Mogollon Muse

Mogollon Muse CREATIVE ARTS OF GILA COMMUNITY COLLEGE SPRING 2012 S TORIES : Death in Devil’s Claw Losing Earle Sideways A Sobering Incident Death of Floyd Brown Rodeo Man Year of the Snake Man The Fortune Cookie And much more ...

V ISUAL A RTS : Photography Watercolor Oils Acrylics Mixed Media “TWISTED TREE” BY ELISSA HUGENS ALESHIRE

A Musing Table of Contents 4-5 DEATH IN DEVIL’S CLAW

By Denny Hager A wildfire takes everything except the love of wild things.

6-8 A SOBERING INCIDENT

By Andy Towle His life began the day she threw him out.

9-10 FINAL REWARD

By Mari Janeck Not even God can figure out relationships.

11 LOSING EARLE

By Peter Aleshire The raven flew finally through the grief.

12-13 COLOR PORTFOLIO 14-16 FEE AND THE CHEECHACO

By Andy McKinney He had the Zepher, but did the unforgivable.

17-18 Monster Within

By Heather Hollenbeck Fear was not the trap — it was the anger.

19-21 Fortune Cookie

By Ken Crump Turns out, fate has a sense of humor.

22 Life & Death of Floyd Brown

By Tom Russell Remarkably enough, he died just as he lived.

23 THING YOU LOVE

By Peter Aleshire Tale of a father, a day and a Lazuli Bunting.

Creation (sketch) Juliet Wing 34-35 SIDELINED

By Cindi Dougherty The stroke left the door open just a crack.

36-37 COLOR PORTFOLIO 38 IN THE KITCHEN

By Mari Janeck One step ahead of Gramma.

39 CREATIVE ARTS CLASSES 40-41 HIKE TO HELLSGATE

By James Hagen A tough hike for human lightning rods.

24-25 COLOR PORTFOLIO

42-44 MESSAGE OF THE NIGHT

26-27 HOUSES

By Paul Hanover To be found, you must first be lost.

by Linda Teasley The places we inhabit define and confine us.

28-30 YEAR OF THE SNAKES

By Ellen McCoy He bagged her heart as deftly as a rattlesnake.

31-33 THE QUIT-IT

By Ken Crump Slingshot + bear — what could go wrong?

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45 RODEO MAN

POEMS 18 IN THE MORNING Andy Towle 22 TIMELESS-LULLABIES Heather Hollenbeck 30 CATTLE GUARD Andy Towle 41 MISSING YOU James Hagen 42 THE PRINCESS AND THE SHARK Frank Jennings

By Teddy Cohen She knew better, but she couldn’t help herself.

44 IDAHO AVALANCHE KILLS COUPLE Frank Jennings

46-47 GRACE OF A MAN

47 HOPE DIES AGONIZINGLY Frank Jennings

By Denny Harger Love and terror contended in the hospital.

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

ARTISTS Francisco Lopez Photographs, paintings (5, 14, 24, 33)

Maria Cohen Watercolors (6, 12, 13, 24, 26, 27)

Juliet Wing Pastels (2, 7, 20, 43)

Elissa Hugens Aleshire Watercolor, pastel (8, 13, 22, 24, 36, cover)

Susan McIntyre Oil (45, 46)

Ann Christiansen Oil (12, 13, 45)

Peanut Gallery by Tom Brossart

Emalee Sweet Oil paintings (9, 47)

Ingar LeGrande Oil (12)

GCC: A creative community

Baring their souls: Making you laugh

Howard Rush Photographs (18, 19, 30, 35)

Jananda Sample Mixed media (21)

Tom Brossart Photographs (Thruout)

Randy Hust Photograph (17, 25)

Sherry Goode Photographs (25, 37)

Don Kisseberth Photographs (25, 34, 36, 37)

Carolyn Davis Photographs (23, 25, 28, 37)

Michele Nelson Photographs (15, 16)

Steve Peacock Photograph (37)

Barbara Zirinsky Mixed media (10)

H

e grew up rough, taking refuge in the woods. Then teacher showed up in my creative writing class at GCC. he got tangled up in drugs and biker gangs. But the You’ll find many of them represented in the pages that follow. love of a good woman changed everything, so he Moreover, as these pages will demonstrate, GCC cleaned up, started a family and finally started to write. also boasts some of the most surprising and original artists She drove an 18-wheeler when hardly any other and photographers you’ll find anywhere. women did, got married and divorced 10 times, lost loved I think it has to do with the way that Rim Country ones and had a heart attack. Yet somehow she remained collects people. One of the most interesting questions you full of joy. So she took up writing, determined to tell her can ask in Payson is “how’d you end up here?” tale.

The answer almost always involves a She lavished her life on her children and great story about seeking meaning, purpose her husband, taking nothing for herself. But as their need for her lessened, she discovered a

By Peter Aleshire and joy.We knew that if you could just read need she’d never known existed. She took an art Writing instructor these stories and savor this art, it would give class at Gila Community College and began you heart and courage and a new appreciation producing luminous watercolors almost by for this community of seekers. instinct.

Fortunately, Payson Roundup publisher John These sound like characters from a short story — but they’re just three of the extraordinary writers and artists Naughton proved willing to let us print this first issue and you’ll encounter in this first edition of the Mogollon Muse, offer it to you. We’re grateful for his support — and his belief in the beloved community we have found here in a showcase for the work coming out of classes at GCC. It was one of the great pleasures of my life to have Rim Country. We’re also indebted to Payson Roundup edidiscovered so many people with so much to say in so small tor Tom Brossart who not only teaches photography at a town so off the beaten track.

GCC, but also contributed many of his own photos to this I met the writers represented here while teaching a effort. creative writing class at GCC. Before arriving in Payson So we hope you’ll enjoy Ellen’s hilarious story by back paths four years ago, I’d spent 35 years as a proabout her romance with the shiftless rattlesnake hunter, fessional writer, editor and teacher. That included 12 years Denny’s effort to overcome his terror of the smell of the teaching writing classes at Arizona State University. hospital as he listened to his wife’s diagnosis and the about Landing in Payson, I didn’t know what to expect. the day Andy’s wife saved him by calling the police to take Surely, students here wouldn’t stack up well against all him from his house. those hard-driving students at ASU — nor against all the More to the point, I hope you’ll take a writing class professional writers I’ve worked with over the years.

— or sign up for a pottery, photography, oil painting, folk Just goes to show how little I knew about writing art or watercolor class. A new term starts this week — so or art or people for that matter. you’ve still got time.

In truth, the best writers I’ve encountered as a You’ve got a story. It’s high time you told it.

Death in Devil’s Claw He could not save from the fire the place that saved him from his life “BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…THIS IS A MESSAGE FROM THE EMERGENCY BROADCAST SERVICE. THE NAVAJO COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE HAS ISSUED AN IMMEDIATE EVACUATION NOTICE FOR THE COMMUNITIES OF HEBER, OVERGAARD, AND PINEDALE. ALL RESIDENTS MUST TAKE HIGHWAY 260, WEST TO PAYSON”.

Then the message repeated through my truck radio, and again five minutes later.

“Holy crap!” I said. “Five thousand people running for their lives.”

I stopped at the stop sign at Highway 260 near Homes burned Kohl’s Ranch. I looked east and the sky was gone! until rows of A huge gray blanket of charred black chim- burnt forest twisted skyward. I neys stood alone on pulled the brake and stepped out. Smoke filled the entire ash-covered lots eastern sky and the plume’s where white plastic upper level drifted west in fences melted into front of the sun.

The air turned dark, the Earth not with the darkness of night, but the dry, gritty gloom of smoke and ash.

The fire burned twenty miles away but looked like it flamed just over the next ridge. I watched the billowing smoke and listened to the news on the radio. I learned that Pinedale, Clay Springs, and Linden evacuated the day before. Incident command closed 260 between Overgaard and Show Low, Arizona.

I shook my head in surprise and said, “Dang, I gotta get out more.”

Still, the Smokey embers rolled. I watched, entranced by the hypnotic pull of the rising column.

The fire rolled across treetops on the edge of Overgaard, where a family tried to evacuate but they couldn’t catch their dog. Finally, without Rover, they followed a long line of slow vehicles. They disappeared into the blanket and hoped to come out the other side.

The last few carloads saw hellish flames come from the southwest. First, the crown fire - one hundred foot eruptions of dark orange and blistering bright yellow, tipped with black that disappeared into PAGE 4

the sky. The moisture in the tree trunks boiled to steam and the trees cracked like they’d been hit by lightning. Embers fell from the crowns and landed on rooftops and the forest floor. The ground fire spread fast with fifteen-foot flames and galaxies of gray and black smoke. Propane tanks went off, some exploded into a fiery mushroom while others shot a steady jet of flame into the sky. After the trees and needles finished, homes burned until rows of charred black chimneys stood alone on ash-covered lots where white plastic fences melted into the Earth.

I climbed into my truck, turned around, and headed back to inform my crew at the Christian youth camp. We gathered around the television and turned to news channel 3. Bruce Haffner flew his news heliNonfiction copter around the fire and showed us a new plume on by Chediski peak. The dry Denny mountain ponderosas erupted into a traveling rage that Harger headed straight for the Mogollon Rim, prompting the latest round of evacuations.

I thought of my childhood home a few miles southwest of Overgaard. Not my home made of sheetrock and shingles, but the forest around it, the four dark, lichen filled canyons that gave me a hobbit’s sanctuary as a child.

It wasn’t that I came from a violent home, I did not, unless silence is violent. Everything I did seemed wrong, and I could look forward to doing more wrong tomorrow. So I stayed in the wilderness, where, if I survived, I knew I did something right.

I stomped my childhood from my mind with years of drug abuse and violence. However, like pictures in a safe-deposit box, my canyons held my memories and walking there turned the key. I could remember fly-fishing the soft flowing pools that dotted the rushing creek. I might have been eleven when Louis L’amour taught me how to hide my fire so I could cook my fish in secret. The fresh earth scent of rotting hollow logs brought me back to the long, dark, nights I slept under leaves. I felt safer in the spider crawling duff than I did in my empty bedroom.

On a topo map, my canyons formed a huge crippled hand. For fun, I called the place Devils Claw.

“God, please don’t burn my canyons, they keep my little boy safe.” I prayed, but somehow, I MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

knew they had to burn.

I headed for town again. This time I carried my heavy heart. I stopped at the Tormentia stop sign. The thick smoke overhead reduced the sun to by an off colored blemish in the haze. The grey air became Francisco brown as the wind swirled.

Butterfly sized ash flakes flutLopez tered in the breeze. The ceiling collapsed and brown smoke crashed to the forest floor. In three minutes, the visibility fell to one hundred yards.

I saw their headlights through the gross brown fog. Dim, like miniature suns, they descended the ridge to the east. I heard the rattle and clang of a trailer’s unhooked safety chains as they dragged along the pavement.

These people left in a hurry, I thought.

Drama makes time pass quickly. Other people arrived at the stop sign. We looked at each other but didn’t say a word. Then the cars came to a halt and we heard a thousand sirens scream the Fireman’s Charge as they went over the bridge at Kohl’s Ranch. The first fire engine from Prescott led ones from Kingman, Apache junction, Pauldon, Mayer, and Phoenix. Some came from as far away as Las Vegas, Bullhead, and Needles. Our crowd had grown to more than 20 people. Our silence broke. We stood on the hoods of our trucks, on rocks, and tree stumps. We cheered, clapped, screamed, and pumped our fists to cheer the fire fighters. I prayed for them to save my canyons, but I knew they couldn’t.

The fire trucks blew their air horns and continued east. The cars began to move west.

The last car came and I saw the dirty blond hair that framed a child’s shocked little face, filthy from smoke and ash with streaks of clean where tears ran. She rode in the back seat of an old rusty Chevy Impala, crammed between mounds of clothing, blankets, and family pictures. She turned and looked at me as they inched by. Our eyes locked for a moment and she seemed to ask, “Can’t you do something mister?” I understood the question in her eyes, but not the reason… until her car passed. A white vinyl sticker in the shape of a little girl and a dog stuck to the rear window. The tiny, tear-jerked child evacuated without her best friend.

Then they were gone.

The silence returned to our crowd. Like an allergic reaction to emotion, men lowered sunglasses over leaking eyes. The women just used a tissue and didn’t try to hide it.

Two weeks passed slowly. The Rodeo-Chediski fire died, the air cleared, and the fire engines returned home.

The alarm clock woke me at 3:30 am. I dressed in black and gray, camouflage in a ruined forest. I put my heart on my sleeve and drove to Devils Claw.

In the sinister predawn, I walked silently across the moonscape. Four inches of ash muted my footsteps.

I met the sun on a small flat on the south bank of upper Canyon Creek. Black shards of Blue Spruce and Douglas fir stood barren on a gray floor of ash that turned the water black and suffocated the fish. Exploded chunks of huge boulders lay covered with soot in a wasteland decorated by the Devil himself.

The decomposing leaves, needles, and mossy hollow logs that led me to my childhood memories evaporated into the dinosaur killing cloud that had scratched my eyes two weeks earlier.

I cried for my forest, wiped my eyes, and saw a deer. He had been lagging behind in the escaping stampede and fire caught him.

The immense heat evaporated the hide, muscle, and organs off his body. It left only the white outline of the skeleton and skull in the MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

light pillowy ashes. I could see every vertebra, tooth, rib, and hoof. Like an x-ray lying on the forest floor.

Then I heard the low hum of the wind as it approached. The hind legs began to disappear into the air stream. I panicked and threw my daypack down on the upwind side and ripped off my shirt to cover the treasure. The wind blew harder. The deer disappeared in the breeze. I never knew anything could be that fragile.

I trekked on. The cliffs came together to make a deep rocky gorge a hundred feet wide, I climbed into the creek bottom. When the walls closed tighter, the breezy canyon began to cry like a dying child. It was the eerie hollow howl of Devils Claw.

I could smell the dead elk before I found them. They came upstream far enough to find a large basin carved by a waterfall. There they rested, stacked like a pileup on a freeway.

I could imagine their anguished bawl as the inferno raised the temperature in the gorge to 2000 degrees Fahrenheit. Rocks exploded, hair singed, and their last breath had the stench of their own burning flesh.

One cow tried particularly hard to survive; she had her head shoved into a crevice in the bedrock and it fit so tight she ripped both her ears off. I had to stop myself from kneeling and caressing her shoulder like a father to his injured daughter.

Then, a whimper, a whine and a cry came from under a pile of blackened boulders. I wondered if it might be my own ghost…the ghost of my little boy.

God, please don t A black dog limped out wagging burn my his singed tail and hot-stepping his blistered feet. I poured fresh water in a dimcanyons, they pled rock, because ash and rotting fish keep my little boy killed the creek. He lapped it up so I safe. I prayed, poured more. After more water and crackers from my pack, he followed me three but somehow, I miles to my truck. knew they had to I didn’t know who belonged to the burn. dog, but I knew where to look first. The old rusty Chevy Impala sat in front of a burned out trailer house in Overgaard.

Light, life, and happiness return to the beautiful little girl in ragged bib overalls who thought she lost everything.

Winter brought its snow and washed away the ashes giving chance to locust bushes and tall grasses. Turkeys filled the canyons to harvest the tender new growth and I came with my homemade bow to poke arrows at a Thanksgiving turkey. I decided to visit the scene up the creek were the elk died. I found piles of bones picked clean by buzzards and beetles. I saw her skull still lodged in the crevice were she died, her bones yet held her shape but bleached white, and where her tummy used to be laid the tiny skeleton of her unborn calf.

I abandoned my quest for a turkey and sat on the concrete box that led water back into the creek from Canyon Creek Fish Hatchery.

I remembered, 1970 or 71, sitting in the same spot, on my father’s lap. We fished day after day and talked for hours and hours about how to care for the forest and how to survive in it. The memories seemed so real and vivid, like they came from yesterday. I realized I love my forest because my father taught me to love my forest. It is my heritage. My father gave it to me…thanks Dad! PAGE 5

A Sobering Incident The day she threw him out ended one life — and started another

Nonfiction by Andy Towle

Angst by Maria Cohen

W

alking down the hall and coming out into the living space, Andy’s surprise at finding four County Sheriff Deputies in the space between the living area and the wood stove who greeted him cordially, shocked him out of his drunken reverie.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

“Your wife asked us to come over, and take you somewhere away from here,” said the deputy closest to Andy.

“Why? What have I done?”

“Apparently, Mr. Towel, your wife is fearful you might be violent with her and your boys.”

“You’re not serious are you Bobbie?”

“You need help, Andy,” she said with a tremor in her voice.

“And we are either getting a divorce or you are getting sober. You can come back when you agree to get help.”

With those words ringing in his ears, two of the deputies escorted him peacefully out of the house.

Andy, when not drinking, could be counted on as a decent fellow. He loved his boys, his wife, his work, the house they had recently built together and the life they shared. Living in a former corn field, his favorite way of telling people where they lived when asked, was a piece of heaven.

“Where can we take you, Mr. Towel,” the deputy in the passenger seat asked.

“It’s Toll, like toll bridge, or toll gate, or life takes its toll,” Andy said with some irritation. “Just call me Andy, it’s so much easier.”

PAGE 6

“Where can we take you, Andy?” the deputy responded.

“My parents’ house. They live in Fort Atkinson.”

“Can you remember how to get there?”

“Yeah. I’ll tell you where to go when we get into Fort.”

Arriving at the dark and empty house, Andy sighed in relief.

Telling his parents what had happened would have been a shameful failure. We may be adults, but we are still children to our parents.

The driving deputy turned around and said, “We’ll wait here, and make sure you are safely in the house. Do you have a key?”

“Yeah, I got a key for the garage door.” Andy said.

The passenger deputy unlocked the car door and led him up to the garage. Andy turned the key and activated the automatic door.

“Thanks for the ride,” Andy smiled and waved as the door went back down. But the cop car didn’t move, it just idled in the driveway, waiting.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “They’re gonna wait until I go into the house and settle down.”

Andy trudged into the kitchen, turned a light on, walked through the dining room into the living room, turned another light on, threw his light wind breaker across a chair and turned the TV on. Standing by the living room window he waved to the vehicle.

Flashed lights from the car signaled their departure.

“Thank God,” he said with relief. “Now I’ll just wait a couple of minutes and then start back to the house. I gotta talk to that woman.”

