Shopping Cart
Your Cart is Empty
There was an error with PayPalClick here to try again
CelebrateThank you for your business!You should be receiving an order confirmation from Paypal shortly.Exit Shopping Cart

 Nancy Elliott Music

Down A Country Road

          I couldn’t sleep last night. It was nearly morning before I finally drifted off. I had performed all the ususal bedtime rituals and crawled under the covers with a good book and a cup of tea at about 8:15. Nodded off while reading then, after setting my book on the night table and turning off the light, was wide awake. A drink of water, brew another cup of tea, read another chapter and I was getting sleepy again. That was when I heard the cow bawling.

          Now, it bothers me, irritates really, when dogs bark relentlessly and for no reason and the owners don’ shush them. Noisy cows, however, tell a story. They have something worthwhile to say. This cow was upset and really bawling and it struck me like the cry of a child to a mother’ heart.

          Although I no longer own cows, I am familiar after having spent a few years in their company. These days I walk my country neighborhood and I know who owns cows. I know the faces of the local, back acre livestock and they know me fairly well. And, I notice a new face in the crowd as well as missing faces. This particular cow was loud and close, so it might be a new animal for one of my neighbors.

          Cows are timely, creatures of habit, expecting their world and their humans to be timely as well. Most will return on their own from pasture to stand quietly and patiently in their own pen while staring a blazing hole through the gate or door from which their supper bearer appears. Some begin announcing themselves upon arrival, just to give a heads up I suppose. Perhaps this cow’ human was late to evening chores.

           As I listened to the persistent and frustrated complaining, I began to hear an edge of fear seeping in. When your child cries you know if it is hungry, tired, thirsty, angry or hurt. You have a parental knowing allowing you to pinpoint a problem right way and with great accuracy. With a cow, you can often guess correctly, but you are guessing purely out of familiarity of the habits of the species in general and of one animal in particular. This cow was very loud and demanding attention.

          About a half dozen of those pretty Red Limousine live down the road a way. They always come to the fence for a “Howdy” and their babies come, too. Maybe one got out and wants back in. From that thought, my mind shifted into full “mom” mode and I imagined one of the calves had sneaked out and Momma was calling to her baby to come back and right now! From that point, I feared the calf had slipped into the irrigation canal adjacent to the property and Momma was calling for help.

          No, that place is too far for me to hear that cow. But, with the cold air, sound does carry.

          Go to sleep Nancy, you are imagining things. I pulled up the covers, closed my eyes and immediately, Piggy came to mind.

          It was 1985 and I was living in Grand Prairie, Texas, bartending at a Country and Western place called Sweetwater Saloon. I was also working at the barn where the local constabulary kept their horses. I would keep the horses legged up, groomed and ready for patrol, search or rescue. It was a nice enough place butted against thousands of acres of loamy soil to ride. The adjacent ranch belonged to Pokey Roberts, most of which, if not all, is now under Joe Poole Recreation Area. The parcel leased by the horse patrol had a big turnout, two paddocks and round pen and an old, drafty barn which mostly just provided protection from the sun.

          About this time, my brother, a few years out of the Marine Corp and settled into the working class became a bit bored and decided he wanted to get into the cattle business. He also decided that since I was going out to the barn twice a day anyway, it would be no problem for me to feed a few young cows while there. Hmmm, okay. Plans were made to go to the sale barn. I came home with a new cotton braided headstall and matching reins, a colorful bareback pad and slip on style spurs. My brother came home with four bucket calves.

          Now, raising bucket calves, or bottle calves if you will, is no easy task with a guaranteed outcome. Day old calves separated from momma do not have much of a chance no matter how you shake it. And, this project was started in the winter. So, one is going out multiple times a day and night and in all weather. Sometimes, while I was bottle feeding these little guys very early or very late, my children were sleeping in the back of my little station wagon with the heater running as sleeting rain blew side ways through the slats of the barn. More than one of those calves was warmed up in the back of that old beat up Corolla,

          We had three survivors. And after we got them sold or in the freezer, we heard from the old timers we were experiencing real success in the bucket calf industry. My brother, so encouraged, set out to start another herd.

          We didn’t name these calves, though the kids tried to. We called them by their ear tag numbers. Except this one cow my brother took to for some reason and called Piggy and that was the end of the proper relationship with his intended dinner. With the extra attention, Piggy grew quickly, was friendly and playful and curious and loved people. The other calves were sold but Piggy stayed, becoming a mascot of sorts. Piggy was pen or stall mate to the occasional sick or injured horse and one wild, crazy, grey roan stallion named Chief. He would hardly let anyone else in his stall except Piggy or me, and no one at all unless she was in there with him.

          A year later my brother decided he was done with the cattle business and was going to give Piggy to a 4-H or FFA kid by running an advertisement in the classifieds. He got an interested party right away and instead of explaining the twists and turns of the country lanes to the pasture, he loaded Piggy in the horse trailer she arrived in and took her to his house. He had a few acres all in lawn with Pecan trees for shade and situated near a pretty lake in a nice subdivision. Perfect for an over night stay for Piggy.

          Next morning my phone rings very early. Because I had worked until two a.m. the night before I answered with a groggy “Hello.”

          “Nancy,” says my sister in law. “Piggy is gone.

          “Oh, you met that 4-H kid really early! Good, I am glad she got a new home.”

          “No. She is just gone. We got up this morning and she had walked the fence down. She’ gone. Piggy is missing!”

          Now, mind you, Piggy had never been anywhere but the sale barn as a wobbly legged newborn, the pasture and barn where she lived for nearly two years and then to my brother’ yard. “She probably just walked down to the lake” I said. “Did you look there?”

          “We looked, she isn’t there.”

          “Well, it is a neighborhood of privacy fences. Unless someone found her and put her in their yard, she is wandering the neighborhood.”

          “We need you to come help find her.”

          “Okay. I will come there and we will go to the barn and get Chewy. Horseback, I will be able to see over the fences. If some one put her in their yard for safe keeping we will see her without having to knock on every door and ask if they have seen our cow roaming around.”

The process of getting two small children out of bed, fed and dressed to go took a while and I was sure that by the time I arrived, Piggy would be tucked safely back in the yard, having returned from her gallivant. But, my sister in law was wringing her hands when she met me at their gate and my brother was equally upset.

          “Maybe you should not give her away,” I observed.

          We loaded in the truck and headed to the leased pasture and barn. It was about a half mile drive out of the neighborhood out to 14th street where we hung a left. 14th Street quickly becomes more of a two lane thoroughfare passing behind a shopping center on the right and running beside a good ole Texas bayou on the left. A mile or so down on the right is an expansive, very nice golf club and estates type subdivision. Past that and down the hill we took a right turn off 14th Street onto Fish Creek Road, a country lane, which runs parallel to I-20 for a mile or so. Fish Creek Road then makes a hairpin left, over I-20, via a narrow, country lane bridge. Another hairpin left onto a another tree lined, paved two-track doubling back, this time, within spitting distance of I-20. We were a half mile or less from the hard right which would take me to my horse when we spied Piggy tied to a tree.

          “Holy shit!” My brother slammed on the brakes, nearly throwing me into the dashboard.

          “Well, I’ll be dammed," I said as pulled my self back up in the seat. Then I started laughing. That kind of knee slapping laughing that makes you snort and suck wind. “She nearly made it,” I said, wiping tears and trying to catch my breath. “A homing cow is worth something, you know. “

          He glared at me, not amused. “We nearly lost her.”

          “No, you did not. You never lost her. She only went home when you were not looking.”

          The lady who captured Piggy wanted a reward. My brother said, “Kiss my ass.” He is friendly like that.

          He was going to load Piggy in the trailer and take her back to his house but I said, “turn her loose and let her finish her journey. You go on ahead and I will follow her on foot. Then we will take her back.”

          The young person who came to see Piggy later that morning was taken with her sweet face and her demeanor. Love at first sight. I warned her to have a real good fence.

          The unknown cow was still calling plaintively when I returned from my musings. I put on sweats and sneakers, grabbed a flashlight and climbed into the car to go see what I could find. My horse, Mr. Pepper, is gone three years now, so I would have no advantage of his Thoroughbred height to see over fences.

I did not find the cow. She must have been deep in the neighborhood, in a back lot where my flashlight would not penetrate. Those pretty red cows were all tucked in their pens, no strays having fallen into the canal.

          I went home and as I climbed out of the car and walked back to the porch, that cow gave one last bellow and quit. Just like that.

          I smiled. It had been a pleasant drive down an old country road.

A Little Out Of The Way Place

Brisco's Lounge, Beavercreek, Ohio. February of 1981.

          I was lucky to be able to perform until less than a month before my daughter, Shannon, was born. At a little over eight months along I could not get enough breath to sing. When I decided to go back to work I wanted to find an out of the way spot to get my chops back. Brisco's Lounge was located in the unattached corner of an "L" shaped plaza in the little township of Beavercreek, Ohio, where the original Lufino's Grocery was, and maybe, still is. The plaza was hidden by the trees along the Highway. Out of the way.

