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 
    

                                                                      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 - It’s About the Music

    By the age of fifteen, that would be the year 1974, I  had been playing guitar for a couple of years or so. Campfires, a friend’s wedding (I still have the charm necklace that was a gift from the newlyweds, and just this winter, a friend replaced the setting that was lost, who knows how long ago), the stairwell outside the Library at Beavercreek High School during lunch with friends who played everything from the flute to the Kalimba and would always sing along. But, to this day, I can’t  recall how I found my self at a microphone, in front of a crowd  which seemed hundreds deep, at Riverfest in Dayton, Ohio.
    Perhaps my parents and or friends encouraged me to go sing at the festival - that would have been just like them to do that. Maybe, I just happened to be at the festival and happened upon an open mic taking place and happened to be able to borrow and guitar and took the leap.              But, I can tell you for certain that, once I stepped to the mic, I was terrified. I had never sung into a microphone, nor to a crowd the size of what was in front of me, all watching me...and waiting... for me...to start singing. And, I can tell you that I will never forget the friendly faced, rosy cheeked, soft spoken man who came forward and said, “My name is Mick Montgomery, and I’m going to stand right in front of you just an arm’s length away. You close your eyes, and sing the song you know the very best. Don’t open your eyes until you’re ready, and when you do, I will be right there,” he pointed over his shoulder, “in front of you.” 
    I did, and when I opened my eyes, Mick was exactly where he said he would be, and he smiled at me and, he asked me to sing a couple more songs. While I was doing that, I remember seeing him move over and talk with my parents. Over the years, they developed a warm friendship and stayed in touch. 
    It wasn’t much later that Mick had me singing at pig roasts and other events he booked music for that I was legally able to sing for. Later, after coming of age, he booked me at Sam’s On Fifth multiple times. In my Kate Wolf songbook, there is a great, black and white photo of Kate with Nina Gerber in front of Sam’s, and I was always inspired to realize I had been on the same stage as those two very powerful woman in music. Sam’s architecture is of the era of shotgun homes and businesses, so it’s long and narrow, and fairly dark inside with the old bar, wood floors, tin plate ceilings, and a stage that was shoulder height to me. The stage curtains were heavy red velvet draperies, the stage lights were bright and hot, hot. One sweated as they played without fail, even in winter.  
    I recall the first time playing Sam’s, I covered Janis Ian’s “Watercolors” and on the final chord a woman rose from her seat and started a standing ovation. I was stunned, sweaty to the core and amazed. Debby Smith was her name, all perfectly curly chestnut hair, red flannel shirt and overalls. We became friends and shared gigs the rest of the time I was in Ohio. If any of you know Debby Smith from Dayton, tell her I lost the words to her song, “High Fly Ball,” and would love to get them from her so I can sing it again. 
    In 1979, I believe it was, Mick bought a place in the Historic District and turned it into a lunch and darts place by day, and I concert hall by night. I was honored to be among the other local musicians, including Debby,  who played opening night at Canal Street Tavern. Years later, 1986, I went to work for Mick in the bar and as greeter and liaison to the many great touring acts who played there, Leon Redbone, Doc Watson, Pierre Bensusan, Garnet Rogers, The Original Osborne Brothers (Rocky Top), The Chieftains, Shawn Phillips, Tom Paxton, Rory Block, The Desert Rose Band, Pake McIntyre and more. Mick hosted music most every night of the week with local bands taking the stage and genre focused events. 
    Before every show, Mick got on the house mic and thanked everyone for coming, gave a great intro for the act, and afterwards, without fail, he thanked the audience again for coming. And he encouraged them to continue to come out and support live music and independent music. “Whether you attend concerts once a week, once a month or once a year,  make the decision to, on a regular basis, choose to go support someone you have never heard before or heard of. More likely than not, you will be pleasantly pleased and surprised. Buy a ticket, buy their album, register for their newsletter and ask where they are playing next. By simply showing up, you  will have encouraged a solo artist or band to continue in their art, and you will have made a new friend in music. Most of the time all an aspiring artist needs is an audience that has come to listen, to hear, to interact with the music, story and songs. It’s a simple thing to do, to show up.” 
    So, I am asking you now, to choose to go listen to live music. Choose the artists you know and love, but once in a while, choose a new artist you have never heard or heard of. Even if you don’t buy the album, or sign up for the newsletter, the singer-songwriter or band is inspired because you came and you listened. 
    Mick is gone almost ten years, and the music of Canal Street Tavern followed him just a few years ago. But, I have always remembered what Mick did for music and aspiring artists. I have tired over the years to help others along as he did.

What’s Coming?
  The Maricopa - Butterfield House Concerts are returning this fall/winter. I will let you know far in advance of the first show and who will be performing for you. My house is small and seating will be limited unless we can be outside. Also, I am looking for a new name for the series and all ideas are welcome!
 

Even though it seems that I am on the journey alone other than Christ, I will proceed. Mostly for my own good and growth, but perhaps someone else may find this and join in the conversation.

    This Thanksgiving was especially tough for me. I have not experienced this before regarding family and gathering oriented celebrations. But, I went for a walk with my dog, Machaira, and my youngest daughter, Cory, on one of the local mountain trails, and it was good to be on the trail again and to visit face to face with her. She is so busy with school and kids that, though we talk and text, it’s mostly matter of fact and to the point. 
    During the discussions on many topics, I came to a conclusion that my real problem was due to a kick in the ego I sustained from some photos that were sent to me after a concert. That the photos showed just how much I have aged in the last four years  was startling to me. That fact of aging and just how startled I was hammered at me since receiving them because it made apparent how much of my life has wasted spending time and effort on people and goals that left me feeling unaccomplished and insignificant. 
    The search for significance is a part of life and, sadly, we are often left to our own devices as to what is significance and where it is found. Because this search for significance is a personal journey, as is the journey through The Forgotten Way book, it may be tough for me to put it all down here, or for someone else to take up what is her and use it. But, I will endeavor to do so, and hope and pray that although this may come together slowly, it will come together. Maybe slowly is the best way to proceed.

    The Five Seals in The Forgotten Way book are;
    THE TRUTH
    1. God Is Infinite
    2. I Am The Light Of The World

    THE WAY
    3. Seeing The Light In The Darkness Is My Journey
    4. Surrender IS the Means to Seeing the Light

    THE LIFE
    5. True Love Is the Evidence of Being In the Light  

    I’ve read The Forgotten Way for the second time and each time I see something new. It’s as though puzzle pieces are coming together, allowing me to see more and apply more. This is the same as reading scripture, which The Forgotten Way is based on. Each time I read a book in the Bible, a new realization or application is there. That is because I am growing and learning, layer by layer, step by step, and this will continue to the end of my days and into eternity. 
    Each person’s journey is the same, each person starting from their own jumping off point. I say jumping off because we are leaving behind what the world tells us makes us important and significant, and heading into what the Lord tells us is important and significant.
    This should be easy for someone like me, who from the beginning was different. The youngest of six children, two of my siblings were enough older than me to be out of the household by the time I was of the age to remember much about them. I was a different child, spending a lot of time alone with crafts, music, art and writing. It was my preferred place to be. I did love the outdoors and spent many hours walking the local woods and creeks, mostly alone. 
    My family went to church and I remember loving to go, especially standing next to my father and listening to him sing. But, church was left at church. At home there was no further teaching or guidance. I do remember pouring over my mother’s editions of Guidebook, The Upper Room, and some hardcover books she had on Jesus and Easter. There, it all stopped.

    In the Forgotten Way, Ted Dekker talks about Yeshua’s Way being the way of super heroes.  If we were ever taught that we can fly, we have forgotten that fact, and having forgotten we can no longer fly. This book, is the tap on the shoulder reminding us we can fly. 
    I intend to fly. I intend to truly love, because in there is no fear in love. True love. 
    
    Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Romans 12:2

    It takes staying on the path, staying in the game. Focus and dedication. There are promises kept along the way, and I want to grow and be useful, be of value, of significance. It’s about change, changing my mind and changing my knowledge. I am still here, so there is purpose. I know with God’s guidance, my eyes will be opened to His purpose for me and the gifts and talents he has given to me.

