Journal Entry - May 12, 2004

During certain seasons of the year, the wind blows relentlessly within the confines of this valley. Across this wide plain between the majestic Chiracahuas and the mysterious Dragoons, the wind dances in the dry lake, bends flat the high prairie grass, and screams and moans as if an Apache ghost driven from its land. Some say the wind is Geronimo himself, crying for his people. Others say it is the death moan of a murdered culture, trapped in a time tear, and released into the wind.

Once again, it is the windy season here in the Sulfur Springs Valley. Although it is May, the wind made the house cold last night, and blew out the electricity. The day dawned bright and sunny, but the wind tore at me as I pulled tumbleweeds from my car and started it up. I was glad to turn the car onto Ghost Town Trail and head toward the ghost town of Gleeson; the washboard road is protected from the wind by small mountains dotted with adobe ruins and an occasional longhorn steer.

The morning was chilly enough that the blast of hot air from the kitchen’s wood stove at the Bar-K ranch was welcome warmth, not the usual “hot flash from Hell.” “Feels good in here,” I proclaimed to the “boys.” “Almost as good as it smells.”

Cowboy Jack chuckled. “Yep, I try to brew that coffee strong enough that it’ll start wakin’ you up as soon as you cross the wash.”

I began taking off Jack’s shoe, while they continued their discussion as to how a settler was acquitted of murdering his wife with an ax because he went plumb loco from the wind blowing across this high desert country for a solid three months. “Yep, cut ‘er up in twenty-six pieces, he did,” Cowboy Jim rocked his chair back on the squeaky rough plank floor and puffed a battle-scarred pipe.

“Who was the Cochise County Sheriff back then?” Cowboy Walt moved a chess piece, thought about it, and then moved it back.

Cowboy Jack was still in the discussion and trying not to wince as I changed the dressing on his foot. “Well,” he paused, as I yanked loose a bit of a scab with the gauze, “I disremember exactly, but it wudn’t Wyatt Earp and it wudn’t Jimmy Judd. Somebody or ‘nother in between, I reckon.”

Cowboy Jim laughed. “Well, Jack, you’ve only left us a hundred-year gap to guess who the Sheriff was. But, I do recall that he rode a paint horse.” With a confident look on his face, Cowboy Jim studied his opponent across the chessboard. He had Cowboy Walt cornered and he knew it.

I must admit that I love going to Cowboy Jack’s place three mornings a week. At eighty-four, Jack is the youngest of the three “boys,” and, at ninety-one, Cowboy Jim is the eldest. Jim is an old rodeo buddy of Jack’s from “down Bisbee way,” and Walt is Jack’s first cousin. They are alone in the world here at the Bar-K. Back in the old days, this spot of ground teemed with cattle, and the now-derelict adobe, brick and wooden structure was, as Jack tells it, “a mighty grand hacienda.”

The three of them congregate in the kitchen of the remnants of the Bar-K every morning, early enough that the aroma of strong-brewed coffee greets me when I walk through the kitchen door at seven a.m.

“Yep, it sure is windy today.” I poured hydrogen peroxide over the small wound on Cowboy Jack’s right foot and watched it bubble up. I couldn’t help but smile to myself at myself; David was right about me. I really am an emotional chameleon. When I’m there, I talk just like the “boys” talk, drink Jack’s ultra-strong coffee out of semi-clean cups, kibitz over their chess games and criticize politicians. It’s a wonder I don’t spit and cuss.

I wrapped a clean net bandage around Jack’s foot, dragged up a rickety chair and grabbed my coffee cup. I was running late…again. “Jack, stay off of that foot until it heals. You know you’re…”

“I know, I know…I’m diabetic. Could lose my foot.” He spat tobacco juice into an MGB coffee can. “Cowboy Girl, don’t you ever get tired of lecturing this old man? Bessie herself never went on this bad at me.”

Cowboy Walt turned from the chess game. “Quitcher whining,’ Jack,” he spoke half to Jack and half to me. “It ain’t exactly like you’re payin’ the lady.”

I had been seeing Cowboy Jack with out charging anyone, including the system, for a long time. Helping Jack take care of himself was a very selfish thing to do; it made me feel much better than it made him feel.

“It’s okay, Walt.” I kissed Jack on the top of his bald head. “Y’all know that I just stop here for the coffee.”

I grabbed my jacket and bag and carried my cup to the sink. Jim rose from his chair and followed me into the back area of the kitchen. “I been meanin’ to wash them dishes…” he murmured apologetically.

The sink was full of dishes and food in various stages of decomposition. I couldn’t leave that mess – every cockroach in Cochise County would be there by the time I got back. “Hey, Jim, I’ll just make short work of these dishes. Won’t take me a minute.”