Andy’s shock at what had happened at the house froze his MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Art Teacher by Juliet Wing mind and the only thoughts even remotely passing through were: She turned on me, she finally had enough, what am I gonna do?

Mom and Dad can’t find out. Oh my god, I can’t tell them. It’s too shameful, too much of a failure. Now everyone will know, I’m a drunk, an alcoholic, I’ve become my parents and I have to admit it. I can’t do that. I’m a decent guy. I work. I like my work. I have a nice house, good kids. I’m an abusive bastard, I drink to unconsciousness so I don’t have to deal with anything that remotely resembles responsibility.

Maybe I should hang myself in the darkroom like I planned. Shit, Bobbie found that noose and took it down. What am I gonna do? I can’t be thrown out. I’ll do anything to keep what I have. God damn that bitch, she had to bring it out into the open. I gotta get out of this. I gotta talk to her, I gotta get back to the house. What does she have in mind? She must have a plan. I know Bobbie, she has a plan. I hope I can talk to her when I get back to the house. I can’t leave it like this. There must be a way to fix this. I’m going back to the house. Something needs to be worked out.

I’m not gonna tell mom and dad. We’ll fix it, we gotta fix it. I’ll do anything to fix it.

A 20-year-old memory surfaced. Andy remembered a vow he made to himself when he at 14 and just new to high school. His parents had come home drunk, falling all over him and Ron with affection and money and drunken I love yous. He hated it. The smell, the blurred, blood shot eyes, the too big smile and overly affectionate dad, who never hugged or said anything complimentary to him otherwise.

He vowed he would never get drunk, never touch alcohol. His lips, his body, would always be virgin to the hateful brew.

He would never stoop to the pathetic behavior he had seen so often.

Like all alcoholics he had succumbed. He had tasted. He had fallMOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

en off of his own pedestal, and crashed mightily onto a vomit-soaked floor and slept in it more than once. His hate for himself grew and he drank to forget.

Waiting for cars Andy reflected on Bobbie’s speech earlier. So, she sees our time together as dreaded weekends, an unbearable two days with a drunken Mom and Dad jerk. Driving to and from Milwaukee during the work week, spending an abusive weekend can t find out. Oh with me is beginning to wear her down. As a my god, I can t tell surgical nurse she has enough blood and guts reality. And now, I’m picking on the boys, them. It s too with mean language and threatening to hit shameful, too much them. No wonder she thinks I’m a burden. of a failure. Now By the time Andy had walked to the edge of Fort Atkinson, he was sober. He realeveryone will know, ized if he didn’t get a ride pretty soon, a 20 I m a drunk, an mile walk on a dark highway could be a dangerous journey. But, life is full of little comalcoholic, I ve forts: just then, a driver stopped, rolled down become my parents the passenger side window and asked in a and I have to admit drunken voice, “Where ya going buddy?” it.

“Watertown.”

“Hey, me too!” came the joyous reply. “Get in. Maybe we can have a few beers at The Feed Bag.” “I don’t think so,” Andy said.

“Ok, just trying to be friendly. My name’s Larry.”

“Andy.”

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“What’cha doin’ out on the highway at this time of night?”

All the lights in the house blazed as Andy walked up the 100Larry asked. yard-long driveway. Did Bobbie expect me to return? Andy wondered.

“Fight with my wife.”

He walked quietly, slowly to the front door and stole a quick peek in “I’m not married anymore,” Larry said. “She said I drank too the slit of glass next to the front door. He saw Bobbie toss the remainmuch and if I didn’t quit she’d leave.” Larry laughed and almost hit ing toys into their box. the mileage sign for Watertown, Jefferson and Lake Mills, as the car “What the hell time is it?” Andy whispered to himself. He careened off the side of the road and back over to the opposite lane. looked at his watch, 1:30. She must have talked to the boys and Any vestige of alcohol still in Andy’s system had just dissipatexplained what had happened. He knew Joshua would ask questions. ed in a sudden rush of fear.

Zak would’ve listened and absorbed everything.

“How about if I drive?” Andy asked.

Andy stole around the house and looked in every window. He “Nah, I got it under control. I drive drunk pretty often. I’m felt like a burglar casing the joint. Zak lay curled up with his blanket, experienced.” but Joshua’s light filled the room. Andy peeked in the window. He too “I really don’t need a ride all the way to Watertown,” Andy had surrendered to sleep. said. “You know where the Pine Cone restaurant is?”

Andy breathed easier. He didn’t want them awake if this turned “Yeah, sure,” Larry slurred. “I go there for coffee sometimes to ugly. He tried the front door and amazingly, it opened. He slipped quikeep my eyes open when I wanna go to Watertown and hit the bars etly into the house. there.”

Bobbie came down the hall and saw him standing there. She “Well, I live about 2 miles stopped, her body rigidly still. past the restaurant and you can “What are you doing here?” drop me off on the highway when she said.

I tell you to slow down, ok?”

“You have my attention.”

“Sure,” Larry said.

Andy said. “What are you going Andy got out of the car, to do?” watched Larry drive away and “It’s more like, what are YOU looked down Hwy. 26, as the hum going to do?” of the vehicle faded on its way to “What do you mean?” Andy Watertown. The highway hum asked. reminded him of his current jour“Andy, no more games. ney, their lives and what might Answer the question.” change if he kept up his current “What are my choices?” pace of drinking.

“I don’t care, anymore. Well, Bobbie and Andy worked I do care. I love you, but you must in Milwaukee at different hospichoose. If you quit drinking, get tals. She at Mount Sinai as a surgihelp, and stay sober, I will support cal nurse and he as a medical phoyou and we can work this through. tographer at Children’s Hospital.

But if you fail, even one time, we The drive into the metro area from are done.”

Johnson Creek took about 45 minAndy stood in the living utes and the drive into the crunch space, where two hours ago a of cars of Milwaukee’s downtown shock of reality brought a drunken took another 45. mess of a life into focus, not movAs a binge drinker, Andy ing, not talking, not anything. loaded up on alcohol Friday night “What do I need to do to stay and didn’t stop until some time sober?”

Sunday afternoon, if he was still Bobbie walked over to him conscious. His meanness, verbal crying, hugged him, gently sobabuse and threatened violence bing into his chest. started to escalate. The only time Thirty-one years and always Bobbie got a decent break was an alcoholic. Will Andy ever drink The Two of Us when Andy lay on the sofa in a again? It remains an open quesdrunken stupor. tion, answered one day at a time.

Elissa Hugens Aleshire All alone out in the counAndy went into a Jefferson try, if Andy turned on her in a County sponsored alcohol promoment of uncontrolled violence, the isolation was dangerous. Her gram. He joined AA, attended meetings, and spoke about his problem. choices narrowed as time pushed Andy closer to violence. His actions He also modified his behavior and substituted running for drinking. of abuse, both verbal and physical, flooded him with shameful images After a year of solid, sober behavior, Andy decided to manage his life he knew belonged to him. on his terms and only rarely attends any more AA meetings. There are Andy looked up the hill of Emerald Drive and took a deep still days of desire. For some, it never leaves. breath. Virgin territory approached. He and Bobbie had had a few disBobbie and Andy weathered this storm and stayed together for agreements in their eight year marriage, but never a confrontation. He many years, but eventually their lives discovered other paths. They felt sober, scared, a little angry, and apprehensive about what might divorced, but have contact occasionally through Joshua and Zak. take place in this apprehensive future.

Both remarried and still live in Arizona.

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MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Mission by Emmalee Sweet

Final Reward Relationships are so odd, sometimes even the Good Lord can’t figure them out

U

“Enough, you need to see why you received such a great reward.” p he flew into the brightly lit city of Heaven, which smelled liked newly The Lord pulled out the Book of Life and flipped it open to Jim’s opened purple lilacs and peonies. A pocket door opened and Jim stood page. All the pages appeared pristine. before Jesus, whose brown eyes shone a warm welcome.

“Ah, yes, I see where it all started with that first kiss. The little “Enter, my faithful friend. See your new home.” Jim stood before the imp with her hands behind her back asked if you wanted a kiss. When most beautiful Pueblo adobe house. The beehive fireplace, terra cotta you said yes, she handed you a candy kiss. Then you asked her for a real floors, and plants took his breath away. one, and she says, ‘Are you sure you want to? Every boy that kisses me “You sure deserve it, putting up with Mari for over forty years.” falls in love with me’.”

“Well, you made her that way,” Jim told the Lord.

She turned on her heels and walked away, her ponytail “Oh, no I didn’t. My plan called for an early April birth, with each parting step. So you arose and an Aries, practical, sure footed, etc., but with her stubborn Reflections by swinging grabbed her and kissed her and then wouldn’t see her for streak, she held off for as long as she could.

“Her poor mother carried her for ten months and then Mari Mari Janeck a week. She really got to you. I gave you seven days to get her out of your system, but you wouldn’t listen to me. wouldn’t walk for another seventeen months. Strong willed, You had to go back for more. See what you get for not wouldn’t you say? listening?”

Acts first and then maybe thinks about it later. You know what a “I’ve never been bored. She makes me laugh, unpredictable in the Taurus woman acts like”? extreme, and her mind intrigues me. Where does she get those ideas?”

“Yes,” Jim said grinning ear to ear.

“Exasperating would nail it on the head, right Jim?” “Jim, we don’t have any sex up here.”

The Lord turned to Mari’s page. Most of her pages looked dingy and “And you call this heaven? Did Mari arrive up here too?” gray. She received a D-. How could that happen? Mari, very accommo“Yes, barely. I gave her a sleeping bag. Oh, and I plan on pulling a dating did everything Jim wanted without complaining, nagging, arguing, little joke on her.” or pouting. He loved her input and then made the final decision.

“Mari will hate that. She’s afraid of roughing it. She needs all the Maybe, her sarcasm, impatience with herself, off- the -wall sense of comforts of home, shower, bathroom, washing machine, dryer, humor, outrageous behavior to shock people, and super- sensitivity to microwave and radio.”

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

PAGE 9

Flying Heart by Barbara Zirinsky criticism earned her the D-.

Jim thought of Mari as hilarious. He never yelled at her or got angry.

Well, too late now to undo her personality, he thought.

“When I gave her a free will, she took advantage of it. She only did what she felt like doing and omitted things she didn’t want to do, but should have done.” The Lord sighed.

The Lord saw Jim’s anguished look and pulled down a screen to show Jim his life with Mari.

Jim saw himself carefully removing nails from the paneling to keep the plaster on the wall. Mari hung it inches from the crown molding, askew. Using 500 nails, the whole box on a 4’x8’ section, it took six hours to get them all out. She had tried to save him time by putting up the paneling herself to surprise him when he came home from work.

While Jim pulled out nails, Mari went outside and ripped out all his prized rose bushes. The huge pile in the middle of the backyard looked ready for a Homecoming bonfire. She thought they were weeds. Of course, they wouldn’t bloom in a Wisconsin autumn.

What a helpmate!

The moments Next Jim saw himself high up on the ladder, of fear when painting the exterior of their home steel blue, which cancer stuck matched his eye color. Mari picked up sticks which covered the whole front yard. “Hey, honey, where do her worried sticks come from?” Mari yelled. you the most.

“You almost fell off the ladder laughing at her The night joke. You saw by her expression, that she hadn’t a after her clue. So you hollered back, ‘from trees.’ Take the surgery, you city girl into the country and she still remains a city couldn t girl.” understand a “The patience you always showed Mari blew me away. Remember when you both sat and watched the word she spoke 1988 Winter Olympics. During one cross country to you over the skiing event she turned to you and asked, ‘Jim, what phone. happens when they come to a part of the country like Florida and they don’t find any snow?’

“You bit down on your tongue so hard to stop from laughing at her, but when blood dripped out your mouth, Mari thought you were dying and ran to call the Rescue Squad.

“Remember the time she had PMS and started crying when she heard a song that reminded her of Aunt Addie, her favorite dead aunt?

You looked at your watch and told her that she had five minutes to start her period and she did. I loved that, the Lord laughingly said.

“The moments of fear when cancer struck her worried you the most.

The night after her surgery, you couldn’t understand a word she spoke to you over the phone. The Morphine had taken effect.

“You imagined that she would get up and go outside, walking semiconscious along McDowell Road. You pictured her undressed, pushing the IV hook-up pole, mumbling to herself, totally unaware of her whereabouts. (Not unlike real life).

“You called work and told them you would come in later and arrived at the hospital by six. When you told her of your thoughts, she laughed so hard, the staples loosened and you paged the doctor. Not funny for you though.

Finally, the Lord asked “Jim, whatever possessed you to give Mari a blender and ice cube crusher? How could you, on your fifth anniversary?

“The next day, she went out and purchased a five pound bag of ice, a PAGE 10

quart of Bacardi rum, limeade and grenadine. If crushing a couple of ice cubes made her happy that night, can you imagine how ecstatic she got with a five pound bag?

“Whirr, crunch, grind, crunch, whirr for what seemed like hours.

Compulsive behavior to the extreme, wouldn’t you say?

“She filled the freezer with crushed ice, wondering where to put the ice cream, frozen meats and vegetables.

“Then she called up the elderly widows in the neighborhood and invited them over for her frozen strawberry Bacardis, made with the ice cream.

“The scene on your arrival home after a hard day, permanently etched in your brain, wasn’t very pretty, right?

“The 80-year-old ladies, clothes half off half on, sprawled on the couch and chairs with Mari Go-Go dancing on the coffee table. All the downstairs windows opened in the June heat with the sound of Steppenwolf blaring, gave you a headache.

“She didn’t have any alcohol because you told her not to drink when you weren’t with her. The ladies all took turns dancing on the table before you arrived home. You lucked out not having to see that!”

“But Lord, I bought her the blender so she would whip up malted milks.”

“Did you have to hover over her, breathing down her neck, so that she forgot to put the lid back on? You know better than that, Jim.” “She sure laughed when it erupted all over the cupboards, ceiling and her clothes. Lord, why did you make her laugh so much?”

“She’s merry, that’s her name.”

“Will I see her? Does she look the same? Can I take her home or must she stay in her sleeping bag?”

“You ask a lot of questions. Yes, you will see her. No, she doesn’t look the same, and if you must, you can take her home with you.”

“How will I know her then?”

“I left her singing voice intact.”

“Noooo, she sounds like chalk screeching across the blackboard.”

“Gotcha. I gave her a heavenly sound. Get it?” “ I heard you possess a sense of humor.” Jim chuckled.

“Yes, that’s why I permitted Mari to stay that way. I need a laugh now and then too.”

“Help me, please God, help me.” Mari sang out in her new heavenly voice.

Instantly they stood in front of her. She looked so alarmed and said, “There’s a huge spider in my sleeping bag.”

“That’s the joke I wanted to play on her.” the Lord chuckled.

“Can I kill it? Jim asked.”

“No.” He said, turning it instantly into a beautiful butterfly. Mari ran after it, caught it and caressed it.

The Lord turned to Mari and asked her if she wanted to live in the Pueblo. Mari who loved Native Americans all her life, jumped for joy.

Now for all eternity she would live like an Indian maiden.

When they entered their home, the Lord walked away muttering, “A match made in Heaven.”

When Jim awoke, he wanted to tell Mari about his dream.

She, having read his mind, sat at the computer writing this story.

The secret to happiness lies in having the wife believe that her husband attained perfection and for the perfect husband to let his flawed wife do whatever she pleases.

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

fled into the desert, the highway humming past at 85. I fled the memory of him, the lack of him, everything he would have been. I could not drive fast enough. And I could not find a radio station that didn’t make me cry. So I drove, away from the coast, through the stalled traffic, into the wider spaces, seeking a return to the desert, mindless and bereft.

My eldest son had just lost his firstborn son, a stillbirth at full term. We had all gathered there in the hospital room, after the doctors induced labor to somehow help Karen get through the endless hours until she could bring Earl into the world he would never know. She was so brave and strong that it broke my heart. And Caleb, my son, was so strong and kind standing next to her in his so helpless devotion, that it filled my heart back up to breaking. So we all waited in the hallway, the one pit of grief in a maternity ward brimming with joy and hope.

And when Earle came finally into the world, so still and small, we kept him with us for a time, trying to somehow gather collectively the strength to let him go.

After a week of dazed waking and putting aside impossible thoughts, we had a service to celebrate how much he’d taught us in his little time.

And then I fled, into the desert.

Back to my life. Away from the great stifled stillness of grief.

But I could not drive fast enough to make sense of anything.

The wind, undulant hills, the shreds of white clouds on blue sky – all seemed a cruel injustice. How could the world bear to be so beautiful, if Earl could not feel that breeze even once?

Lost in the wilderness of a might-have-been life, I hardly noticed that the wind had risen. The wind does not fight the desert, as it does other landscapes. The wind is layered into the desert, clear to the horizon. The desert offers no opposition to the wind, but spreads itself out – expectant and still. The wind only shakes the low, stubborn creosote, it only sings tuneless and patient in the spines of the saguaro. It animates the desert and cleans it.

But a gust of that wind buffeted the jeep, snatching me back to the highway.

Down the road I saw a black dot, hoverNonfiction ing just over the shoulder. A bird. A raven.

Fighting against the wind, trapped by forces by so much greater than its bone and sinew.

Peter Something in the drama of the raven on the wind held me as I drew near, hurtling Aleshire myself down the highway. As I drew close, I slowed.

Passing the raven, I could see that I had been wrong. He wasn’t trapped. He was playing with the wind. He rose, dipped right, rose, dipped left - shifting up, down, back and forth – but never moving far from his position.

Passing him, I pulled to the shoulder and got out of the Jeep.

I stood beside my car, watching the raven. The creosote bobbed and waved. I could smell them, pungent and clean. Nothing else moved, except the raven and the wind. It had blown from some far place, hurrying home to the desert – which welcomed it and did not resist.

I stood a long while, wondering when the raven would tire of his game. I once saw a sequence of photos that showed a raven landing on top of a snow bank, flopping over on his back, tobogganing down the slow, then walking back up to do it again. I’ve seen ravens flip over and fly upside down. I’ve seen ravens chase golden eagles, unzip backpacks and flirt on the wing.

For a long time watching, I told myself that the raven was Earl, given his chance to feel the rush of the world after all. But I knew that was just to comfort myself.

So then I told myself that Earl was in the wind, which has no substance but fills the world. And I held to that a little longer.

Finally, the raven shifted his wings so that the wind took him.

He let it push him back across the highway as he rose into the sky.

