The Mother Road, Route 66

How did we get from here to there and back again? Much of our travels were alongside Route 66, the road to adventure. It seems fitting. Accompanied by a fabulous book, "Route 66, The Mother Road" by Michael Wallis, we made our way out West and back to Illinois. As Wallis writes of Route 66 "...a thread looping together a giant patchwork of Americana, this fabled road represents much more than just another American highway. Route 66 means motion and excitement. It's the mythology of the open road." It was the perfect path for us to follow as we chased our own Western adventure.

With Michael's sights set on timely arrival in Arizona and then back home again, it was a challenge to convince him to meander off of I-40 to explore the towns that sprinkle themselves like tiny gems along the necklace of road of the old Route 66. Michael would be barreling along like a horse headed for the barn and I'd browse the book and call out, "Let's go explore Funk's Grove" or "How about a photo of me in Truth or Consequences, NM?" He would groan, but occasionally we'd pull of and poke around a bit. The gems, we found sadly, had tarnished.

While much of the mystique of 66 has fallen into decrepitude, we did find pockets that seemed timeless. Take our lunch at Del's in Tucumcari, NM. Established in 1954, Del's served up some delicious Mexican fare. We dined on super tasty fajitas and sopapillas, like Indian frybread, served with honey for gooey dipping. Tasty! We were surrounded by the local members of the Red Hat Club, ladies of a certain age who meet for lunch and conversation. They offered consolation when Michael mentioned that I had slammed the car door on my bamboo knitting needles (mid-project!) but doubted that I'd find new ones at the K-Mart, the only in-town option. Our waitress, Jackie, called us "hon" and claimed that it felt like she'd been working there since the 50's. Probably not...but close. A sign on the door recommended that diners in search of a good breakfast might try Kix, a nearby restaurant. You guessed it; their slogan is "get your Kix on Route 66."

Alongside the highway just outside of Amarillo, TX, stands a fabulous monument to the Mother Road, Cadillac Ranch. Don't blink, or you'll miss it. There is no signage. Everyone seems to just know about it. We had passed it on the trip West, but it was on the wrong side of the highway, so we made a mental note to watch for it on the return trip. We almost missed it, but pulled off of the highway and doubled back. It was worth the detour. A Texas rancher and art collector, Stanley Marsh, graduate of the Wharton School of Finance, had always found a certain romance in Route 66, particularly with Cadillac automobiles. He felt that the cars and the road were symbolic of the great American dream, the great escape. A Caddy and a blonde and a young man had it made! (Michael was all set....well, except for the Caddy.) He collaborated with some counterculture experimental architects, the Ant Farm, and came up with Cadillac Ranch, an art installation comprised of 10 Cadillacs (the great tail-fin models of 1948 - 1964) embedded nose down in concrete and placed into the ground with their tail fins pointing up...in the exact angle of the pyramids. It creates a sort of Stonehenge of Americana, abstract art of the ages. So cool. Marsh owns the property, but makes it clear that this is public art and belongs to everybody, "just like the Statue of Liberty."

We made the stop at Cadillac Ranch on a sunny afternoon. Trooping across a football field-sized tract of land, we stepped over and around dozens of empty spraypaint cans littering the ground. You see, the allure is to come and spray your own graffiti on the cars. We were hesitant. Such good law-abiders, we are. Then we met 2 fellows from Canada who were traveling Route 66 East to West. We had a chat with them and they offered us some of their spray paint. "It's a tradition." Well.....OK. Michael sprayed our initials on a car and we snapped some photos. We soon came across another visitor to "the Ranch," a young woman armed with a backpack full of spray paint cans. A local, she gave us more information and offered us her paints. She explained that she comes out to the Ranch to make birthday cards for her friends. She sprays the greeting onto a car and takes a picture and turns it into a card. We offered to take her photo with her greeting, but she demurred. The birthday greeting was all about the cars, not about her. She took our photo, though, before we left. As we trudged back to the car we passed a family of 7 armed with paint and cameras heading out to document their visit. We learned that someone (the city? Marsh?) paints over all of the graffiti a few times a year. In the fall they were painted in solid seasonal colors. How sweet. Visitors are provided a fresh canvas seasonally. It's a gesture to welcome participation.

In Pacific, MO, we had dinner at the Huddle House. Our server, Tim, took such pride in making sure that each aspect of our meal met with our satisfaction. "Would you like lemon in your water? How's everything tasting for you? Is that bacon crispy enough for you?" When we spoke to him after the meal, we asked him about his work. Turns out Tim and his dad, Tim Sr., had just bought the restaurant. Tim Jr. works daily, 7 days a week, and stays for closing 3 of those days. He proudly told us about a plan he has to set up a golf cart shuttle to bring truckers from the truck stop across the road back and forth to the restaurant. It's a big truck stop, the size of several football fields, and "those truckers are tired. If we can help get them here it will be good for business." We applauded his "can-do" attitude and wished him luck.