       There was so much that took place. Good, bad, horrible. Of my own doing and done to me. All along the way, I was aware of Christ's presence, watching me, watching over me. I was always feeling the nudge, and the occasional shove. I won't delve in to so much evil, mine or others, that is not the story to be told. The story is the deeper awakening.

       There were so many unanswered questions from my young years at church, and I drifted in the search for those answers, and the search for significance. Significance in the world, and in my life. What purpose was there to all this? In all the struggle and blindness, I would hear and feel Christ, but not pay heed. This last situation, I felt him by me the whole time, asking me to come out, sad at my choosing  not to. 

        I knew I was once again in the wrong place and with the wrong person. No one who really cares about someone else, who loves as they profess they do, does not do or say they things he did. One does not hit or rage at the ones they love.  I cannot fix that, only Christ can repair that  thinking and behavior. It was the hitting that made me accept the truth I had been ignoring.

        It makes no sense that it's not so easy to walk away from that, but I managed to ease away slowly, moving into a position of strength through the study of the Word, and end it. Twice I was hit out of nowhere and for what seemed no reason, until I got away and could think, could look upon without fear. And what I saw was rage, and then that rage came at me. 

      The axiom is then true - that what ever level of Christ was in me was deeply disturbing his demons. A friend counseled me that I was not out of fellowship ( 1 John 1:9 ), but it felt like cheating, a misuse of God's grace and mercy. It was the stepping away, the leaving that allowed me to tell him to go away, then not respond to his attempts to communicate. 

       I was there for five years, watching his demons at work. Destroying his family relationships, emotionally and mentally hurting me, his friends and even people he doesn't know - whomever got in his path at the wrong moment. I watched his chaos, confusion and fear. I talked to him about Christ, but I could do no more than that and could take no more of watching and being around his demons. And that is when his demons really came after me, when I no longer tolerated their presence, they physically attacked me. 

       I ran to Jesus' arms to a spiritual awakening He had been calling me to for decades, to a radical way of thinking and a free fall into grace and love, a desire to walk the path Christ has planned for me, to be who he wants me to be. 

In the opening chapter of The Forgotten Way, Ted Dekker takes us on a journey back in time to his childhood, and growing up in a missionary family with the missionary life. He talks about some of the darkness he experienced as a child and a teenager, and how so much happened he could not understand or explain. He talks about why he wrote, The Forgotten Way Meditations. 
    I believe this is a good place for me, and anyone who chooses to join me, to start in this discussion; the reason for our search for understanding and the reason for reading The Forgotten Way Meditations. 
          
           Coming Back
    It is a much longer, and harder, road back than anticipated. Honestly, I don’t recall even thinking or wondering how long it would take to get back, or, how long I was gone - though now, it feels an immeasurable span of time- yet it was an obvious fact that I had to get back. There was a precipice looming, inches in front of me, one that if stepped off of, would mean no return. No return to the music or writing, no return to sanity and order, and it was very clear, it would be the end of me, who I am and what I do. 
    To be caught in a web of chaos and confusion, when one’s natural tendency is to sort out chaos and shed light on confusion, and not realize that one is being slowly taken away from all things that give light and life and spiritual growth and abundance, is to be actively participating in the chaos and confusion, helping to create it and employ it. When realization comes, it comes with no gentle hand, but a hard smack, or two. Two, to be exact. 
    The first one left me dazed, not wanting to believe what just happened. Good old me, never wanting to believe the worst until absolutely forced into believing. No, that did not just happen...yes, it did, but it didn’t...not like “that” anyway...but it did happen...No apology, no remorse, no anything except an excuse of “oops.”   With a little time and distance, upon reflection, there was a look, a demeanor, a posture, a way of standing, a wordless statement of satisfaction, of “I got you,” of goal accomplished, a swallowed chuckle. And, when I suppose it was deemed the first one didn’t take properly - or it was gotten away with,  there later followed a second, which was then followed by rage. Verbal  battery preceded all.

    It’s not the first time. But, now I am old and, whereas before, when I was younger, I dusted my self off, squared my shoulders and never looked back. Not this time. The knife of  betrayal sunk deeper, caused more damage. Perhaps, like anything as we get older, it just takes longer to recover. 
    I try to see it, the coming back. But, just a few minutes ago while sitting down to learn a friend’s song which had been on my wish list for years, I couldn’t get through it. I could not sing it without weeping, literally weeping. I am knocked off my feet.  Even some of my own songs  now, that happens.  But, I think if I keep singing and weep it all out, things will come back around. Some days, it’s all I really know how to do, this singing and praying and reading about Christ’s love for me.

    Everyday Things by Linda Bilque

    Maybe when the weather’s better, we can try to get together
    Talk about what we remember of how things used to be
    Maybe when the weather changes, maybe in the Spring
    We can talk about the folks we knew and the way things used to be.

    Everyday things are tender, everyday things are sweet
    Everyday things make up a lifetime
    You were that kind
    You were that kind

    Maybe you will take my hand, hold it like you understand
    That sometimes life’s a litany of misunderstandings
    Sometimes life just goes along, sometimes love’s a dream
    Sometimes it’s just breakfast, lunch and dinner with nothing inbetween

    Everyday things are tender, everyday things are sweet
    Everyday things make up a lifetime
    You were that kind
    You were that kind

    Maybe when the weather’s better, we can try to get together
    Talk about what we remember of how things used to be
    Maybe when the weather changes, maybe in the fall
    We can walk among the falling leaves and talk about it all

    Everyday things are tender, everyday things are sweet
    Everyday things make up a lifetime
    You were that kind
    You were that kind

    I had made escape from several different abusive situations. During the course of a thirteen year marriage, after trying to fix everything I could think to fix, buying books to learn what I was doing wrong, how I could be better and the abuse would stop, I happened upon a book called “The Verbally Abusive Relationship” by Patricia Evans. It read like my current life story. It seemed to be verbatim as to what was happening in my marriage. 
    Although I don’t remember exactly what it was, I emailed Ms. Evans with a question. My phone number was in my signature and so she called me within a couple of hours, asking without preamble, “Where are you?”
    “I am in my truck headed to the post office. Who is this?”
    “This is Patricia Evans, I received your email, whatever you do, don’t go home.”
    “Oh.”
    “Your situation is going to get worse very quickly, do not go home.”
    “Well, he left early this morning for a pack trip with his nephew to the Wind River Mountains and is not expected back for a couple of weeks.”
    “Then you have time to get what you need and get away. But, get away, don’t go back.”

    The long and short of it is, I did leave. And some years later I was visiting about this situation with a friend who is a retired Sheriff and personal protection advisor. He told me that my then husband was rehearsing how he was going to kill me. As I reflected on different scenarios that took place, I could see it. At the time, in those moments, the behavior  just seemed weird, off kilter, but I never suspected that I was about to be murdered. 
    How in the world did I there?

    There is a history on my part. A history of abuse by men. It is a fact that every man I have become involved with has abandoned me, literally. The girl’s father left me and my daughters without food, utilities and secure shelter. He also abandoned me emotionally and spiritually. Men have hit me, shaken me - not as “shaken baby” by the shoulders, but picked up by my head and shaken; and raged at me. I have come to believe it is a fact that this not being able to recognize the signs of impending abuse, or to recognize an abuser at first contact, comes from abuse that begins before remembrance. So, one is conditioned. To use the current term, groomed, for abuse.

    I will not cast a bad light on my parents, because it was told to me some years ago that this abuse took place at the hand of a family member, that being my eldest sister’s husband. The sister who told me this had also been abused. I don’t know when she told on him, but she did say that she remembers our mother’s exclamation of, “What has he done to the baby?” That “baby” meaning me, so I can only surmise that I was just that, a baby, perhaps a toddler. The same sister was angry because she felt that Mom’s concern was only for me, and not her. But, I don’t believe that, and told her so. I believe those words would be a natural exclamation of shock and worry for the smallest and most helpless. And, my parents came from a different generation where such things were not talked about or made public.  Don’t talk about it, not even within the family. Secrets kept, skeletons in the closet, evil in the basement.