Then he turned and flung himself downwind in joy and daring.

I climbed back into the car and drove on through the desert, strangely comforted. The beauty of the shadows pooling in the hollows of the hills did not now make me angry, as they had done a little while ago. We have each of us, only this moment to play with the wind. And Earl in his time must have heard the whoosh of his mother’s heart, the distant music of his father’s voice – like the wind in the saguaro spines.

Losing Earl I Seeking comfort in a desert wind against a grief without horizons

Lost Dutchman by Tom Brossart

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

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Sacred Datura oil By Ingar LeGrande

Cowgirl oil by Ann Christiansen Sunset watercolor by Maria Cohen PAGE 12

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Whale Tree pastels Elissa Hugens Aleshire

Mothen watercolor Maria Cohen MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

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Fee and the Cheechaco Broken hearts, cold winters and a warmhearted bartender meet on the Alaskan frontier

S

hut the God Dammed door!” Six voices yelled genially in the owner first had to dig a pit in the permafrost, no easy task. He then general direction of the fellow who stomped in stiff legged from filled the pit with three feet of sawdust before dumping in huge logs for the cold. He did as bid without comment or rancor. Twenty a foundation. The building needed the sawdust for insulation. Without degrees below zero imposed its own wisdom and keeping the doors the insulation, the heat from the building would gradually thaw-out the hard shut against the cold, the numbing, killer cold, counted for a lot. If frozen ground and the bar would slowly make its cumbersome way you look at it right, twenty below zero amounts to fifty straight down in the direction of New Zealand. Logs, two two degrees below freezing. It might not be as cold as it feet thick, made walls strong enough and thick enough to Fiction ever gets in Fairbanks Alaska, but it is plenty cold enough keep out the cold, given a major heat source inside. by to suit most people.

In wintertime, the bar kept a salamander, a big Nobody could make out the identity of the newcomkerosene-fired heater that sounded like a jet engine. It Andy er for a moment. He scuffed through the sawdust toward looked like a jet engine too and it was kept going pretty Mckinney the end of the bar where the other men grouped, as far near all the time. A salamander could usually be found in from the door and the cold outside of it and as close to someplace like the engine bay of a firehouse or some the rest rooms as possible. Finding an open stool, he threw back the fur other large industrial space. It put out vast, inelegant amounts of heat, lined hood of his parka and revealed himself. which after all was the point of the thing.

“Hey Fee,” he said to the lady bartender through his janitor Square, rough-cut logs a foot on a side made a durable floor. A broom of a mustache. He had only average height, if that, and needed a couple of inches of sawdust sopped up the occasional mistake and the haircut. His smile told her that he was in the right place, with the right eternal ice melt from the boots of the drinkers. It stank of course. Wet folk, though many upright citizens would dispute both points. Right wool, damp fur, fresh cedar sawdust, kerosene and the noxious miasplace and right folk did not jibe with the Gold Rush in 1977. Many ma of poorly maintained and heavily used rest rooms greeted all comconsidered it to be the most disreputable bar in town in a tightly coners like an old friend. tested race for that title. The guy smiled to his bartender, but she could Poverty and loneliness drove Andy to the Gold Rush his first see the pain and shame behind the winter in Alaska and the place had smile, something in the way he held his grown on him and other men in his situAlaskan Caribou by Francisco Lopez eyes. She would get to that soon ation. Waiting for work was a delicate enough. balance between available funds, “Hey, Andy,” Fee replied from expenses, loneliness and will. Many behind her 32-foot-long lectern with treasure hunters gave up before they professional friendliness. A sudden ever got their first job on the pipeline. smile disrupted the well-worked leather The mysterious owner and power behind of her face. He was one of hers. the scenes, no customer could remember Andy liked Fee and he liked the ever seeing him, long ago decreed that Gold Rush. The both of them carried free and abundant food be provided to their years and wounds with a kind of all comers every Sunday. The price of a dignified pride. The bar itself had beer would fill a man’s empty stomach almost a century of history behind it and and provide an hour of good-natured it showed in every nick and gouge of its comradeship. wooden self. When new, it hadn’t The greenhorns, Cheechacos in amounted to much. The pioneer bar Alaska slang, couldn’t know that the joke PAGE 14

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

was on them. A hundred yards away from the bar, the Chena River held thousands of them, to recall at will. Go away for a day or 12 weeks, four kinds of salmon, hurrying further inland to spawn. The so-called Fee would remember your face, your name and what you liked to Dog Salmon was the least appetizing of the four species. Alaska drink. She knew hundreds of jokes of every gradation of off-colorness Natives, Athabaskan Indians in this part of the state, and the White from wryly smutty to horribly foul. She owned a nose an elephant seal Eyes who adopted the Native life style, fed the Dog Salmon to their would envy. She had a way of snorting through her nose when she teams of sled dogs, hence the name. On the outskirts of town, you laughed that made a guy laugh right along with her, if the joke worked could see Huskies on their chains gnawing in a funny way or not. Her endless well of frozen fish heads. goodness she made available to those who So, every Sunday the Gold Rush needed it. cooked up a giant vat of baked Dog Salmon Like Andy that night, when he blew in with a dubious white sauce for the enjoyfrom the blizzard. ment of its patrons. The Cheechacos were “Oly,” he said. Seconds later a fresh stubtoo ignorant to know what they were eating by of Olympia beer, the National Beer of was in effect dog food. Broke and clueless Eskimo and Indian Alaska, skidded in front as they seemed, it probably made no differof him. No cocktail napkins here. ence to them in any case. Andy and the “Zeph and I went all to Hell, Fee. I did other busted fortune seekers lapped up the the bad thing, the unforgivable thing, the terdog food and howled for more. For a lot of rible, wrong, evil, stupid thing,” he confided the guys, it meant the only really full belly in his bartender cum psychiatrist. The pain of the week. In each of them, the bar plantand shame he felt showed in his voice and ed a little tree of gratitude that grew up tall face. and proud. It paid off later as the men got “I know, baby, she was in to see me.” work.

She was the spirit of kindness in speaking to A Teamster who drove a yellow school her patient/customer. “That’s too bad. I know bus and carried men back and forth to the you kids were really into each other.” worksites along the 800 miles of the Great The mustached man at the bar took a Alaskan Pipeline made $18.52 an hour, long slow breath, a sigh of regret and defeat, straight time. This eagerly sought-after job and then continued. required only three or four hours of actual “Jeese, Fee, you don’t know the half of work. The rest of the day consisted of it” the man replied, thinking of the woman napping and thumbing through girlie magahe’d lost. Her parents named her Delphia zines. The paid hours added up to 84 hours Sharnhorst, but nobody called her that, ever. per week. Every hour past the first 40 Her handle was The Montana Zephyr or counted for at least time and a half. On Zeph for short. She earned her moniker in a Sundays and holidays, it counted as double short relationship with a young cowboy outtime. That works out to almost $2000 per side of Billings. The nickname and the setweek for nine to 12 weeks with nowhere at ting conjured an image of a cowhand, his all to spend the loot. If a guy developed a young life shattered, babbling, stunned and fondness for the Gold Rush, he rememconfused. “I don’t know what happened to bered. When he hit town again after twelve me. It was like I was hit by some wild weeks in some scarred and forsaken place Montana Zephyr.” Anyhow, the name stuck. like Dead Horse, Anatuvik Pass, Five Mile, She had the skull, rose and lightening Old Man or Chandalar, he might stop into logo of the Grateful Dead tattooed on her the Gold Rush for a drink or two. Or forearm. At six feet and a smidgen, she had twelve. Or a man might timber the house, half a head more height than her woeful exbuying drinks all around and drop $300 like paramour. She lived her life with an extravFollow the sigms vending machine money. The crafty old agant exuberance that left others catching by Michele Nelson owner of the Gold Rush took the long view, their breath. She tended bar part time at the mystery man or not. It seemed to pay off French Quarter, a sleazy and ill-named bar for him. little better than the Gold Rush and right next Anofee Kaskeala or Fee as she was known didn’t have the years door. She also fronted for a Dead Head cover band aptly called the of the bar behind her, but she had enough of them to have a sense of Doppelgangers. She took her tag line from a Dead lyric. “There are a humor about the foibles and follies of life. She achieved widowhood at whole lot of things I’ve never done, but I ain’t never had too much 24 when her Finnlander husband found one of the 1,000 ways that fun.” And she wasn’t kidding about that, not one little bit.

Alaska could kill a man. She successfully raised four kids in the tough“She called me last week, Fee, from the Howling Dog. I got est town in America, a town surrounded by hundreds of miles of the things all turned around.” No smile blessed his face now, only bleak most beautiful, harsh and merciless landscape on the planet. All knew acceptance of a mistake turned into a dirty deed and then turned into her as a survivor in a community of survivors and everyone who knew disaster. her liked her. But it showed. Every blow that life had delivered her “That’s what she said. She was out there setting up a gig for her over sixty odd years showed in her face. She had suffered and perseband.” vered and had wisdom enough to know that laughing at troubles went a The man nodded in sorrow. “I know that now. But you know good ways to defeating them. what I thought at the time?” He looked helplessly at Fee, hoping for In her professional capacity, Fee could hold a name and a face, understanding. Anybody could make the same mistake, couldn’t he?

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

PAGE 15

“Sure baby, I know.” Fee patted his hand and scooted down the bar to refill her other customers. She came back as soon as she could, while her customer pulled bleakly at his Oly Pop. “There must be thousands of guys in town, and only about seven girls that I know of. I naturally thought some smooth talking son of a bitch had absconded with her.” The man shook his head back and forth, like a bewildered bull in the slaughter house chute. “We fell too hard too fast, Fee. I didn’t know her well enough to trust her. There’s too many guys here, Fee, way too many.”

“And from what I hear, there are too many girls here too, Andy, at least two too many.”

He nodded, ashamed. Lady luck or Fortuna of the old time Romans or somebody had dealt him a pair of Queens at just the moment when a duce of clubs would have served him better. The Queens represented girls, not real cards. Lady luck didn’t so much deal the cards as slipped them from the bottom of the deck, under the table, down and dirty. Before civilization caught up with Alaska, 19- year-old kids could legally drink like grown ups. Angry, upset and feeling abused, Andy held no thought in his head to discard a pretty young girl. Or two girls, one Friday night and one more for the road the next night, the Queen of Hearts, back to back. It was the best luck with women he ever had, and the worst result.

Maybe Fortuna didn’t misdeal the cards after all. Maybe Lono, the Hawaiian God of mischief and wretched excess did it. Andy had a vague recollection of rum and a warm night on the Kona coast of the Big Island of Hawaii. He and a co-conspirator from Oregon, a girl with a friendly smile, had defiled an ancient Hawaiian temple, taboo sex under the stars in a forbidden place. Lono kept his own council; you never knew what he really wanted from you. You could only know that to attract his attention was to lose in some innovative and unexpected way. Maybe Lono didn’t like him much. Maybe nobody did, except Fee. He never spoke to either of the girls again, but he did see one of them a year or so later. She worked then at the Persian Room, another crumby bar, this one of Second Street, only a block better than the squalid First Street where the Gold Rush hunkered against the cold. She danced naked at the Persian Room for a while, nubile, beautiful and lost. He never could remember her name.

He thought of Zeph.

Making love to the Montana Zephyr seemed like hooking into some wild elemental force. For one thing, there was just so much of her. She didn’t have a weight problem, but she stretched more than six feet from her toes with the little pinky ring to her long black hair. She needn’t carry extra weight to be lavish in her womanhood. Spending intimate time with her was to roam in a fleshy opulence that transcended lust, or good taste for that matter. Like Alaska, she was huge and wild and ultimately untamable. He called her Denali when alone with her, an Athabaskan Indian word that meant “The Great One.” He emitted a groan of longing and regret. His nose wrinkled involuntarily as someone opened the men’s room door.

Fee patted his hand reassuringly.

“Look kid, it could have been worse.”

“Jeese Fee, she nailed a frozen chicken to my front door. I had to PAGE 16

try to explain that to the guys.”

“Look kiddo, if love was going to kill you, you’d be dead by now.

Tell me why you think this happened to you.”

“Well, like I said, I couldn’t trust her to be faithful.”

“So you were faithful to Zeph?”

“No, Fee, faithless. The first time things got rough, not even rough, just bad communications, I rushed quick as I could to be faithless, maybe to beat her to the punch.”

Fee looked at Andy, her catcher’s mitt of a face full of concern.

“And why is that, baby? Why do you feel that way? It’s not even about Zeph is it?”

Fee was careful and deliberate in her speech, gradually letting her patient uncover the truth on his own. She had known for a long time that this customer of hers was broken somewhere down deep inside.

The enticing and exotic Montana Zephyr or any other women for that matter was neither the question nor the answer.

“Fee, do you know what happens when you put two cats in a bag and drop it into a rain barrel? They claw each other to death. That’s what it was like when I was married. We tore each other’s guts out. That’s why I did what I did last week. I figured if I cheated first, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

I committed vile treachery Fee, as a defense against pain. Nice, huh?”

She quietly asked the $64,000 question. “So what are you going to do now?” the Hell away from women, Haunted Fee,“Stay that’s what, until I’m a fit person.

Burger I can’t just keep on hurting them before they hurt me. It’s not right and it’s not fair.” by She nodded sagely, secretly pleased with her powers as a healer. “Another drink?”

Michele He shook his head. “Nope. I don’t Nelson make good decisions when I’m drinking Fee. I’ve got to fix that too.”

“Is your number coming up, baby?”

Fee asked, meaning could he take a job soon from his union hiring hall.

“Yeah Fee, I can be gone in a day or two.”

“You know, you could take nine weeks off from the night life. You could go to camp, work and maybe stay away from the booze and the girls for a while.”

“Good idea, Fee, thanks. I don’t want to end up alone, but who would want me like I am now?”

“And Zeph?”

“I’m sorry as Hell if I hurt her, Fee, but she’s not the one. Wow, what a gal though, what a gal.” He gazed into nowhere, smiling and remembering.

Fee just nodded.

“Well, good night Fee, thanks for listening. I’ll stop in April and let you how the repair work is going. Good night.”

“Good night baby” she said and turned to three guys down the bar a ways.

He could hear her as he headed out.“So this Chinese guy goes into a bar….”

He braced himself to receive the cold, girding his strength. He felt tough enough for the task, tough enough for the cold, tough enough for the long job of self renewal ahead. Still, he knew that 20 below zero was no temperature for tears.

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

The Monster Within Not the fear, but the anger baited the trap

E

Flower by Randy Hust

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

veryone is raised on stories of magic, fairies, knights and castles.

I was raised with monsters.

Faint light flickers down the hallway reveling everything that scares me. The smell of stale beer lingers in the air, as I sit cross legged on the floor.

Nonfiction Soon daddy will be gone and the monster will take his place. The monster

by Heather comes more often nowadays. Daddy is getting provoked with every breath Hollenbeck mommy takes.

Mommy asks a simple question, “How was work dear?” He loses what patience he has left and starts yelling at mommy. My memories of that night go fuzzy even now, but one part haunts me still. I know it’s coming, but still I never cease to flinch away. My glass figurine dog, a beautiful golden “Buddy” aimed at mommy, but missed, soars over me, barley missing me. Buddy’s leg snaps, I start to cry, although my sister told me not to.

“That makes the monster stay longer. We want daddy, not this, right?” Sarah always said, but I can’t help but cry.

She tries to quiet me as we watch in horror; the monster crushes an unopened can of Bud Light on mommy’s That makes the head, sending the amber liquid and mommy toppling to the floor. Like the tears from our monster stay eyes. longer, we want This, of course, fuels the monster’s daddy, not this, rage. My body won’t move. I sit there, too scared to even breathe. All I can do is watch as right? Sarah Sarah crawls closer to mommy’s unmoving always said, but body, crumpled on the living room floor.

I can t help but She’s nearly there, when the monster to cry. slithers down to her eye level and hisses with such venom I cringe across the room. “Get the hell out of here!” He screams.

Time freezes, until I hear mommy yelling at me to run. Sarah grabs me and does as she is told. We get to our room, and hide in the small space we have between our twin beds. I’m in the circle of my sixyear-old big sister’s arms. We cry together, for not even the record she put on can drown out the yells completely. Next thing I know, it’s completely quiet and there are hurried footsteps coming. My sister holds me tighter in her arms. We wait for our fate behind the bedroom door.

I wake with a jump, nearly falling out of my bed, sweating. I hate that nightmare. I thought I got over all that past crap, but lately I have that dream every night. I found out why, if I had known today’s events would be the reason for the horrific memories re-surfacing. I would have

PAGE 17

much rather stayed in bed with the haunting memories.

“Huh?” Nearing my fifteenth birthday, it’s the beginning of sum“You’re not too bad,” I say with a smirk. mer I’m over at my best friend Lora’s house hanging out “I know,” he says. planning what to do with the summer.

One year turned into two, two turned into three.

Just after dark, my mom and her redneck We were all getting along great. I started calling Kevin boyfriend Kevin decide to drop by; this is unusual for “dad” and I could see the joy that lit his face every time. them.

We seemed to love the feeling of two broken families Lora and I are just leaving her brother Charlie’s made into one. Still, something felt off- something in me room when I see my mom with a great big smile on her said this isn’t working right. If my mother and stepface. This, F.Y.I, is never good: she likes weird things. father ever fought, they kept it hidden.

She turns as we draw closer and flashes a huge diamond I can remember to the moment, the day everyring on the forbidden finger. thing fell apart. I can’t tell you the exact date, but I I look up in shock, looking from my mom to remember the events of that December afternoon left me Kevin, aiming my daggers at him. I start yelling what I broken, and lost. really thought of him and words I didn’t even know I I get home from school, (Kevin’s home techniknew came out. What can I say; I’m a sailor at heart. cally), and trudge up the muddy hill that brings me to Kevin just stood there and let me speak to him the front step. I see my faithful red heeler “Jake” trot to like that, until I got it all out and I started to ball my my side. I decide I don’t want to go in yet. School eyes out. He knew why I was so upset, so he didn’t sucked and Jake always makes me feel better. So I sit mind my rant. I ran past my out front for a while, mother and into Lora’s telling him about the mom’s arms and cried till awful day I had at school. there was nothing left to fall.