I ran hot water over the dishes, checked my watch and mentally allowed myself fifteen minutes to get the gravy and dried egg yolk of the plates. “I’ll just stack ‘em right here in the drainer and you can just put them away after they dry themselves, okay?”

Jim was grateful and relieved. “Me or Walt. One of us’ll put ‘em away. Whichever one loses the game.”

I smiled and didn’t mention that I knew for a fact the chess game would go on for days yet. I’d just allow enough time to put the dishes away before I washed the next batch on Friday.

I collected the weekly grocery list from Jack: Two plugs of Red Man, a tin of Copenhagen, bacon and birdseed. “Better bring two of them big bags of birdseed.” Jack shook his head and smiled. “Ain’t life funny? We used to hunt and kill them little quail and doves. Now we feed ‘em!”

I was almost to the car before Jack remembered what I think of as our “good luck mantra.” “Cowboy Girl!” He had hobbled to the open side door with the aid of his cane.

“What, Cowboy Jack?”

He smiled mischievously. “Next time, bring DOUGHNUTS!”

“I thought you’d never ask!” I feigned a sigh of relief, threw my jacket and bag into the car and turned to give him my end of the mantra. “Jack, you know you’re diabetic. You could lose your foot. So I’ll eat the doughnuts and bring you the holes.”

Cowboy Jack laughed and closed the door, and suddenly, I found myself standing in the driveway alone with crying of the wind and one brave Rhode Island Red hen pecking at the gravel. Again, I was alone with the beating of my broken heart.


II

Driving on to Miss Lucy’s house, my little car lost its cover from the surrounding hills, and I had to pull over atop the bluff overlooking the town of Tombstone and the Eastern side of the Cochise Stronghold. There is no cell phone reception there, and no radio signal. That bluff overlooking Tombstone is about as alone as a person can get. I turned the car off and waited out the wind, trying not to think, trying not to remember, trying not to feel alone. I leaned my head against the steering wheel and was surprised by the wetness falling into my lap. I was crying again without even knowing it.

III

Miss Lucy was sitting in the big rattan chair on her porch when I arrived, wrapped in a pink quilt that almost perfectly matched her round pink cheeks.

“Miss Lucy! You shouldn’t be out here in this wind!” I scolded while lifting her to her walker. “You’ll catch something from all that desert dust blowing around!”

“I was worried, Honey. I know you come in the back way instead of the highway, and when you were late, I just felt better coming out to the porch to wait for you.”

When I finished filling her medbox, we drank tea without speaking much. Miss Lucy’s house is cozy, and of another time. Lace curtains frame tall windows, and though the brocade covering the Queen Anne settee is sun-faded, it still speaks quietly of elegance. The room is filled with antique bone china set on heavy polished mahogany, interspaced with faded framed photographs of long-dead loved ones. An ancient, dark grandfather clock tic-tocs in the hallway.

Every now and then Miss Lucy patted my hand, and her small soft palm comforted me. It was so warm, and I was so cold. An errant sunbeam struck her white hair, and, for just a moment, I was convinced that Miss Lucy is an angel, and I am but one of her chores on earth. “How’s the new puppy?” she asked brightly.

The thought of my Little Bubba made me laugh. “Oh, he’s fine. He’s probably torn the entire house down by now. He just hates it when I leave him alone.”

“Oh,” Miss Lucy whispered. “Did something happen to Piggy?”

“Oh, no.” I answered quickly. “Piggy’s there. She’s just not much company for Little Bubba. She’s old and not so playful anymore.” I didn’t add my thoughts: that Piggy is as sad for a dog as I am for a human.

Reading my mind, Miss Lucy asked, “How long has it been now, Dear?”

“Five months. In three days, it will be five months.”

Miss Lucy reached for my heart with her small white hand. “This wound will never heal, but beautiful things will grow from the sorrow. One day you won’t be able to see the wound for the blossoms.”

I took her hand and held it to my wet cheek (those darned surprise tears!) “I love you Miss Lucy.”

The little hand stroked my hair. “I know you do, Dear. And you know that I love you,
too.”

IV

Little Bubba and Piggy met me at the door, excited and happy because I was home. I tried hard tonight to give them extra love with their dinner, and took them on a long walk in the desert despite the wind. Piggy ran ahead while keeping a watchful eye on me, but Little Bubba never left my side. He somehow senses my need, and holds himself to me on an invisible leash of love.

Later, I stared blankly at the television before entering my day’s reports and this piece of the journal on the computer. When I log off, I’ll lie down on the couch, and Bubba and Piggy will lie down on the floor pillows, close enough for me to touch them. Then the cats, Baby and Maggie, will join me and the dogs on the couch, and all of us will draw comfort from the others while sinking into a black pit of unconsciousness.