After Spanish explorers conquered Central and South America, they scoured the present states of Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, California, Utah and Nevada searching for lost cities of gold. Motivated by faith, Spanish priests established missions for the conversion of natives to Catholicism. These missions, outposts of European civilization, still operate, draw modern men seeking their ancient roots.
The Mission San Xavier is south of Tucson and it’s construction was finished in 1797. One of the mission’s two towers has recently been restored and funds are currently being saved to restore the second one to it’s original condition.
The church interior, though small, is intimate and shows icons of the Catholic church, carved saints, candles, Holy Water, wood carvings, high ceilings and stained glass.
Early morning, these church courtyards are in shadows, bells are silent, doors are ajar and tourists snuggle in warm coats as they file into the small church to say their prayers.
Churches built by hand, with wooden dowels, seem more trustworthy than those built with power drills, metal studs, with huge HVAC systems.
The Holy Water is in a metal container, on a chair, in a hallway, with little paper cups to drink from instead of a long heavy ladle.
This water has been blessed, and, in a torrid desert landscape like this, water is always Holy, whether it is blessed or not.
Outside Hanger One at the Pima Aircraft Museum, in a dirt field, helicopters, prehistoric looking birds with rotating wings, are on display.
This Sikorski Utility helicopter was used at U.S. Coast Guard search and rescue stations in the seventies.
On night duty in U.S. Coast Guard Air Station radio rooms, part of my watch was relaying messages from aircraft to the Officer of the Day, answering calls from fishing widows wondering why their hubby wasn’t back in his easy chair with a beer in one hand and the channel changer in the other looking for football games.
Weather is always a consideration, and, in the gulf, squalls come up unexpectedly.. Hurricanes shut down oil rigs and personnel are routinely evacuated. Around water, you can always become a grisly statistic.
In those Vietnam years, us six foot sailors wore dress blues for ceremonies – dungarees, denim shirts, and white Dixie Cup hats for daily work.There were angry protests on the nightly news, signs in the streets, and burned American flags.
Now, decades after the tragic war, Vietnam is a thriving country instead of a place Americans had to lose a war in order to win it.
Some obligations can’t be run from, no matter how odious.
Countries, just like people, are not always smart about what they choose to do, or not to do.
The Pima Air Museum is an equal opportunity museum.
It has fighter planes, bombers, helicopters, experimental dreams, cargo planes, There are hangers filled with donated airplanes of every vintage, staffed with volunteers, and a large open field where aircraft have been retired from service. There are early primitive planes, and then more modern sleek riveted birds made out of metal, plastic and fiberglass that fly higher, faster, quieter.
From the bomber’s seat in the nose of a museum B-52, tattooed with buxom women, the bomber squinted through his viewfinder at the enemy target below. In his gun sights were manufacturing plants, bridges, military bases, railroad tracks, airstrips – strategic targets.
With the gentle push of a button, the bomber dropped his death packages, watched his bombs spiral towards Earth like wounded birds.Airmen, long after their missions were complete, could still hear screams in their mind as metal and stone ripped into people and pieces of cities fell like a child’s blocks knocked over by a careless hand.
Most planes on display in the museum have curved lines and their angles are sharp. Rivets on the older planes were done by hand by women in California factories and a volunteer tells Alan and I how Los Angeles plants, in WW11, were turning out one B-52 bomber a day that were immediately put into the war’s service and turned the war effort around.
Old dreams of flying like birds have come true and old dreams of conquering the world haven’t gone away.
The next Caesar, Attila the Hun, Genghis Khan, Hitler is just around time’s bend, and, when they arrive, there will be plenty of firepower at their disposal.
Making weapons is a human obsession.
We spend lots of time waiting in our lives.
We wait to be born and wait to be buried, wait to graduate, wait to raise kids, pay off a mortgage, retire, serve and be served,break par, get money back on our taxes.
If we are lucky the line keeps moving and we have more people behind us, than ahead.
This line started forty five minutes before six, the scheduled time for the chili fundraiser for the Lapidary Club. In the auditorium, attendees visit old friends and make new ones. You would think that with less time left in their hourglass old people would be in a bigger hurry.