          I was raised in Beavercreek. Through the 1960's and 1970's, every business in Beavercreek was locally owned. From the Florist and auto repair, to the pizza parlors, diners and We were not a town, just a township, but one that encompassed a lot of territory, most of it agricultural at the time. A lot of the kids I went to school with were living on farms which had been in their families since the French and Indian War and prior. Many of my school mate's parents were military stationed at or civilians employed at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base or at Wright State University. We had three Elementary Schools, two Junior High Schools and one High School. All those kids got distilled down to one High School with a basement and two above ground floors. All those kids walked mostly sideways down the hallway to get to the next class, even when class times were staggered. Somehow, we made it on time, most of the time, even when leaving a class in the basement and heading to one on the second floor at the opposite end of the building, including a bathroom stop and a locker stop and saying 'Hi" to friends along the way. I do not recall anyone griping about crowded hallways. At graduation all of those kids and their guests barely fit in the stands at University of Dayton Arena. All those kids and their families were hidden among the dense stands of Walnut and Oak trees, and in the expanse of fields of corn so tall they hid the street signs. But, I digress. 

          So, out of the way, hidden in a corner Brisco's Lounge was the first place I headed to seek work. Sally, the owner was there when I arrived, guitar in hand. "Have a seat and sing me a song', she said. I did, and was hired for Thursday and Friday nights for the next six months. A regular sit down gig.

Shannon would go with me to set up the sound and her Dad would pick her up on his way home from work. Shannon quickly charmed the Happy Hour crowd right out of their socks. When she sat in my chair and played her toy harmonica into the microphone for sound check, the big burly bikers melted into their boots, every time.

          First nights at a venue can be a little unsettling. New place, new faces, a lot of unknowns. Add to that it was my first performance in almost a year. I was a little nervous, more excited though, to be back at it. I was happy to have almost a full house when I started the first set at 7 sharp. Just before I started the last song of my set, the house nearly emptied. Just like that, it was a couple of tables and me and the bartender. I was more than startled. Stunned would be a better word. I did not think I was that bad, I mean, I had been rehearsing for weeks before getting booked. When the set was finished I went straight to the bar.

          "Don't worry," the bartender said. "The movie started."

          "Movie?" I must have looked stricken because he was laughing at me.

          "Yeah, there's a movie theater on the other end of the strip. They come in here and have a drink, go watch the movie, and come back afterward."

          "Oh, Okay."

               Dinner, drinks and a movie, all in the same parking lot. Gotta love small towns. He was right, they all came back and stayed the evening.

          After a few weeks at Brisco's, my Kent 12-string started giving me some trouble. It would go in the shop and I worked with a borrowed guitar, back and forth, until finally, I thought I wanted a new instrument. A 12-string of course. So, a music shop in the next little town over said they would send my Kent to the factory to be repaired and would loan me an Applause 12-string for a couple of weeks so I could decide if that is what I wanted. After the two weeks I returned to ask how my Kent was coming along. The Applause was nice, but I was not as fond of it as my Kent, I had purchased it in Junior High School and it had been down the road and back with me and I did not want to trade. I was put off and put off , until they finally admitted to me they had sold the Kent. I learned, too late, that Kent had been bought out, by Gibson I believe, and my guitar was considered quite valuable. A last of its kind. Even though the shop had tricked me into a "trade", there was nothing I could do. My Kent was gone forever.

          The photo above was taken at Bricso's Lounge, in 1981. The Applause 12-string is still with me. I mark its age by Shannon's age. It has been down the road with me and back again. It's been pawned and rescued a handful of times. Played a whole lotta gigs with it. Made a living with it. It has been borrowed to be played on I do not know how many albums. The finish is cracked, the strings stay in tune. It still sounds great. Fabulous. I am not tough enough to play it any more. Shannon has her name on it, she says it's her guitar even though she does not play a lick. It is her guitar.

February 3, 2021 Sonoran Desert Sage Publishing / Nancy Elliott Music ASCAP

#downadirtroad #Sonorandesertsage #Nancyelliottmusic #tellmeastory #theheartofitall #itsmystory 

Angles of Light

          Angles of light, hue and depth. A shadow, thin as spider's silk, drapes over the orange of Mallow petal, barely seen, maybe only perceived, but part of the texture and tapestry before me. Entrancing, distraction.

          While on a second date, a desert picnic during a long, languishing Sonoran Spring, my companion, now my sweetheart, asked me, "What are you thinking?"

          I was not thinking, not at all. My eyes were slowly moving over the desert floor, seeking every shadow, curve, stick, flower, leaf and movement. The Hot Shots were packing up after extinguishing a wild land blaze, thankfully less than a few acres. This added even more interesting and arresting shades and smells and feelings. All of those colors, lights, shadows and smells effect my feelings, stopping the usual thinking process and taking me to a sensory place I have no name for. Explain all that on a second date. "I am just taking it all in," was my response. An understatement of huge proportion. I cannot explain this to my self, how could I explain this to Bob? He still asks me, "What are you thinking?" Now, I can usually fully answer. Once in a while I am caught without words, and he gives me a knowing smile. I believe he understands more than I do.

          And then, there is Silence. The songs of silence are welcome to my ears, to my soul. One can't hear the songs for all the noise of the world. But, the songs are all around and tell me the world is Okay.

          From the porch I hear the groan and squeak of the soup pot on the stove. The tin roof pops as the sun heats it and then it rattles a shiver as a stray cloud cools it. Cassia floats sweet perfume on the wind while butterflies work diligently. The breeze drifts orange and purple blooms and make mallow and lupine nod gracefully to the rhythm of pop, rattle, shiver and squeak. Music.

          There is birdsong, too. Laughing, whistling, cat calling, cheering, playful and alive. The local Harris Hawk family is on the hunt today. There are five hawks in conversation about where the tastiest morsels are hiding. The adults with their ratcheting growl and the juveniles answering in the scree call of the desert, all in surround sound.

          I know places where the quiet is so thick the footfalls of ants seem too loud. Not here, not today. There is silence enough for today. A restful, not alone silence. A peaceful, beauty filled silence after months of busy and hurry.

          I am ever thankful to live in this place. From my back porch, I can see Pima Butte, the Sierra Estrella Wilderness, South Mountain, Four Peaks, The Superstitions and McDowell's. I can see Signal Peak and the Sawtooths, Newman, Picacho, the Catalinas and Lemmon. From the front porch, Table Top National Wilderness, the No Names and mountains I don't know the names of on the reservation south of me. I imagine sometimes I can see the Chocolates.

          The wind speaks to me when the world is quiet. Or, rather, when I am quiet I hear the wind speaking.

          I recall the wind in the tree house in Arkansas. I would climb out and up onto the tin roof to hear the wind in the forest covering the surrounding hills. I remember the screaming wind of a California grass fire as I worked my way back to safety with a a bladder pack and shovel. The peaceful hush of the wind as I repaired targets on the archery range and the roar of the set-your-watch-by-it 3 p.m. dust devil on the gun range.

          And now, I've had to fetch a coffee and blanket, in spite of my fleece pants, thermal shirt and sweater, because I don't want to go inside and miss any little thing out here, on the porch, in the silence and the wind.

          © 2019 Sonoran Desert Sage Pub Nancy Elliott Music.

Fort Ticonderoga and Veteran's Day 2019​ 

          Bob and I had a most wonderful time on our trip to New York and the Maine Coast. We had no real agenda other than visiting his daughter in Manhattan, seeing a few New York sites, including the 9/11 Memorial and Museum, Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream in Vermont and, of course, the Whistlepig Distillery and Fort Ticonderoga.

          My parents were museum people and Dad was especially interested in our American History. Growing up in Ohio, all school children were well studied in the Revolutionary War, French and Indian War and Civil War History. I recall many visits to The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier to watch the Changing of the Guard. The Civil war Battle Fields. Listening to the stories from both the Union and Confederate Soldiers and Civilians. 

          My age group (neither baby-boomer nor part of the "Great Transition", as my friend, Steve Spurgin, calls that second gap) were most exposed to the Vietnam War. My brother went to Vietnam the year I started Kindergarten. When he came home on leave that year I took him to Show and Tell in his dress blues. Teachers led their classes in daily prayer for our soldiers and our country. We were given time in class to grieve with our friends who lost family in Vietnam. We wept many tears together. Some days, when there were multiple losses in our school not much else was accomplished. We wrote to soldiers as a class so they would get mail, a full packet of mail. When a soldier wrote back we were so excited and thrilled. We made cookies at home and sent them to family over seas. We were all in the war together.

When I saw that Fort Ticonderoga was on the way for this no agenda trip, I had to see it. As a child and young adult I had read so many stories and documents about the Revolutionary War, but I was not prepared for the emotional reaction I experienced on approaching the Fort. Stopping to read the brass plates of names on the outside wall, the tears welled up. Maybe some of it was the cold wind and my not wanting to be so effected that the tears came. But, I was effected. Watching the Living History Docents in their struggle to light a fire to prepare lunch and squint eyed efforts to clean a flintlock rifle by window light on a cloudy day. What today are simple tasks we accomplish without much thought or energy, in the days of Fort Ticonderoga were necessary for survival and took much work and planning. I hope your children are made aware of what their ancestors did for them so they can have this life they now lead. That your children and grandchildren are humble and thankful for what they have because they are taught what life was like in the beginnings of Our America, and why we are here in the first place.

          I hope you take the time to reflect on our Great History, our Great America and the soldiers and the civilians who have made it possible to have the life we enjoy. I hope when you see a Military person you are grateful in your entirety for who they are and what they do for you daily, minute to minute.