Then I hear arguWhen I pulled away, my ing, loud arguing. I run mom and the redneck were inside, with Jake at my gone. side and just stare as my Weeks turned into mom and Kevin argue. months, and months turned Kevin yelled in my into a year. We lived at our mom’s face. My fear of home and his, one night at the monster rushed back, his - one night at ours. It was but this time stronger. Not hard, but he grew on me. I because he was worse, didn’t want to feel anything more abusive, or louder. for him. I wanted to hate him No, this time I knew what with all my might, but he was going on. I saw all was everything I wanted a the warning signs, but father to be. One day in the thought nothing of it. I month of February, I didn’t figured there was no more want to go to school and I room in my life for a told him. He said, “Under beer-fueled monster. one condition will I let you It’s almost like I am stay home.” young again and there is “What is it?” I ask nothing I can do to stop it. skeptically.

I watch him scream hate“Your sister gets your ful things at my mom, spit Dying Leaves by Howard Rush shoots from his mouth. I homework, and you spend the day with me,” he said feel the monster fighting with a loopy grin. to escape, tearing at my “Ok, as long as I don’t have to go to school, I insides. His every foul word, entices My Monster. Just don’t care. But wait, you work today.” like the beer brought out theirs, I realized anger was my “Yup, you need to man up, girly.” That was the beer. last thing he said as he walked away.

“Like father like daughter” I thought to myself.

An hour and a half later, I found myself in “A never ending cycle, complete with blind rage.” It’s Forest Lakes, the uncomfortable seat of his Caterpillar not a pretty picture. No, this stops now. The only fightback hoe bouncing me mercilessly. I have to dig a hole ing is within me, the fight for control and the fight to be big enough to fit sewer pipes. Throughout the day, to my me. I come to this conclusion quickly, determining my horror I’m having a good time. I actually like being here fate. and am glad I came. He tells me about his daughter, People say that spousal/child abuse is a cycle. who lives with his ex and doesn’t want to see him. I tell That once it starts, it does not stop. Well, they are him about school and what I like and don’t like. Five wrong. o’clock comes too soon.

The Cycle Will Not Repeat Itself.

“Hey, Kevin,” I say.

PAGE 18

In the morning a walk with dogs ever new ever old scan sky horizons looking searching hoping to find an event not seen with anyone's eyes the dogs are loosed I scan the land waiting wanting to encounter nature's raw spirit wild creatures wait in earth's shadow light for me up the road we go there are no people in this world footsteps crunch the road in power walk steps dogs sniff their way into the future I scan for that unique moment with such soft light of morning some days it is some days it isn't but I know everyday is that unique moment I look always but don't see it always I am blind dog stops pees life just is we as humans have distorted perception of nature a pause in our walk listen ah you hear it too silence so loud it is often misunderstood back we go to the world

By Andy Towle

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

The Fortune Cookie

O Can a true believer find happiness with a GPS?

ne thing makes me crave bad Chinese food: a hang- expressive coffee to the Vietnamese. From there, it migrated to China. One sip of their rich espresso and you know why over. After last night, I leaned my bike against the the French call American coffee ‘jus de chaussettes’. That front glass of the Wok Express Chinese takeout to means juice of socks, you know.” satisfy a craving. Tom greeted me as my eyes adjusted to I did know. He retold that story every time we cured the Wok’s reduced carbon footprint. one of my hangovers. I knew it so well that I “Hangover Mr. C?” he asked. mouthed the words juice of socks along with him.

You’ve got to love a small town.

Fiction Experience tells me the only way to derail this Everybody knows your name, and your history of the French influence on the world’s cofbusiness. I grunted at Tom and told him by fee preferences was to launch into a joke.

Mark would be along. He led me to a table “This guy was just diagnosed with a fatal where I collapsed into a vinyl stack chair Ken Crump disease,” I started. and ordered Chinese Coffee. I sat motionHe took the bait like a sunfish on a less, listening to the ceiling fan cut brutal grasshopper. slices of air. Finally Tom brought a small glass mug of “Ye-e-e-es?” steaming relief. The thick, dark layer of espresso lay “Yeah. So he went to a dozen doctors who all told beneath a warm blanket of condensed milk. I was pretty him he was going to die. Then he went to this Chinese docsure my stomach wouldn’t handle seeing the layers swirl together, so I closed my eyes and stirred. That’s when Mark tor. The Chinese doctor told him to take a long mud bath every day. The guy said, ‘Will that keep me from dying of thundered up to the table. this disease?’”

“Whoa, Doc. You look kinda beat up. Out camReverend Mark hung on my every word. paigning for the Democrats last night?” “’No,’ said the Chinese doctor, ‘but it’ll get you Thankfully, Reverend Mark’s huge frame eclipsed the sunbeam boring a hole in my temple. But when I turned used to the dirt!’”

Reverend Mark’s face lit with delight. He chuckled to flash him a sarcastic smile, a stray beam glanced off his before he caught himself. “Oh Doc,” he said stifling a massive forehead and caught me in the eye. I swear I felt a laugh. “That’s horrible. Morose. It sounds like you might cataract start to form. I closed my eyes again and groaned. need more than just Chinese Coffee.”

“Tom!” shouted Mark, “Bring me what Doc’s hav“Yeah, Friar,” I said. “I could use a different life.” ing.”

The Chinese Coffee may have jolted my body back Before the last “Doc’s having… Doc’s having… into function mode, but it didn’t do much for my more subDoc’s having” echoed through my brain, another cup of Chinese Coffee materialized. I didn’t watch his layers swirl tle human capacities, like sorting out time and space. My poor boozed brain slipped its leash and wandered back to together either. last night at the Buffalo Bar and Grill. Sal had just slid Before long, the coffee had jump-started my heart, and my brain seemed to be firing on all cylinders. Reverend another bourbon in front of me when I noticed her standing Mark sat across from me patiently sipping his drink while I by the pool table. A small group of women had gathered at one end of the table while the men-folk played. A quick pulled myself together. head count showed numbers in my favor, so my gaze lin“You know you have the French to thank for this gered. She was tall and blond, and the kind of home-grown delightful coffee,” said Mark. I nodded slowly, knowing it pretty that can only happen in a small town. Then, as she was pointless to try and stop the story I’d heard a dozen moved a stray curl from her face, I noticed a stunning lack times already. “French colonists introduced this bold,

Beetle Burrows by Howard Rush

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

PAGE 19

CRAZY BIRD BY JULIET WING

of glitter on her left hand.

My heart tumbled. With my fantasies locked on her face, on the curve of her neck, on how her long blond hair caressed her bare shoulder, I reached for my drink. The glass slipped, bounced on the bar, and splashed the guy next to me before shattering on the floor. The crash drew her attention and I broke my gaze as our eyes met.

The guy next to me was sure my drink had destroyed his designer jeans and insisted that I run him to Walmart to restock his wardrobe.

But Sal brought him another beer and put it on my tab, so Brad Pitt turned his remarks to his posse of fashion elite at the bar. Then Sal refilled my lost bourbon on the house. When I glanced back to the pool table, the blond was gone. I caught sight of her as she walked toward the exit. She glanced toward me and noticed my eyes resting on her face.

Once again she captured a stray curl with that beautiful naked left hand, tucked it behind her ear and smiled.

Her smile said, “Hello.” It said, “You’d better get off that barstool.” It said, “I’m leaving.” And as I sat paralyzed in pride, it said, “Good bye.”

Reverend Mark’s voice snatched my brain back to the Wok Express.

“You still with us, Doc? You seemed to wander off there for a bit.”

“I’m still here, Friar,” I said. “I was just thinking about last night.

I think I really missed a chance at something special last night.”

We ordered food and fumbled with chop sticks as I told Mark the story of tall, blond and available. Tom brought the check and a couple of fortune cookies as I finished moaning that my life sucked and was going nowhere. I reached for a fortune cookie, but Reverend Mark brushed my hand aside and said, “No, no, my son. Allow me.”

It cracks me up whenever the Friar calls me ‘my son’. We shared the same locker all through high school. We marched in band together, stole watermelons from Charlie Ott’s farm together, and hid a camera in the girl’s locker room together. As a matter of fact, if he hadn’t fallen for the daughter of a preacher man, we would have sat together at the Buffalo last night. Only then, Brad Pitt would be washing blood out of his designer jeans this morning, along with my bourbon.

“Wisdom advises,” Mark continued, “that you accept the fortune you are given; that you play the cards you are dealt.”

PAGE 20

“Yeah, yeah. I saw Star Wars too. What does it mean, Obi-Wan Kenobi? I’m just trying to get a cookie.”

“I mean simply that the fortune doesn’t come true unless someone else hands you the cookie,” Mark said, handing one to me. I gave the other one to him. He cracked his open and unfolded the tiny scrap of paper inside. It read, ‘Your heart is larger than your wallet’.

I laughed. “Well Friar, here’s to your enlarged heart. It looks like I’m buying lunch, Reverend Tiny Wallet.”

My cookie crumbled in my hand. I picked the scrap of paper from the cookie dust and unrolled it. My fortune read, ‘You hold the keys to riches far greater than gold. Your lucky number is 342370311132277.’

“What do you think yours means, Doc?” Mark asked in his most guide-me-to-your-answers-within voice.

“No clue, Friar. The only keys I have are my house keys, and that’s a rental. Not much riches there for anybody but the landlord. And what’s up with that lucky number? How freakin’ random is that? Maybe it’s the number to a secret Swiss bank account. Or maybe the combination to the bus locker where DB Cooper stashed his loot.”

“The Chinese are an inscrutable people, Doc…” “These fortunes are as Chinese as the espresso, Friar,” I said. I wadded the fortune and tossed it into the dregs of my Chinese Coffee cup. Then I dropped some money on the table and got up to leave.

At my bike, I buckled my helmet on and rolled up my pant legs for the ride home. All the while, Mark continued to defend his stupid idea that a fortune cookie might hold some profound meaning. I knew he’d scraped the bottom of his prophetic parallels when he concluded, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

At my house, I rolled up the driveway, dismounted, and hung my bike from a hook suspended above the front porch. As I dug for my house keys, I felt a small wad tucked deep in my pocket. I pulled out the scrap of paper and gently smoothed it to read the fine red print. It said, ‘You hold the keys to riches far greater than gold. Your lucky number is 3423703-11132277.’

A surge of adrenalin shocked my brain. The last smog of hangover cleared and shot my thoughts back to the Wok Express. “I know I tossed this at the restaurant,” I murmured. I could see myself wadding up the stupid little Chinese fortune. I saw myself toss it into the coffee mug.

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

The Wedding Party by Jananda Sample “What the…?”

I’d been at my computer for an hour when the phone rang. I answered and Mark said, “How’s the hangover, Doc?” “Mark! Something crazy happened,” I said, and I told him about the wad of fortune in my pocket. “Now I’ve been all over the internet looking for hidden meanings to the word ‘key’ and ‘riches far greater than gold’.”

“What have you discovered, my son?” said Mark, using his show-me-your-insides voice again.

I laughed, “Well, the internet is pretty sold on the notion that wisdom and grace are worth a lot. But I haven’t found much.”

“And what about your lucky number?”

I paused. “I Googled the number, too. I found a couple of formulas for calculating the distance to the sun, but not much else. Google Maps came up on one search, though. It appears those numbers also represent some dot on a map. I don’t get any of it.”

Mark seemed interested in that last part. “You say it came up a point on the map, Doc? Maybe the numbers are coordinates of some kind. Maybe they lead to a Geocache.”

“G-O-Cash? Like Go-Money? Is that some kind of debit card?”

Mark loves it when he knows something I don’t know. But I needed the information so I tolerated the smirk-ass tone of his answer.

“No, it’s Geo-cache. Geo, like in geography. Cache, like a treasure or a stash of some sort. Geocachers hide treasures, post their GPS map coordinates online, and then other players go find the treasures.”

He talked slowly and clearly to make sure his retarded buddy understood these complex principles. Whatever.

“Treasure?” I asked.

“Well, yes. Usually the treasures don’t amount to much, though.

The fun of the game is finding the treasure, more than the treasure itself,” said Mark.

“So, we load these map coordinates into a GPS and go find treasure, right? Let’s go!”

Fifteen minutes later we piled in his car and headed wherever the little arrow on his Android pointed. We’d loaded the coordinates in Mark’s smart phone. It turns out that he and the other geeks who hang out at Todd’s Used Books store go Geocaching regularly.

The Friar drove while I held the ‘key’ to my fortune and navigated. As we drove south on the Beeline, the distance to the treasure displayed on the Droid continued to decrease. When we crossed Bonita the numbers increased. ”Whoa, there Friar. The numbers are getting bigger. We passed it. Turn around!”

Mark turned around in the Payson Eye Care parking lot and headed back. He then turned east on Bonita, and tucked into the parking lot at Payson Packaging.

“What’s it say now?” asked Mark. “How close are we?”

“It says we’re at 475 feet and it’s over there, toward the Buffalo” We got out of the car and slowly walked in the direction of the Buffalo. We huddled together around the Droid like a Geiger Counter in a 1950’s spaceman movie, sweeping it back a forth, following every flicker of the tiny arrow on the screen.

“So, what kind of treasure do you think we’ll find?” I asked MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Mark. “Are we looking for treasure chest?”

Mark laughed, “No. Nothing as grand as that. The caches are usually small. Sometimes really small.”

“Small, yet more valuable than gold,” I thought aloud. After all, the fortune cookie said I hold the keys to riches far greater than gold.

And we do have the coordinates of hidden treasure. “Diamonds are small. And they’re more valuable than gold, right?”

The Friar tried to mask his geeky enthusiasm for being on a treasure hunt by using his Reverend Mark voice to bring me back to earth. “Doc, the last time I went Geocaching, the cache held two Hotwheels cars, a broken pencil and a fishing lure. Nobody’s fortune is made by a Geocache.”

“And how many times do you find your coordinates in a fortune cookie, Reverend Geocache? Answer me that.”

I nearly launched into how crazy it was that a fortune cookie could follow me home and give me the coordinates to hidden treasure, when the Droid beeped.

“It’s beeping! Mark, what does it mean?”

“It means we’re close, Doc. Take a look at the Droid. The numbers say we’re within just a few feet.”

He took his smart phone and tucked it in his pocket. “Now we look around,” he explained slowly, to his retarded buddy. “The GPS won’t lead us to the exact spot. Now we look around for the cache.”

“How do we know what it looks like?” I asked, turning over an old Pepsi can and looking inside.

“Just look for anything that looks out of its natural place.”

Pepsi dribbled onto my sweatshirt so I tossed the can to the ground. We searched all the nooks and crannies around the back of the Buffalo Bar and Grill for about ten minutes and turned up half a pack of cigarettes, a Bic pen, and a dozen other pieces of trash the crows wouldn’t eat. Mark pulled a plastic bag from his coat pocket. “Cache in, trash out,” he said, and we filled the bag with parking lot flotsam.

That’s when I spied something shiny, peeking out from under the leaves up against the building. “Found it!” I shouted, and began brushing twigs and leaves off my treasure.

“What is it?” huffed Mark.

“Keys,” I said, holding up a set of car keys on a large silver ring.

“Now all I have to do is find the Honda that fits them, and I’m all set.”

Suddenly a voice came from behind, startling both of us.

“I think they’re mine,” she said. She was tall, blond and the kind of home-grown pretty that can only happen in a small town. When our eyes met she moved a stray curl from her face, tucked it behind her ear, and smiled. “My friends thought I’d had too much to drink last night and tossed my keys. I caught a ride home with a girlfriend. I think those are my keys you’re holding in your hand.”

I looked down at the keys in my hand.

“Holy shit,” murmured Mark.

I held the keys out to her and said, “My name’s Jeff, but my friends call me Doc. I think I saw you here last night.” Then I blushed and added, “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” With my gaze resting on her face, on the curve of her neck, on how her long blond hair caressed her shoulder, she lowered her head and smiled that smile again. Then she looked in my eyes and said, “I’d love to.”

PAGE 21

The life and death of Floyd Brown

F

loyd Brown, the oldest of four boys at thirteen, took over as head of the family when his parents died in an accident. They moved into an abandoned shack deep in the woods of rural Arkansas. Hunting, fishing, and doing odd jobs, the brothers somehow survived. Every night they sang together to the harmony of their guitars, played by Floyd and Felix.

Now young men and talented pickers, the four brothers played music together at Arkansas shindigs. This ended when Floyd lost his index finger in a sawmill accident.

Floyd married and started out share cropping on near-worthless land in rural Arkansas. The great depression hit. To make ends meet Floyd took the occasional axman job. Then catastrophe struck again. Floyd lost his right leg in a logging accident. The family starving, Floyd rolled out of bed and put his peg leg on for the first time saying, “Everything’s going to be alright. We’re going to make it.”

With one leg and nine fingers, Floyd went into the moonshine business. He saved his money and within a few years had enough to build a sawmill. After the great depression his logging business Nonfiction by thrived and Floyd became a wealthy man.

Tom Russell Floyd ran a motley crew. If his tree cutters were late getting to work from a hard night of drinking, Floyd would take his ax handle (which he always carried in his truck) and almost knock the shack down until the haggard, unshaven drunk came stumbling out, kids screaming and all. “You sorry son of a bitch. Get to work.” People said it was quite a sight, watching Floyd swiftly close in on those shacks, ax handle in his left hand in perfect stride with that peg leg.

Floyd loved to hunt, just as he did as a boy. He kept a pen full of dogs and people said he treated those dogs like dirt. He never let anyone else feed them. With that trusty old ax handle, Floyd was their absolute master.

Floyd had five children – three girls and two boys. His nineyear-old son fell out of Floyd’s logging truck and was crushed to death. Wailing, Floyd carried in his arms the dead Raymond and laid him in his bed.

Floyd always liked to drink, but not every day. That changed now. He also took a shine to the horse races and he bet a fortune. His wife Birdie, alarmed at the losses, knew there was no way to stop him so she decided to join him. She mastered the art of picking horses and managed to minimize the family’s losses.

Floyd continued running his mill and making money, but he didn’t believe in insurance. Lighting struck and his mill burned down. Floyd lost over $2 million, a lot of money in those days. He only had $500,000 saved. Within a year, his wife died. To his daughters agonizing protests, Floyd married a real floozy. It took a few years, but eventually the money evaporated from all the houses Floyd built for Georgianne’s family members, plus motor homes, furs and jewelry. Then she divorced Floyd, who sold his home to survive and lived in hotels. The booze and the horse races turned that money into smoke in no time.