    Here’s another set of bones for the dog to worry; my second eldest sister would not be alone in a room with either our brother-in-law or our brother, ever, for any reason under any circumstances, till the end of her days. I did not know this until just about ten years ago, and so,  about 25 years after the following incident; 
    My brother happened to come into a bar where I had been working for a long stretch. His coming in surprised me because, due to his abusive behavior toward me and others,  we had not spoken in quite a few years. But, he stayed the evening and, after several failed attempts to get the other barmaid to go with him, waited for me to close and go have breakfast with him. I was hesitant, but, perhaps he wanted to make amends, so I went along. It seemed to be a nice visit about his work- the then new creation of satellite communications and Television. He drove me home afterwards and as I was getting our of the car he stopped me by pulling me to him and kissed me on the mouth. I tried to yank my arm away but he would not let go. When I started slapping and hitting him, he started crying and said he was so sorry, that he was sorry for a lot of things. That he was sorry for what he Eugene ***** and a man whose first name was Bill (I knew who he was talking about at the time, I had met this Bill and I believe I had met Eugene), had done and been doing to young boys at the bus station. I was finally able to jerk away from him and went in my house. I went to the police the next day and told them everything he said and did that night. I can guarantee nothing came of it. With names like Bill whomever and Eugene *****, good ole boy Texas cops would do nothing about it, especially in a itty-bitty mid-cities Texas town. Especially, being a small town at the time, and the fact that for a short while I had dated a local police officer and had talked about my brother to him, Gary  was known and probably feared.

    I recall my mother telling a story of Dad coming home to find my brother raging at Mom, calling her names. The story was, Mom had told him he could not have a rifle in the house because of the younger children and he brought one in anyway. She told him to take it back to where he bought it and get his money back. That is when Gary called Mom a bitch. Dad had come in the door just in time to hear this, so he turned my brother by the shoulder to face him, told him never to speak to Mom that way again, then punched him in the face so hard my brother slid backwards down the tiled hallway to land against the wall at the far end. My brother told people he hated Dad for that. 
    As he became elderly, Dad was afraid of him, and one time drove my brother, and my brother’s wife and father-in-law out of the house. I will admit that was at my suggestion - During a visit home in 2010,  Dad had told me he was afraid of Gary, and that my brother regularly caused Mom to cry. That he would go into rages, but also Dad would find Gary in Dad’s office going through paperwork and file drawers.  I suggested that next time my brother did something like that, Dad could tell Gary to leave and not come back until he could be respectful. About a year later, he did just that. We three remaining daughters tried to convince Dad that Gary should be removed as executor of their estate. But, because he was afraid that Gary might hurt one or all of us, including Mom and Dad, he was left in place. 
    The nightmare started right after Dad’s funeral. 
    At the funeral home, my brother was upset with me because I would not enter the parlor while Dad’s casket was open. I don’t believe in open casket. I waited in the lounge and outside the parlor door where I could listen to the service. It all got worse from there. I was declared a danger to my mother and not allowed to see her while she was sick and dying. I’m sure, in his mind, it was all some kind of due punishment on me. None of the family would speak to me after Mom died. In late may of 2021, my sister three years older than me did call and tell me that our eldest sister was in the hospital and dying, but that I should not bother to go see her as there was nothing I could do. Afraid that If I said I was going, that she would barr me since she was my dying sister’s executrix and medical power of attorney, I went and did not tell her. My incognito status lasted about six days before I was found out, and the attempt to barr me was made. However, one of the nurses asked me why this was happening, then put a stop to it.  

    In my hurt and confusion, I often think of Joseph who, in the book of Genesis, was sold into slavery by his brothers. In the aftermath, Joseph had difficult and dangerous circumstances to overcome, but with God as his guide and protector, he did, and he flourished mightily. And later he was able to provide for his brothers and their wives.  
    I was not sold into slavery like Joseph. But, perhaps I was conditioned and groomed into slavery. And, maybe I really did know all those things I didn’t think I knew back then, and that is why I fled as soon as I could. That wasn’t necessarily to my benefit, either.
    Growing up in the Methodist Church, I cannot recall there ever being a time when I did not believe in Jesus as the Son of God, the Way, the Truth, and the Life. So, I know that nursery school and Sunday School teachers did their job right and it stuck.  But, I was never taught application, how to live within that truth, how to walk in that truth. I was never taught how to face malevolence head on. Never being taught how to make decisions based on what is right in the eyes of God, regardless of what the world wants me to do or say, or let be done to me.  
    Perhaps I may never understand why this all happened, and maybe I don’t need to understand, be analyzed and studied. But, the why does not matter any more. The only thing I need to understand is Jesus making me whole again, and He is doing so, step by step. He has been waiting for me for a long time. Coming to belief in Jesus during early childhood, I know that He has been protecting me all these years from what could have been far worse. 
    It is not an easy thing to enter His rest - I have been running so hard for so long just to survive and it’s hard to put the brakes on that kind of momentum. Yet, I believe that there is purpose for me and the gifts and talents given me, and now, with God’s grace and blessing, those gifts will finally produce fruit.  Searching once again, looking for the words and truths I can comprehend and put to my life, I found this book by Ted Dekker, The Forgotten Way. I am on my third reading of this book, and each time my mind accepts a deeper truth and understanding of Christ in me, and me in Christ; of accepting that truth and learning to live in that truth. 
    I hope you decide to take your own journey through this book. We can’t walk the whole pathway together literally, but we can share it here, and perhaps help each other along the way.
 

The World In Chewy's Eye

Inspired by JPS Brown's “The World In Poncho's Eye”

    Chewy gave me my first ride on his back one late October morn. He wasn't much to look at, a grade horse whose ears were more than a tad too long, making him look muley, and he had a roman nose and scarred up face which confirmed his rangy look and namesake, “Chewbacca”. His scarred face came from his selectively obstinate personality. He would stand ground tied while being shod, or while waiting for his rider to complete some task not done from the saddle. But, he could not be tied to a post or fence or a bale of hay for even a minute. He would pull back with all the strength of a tractor, pulling the object he was tied to along with him. And, if he could not pull it with him, he would lunge forward, ramming his face into the post or side of a trailer or barn, then pull back again until either the object gave way or he was cut loose. A few people told me they could “fix” Chewy. I told them I had the fix already, just untie him, he will stand. 

 He'd been ridden in the Texas brush for all of his seven years. The day I first met him, and we trotted out to locate and bring up a remuda, he was prime, well muscled, bright eyed and alert, his coat shone in the sun like copper tinged with gold. Chewy was not flashy, but power and try emanated from him and proved out when he went to work. 
    And, we worked, horses mostly, a few cattle. Turn-back was his specialty and he could turn west and leave you in the air still facing east. He left me there more than once, I have to admit, but he always came back to get me, and right now too. He never made me go after him, he never ran out his momentum. He just turned on that proverbial dime and came back, like a partner, like a friend.

    There was an underlying gentleness of spirit, and a playful soul in him. Tag was a favorite game, steal your hat and run like hell was another. You learned quick not to show up with a drink and crushed ice, you wouldn't get anything done till he had that cup in his teeth, tipping it back to drink off the sweet residue. I would often go to the barn late at night after my bartending job, stopping for a burger and fries, then sit in the paddock with the horses turned out. Soon enough, quiet and slow, as if I would not know he was there, Chewy’s head would come over my shoulder and snitch my French fries one at a time.

    My daughters were very young then, not in school yet. He taught them both to ride, taking them from walk to trot to lope when he felt they were ready and not until. Many a time, as I rode of an evening through the old church yard peach orchard, or across a sunset painted pasture, one child in my arm, one tied on behind me, Chewy rocked my babies to sleep.

    From a long ago horse in my child hood I had learned about the world in a horses' eye. I was fascinated to watch the scene behind me in the large orb that painted everything brown and sepia like an old time photograph. I had shown that world to my children, that world in a horse’s eye. I held them up so they could see, and they would reach a finger out to try and touch that world, to connect, to prove it was there. Maybe that world is where children really come from and wish to stay....maybe it was familiarity as much as fascination that made them reach out. A sense of belonging in that place, the world in a horses eye. But, living life makes you think hard and long and it'll make you weary and worn if you let it. You can forget the magic if you're not careful. And, there was I one summer afternoon.