          Some years ago I was sent a poem and asked to set it to music. Bury Me With Soldiers, I was told, was anonymous. A tune came to mind immediately and I set about locating the author, and found Father Charlie Fink, in New York. I asked permission and he said yes. If you would like to hear this song, I will be performing it at the Sunday Brunch this week at Monterey Court in Tucson. The words and music are now protected by ASCAP for Charlie and me, so please ask permission if you want to use it other than live performance.

BURY ME WITH SOLDIERS by Father Charlie Fink































Birthday Getaway

September 5th, 2019

          My friends, Matt and Kelly, had offered me the use of their cabin on Mt. Lemmon several times over the last couple of years. I was always going to make a time to go up, but, there was so much going on and I let too many other things get in the way and it did not happen. So, when Bob's birthday was just around the corner, and we were both pretty tired from our respective road trips here and yon, we decided it was the perfect place to go.

          We arrived on Saturday to a lovely cabin, immaculately cared for, everything we needed right down to measuring spoons and a spice rack. We loved every minute of the cool air, windows open, rain showers, pine cones thumping on the deck, lightning shows and walks in the woods. We played our guitars and sang, we cooked and laughed and ate way too much of Bob's dutch oven fare. Monday came and it took us all day to make our way down the mountain. As much as we knew it was time to go home, we lingered in packing and dragged our heels leaving, stopping multiple times on the drive down to take photos and look across the spectacular vistas. It was evening before we finished the two hour drive. 

          We will be going back up as often as they will have us. I will be going back to write "Abby's Song", the sequel to "Autumn's On Its Way" . Yes, the manuscript for "Autumn's On Its Way" is finished and the search has begun for a literary agent.


          Actually, I have already started Abby's Song. I was forced to start writing the sequel in order to finish Autumn's On Its Way. The sequel is requiring far more research than "Autumn" did. Maps of all kinds, weather charts and histories, books on archaeology, which lead to reading several of Craig Child's works. Craig's books are wonderful adventures and studies on the South West, her ancient sites and our relationship with this mysterious desert we choose to live in. Abby's Song is as closely knitted to this relationship as "Autumn" is. I am learning more about my own relationship each step of the way. It is a relationship which I find weaves it's way into almost everything I write, song or story. This place, this desert holds my heart and soul like no other place. "La Jineta", a poem I wrote some years ago, is one of my first explorations of my relationship with the desert. From that epic poem has sprung a series of songs and shorts which continue the learning, getting down to the grains of sand.

          I hope you will continue with me on that study, and perhaps find some of your self in the stories, songs and poems. The ride is not always kind, there are lions and tigers and bears out there. Well, not tigers, except for this one that escaped from, oh, but I digress.

          See you on the journey!

Pure and Simple Notes on Songwriting 

          There are Song writing books and classes and formulas aplenty. Advertisements show up regularly for song writing, E-books guaranteed to get me noticed in Nashville. Festivals and music gatherings host workshops by writers great and small. While all of that may help get you started and inspired, or re-inspired if you are feeling dry, in general those approaches provide little enlightenment on the real process.

So, here is a dose of cold, hard enlightenment....No matter what you are writing, be it songs, stories or poems, you have to write and write and write some more. It requires work and sweat, lots of paper ( For me anyway. I still use paper and a lot of it), head scratching, deep sighs of resignation, staring off into space, shaking one’s head in perplexity, falling asleep in your soup, regularly getting accused of being moody and distant, longs walks, coffee, a good thesaurus and dictionary because you just think you know what that word means smarty pants, and now that it bubbled to the top, thought. Yes, you gotta think about what you are doing.

          People are complex and unique. People write songs, therefore songs are personal, and arise from complex feelings and unique inspirations. Just as there are no two people just alike, there is no one, sure fire method to write a song. So, when Major asked me to write about song writing, I was thrilled and humbled and excited.

Then, I said to my self, “Okay, now how you gonna do this?” After considering all of the above, the best way is to share with you how I go about writing a song and hope that some idea or concept in this little missive will ring true for you. So, let’s go!

There are just a few principles I employ when I write;

What’s the point?

Be honest with your writing.

               Know your words.

What’s the Point?

          Know what your story is, where you want to end up and aim to hit it. Don’t leave your listeners wondering “what the heck was that all about?” Now, I must admit, there are songs that just take over and assume a life of their own and I feel as though I am no longer in control. When that happens, I just go with it. I can always return to the original idea later. Which reminds me to insert a most important point; take notes, write down ideas, call your self and leave a message, call a friend and leave a message ( my friends understand when I leave strange unfinished thoughts on their voice mail, you will have to clue your friends in, however ) but don’t delude your self into thinking you will remember it later. Because you won’t and you will be really sad. Promise.

          A good number of my songs start as pages long stories that have to be cut and sliced and red inked. Autumn’s On Its Way is a perfect example. It was five pages front and back before I pared it down to “just the story”. That is how I make sure I can get to the “point”. It also lets my characters and scenes develop and evolve, providing me with multiple choices on what to use and what goes on the cutting room floor. Sometimes, the hard part is all the red ink, and when I can’t bring myself to cut and slice until blood flows, I hand the story off to a song writing friend to begin the process. After it’s started, I can usually see the way through.

          Once in a while I’ll have a song develop in proper order, and, after adjustments for meter and phrasing, they are close to being finished. “A Breath of Spring” is one of those songs.

          A Breath of Spring lyrics were written in about an hour and the music was complete another hour later. I wrote it during a time of intense transition, when I was seeking to receive, and be, fresh air, kindness and tenderness in my relationships, with the world and with my self. That yearning fell down onto the paper with honesty and simplicity and tears. It’s a good song. I call it “good” because it touches those same needs and yearnings in the listener; the need for soul rest, the need to be touched tenderly, to have the great powers surrounding us; wind, water, mountains and sun as metaphors for people and events in our lives, to be kind to us, seek us out to love and edify. In performance, I am witness to a response in the audience that says the song plucked a common thread between us. It is good.

          The chorus for Where the Wind Blows a Different Song came to me first ... “someplace I’ll find, I know it’s not far, where the wind blows a different song....” and I built the verses around that concept. It took three years to complete and in the meantime, rattled around in my head and changed shape on the page more times than I can count. But, conveying the intent of the song was utmost and I wouldn’t let it go until it said what I needed to say.

I’ve heard the shush of the wind by the ocean shores, its soughing through pines and aspens in the high mountains, its bellowing in deep canyons and its screaming through crevasses. On the desert floor, when it blows through the cholla, sage or Saguaro, it takes a different tone and timber for each, and its sound further changes if it’s rolling over a mountain or across the flats first. I chose to write from the viewpoint of a boy just starting out on his own and, as he faces life’s training ground and grows to be a man, he associates the voices of the wind with life altering, pivotal moments.

          My good friends Joe and Sandy Bear were the first to hear this song and instantly proclaimed it a Madrigal. I’d never heard of a Madrigal and had to look it up to see what they were so excited about! It’s a Madrigal. I’m not sure how I did it, but, I can say “I wrote a Madrigal!”


          The point in these three quick expositions, is when I write from a vantage point of knowing exactly what I want to say, check and double check my honesty and intent, and use the best words I can use, I get a song that rises up, speaks out, and can be interpreted through the listener’s frame of reference, allowing them to relate it to their own world and life.

Be Honest with your writing.

               Oh my, this is so important. Honesty. You’re going to hit home when you are honest. If you are not feeling it, neither will your audience. Don’t pretend your feelings, or that you know all about a subject, because if you do, it’s guaranteed to show up as a great big, black hole in your lyrics. If you’re not honest with yourself, your song will be flimsy, meatless and unmemorable. Worst of all, if you are not genuine and “all in” when you write, your audience is going to know it and feel cheated. Even if they don’t know exactly what experience they are expecting from your song, they know when they are being lied to and they expect to not be treated like fools. There are writers who are exceptions, however, and they seem to be master manipulators of emotion and the use of hypnoses via repetitive use of the same theme, melody line and chord progression parenthesized by glamour, smoke and flashing lights.


          Honesty? In a made up story? You betcha! You can write the most silly, made up song and if you know your point (story line), are honest (yes, this could really happen, even if only on some far off, strange planet...), it’s fun and silly ( it even makes you laugh when you sing it) and seek the best words possible to convey your story, you are going to have some great lyrics!

Know your words

          Words have power. Big power. They can edify and they can tear down. Never was a phrase so wrong as “words, words, words, only words.” Words can hurt and words can heal. Once you say them, sing them, or record them, you can never take them back.

A single word can evoke the perfect imagery, or create the wrong imagery. A well turned phrase is made up of the perfect words, perfectly placed Make sure you use the right words. Use them wisely and well. Keep a dictionary and thesaurus handy and use them. Let your words soak on the page a few days, or months even, and see if they are still the right words, still delivering the message you want delivered. Ask a trusted some one to read what you wrote and tell you what it means. You will know if you hit the mark.

          Don’t ever stick in a word or phrase purely because the word rhymed or the meter fit. If word or phrase don’t continue the thought process seamlessly, you are cheating. Cheating your self and your audience.

          Oh yes, music! I hope you play an instrument, or have a good friend who can transpose your humming.

          Music, of course, plays a crucial role in song writing beyond the obvious. Imagine, if you will, one of your favorite songs set to, oh, let’s say, a nursery rhyme! Okay, now how does that change your favorite song? Well, there you go.