Floyd died at 64. Two of his children had plenty of money and would have gladly helped him, but Floyd never asked. After the funeral his daughter found his tiny, dirty flop house hotel room, with cans of dog food covering the floor — all but one of them open.

Outside sat his old, broken down flatbed pickup truck, with his ax handle tucked under the seat.

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

East Verde Sycamore by Elissa Hugens Aleshire

Timeless-Lullabies Whispers swallow me with their hushed lullabies Telling tall tales of what could have been.

Looking around the space near All I see is Head Stones

As I stare down on my Tombstone All the cold stone states is: R.I.P. Our Daughter

Various names, Various people Some taken before their time

Never missed, Never more Consumed by emptiness I am forever forgotten Forever lost.

I, for one, am one of them Floating nonexistent to the rest of the world.

Looking around All I see are Head Stones

Breezes blow through my smokey form

Heather Hollenbeck PAGE 22

To see the thing you love The gift of a day, a father and a Lazuli Bunting

M

y father and I stood clutching binoculars beneath the winter-naked we shot pool until our quarters ran out. We’d always seemed so different, oak and aspen, granite and amethyst, forest and floodplain. But now we trees at the edge of our lives at the edge of a habitat, blood seemed notes on the scale. We talked late. He worried about strangers groping for a connection. The wind rustled deteriorating handwriting and recalled his mother’s descent through the spiny oak leaves of Madera Canyon as we read the Nonfiction his into Alzheimer’s. I pondered my remaining moles, and cursed sign explaining that life is most diverse at the edge between myself for letting my life insurance lapse just before my diagtwo habitats – oak and grass, wood and meadow, scrub and by nosis. He wondered whether he had spent enough time with us grassland.

I stared glumly at the stark, birdless trees, beset by a sense of Peter Aleshire growing up and I said he was my model for how a man ought to be. Watching his face as we talked, it occurred to me that he failure. Had I squandered this out of season time with my father had only played the role of the workaholic city manager but by talking him into a birding trip in December, without a hope that the birds had revealed his true self. of an Elegant Trogan or a Blue Mocking Bird or any other entry on his life We rose at dawn to shiver in the morning mist as we wandered list? But it was the only gap in our schedules and so I had resolved to explore the odd chink in his emotional armor he had left for birds – and per- through the aisles of trees lining Sonoita Creek. In the dawn light, Robins flitted in the uppermost branches and sporty Cedar Waxwings gleaned haps to understand why he could so easily see birds that remained invisible mistletoe berries in the cottonwoods. We walked those woods, that stream, to me. those meadows all that fleeting, perfect morning. He But I’d blown it, for it seemed I had no hope of confessed that he couldn’t hear the bird calls anyfinding a bird that would release his joy in a way more and I felt abashed at my irritation when he it seemed I never could. We had played our dissometimes seemingly ignored my questions. The tinct roles all our lives, he the breadwinner and me birds sought us out — Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers, the watching child, wondering at what might lie Northern Flickers, Great Tailed Grackles, Downy, beneath the spiny, artichoke petals of our lives.

Gila and Ladder-backed Woodpeckers, Lucy’s But just when I might have asked the right quesWarblers, Black-throated, Cassins and Chipping tion, I grew up, launched my own family and Sparrows, Mourning, Inca and White Winged doves, swirled away from him, like two red maple leaves Phoebes, Yellow-eyed Juncos and Ruby Crowned in the sway of different streams.

Kinglets, working our way up to 60 species for the But then a malignant melanoma on my trip. I realized then that you can only see a thing back caught my attention and prompted my father when you love it, be it fathers or birds. Even so, I to write a letter in a suddenly disconcertingly don’t know why I repeat the names to you, except shaky hand to suggest we go off together, just the that he recorded each one in his wavering hand, so two of us. Life seemed suddenly fragile and the they are a prayer to me now. man who had always been solid as an iron I-beam And still, we had not added a single bird to now seemed more glass crystal. A World War II his life list. pilot, Dad had spent his career managing cities, I remembered then a small spring from a previous hiring, firing, budgeting and juggling city councils visit, decorated with blackberry bushes at the edge - a solid and serious man. But birds worked a curiof a great meadow. Near the spring, the scarlet flash ous transformation in him, especially in the six of a Northern Cardinal lured me off the path. years since his retirement. The fitful interest of our “What’s that,” whispered my father. “What family vacations now blossomed into a life list. So on earth is that?”

I decided a trip to the birder’s mecca of Southeast Heron by Carolyn Davis “What? Where?” I asked.

Arizona would be my Christmas present to him.

“The prettiest little blue bird,” he said, Except, there were no birds. thumbing frantically through the bird book. “Here The flashy migratory species had flitted back to he is,” he exclaimed, stopping at a picture of a tiny turquoise-blue bird with the tropics, leaving a handful of year-rounders, waterfowl fleeing Northern cinnamon sides, a white breast, and the finch-like beak. “A Lazuli Bunting. winters and mountain loving bluebirds hunting mistletoe berries on the denuded cottonwoods. We recorded a handful of species, nothing for his life How about that: A Lazuli Bunting. I’ve never seen a bunting,” he added, his voice laced with Christmas morning. list.

I can call that Lazuli Bunting to my mind now any time I close my So we trudged back to the car and headed for the Sonoita Creek eyes, although I saw only its picture in his book. It flits there still at the edge Sanctuary, a spot famous among birders internationally. We piddled along, stopping for every flutter as the shadows lengthened and I tried to remember of my life, the overlap of our two habitats. My cancer never came back, but whether I had ever spent more than four days alone with my father in all my it came for him three years later. We were the best of friends by then, which was the gift of the Lazuli Bunting and of the late light and the leafless trees life. The thought shocked me. So I devoted myself to each moment and to and the shared time. At the end, we always went to look for birds after his the cactus wrens and the Loggerhead Shrike and the Williamson’s Sapsucker. Sometimes we lurched out of the car in the middle of the road, he chemotherapy, even when all he could do was sit on the folding stool and clutching the binoculars and calling out field markings while I rifled the bird wait for them to find him.

Looking back, I see that I wasted too many years on silence and book. foolish roles. But I did not waste that day.And I have not wasted the memory We arrived in Sonoita in the dark, snagged a room, feasted on quail of it, now or in all the days to come. and then cajoled wild tales out of a silversmith named “Mad Jack. ” Then

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

PAGE 23

East Verde boulder Pastel by Elissa Hugens Aleshire

Cathedral Rock watercolor

by Francisco Lopez

Blue Mountain watercolor by Maria Cohen PAGE 24

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Still Life by Randy Hust

Oak Creek Crossing by Sherry Goode Stream by Don Kisseberth Verde Gold by Carolyn Davis

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

PAGE 25

Crooked House watercolor by Maria Cohen

T

Houses Nonfiction by Linda Teasley

PAGE 26

he sun warmed my closed eyelids, turning my inner world to a rich orange. A rooster crowed. Mountain air from the open door and windows freshened my face. Dirt.

Good clean dirt smell. And trees…. Green… chlorophyll. Home. I stared at the ceiling, wondering which lifetime I was in.

My dream, once again, placed me in a house, the one I occupied before coming here. A different night brought a different house. I dreamed about houses, mostly about them cleaned out —- empty rooms, loved ones leaving or already gone.

Like the little hawk that lighted in the juniper near the deck outside my bedroom yesterday to consume his catch; like the crows that squawked atop the housetops; like the Canada Geese that return to the golf course each winter, we nest builders keep trying.

I laughed, thinking of what I said to my realtor when she drove me into the driveway of this small house in Payson, the last stop in a long, fruitless day house hunting, “I’m not looking at this place! It’s old. I do not want to be saddled with repairs and somebody else’s problems.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” she said, “but the owners recently repainted and remodeled. It’s in your price range. And it’s only been on the market for two days.”

“Oh well, we’re here. I might as well look.”

Little realizing it at the time, this house took me back to my own Grandma Crouch’s house, doubtless the reason that I considered it in the first place. As I stepped inside, I stepped into a set of sturdy black shoes, laced firmly, two-inch squared heels, the no-nonsense apparel of a real grandmother of yesteryear.

Sixty years ago saw me running and playing in the old house on Grandma’s farm in Texas, best described as a wreck. It consisted of unpainted board, grey and weathered.

A big square granite rock did duty as a front porch step for what had become my daddy’s house. We owned a picture of my grandfather sitting on that rock, the patriarch of a family of eleven children raised in that house, staring out at his descendants. The photo comes from a black and white snapshot that someone cropped and enlarged and put in a gold leaf oval frame with a bulging glass cover, one of those old- fashioned things. It was the closest thing we had to a portrait of my Grandfather Crouch.

Grandfather built that structure, but insulation for the walls, an unaffordable and MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

unthinkable luxury, did not exist. Daddy, Mother, my brother, Jimmie, and my baby sisters, Mary and Paula could hear one another’s voices from room to room through the walls. Linoleum covered the floors, which rolled over mysterious bumps throughout the house.

My mother wallpapered the house anew every year. I do not remember ever taking any of the old wallpaper down. She happily slapped wet paste onto new long paper panels laid across boards in an orgiastic rite of springtime. Mother loved springtime. She loved the flowered print dresses in the Sears catalog, bright colors, perky. You could get colored high heels to match anything you picked out, rose, turquoise, green, blue, yellow. My mother loved clothes ... and she should. A more beautiful woman never lived in Dawson County. Maybe the rains would deliver a good cotton crop this summer, and we could afford something for Mother.

I did not like to bring girlfriends home from school to “stay overnight.” Geez, we did not even have indoor plumbing. You know what that meant for going to the bathroom. We were not the only family in the community of Harmony, Texas, to use an outhouse, but we laid claim to remaining one of the few. Water for drinking, cooking, bathing came in buckets drawn from a pump and windmill that lay about 100 feet from the house (they told me). It seemed much farther, but I had been hauling those buckets since before I reached the age of eight; so I turned out pretty strong. I reasoned once with my Daddy that he simply should buy some pipes to draw the water to the house. He said putting daily food on the table for his four children amounted to more than the luxuries of plumbing. Guess we couldn’t afford both.

My mother dreamed of that old house’s walls blowing down, which they actually did many years later. Sand storms tested us every year. My mother’s eyes grew big when the walls breathed in and out during one of our many Texas “windies.” Mother had two babies, my little sisters, to protect as well as us big kids, me and my brother. Daddy thought about the precariousness of that old house, I guess, but he stayed busy with the farm. I believe he just liked to act brave. Sometimes, we gave up and ran to the root cellar. The dampness, spider webs, and dark made that experience at least as scary as what raged outside. Often as not, a tornado spun somewhere inside that blowing sand. Since we couldn’t see a darn thing, we took shelter.

Grandmother pulled a really dumb trick one year. Tumbling out the door running from a suspected tornado, we all piled into the cellar.

Daddy struggled to pull the wood door shut against the wind. He lighted the kerosene lantern and made a headcount.

“Where’s Grandma! She was right behind us”! Daddy pushed his way back out to find his mom.

She stood there, skirts billowing, with her little rat terrier under her arm. “I went back to find Sandy!” she yelled. I believed I could find a better name for a dog.

The house sat atop a high hill in the rolling plains of the Texas Panhandle. A long time ago, my grandfather planted six trees in front and six along the east side as a windbreak. My daddy said that is what they advised during the dust bowl years. President Roosevelt thought it would work. Hold down the soil that the plows ripped up along with the buffalo grass. We climbed in those trees every day. We constructed a swing out of a rubber tire and hung it up there too.

That stuff happened before my time. All I know is that my daddy used his red Massey Harris tractor to plow curvy contour rows of rich

brown dirt in our field. I didn’t know whether to give Roosevelt or the Nazis credit for the idea, but the terraces made great forts for throwing dirt clods at the enemy, which happened to be the two neighbor boys and my little brother. We fired clods at each other, big kids against little kids, every day after school without cease or until my brother got a bloody nose and ran squalling to the house.

Every farm kid worked on his daddy’s farm...so did the mothers unless babies prevented them doing otherwise. The family business carried forward on everyone’s shoulders. We knew where our daily bread came from. I complained a lot, but really I did not mind hard work.

The time spent walking up and down those rows of cotton meant day dreaming time for me. I dreamed about houses. Actually, I dreamed about money — big money. Each day I awarded myself thousands and thousands of dollars and spent sunrise to sunset figuring out mathematically how to distribute it fairly to every person in my extended family: parents, brother, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, everybody.

Naturally, I personally determined the basic needs for each person, i.e., a lavish house for each and every family, complete with an entire basement of games and refreshment (bumper cars, carnival games, hamburger and hot dog stands, coke machines, candy counters, bubble gum). Once the entire household groaned with every luxury known to child and adult alike, then money could be set aside for college. After that, I bestowed on each family a sizeable amount of cash to stash in the bank and fritter away should they be so irresponsible.

If they proved stupid and failed to graduate college with stunning prospects, or if they simply screwed up with the generous cash stipend, at least they had the house.

Thanks to me.

Reluctant to leave my memories of those childhood days in the forties and fifties, I noticed that the sun was climbing a bit higher into the juniper and pines outside my bedroom door and screened-in deck.

I climbed out of bed, stepped onto the deck, and surveyed that back yard where I found the clincher only a short time ago ... no grass, just huge sandstone rocks and trees ... excellent! A split-level with a screened-in upper deck off the bedroom and a screened-in back porch ... excellent! With grandkids the age and personalities of mine, an open deck screamed, “Jump off me!” This house offered safety and relaxation all in one package. The paint — white tinged with juniper berry blue — reflected someone who cared about old wood houses. It sat atop a hill in Payson surrounded by trees. I agreed to fax the promissory money immediately.

No more air conditioning. No more road rage. No more nine to five.

Heck, maybe you could throw the proverbial cat through the cracks in the doors of this old house. I didn’t care.

I was home.

I dialed my daughter’s number in the Valley and got the youngest grandchild on the phone. After making my invitation, I heard him scream, “Hey, Abbey! You can run up and down the stairs, and jump on the rocks, and snuggle under the blankets, and eat sausage and pancakes, and hike in the forest, and sit up all night watching cartoons if you want to!” yelled Hayden as he threw his clothes into a bag.

“We’re going to Grandma’s house! “ Remembering that day with the realtor, I did not know I yearned for the rest of my life and the house to live it in. Whether it spelled laced up black shoes or colorful print dresses for spring, or just some good memories to pass along, my turn awaited. The circle called my name.

Untitled watercolor by Maria Cohen

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

PAGE 27

The year of the snakes A snake hunter offers a wild, doomed adventure in off-road love

O

interest too...the big black furry ones he always said ‘never hurt nobody’. And n a boring week day at the Chuck Wagon cafe, I stood behind the cash naturally, I believed him. After all, had I not seen him balance one in the palm of register twiddling my thumbs. Well, not exactly. I had a firsthand view of all the traffic that passed by, and I kept a close eye on the happenings. his bare hand? And did he not talk to it in a sweet drawling voice, while all the After all, I owned the joint, and winter business during that memorably poor year while petting it as softly as he had ever put his loving Texas ‘pet’ on me?

Oh, my! How that Levi had a way with words. They started with, “Have of 1975 left a great deal to be desired. Road construction further south on the you ever seen a spider’s eyes?”

Beeline Highway wreaked havoc with the tourist trade most Payson merchants “Of course not,” I told him. depended upon. I know my business account felt the bind. My personal account “They’re easier to see at night.” did too.

“That’s good,” I said. “It’s easy for me to get away after closSo, naturally I noticed a shiny new pick-up with a Texas ing time.

Say ten-thirty some night soon?” license plate when it pulled into the Chuck Wagon’s parking lot.

Nonfiction Just that fast, I found myself riding ‘shot-gun’ in his pick-up.

That shiny red truck got even more interesting when a good-lookOn a back road somewhere below the pine tree level, Levi showed by ing dude bailed out, and marched his cute little ass right through the me the tiny red sparkle of spider eyes, rabbit eyes, and on one other Chuck Wagon’s front door. A mischievous smile blended with his Ellen McCoy occasion, he pointed out the eyes of what he said was a screech owl. soft grey Stetson hat, and his ostrich leather cowboy boots seemed “How do you know?” I asked. I lived for off-road excursions, equally genuine. but would never attempt them alone. Levi had a rifle, and he knew how to use it.

In a slow southern drawl, he said, “Morning, Ma’am. Ain’t it a mighty To me, that stood for the safety I required to venture forth. fine day?”

“I just know,” he replied. “If my truck had four-wheel drive, we could get Before I caught my breath, he continued. “You can call me Levi. That’s away more…further. We could hunt rattlesnake.” not my real name, but I like it better. What’s yours?”

“Rattlesnake! You gotta be kidding.”

I stood in a state of welcome surprise.

Levi looked me square in the eye. “I wouldn’t kid you about a thing like “Your name, I mean.” that.

I’ve got a way with rattlers. Why, I can turn one fair-sized snake into a cou“Well, they usually call me Ellen.” Actually, I was stalling for more time; ple hundred bucks. ‘Course, the weather’s gotta be warmer before they come out hoping to get a jump on this obviously egotistical stranger. I felt like I had a few where ya can find ‘em.” years on him, and a few too I guess Levi peaked my many pounds on my broad curiosity, because later that year beam as well.

I came back from Phoenix one Never-the-less, Payson day with a second-hand Jeep offered little in the way of Wagoneer. “You want fourintrigue, and I knew I had one wheel drive? You got fourdefinite advantage. I owned a Old car wheel drive. I’m anxious to see ‘food’ establishment, and a by some of that rattlesnake revhouse with an extra room…to rent, of course! If this Levi guy Carolyn enue.” I handed him the keys.

Levi grinned from ear meant to land in Payson town, Davis to Texan ear as he leaped into I sure as hell meant to put out my Jeep, and drove off to brag my own personal welcome to his friends. mat. And so I did. And he Oh, did I mention that stepped right up. Thus began Levi’s room rent had fallen way the year of the snakes, HIS behind. And quite by accident I snakes...bull snakes, king learned that his shiny red picksnakes, side-winders, red racers up had a special place on the and his favorite ‘diamondback Texas repossession list. Only rattlers’.

Tarantulas held Levi’s

PAGE 28

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Under the Rainbow by Tom Brossart

time (and four-wheel drive) separated Levi from the complete dethroning of my would-be Prince’.

Ah, ha! Ellen to the rescue. Soon he could pay his rent, and my ‘romance bubble’ would not have to break. Thanks to Levi and that Jeep Wagoneer, the year of snakes took off in full force.

