of dispatcher school every attempt was made to wash out the individuals who didn’t have what it took. Some of what it took was knowing geography for each district, every mile post, landmark, official names and local names for roads and highways, locations for every police agency, Fire Company - city, county and Federal, Medical Examiner, rotor- wing and fixed wing law enforcement and rescue and the closest place they can get Jet A fuel if the mission goes long, how to read Lat-Long and maps in general, which wrecker is next on rotation, how to operate the computer system for wants, warrants and how to properly receive “traffic” from officers and properly return the requested information. Breathe a moment... then there is the console itself with all the buttons for all the radio towers, which were line of sight back then, keeping time dated hand log for every word spoken by the officers, being able to work a radio while on the phone with another agency or member of the public during and emergency, knowing what your assets and resources are and their locations, basic understanding of signage and placards. Oh, yes. Knowing your 10-code radio language. 
    There’s plenty left out of the above description, and what is left out is not any less important, but you get a general understanding of what is required of an Arizona Highway Patrol Police Communications Dispatcher. It’s a lot of work, a lot of knowledge and yes, it can be a lot of stress. There are “those days” when you wonder why you are doing this. 
    It was one of those weeks, a couple of  weeks actually, leading up to Christmas when the traffic got heavy. Not a busy heavy. It was horrible heavy. Bad wrecks daily, it seemed, and everywhere. As though no place in the state was exempt. Nasty crashes, people were dying. Tour bus roll over, multiple deaths. Family car over the edge, only survivor a toddler. I won’t go into explicit detail, suffice it to say that people were dying frequently and badly. It happens, of course. But, usually that bad ones don’t come in giant waves, and that it how it seemed.
    It wasn’t  just Highway Patrol, this spell of weird crashes and deaths was across all agencies. I remember asking Phoenix, Tempe and other dispatchers if they were feeling it, too. Yes, it was across the board. Like a cloud had settled on us. No matter your experience, days in a row of Bermuda triangle occurrences and deaths begin to take a toll. The phones still rang all the time, ring-down lines (instant connections to local agencies) still lit up, morning and evening rush hours still came as usual and made the room noisy with bustle and movement. We answered the calls just as quickly, we ducked our heads into rush hour  wants, warrants, pursuits, patrol and undercover units needing backup, agency assists, call takers rushed into radio distributing hand written incident cards that came through the public lines and 911 to the appropriate district console. It doesn’t matter. The room, the job, goes on the same. You don’t always get “the end of a story,” And it might be days later when you ponder aloud, where did the toddler survivor end up? “I mean, Jimminy Cricket it’s Christmas,” And you get back a chorus of “Yeah, really.”

    Then, it’s Christmas Day,  and I am happy to be assigned to the public phones. We were regularly rotated through the district consoles and the public phones. It was a usually a nice break. A typical public phone day consisted of helping people locate cars, pets and belongings after crashes or arrests; assisting other agencies with information, and directing calls to the appropriate bureau i.e, Fingerprints, Criminal History, Crime Lab etc. But, it was a given, you were going to get some of these;

     “Arizona Department of Public Safety. Do you have an emergency”

    “I can’t locate my package. You guys have lost my package again!”

    “Sir, you have reached DPS, not UPS. Let me give you their number.”

    Or; 
    
    “Arizona Department of Public Safety. Do you have an emergency”

    A whispered “Yes, I can’t keep them out. I have done everything I know and they keep getting in my house.”

    “Okay,” you whisper back. “Which way do you have the tin foil facing? Shiny side in or shiny side out?”   What ever they say you tell them to turn it around and things will be just fine, per the Duty Officer.

    Or;
    “Can you tell me what the weather will be at Disneyland next week?”

    “Um, no.”  Now you’re pretty sure someone is just messing with you.    

    Then, I answered a call from Kingman, Arizona. A man wanting to know what our Ranger helicopter was doing up so early in the morning, was he chasing a bad guy?

     “Hold please, I will find out you.”

    I punched the ring down button for EMSCOMM, the radio console that worked the LE and Rescue aircraft and also connected those units and ground units to each other, hospitals across the state and some distance into the surrounding states.

    “Hi Peggy, got a fellow in Kingman wants to know what Ranger is up to so early this morning.”

    “Ah, Ranger is on a courtesy transport, going into the canyon to take a Supai patient to the hospital in Bullhead City for the holiday so she can be monitored.”

    When I let the caller know he sounded a little disappointed that we weren’t hot on the trail of a bad guy. Soon, I heard the Ranger pilot clear EMSCOMM, telling Peggy they were dropping into the canyon, would lose radio contact, and he would let her know as soon as they cleared the canyon rim. 
    It was a few minutes, maybe a half hour or so and Peggy on EMSCOMM radio stood up and shouted, “It’s a girl!” 
     Then she hit playback on the console recorder and we heard the DPS Ranger Flight Medic  shout to the world. “Ranger - Phoenix EMSCOMM, it’s a girl! Mother and baby are doing great! Welcome to the world Miss Arielle Noel!” 
    Pause 
    “Oh, yes, we are out of the canyon!”

    A cheer went up in radio. Every dispatcher in the room relayed the message across their districts. We called the Flagstaff and Tucson radio rooms to let them know. We called Phoenix Fire, Phoenix P.D., Tempe P.D., Mesa P.D., Maricopa County SO, Pinal County SO, saying “Hey, guys! Betcha can’t top this one!” We called everybody across the state, and a week later that Flight Medic showed up in Phoenix OPCOMM, still passing out pink bubble gum cigars. 
    
    It was a magnificent gift of life and joy at precisely the right moment.

    You know, I still like to think of that Christmas morning. And to imagine that little girl answering the common grade school question,  “Where were you born?” 
    
    “In a Arizona DPS Ranger helicopter, mid-air over the Grand Canyon.”

    May you have the Merriest of Christmases. May you be blessed beyond measure. May you see someone else’s joy and laugh and dance as though it were your own.