Music is as powerful as words and can reach into the very marrow of the soul and move heart and mind and spirit. Music calling for words is pitiful, like a hungry child, and it’s desperate parent will sound like a pauper begging for alms, “Got any spare words?” “You’re still writing, aren’t you?”

Music can enhance or cover your lyrics. Choosing the right melody, tempo, rhythm, is as important as choosing the right words. So, here again, think about it. Honor your creation by being conscious of how you are putting it all together.


          In my song Autumn’s On Its Way, I deliberately created a melody and tempo distinctly different than what the story line seems to call for because I wanted to make a point. The woman who is telling the story in the song is from a time and place where women did not generally ask a man to stay around, especially a man she has only known a short time. Even this strong woman, who is obviously independent, does not rely on the opinions of others to make decisions and has a reputation for firing a man on the spot, even this woman’s sensibilities are framed by the moral standards of her day. She feels she needs to justify her position, so she quickly tells her story then blurts out her question as the last line of the song, “would you stay on through the winter, keep the canyon winds at bay? If there’s love here in the Springtime, there’s nothing left to say.”

Pick any particular song out there today that moves you however it moves you, take it apart and study it. Pick another one which moves you differently, study that one. You will learn from other writers if you look at how they wrote the song.

If you would like to hear any of the songs I have mentioned in this short primer, Email me and I will send you an MP3 of one or all to dissect, and hopefully, learn from.

          I hope if you learned anything here, it is to put pen to paper or finger to keyboard and get busy writing. Go and write and then, write and write some more. A song will come.

Catalina State Park Concert

          What a wonderful weekend it was! My friend, Margaret, spent the weekend with me, sharing music and laughter.

          Friday night we met James Ellis and RuAnn Hooks at A latte Vino in Casa Grande to listen to the music of Luis Story. I had never been able to catch his shows in near twenty years, it was always just bad timing. I was just thrilled to hear his duo with Steve Frances on piano, Luis's original music and his fun versions of covers of EVERYBODY. And, it was s real treat getting the opportunity to speak with him for a few minutes about a particular song his with history pertinent to this little town.


          Catalina State Park is always a dream concert. The audience comes ready to engage, they are excited and focused on the music and stories. If an entertainer can have a packed house at an open air, unconstrained venue, this was it. We had a great time sharing environment as well as the music. The Humming Birds and Cardinal's singing along and the parade of ants carrying popcorn and chips kept us laughing. Even a vole came out to see what the heck was going on!

          Having the Martin back to health and in my hands to play has opened doors to tones and sounds for tunes. My friend and author, Amy M. Hale, says this about Martin, "That guitar has a male voice, beautiful, evoked by your touch. he blends in harmony with your sweet voice, and the damage was healed by a woman with vision. It captures me, this story. The masculine wound healed by the feminine, and then set free to sing again. It is a beautiful story with no beginning and no end." Thank you, Amy. I hope you, dear reader, will explore some of Amy's writing on her website and she is on social media with her stories and poems and wonderful photos of her cowboy life with her husband Gail on the Spider Ranch. One day, Amy and I will get the opportunity to share the stage.

          This summer I am heading out on the road for some short tours and a long one, maybe two. In August, I will be in Deming, New Mexico for my first concert at the Luna Rossi Winery hosted by Totsie Slover. Then, it's off to Arvada, Colorado for a show at the Old Towne Picking Parlor with Jon Chandler and Ernie Martinez. It is sounding like Ismael Barajas will be making several of the shows with me, including the Tumbleweed Festival in Richland, Washington.

          The road is calling, wanting me to bring you the new album, Tall Tree. I am so pleased and proud of Tall Tree, and Ismael is already charting out the next project, "Lightning Woman Danced". It will include the borderlands ballad, "By Moon or No Moon."

          Please, visit the calendar to see performance dates and times, and come say hello, introduce your self if we have never met. I love to hear from you, too. You can comment on the videos and on the photo page. I hope you do.

   Be blessed,


On Forgiveness or Revenge

          When I was five, I was defenseless and blameless.

          When I was thirteen, I had been "trained", "brainwashed", and so, defenseless and blameless.

          When I was sixteen, I began to wake up. But, perception had been skewed, and though a hazy grasp of right and proper was hovering in sight, it remained always just out of reach, obscured by the ever present reality of history.


          These days, at 60 years old, I will sometimes reflect on what a'kins to a long ascending climb on a slick and scrabble strewn trail, slipping and sliding, not always making much progress. But, I never stay there in that frame of mind, I don't wallow in the sewage, I just don't do it. I don't let the many adventures, accomplishments and joys in my life be minimized by another person's evil doing.

           And, I will not waste a single moment of my precious time taking revenge, getting even. It is not even a option. There is far too much collateral damage in getting even, not even a fragment of peace will be found in the resulting carnage, and nothing from the past will ever be changed.

People ask about forgiveness. I suppose it was instantaneous because I never thought about it, nor harbored real anger. It's my understanding that only God has the power to forgive, I do not have that power on my own. He forgave me and He forgives for me, so I do not have to try to do the impossible. It would be an impossible task because Forgiveness is already done, "it is finished" as Christ said, once and for all. The Supreme Court of Heaven will take care of evildoers, the burden is not mine. I am told to forget what is past and press forward, and so, I shake the dust from my shoes and go on with my assignment, "to grow in the grace and knowledge of Christ."

   Perhaps some of the stories you find here will help you press forward and grow in grace. That is my hope.

(C) Sonoran Desert Sage Publishing 04/27/2019

This Old White Shirt

                                                               This Old White Shirt

          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 murdered little grandson. I have never been able to sing “Somewhere over the Rainbow” again.

          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 year 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, and many places in Arizona like the Crook Trail, 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 Katy’s Cache 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 love. That is why.

© 4/30/2017 Nancy Elliott Sonoran Desert Sage Publishing ASCAP

The Day I Sprung My Dad Out Of Jail

The Day I Sprung Dad Out of Jail

          I sprung my Dad from jail. That’s what he said, anyway.

          What really happened was he was unjustly incarcerated in a nursing home where, for all intents and purposes, he was tied to his bed twenty four hours a day except for a wheelchair ride to therapy and a shower.

          He was there for more than a week before I knew about it. Parents develop a habit of not telling their children everything and, when they do tell, it is not always during the course of the event in which they sure could have used a helping hand. I catch myself committing the same offense and know first hand the not telling is because I do not want to intrude on the lives of my children. I do not want to interfere with schedules and jobs, not wanting to become a burden or worry as I get older.

          By the time I could arrange care for horses and a dog, it was few days before I boarded a plane for Ohio. My always indispensable childhood and now, adulthood, friend, Carla, picked me up that cold and snowy November evening at Columbus Airport and drove me to Beavercreek, where she and I grew up together. I am sure no one in the nursing home had ever before witnessed the scene we created simply by showing up as ourselves. I am also sure we are now the stuff of much embellished legend, a story told in amaze around nursing home water coolers, or dining rooms, or where ever it is staff and patients share stories about the crazies they encounter daily.


          Carla, who does not acknowledge the existence of the word “blend” except in relation to her paintings, is blessed with a glorious crown of very long, very curly, very red hair always worn loose and flowing. She dresses in brightly colored caftans, throwing on a monk’s hood cape to go out in the cold. Tonight was no exception, with the addition of fur lined moccasin boots and a long, heavy wool scarf wound around her neck. Carla, like me, has always “walked with a purpose” as Mom used to say. No dilly-dallying, forward movement with intent, like a freight train, so get out of the way. 

          Having flown in from Arizona where I have lived for over twenty five years, and knowing I would be in cold, wet weather, I was wearing hard denim jeans, low heeled Western boots, a grey woolen frock coat and my custom, Bronco Sue felt hat. When we arrived at the nursing home a heavy snow was falling in a bitter cold wind. The flakes did not melt when they landed on us, instead they accumulated on our shoulders and hats very quickly as walked the fifty yards or so to the main entrance. We burst though the doors carrying snow and cold air swirling in our wake. The wall ahead of us bore the room indicators which we instantly deciphered and hung an immediate left, continuing shoulder to shoulder at that freight train pace. Wide eyed nurses and care givers fell away out of our path, patients in wheel chairs and walkers watched us pass them by, their eyes lit up in surprise. No one stopped us or questioned us. No one followed us to see where we were going.

          When we blew into Dad’s room, he was lying flat on his back in bed, Mom at his side in a plain, office type chair. He saw us come in, his eyes lighting up with surprise and happiness. I went right to him and bending over his bed, hugged him. When I pulled back he had tears on his cheeks. He still had a grip on both of my arms so I could not stand up all the way.

          I asked him, “Daddy, are you afraid to be here?”

          “Yes,” he spoke quietly. “ I am afraid.”

          “Why, Daddy?”

          He looked at me for a long moment, choosing his words carefully just like he always did. Finally, “They aren’t mean here, they are just stupid. They are going to hurt someone because they don’t know what they are doing. ”

          “Daddy,” I said. “Mom and I are both here with you now and we will stay until bedtime. The first sunny day, we are taking you home.”

          He nodded and smiled a little.

          I turned to hug and kiss Mom who was holding hands with Carla. Carla stayed a few minutes to visit then took her leave to work her way home through the storm, promising to stop by the house when Dad got home. She would love to come and help decorate the Christmas Tree.