The late night hunting trips increased considerably. Fourteen miles straight south the elevation dropped more than a thousand feet. The wind blew warmer there, and we always went snake hunting after I closed the Chuck Wagon. Luckily Levi remembered that ALWAYS taking me with him was part of our deal.

The Jeep did take us further off the beaten path. Levi found overgrown trails invisible to the untrained eye. He loved to challenge the Jeep’s four-wheel drive. On one such occasion, he thought to plow through Rye Creek; a narrow stream of water that at one time ran wild enough to justify a heavily enforced ‘Steel Bridge’. The ‘Steel Bridge’ provided a very safe place to park the Jeep. I especially liked to park there on a romantic moonlit night. Levi especially liked to park there because heavy shrubs grew down below and snakes were usually plentiful in that area.

One night, without a single snake in his ‘catch em’ sack, Levi refused to return to Payson empty handed. It was a Sunday night, and the Chuck Wagon closed on Mondays. We both reveled in the extra freedom we thought that night would provide.

Under the light of a very full moon, Levi decided to blaze his own manmade trail along the sandy shrub-lined bank of Rye Creek. Neither of us realized we had crossed over the bridge, and our wild and crazy ride took us up the wrong side of the creek, wrong that is, if we meant to access the paved road back to Payson.

“Not to worry,” he assured me when our wrong direction became obviMOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

ous. “We don’t have to be back tonight. Besides, I’m sure there will be a low spot where we can get across.”

The moon crawled across the late night sky as we followed the creek further away from the highway. Although it had been a warm day, a night breeze left me shivering with cold. Levi assured me we would soon be heading home. If not, he would pitch us a tent.

“With what?” I asked.

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” he said, “and I know ‘em all.”

Levi dearly loved ‘camping out’, rain or shine. Although I did not share his enthusiasm, I wanted to be a ‘good sport’ so I went along with whatever he had in mind. Soon we could see occasional headlights in the distance.

“That must be the highway,” I said.

That’s when any remaining doubt disappeared. We were definitely on the wrong side of Rye Creek.

“There will be a narrow spot up ahead,” Levi said. “With four-wheel drive, we can cross over there.”

Levi seemed to know what he was doing. At least I felt quite safe with an out-door man like him at the ‘helm’. However, I did notice that the pistol he always kept under the driver’s seat now rested beside him. Trusting his judgment, I didn’t think to ask why.

The moon cast a bright shine on the water in the creek. Levi found what looked like a shallow spot, but I mentioned that the stream was very wide there.

He laughed. “No problem, Sweetheart. I got’cha covered. You shore do worry a lot.”

“I’d worry less if I had a jacket.” Even my words quivered with cold.

“I got an empty burlap sack here.” With that, he threw the ‘catch em’ snake sack over my shoulders, and put the Jeep in gear.

“Here we go,” he hollered like a cowboy working up enough courage to PAGE 29

Cattle Guard Bicycles cross with caution so says the sign So I says are they angry but anxious? mad but careful? upset but conservative?

Mist on the Verde

BY

HOWARD RUSH

brave a buck-snorting rodeo bull.

The Jeep’s front wheels parted the water ahead. I could feel the tires get a good hold on the creek bed. Levi must have felt it too, as he goosed the engine in an effort to conquer a narrow sandbar that loomed in front of us.

We both felt the front wheels drop back down into the creek, but the rear wheels, (the other two of that invincible four-wheel drive) never got a grip on anything! Our Jeep Wagoneer had stalled; high-centered itself on a skinny sandbar in the middle of Rye Creek, and on a chilly Sunday night in the middle of nowhere.

I always look for one good thing in the face of disaster; the full half of the glass, so to speak, but this time I’ll be damned if I could find it. Shallow as that Rye Creek water might have been, it ran as cold as a witch’s ‘nose’!

How do I know? Because we had to wade through it to reach dry sand on the other side. There, Levi and I cuddled like we had never cuddled before in a fruitless attempt to stay warm. He built us a makeshift lean-to out of shrubs cut with his trusty knife, and we did everything but laugh until a very welcome sun rose to remind us that we would live to see another day.

Clutching a pistol I didn’t know how to use, I waited by the Jeep while Levi walked out for help. When he returned, a man with a tractor and a rope pulled the Jeep onto what seemed like a small beach. We learned that the Jeep’s power train had been submerged in running water all night long. Levi took a real teasing when word got out that he had high-centered HIS Jeep. It never ran worth a damn again.

After that fiasco, snake hunting slowed up some, but the year we spent together left me with endless stories of “The Great White Hunter” and his escapades. His shiny red pick-up finally got repossessed in Phoenix one morning PAGE 30

when he went to the VA hospital for ‘I don’t remember what’. I do remember that it landed him in jail ‘cause he called me at the Chuck Wagon to drive down and bail him out which, of course, I did.

And if I had more time and space, I would tell you all about the twenty-six live rattlers he brought back from the Brownsville, Texas Rattlesnake Roundup. He kept them in a rickety metal shed in my back yard. When Levi told the neighbor kids, they literally followed him around. He represented ‘fun and games’ and for a measly quarter apiece, he showed them how he could handle rattlesnakes. He taunted the snakes with balloons, causing them to strike. He put on an impressive show! Some of the snakes died of heart attacks. The rest he milked for their venom. Then he sold the serum to ASU. He converted the dead snakes, turned them into rattlesnake hat bands, rattlesnake belts, striking rattlesnake paper weights, and impressive rattlesnake steaks. I learned to bleach the bones, and strung them into rattlesnake jewelry which I sold through out the following winter.

Did Levi render a couple hundred bucks out of any one snake? I can’t say for sure, but I do know he finally paid his rent, and I kept the Chuck Wagon open through another slow winter with my rattlesnake jewelry profit.

In case you ever wonder what happens to a guy like Levi, I’m here to tell you. About a year later the Jeep quit running, and he teamed up with a much younger gal. New in town, she managed the ‘food’ establishment just down the road.

Now, like me, he is old, but unlike me, he is married.

He has a wonderful wife who owns a ranch in Snowflake.

There she helps him breed a small herd of Texas Longhorns.

I’ve seen them…his cattle. Their horns are as wide as Levi’s line is long, but he is still very entertaining.

religious but unfaithful?

A burden with consequences?

So now do they (bicycles) traverse with trepidation? breed with contempt? pass without incident? or is it just a sign with a simple meaning?

Aren't we all?

Of the above?

--Andy Towle

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Vermillion Cliffs fence line

BY

TOM BROSSART

The Quit-it “I

’ve been thinkin,” said Splat, from somewhere behind me. My shoulders automatically spasm when I hear those words, like a turtle retracting into its shell.

“Yeah?” I said tentatively, trying to sound disinterested. Preoccupied. But something about standing calf-deep in a trout stream, with fly line tangled around my ankles and my last blue-winged olive woven securely in a cottonwood branch above me, made me vulnerable to his distraction.

Splat knelt at the bank a few feet behind me, removing the zip-line from the lip of an ambitious minnow that just finished its first flying lesson. In his enthusiasm to set the hook, Splat had launched Little Nemo over his head and into the stream, 10 feet behind us.

“I’ve been thinkin’ we ought to try hunting again,” he said, releasing MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Slingshots, ketchup, bear what could go wrong?

Nemo with a gentle nudge into deeper water.

I frantically looked around to see if horses had approached the creek, which might have sparked such a notion.

From the dusty attic of my brain flashed a small, blurry picture of an old horse with a large red smear over its heart. A reflex panic washed over me as the memory of Mr. Emerson’s angry shouts echoed in my head. As he swore to unleash the wrath of our parents, we had run for the safety of our tree fort.

Standing in this creek, in a hopeless tangle of fly line, I suddenly yearned all warm and nostalgic for our simple, uncomplicated, manly hunting expeditions.

In the lifetime I’ve known Splat Verlaster, he’s never been burdened with an over abundance of normal thinking. Still in all, he occasionally came up with a really good idea. We were ten at the time, and like all

Fiction by Ken Crump

PAGE 31

Vermillion Cliffs rock house by Tom Brossart boys, we had a primal drive to prove ourselves as men. Not men who drive minivans and carry groceries into the house to protect our moms’ fresh manicures. No, we longed to prove ourselves as men of the forest: trackers of big game, providers of bounty. We would learn the ways of the bear, deer and rabbit. We would take our We would names from the land, from our brave deeds take our names and from the mighty game we felled. We from the land, would be hunters. That was the year Norman Verlaster earned the name Splat. from our brave We spent every Saturday gathering deeds and from expeditionary supplies from the thrift stores the mighty and garage sales of our tiny town. We easily game we felled. found pots, pans and blankets to build bedrolls, but Payson lacked a genuine Army We would be surplus store and that hampered our efforts to hunters. That find what we needed most. A gun. We dogwas the year eared the Bass Pro catalog at the Crosman Norman Benjamin model 392, 22 caliber pellet pump air rifle page, with its sleek and lightweight Verlaster American hardwood Monte Carlo stock and earned the fully rifled brass barrel. Pellet velocities up to name Splat.

685 fps made this rifle perfect for hunting and equally good for backyard target practice. We didn’t know what 685 fps meant, but knew it had something to do with timeless performance and dependable accuracy. We also knew the first rule of both our houses about the PAGE 32

subject of guns. “Not ’til you’re older.”

The idea of using a slingshot came from Splat’s mom. She was a big woman, not prone to moving around much, but she easily stayed ahead of us boys with a slingshot she called ‘The Quit-it’, and a bag of marshmallows she kept stuffed next to her chair. Many a time we thought we were sneaking around, only to feel the bruising thwack of a marshmallow rocketed from ‘The Quit-it’ onto our backsides. She proved time and again that a slingshot had enough fps for timeless performance and dependable accuracy.

One Sunday afternoon Splat came up the trail to the tree fort carrying a used Walmart sack. He looked toward his house nervously and then whispered, “I got The Quit-it.” Inside the bag lay half a bottle of catsup, a handful of empty water balloons, a disposable wedding camera, a roll of duct tape and ‘The Quit-it’.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” said Splat as I rummaged through the Walmart bag, “It’s going to be Christmas before either of us gets a Benjamin model 392. By that time, we might be too old to hunt anymore. So I’m thinkin’ we use ‘The Quit-it’.” He glanced back toward his house again and then added, “Mom’s asleep in her chair for awhile.”

Even at that age, I knew there were stories I didn’t need to hear – like just how Splat knew how long his mom was going to sleep or how he got ‘The Quit-it’ away from her.

“I see catsup, but you forgot the hotdogs,” I laughed.

Splat rolled his eyes like I was girl-dumb and proceeded to enlighten me. “No, moron. I’ve been thinkin’. We both know how good ‘The Quit-it’ shoots, but we also know it’s never going to kill MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

a bear or a deer. Not even if we use marbles instead of marshmallows. But part of the fun of hunting is seeing all the blood gushing out when you’ve shot something.

So we gotta find a way to shoot something, knowin’ we ain’t gonna kill it, and still get the fun of seein’ all the blood.”

“Are we going to smear catsup on a bear after we shoot it with a slingshot?” I asked. I just wasn’t following Splat’s master plan. But then, I was never the brains of the team.

“Jesus, Fart-Brain! That’s stupid, even for you. What do you think the balloons are for? Look, we squeeze a bunch of catsup in the water balloons and then shoot them at the bear instead of marshmallows.” He looked at me with deep pity. “I swear, sometimes I’m embarrassed to call you my best friend.”

I was beginning to see the plan. We sneak up on a bear or maybe a deer, shoot it right in the heart with a balloon full of catsup, look at the bloody-looking stuff smeared on its chest and then run for our lives. Brilliant!

“But Norman,” I asked, “what’s the camera and tape for?”

“They’re for you, Fart-Brain. Another best part of hunting is hanging a wild animal’s head on the wall, like they do at the Legion Hall. But wild animals won’t just give us their head, ‘cause they’re not dead and all, so we have to do the next best thing, which is take a picture of them being all bloody – like we killed ‘em. Then we hang the picture on the wall where the head’s s’pose to be.”

I sensed Splat losing patience with my stupidity so I decided not to ask about the tape. We spent the rest of that afternoon filling little balloons with catsup and practicing splatting them against trees with ‘The Quit-it’. By dinner time, we’d devised a plan to go big game hunting the next day.

The next morning Splat was sitting lookout, high in the tree fort when I arrived hauling all my thrift store expedition gear. Between us, we’d pilfered a month’s provisions from our respective household pantries and were prepared to stay as long as it took to ‘bag’ our first bear.

“I’m doing the shooting,” announced Splat, who had proved himself the better shot yesterday, earning the honored title ‘King Splat’.

“And you are taking the pictures. We both gotta find the bear.”

With that, he pulled ‘The Quit-it’ from its hiding place and instructed me to tape it to his

wrist and hand with duct tape.

Then he had me hold the camera up to my forehead while he applied tape around my head to hold it in place.

“This way,” he explained, plying layers of duct tape to my face and head, “after I shoot the bear and you take the picture and we’re runnin’ for our lives, we don’t have to worry about losing the camera or ‘The Quitit’.”

Genius, I thought.

Somehow all the bears in Payson got wind that we were hunting them and they hid from us.

We searched everywhere a bear might hide, and even looked for deer, coyotes, elk, javelina, and rabbits to shoot. Splat launched a balloon at a raven, but the shot fell short and hit the granite in front of it. The raven hopped over to the spent balloon and flipped it in the air. He ate the bloody catsup. I didn’t take a picture.

By lunch time, we dragged ourselves back to the shade of the tree fort. Splat climbed to the look-out branch overlooking the entire neighborhood and sulked. I hated to see him like that, even though sometimes a few minutes sulking on the tree fort’s look-out branch led to his best ideas.

This was one of those times.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said slowly. His slouched look of down-trodden defeat started to straighten as he gazed across the street at the Emerson’s corral. “I’ve been thinkin’ that Mr. Emerson’s old sorrel Andrew Jackson looks a lot like a bear from up here.”

The angry chitter of a grey squirrel erupted in the cottonwood to my right, jostling my attention back to the trout stream. My eyes followed the noise to where my old buddy crawled out on a branch above my head. A taut yellow line stretched from the leaves just beyond his reach, down to a nest of fly line at my ankles.

As he stretched his arm out to the limits of his precarious balance and snatched my last bluewinged olive from the tree, I asked, “You think we ought to put in for a bear tag this year?”

Grizzly Bear by Francisco Lopez

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Words Words can betray hurt enlighten beguile frighten smile you words can define you hide you lie cheat and steal from you praise you rightly wrongly deceive you melt you place you in harm forgive you damn you curse you love you too words and speech those messy mouthings can upset these fragile heartbeats with just inflection with well placed syllables and not even know damage done ring in these ears days months years we are careless flippant thoughtless too easy to use

-- By Andy Towle

PAGE 33

Doorway by Don Kisseberth

ust put her on the side of the freeway. Someone Podunk, Arizona or a nursing home. There really was will pick her up!” My father told the social work- no choice. er. His voice echoed from the hospital hallway. I My thoughts of going to Payson became a constant knew the exact look on his face as he spoke. It’s that pro and con list. Pro: no one knew me pre-stroke, same frustrated, disgusted look I had inspired many which would lessen the pity factor. Con: leaving my times in my youth. A few minutes later I heard the daughter, 90-year-old grandmother and friends, which social worker’s heels click down the hallway, the same seemed to be fewer after the long hospital stay. Pro: it stomp of frustration that I’m sure was on my father’s was beautiful; con: I would be living with my mom. In face. Dad came back to my bedside, eyebrows the years since she had moved to Payson, she had scrunched together in thought. acquired another child, my four-legged sister, Kitty. I “Put me and my wheelchair on the side of a freewas very allergic to cats. I didn’t want mom to make a way headed towards the beach. I think a choice between me and the cat. Given our little surf and sand is just what I need.” My Nonfiction history, the cat would stay. humor was lost on him.

This move would only be what I made by I had been in the hospital so long, my it: the old lemons to lemonade thing. world felt small. So watching life pass me After my release from the hospital, Cyndi by at 60 miles per hour was intriguing. packed up his pickup with my stuff Dougherty Dad Living life on the sidelines — my future. and we headed out I-10 toward Phoenix. I In June 2005, I survived a massive spent the next nine hours in a sequence of stroke. When I woke from the coma, the only two foxhole prayers. “Please! Oh, please don’t let me fall things that remained the same were my name and my in the rest stop bathrooms. I swear I’ll quit cussing. family. A very uncertain future lay ahead of me.

Just please don’t let me fall!” Through east Phoenix, My focus now: relearning how to do things that “Please! Oh, please let me not be allergic to Mom’s took no thought before. Talking and walking again cat. I swear I’ll go to church with her every Sunday. were just a few of my new challenges. The past six These were my prayers ’til we got to the Country Club months I spent relearning to take care of myself. exit off the freeway. All the way up Hwy. 87 I prayed Learning to do mundane daily tasks without the use of that I would be able to get up those four steps into half my body. mom’s house.

I now had “special needs.” My choices were When we finally arrived, I was exhausted. There in

J

“

Sidelined The stroke that took so much also offered something unexpected: A fresh start

PAGE 34

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Pathway by Howard Rush

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

front of me was my biggest hurdle of the day; the steps up to the door. The plans to make a ramp to the door had to be put on hold because of the weather. So there I stood at the landing.

The stairs had been recently painted a soft green.

The only hand rail flanked my left side; the side that didn’t work. I heard someone come up behind me. It was one of the neighbors. I guess the word had gone out we might need help. I held my cane with my brother on the right and my dad on the left. The neighbor behind me and mom at the top of the steps. The time had come.

I had to focus on my every move. I felt like every moment in physical therapy culminated in these few minutes. I made it up one step, paused, then another until I finally made it to the door. I flopped on the first chair, not analyzing if I would even be able to get out of it. The cat jumped in my lap and we bonded for a while- no watery eyes or sneezing. Seems all my prayers paid off.

I spent the first year after the stroke sidelined from life. I didn’t leave the house much. I became very proficient at TV101. I found myself living vicariously through programs on the tube. I spouted my arm chair political views, rattled off answers to many Jeopardy questions.

I could help remodel, redecorate a home, and learned the difference between julienne and sheffinod and 101 ways to cook chicken.