    
    Nancy

Photo by Bob Block

The summer 2015 I moved my sewing shop from my home to Monterey Court on Miracle Mile in Tucson, Arizona. I was also still working at Arizona Department of Public Safety. It was a few months of driving from Casa Grande to 19th Ave and Encanto to the Phoenix DPS compound for work, then heading back to my home to eat, change clothes and head to Tucson to open my shop for the evening, that I had to make a decision as to whether I was going to keep working in two places, or pick one. I had signed a lease at Monterey Court and really wanted to sew full time, so, the “Monty” won out.
     Monterey Court is a 1938 motor court that has been vocationally rehabilitated by Greg Haver and Kelly McClear into a concert venue with dining and music six nights a week. All of those cozy little casitas where you and your family would have stayed while visiting Tucson, and probably Tucson Rodeo, are now artisan galleries.  
    Early in 2016 I noticed that there was not much going on in the courtyard on Sunday mornings. Weekdays, a lot of folks came for lunch and the courtyard was comfortably busy. But, Sundays were quiet until the evening concerts. So, I asked Greg what he thought about starting a Sunday Brunch and Music series and he was all in. 
    We started right away, Greg creating his brunch menu and me inviting local and some touring artists to participate. Lots of folks were eager to get in the weekly lineup. The plan of action was that I would open the show, allowing that initial rattle and clatter of orders taken and delivered to diminish before the guest artist took the stage. We swapped out back to back forty fine minute sets, so the music never stopped for three hours. Brunch and Music became the  Sunday morning destination for people near and far, often local performers coming out to enjoy getting to hear their friends play before heading off to their own gigs later that day.
     Some of the touring artists were Bernice Lewis, Keeter Stewart, Steve Spurgin, Silver Screen Cowboys, Journey West and Sentimental Journey, Mary Kaye Holt, Stewart MacDougall and Myran Shozz. Local artists were Ted Ramirez, Ismael Barajas, Joel Eliot, Dan McCorison, Lee Robert, Mae Camp, Way Out West, and I know I am forgetting some names here, so if you were there, remind me who I have missed. 

      Joel Eliot and myself at Sunday Brunch and Music. Photographer unknown 

     Especially enjoyable was pulling a band member away from their group and letting them fly free. Brian Fate, Don Armstrong from The Whiskeypalians, Earl Edmonson from Titan Valley Warheads, Peter McGlaughlin from The Sonoran Dogs. Every month that had four Sundays, Virginia Cannon brought her youth in training out to show us their skills, and it was always fun to see how the kids had grown those performance skills. 
    The photo above is Peter and I on the Sunday he performed for brunch. While we were setting up the stage,  we stepped together for a moment to discuss the game plan and suddenly we heard from the already arriving audience, “Look over here!” “Hey, look over here!” 
    There were so many people trying to get photos, I looked at Peter and said, “Where do we look first?” 
    He put his arm across my shoulder and said, “Okay, look left.” Click, click, click. “Now look right.” We were both laughing and so were the photographers. 
    After I played the first set and Peter was walking up to get on stage, he stopped me and said, “You were telling stories about your songs. Can I do that, too?”
    “That’s exactly why I invited you, Peter. You tell all the stories you want.”

    What a show that was! To get to hear directly from this consummate songwriter the stories behind his songs. 
    I’m telling you this because Peter is performing solo at the Arizona Folklore Preserve on December 6th and 7th, and you will not want to miss him. If you have not been to the preserve, it is a small room holding about fifty people. So, this is a house concert atmosphere, and the perfect place to see Peter solo. Tickets are $10 to $20 and you need to secure them right away. Visit the Arizona Folklore Preserve website to do that.

    Where to find me

    Thursday, November 20th at Monterey Court, 505 W Miracle Mile, Tucson for Songwriter Central hosted by Jonathan Frahm. I will be in the first round, and Syndenn Sweet is also in the first round. So, if you have heard her amazing harmony vocals on my Tall Tree album, you will get to hear them live this Thursday night.

    Saturday, November 22nd I am at the Laveen Folk Festival on the Hidden Hollow Stage at 10am. The Laveen Folk Festival runs from 9am to 6pm with many stages and many performers to see and hear, and is located at 2800 W Dobbins Road, Laveen, AZ 85339. They also have a Facebook page with lots of information and a performer schedule.

    Sunday, November 23rd, I am back at Monterey Court in Tucson for a pop up booth for my book, Autumn’s On Its Way, and then after the Sunday Brunch, I present a Meet the Author session where I perform the songs and poem from the book, read a short portion of the book for you and answer any questions you have about the process of writing Autumn’s On Its Way. Of course, copies of the book and the music will be available for sale any place you find me.

    I am looking forward to seeing you soon somewhere, and until then, may you and yours bless and be blessed,

    Nancy

    No one told me. No one at all. No one who had known him for fifty plus years, no one who had known him bothered to speak to me. I guess you could call him a person of note, a name well known respected in his world wide industry.  I will never believe that after fifty plus years of association and friendship,  no one else knew he is an abuser, or was never on the receiving end of his abuse.  And, no one, not one single person who I met through him has checked on me. 
    Not. One. Single. Person.