    The girls and I had all climbed up on Chewy's bare back and ridden out to a tank for a swim and picnic. They were laughing and splashing in the water, I was lying on the grass watching them as Chewy grazed behind me. I turned to see his head only a foot or so away from mine, my eyes directly in line with his one eye when he paused his munching to look at me. In Chewy’s eye, there were clouds sailing by. Seed heads on the grass were bobbing in the breeze, the trees in the distance, the little cut bank on the creek that fed the tank and, right there were my children, dancing in his eye. 
    The world in Chewy's eye was rich and full, dynamic, vital, and encompassing no more than he could process in that span of time. You could not see the past in his eyes, and you could not see the future, just the more-important now.  Chewy's world could be no bigger and no smaller than what was taking place in that moment, no bigger or smaller than the world reflected in his eye. If he saw opportunity to steal my hat, or give one of the kids a gentle shove away from danger, he took it. He did not fret, or plan. He was exuberant in what he had now and he drank it up until he was satisfied. There were no embarrassing moments, no thought of too much or not enough, no fear of the dark or perhaps of tomorrow’s not coming. Fear was experienced only at the precise moment it was necessary. It was not a constant state of being. 
    I saw the phases of the moon in Chewy’s eyes, I saw the stars in the big night sky. On a stormy night, when I went to find him, I saw in his eyes flashes of lightning and the sleet that stung our hides. When I looked in Chewy's eye, I saw me as he saw me, plain and true and honest. What I read in his eyes was the pure reflection of his reading of me. There was no supposing or pretending of thought or intention. He knew what I was thinking and feeling and intending. We humans spend too much time looking at our selves with carefully selected mirrors. And worse, we examine our selves, our very souls and spirits, from the outside, sometimes with a microscope, often with a kaleidoscope. We rarely take measure of the purity of our reflection in our fellow human’s eye. We have forgotten, if we ever were taught, the language of the soul. We have learned to ignore the yearning for knowledge of another’s innermost being. We deny our desperate need for spiritual connection to another human because the work, the time required, remove us from what the world is telling us we should be doing instead. The fear of being hurt, abandoned, rejected keep us from looking deep, living deep, breathing deep into another’s eyes and soul. We have been deceived, lead astray from the purpose of our creation; relationship. We do not know who we are, not for certain. And, we do not know who we are in relationship to other souls. 
    The world in Chewy's eye told me exactly who I was, who I wasn't, and who I needed to be each and every moment. Whether we were heading out to bring in the other horses, or I had my face buried in his winter coat, crying my eyes out over some pitiful, fleeting moment in time; or taking an end of chores jaunt to the drive-through at the Dairy Queen, there were no hard edges, no lies, just the truth in my heart looking back at me through the world in Chewy's eye.

(C) 2008 Nancy Elliott Music & Sonoran Desert Sage Pub. ASCAP

By Moon Or No Moon

           For about two years I lived less than a mile east of the base of Table Top Mountain, located in the Table Top National Wilderness. The actual location is as the crow flies, 94 miles north of the southern border and specifically, just 700 ft. north of the corner of Connelly Rd and Smith Rd. Both roads are dirt with many soft areas, so four wheel drive are essential. Connelly runs west from Stanfield Road and ends at Smith. From that point there is a two track which follows the power line, heading south west for the most part, circling around the southern base of Table Top. From there another two track veers off, up the mountain side, eventually coming upon wildlife drinkers built by Game & Fish. Sadly, I later discovered that the human waste and trash left at and near the drinkers by smugglers and other illegals kept the wildlife from getting water they badly needed. 
    During Monsoon season, the bridge at Connelly and Stanfield would be blown out by the flooding, the concrete culverts flung high onto the west bank of the ditch. If I was lucky, there would be a strip of packed dirt left, just wide enough for my Suzuki Samurai to cross over. If not, it was back to town to sleep on the floor of my bookstore, and hope for the best for the horses. There was, and still is, plenty of wildlife to appreciate; deer, mountain goat, Gila Monsters, coyote and mountain lion. Though most of the Saguaro cactus not on the designated wilderness area had been grazed down by free range cattle many years prior to the establishment of the wilderness area (the land was then owned by John Wayne and he and Louis Johnson grazed cattle out there. There actually was grass on that range back in those days), there were Saguaro aplenty just across the dirt road. “Just across the road” was the BLM land and the designated wilderness.
    One morning during the first few days of living out there, I was headed into town very early, before daylight, to do some laundry before going to work. There were two gates to pass through whether coming or going. The gate rule anywhere in the world is; if you find a gate closed, close it behind you - if you find it open, leave it open. That morning I opened and closed both gates. Even though it is very rural, way out there, in fact, I slowed to check for traffic as I approached Stanfield Road and stopped when I observed a vehicle coming south. As it passed I could plainly see it was Border Patrol, and when I pulled on to Stanfield Road, the unit turned and lit me up. I pulled over to the right, rolled down my window, placed both hands on top of the steering wheel in plain sight and waited. When agent stopped behind me, it was well behind me. Watching in the side view, I saw him get out of his vehicle and walk toward the far left side of the road and then toward my car. I turned and looked at him as he came into view. He aimed his flashlight toward my car but not in my eyes and asked me, “Do you have any illegals in there?”
    I laughed out loud, “Yes, there’s twelve of them underneath the laundry.”
    He walked up a little closer then said, “That has to be the smallest car I have ever seen.”
    I laughed again and he approached the car. “Are you armed?”
    “Yes, I have, on my right hip.”
    “Do you live out there?” He pointed over his shoulder, down Connelly Road.
    “Yes, just moved there a few days ago.”
    “You’re going to need something bigger than a pistol. Do you have a long rifle?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, keep it with you. That’s what you need to carry out here. Other wise, you’ll be out gunned on any given day of the week.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Have a nice day,” he called over his shoulder as he went back to his truck.

    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

     I had worked as a dispatcher for Arizona Department of Public Safety for a few years and was quite familiar with illegal and smuggling traffic. In fact, dispatchers received regular briefings on cartels and smugglers and their current whereabouts and activity. We worked with multi agency task forces on the southern border and state wide. Bailouts and wrecks involving illegals and smugglers were part of the norm. Stopping a refrigerated truck hauling produce and drugs, or finding a box truck filled with illegals standing shoulder to shoulder was no surprise. 
    There is a particularly curvy stretch of I-17 north of Phoenix and between Sunset Point and Black Canyon City. The Northbound side is fondly called, “U-Haul Hill,” although many other types of vehicles overheat or break down on that steep climb. Pulling over any where for any reason on that stretch of road, North or South bound is treacherous. But, it happens.
    And it just so happened that one afternoon I was working the district radio for that particular road way and got a 9-1-1 call from a concerned motorist who was pulled over behind one of my officers who was pulled over with a large box truck on the South bound side above the Bumble Bee exit. The outside edge of that curve offers some of the most beautiful and expansive views of the Bradshaw Mountains, Crown King, all the way over to Lake Pleasant, and across a broad swath of the Phoenix West Valley to the White Tanks Mountains. However, it is a dangerous drop off and not a pace to stop, ever, at all, nope. 
    I cleared the officer whom I suspicioned was out with the truck, and when he answered let him know I was on the phone with a “good guy” in a blue Caddy stopped behind an officer who was holding about fifty people at gun point in the back of a box truck. “Is that you, Sir”
    “10-4, Ma’am. Please start another unit and notify Border Patrol for transport. Also, we need to co-ordinate with Fire to get these folks watered up and fed.”
    “10-4, another unit is on the way and there’s one behind you slowing traffic. Border Patrol is on the way, Daisy Mountain Fire will meet you off the Bumble Bee exit.”