          Dad’s room was small, though there were two beds, the other one empty. I sat on the edge of Dad’s bed and we talked for a long time, about the snowy weather, about Arizona. About the horses and Cowboy, my Border Collie. About the border issues which always make national news and, even though we talked regularly on the phone, they wanted to hear the latest. Dad told me I should run for office to help straighten that mess out. I said I would never get voted in, that no one really wants to address the border issues and they darn sure don’t want to hear the truth about it, makes for boring evening news. He laughed.


          “So, just how did you get your self in lockup anyway, Daddy?”

          Dad said he had been working in the yard, shoveling five ton of pea gravel around the flower beds surrounding the house. As he quit for the day he fell on the porch at the front door hitting his head on the concrete. He made it in the house and, insisting he was fine, ate dinner and went to bed. Later, Mom found him with a high fever and called an ambulance. He spent a few days in hospital and then was sent to the care home to rehabilitate. He didn’t like being there one bit at all. He said the first few days he was there he didn’t have a room. He was in a big room like an emergency room with just curtains separating six beds. Patients were wheeled in and out at all hours of the day and night. One night, he was sure the other beds in the room were being used by the staff to have sex, he hoped with each other and not the elderly patients. Wow! It was unlike my father to say any such thing and, considering his fearful state, and that I never knew him to over react, I believed him.

          “Did you say anything about it, Dad?”

          “What’s to say?” he shrugged. “Who would believe a feverish old man without his hearing aids?”

          When they finally gave him a room he was kept flat on his back. Under him was a pad device to set off all the alarms in the building if he so much as tried to turn over. If he shifted his weight the alarms would go off. He could not sit up. They had him listed as “Fall Risk.” This was nothing new. Dad had been a fall risk most of his life. Some reason unknown caused him to have fainting episodes. He had tried to enlist and was turned down because of it. Dad had learned to live with it. In all my years I saw him faint only one time. So, I don’t think it was something which happened regularly, just enough to be a concern for the Military.

          Dad was ready to go home and so was Mom. But, because he had been, and maybe was still sick, and the weather was bitter cold and wet, I could not bring myself to put him in the car that night. Mom and I stayed until after the evening orderly had visited the room, checked Dad’s ostomy bag and given him his night dose of antibiotics. Mom waited in the foyer while I fetched her Lincoln, now covered with snow, and drove it to the door to help her in. She wanted me to drive us home. We pulled in the garage and went in through the pantry. That was the way we kids always ran in and out of the house and it was a warm, welcoming embrace of memories every time I went home as an adult.

         Mom had gathered Dad’s dirty clothes and brought them home with her to wash and take back in the morning. “Momma, why don’t you go upstairs and get changed, I will start the wash and make us some tea and sandwiches.”

          “Thank you, sweetie.” she headed up the stairs. I already had a sneaking suspicion about what had been going on.

          When Mom came back down we sat at the kitchen table and ate while she told me again her side of the story about how Dad got sick and ended up in the Hospital. It was the same, pretty close to Dad’s version. She told me she was also very worried about the quality of care he was getting, that no one in the building knew how to change Dad’s ostomy bag and she had to show the care givers how it was done. Several times she had to show them and that was very embarrassing to Daddy. That is when she started crying and we hugged for a while.

         “Mom, are you staying at the care center this late every night?”

          “Yes, because Daddy is afraid to be there. I usually stay later, sometimes until 11:00 or midnight.”

          “Do they offer you a bed or feed you?”

          “Sometimes they offer a foldout bed, and Daddy shares his plate with me.” I was pretty perturbed at that, but tried not to let it show. But, Mom’s know, they know.

          “So, then you come home, do his wash, go to bed and get back to the care home by what time?”

          “Daddy wants me there as early as I can get there. Usually by 7 am.” She had been holding to this routine for at almost two weeks, probably longer considering the hospital stay. This was going to have to change or Mom was going to be the next one to get sick. I told her the flight and all had worn me out and I would like to go to bed and she asked me to sleep with her. We got tucked in the big master bed, both of us reading and holding hands until Mom dropped off. I turned out the lights.

          In the morning I called the care center and asked what time Dad went to therapy. They told me at 9 a.m. I asked them to let him know Mom and I would not be there to see him until after his therapy, then reminded Mom that Dad would be busy until after 9:30 so she and I could have a nice, hot sit down breakfast and wait to see if the skies cleared enough so we could bring him home. I think it was the first real breakfast she had eaten in a long time.

          Dad was already back in his room when we arrived at the care center. He was worried about us since my message had not been delivered. But, when Mom excused her self to “walk down the hallway” I told him my fears about Mom’s late hours and not eating right. “Did you know she was doing that, Daddy?” He did not realize what she was doing, and he nodded at me. I had done the right thing in his eyes.

          We spent the morning in his room, then I got him to venture to the community room. When he got out of bed and the alarms went off, it was the first time I got noticed. I told the blustery attendant to get rid of that thing or he was going to hear it go off real regular. Off to a great start.

          In the community room we met some other inmates. There was a woman who poked her head in the door every morning, Dad said. She was always cheery and had a good word for him and Mom. There were others who were sitting around in their wheelchairs watching the T.V. or playing a game, working a puzzle. I asked Daddy why he didn’t come down here every day? Just look at the list of activities they have planned. He shot me the look. Later, when we were out of earshot of the others, he told me it was a nice enough room, but the hallway was depressing and sad with folks parked all alone in their chairs with nothing to say and blank looks on their faces. Some of them never getting out of bed, always sleeping. He was afraid of dying in that place.

          One of my sisters and her husband came for a while, but he was fidgety and they didn’t stay long. I ran to Panera Bread Company and brought back hot soup, sandwiches and desserts. Dad ate like he was starving, cleaned his plate. Mom had asked me to bring my guitar that day so I played for them, drawing a little crowd at the door. Mom pointed out a room across the way where a very elderly woman was bedridden and would I go play for her. Of course. The attendant was in there feeding her. I don’t know if she heard the music or not, but he was smiling and nodding. The music gets folks talking and both Mom and Dad started with stories. A bit later in the evening we were treated to some Carolers who sang their way down one side of the hall and back up the other. When Mom and I went home that night, Dad was much better about it.

          The next morning, the sun was bright, sparkling off the snow of the last few days. Big, fluffy clouds in the sky, nothing dark and foreboding. “Momma,” I said as we sat with our coffee. “Let’s take Dad’s coat and some warm clothes, we are going to bring him home today.”

          Her face lit up and she smiled. “You know, they are not going to let us take him out of there without raising a stink,” she said.

          “Yep, probably. But, it’ll be okay.” I said, thinking, this is going to be a whole lotta fun!

           When Mom and I arrived the parking lot had been cleared, the snow now heaped up around the edges and under the trees. The sun was warm and there was no wind to speak of, so it seemed quite spring like by comparison to the previous few days. I let Mom out at the entrance and parked the car while she went on to Dad’s room. We had a game plan of sorts. Mostly it was get in there, pack him up and walk out. We knew it would not be that easy but it was a place to start.

          As I entered Dad’s room, Mom was cleaning out his dresser and closet, his things neatly folded into his suitcase, his coat draped over the end of the bed. Dad was not in the room so we assumed he was still in his therapy session. Fine, there was less chance of someone coming in the room if Dad was not in there. We had all of his things ready to go when Dad was brought back in. The orderly was going to put Dad in his bed, but Dad immediately caught on to our game and told him “No, Thank you,” and to basically get lost. The orderly buzzed right back out, to tell on us. Within a minute there was a woman at the door, telling us we could not take Dad home without him being signed out by the doctor. I asked when will the doctor come and she said she would find out. I gave her the name of Dad’s doctor and that we would be taking him there right after we left the building, so we were leaving. She asked to see Mom in the office. Mom said she was not going without me. The woman was not happy about that but she had no choice.

          The woman asked Mom why she was taking Dad out before he was released. Mom told her because Dad wanted to go home, that none of us felt like he was getting the care he deserved and that we all felt he would be better off at home. Mom told her about no one knowing how to change Dad’s ostomy bag. I told her about no one looking after Mom and about how Dad was basically a prisoner, tied to his bed and spoken to like he was a child. They were not able to keep track of his medication, Mom had been doing that. There can be legal repercussions, the woman told us. Let my Mom sign what she needs to sign so we can go, I told her. I am going back to the room so Dad does not think we forgot him.

          The house rules said Dad had to go out in a wheelchair, so I brought the car to the door and Mom had him waiting there, ready to go. He was already smiling, and he laughed when I asked him if he wanted to drive. Suitcase in the trunk, Momma and Daddy in the back seat holding hands, we drove away. We arrived a few minutes later at Dad’s doctor and walked in. It was mid day but they took him in and with questions all around he was pronounced healthy enough to go home. His doctor had not heard anything from the care center, he did not know Dad was there, only that he had been released from Miami Valley Hospital over two weeks ago. He took me by the elbow to stop me as Mom and Dad left the room.

          “How long are you staying?”

          “A couple of weeks, at least, but as long as they want or need me to stay.”

          “Good. Your Dad is a stubborn man. You know, I just last year got him talked him out of cleaning out the gutters on the house by himself,” he told me and I laughed.

          “My brother called and was angry, he said to leave Dad in the care home, that he was exactly where he needed to be. Dad wants to be at home. I didn’t see any reason for him to stay and be scared and miserable”

          “Your Dad needs to be at home, and he is fine. He is old, nothing more.”