    All along the way I was aware of Christ. Always feeling the nudge, sometimes a shove. I’d found my self in the wrong place and with the wrong person once again.   One would think that at my age I would be awake enough by now to see and understand what was happening, and therein lies the shame I seem to revisit too regularly. It seems to come less often, rolling in and out in larger and smaller waves, and I am sensing there is healing on the horizon. 
    It’s a strange feeling to feel so shattered, so empty and ashamed. Frightening to realize how much time has been lost to people who are users and abusers in too many flavors to name. But, this last time, this last time really shook me to the core. In the past I was able to walk away with some sense of dignity and strength to carry on with the matters of life. This time took me down hard.
    Not because of love lost. But, because once again I had wasted time, emotions and energy that could have, should have, been applied to my gifts and talents. And, because after getting away I was able to grasp what a mean, angry and dangerous person he was, and how deep the quicksand I was in. My person as a whole seemed to be disappearing into that black hole of his life, his anger, his antagonisms, his manipulations, his back stabbing and disparagement of everyone in his life. Yes, all of you who say he is your friend, all you who are his relatives, you, too. 
    Then, he hit me. The first time, he got me with a sneaky elbow jab to the jaw, calling it an “oops,” no apology, no remorse, and thinking back, his facial expression said he found the situation amusing. I’ve thought long and hard as to whether I am imagining that expression after the fact, and I don’t believe so. He found it amusing. And maybe there was some surprise in there that I was standing up after the hit. It cracked hard and ached for days. The second time, it was the knife edge of his hand swinging at me like a karate chop. I didn’t see it coming, I must have sensed it, and so ducked a bit, the blow that was aimed at my throat catching me across the bridge of my nose. Though it wasn’t broken, he had hit me hard enough that my chiropractor had to reset my nose. 
     I told him he needed to get help and that the basis of this relationship was changing until he did get help. I was his music duo partner, no longer his girlfriend. I told my self, and maybe told you, too, that I stayed in to finish a string of gigs on the calendar. But, I was really like some kind of zombie, not thinking for myself. All through this were those taps on the shoulder, flickers of truth, soft calls to leave, nudges and glimpses of reality. Christ was telling me to get out, to live a different life, think a different way, He has a purpose for me.
    The beautiful places we visited were tainted by unreasonable and outlandish, angry reactions to someone or something that happened. Or, the distance from home was used to manipulate me, set me up for interrogation I could not escape.  Just  when I thought it’s  over, it’s not over, not  by a longshot. And later, I didn’t even want to look at all the photos I took because they are heavy and tainted when they are supposed to be light and rich with good memories. .  
    My music was slipping away. I felt as though I was on stage with a tantrum pitching toddler with no filter. Real performance opportunity slipped away, never to return.  Friends were slipping away. My writing was all but gone. There was little time to write, to think past an almost constant tapping on the shoulder of some one needing my attention. All this time I ignored the truth right in front of my face; I was uncomfortable in the relationship, I was non existent as my self, every single thing I said was countered, every single thing I did was questioned, every single thing I had spoken of from my past was dissected countless times and would come up suddenly, like a train in a tunnel. 
    We were camping a hundred miles from home, playing some shows. Things had been smooth all day, now it’s full on dark outside, the rain is loud and hitting the RV’s sides and roof. He asked me a question about music and I began to answer. He interrupted, interjecting another question? I raised my finger and was going to say, “I’ll get there” because the answer to the second question required the first question to be answered. But, before I could say, “I’ll get there,” he suddenly lunged forward across the table at me, raging, screaming,  red faced, leaning into and away from me. It’s raining hard, but the windows are open and I know other campers can hear him; it’s the weekend and the park is full, people are camped close by. I’ve turned sideways in my seat, a frail attempt to distance my self in the close quarters of the RV.  I’m looking at the floor, mentally calculating that the door is two steps away to my left, my phone is right beside me on the table and my pistol is in the drawer beside the bed which would add one more step, it would take just two seconds to grab it, and one more step to the door,  but to do that I would have to turn my back on him, and he’s only an arm’s length from me, and maybe I don’t want to risk turning my back on him to take my gun with me, just get out the door and run into the woods, lock my self in the outhouse and call someone in the morning.  I could not tell you what he was yelling, only that he was, for hours. I said nothing and couldn’t move. He finally went to bed and I sat there and wept all night, completely ashamed, embarrassed that here I am, 65 years old, in this horrible situation, miles from home, and unable to make myself call the police, call a friend to come get me, or even call out to other campers for help. Who, by the way, in spite of them having had to hear him yelling, never rapped on the door, or even hollered at him to shut up. Think about that. I do. 
    The next morning he is begging forgiveness, “Nothing like this has ever happened before. I don’t know what happened.”  I could not respond other than to say I wanted to take a walk around the lake. At about halfway around the lake I had to sit down, being so emotionally exhausted and having  no sleep. As I sat there, he sat beside me, and I told him I could no longer do this. I could no longer live without acknowledging Christ outwardly in my life. That somehow I had drifted away from my goal of living for the gifts and talents God gave me, and I that is what I needed desperately to return to. I told him that I had listened to him lamenting about his life for several years now, and that if he wanted his life to change, to leave behind  regrets and fears and anger, that he should hand them all to Christ and get busy living and learning to live a Godly life.

    After getting home, and feeling a responsibility to the venues, I tried to finish the shows already on the calendar by meeting him instead of riding together, but gave up immediately after that first show back. I am sure there are venue owners and managers  who will never have me back again because of him. It’s been almost two years, and the shame and embarrassment, as well as needing to sort it out for myself, kept me from telling you.

    This is not the first abusive relationship I’ve been in. I’m not going into all of that though. I’m here to say that if you know or suspect someone is an abuser, confront them, and confront them head on because whether they abuse publicly or privately, they are abusers, no matter the type of abuse.
     I’m here to say that if you know someone is an abuser, tell the person who may not know. You could save a life just by giving a warning. “But, they won’t listen,” you say. Maybe not, but you informed them. And if they don’t listen, keep checking in. Look them in the eyes and ask.     
    If you suspect or know someone is being abused, whether by outward signs, or  overhearing like what happened in the RV, ask, step in, bang on the door, yell “shut up,” call the police or park rangers, do something. Please. Do something. 
    

          In the late 1980's retired navy test pilot friend of mind told me that he was always taking some kind of class at the college in order to keep sharp. And, he was indeed sharp, so I began doing the same thing when I came to Arizona in 1990. I signed up for a composition class at Paradise Valley Community College, and the very first assignment was to write about the kitchen table. That's it, that's all the direction the teacher gave. Write about the kitchen table. So, here you go. True story, of course. Someplace I have the original, handwritten, with a big red A on it. 