Settling into life in Payson was not so easy. I was dependent on others for many things. I began to feel like a caged animal. Until the day, mom decided I needed an ID card. I filled out all the paperwork and waited my turn. The woman behind the counter said “You don’t want a driver’s license?” I stood before her with my left arm in a sling, a cane in my right hand. “Are you sure I can have one?” I questioned. “There is nothing here that says you can’t!” she answered. So I became a licensed driver that day.

I called friends and family to announce my latest development. No one seemed as delighted as I was. With mom’s help I bought a car. Free at last. I was off the sidelines, participating in life. I volunteered for things, made new friends. It took more than a year, but I began to assimilate to my new town.

In the back of my mind, I had always thought I would return to California, until I went for a visit. I walked through a Walmart there and did not see anyone I knew. Everyone was so impatiently living at 90 mph. I could not wait to get home. I finally referred to Payson as home. I loved that there were only seven stoplights in town; Every time I was out and about people were friendly.

I have to say my real “Ah ha!” moment came the day I moved into my own apartment. Too expensive in California, but here in Payson not so. The lemonade had been made, and I like it!

PAGE 35

Verde Sunset by Don Kisseberth

Aspen by Don Kisseberth

Granite by Elissa Hugens Aleshire PAGE 36

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Dead Horse Ranch by Don Kisseberth

Cattail by Carolyn Davis

Sedona Reflection by Steve Peacock MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Verde River Sunset by Sherry Goode PAGE 37

In the Kitchen M

y gramma loved to bake. Her homemade ders and called me hopeless.

The next time in the kitchen, Aunt Addie and I bread hot from the oven made my mouth wanted to make a pineapple upside down cake. We salivate. I couldn’t wait to slice the heel of the loaf, spread soft butter all over it and shove it placed the pineapples on the bottom of the pan, sprinkled the top with brown sugar and poured the quickly in my mouth before she started to holler at batter over it. me.

Aunt Addie said, “Sweetheart, Gramma hated to share her baked Reflections by put it into the oven.” goodies. The butter horns, date bars, With a satisfied grin, I opened and cookies she guarded with her life.

Mari Janecek up the oven door. Remembering that She would take them into her bedroom it was an upside down cake, I turned the pan over. and hide them. I never entered her bedroom without All the liquid ran down between the racks onto the permission.

I would try to help her, but she didn’t want any- bottom of the oven. It made a big mess.

Aunt Addie laughed, but gramma had a fit. I one in the kitchen with her. decided that when I grew up, I wanted to have fun Gramma would take the cookies off the cookie in the kitchen, so I watched how Aunt Addie sheet and stack them in piles of from six to a dozen cooked. She loved to share whatever she made with of these treats. I remember when she had over a the whole family. Her fried sweet potatoes and wiltdozen piles on the table. ed lettuce remain the best I ever tasted.

Gramma would tell me that I could have only one cookie, but I wanted one for each hand so I would take two. (I hated anyone telling me what to do). She would see that two were missing Muse acrylic by Ann Christiansen from her stack and get really irritated.

When I turned eight, I figured out that if I took the whole stack of cookies, she wouldn’t know that any were missing. My secret to getting out of the kitchen without gramma seeing me with the missing cookies was a godsend. I shoved them into my underpants, carefully walking away so as not to make crumbs come out all over the floor.

Then I left the kitchen, ran up the stairs to my bedroom and devoured them as quickly as possible. After eating them, I’d descend the stairs and run into the kitchen where gramma wondered why I needed a glass of milk, which I gulped down rapidly, but those peanut butter cookies made me thirsty.

My gramma’s sister, Aunt Addie, also lived with us and she and I adored each other. Aunt Addie wanted to teach me to cook when I turned nine. She filled a pot with water and then told me to let her know when it started to boil.

I stood next to the stove and when I saw bubbles in the pot, took it off the stove and threw the water into the sink.

Aunt Addie returned and saw the empty pot, she turned to me and said, “What happened to the water?”

I told her that the pot wasn’t rinsed properly as there were soap bubbles in the water. Aunt Addie laughed but gramma shrugged her shoul-

PAGE 38

Lessons in life - and grandmothering - smell strongly of baking cookies At the age of ten, I entered the kitchen and asked gramma if I could use the potato peeler. With a wide smile, she handed it to me. I unwrapped a bar of Ivory soap and shaved it into the form of a cross, leaving the droppings all over the kitchen table. She didn’t appreciate my artistic endeavor.

After I cleaned up my mess, gramma handed me a bag of potatoes to peel without the peeler. I used a paring knife and made really long peelings. I loved the peelings — Aunt Addie said if I would toss one over my shoulder, the letter it would form would indicate the first initial of my future husband’s name.

The most common letter that it made was the letter “J”. I knew that it stood for Jesus, as I would marry him when I joined the convent. (As it turned out, I married a man named Jim.) I asked gramma if she would teach me how to make her delicious bread. I picked a day when gramma wore a smile on her face. She got the flour, water and yeast, which we placed in a bowl of warm water to activate it.

When I heard the word “activate” I couldn’t wait until it took off, but it never did. We mixed the ingredients and then kneaded the dough, a very hard job for a 10-year-old.

After that, we put it into a bowl and covered it to let it rise. I wanted to get it done quickly, so I put my bowl on the radiator then went outside to collect the icicles that hung from the gutters to eat.

When I started to get cold, I re-entered the house and found the dough oozing out of the bowl down the radiator. When gramma saw my dough, she ran back into the kitchen to get the wooden spoon.

I hated getting spanked with the wooden spoon and tried running around the table, hoping she wouldn’t catch me. She did. The only time I goofed up really big, I accidentally used salt to add to the lemons I squeezed for lemonade.

Gramma had changed the canister and put salt in without telling me. I think she did it on purpose because the family liked my moist meat better than her burned roasts.

What goes around comes around. Our granddaughter Jordan loves to help in the kitchen. I only use the wooden spoon to stir. She will never get hit for helping out. If she goofs up, so what. We are making memories and I want her to remember me as her happy grandmother, happy to have her with me.

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

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PAGE 39

Superstition Stormfront by Tom Brossart

M Hiking into Hellsgate

A violent storm and an arduous hike tests a family

PAGE 40

pictures were poor, but are priceless today. escal Ridge. In late afternoon of our return We planned a three-day hike; one to get there, hike, with the sun sinking rapidly and the one to fish, and one to hike out. We chose the eight temperature tumbling, a terrific overpowering thunderstorm caught us as we met the trail at Bull mile trail from Bear Flats, the only one I knew and Tank and started hiking along Mescal Ridge, the high- the way we would go. This trail traverses two deep est point on the hike. The boys and I, each with metal canyons while it drops from dense pine forest to high desert terrain. An alternate route, the Green Valley fishing poles poking out of our packs like lightning Trail, I had never taken. We would try that trail some rods, stood out as the highest objects on the ridge. other time. Liz had ear surgery not too long before Lightning was lashing all around us with thick titanic this and got tired quickly. Son Danny, seeing her fiery bolts going straight to the ground and shaking struggling, sympathized and spoke up. “Dad, I think the earth. The sound reverberated loudly through the we need to lighten Liz’s load.” So the boys and I took lower canyons. Rain came down in torrents. With no turns toting her pack. She never complained, but we time or place to hide we just had to “tough it out.”

The pouring rain thoroughly drenched us, just short of all felt her pain as well as our own.

After the crushing climb out of Bear Flats and drowning, with miles of this high barren ridge ahead the long mushing march across Mescal Ridge, we of us and the storm intensifying every moment. paused at Bull Tank for photographs, a little target The Hellsgate Wilderness area holds a strong practice and a swig of precious water, fascination for our family. I went there while surveying the scenery. From this three times in past years, and hoped that point, the trail ended. A rock-strewn hill Nonfiction our whole family could go. This, my dropped far down into Bull Tank Canyon fourth time to Hellsgate promised a first by and then climbed up just as steep a hill great adventure for our family. The trip occurred in 1966: With Liz 12, Dan 16, James Hagen on the other side. We could see our destination in the distance; a prominent peak and Rob 17. Our three blond-headed, we named “Monkey Face” for its appearblue-eyed children, athletic and full of ance.

From this point on to the canyon depths, it energy lined up, raring to go. We took off on our trek with five eager and determined hikers: Rob, inherent- meant all “dead reckoning,” literally following our noses. (That is an easy task for the Hagens. Ha — we ly aggressive and a leader; Dan, a strong, wise but all inherited prominent noses.) quiet follower of his older brother; Liz, loved by her A hot summer day greeted us; the cicadas brothers and the kind of child you would welcome a occasionally sang in chorus and little white powdery dozen more alike; Marlene my wife, a strong hiker, puffs of clouds kept popping up on the horizon. Soon generally submissive, but one who never gets mad, the summer monsoon season overtook us. Although just gets even; and finally me, Jim, the Eagle Scout, the skies shone sunny and clear while hiking in, they Scoutmaster and tireless, fearless leader of this trip. could capriciously change at any moment. At We recorded our trip on an 8mm movie camera. The MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Hellsgate the convergence of two creeks, Tonto and Haigler, flow on as Tonto Creek. At this point, they join forces and wind through rugged canyons and high craggy sheer cliffs that rise from both banks. We set up camp here, at the gates of hell, the confluence of the two creeks. We built a small fire, cooked dinner, talked and told stories, including the one of Leo the Lion. Then we crawled inside our tube tents, meant to keep us dry, but more resembling the fit of a worm hole.

Fortunately, none of us exhibited claustrophobia. It rained hard in the night so we praised the plastic tents. Our packs and other gear hung on a part of a tubular structure from the Special MGM aircraft that crashed in the area in 1927 while carrying Leo the MGM Lion on a publicity tour.

The next morning rose clear and crisp, but already starting to steam up with a bright burning sun. The hot air, humid and pungent from the previous night’s rain, gave us grief.

We preferred to fish, but gave up because Tonto Creek roiled with muddy red runoff from recent rains. The first spot on Tonto Creek going upstream showed sheer canyon walls on both banks and a long, deep-water stretch of stream lay between. So we used an inflatable rubber raft and had fun with water sports instead of fishing. With the heat in this canyon, the cold wet water felt good to our tired torsos. We topped off the day with a savory camp supper and a sound night’s sleep.

We arose early the next day, taking in as much of the site as possible before packing out.

After studying the topographical map of the mountains, I decided to return by a different unknown and longer route, but with less up and down steep canyons. This route went

east, then north, and then back west to meet the trail at Bull Tank and the start of Mescal Ridge. The route followed ridge lines as much as possible. The plan looked perfectly plausible on paper, but no trail existed and we were forced to “bushwhack” all the way. The scrub oak and manzanita, so thick on the ridges, made it at times almost impenetrable. We learned the real meaning of “bushwhack”.

Marlene and my family nearly mutinied, but they had no choice except to follow “Der Fuhrer” (as Marlene likes to call me.) Marlene moaned that surely even the beauty parlor could not patch up what was happening to her.

Thankfully, she knew me well and trusted me.

We lost time, the struggle much harder than going in and out of the canyons, but we finally merged onto the main trail at Bull Tank. Our 8mm movie camera, properly packed, kept us from taking more pictures on the rest of the route.

Back at Bull Tank and the beginning of Mescal Ridge, we met with a terrifying, thunderstorm. This, the only time that lightning ever left me leery, put my senses on high alert to the sights, smells and sounds of the situation. The smell of pattering rain on parched desert growth and the coolness to the face freshened us, but I hoped not to smell the strong scent of ozone, or hear the hiss of an electric field about our packs. With this, the precursor to a lightning strike, the only safety measure at our disposal was to fall to the ground and make ourselves as small as possible. Mescal Ridge, our nemesis, a high rough and barren rocky hilltop trail for several miles, all the time exposed us to the elements until we exited off the north face into thick forest growth.

Darkness came on all too quickly. With total darkness, the trail appeared visible only as a river of water. I took a flashlight out of my pack, wondering if we could in the dark find and follow the trail through the forest.

Our oldest son Rob said, “Let me have the flashlight” and led the way as we sloshed down the long and narrow winding forest trail to Bear Flats. The flashlight helped only Rob our leader. The rest of us sloshed along behind, with me the fearless father bringing up the rear. Near the end of the trail at Bear Flats loomed a cabin with lights in the windows. A lady in the cabin heard us coming, came out on the porch and called us to come in out of the rain.

“I have plenty of hot burritos if you’re hungry” she said.

I thought to myself “Are we hungry?

Are you kidding? Do bears poop in the woods?”

We had a good visit with a most gracious hostess, the wonderful Mexican food — a banquet to us — provided us a fitting climax to this adventure. We went to the Gates of Hell, but came back to the Portals of Paradise.

This adventure brought our family close as we weathered hardships together. We hiked, worked and played as team. Son Rob demonstrated his capability as a leader. Dan showed his observant and compassionate nature with his concern for Liz. The family came to realize that Dad could get us to our destination and back safely. Dad learned that topographical maps are great for defining the terrain, but also that ridge lines in the wilderness are not the place to bushwhack . Most of all, this trek gave us all a great chunk of marvelous memories to last a lifetime.

Missing You I long to see your face again, Reach out and touch your hand once more; What memories we made back then: The sky, the sea, the ocean’s roar.

‘Twere not for distance, time, and space, The things that separate us now, And death that overtakes our race, I’d still be with you here somehow.

As you stroll down some marble hall Just listen and you’ll hear me call.

I’ll know you by your footstep’s fall.

And face-to-face we’ll be once more; Your hand in mine as we explore The wonders of God’s Heav’nly shore.

N

James M. Hagen MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

BEAR CANYON LAKE

BY

TOM BROSSART PAGE 41

Messages from the Night H

e plunged through the branches, rough limbs whipping across his face, and fell forward as a foot found empty space instead of the expected firm ground. Paul cursed, picked himself up and paused. That fall had a message. Clearly, crashing through the forest to find little, furry Dhalia and then the trail home was stupid. Even in daylight, the terrain made rough going. At night, it would be a guaranteed busted body, at best!

The unavoidable truth smacked him full in the face. No mistaking it, he was going to spend a frigid night in the open forest.

He forced himself not to dwell on that scary aspect, needed to stay busy -- and warm. Paul started sweeping up dried pine needles fallen from the Ponderosa pines until he had a stack in which, perhaps, he might bury himself. Thank God that when he and Jeannie had decided to give the four dogs this early evening walk out in the Dells, he had jeans and a long-sleeved shirt on and a pullover thrown over his shoulders. That didn’t make Dhalia’s dash into the brush, any less frustrating, but he probably Fiction wasn’t going to freeze to death! by The light faded and the temperature sank along with Paul’s conPaul Handover fidence he could spend a night alone in the forest, surrounded by those granite boulders and peaks.

He lay down next to the pile of needles then shuffled and squirmed, sweeping the pine needles across him, trying to find any position that carried some illusion of comfort. But he could not silence the screaming in his head, the deep, primeval fear of this dark forest about him.

“You stupid sod, Paul”, he suddenly said out loud, aware how lonely his words sounded as they echoed around the darkness, “There’s no way I’m going to sleep through this!”

What made it so frightening? Where in his psyche did that come from? Even reflecting on past nights at sea, sailing solo a thousand miles from shore, didn’t help. Perhaps the difference between then and now came down to choice. He chose to sail on the ocean alone. He would never in his wildest dreams vote for this night alone out here.

Then the shivering started.

Paul discovered that the cold night air starting to penetrate his body, despite the blanket of pine needles. What stupid fool said, ‘Nothing to fear but fear itself!’ How cold might it get? He couldn’t get warm. He had to move.

He looked around, saw a boulder a few yards away, like some black, giant shadow. Paul carefully raised himself, feeling the remaining needles fall away, and gingerly shuffled across to

PAGE 42

Sometimes you have to get lost before you can be found.

Trail in the Woods by Tom Brossart MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Believe by Juliet Wing

the dark rock face. Tentatively, half expecting something to bite his extended hand, he explored the surface that he might lean against, then ran his hand towards the unseen ground. All OK, and an unexpected bonus; the granite face gently emitted a faint warmth absorbed from the day’s sun. He crouched down and slowly settled himself on the ground, feeling less vulnerable in this sitting position. He settled back and let out a long breath, almost immediately followed by a massive bursting into tears, huge sobs coming from deep within, like feelings from a soul-time long, long ago.

The tears carried away the tension, releasing the fear, allowing a calmer part of his brain to return. Gracious, he hadn’t thought of what his wife must be going through. He felt very embarrassed. At least he knew he was alive. Jeannie, not knowing, would be in despair. He bet she would be remembering that time when they were walking here in the Granite Dells and Poppy had disappeared in this same forest. Nearly a year later and Jeannie still says from time to time, “I so miss Poppy!”

First Poppy and now him!

He guessed she would have called 911 and the local search and rescue unit. Would they attempt to come out in the dark? Thinking about Jeannie, focusing on her suffering, further eased him and slowly the shivering stopped. Thank goodness for that! Paul fought to retain this new perspective. He would make it through, would even treasure this night under the sky. This wonderful, majestic, awesome, night sky. Even with the crowns of numerous pine trees reaching up, hiding so many stars, there were still many wide areas where the night could be clearly seen.

Payson, at an altitude of 5,000 feet, had skies beautifully clear of dirt and dust and that produced a magical air clarity.

Starry night skies had enraptured Paul forever. They had provided some form of continuum throughout his life. This night, the vision above became the most magnificent of his life, utterly humbled by a hundred, million more stars than he had ever seen before.

Time passed by in some uncertain fashion since he could not read the hands of his watch. However, above his head spanned the big clock of the universe. He scanned the heavens, seeking out familiar pinpoints of light, his companions over so much of his lifetime. Ah, there! The Big Dipper, Ursa Major, and, yes, there the North Pole star, Polaris. Great!

Now the rotation of the planet became his clock, The Big Dipper sliding around Polaris, fifteen degrees for every hour.

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Somewhere, far away, a group of coyotes started up a howl. What a timeless sound. How long had coyotes been on the planet? He sank into deeper thoughts, into those inner places of the mind, almost as though the intense darkness linked him to some mysterious half-life out here. What if this night truly meant the end, the end of his life? What last words, what parting messages, would he say to those he loved?