          “Thank you.”

          We made one other stop for something Mom needed at the drug store and went home to Big Woods Trail. We pulled in the garage and Dad got out first to open the car door for Mom, then we went in the house through the pantry door. As I carried in the suitcase and Mom took our coats to hang up, Dad stood in the dining room and stretched his back, then he went to the sliding door and opened the curtains so he could see out into the back yard. Back in the kitchen, he put on a pot of coffee and headed up the stairs to The Library. Mom right behind him on the stairs as if she could catch him if he fell.

          It was home made beef-vegetable soup and biscuits for supper that night. As Mom and I stood in the kitchen, cutting vegetables and mixing dough, I looked at Dad in the family room in his blue recliner. His head was back and he was fast asleep, the local paper in his lap. In my childhood days, his pipe would have been resting in the big glass ashtray on the side table, the smell of borkum riff in the air. I touched my elbow to Mom’s side and she looked up.

               He’s right where he needs to be, Mom.

© Nancy Elliott Music and Sonoran Desert Sage Publishing 2017 ASCAP

Nancy Elliott

Singer, Songwriter, Storyteller, Seamstress, Dreamer

[email protected]


A Crazy Horse

A Crazy Horse

A crazy, crazy horse lives inside of me,

            She's mostly blue, sometimes she's gray

She's got red paint splattered here and there,

          And rainbow feathers tied in her hair

She goes buck and snort all around my ribs,

          Sayin' "Don't you forget who you really is!"

She tells me, you are the whirlwind and the softest of sighs

   You are good, you are smart, you are strong, you are wise

You are pinion smoke and snowflakes in a starry sky

You are wild and never tame and you know you are right

You are a seed in the earth, you are a song on the wind

You drink your whiskey from a teacup while you're dancing on the brim

Her heart is made of sky where songbirds fly,

   Lightning and Thunder live behind her eyes

When I can't remember who I'm s'posed to be, I look into the mirror and she's looking back at me

She goes buck and snort all around my ribs, Sayin' "Don't you forget, who you really is!"

          She tells me

          You are the smallest flower on the highest peak, You are the secret on the morning breeze

          You are the oak that bends, you are the Eagles flight, You are leather, you are stone and a sweet lover in the night

          You are young, you are old, you are God's perfect prize, You are diamonds, you are pearls, you are danger in disguise

          This old world can get the best of a girl, Make you feel like the swine, instead of the pearl

          When I can't remember who I'm s'posed to be, I look into the mirror and she's looking back at me

          And she goes buck and snort all around my ribs, Sayin' "Don't you forget who you really is!"

          A crazy, crazy horse lives inside of me, She's mostly blue, sometimes she's gray

          She's got red paint splattered here and there, And rainbow feathers tied in her hair

          She goes buck and snort all around my ribs, Sayin' "Don't you forget who you really is!"

               C Nancy Elliott 2014 All rights reserved, no use without permission.

I Am The West

I am the West. I ride straight up in the saddle

like my first heroes, Miss Barbara and Ben.

I wasn’t born in the Old, Wild West.

I live here now, not back then

Tell me the stories and sing me the songs,

while I listen in awe and muse

on how things are still much the same

and you'll tut tut about how I'm confused.

Yet, I’m as bound to the West as the old ones.

I’m the same as the first ones who came,

for, my soul, like theirs, begs for sky and land

and a little something to tame.

I’ve been out here so long it’s a part of me now,

The West and my spirit have mingled,

like wind and sky and dirt and bones

and the music of trot and spur jingle.

Maybe, you don't understand it.

I am quite okay with that.

But, don't describe me by my choice of hat,

my world is far richer than that

I'm not the first ones, I don't try to be.

I'm not living a dream from the past.

I came West so the can West change me.

There will be no changing the West.

The Desk By The Window

The Desk by the Window

          Years later, as I believe my self to be old and jaded

     and the joys of spirit seem to have faded

          I sit at the desk by the window

     and struggle to keep my mind on things I should know

          But, then, the wind blows just right and rustles the leaves

     and a jaybird fusses and my soul cries "Oh, please!"

Please let my fly, fly back to those days

of blue summer skies and the soft orange haze

of sun in the morning. Fly onto the crisp Autumn breeze

and the smell of pines as they sway in air

filled with smoke from burning leaves

          My soul drifts back to the other desk at the window

 of my childhood, so vivid, I recall it now.

          It was place to hide with paper and pen

for there were times they seemed the only friends.

          And my nose so cold from frost on the window

on the cry of geese was the sound of snow

and I had to look out and see

for my self the last to leave and cry "Take me!"

          But, they go to warmer places

and leave me with only traces

of what I should be doing

          And now it is snowing and

from my desk I can hear its breath on my window

and see how it dances and skates and drifts in the corners so slow.

          From the desk by the window, my future I saw

it was grand adventure my family would say

          Those dreams were not filled with great wealth and fame

But with wholeness of Spirit to lay claim

to a life in the sky

          Now, the soft rain of Spring is in the grass

and the sun makes diamonds as it plays on the glass,

          And I wonder, how could they expect one like me,

in heart and mind, to wholly be

          at the desk and not out there where I could bask

in Springtime, instead of at the teacher's task?

          The seasons have circled around and around

all things and my soul remain Earthbound

          My books and notes laid out before me again

but, different things now pull me from my pen

          A different desk by a different window.

I close my eyes and make then become now

And there comes the sound of my children's laughter

from out on the lawn

          Pulling me back to now

and the other times are gone, but not forgotten

          For a tired soul needs a place to flow

gentle and gliding

          To the desk by the window

Nancy Elliott April 1989

The Radio Flyer

She went to the window for what seemed the hundredth time that day only to have her suspicions confirmed as many times. It was still raining.

          The big picture window went from floor to ceiling, and except for a few inches at the bottom, it was nearly fogged over. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the cool of the window, then, remembering it was something she would get after the kids for if they did it, she pulled away and smiled at the impression left of her forehead and the snaky squiggles from her wavy hair. Suddenly, two rivulets of moisture ran through the middle of fog-face and raced to the bottom of the window sill to join the puddles already there. She used a washcloth from the laundry she was folding to wipe the fog and evidence of her crime off the window.

          Hearing a door slam she looked up to see one of her neighbors dashing from her car to her house, arms full of packages. She looked down the road the other directions, and it seemed maybe the sky wasn't so grey and maybe there wasn't so much water running down the road.

          It was a week before Christmas, and the weather was typical for the years Elizabeth had lived in the Dallas area. Rain at Christmas and ice for New Years followed by more rain. Plunk...Plunk...Plink...Water dripping off the roof caught her eye and she watched as it fell into the small lake forming in the Radio Flyer the girls had left on the porch. In warmer weather, the girls would be splashing their dolls around in the "private swimming pool" the rain and their imaginations had created.

          She remembered now the girls hadn't played out side all week and she hadn't gone grocery shopping either because of the weather. The kids were fighting the sniffles and the wagon being the closest thing to transportation she had, they had stuck pretty close to home. But, now the cupboard was bare and she hated to ask for ride, it was embarrassing.

          She kept watch until the rain slowed to a mist, then to nearly nothing. "Get your coats girls! We'll make a run for it!" Just grab a few things before I have to come back and get ready for work, she thought to her self as she dumped the water out of the wagon and brought it inside to dry it out. She spread a trash bag over the floor of the wagon and tucked two more in her coat pocket. Midst excited chatter and clapping of hands they were soon bundled up and ready to roll. With a look to the sky and a deep sigh, she carried the wagon down porch steps and the kids climbed in.

          Cory, with her hopelessly un-tameable hair and deep brown eyes that gave away her secret she was always up to something, was the youngest at two years old. Today she managed to get to sit in front. Her sister Shannon was four. Blond hair and the bluest laughing eyes set her apart in appearance from her sister, but they played off each other like a comedy team. Letting them both ride, they could each hold a bag of groceries on the way home.

          They headed down the street for two blocks then turned west for two more to cross the street at the light and into the grocery store parking lot. In the door and dry as a bone! Not a drop of rain! Bread, milk, eggs, cheese, tortilla flour, chicken and stars and alphabet soup, chicken legs, fish sticks and frozen corn. "I think we have enough for now, what do you say?"

          "Can I get a Pixie Stix, Mommy?", Shannon asked.

          "Me too!" Cory chimed in her head bobbing up and down.

          "Sure, let's go." And that's when they heard the thunder roll and the rain beating on the roof of the store.

          "Oh, Mommy, it's raining again!" cried Shannon.

          "I know, sweetheart. We'll wait out front for it to slow down."

          But even after waiting in the checkout line and standing on the porch for a bit, the rain hadn't slowed at all. A few minutes later, worried she would be late for work she called her sister.

          "I can't get away right now. Sorry." She called her brother and got no answer. "I knew that", she said to her self.

          She couldn't be late for work, still had to feed the girls, put away the groceries, get to the sitter....she made one more call to arrange for her taxi ride to work. "Some day, I will get a car and a phone." Suddenly the rain slowed up and they made a run for home.

          Each of the girls was seated behind a paper bag of groceries and each held a trash bag over her head as an umbrella. It began to rain hard again as they reached the light and waited for the green. Shannon and Cory were having a big time laughing and giggling in the wagon. As the light changed, Elizabeth pulled up on the tongue of the wagon and eased it down off the curb and in to the run off in the gutter. The water nearly rose over the wheels and the kids howled at the thought of it splashing over them.