                                                                     THE KITCHEN TABLE

         When I was a young teenager I noticed that Dad was pretty hard on the boys that came to the door or called. If they came to the door at the wrong time he would growl at them, “Don’t you know this is supper time?” or, “What makes you think you can come here this time of night?”  If they called during supper he frequently answered the phone, “Joe’s Pizza!” or, “Don’t ever call back here,” and hang up. 
          Being the youngest, I was not aware of this with my two elder sisters, but even though I was not particularly interested in boys at the time, I was quite aware regarding my sister, Susan, three years my senior. At sixteen years old, she was very much interested in boys and, though she was a girlie girl at the time, would even come outside to the yard to play soccer or softball, catch fireflies, or throw rocks up at the fruit bats to get them to dive, IF either of the two cute neighbor boys were playing with us.
         I remember when she came to me one day - why me, I’ll never know, maybe because there was just we two kids left at home, certainly not because I had any insight - and asked what I thought about her asking Mom and Dad if it would be okay to have her friend from school, Ralph, over for supper. 
        “Well, you know Dad. He’s going to give Ralph a hard time.”
         She was not deterred however and arranged with Mom to have Ralph over. I’m not sure Dad was let in on the plan, but he was in full character when Ralph arrived. 
          Mom was in the kitchen which was open to the family room and dining area. Dad was in the family room in his chair, reading the paper and smoking his pipe. When Susan introduced Ralph, Mom stepped forward, saying hello and warmly welcoming him. Dad rattled his paper and harrumphed. 
          Ralph, being a smart guy, went right to work engaging with Mom, making her laugh while making points at the same time. He even helped to place the serving dishes on the table, and Mom had gone all out for the occasion, making pan fried chicken, home made biscuits, mashed potatoes, gravy, and peas fresh from our backyard garden.
          Now, being raised by parents from the depression and WWII era, there were certain ways of doing things at the table, whether  breakfast lunch or supper. We all sat down together in our usual places. Mom and Dad at each end of the table respectively, I in my place on one side to Dad’s right. Where Susan generally sat across from me, now Ralph was in her spot on Dad’s left and she was seated on my right, between Mom and I.  So, Ralph was abandoned, left to his own devices on the far side of the table. Our napkin and hands went in our in our lap while the food was blessed, then passed to the left from where each bowl sat on the table. 
         During this time, Dad never spoke to or acknowledged Ralph in any way, not looking at him when passing the serving dishes. 
          Me? I am enjoying every minute of this. I knew my Dad’s sense of humor and had learned by personal experience and observation just who he was. His “tell” was the tiniest twitch of the side of his mouth. My long time friend, also Carla had his number, though it took her a few visits before she caught on. They would often go back and forth until she got him to laugh out loud. Now, I am on pins and needles, trying not to snicker. I knew that when whatever was going to happen finally happened, it was going to be really good.
          The dinner conversation is mostly between Mom and Ralph, with an occasional grunt from Dad. As the serving dishes begin another turn around the table, Dad hands the bowl of peas to Ralph and Ralph reaches for the bowl at the same time turning his head to respond to something Mom has said. Dad thinks Ralph has his hands on the bowl and Ralph thinks Ralph has his hands on the bowl. Dad lets go of the bowl and it falls through Ralph’s hands smack onto the table where it splits in two pieces, peas rolling across the table and onto the floor.  
            Ralph’s face has gone white. Everyone is holding their breath. Finally, after what had to seem an eternity to Ralph, Dad looks him directly in the eye and says, “See how you are. We invite you over for dinner, and the first thing you do is pea all over the table.”

    Susan later married Ralph and he and Dad became good friends. In fact, it became difficult to determine who was more mischievous and who initiated the mischief.  Suffice it to say, we did not, could not, let them sit together at church. 
    By the way, Ralph is who taught me to play guitar.

The photo is myself and eldest daughter, Shannon, at Bardstown, KY, farmhouse where her dad grew up.

    My sleeping children. Two little dreamers who trusted me so deeply they would not stir when I fetch them from the baby sitter. Who, in the morning, wake up in their beds happy and charge out to greet me as if they are birds in full flight.

    Shannon, sitting behind my saddle, arms not quite able to reach around my waist, her cheek on my back, sleeping on the ride home. Cory, laying crosswise in my lap, her head in the crook of my arm, her feet on my right thigh. Her sleep is so relaxed that her head rocks and her left arm swings  with each step Chewy takes.
    We’ve been out for a while. Starting out through the old church yard peach orchards, cutting across the back of old  Pokey Robert’s place to make a circle trip to the store to get a treat. Chewy knows that when he steps on the rubber strip in the drive through at the Dairy Queen the window opens and a hand comes out and pretty girl rubs his nose. He also knows he gets the sweet ice left in the bottom of a cup of soda, and at that specific sound of the last slurp through the straw he turns his head to look me over his shoulder, as if saying, “Remember, the rest is mine.”
    Then, we’re riding home under the shady trees along Fish Creek Road.  Loping a little in the open places, the girl’s giggling makes Chewy’s ears laugh.  Our ride home through the gloaming is full of fire-fly wonder, clip-clop and “Mommy, why...” until leather squeak, gentle rocking rhythm and the summer night do their work and the girls grow quiet. I love the four of us this way.

    Sometimes, someone is at the barn and will take the girls from me so I can dismount and lay them in the car to sleep while I do my chores. Usually though, I have to wake Shannon and one hand her down where she wobbles on sleepy legs as I swing down, still holding Cory. I carry them both to the car, a little station wagon, where they stretch out as much as they can, being buckled in, until after the drive home when I must disturb them again to carry them to their beds.
    They are instantly back to sleep. As I am wiping some of the dirt from hands and faces, I wonder if they are dreaming of root beer floats, of fire-flies so thick we could not tell where they ended and the stars began, of  clover chains necklaces, of chasing and being chased by Levi, a brash young colt at the barn who demands they share their cheese doodles and chocolate with him.  
    These are the times I remember most. I don’t remember thinking my life was hard. I do not recall ever taking my children to the sitter so I could have a break. These times were my break. 

Note: This was in the mid 1980's.  Most, if not all of Pokey Robert’s place is now under the water of Joe Pool Lake, Grande Prairie, TX.  At the time, I exercised, groomed and fed the local police horse patrol in exchange for keeping Chewy with their horses. It was across those loamy sections of land that I worked their horses who were boarded adjacent . Though he did not care one iota for parades, the police patrol used Chewy now and then for manhunt or search and rescue because he was steady. He could be ridden on across an I-10 overpass,  through an underpass tunnel, up and down the stairs in an abandoned farm house. He once pushed both of my girls away from an electric fence. You couldn’t tie him to anything, he could take down barn if you tried.  But, he’d happily stay ground tied for hours if you asked him to. 
    When the powers that be started to fill the lake over Pokey’s place, we all dreaded it. But, a couple of us took the opportunity to ride out there with young horses and shoot the rattlers that were running from the water. 