The Chili Fundraiser is a success.
The chili isn’t spicy enough for some but we’ll wait till next time to see if the chefs get bolder. The older we get the more bland our food has to be.
Raising funds is always a challenge, but tonight they SOLD all their tickets.
People watching beats television any time.
Interstate 10 runs through Tucson and angles northwest to Phoenix.
Once you leave Tucson, the first spot of interest, higher than rabbit’s ears, is Picacho Peak. This peak is actually a group of peaks ringed by saquaros. For miles surrounding this congregation of peaks,there is nothing but dead flat dirt, mesquite, cactus.
At the exit to the Picacho Peak RV Resort, and an Arizona state campground, is Picacho Peak Plaza – a Shell gas station and curio shop. These knick knack shops scratch out an existence throughout the west and if you can get in and out without buying something that will forever gather dust on a shelf at home, you are far too disciplined.
Near the front entrance, I am confronted by a stuffed Jackalope, a mythical American West animal that is part rabbit and part antelope.
According to Wikipedia, the Jackalope prefers whiskey as a drink, can cause a lot of damage to one’s shins. There is a man in the Dakotas who still makes them and sells in bulk to Cabela’s for around $150.00 apiece. It is said that Jackalopes are good mimics, and, at night, cowboys singing around a fire under the stars, can hear them harmonizing.
My T or C friend, Kirk, buys himself a candy bar for sugar energy and we hit the road again for Tucson, on an expedition to a camera shop to look at a new lens for Kirk’s camera. He photographs homes for sale, for Green Valley real estate agents.
I think I see a Jackalope waving at us as we pull back onto the freeway, but Kirk says I am mistaken.
The human mind, our real-unreal world keeps reminding me, is more frail than some people want to admit.
Getting out of this tourist trap without spending a dime tells me I’m tougher than I thought I was.
Drones, as defined in middle school, were worker bees who served the Queen, built and maintained the hive, and lived a dronish life.
In high school, drone became a word describing people working in cubicles who did jobs the CEO hadn’t figured out how to eliminate.
Now, much older, drones are flying in my neighborhood, rumored to be delivering packages but mostly collecting data for the C.I.A and Deep State..
Original drones were for hobbyists who moved to them from model airplanes. Drones have flexibility. They can hover, do quick turns, are lightweight, easy to maneuver, and can go places planes can’t. In later incarnations, surveillance cameras were added, and, in warfare, missiles were mounted that could be triggered in Virginia to take out insurgents in Iraq.
These DJI Phantom’s are for sale in Best Buy, not any more expensive than a computer,or a nice camera lens,or big screen TV. In the right hands, drones take breathtaking videos around the world that you can see on You Tube.
The move to make machines to execute our desire for power, pleasure,spying and money intensifies.
Drones are now a reality we are going to be hearing more about, whether we want to, or not.
Technology, as we all know, has lots of plus, and lots of minus.
It is nine in the morning and I see some walkers, a few bicycles, a golf cart, an older lady buttoned up in her custom get about on the Rincon RV Park streets. The speed limit is 10 miles per hour and a familiar saying is posted everywhere –
” Remember, only you can prevent speed bumps. ”
This village, built on land that was first hunted and fished by the Hohokam Indians, has been here since the fifties.
A dedication to the owner, George Leary, by the front office, calls the park his dream. It is now the realization of his many dreams and locals tell me the old man, in his eighties, still patrols the park in an old Ford pickup with tools and PVC pipe in the truck bed.
In the 1100 available spaces are park model homes, crosses between manufactured homes and RV’s, huge motor coaches, fifth wheels and trailers. About two thirds of the spaces are filled with park models, and in the summer, half of these are vacant.
This village has front gate security and enforced rules.
There are no drag races, loitering panhandlers, people sleeping in their cars with a front seat full of eviction papers. You don’t see or hear teens with pants dropped below their butts showing hearts on their undershorts,tattoos and piercings,vehicles with body damage, headlights missing, oil leaks,midnight parties with speakers full blast, drunks singing in the street, soiled pampers thrown in flower beds, shaved heads, profanity.