    One morning I answered a phone call from an attorney in Chicago who advised me she was with a distraught, older Hispanic couple. This couple had received a phone call in the night informing them their daughter had died while riding in the back of a box truck, and was left on the Eastbound side of Interstate 10 west of Phoenix, no exact location. Still on the phone with the Chicago attorney, I immediately sent officers and Air Rescue to check the area given to the attorney. I also notified the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department, Border Patrol, Buckeye and Avondale Police and other agencies who were “out west” along I-10. About an hour later, our shared great hope that she was not really dead was crushed when the deceased daughter was located just far enough from the road she could not be seen by passing cars and trucks. Someone had taken the time to go through her purse and find a phone number. How civilized.

    DPS often backed up Border Patrol and visa-versa on vehicle and foot pursuits, bail outs. The Fire Department was sometimes called to a scene for medical care, but also because they had a concession truck with enough food and water to get large number of illegals watered up and a little food in them before they were transported or, turned loose if there was no transport available. 
    I could go on about the crashes resulting in multiples of illegal adults, children and babies in critical condition because no one was buckled in and the coyote rolled the truck. Or, about the stash houses where illegals, who have already paid their coyote an exorbitant transport fee, are held en masse while their families try to scrape up even more money for ransom. Large numbers, fifty to seventy five plus men, women, children and infants are kept locked up and tied up, in nasty houses with no electricity, no water, no food.    
    
  That morning at the intersection of Stanfield and Connelly roads, the Border Patrol drove home the fact I was no longer coordinating ground and air rescue assets and resources for officers, I was living in the cross-fire between opposing drug cartels, human smugglers, and Law Enforcement, ninety four miles North of the border.

    As time went by, the truth became apparent in other ways, too. I would be horseback and run across a group of people waiting on the arrival of associates for the transfer of a load of guns, drugs or people to be carried farther into Arizona. How did I know this is what they were doing? It was the cammo canvas tarp over the truck bed and long rifles carried by folks whose faces let me know they did not want me around. I gave a nod and rode away.
    One afternoon, while exploring horseback around the base of the mountain, I came upon some old wood corrals. Near the corrals was a depression, or wallow, in the ground which appeared to be a grave, about the size of a smaller adult or a child. “Naw,” I told my self, and went on for a while. But, I was curious and rode back that way to have another look. “Maybe,” I thought, and reached for my cell phone. No service. So, I rode toward home until I had service and called Pinal County Sheriff. When a deputy arrived at my house in a patrol car - not a truck - I asked if he would like to ride with me in my Samurai. He said no, but thanks and gestured toward the lava rock strewn foothills and washes of Table Top, “You’d be surprised where this Crown Vic will go.” 
    He followed me back to within a few hundred yards of the corrals and wallow then, after he took a shovel from the trunk of his patrol car, we walked in. At the corrals he stood over the little depression for a few moments, then looked up at me and shook his head. 
    “It could be.” He stood there, just looking around the area some then said, “Okay.” and started his forensic digging, taking only small scoops of dirt and placing them individually along one side. It was obvious by his body language he was worried about what he might find, and when his shovel struck something other than dirt, he exclaimed, “Well shit!” immediately looking up at me and apologizing. He said, “I just did this yesterday on the other side (of the mountain). It’s a regular thing out here, finding the bodies. I just never get used to it.” 
    The Deputy gathered himself and went back to digging until he was satisfied it was only a wallow, not a grave. We walked out, and he told me not to hesitate to call. Sometimes, he said, we get lucky and find them out here still alive.

    I've never minded being way out there. Whether it's living, working, writing or singing. Where this photo was taken, is less than a quarter mile from my home at the time. Beautiful, striking country. I loved riding and hiking through those mountains. The postal service would not deliver here. Not "could not," but would not because of the cartels and smugglers. Things could get a little western on the Vekol now and then. Shots fired by lookouts in those mountains, over my house and into the valley were not an unusual sound to startle one awake in the middle of the night. Just opposing cartels at it again.
    One of the Vekol cowboys was car jacked by smugglers right on the ranch. He let them have the truck knowing it was very low on fuel. Sure enough, he found it abandoned not far down the road. When he got it back to the ranch, he ran a log chain through the windows, around the B pillar and then around a big mesquite, "to keep it handy."
    Mornings - I rarely went out before daylight - I used to step out on the deck and throw a wave up there, just to let them know I was headed out to feed and work.  Once in a while I watched while Pinal County or Homeland Security - somebody in a big, black helicopter anyway - flew over that saddle and wrecked the lookout camp. There was a repackaging station about 100 yards from the door to my house, 200 from the highway.
    My daughters had given me a nice pair of binoculars for my birthday so I could glass the area from the upper deck before walking out to the barn. One morning, the horses were all focused on something beyond my sight, and figuring it was smugglers or mules, I called it in.                                                                                                       Before S.O. arrived I counted five men and called back to let them know. One deputy came, and he looked up at me on the deck and patted his sidearm, asking if I was armed. He got a thumbs up. I relayed to his dispatcher the various locations of the men, she relayed that information to the deputy, and they were all rounded up before Border Patrol and Forest Service arrived.    

    Got a few good songs from the years of living there. "By Moon or No Moon, the Smuggler's Trail" is one. Inspired by my neighbor, Mary,  an 80 year old retired school teacher who was living in a mostly falling down house across the highway and west a little. I could hear her yelling at her dogs, or yelling at the smugglers, and learned to discern which was which. One morning I had to feed before daylight in order to get on the road in time for an appointment, and as I was filling the water  barrels, I heard Mary start yelling. When my phone did not ring with her calling to warn me of smugglers passing through, I relaxed bit. But, the first lines came as I was driving away to town. I called my friend, Les Buffham, and said, “Hey Les! Write this down for me?”   After a few lines, Les asked, “Can I have a piece of this?”  You bet. He's got a few lines in there. And, Don Armstrong wrote the music for it almost ten years later. 

    “I am an old woman, I live alone along the smuggler’s trail
    These boys think they’re men and they try to scare me 
    They think I’m decrepit and frail.
    But, my shotgun is loaded with double ought buck
    and that always makes ‘em turn tail.
    They’re only so much spit in the wind, along the smuggler’s trail

    Moon or no moon, by day or by nigh
    We struggle the smuggler’s trail
    Dodging the Sheriff, and Border Patrol
    There’s drugs and guns and people for sale”
    
                           From “By Moon or No Moon” by Nancy Elliott with Les Buffham, Music by Don Armstrong
                    Sonoran Desert Sage Publishing & Nancy Elliott Music ASCAP

It's on the Bluebirds album. True story of living 94 miles north of the border.

To Be Continued. Please Check Back as I continue writing this story.
 

Coming Back
    It is a much longer, and harder, road back than anticipated. Honestly, I don’t recall even thinking or wondering how long it would take to get back, or, how long I was gone - though now, it feels an immeasurable span of time- yet it was an obvious fact that I had to get back. There was a precipice looming, inches in front of me, one that if stepped off of, would mean no return. No return to the music or writing, no return to sanity and order, and it was very clear, it would be the end of me, who I am and what I do. 
    To be caught in a web of chaos and confusion, when one’s natural tendency is to sort out chaos and shed light on confusion, and not realize that one is being slowly taken away from all things that give light and life and spiritual growth and abundance, is to be actively participating in the chaos and confusion, helping to create it and employ it. When realization comes, it comes with no gentle hand, but a hard smack, or two. Two, to be exact. 
    The first one left me dazed, not wanting to believe what just happened. Good old me, never wanting to believe the worst until absolutely forced into believing. No, that did not just happen...yes, it did, but it didn’t...not like “that” anyway...but it did happen...No apology, no remorse, no anything except an excuse of “oops.”   With a little time and distance, upon reflection, there was a look, a demeanor, a posture, a way of standing, a wordless statement of satisfaction, of “I got you,” of goal accomplished, a swallowed chuckle. And, when I suppose it was deemed the first one didn’t take properly - or it was gotten away with,  there later followed a second, which was then followed by rage. Verbal  battery preceded all.