About a week or so ago, we had some good rain here in the desert. What my Navajo friends would call a mostly “female rain,” a nurturing rain. Over the course of two days the rain fell rather gently most of the time, with the occasional sudden outburst from the wind and even some thunder and lightning tossed in for good measure. We had gone from winter to summer to winter, no spring or autumn gently easing us into the days of blistering them biting winds, so it was refreshing, to say the least, going outside that mild morning to find the desert washed clean to almost sparkling from its thick coating of dust left behind by an immeasurably long, hot summer.  I walked with my coffee to the landscape island in the back yard and took an East/Northeast facing seat on the still damp bricks. Looking upward I saw a Harris’s hawk sailing high in the beginnings of sunrise, searching over the desert floor for his breakfast, swooping low through the brush and rising high once again. He was probably showing one of the youngsters in the family how it’s done.

    Sitting on the wall, watching the desert, took me to the time when my parents came to visit me for the winter of 2012-2013.
    They were not in the best condition when they arrived. Obviously, they had not been eating well, or much.    But, one of the first things Dad told me was that he and his doctor had created a plan so Dad could live to be 100 years old. Another thing he told me was that he had planned his whole life around the fact that he was going to die first. Will, Estate, finances, long term care, everything was there for Mom to carry on and be comfortable after he was gone but, “By golly, this is the one thing your mother will not get her way on.”
    In the meantime, he wanted to explore the local restaurants and search out who made the best burger here in Arizona. So, we avoided the burger shops they had and home and went instead to Francisco Grande Resort, BeDillon’s, and The Big House Café, all mom and pop places. We also went to Firebirds Grill, but Dad declared their burgers way too big - too big for even his big hands and so, not enjoyable. “One shouldn’t have to cut a burger in two in order to eat it, unless you’re sharing it with someone.”  While BeDillon’s was Mom’s all around favorite place, Dad declared Francisco Grande Resort the hamburger blue ribbon winner. 
    We had some fun with that sort of thing and went to local events like the Parade of Lights Christmas parade in which their great granddaughter was marching for her Jr. High School. It meant to much to Dad that he stood up when her band went by so he could find her. We went to the Pinal County Agri-Fair and listened to The Sonoran Dogs bluegrass band followed by the Jam-Pak kids. Then, when it got too windy out, we headed inside the vendor barn to see what we could see. The usual foods and medicine shows abounded; we bought hot-dogs, fudge for our sweet tooths, and cure-all insoles for Dad’s shoes. 
     That winter, my friends, Jeanne and Jerome, were base camping in my front yard in their RV while they played music around the area, and when they were performing close by, we often went to see them. Jeanne and Mom would prepare some great meals together, and Dad always went back for second and thirds of Jeanne’s wonderful cooked-all-day stew and Mom’s cornbread. We did have to go clothes shopping twice during their stay because they both out grew the clothes they had brought with them.
        Jerome and Dad really hit it off and whenever those two volunteered to do the dishes we could hear them in the kitchen, laughing like school boys on a lark. Jerome came in the house every day and asked to play my Washburn Santa Fe guitar Mom had gifted me so many years ago. A Merle Travis champion thumb-picker, the music put a stop on everything else. We all stopped what we were doing and gathered to listen, the music even reaching outside, calling Dad in from his yard work to sit and enjoy.

     One of those evenings is when I learned the extent of Dad’s music experience. I knew my Grampa, Dad and his brothers had formed a horn band called “The Newsboys,” and repped for the Indianapolis Newspaper, as well as the railroad, and played the Masonic Lodges and Grange Halls and other dances in the tri-state area. On this particular evening, someone asked just the right question and Dad started talking about how he’d marched for the technical school he attended, was frequently on loan to the local high school marching band, and two university marching bands, and still managed to keep up with The Newsboys’ performances. 
     Dad got on a bit of roll that night, reminiscing about his decades of working for IBM.  When he told us that he had worked for the NASA Space Program and the Nuclear program, Mom gasped. “Robert, after all these years (70 at the time ) I never knew that. You never told me that, never said one word!” She was more astonished than upset. “Why didn’t you tell me all of this?” 
    “I couldn’t tell you, wasn’t allowed to tell you. But,” he chuckled, “I’m ninety years old now. What are they going to do to me?”    

    Dad and I sometimes would sit on the landscape wall and have coffee together. One such late morning he asked me, “What type of tree is that straight out there? It looks dead, like it’s had a hard time getting along.”
    “It’s a Mesquite, Daddy. There are several types out here, and they all look pretty bedraggled and gnarled when they’re dormant.” Back Ohio, where I grew up and they still lived, the Oaks, Walnuts and Maples always looked so stately after losing their leaves. The Oaks sometimes keeping a few red-brown leaves hanging on until the spring buds knocked them off.

    He was quiet a minute. “Well, I like it. It reminds me of myself; kinda bent every which-a-way.”

    It was a few days later that I drove them to a get acquainted visit with my Doctor, just so they would have a familiar face if any issues came up while they were in Arizona. They asked me to be in the room with them for the visit, and I watched while Dr. Bray, being his usually kind and attentive self, had won them both over. When he asked them if they had any questions or concerns, Dad said yes, that he was concerned he was getting Alzheimer disease. 
    Dr. Bray asked what kind of work Dad had done and for how long. When Dad answered, “IBM for more than 40 years.” The good doctor’s eyebrows went up.

    “Are you doing any of that work now?”

    “No, just genealogy on my laptop, other family history stuff.”

    “How long has it been since you did that sort of work?”

    “About eighteen years.”

    “Well,” Dr. Bray said, “Literally, if you don’t use it, you lose it. Especially these days when technology is advancing at warp speed. Those computers you used to design, build and repair were once as big as buildings, right?”

    Dad nodded.

    “And now this,” Dr. Bray presented his work phone, “There’s one or two different computers in this gadget here.”

    Dad nodded.

    “And that’s confusing.”

    Dad nodded and gave a half smile.

    “Let me explain in a nutshell. When you regularly hide your car keys from your self, that is not Alzheimer’s. When you find your keys, and you don’t know what they are, or what they are for, that is when you get concerned.”

    As we all stood and headed out the exam room door, Dad exiting after Mom and me,
Dr. Bray said, “Just a minute, Robert. I want to tell you that I don’t have any other ninety year old men who walk out of this room without assistance.”