Jeannie, of course, would know beyond any doubt how much he had adored her. And his son and daughter, dear Alex and Maija? Oh, the complexities he had created in their lives by his decision to leave their mother so many years ago. All very well saying such is life, but he knew that they still harboured raw edges, and quite reasonably so. His own father’s death more than 50 years ago still had a few, tiny raw Thinking about edges left deep inside. What would he want to Jeannie, focusing leave for them so they both knew, without a on her suffering, scintilla of doubt, that he loved them so much, had for all their lives? Perhaps the thoughts further eased him themselves were sufficient. Maybe, in ways and slowly the beyond comprehension, those thoughts would shivering stopped. float across the ether to find them. Romantic nonsense? Who knows? Dogs certainly demonstrated their ability to read the emotional thoughts of their human friends, frequently from far out of visual range.

Actually, thinking of his many doggie friends, he knew Pharaoh would be linked with him.

Paul struggled to remember that saying from James Thurber. What was it now? Something about men striving to understand themselves before they die. Would that be the message he would want leave Alex and Maija? Blast, he wished he could remember stuff more clearly these days!

Paul looked back up into the heavens. Gracious, the Big Dipper was indicating at least an hour had slipped by, possibly nearer two. What a sky to lose one’s mind in!

He did lose himself in that sky, in that great cathedral of stars.

Later, measured in some passing of consciousness, the Thurber saying came back to him: all men should strive to learn before they die, what they are running from, and to, and why.

If asked to guess the present time, he would have great difficulty.

Certainly it felt later than 11 p.m. and most probably earlier than 4 a.m.

PAGE 43

but anything more precise felt impossible. When had this curious calm settled over him? The calmness brought an uneasy sleep, somewhere between wakefulness and a full slumber.

Suddenly, a noise jarred him instantly alert.

It sounded like animal feet moving through the autumn fall of dead leaves. He prayed not a mountain lion. The unknown creature had definitely paused. A clear sniffing sound; maybe a wild pig?

He hoped not. Javelinas spelled trouble.

Paul sat absolutely still but did close his right-hand around a small rock. The sniffing stopped. Nothing now, save the sound of Paul’s rapid, beating heart. He sensed, sensed strongly, the creature looking at him. The adrenalin hammered through his veins.

His ears then picked up a sound bizarre sound. The sound seemed so familiar, that of a dog wagging its tail, flap, flap, flapping against something like a branch.If a dog, then it could only be one dog; it had to be Dhalia.

Then came the small, shy bark!

A bark he knew so well. Paul’s emotions soared. It’s Dhalia, I’ll put my life on it.

In a low voice, he called, “Dhalia, Dhalia, come here, there’s a good girl.” A quick rustle of feet through the undergrowth and she was with him.

He cried his tears over her sweet, lovely form as she plunged on to his body.

Despite the darkness, Paul could see her perfectly in his mind, her tight, shorthaired coat of light-brown hair, her aquiline face, bright inquisitive eyes and those head-dominating ears. Lovely large ears that seemed to listen to the world. The epitome of a Mexican, feral, street dog who way back in 2005 had tentatively turned away from a pile of rubbish in a Mexican street and shyly approached Jean.

Dhalia’s tongue licked his face furiously, licking away the tears that flooded down his cheeks. He hugged her as Dhalia settled on his chest, curled into a ball, both of them together in a thousand ways. Paul’s mind drifted to an era long time ago, maybe back to an earlier man, likewise wrapped around his dog, out in the wilderness under a dome of stars.

Dawn brought another memory from past sailing days. The imperceptible arrival of the morning sun. One can stare continuously at the night sky ahead of dawn yet still find it impossible to determine the precise moment full night ends. So, too, this morning. Maybe Dhalia sensed the coming dawn before Paul, she certainly brought him out of his dreams by the slight stirring of her warm, gentle body.

Yes, there it came, the end of the night. That ancient sun galloping towards them across ancient

lands, another beat of the planet’s clock. Dhalia slid off his chest, stretched herself from toe to toe, yawned and looked at him, as much to say time to go home, matey! He could just make out the face of his watch; it was 4.55 a.m. He, too, raised himself, slapping his arms around his body to get some form of circulation going.They set off, quickly cresting a ridge, seeing the forest road perhaps less than a mile away, where arriving search and rescue trucks caused a stir. Ahead of the parked trucks, he saw the familiar shape and colour of the Jean’s Dodge. He knew without any doubt at all, that she and Pharaoh had already disappeared into the forest, Pharaoh intuitively leading her towards he and Dhalia.

The two of them eagerly set off down the slope, Dhalia’s tail wagging with unbounded excitement. At the bottom of the hill, Pharaoh raced out of the trees opposite, barking at the top of his voice in

Marsha and Robert Slept soundly In their cabin In the snow In the fullness of time.

They slept easily, With their children And grandchildren Up in the loft And their dog by their bed.

Life was good For she was the dean Of a graduate school, After 55 years of hard work and good deeds.

They had everything, The cabin, The careers, The kids and a dog who loved them.

The avalanche came through the windows, Filling the cabin with snow Waking the children in the loft With its cold, dark roar.

Sunflowers by Tom Brossart

PAGE 44

Idaho Avalanche Kills Couple

clear dog speak, ‘I’ve found them, they’re here, they’re safe’. Paul crouched down, Pharaoh instantly all over him.

Later, safely home, it came to him. When Dhalia and he had set off in the early light back towards the forest road, she had stayed pinned to him, as if Paul had been the lost soul. She never did that for she always raced away when Jeannie and he were out walking, let’s face it that’s what got them into the mess in the first place.

Thus Dhalia delivered the message from the night, the message for Alex and Maija, a message clear and bright as the rays of a new day’s sun - If you don’t get lost, there’s a chance you may never be found.

Martha and Robert they smothered In their big, cozy bed Pushed against the far wall.

As their children dug With aching hands to find them.

As they dug they heard the barking of the dog flung into the fireplace by the caprice of snow Breathing through the chimney.

Now I cannot but wonder What God had planned In that rush of snow and what lessons lie buried With the dog in the chimney.

-- Frank Jennings MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Rodeo Man He never stopped leaving, so she just stopped saying goodbye

T

his morning you knocked on the door of my shirt.

You like the leaving. In the beginning, I trailer. I shouldn’t have even been here, would make sandwiches and a thermos of coffee wouldn’t have been if it hadn’t been for the damned holidays. I don’t practice my religion, and for you to take on the road. You always liked that.

You made the “adios” into a big production numyet the high holy days come and I find that I notice, here alone in the desert. I notice and I stay ber. Kisses and misty eyes and promises: I love you, I’ll call, and ‘oh, baby, I’m gonna’ miss you’ home to contemplate my life, and you show up. I when we made love. Knowing when you were should have been at school. At the very least, going spoiled the days we had together for me, should have gone down to Phoenix and contembecause all I could think about was when you’d be plated from pool-side at Camelback Inn. You gone. I don’t like endings. I changed the rules. If never would have come there.

I see your eyes and my Judas heart lurches you were going to just show up, you had to leave in my chest and the turncoat cells in my body reach the same way. I go to work like always, somefor you even as my mind tells me to slam the door times you will be there when I get back, sometimes you won’t. Some mornings I wake up beside you, and lock it tight. It’s hot out there and hospitality demands that I share the icy, chilled redemption of then one morning I will wake up alone. I prefer it this way. We stopped saying goodbye. my air conditioned space with you, Fiction by You leave without the comfort of my with any visitor. You, with your farewell. You leave alone. knowing eyes and your confidence, Teddy Cohen Your saddle on the chair by the you come into my cold space as if it door has become a place marker for were your own. I imagine that I you. When I see it there, I know that you are still live in a big silver refrigerator, this metal trailer here even though your truck may be gone. There that I keep so cool. My ruffled pink and white is an old cowboy who sleeps in my bed. . . Your linens sit crisp as lettuce on my bed. As I sip iced horses graze the barren earth of the flat land beside tea from a straw, I imagine myself to be a cut flower, an orchid perhaps, living in this alien place my trailer, their soft muzzles combing the sand for the tiniest blade of something green and growing, sustained by refrigerated air and a tube of liquid. despite the fine alfalfa hay that fills them. How Do you ever doubt me? Is there ever a like them you are. moment when you wonder whether I’ll let you in, Once you brought a gelding here who whether I’ll even be here when you come to see needed care. He had blown up a tendon and couldme? But why should you doubt me? I have no n’t ride until it healed. That’s when you set up the doubts about you.

And so you come in and throw your saddle pipe corral. The gelding was sour from too much pain and too many rodeos. He’d seen the inside of on my chair and ask me if I have a beer. I never your horse trailer weekly since he turned three and do. I haven’t had a beer for you in twenty years, probably covered more American geography than but you ask anyway, pretending, I suppose, that I any of my students ever would. Nasty barely could one day surprise you. You settle for the tea, described his attitude, and I wondered which of us complaining as you stir the iced, whiskey-colored would survive his treatments. After months of liquid that the sugar should be added while the tea soaking, wrapping, and the best of everything, after is hot. I sip my unsweetened brew and contemplate your face, a living map of all the saloons and the hoof-shaped bruises on me healed, he came around. He learned the easy life, he grew soft and women and late nights west of the Mississippi. I fat. We rode the hills together and I wanted to recognize the sun-etched creases on your cheeks keep him here. I felt certain that he would never and note the tiny, familiar scar line where stitches wish to return to the hard life he had with you. once intersected one of your eyebrows. Your face When you came down the road, dust bilis bearded, but lightly, as if you’d lost your razor lowing behind your truck, he started calling. for a week or so. Your tanned skin is so the color Hearing him, I assumed that some neighboring of leather that your eyes seem more like conchos pony from the reservation had come by and went than eyes: silver conchos set with Bisbee blue out to investigate. He recognized your truck before turquoise that dance beneath your brows. Feeling hypnotized, I turn to inspect the silver on your sad- I did. When he went with you, his eyes blazed with joy and fear and love and anticipation. dle, hoping to break the spell. It is heavier than Nothing could have kept him out of that horse trailever. Heat rises from the leather and shimmers in er. I cursed that horse the day he left with you, but the cool air like the colors of an aura. When you inside, I understood. It’s been the same with me kiss me, I smell the dust from your jeans and feel the heat of Arizona’s September on your skin, your for all this time.

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

SUSAN MCINTYRE “NAVAJO GIRL”

“WAITING MY TURN”

by ANN CHRISTIANSEN

PAGE 45

Grace of a man Death and love contended in a hospital corridor stepped through the sliding stainless steel doors into the dimly lit er, as faithful a soldier as God ever had. She lived every day with one elevator. I welcomed its classical elevator smell of friction, oil and purpose, to do God’s bidding. Snowstorms and butterflies always lifted electrical circuits. Disinfectant could not hide the death-stench her heart, but from womb to tomb she suffered like Job. Her end began trapped in the musty old carpet of the hospital’s dreary first floor. with rods in her back, support for her spine, dissolved by a tumor. The I pushed the sixth floor button. The closing doors unlocked a thought rocked me to my marrow. cache of heart ripping torment I thought left me years “I should take my wife and leave … now, before ago. something horrible happens.” My scrambling thoughts Nonfiction The light flashed 2, then “ding,” and the elevator filled the rising elevator. by kept moving.

Nobody chooses cancer. I did my time with my I swore to never enter another hospital after canDenny Harger mother and wanted no more. The lump in my throat told cer extinguished my mother. The wretched smell of death me I never recovered from mother’s long, suffering death. hovered around her while she fought to survive. I could I was there the day the angels came to carry her smell it, stinking like poorly sanitized, day-old waste. away; they brought her a pure white blizzard on her death day in May. A 3-“ding.” tumor had grown on her skull and stolen her sanity. She rambled aim“This time, I am here for life,” I told myself. “Not death.” lessly and her words lost meaning. Then she saw me. She sat straight up Modern technology offered Honey a life without pain. Her blown disk with her last bit of conscious intent. She wrapped her arms around my between L-4 and L-5 finally led her to a neck, and said, “I love you.” Then she spinal fusion with two small metal rods, fell back into her bed. A beautiful yellow four screws, and bone grafts. butterfly landed on her windowsill.

The surgery was just twenty-four The smell of death shot through hours ago. my nostrils and weakened me to cow4-“ding.” ardice. I ran from her room, down the Honey is my queen, magician, hall, out the door to my car and fishhuntress, and lover, except the huge part tailed away on the icy streets of that is a scared and lonely little girl whose Flagstaff. I left my sister there, alone, to death-grip still clinches every bad thing watch mother slip onto God’s gurney. that ever happened to her. That child is Not my finest hour. whom I feared leaving when I took our 6-“ding,” the door opened. I walk boys on their boyish adventures. Kids only onto the ward where Honey slept. get one chance at a kid’s life. Someone Fear crippled me as I trudged the stole Honey’s. long fetid hallway to Honey’s room.

One day, as we left, she peeked After running from my mother’s through our living room curtains and a last breath, I promised her I would never tear of disappointment dripped from her run from a dying person again, no matter cheek. I didn’t know if she cried about what their parting smelled like. I knew missing her children’s most precious days, that someday I would face someone’s or if she still grieved over her own lost death. I hated the thought, and I hated childhood. the hospital.

We prayed for her healing with I arrived at Honey’s room. Her every marshmallow we roasted and every soft breath brushed my cheek as she soccer ball we kicked. Deep wanting took slept. I did not want her to wake without our petitioning souls to the foot of God me beside her. I gladly held her hand even when our lips did not move. Finally, while her soft gentle snores leaked away. it seemed, God heard us.

I remember it as the day I fell truly in 5-“ding.” love with my wife.

My thoughts returned to my mothI sat and held her hand while she

I

Indian Girl by Susan McIntyre

PAGE 46

MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

Hope Dies Agonizingly Last chance by Emalee Sweet

By the time Zarina turned 11, She cast little sister Zalina behind her Like a shadow, So you never saw one Without the other.

Together they went To school on that Last day of the world, When the men with The bombs came out From the shadow and Took their whole school prisoner in Chechnya.

slept. Soon we would be home with all this behind us. She wasn’t my mother. She didn’t have cancer. We were fine.

Still, I wanted out. I wanted to snatch up my Honey, take her home to my mountains, away from that ... that deathsmelling place where everybody catches cancer and dies.

Instead I sat.

When she woke, she was quiet. A soft smile told me I made it on time. I thought she would be sore from her walk the night before, but she wanted to stand.

“Can you?” I asked her.

She just nodded. I moved her IV pole closer.

I helped her to her feet and offered my body for support. Honey stood straight, turned her head, and placed it on my chest.

She slowly wrapped her arms around my neck. I felt the pressure increase on my shoulders as she took weight off her spine.

Still her face rested on my chest. I was pleased.

She started to move, so slowly. I thought she wanted to step around me, so I moved. Her arms held their place around my neck.

I didn’t know what to do! She might be hurt if she didn’t let go.

Why didn’t she think of the pole or the needle in her arm? It might get tangled and rip out, so I took up the pole and moved it along with us. She seemed oblivious to my panic.

“Doesn’t this hurt you, Honey?”

However, she said nothing.

She moved in a circle. I followed her. Her face stayed on my chest and she closed her eyes. We turned ... slowly, like the clock’s minute hand. Then we turned MOGOLLON MUSE, SPRING 2012

another time, so slow and so ... together.

Our souls meshed like blood and grace. She needed me and I needed her to need me ... we were the perfect couple. I could have stayed like that forever, there ... dancing, for the first time in years.

“Dad?” “Yes ma’am,” I answered my wife.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Honey.”

I felt her tear wet my shirt and I thought it was time to stop, but it wasn’t.

“Dad?” “Yes Honey.”

“They found lumps in my breasts.”

The stench, stink, and reek of the place flooded my nose. I wanted to run, like an emotional track star. Running is all I know. I kicked. I pushed. I clawed with the grief of a child. I couldn’t free myself from the promises I made to my dead mother.

Still, Honey never knew my mom!

Honey never heard my promise! Nobody knew but me! Why couldn’t I run?

“Fight harder!” I told myself. I felt something shoot through my chest.

I felt our tangled hearts begin to rip and I knew my running would kill us both.

I could not kill my Honey. Finally, after all these years, I found love, not passion on a hot night, but knowing that, in her fear, she needed me.

I gripped Honey tighter. I wondered if I hurt her.

It was love that made me bow my shoulders and walk into hell against the terrifying loneliness of cancer.

It was love that chose the grace of a man over the grief of a child.

I chose love, and I stayed.

Finally my mother could rest.

But Zalina had never Learned anything about fear, Safe in Zarina’s shadow.

So even after days of terror and tears, Zarina sat on the window sill Swinging her legs and said “I want water.”

The man with the gun said only “Shut up or we’ll shoot you.”

Her teacher whispered, “Hey, bunny rabbit, don’t do that, or you’ll get killed.”

But Zalina just swung her legs and said, “I don’t care.”

Now she is gone.

No one knows where.

She vanished in the Smoke and the fear.

Left behind, Zarina sits home But will not eat Nor stop her crying At night in her bed Awaiting her shadow And we are all now lost in the shadow and the fear and the knowledge that we are all Zarina and Zalina and the teacher and the man with the bomb.

Frank Jennings PAGE 47

LEARN FROM THE EXPERTS Elissa H. Aleshire Folk Art

Gila Community College’s creative arts faculty will unleash the artist within.

“GCC is such a wonderful place to be creative.”

Jacqui Jeffrey Color , Design, Drawing “Teaching at GCC is very rewarding.”

Earn an AA degree with help from professional writers, artists and photographers.

Peter Aleshire Creative Writing “Everyone who comes to Payson has a story — so the place is full of storytellers.”

Shannon Bielke Paper, Mixed Media “It’s rewarding to help students find talents they didn’t realize they have.”

The 64-credit AA degree will transfer to a university, including 35 General Education credits and 22 credits in art. Required art courses include Printmaking, Sculpture, Figure Drawing, Beginning Oil Painting and Beginning Ceramics.

But you don’t need to get the degree to acquire the tools you need to tell your story and create art of your own.

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Steve Brookhart

Jim Strong

Leslie Peacock

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Jewelry

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Oil, Watercolor

“Get the darks down first!”

“I love seeing students get out of their box.”

“I enjoy helping students discover their hidden talent.”

“Right from the start, students create professional pieces and keep learning.”

Tom Brossart Photography “It’s fun to see students develop as the class progresses.”

Jeannie Herford Photoshop “Let your imagination transform the ordinary into the extraordinary.”

David Sanchez Ceramics “I’m constantly amazed by the fantastic projects the students produce.”