          They were nearly to the other side when the light changed again. The car near the curb waited only until they had just cleared its bumper then it began to move. Elizabeth waded into the water and turned around to ease the wagon up on the sidewalk. Cars were splashing by at normal speed in spite of the water in the road, and she was irritated at their rudeness and lack of caution around the children. She lifted up on the wagon tongue and felt it start up the curb, then stumbled backward and sat down hard as the tongue came away from the axle and the wagon dropped into the rushing water. Cory squealed as it rushed over her in the wagon, soaking her and the groceries in her bag. Elizabeth threw the wagon handle on to the grass and dashed back into the water to grab first one child then the other, one under each arm and place them on the sidewalk. All the while cars were splashing by, sloshing water over them and never slowing down.

          She set the girls on the sidewalk then turned back to the wagon and watched her loaf of bread floating away, then the fish sticks, headed for Main Street and the flood ditch. They would end up in Dallas somewhere, finally in the Trinity River. She glared at the passing cars, wondering if they would have slowed any if it had been the children floating away.

          Stepping back into the water she pulled the wagon and what was left of her groceries on to the sidewalk. The girls were standing together quietly, wide-eyed, soaking wet. She knelt down and hugged them both at the same time. "You guys okay?"

          "I'm cold Mommy," Shannon said through chattering teeth.

          "Is it broken Mommy?" asked Cory

          "Yeah, it's broken." Elizabeth was thinking she would have to get the kids home and leave the groceries when someone yelled.

          "Hey, you need a hand?" She turned to see that a pickup had stopped in the street behind them and without waiting for an answer, the driver began to load wagon parts and soggy groceries into the back of his truck.

          "Get in the front," He said, closing the camper door. "I saw what happened. Can't believe no one would stop to let you get out of the road. Where do you live?"

          "Go that way," Shannon directed as they all piled in the cab. "Then go six houses on this side," she waggled her right hand. "That's where we live."

          Elizabeth could see he was wearing a work I.D. badge from LTV Vought Coproration that said "FRED"

          "Okay," Fred chuckled. "I just don't understand people these days. Is this your house? I'll help you carry this stuff in."

          They all climbed out of the truck cab and into the rain again. Elizabeth took the kids to the door and they ran off leaving a trail of wet footprints in the carpet. She took the groceries from Fred at the door and carried them in while he went back for the broken wagon. She met him on the porch. "Thanks," she said. "Thanks for helping me. I didn't know how I was going to get all this and the kids home too. Thanks a lot!"

          Fred put the wagon on the porch. "It looks like it's got a lot of miles on it, but you could probably get it fixed real easy."

          "Yes, I will." She hadn't thought at this point what they were going to do without the wagon. The girls were peeking around her legs. They were wrapped in big towels, their hair tangled dripping messes.

          "It was scary for a minute," said Shannon. "But it was fun getting wet!"

          "Yeah, it was fun!" giggled Cory, still shivering.

          "Thanks again." Elizabeth held out her hand.

          Fred took her hand in both of his and gave it one gentle shake as he smiled. "Merry Christmas!"

          "Merry Christmas!" Shannon and Cory sang together. They stood in big picture window and waved as they watched Fred drive away.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

          It was the usual happy hour scramble when Elizabeth got to work that night. From four til seven the bar was full of the manager types from the local aircraft engineering plant. The Dirty Dozen she called them, although they did have one honorary female member that brought their number to thirteen. The good natured cajoling and kibitzing went on until the last one drifted out, turning the bar and the evening over to the cowboy crowd.

          Week nights such as this were always short lived and by eleven o'clock the staff of seven was reduced to one bartender and two waitresses. Things were slowing down and she kept her self busy by cleaning tables and helping LaVern, the bartender. Sometimes she stopped to watch the band and the few dancers that were still hanging in. With two hours left in the night only about fifteen customers were seated, not counting what Vern had at the bar. The other girl had gone home early, even though it was Elizabeth's turn. She couldn't see paying a taxi when the bartender or one of the band would be going that way. Besides, it gave her a chance to make more tips.

          She wrote an order on a ticket and placed it in the ticket rack, then began a preliminary count of the evenings profits. The wagon breaking came at a bad time. Too close to Christmas and always so many expenses with two little girls to raise on her own. But, a new wagon would make a good gift for the kids. She knew she needed the wagon, she couldn't afford a car yet. She would just have to find the money. Having a car was the real answer, but it just wasn't possible, not yet.

          She wondered if she was doing enough for her daughters. She worked all the time, had no car, too many bills. The girls wore mostly hand made clothes and their cousin's hand me downs. The negative thoughts began to roll over her and she stopped them right away. There was always so much to be done, and it was her job to see to it. There was always a way to make things good, make things right. Things always worked out. Like having a Christmas tree. Last year, they had taped sheets of white typing paper on the wall, then drew a tree on it. Shannon and Cory had decorated it with ornaments cut from colored construction paper. It was hard to take it down after the holidays because it was so pretty.

          Things were getting better all the time, they had even moved into a larger and nicer home. So, this year she determined there would be a real Christmas tree, with a new Radio Flyer underneath!

          The wagon that now sat in parts on her porch, had been her Christmas gift to Shannon when she was still two years old, but it soon became an integral part of their lives, a trusted and reliable friend. The bright red wagon was a bed for dolls, stray puppies and kittens, pet Guinea pigs and often for Cory when the kids played house. Shannon had even been known to take her nap in the wagon with plenty of blankets over and under, her favorite stuffed animal at her head and her legs hanging over the end. It was a wheeled laundry basket, hauling hand washed clothes from the bathtub to the line out back. It was even a moving van when they came from the duplex four doors down the street. It was a go-cart and a grocery cart, making several trips each week. When there were too many groceries someone would have to walk, and that was usually Shannon. Cory was too little to walk far and she got to ride in the baby back pack most of the time anyway. If you had to walk, that meant you had to pull some, and to Shannon, there was as much honor in pulling as there was in riding, if not more.

          Not having a car was a pain. But, Elizabeth made the best of it and tried to make it fun. She was paid each Tuesday, and Wednesday mornings were always full of excitement. They got up early, scrubbed and dressed, the girls in their bonnets. Cory was settled in to the baby back pack and Shannon rode in the wagon all by her self. Then, they would walk to town, making sure to start early enough to cross the tracks just a few minutes before the train, then stopping to watch it pass. The engineer and the caboose man would always wave and blow the whistle for the girls. They would laugh and squeal and clap, Cory jumping up and down in the back pack tooting like train.    Elizabeth believed the kids made the railroad men's day as much as the railroad men made the kid's days. Then, it was on to the bank down town, such as it were, paying bills and running errands, taking their time making the circle to head back home. The walk home was the best, that was treat time.

          Elizabeth never cashed in her change tips. They all went home and got chucked into an old Hershey's Cocoa tin. Mad money. It was for Happy Meals at MacDonald's or burger's and a soda at the Drug Store fountain. But, most often it was for the buffet at Pizza Hut where the kids got to eat for only twenty cents for every year they were old. She knew they ate much more than that in chocolate pudding and Cherry Jello, let alone the pizza they consumed, and had to laugh when she thought about how it probably was her kids who were the reason the children's price was raised from fifteen cents.

          While they ate lunch the wagon waited patiently at the door, loaded with the day's bounty of pretty rocks from the fountains at the water company, white feathers from the park, the occasional friendly bug and other odds and ends, all treasures from the trip. Then, it would be on to the Five and Dime. The kids would sit contentedly in the wagon parked in front of the hamster cages and goldfish tanks while Elizabeth did her shopping. A trip down the candy and toy isle, then it was out the door to home. Empty out the wagon, then head the other way to the grocery. How many miles in two years?

          She realized she had been daydreaming when LaVern reached over the well with the bar spoon and tapped her on the shoulder. "Last call Hun. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to go home!"

          "You mean we're still here?" Elizabeth waved her hand in a circle over her head to signal the band to wind it up, and made her final rounds as they announced the end of the night from the band stand. In another thirty minutes they were all out the door.

          It had turned cold after the rain stopped and she was glad LaVern had offered her a ride home. They sky was clear and full of stars, it would be a beautiful day tomorrow.

          "Do you need to stop at the store?" Vern asked.

          "No, thanks. We did that adventure this afternoon. Boy, did we get wet, too! The wagon broke on the way home. Hey, you work at LTV, don't you?" LaVern nodded in reply. "Well, this guy stopped to help us get our stuff out of the water when the wagon broke, and he gave us a ride to the house. His name tag said "Fred" but I couldn't read the last name because the print was smaller. It was real nice of him. No one else would even let us get out of the way. They just kept driving by, splashing water on us."

          "If it's the same Fred that works in my crib, he and his wife are real nice people. What he did doesn't surprise me at all. You need to pick up the girls?"

          "No, they are staying over at the sitter's because of their colds. I might even get to sleep in if she brings them home late." LaVern pulled up in front of the house and Elizabeth jumped out. "Thanks a lot for the ride Vern. I'll see you Friday night!" she called over her shoulder as she went up the sidewalk.

          It was really cold now, she could see her breath as she stopped at the door to take a look at the winter sky. Her heart was a bit heavy as she turned to go in the door, and her breath hung in a mist about her head as she knelt on the living room floor to light the free-standing gas furnace.