    Dad stood up a few inches taller in that moment. Something he was worried about had just floated away, off his shoulders. 
    He didn’t make it to 100 years old. Later in 2013, Mom was diagnosed with Pancreatic cancer and Dad gave up. He passed away that October,  Mom followed him in March.

    I never did think Dad was bent every which-a-way. He is still a giant to me. Fred Astaire graceful and elegant in his tuxedo; quick on his toes, perfectly guiding Mom around the dance floor so her ball-gown would makes it appear they are flying, still.

31 July, 2024

Dearest friends and readers,
   August is upon us! 
   Growing up in Ohio, August was the time of the Greene County Fair, a herald of fall. It’s when we started gathering our things together for the coming school year which began right after Labor Day. In my neck of the woods, it was also the time we kids started watching for the farmers to roll out their old steam tractors and set up alongside their corn fields. We could walk into the field and pick fat ears right from the stalk, hand them to the farmer and he would steam them for us there on the spot, then he’d peel back the husks and dip the cob into a bucket of melted butter. Oh, my, such goodness! Of course we would let our moms know so they could come and pick a bushel or so for later. My mom often bought enough to freeze whole kernel. And we would soak unhusked ears in water, them steam them in the oven or on the grill.
     I often joke with folks about how one of the tests we kids had to pass to get our driver’s license was knowing where we were by the type of corn in the fields because, just before harvest, it would grow tall enough to hide the street signs. 
   It’s fun to recall those days, and how, soon, there would be the smell of wood smoke and burning leaves, apple picking time, sunny days and nipped noses and cheeks, first day of school. 
   Where ever you live now, or lived then, I’d love to hear your memories of fall. When you reply to this email, your reply comes only to me, so, don’t be shy!

   New addition to the August Calendar ! The Beaded Lizard Gathering 
   I will be performing at the Beaded Lizard Gathering on Wednesday, August 7th.  There is an open jam starting at 6pm and I will play at 7:15 to 8 -ish. I will be performing my songs from both the Tall Tree and Bluebirds albums, especially the songs from the Autumn’s On Its Way book. 
Songwriter Central at Monterey Court August 15, 6PM 
National Writer's Union, Tucson Chapter August 19th, a private event

   If you have your copy of Autumn’s On Its Way, the novel, and would like to have it signed, please bring it with you. If you don’t have a copy, I will have some on hand for you to purchase as well as CD’s. And, you can always  purchase from the website, use the discount code 
Event Pick Up to remove postage cost,  and pick up at any event, just let me know in the notes which event that will be.   
   Do you know some one who would enjoy Desert Dispatches but is not handy with the internet? Let them know they can receive this newsletter directly in that good old mailbox at the end of the driveway. You can sign them up, or they can give me a call at 520-705-5901 and let me know. 
   In a day or two, I will begin posting a new topic in the blog titled “Coming Back.” Keep watch for it, it’s gonna be different.
   I am very much looking forward to getting to see you all and sing my songs for you once again. It seems like such a very long time since we’ve been together.
Until then, may you and yours be deeply blessed.
Love,
Nancy 
    

November Desert Dispatches

Hello Friends,
    Here’s hoping this finds you and yours well and happily preparing for the holiday season.
The weather is co-operating here in the Great Sonoran Desert with night time temps in the 40's and day time 70's.  Good stuff!  When the heat comes off the world changes for the better, the pressure is relieved,  people are even nicer and it seems they don’t drive quite as insanely. Well, perhaps that is just me wishing.

    There is much to share. 
    Last week Mackie and I jumped in with Dave and Katy McCann - you ‘ve seen them play music with me in various places like Heber City, Moab, Sierra Vista, and Phoenix North Mountain Visitor Center  - and we went to Hereford, Arizona to visit our friend’s ranch and see another friend, Patty Clayton,  perform at the Folklore Preserve in Ramsey Canyon. 
     Well, guess who was also at the ranch... Kate Ladson! Kate is the cowgirl I wrote “The Stronghold” for  way back in 2013. Although we all visit on the phone, I have not seen Kate face to face since she came to the CD release party for the Bluebirds Singing On The Buffalo Road album in 2021. She is now living in Hereford and is back to her usual work of these days, teaching riding lessons. 
    Now, Kate is one of the best there is out there to ride with. Having worked with and learned under the Dorrence brothers - top hand cowboys and horsemen of the finest  ilk and notoriety,  and was trail guide for Canada’s most loved performer, Ian Tyson, on several of his visits to the desert - if you ride with Kate, you are learning more than just how to stay in the saddle. You are learning relationship with your horse. Kate helps people with their horses, and horses with their people. And, she’s a great person and a hoot to be around. If you are looking for an exemplary riding experience, I am happy to connect you with Kate. 
    If you have not been to The Folklore Preserve, it is a must-add to your list of places to enjoy music. The Folklore Preserve is situated in one of the best birding destinations in Arizona. In fact, you can stay at the Ramsey Canyon Inn, venture into the preserve,  and make it back in time for the matinee shows at The Folklore Preserve. From the Casa Grande area, it’s a pretty easy 2.5 hours down I-10 to the Sierra Vista exit, go on through town and you’ll see the turn for Ramsey Canyon. The concerts are on Saturday and Sunday from 2-4 pm and both days feature the same performer or band. You can look up the Folklore Preserve on line, or drop me a note and I will send you one of their beautiful brochures.

    UPDATE ON THE HOUSE CONCERTS
    Sadly, the return of the house concert series has been delayed due to a huge well being drilled next door to me. They have been there for several months preparing to install a system to support two subdivions and a chip plant. Sigh....  So, as soon as they have cleared out and all of the dust and noise - lots of clanging, banging and huge generator noise that comes into my house at all hours - I will get the series on the calendar. I know you will love the folks I have in mind.