For those, over 55, who are here, this place is an oasis.
George Leary’s dream resonates.
In the culture wars, it is good to have a retreat where wagons are circled and your guns and bullets and Bibles are close at hand.
Chichita, known by friends and park residents, as ” Bananas, ” met her Maker on February 29th, 2016.
Not over ten pounds, soaking wet, she was a loyal dog, a steadfast alarm system, a roaming nuisance in the Rincon Resort RV Park. She was a mother to some twenty five puppies and, until she was fixed, was a favorite of the boys, especially on D and E streets.
Her owner, Mrs. Mildred Buttercup, found Chichita slumped in a neighbor’s yard and called police but they insisted the death occurred on private property and was out of their jurisdiction.
Chichita, loved by some, hated by some, tolerated by the rest, lived a full and useful life. She knew how to fetch newspapers, bark at the postman, pee on her neighbor’s best roses, and curl up on Mrs. Buttercup’s two thousand dollar couch.
Services were short, and donations to the animal fund can be made at the RV Park’s office with proceeds used to improve the dog run where Chichita should have spent more of her time.
How we do our business, whether human or animal, has consequences and ends that are often messy.
The best way to understand the Sonoran desert is to drive to the end of a dirt road, take no water or matches, leave your phone in the car, don’t tell anyone where you are, wear light clothes and no hat, and hike till you get lost.
The second best way to understand the Sonoran desert is go to a museum and go through its exhibits.
The Sonoran desert starts in Arizona, spills into California and reaches down the entire Mexican Baja peninsula. It has multiple ecosystems and a variety of plants,animals, insects and minerals. Water is scarce but prospectors donkey’s know where to find it, the biggest discovery of all.
This morning, walking through paths notated on visitor maps, Alan and I see coyotes, a caged mountain lion, skunks, saquaros, desert springs,scorpions, barn owls, sun shades fashioned out of rope and netting, a boojam tree, aviary birds,flourescent minerals and underground bats, all part of nature’s bouquet.
We also get to see live wildlife in an auditorium where a skunk, porcupine, macaw, and bull snake are brought out for us to admire while a museum employee answers audience questions and gives nature lectures.
Our macaw is released from one handler’s grasp and flies from the front stage to an attendant’s arm at the back of our auditorium. His wings make a shoo shoo shooing sound as he flies over us and I can hear his beak cracking the peanut his handler gives him after he has completed his task.
This live presentation is a highlight of our morning expedition but two horned toads, embedded in a stuccoed wall at the front of the venue, are also memorable..
They are sharing a quiet moment before the sun goes down, like two brothers remembering baseball home runs in the intersection of Bellamah and Aspen street in Albuquerque, New Mexico in June 1955.
Tennis balls fly a long way when you hit them solid with an authentic Kentucky Slugger hickory bat.
Desert nights get cooler than desert days.
In the winter, day temperatures can rise to the eighties, but, at night, they can drop to the forties. Park models have propane or electric heat and RV’s are not immune from Mother Nature’s mood swings. When the sun drops you need a jacket, a flashlight, and a heater.
” Call this number and put it where the delivery truck can see it, ” are my Tuesday morning instructions at the RV park office.
I am given a four by six inch piece of orange card stock with a place to write my name, my space number, and the date of my request.
ARIZONA PROPANE takes up most of the card space with barely room for their phone number and website. I call, give credit card information, get scheduled for delivery on Wednesday between eight and ten.
Wednesday morning at ten forty five, the delivery truck pulls up and its driver runs a hose to my propane tank, fills it, and writes a ticket for the minimum charge of five gallons and a five dollar service fee. The bill is $20.00.
” That will keep you warm, ” the kid says, as he rolls his supply hose back onto a reel on the back of the company truck.
From my space he pulls across the street and services a three hundred thousand dollar recreational vehicle.
Being warm for twenty bucks is a bargain.
Spending three hundred thousand for anything on wheels seems like a walk on the wild side.
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