    It’s not the first time. But, now I am old and, whereas before, when I was younger, I dusted my self off, squared my shoulders and never looked back. Not this time. The knife of  betrayal sunk deeper, caused more damage. Perhaps,  as we get older, it takes longer to recover. 
    I try to see it, the coming back. But, just a few minutes ago while sitting down to learn a friend’s song which had been on my wish list for years, I couldn’t get through it. I could not sing it without weeping, literally weeping. Even some of my own songs  now, that happens.  But, I think if I keep singing and weep it all out, things will come back around. 
    Other than talking with Jesus, remembering that He is the one who called me out of slavery, again,  set me on my feet again, and holds me up in this world, singing is all I really know how to do.

    Everyday Things by Linda Bilque

    Maybe when the weather’s better, we can try to get together
    Talk about what we remember of how things used to be
    Maybe when the weather changes, maybe in the Spring
    We can talk about the folks we knew and the way things used to be.

    Everyday things are tender, everyday things are sweet
    Everyday things make up a lifetime
    You were that kind
    You were that kind

    Maybe you will take my hand, hold it like you understand
    That sometimes life’s a litany of misunderstandings
    Sometimes life just goes along, sometimes love’s a dream
    Sometimes it’s just breakfast, lunch and dinner with nothing inbetween

    Everyday things are tender, everyday things are sweet
    Everyday things make up a lifetime
    You were that kind
    You were that kind

    Maybe when the weather’s better, we can try to get together
    Talk about what we remember of how things used to be
    Maybe when the weather changes, maybe in the fall
    We can walk among the falling leaves and talk about it all

    Everyday things are tender, everyday things are sweet
    Everyday things make up a lifetime
    You were that kind
    You were that kind

Have you ever been sure you were alone, yet had the feeling you were being watched? No, not like "Big Brother" is watching. Like this...

    Everything I needed for a weekend of music was packed in my 2011 Hyundai Sonata, so I locked the house, climbed in the car, and was headed south toward Sahuarita, AZ. I exited my neighborhood, drove a half mile and took the ramp to enter the freeway. About thirty minutes later, near Picacho Peak on I- 10, I got the feeling I was being watched.

     For personal safety reasons, I generally pay very close attention to who is near me no matter where I happen to be. If I am in the gym, I watch the mirrors to see who walks behind me or enters and exits the building. While shopping I make sure I am not in someone's personal space, or they mine, and I keep an eye out in parking lots. While driving, I try to stay out of blind spots and will speed up or slow down to avoid traveling beside another car for any period of time.  Now, here I am on the Interstate with the feeling I am not alone and am being watched. 

   I looked in all my mirrors and out the side windows to make sure I hadn't been daydreaming and allowed myself settle in beside another driver, or they beside me. Nope. Nobody near me. Hmmm...okay. I glanced down to get my drink out of the cup holder nearest the dashboard, and there in the cup holder closest to me, was a little tiny mouse gazing up at me. It was not afraid, merely interested in me.

   "Hey Little Tiny" I said. "How did you get in here?"

   No response. 

    There the little mouse sat, just looking up at me as I drove. Of course I had to keep watching the road, but would see movement now and then and look down. Little Tiny would be on the passenger seat next to me, sitting up as if trying to see out the window. Or, exploring the edges of my purse and some mail on the seat. Then, it was back to curl up in the cup holder. Once I looked down to see Little Tiny coming across the console to my lap. "Oh, no you don't," I said, wagging my finger. "I do not need a mouse in my lap."  Little Tiny went back to the passenger seat and got to nosing around again. 

  Deciding I needed to get proof of my unlikely stowaway, I exited at Red Rock, pulled over and took a couple of photos. Then I reached over and opened the door. "Want out?" Not interested in the least. I got back on the freeway again, not thinking about my traveling companion until I arrived at my destination and began to carry in my belongings. I looked under the seats, on the back floorboard and in the cup holder, but neither hide nor hair was to be found.

   Inside, as I stowing away the food I had brought with me, there was Little Tiny in the bottom of the dry food bag, apparently having gotten in but not able to jump out. 

  "You do not belong in here, no matter how cute you are." I emptied the bag of everything but the mouse, carried it to the back of the property and laid it on its side on the ground so the mouse could walk out. It did not, so I tipped the bag to gently slide it out onto the grass, which it did. I turned to go back inside and after a few yards, I looked back to see Little Tiny jumping along after me, trying to keep up. It made me think of the childhood story book, "Are You My Mother?" about the baby bird who goes looking for its mother and questions all kinds of other critters, farm equipment and even a large backhoe. I picked up the pace and made it to the porch steps ahead of Little Tiny, who chose to go under the porch instead climbing the stairs. And, that's it. The story of Little Tiny, a mouse's adventure.

Tell a story to someone today. A story does not have to teach, have a moral, or drive home a point, it can be merely delightful. The teller tells, the listener listens, and something wonderful happens. You can count on it.

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 adjust able 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 you say. 
    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...
    The 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, “Thanks, 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
 

Lightning Woman Danced, The Story Behind the Song

    “I have always gone to the wilderness,” or some version of that, is a line you will read often in my stories. The wilderness shows up constantly in my songs and poetry, almost without fail. It is the place where I have always gone to rest, to discover and to regain my footing. In my early years I developed an ability to take a place with me where ever I may go: I see the place, hear it, smell it, feel the sun or the wind or snow of it, I can step into its waters and cool my feet. 

    Some have asked me if the wilderness is where I found God. My answer is, “No”. God found me not in the wilderness of the world, but in the wilderness of my soul, and He has never let go and promised He never will. However, God does talk to me through the wilderness places I go. And, perhaps when I am not listening to Him elsewhere, he sends me out to where I will listen. 
    My father died in the fall of 2013 and a few months afterward, in the spring of 2014 my mother followed him. The trouble started shortly after Dad died though, when my brother introduced his executor duties to his best friends, greed and cruelty, and the four of them mounted an offensive against me. Shortly after Dad’s funeral, I was pronounced a danger to my Mom and was not allowed to see her and even my phone calls were screened. I was stunned to say the least and could not begin to understand the reasoning behind this edict.
    I hired an attorney to fight for me to be able to see Mom and this only escalated the situation. In the end the attorney did no good for my cause and Mom died without me getting to see her or visit her in her last days. Because a friend of fifty plus years was one of her caretakers, I was able to speak to Mom on the times my friend could notify me that the coast was clear to call. It was this friend who notified me the night of my Mom’s passing. Other wise I was not notified by family for several days. 
    To say the least, it was a horrible position to be in. To have one’s will paralyzed with no regard for the truth.

     Spring became summer and then fall. My equilibrium was still off, but the concerts, getting to sing for people helped to carry me through. Yet, the fight continued, now over the estate. 
    Way back in 2004 my parents bought their first new car and that winter flew to Arizona to visit me for Christmas. While here, Mom informed me that the brand new 2004 baby blue Lincoln Town Car with the leather interior would be mine when she died. It was already in her will that way. “But, don’t tell your brother,” I distinctly recall saying. “It will only start shit.” I promptly forgot about the car. Little did Mom know just how much shit the Lincoln would start. 
    In 2015 I was tired, exhausted from the estate battle and unsure if I could do a good show, but, I had concerts to play that had been on the book for a couple of years. I had also  scheduled a short two week tour of house concerts from Arizona to Washington State and back during August of that year. I could hear Mom saying, “Go on and go, get away from the mess.”
So, I did. 
    As I headed north out of Arizona via Flagstaff and on to Lee’s Ferry, a storm was looming over the Vermilion Cliffs. I made my ritual stop at Cameron Trading Post to visit with the Weaver see what she had working on her loom. Later, as I approached the turn off to Lee’s Ferry, I noticed that cars not far ahead of me were disappearing into the storm, so I pulled over to wait it out. Even the Navajo traders set up along the highway were packing their goods and getting in their trucks for protection from the driving wind and rain. 
    After the storm passed I took the turn for Lee’s Ferry and Kanab, Utah, a road I had traveled before and was familiar with. The fact that I may not see another car for many miles did not bother me. The Vermilion Cliffs were a favorite place of mine and they were made more beautiful by the remnants of the storm which hung about their tops. All of a sudden, ahead and to my right, a bolt of lightning came from the sky, touched the edge of the cliff and stepped down to the ground. It took another step toward the road then jumped into the sky. 
    The scene was too startling to be scary. I was now looking in the mirror hoping to see another car and thinking they would have had to see what I just saw. But, I was the only one on the road. A minute later the lightning ran past me on the right, as if we were racing. It was take huge, giant steps and leaps that had to be a quarter of a mile or more in stride but were sideways to the right and then the left. I began to laugh. Lightning Woman was dancing. She was going across the road and back again, leaping into the sky then turning back to jab her feet into the ground.
 “Oh, Lightning Woman danced down off the mesa. 
   She danced jabbing toe and heel into the ground. 
   She danced across the road and on the playa.
   She danced into the air and came back down.”