    AUTUMN”S ON ITS WAY
    Here are two very nice reviews of late.
    “ Folks may be hanging out, waiting for the sequel. Let’s face it, the trees are still to fruit, calves to brand, and there’s way ore reality than Yellowstone!” 
 Diana, owner and master braider at DB Braiding, Australia

    “ Thank you for such a wonderful and compelling story. Adventure, intrigue, mystery, love - it’s all there! We will all want the next adventure novel in this series, even if it’s another two years. Nancy, dear, your talents are limitless!”    Zia - ranch owner

    These are so inspiring as I am deep into writing book two. I hope they inspire you to purchase a copy for yourself. 
    Now through the holiday season there is no shipping on Autumn’s On Its Way.
    And only $2. shipping when you add the CD “Bluebirds Singing On The Buffalo Road,” which has the songs from the book.  Don’t  have a CD player?  That’s okay! When you buy the CD you get the digital version instantly in your email to add to your music player, and I will ship the hard copy to some one you know  who does have a CD player (stateside only please). 
    
    
    Where to find me;

    Superior, Arizona City Library     99 Kellner, Ave, Superior, Arizona 85173
    Friday December 27th,  1-2 pm for a Meet the Author event.
    I am excited to be presenting the song that inspired Autumn’s On Its Way, the novel and the poem and songs that were inspired by writing the book. I will answer questions about my writing process, and also reading the first chapter of the book to the audience. Plenty of copies of Autumn’s On Its Way and Bluebirds Singing On The Buffalo Road, which contains the songs from the book,  will be on hand to purchase.

    Maricopa City Library and Cultural Center Maya Angelou Drive, Maricopa, Az 85139
    Saturday, January 4th, 1-2 pm for a Meet the Author event.
    I am excited to be presenting the song that inspired Autumn’s On Its Way, the novel and the poem and songs that were inspired by writing the book. I will answer questions about my writing process, and also reading the first chapter of the book to the audience. Plenty of copies of Autumn’s On Its Way and Bluebirds Singing On The Buffalo Road, which contains the songs from the book,  will be on hand to purchase.

    FREE EVENT!  Saturday, January 11th 1-3 pm,  I will be presenting “The Heart Of It All,” a song, story and poetry concert at Maricopa Campus of Central Arizona College, 17945 N. Regent Dr. Maricopa, AZ 85138
    This concert is specially hand crafted to inspire you to tell your story, to leave your spiritual legacy for your family, or for others to find and learn from  and be encouraged by. 
Please read more about The Heart Of It All on my website. Being your family and friends. This concert is appropriate for ages 12 and up.

Well, that’s a lot! But it’s all for now. I will send you a note if something new pops up on the calender. 
Remember, I love to hear from you, so please send along your stories and questions, and reviews.

Until next time, I wish all of you a restful, peaceful and  blessed Thanksgiving holiday

                                                                      The Lincoln

    In 2005 my parents bought their first new car ever - A Lincoln Signature Town Car. That fall, when they flew out to visit me, Mom was so excited to tell me all about it. As I recall, the story goes like this.
     After sixty two years of marriage and buying only used cars they decided it was high time to treat themselves to something brand new, and off they went to a local dealer.  Mom spied  a pretty spiffy Buick, Dad made the deal, and they headed to the bank so Dad could get cash to pay for it. 
    However, as they were re-entering the car lot,  Mom saw a baby blue Lincoln she hadn’t noticed before and wanted to take a look. She said that as soon as she opened the door, she was sure the Lincoln was the car for her, and when she sat in the driver’s seat, it was confirmed. The powder blue, leather seats were soft as butter and smelled wonderful. The adjustable brake and gas pedals were perfect for a 5'2" lady. It was solid, the doors closed with authority, and she felt so safe driving it, even on the Interstates. 
    “Just so you know, I left it to you in my will. But, don’t tell your brother, you know he will start shit over it.”  My mom was every inch a lady, and so she knew just exactly how and when to cuss - irregularly enough so that it startles folks and they pay attention to what is said. 
    My response was, “Okay.” So I didn’t. I never told anyone in or out of my family and, actually forgot about it right away, never giving it another thought. Until...
    October of 2013 my father passed away at 90 years old. I loaded up and drove to Ohio for the funeral and my daughters flew out to meet me there. My eldest and I were just today talking about Dad’s funeral, and how it seemed so surreal, something out of a movie even. It was raining and dismal all day. The Scottish Rite gave a service. As the bagpipes played “Amazing Grace” and “Going Home”, their call rattled our bones and broke our hearts even further.  
    That night, back at Mom and Dad’s house, we girls, being my daughters, my two sisters, my nieces and their daughters, and my sister-in-law, were all up in Mom’s room “tucking her in.” Mom asked me to go get my guitar and sing “Inseparable From My Heart” for her. I did, but really struggled through. My girls rescued me by asking for some silly songs, then, in between tunes, Mom looked right at me and said, “You still want the Lincoln, don’t you.” It was not a question, but nonetheless I startled. First, I hadn’t thought about it since 2005, and second, no one was supposed to know about it. Instantly she realized what she had done and said, “Well, I guess I let that cat out of the bag, didn’t I ?”  I looked around the room and saw that everyone was looking at me with a “Whaaat?” expression. Everyone except my brother’s wife,  who was looking quite upset. 
    Let’s say that my parents had an estate plan because it was and is a smart thing in regard to protecting any real assets one might have. Also, let’s say that, if one person were going to get everything in my parent’s estate, that “one person” would not be even close to retiring. There was not that kind of money in their estate. And, so, I didn’t think about it at all after that night. Not one whit. But, the “trouble” Mom spoke of started before I left the house to come home, followed me all the way to Arizona, and stayed quite a while. 
    Someday, I may tell that entire story. Maybe, maybe not. For now, I will say it was quite traumatic, in that my brother, in his infinite executor power trip, declared me a danger to my mother and I was not allowed in the house or to see her again before she died. But, in the spring, Mom followed Dad home, and that fall, when I flew to Ohio to pick up the Lincoln, it had merely 22K miles on the odometer. It was an interesting trip to say the least. I got to visit with my eldest sister, and together we sorted through what entitlements that had been put into storage for me.  Afterwards, I swung down through Tennessee to see another sister there, cut through Nashville where I wrote  “Cold Night In Nashville,” and then on through Oklahoma where I wrote the words to “A Crazy Horse.”

    I was very pleased and blessed to have the Lincoln given me as a gift. Why Mom chose me, I can only guess and would probably be wrong. Mom did what she wanted and got  what she wanted. The winter of 2012-2013, they came to spend a few months here in Arizona, and Dad often told me he had planned his whole life that he was going to die first, and “this is the one thing your mother is not going to get her way on.”