          The sitter would bring the girls home at nine in the morning. She lived behind and kitty-corner from Elizabeth, so she often just handed them over the fence, like this morning. That meant a whole six hours of sleep instead of the usual three or four when the girls would get up at the crack of dawn. She still slept in the big chair in the living room though because she worried she wouldn't hear them knocking from the bedroom. And, it was closer to the heater.

          The next morning Elizabeth could hear the girls giggling and chattering in their bedroom as she sipped her coffee and studied a new sewing project. Her sister was a terrific seamstress and made wonderful stuffed dolls and animals. She even did some piecework on custom curtains and bed covers, and Elizabeth wished she had that kind of patience her self. It might mean a few extra dollars here and there. That thought brought her back to the wagon. What would she do? She decided she was just not going to think about it right now. She had made up her mind last night. And, there was always plenty to do to take her mind off her troubles and she was going to get to it.

          It was beautiful morning just like she thought it would be. She went out to the still soggy back yard to hang some laundry and noticed the girls at the back window making faces at her. She made a face back at them and turned to hang a shirt, but when she looked back at the window they were gone. Something made her start for the door. Cory met her at the back porch, bare feet dancing on the frozen concrete.

          "Ooooohhh Mommy! Come see!" she wiggled and squirmed as Elizabeth scooped her up and hurried into the house.

          "What's going on? Where is your sister?"

          "He's here, Mommy! He's here!" Cory had her mother's face in both her little hands, nodding and emphasizing "HE".

          "Who's here?"

          "Him, him. Looook!" As Elizabeth came to the door, she saw Shannon standing on the porch with Fred. She was bouncing at the knees, both hands covering her mouth like she always did when she was excited. Fred looked up at Elizabeth and smiled as she stepped outside to see the cause of all the excitement.

          A bright red Radio Flyer was on the walk. It had to be twice the size of the one that had broken, and it was shiny and new looking.

         "Oh," Elizabeth said. She caught her breath and looked up at Fred. "You shouldn' didn't.."

        "I told my wife what happened," Fred said. "We had this old wagon in the garage from when our boys used to have a paper route."

          "But, it looks new!"

          "Well, they didn't have the route long. You know how kids are sometimes, they lost interest. They were too old to play with the wagon, so it just sat gathering dust in the garage. When I told my wife about what happened yesterday, she said you should have the wagon."

          "Oh, I.." She was watching the girls who were already in the wagon measuring it for size, fussing over who would get to pull first. "Thank you. I never expected this, never at all." She looked at Fred. "I was just so tickled you gave us a ride home."

          Shannon and Cory got suddenly quiet, they were watching their Mom, eyes dancing. She hadn't exactly accepted the wagon yet, but Fred didn't give her a chance to turn it down.

          "Well, there it is," he said to the girls and they bounced out of the wagon to hug his knees. "Merry Christmas, girls!" he laughed as he bent to pat them on their heads. He looked back at Elizabeth and saw tears in her eyes. "Merry Christmas to you, too!" he smiled at her then turned to get back in his truck.

          She smiled through brimming eyes as they stood on the porch and watched him drive away.

         "Merry Christmas,"

                      The End, but not really.....

The Ruby Handled Knife

This knife was my grandfathers near one hundred years ago,

He took it from a pirate whose sordid life he did forego.

When he rescued a fair maiden from the hold of that black ship,

with this singing blade he cut her bonds, and in the water they did slip.

When they washed ashore at Dunbeath after three days in the sea,

He knelt right there and she answered him "Of course I'll marry Thee!"

So, he brought her to America, a new country rough and raw,

and she used this Ruby Handled Knife to cut the cord on my dear Pa.

This Ruby Handled Knife is worth far more than all its gems.

The treasure is its history, how through our lives it wends.

Its jewel encrusted beauty will a crying baby charm,

blade and point, hilt and shaft keep us safe from harm

When Grandpa passed he gave this knife to his first son, my Pa.

Now Pa is gone this knife is mine and I often am in awe,

How this blade has played a stellar role in daily mundane life,

lending magic and enchantment to a lowly rancher's wife.

My Ruby Handled Knife marks the first calf each spring gather

and it's the only knife to carve the roast upon the Christmas Platter

My Ruby Handled Knife pares mid -summers' premier peach

And, it's been used a time or two, to extend a desperate reach

It's a comfort here, kept at my side, when faced by bad outlaw,

Why, it saved me from a bloody end at the panther's deadly paw.

It cut the throat of a favored mount when no bullet could be spared,

and freed me from my stirrup when I became ensnared.

This Ruby Handled Knife can shave a callous or double as a spade

and its marked our name to each beam and post throughout this home we made.

It counts the years since my husband died at each April's bright full moon

and it's cut the cords on all my babes... and my will grandchild's, soon

This Ruby Handled Knife will one day pass from my hand to my son's

He, too, will keep it at his side until his race is run.

You see, this Ruby Handled Knife steadfastly intertwines

our History with our future, ever on through spans of time.

Nancy Elliott Sonoran Desert Sage Publishing C 2010

Where The Wind Blows A Different Song

Where The Wind Blows A Different Song

I was but a young drifting cowboy

Riding a westbound drive

Brimming with dreams and full of fire

Had never felt more alive

One day a howling blue norther

Took the whole herd by surprise

Good men and three horses all lost their lives

Good men and fine mounts lost their lives

Someplace I'll find, I know it's not far,

where the wind blows a different song

Cool waters run gay, the meadowlarks sings

and prairie clouds sail along

The sun warms your face while morning mists sparkle

like jewels on the granite spires

Where the wind blows a different song,

and dances with evening campfires

Riding the fringe cutting for sign

nearing the last arroyo

Traveling hard in Sonoran heat,

knowing how it would go

A brush corral and a T-Bar thief

bold as the west could find

The wind in my ear screamed his life or mine

and he died on the that Mexico line

My life changed on that Mexico line

Someplace I'll find, I know it's not far,

where the wind blows a different song

Cool waters run gay, the meadowlarks sings

and prairie clouds sail along

The sun warms your face while morning mists sparkle

like jewels on the granite spires

Where the wind blows a different song,

and dances with evening campfires

Working the rim, one summer late

and courting a long valley daughter

Warm canyon zephyrs tenderly hummed

we rode to speak to her father

But a Moggollon blast shrieked in like a daemon

from hell to through the pine tops above

The wagon team bolted and crashed through the trees!

Or'e the edge went my long valley love

Crushed below was my long valley love

Someplace I'll find, I know it's not far,

where the wind blows a different song

Cool waters run gay, the meadowlarks sings

and prairie clouds sail along

The sun warms your face while morning mists sparkle

like jewels on the granite spires

Where the wind blows a different song,

and dances with evening campfires

Nancy Elliott c 2007

ASCAP Nancy Elliott Music

Sonoran Desert Sage Publishing

The Voice in the Desert

The Voice in the Desert

Searching through the desert, there is something I must find

I know You are out there, I hear You calling all the time

With a voice as sweet as fillaree, dancing in the desert wind

Drifting from each rocky slope,sandy wash and bend

I chose to ride a crooked trail, of which You know the scope

Shameless acts, wasted time, shattered dreams and hopes

Yet still, Your voice is filled with peace, alluring, ever there

Singing to this broken heart a vow of love and care

I met You once when I was young, then just turned and rode away

to live a life I thought was grand, and promptly, went astray

Now, my back trail, it still beckons me and probably always will

But, I think if I keep riding, I'll find You round that next hill

As I dismount to watch the sunset, all the desert has gone still

Not a whisper of the wind, not a click, or peep, or trill

Then, the sun explodes atop the mesa and I dare not even breathe

Light sweeps across the desert floor and pools around my feet

Saguaros stand like soldiers of God, halos of light through their spines

Swashbucklers of Glory, steadfast, protecting, arms stretched out in mime

Each rock and leaf is set ablaze, and the silence pounds in my ears

My soul is drenched in the beauty and wonder that thrives in this world so severe

With the hilltops a fire, the canyons in shadow, the day snaps off like a lamp

My blood still rushing, mind over run, I mount and head back to camp

I hear your voice, I feel you out there, but one thing remains a fact

I've ridden for years cutting for sign of those promises made way back

That gun toting preacher, he told me himself, and preachers never lie

That You'd never leave me and You'd always love me, and be there to help me get by

I've had some bad rides, a scrape or two, times with my back to the wall

Yeah, I survived, but can't help but ask, just where were You through it all?

Reflecting on the wrecks I've been in and the tragedies life has brought

Decisions I made, trails I chose, the glory in life I sought

I'd laid down a pattern of endless mistakes that only compounded my plight

"Poor, pitiful me, all the world is against me" yet, still maintaining I'm right!

But, You never left me, You never forsook me. You rode out front the whole time.

That's why I heard Your whispering voice, and now it's ringing like a chime!

You came down here and lived among us so we could see that You're for real

And now, it's about learning Your lead, and never about how I feel

All these years I've been fighting my own head, doing things my own way

It's a shame I was too dang stubborn to see how things should really play

It's tough to admit, but I realize now, I just didn't want to understand

That in spite of it all, I'm alive and well, 'cause You let me ride in the palm of Your hand

Copyright Nancy Elliott Music & Sonoran Desert Sage Publishing September 27th 2006