We enjoyed our cross-country trips; the sights, the folks, the quiet time to ourselves. My parents made that trip in the winter of 1956 when they delivered a drive-away red Thunderbird convertible from Detroit to LA (and left Aviva and me with the odd Mrs. Kinselsauer, our babysitter who gave us hot orange juice and hot liquid Jell-o to be sure we had something warm in our stomachs in the morning before school. Oy.) I tried to imagine Riva and Benesch (age 35 and 45), driving from town to town along Route 66 when the small motels and folksy restaurants flourished. I wondered if they'd ever stayed at the Blue Swallow Motel, where the owner, Lillian Redman, would leave a card for each guest. She'd conclude by writing, "When you leave, may your journey be safe. We are all travelers. From birth til death we travel between the eternities. May those days be pleasant for you, profitable for society, helpful for those you meet, and a joy to those who know you and love you best."

My parents often recalled that trip to us, one of the few experiences they enjoyed reflecting on. It seemed like one of their happiest memories, discovering their adopted country 7 years after immigrating here. They conceived my brother Lenny on that trip, a late-life "bonus baby." It was certainly a life-changing experience for them. Now, 54 years later, we blazed our own path to the West.

Here's to our memories. My blog, I trust, will help to keep them alive.

Cultural Extremes

What a town! We are busily cramming as much into our final days as possible. Here's a peek into the past 24 hours. Talk about extremes.

On Thursday night we went to the Broadway in Tucson production of "Fiddler on the Roof." Theodore Bikel, age 85 btw, reprising his role as Tevye for the 2000th time, played to a full house in the huge Tucson Music Hall venue. It was a spectacular production. The first time I saw "Fiddler" on stage was in the summer of 1968 in London during my European trip with my college roommate Gayle. At age 20 I was wowed by the show. The story line of children bucking tradition and choosing their mates over their parents' objections really resonated with me. I also remember how far away from my family I felt and how choked up I was during the scene where all the families lit the Sabbath candles and when Hodel traveled alone to Siberia, leaving her parents, to follow her heart to her husband. "Sunrise, Sunset" made me realize how quickly the years had gone by. I felt so old, a grown-up traveling to Europe on my own, going to the theater in London...

Flash forward 42 years and let's take a look at the show from my perspective as a 62-year -old. Oy. Shall we begin with Tevye and Golde, the "old" mama and papa? The 25-year marriage they sing about ("Do You Love Me?")doesn't begin to rank against Michael's and my impending 40th wedding anniversary. Yikes! I'm older than Golde...by far. And I can't even talk about the "Sunrise, Sunset" wedding canopy scenario without grabbing for the tissues. My baby is married. Double oy. I can't count the number of productions of Fiddler I've attended. I think Edgewood and HPHS must've performed it 3 or 4 times during my tenure there. In any case, this is a show that holds up so well and has messages for those of all ages. I see it through new eyes each time and I never tire of it.

Taking a full 180 degree turn on Friday, we headed to the Tucson Rodeo, La Fiesta de los Vaqueros. Yeehaw! This is such a big event in town that the schools are closed for 2 days for Rodeo Break. Really. The local meteorologist on TV sported a bolo tie all week. The rodeo grounds were teeming with people, kids and adults, decked out in Western wear. Tall Stetsons in every color were perched on heads of all sizes from toddlers to grannies; people donned pony skin fringed vests; pointed cowboy boots; belts with giant buckles, bandanas; pouchy cowskin purses; lots of turquoise and silver. Excitement buzzed in the air. We crowded into the bleachers to root for the cowboys who rode bareback on bucking broncos. We cheered for the cowgirls who galloped like the wind on beautiful horses around barrels. We gasped as the cowboys roped steer and hogtied them. We cringed when angry bulls tossed riders from their backs and then dashed toward them to gore them with their horns. We chuckled at the rodeo clowns in their baggy pants and appreciated how they came to the aid of cowboys who had been bucked and lay sprawled in the dust. We were as one with the crowd who cheered lustily at these feats. In fact, I kinda wished I were wearing a cowboy hat instead of my sunhat. I ogled the stenciled boots... Maybe next year.I bought some fudge to console myself. Mmm hmmm. Fudge fixes most everything.