    As soon as I got home and registered the car in Arizona, I tried to get a specialty plate that said THXMOM, but then and the ten years since, that plate has been unavailable. I have many, many good reasons to say “Thanks, Mom,” and November 4th, 2023 is the goodest reason.
    I was heading to the gym late morning on that day, when I was broadsided by someone who ran a stop sign. I was hit primarily on the driver’s side B pillar and rear passenger door. It was a pretty hard smack, and I didn’t see it coming until the grill of the other car was in my left lower peripheral vision the moment before impact. I did not hit the brake but took my foot off the gas, passing on through the intersection and looking up in my review mirror for the other car. I watched it pass through the intersection and so turned around to follow. Yep, they were trying to get away, but the impact  had damaged the front end of their compact car badly enough they were literally hopping down the road, finally pulling over. I pulled in behind and called 911 who sent Fire and Police. They both arrived before I hung up with dispatch. 
    It took two Firemen to get the driver’s side doors open, having to open the rear door first. I was told I did right by not exiting the Lincoln on the passenger side because of the type of impact. But, as soon as the doors were open, one Fireman gave me his hand to help me out and, before he let go, he pointed to the car and told me, “This car saved your life.” I told him my Mom left me the car when she passed away. 
    The Rescue medics checked me out and afterward I was leaning on the Lincoln, waiting for my turn with the Police. The Fireman came back to me and said he knew I was very upset about my car, that his sister-in-law had inherited a Lincoln from her mother. That Lincoln had tiny Looney Tunes characters dancing all along the side like pin-striping because her whole family was into Looney Tunes. He knew that car meant the world to her. 
    I told him that I always wanted to get a plate that said, “Thx Mom.”
           “This car saved your life,” he told me again. 

           “Thanks, Mom. It’s not the first time you saved my bacon, that’s for certain.” Mom gave me the Lincoln for a reason she never revealed. Maybe it was a Mom’s intuition.  And, she always got her way. Well, nearly always, huh Dad?
    
    After a couple of months of trying to find ways to keep my Lincoln, I have had to accept that the insurance companies are in control. I understand. The cost of repair is more than 40% of the value. In this case, even with under 80K miles on it, because of the age of the car, the estimates for cost of repair are as much as 105% of the value. I can’t do that. 
    But, Thanks Mom. Your love and generosity paid off in boatloads. I’ll see you later rather than sooner.

© Nancy Elliott & Sonoran Desert Sage Publishing 2024
email   NancyElliottMusic@gmail.com
Phone 520.705.5901
 

Desert Dispatches 28 April, 2024

Hello Friends!
           I hope you are well and happy and full of Springtime.
           We desert dwellers are enjoying cool weather right now, which “they” tell us is right on target for this time of year. So today, we are taking full advantage and sharing a music session on back screened porch.
           I am writing this while waiting for musician friends and listeners to arrive, and it will be a stellar gathering with Linda Bilque, Ismael Barajas, Dave and Kathleen McCann, Barbara Herber and Dave Baumann. 
            It is always a refreshing, uplifting and edifying time when we gather and share music, stories, ideas, catch up on where we’ve been and what we’ve been up to. We start early and end when it’s over;  within a few hours, or when the stars come out. No rules, no one is required to play. The last porch music session I played one song. It’s just as enjoyable to sit and listen, watch the player’s faces as they listen or play along, and watch the faces of the other listeners. And, rumor has it that Ismael's wife, Ramona, is bringing enchiladas for the potluck.

                      Here’s an exciting thing Happening for you to participate in ! 
         This Thursday, May 2nd I will be on Interview With A Writer Out West, hosted by Jim and Bobbi Bell, for my book, Autumn’s On Its Way, and the accompanying songs. 
Henry Parke - film edited for True West Magazine is also on this Thursday, and the first Thursday of every month. He's a sharp guy and always has a question or two. The first 6 minutes of the show are his- he'll present the latest news on what's happening in Western film and TV. 
Where can you watch or listen live?
*airs LIVE at 6:00-6:50pm (PST)
*listen to the audio on LA Talk Radio's Website - Click Listen Live on Right Side
https://www.latalkradio.com/content/rendezvous-writer 
*watch on Facebook  -  
https://www.facebook.com/WritersOutWest/  

               How can you  catch the show after it's aired? 
*at the same Facebook address (video)
*at the same LA Talk Radio address  (video or audio)
*Audio only - Podbean - https://rendezvouswithawriter.podbean.com/ 
From Podbean they can choose Spotify, IHeartRadio, etc.  

I hope you get the chance to listen in, and I think you will like to keep this program on your list of favorites. I have worked with Jim and Bobbi in the past and it is always a fun time.

             There have been some changes to the website. The format and scheme mostly, but I have added a photo gallery page and will be uploading photos with stories and more video, of all kinds, for you to enjoy. I am also considering broadcasting a live performance once in a while, and would like to know what you think about that. It might be fun for you folks who are shut ins or live too far away to catch the stage performances, and I will be hosting other musicians. Let me know what you think.

       As we all know, Mother’s Day is not far off and, let's include Father’s Day with that heads up. So, now through Father’s Day you can take advantage of  a special in the Music & Bookstore. 
       When you buy a copy of Autumn’s On Its Way, for yourself or as a gift, you will receive a copy of the album “Bluebirds Singing On The Buffalo Road” which contains the song that inspired the book, and most of the songs which were inspired  by the writing of Autumn’s On Its Way. Just let me know in your purchase notes if you would like the CD or digital format, if the book should be signed to you, or as a gift to someone else, and where to send that gift.

   By the way, the porch music was wonderful. It’s so good to know these folks who love to play music and, most especially, love to share that music. Two of my grand children, who are 18 and 16 years old,  came today and received such an abundance of encouragement and musical love from the great musicians in the circle, they were still talking about it on the drive to their house.  I would never dream it would be any other way. Music is the language which connects across the ages. And, the enchiladas were top notch!

   Please check the calendar for updates, and keep an eye on the photo gallery - I’m going to get started in there real soon.

          Until we meet again, many blessings to you and yours,
   Nancy