    By the time I made my motel in Kanab I had those words and more. Words about how Lightning Woman was sent to tell me I was doing the right thing, that I was on the right road and to stay with the map printed on my soul. 
    My first show was the next night, and I was excited to see some friends whom I knew cowboyed in Brice Canyon and the Kaibab Plateau for many years. 
    I asked Jeanne, “Have you ever seen such a thing?”    
    “Only once, and I have never forgotten it.”
    “Good, then I know I have not gone nuts!”

    Stay on your right road.  Follow that map printed on your soul. Answer to the wilderness when it speaks to you. God works in the wilderness and He has a purpose for sending you there. 
Step toward the light away from fear and hear all those angles up in heaven stand and cheer.     

    Weekly, someone tells me, “ I have this shirt ( jacket, pants, dress ),” They laugh and shake their head. “ I know it’s ridiculous, but I really love it. It’s frayed at the cuff (full of holes, too small, too big, not much left of it). I can’t part with it. Why is that?” 
    I laugh with them. I have some of those, too. In particular, a white shirt I bought in 1984. It’s frayed at the cuff, has a big tear in the back, it is so thin you can read the newspaper through it, and I can’t part with it.
           Believe me, I have tried. Every few years I put it in the basket headed for The Home of Hope, only to pull it out at the last minute. One time, I dug it out after carrying the basket inside. Crazy. The girls there pretended not to notice, surely they see it all the time. 
    Every once in a while I wear it. Has to be some place special though. 
    A single mom raising two little girls on a bartender’s wages in 1980's Texas, I was not in the habit of wandering in to expensive department stores just to look around.  I made our clothes, with few exceptions. I spent money on good shoes , however. 
     When my oldest girl was trying to walk at barely eight months old, my mom bought her a pair of  Buster Brown Oxfords. The minute I laced them up Shannon got to her feet and walked across the room. Thirty Dollars was a lot of money to spend in 1980 on a pair of shoes for a toddler who might not wear them for more than a few weeks, but I was an instant believer. Later, when I was working long hours, some times seven days a week on my feet, good shoes were vital to staying in the game. In 1983, I bought a pair of Acme boots on Lay- Away from Leddy Bros Rope and Saddle Company for Three Hundred Dollars. I walked a lot of miles behind the bar in those boots, and rode more. They were re-soled twice in five years, re-heeled once. They have a place of honor in the living room beside my old saddle, but I wear them now and then, even though they no longer keep the water out. And, my granddaughter wears them.
    Back to 1984. I was looking for shoes for my two little girls when I saw the shirt in Dillard’s and stopped to look at it. It was on the sale rack, marked down to Sixty Dollars.  White cotton, loose fitting with one pocket, delicate embroidery on the collar and cuffs. So pretty. I walked away and we went shoe shopping. Passing it on the way out and I looked again, and we left. I didn’t find any shoes for the girls either, but the clerk told me about a sale coming up for the fall and we went back later.  We found shoes that time, and on the way out, I saw the shirt still on the sale rack. It was marked down again to a more doable price and I bought it. 
            The girls and I didn’t go out much other than to a cafeteria they loved, or fishing, to the park, or to the horses. I never wore it behind the bar as it would have been ruined in one shift.  But, over the years, the shirt was a staple of my wardrobe. I wore it dancing, to sing at weddings, and once, at the funeral for friend’s toddler grandson who was murdered. I have never been able to sing “Somewhere over the Rainbow” again after that. 
    The white shirt was my go-to blouse for Church and picnics. When I was called upon to teach a class, go to a meeting, attend an awards ceremony for my girls, the white shirt was the one to wear with jeans, or a skirt. Eventually, the cuffs frayed. I got smaller and had to take it up. Every once in a while it would disappear into the depths of my closet only to re-emerge, months or a years later, as though I got a new shirt!  In the year 2001, while I was tucking it in, my finger went through the fabric. One of those tears that will not be repaired in a presentable manner.  Oh, no! Well, when it’s tucked in, you can’t see it. So I wore it, anyway. 
    Then, the cuffs frayed more, separating at the edge-fold. The embroidery began to come loose. My pretty white shirt became the occasional lounging shirt, something on my shoulders for a cool evening on the porch. One day, it turned up in my closet again and I realized the fabric had thinned to the perfect weight for riding horseback in the summer; my shirt was back in full time use for a few years. It went horse packing to the Wind River Mountains in Wyoming, the Crook Trail, and  Woodchute north of Prescott, into the Bradshaw Mountains and East, all along the Moggollon Rim. Many of my family milestones, daily living, mountain adventures, evening campfires and lyrics to songs are woven into the white shirt.
    It is written into the book “Autumn’s On Its Way.”
    The white shirt hangs in the closet where I can see it. Some day, I may wear it again.  Maybe to my next performance. After all these years, and as worn and frayed as it is, it deserves a real special occasion. 
    So, when a Seamstress Of The Desert visitor asks, “Why is that?”  
    I tell them it is the stories, fun, tears and laughter and memories, that are woven in, and through, like threads of life. That is why. 
 

      By the age of fifteen, that would be the year 1974, I  had been playing guitar for a couple of years or so. Campfires, a friend’s wedding (I still have the charm necklace that was a gift from the newlyweds, and just this winter, a friend replaced the setting that was lost who knows how long ago), the stairwell outside the Library at Beavercreek High School during lunch with friends who played everything from the flute to the Kalimba and would always sing along. But, to this day, I can’t  recall how I found my self at a microphone, in front of a crowd  which seemed hundreds deep, at Riverfest in Dayton, Ohio.
     Perhaps my parents and or friends encouraged me to go sing at the festival - that would have been just like them to do that. Maybe, I just happened to be at the festival and happened upon an open mic taking place and happened to be able to borrow and guitar and took the leap. But, I can tell you for certain that, once I stepped to the mic, I was terrified. I had never sung into a microphone, nor to a crowd the size of what was in front of me, all watching me...and waiting... for me...to start singing. And, I can tell you that I will never forget the friendly faced, rosy cheeked, soft spoken man who came forward and said, “My name is Mick Montgomery, and I’m going to stand right in front of you just an arm’s length away. You close your eyes, and sing the song you know the very best. Don’t open your eyes until you’re ready, and when you do, I will be right there,” he pointed over his shoulder, “in front of you.” 
    I did, and when I opened my eyes, Mick was exactly where he said he would be, and he smiled at me and, he asked me to sing a couple more songs. While I was doing that, I remember seeing him move over and talk with my parents. Over the years, they developed a warm friendship and stayed in touch. 
    It wasn’t much later that Mick had me singing at pig roasts and other events he booked music for that I was legally able to sing for. Later, after coming of age, he booked me at Sam’s On Fifth multiple times. In my Kate Wolf songbook, there is a great black and white photo of Kate with Nina Gerber in front of Sam’s, and I was always inspired to realize I had been on the same stage as those two very powerful woman in music. Sam’s architecture is from the era of shotgun homes and businesses, so it’s long and narrow, and fairly dark inside with the old bar, wood floors, tin plate ceilings, and a stage that was shoulder height to me. The stage curtains were heavy red velvet draperies, the stage lights were bright and hot, hot. One sweated as they played without fail, even in winter.  
    I recall the first time playing Sam’s, I covered Janis Ian’s “Watercolors” and on the final chord a woman rose from her seat and started a standing ovation. I was stunned, sweaty to the core and amazed. Debby Smith was her name, all perfectly curly chestnut hair, red flannel shirt and overalls. We became friends and shared gigs the rest of the time I was in Ohio. If any of you know Debby Smith from Dayton, tell her I lost the words to her song, “High Fly Ball,” and would love to get them from her so I can sing it again. 
    In 1979, I believe it was, Mick bought a place in the Historic District and turned it into a beer, lunch and darts place by day, and concert hall by night. I was honored to be among the other local musicians, including Debby,  who played opening night at Canal Street Tavern. Years later, 1986, I went to work for Mick in the bar and as greeter and liaison to the many great touring acts who played there, Leon Redbone, Doc Watson, Pierre Bensusan, Garnet Rogers, The Original Osborne Brothers (Rocky Top), The Chieftains, Shawn Phillips, Tom Paxton, Rory Block, The Desert Rose Band, Pake McIntyre and more. Mick hosted music most every night of the week with local bands taking the stage and genre focused events. 
    Before every show, Mick got on the house mic and thanked everyone for coming, gave a great intro for the act, and afterwards, without fail, he thanked the audience again for coming. And he encouraged them to continue to come out and support live music and independent music. “Whether you attend concerts once a week, once a month or once a year, make the decision to, on a regular basis, to go support someone you have never heard or heard of. More likely than not, you will be pleasantly pleased and surprised. Buy a ticket, buy their album, register for their newsletter and ask where they are playing next. By simply showing up, you  will have encouraged a solo artist or band to continue in their art, and you will have made a new friend in music. Most of the time all an aspiring artist needs is an audience that has come to listen, to hear, to interact with the music, story and songs. It’s a simple thing to do, to show up.” 
    So, I am asking you now, to choose to go listen to live music. Choose the artists you know and love, but once in a while, choose a new artist you have never heard or heard of. Even if you don’t buy the album, or sign up for the newsletter, the singer-songwriter or band is inspired because you came and you listened. You showed up. 
    Mick is gone almost ten years, and the music of Canal Street Tavern followed him just not long ago. But, I have always remembered what Mick did for music and aspiring artists, and for me, and I have tried over the years to help others along as he did.

Blog Post Janet and Huffman Prairie
    When my sister, Janet, was hospitalized I flew back to Ohio to be with her. My childhood friends, Carla and Victoria, picked me up at the airport and got me to my sister and later to my hotel room. They took care of me, as friends do. In between hospital visits, we visited a couple of places of our growing up years, and I was reminded of the huge difference in Ohio and the Sonoran Desert - the water everywhere, and the water hard to find. 
    Living in a dry and thirsty land, these places of water are never far from my mind. The creeks where I floated leaf boats and chased them until they escaped me, or capsized. I caught worms and water spiders and gathered tiny drops to put on a microscope slide and watch a secret world unfold. Walking along a creek to find where it started or ended would take me pretty far from home. I never found the source, or the end, except once. Mom would make me peel off the wet and muddy clothes in the garage so she could check for ticks. She never told me not to do it again. She knew I would.
    I walked alone frequently as a child. I needed to walk outside, I craved it. If even for a few minutes before getting in the car for church, I would be in the yard, checking under the forsythia bush for I don’t know what; venturing way to the back of our half acre to a pine tree my father planted after Christmas one year; bent over searching the lawn for signs of clover and other spring blooms. 
    Later, pre-teen years, I would stroll out in the early gloaming, usually to a wooded lane, paralleled by a creek, that lead to an old barn and shed. It seemed a long enough walk, maybe a mile to get to the old buildings that had likely been upright and weather tight during the French and Indian War. Trees lining both sides of the two track created a tunnel of cool air in the summer. In the fall, it was a spectacular walk through bright autumn leaves of Oak and Walnut trees. Winter made the tunnel a wonderland - branches and the last of the barely hanging on leaves were iced over, frozen in time and my memory. 
    The neighborhood where we lived is not huge, but the homes all sit on larger property than most places today, so it seems to sprawl some, and yards were, and still are, tree covered and well-kept. There were three places where farm fields were built around, and two of those fields had horses in them. To jump the fence and ride was worth the not knowing what temperament those horses might have had. Often enough I went over the fences to just be in the company of horses, one hand on a back, the other pulling grass offerings; running my fingers through mane and forelock to remove tangles; resting in that quiet place of horses which slows the heart, clears the mind and lets one believe hopes and dreams will be fulfilled. 
    As a teen I would go alone or with friends to the banks of the Little Miami River, where I, and they, were compelled to walk with reverence; where I could hear the moccasined footfalls of Native runners as they carried news; where, floating in the air above me, were the voices of women and children singing and laughing at the river side. To stand on the bank watching the river tumble to sparkle, and know who stood in the spot before me, hunting, fishing, gathering. 
    This creek in this photo is beside Huffman Prairie, where the Wright Brothers flew their bi-planes and taught aviation school. Orville and Wilbur and their bicycle shop are new History. Yet, there is old History still present in these places. Tecumseh, Blue Jacket, Daniel Boone, Simon Kenton, Cornstalk; they walked here, hunted here, lived here. Look there, through the trees. They are beckoning you, they want to tell you a story.
Go, and listen. 
 

            My time on earth is precious to me - as is yours - and it becomes more precious with each passing day. Whilst I am still here, there is no place I would rather be than with others who are like minded in this respect; those who choose to be more than merely physically present, and who make the decision to be spiritually, emotionally and mentally present in life whether alone or with others.  
    I will never accept that not giving another human one’s complete attention is merely “the times” and “a new way of communicating and sharing,” and that I need to get with those times. From what I see, “the times” and “a new way of communicating sharing” leave not only me feeling disrespected, set aside, alone and left out, but also many other folks. The younger folks are feeling this, even if they cannot name it. That feeling of aloneness, separateness, and being disrespected creates hard edges on people, especially young people. They get tough, indifferent to others (if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em) and angry at a world of people who are not treating them right. Today’s 20 and under group was raised in these disrespectful, spiritually barren times, sometimes by emotionally and mentally disengaged parents - often I have seen a child who can not yet walk given an electronic device to entertain itself with. The 20 and unders may not even know what real respect is, or understand the need for face to face, eye to eye conversation and so, they suffer from the lack of what they cannot name or define. They suffer from malnutrition of the soul brought on by human connection deficiency.  It has a real name: Failure To Thrive. 
            And, it is not only the younger generation who suffer. Adult onset failure to thrive is just as real and perhaps more deadly. Speaking from personal experience, when conversation is instantly interrupted by the ding, and people who I am conversing with choose to immediately answer a text message or check how many likes they have acquired on social media, I feel as though my very presence is of such low value that I can be put “on hold” and I fight an overwhelming urge to leave the room.  I say with certainty that an “emergency” text is extremely rare. Is it more disrespectful to delay answering a text - or looking to see who it is - than to disengage with a person who is present in order to respond to someone who is not present, effectively giving the non present person and what they have to “say” more value?  Once, while out for dinner with friends and having what we thought was great conversation, one person backed their chair away from the table and began to engage with their phone. They purposefully and effectively chose to leave the group, but felt as though they still had the right to remark on half heard discussion. That behavior is rude and disrespectful and hurtful.  
    There are so many necessary factors in life which keep us from spending time with our friends and loved ones. Don’t let factors you can control keep you from being fully engaged when in their presence. Time flys so fast, is gone forever and cannot be recovered. I wonder, if after the loss of a loved one or a friendship, how many people regret not paying attention, regret not being fully present, regret being on social media in the presence of or while on the phone with others and not really hearing or properly responding to the last words spoken to them. If the "conversation" took place in person, is there regret for not looking into the eyes, not seeing the facial expressions of the person speaking to them?  Do they wonder what they missed? Do they wonder if the other person noticed their distraction, their obvious preference and deliberate choice, to be mentally elsewhere rather than present? I will answer that, yes, they noticed.  
      I hope that you always choose to be fully present, with every fiber of your being on task. Each moment you choose not to be fully present is a waste of precious time - mine and yours. I promise to make every endeavor to never waste your time.