That evening we dined at Wildflower, a lovely upscale restaurant for which the kids had given us a gift card. We intentionally saved this gastronomic treat for the end of our stay here. We needed something positive to look forward to. It did not disappoint. Seated outside on the patio, I began with a frou-frou drink in a martini glass. Yes, it was pink. And delicious. Belvedere vodka, Grand Marnier, lemon juice and fresh raspberries. Yum! We shared mesquite-grilled artichokes (got the recipe from the waiter. So good!) with an aioli dip; and crispy calamari on a bed of arugula. I had an amazing scallop dinner with lemongrass, 'forbidden rice', and snap peas. Yum! Michael had maple braised short ribs and horseradish potatoes. Also Yum! For dessert we had a spectacular key lime tart with chantilly cream, blackberry puree and blackberry sorbet. Fabulous! Delicious outdoor dining. In February. Yes.

And this is how things are in Tucson, the Old Pueblo. It offers a little of everything, wrapped in a sunshiny vibe. We can't wait to come back for more.

The Kindness of Strangers

Several events this past week struck a resonant chord with me. We were in Sedona and Jerome on Thursday and Friday. We lucked out with picture perfect weather, and the scenery was just like those spectacular photos in the guide books; red rocks soared into bright blue skies, each formation more miraculous than the one before. We splurged and stayed at a chi-chi B & B, Canyon Villa. The views from the inn were unsurpassed. Les, our host, put us in touch with a private guide, Mike. Our tour and hike with him was the highlight of our visit. For far less money than the famous Pink Jeep Tours, we piled into Mike's SUV for a backroads trip that rattled the fillings in our teeth, but brought us to a secluded offroad hike where we were the only people in sight for several hours. I'm struggling to find the words to describe our hike. Breathtaking, spiritual, awe-inspiring come to mind. We were near a vortex (Schnebley's Peak?) and it was a serene view. Mike was brimming with information (did you know that Mr. Schnebley was looking to name the town and his suggestions were too long, so he decided to name it after his wife, Sedona?!) Mike's outright adoration of his town and surroundings was evident in all of the details he shared with us. It made the experience that much more meaningful. Was our hike even more thrilling because Mike was strikingly good-looking!? Um, maybe. Our 2-day excursion to magical Sedona was delicious.


The following day we were shopping in Jerome, a funky, artsy mining town with shops nestled into several layers of Mingus Mountain. (Don't you love that name?) Switchback streets, awesome views. Such fun! The galleries and jewelry shops were first-rate, and you know me; I'm happy to stimulate the economy wherever I go. In a pottery gallery/studio we ran into a couple around our age who had an interesting story to share. The man and his current wife told us that they had met while they were receiving chemotherapy and radiation. He had prostate cancer and she had breast cancer. They fell in love and got married 7 years ago in Jerome. The day before their wedding they were browsing in this pottery gallery and happened upon a ceramic bowl that they adored. Because they were combining their households and had so many expenses, they decided against the purchase. The artist had overheard them talking. She approached them. "I hear tomorrow is your wedding day. I want you to have this bowl as a wedding gift from me." She didn't even know the story of their illnesses; she just wanted them to have the bowl they had admired and, over their protests, she insisted that they accept it. Now here they were, 7 years later, returning to the gallery to commission a large-scale piece of art for their home. It's good karma, folks.

Back in Tucson, we found ourselves at Sabino Canyon, preparing for a hike. We have been hiking the canyon regularly since our arrival in January. We have taken each set of visitors on a hike there. It's close (10 minutes!), convenient, and gorgeous, offering spectacular views within moments of beginning on any of the many trails there. This particular day, yesterday in fact, we decided to take our longest hike yet. Our friends Ron and Jane, seasoned hikers, were with us and we had perfect cool, crisp, sunny weather. Michael had been eagerly anticipating this lengthy hike on a trail called the Phoneline. (Named because it is way up high where a phoneline would be? Dunno. Sounds good, though, doesn't it?) You take the tram up to the last stop, a point near the top of the canyon. Then you hike up half a mile further to the trailhead before hiking back down to the visitor's center. It's roughly a 4.5 mile hike. We set out from the last tram stop and began the upward climb. We were so high up after about fifteen minutes that the people below looked like ants, and they were at the highest point on the road! We felt as though we were miles high. It was so exhilirating! After a few miles we stopped for a picnic lunch. PBJ sandwiches tasted like haute cuisine. We continued our descent and encountered several hikers who told us that when we got down to the bridge at tram stop #1 we'd have to remove our shoes and socks, roll up our pants and wade through the knee-deep rushing water that flooded the bridge to get to the main trail back to the entrance. The only way back to the entrance was to cross the creek. No problem. Michael and I had done that earlier in the season. The creek is fuller than usual because of the many inches of accumulated rain and snowmelt from the higher elevations. We commented that we actually looked forward to wading in the icy water because our feet were achy from the downward hike.

As we continued our descent we found a trail marker that pointed the way to the trail that would take us to tram stop #1. I was particularly thrilled to learn that the end was in sight because my knees had started to ache from the sharp downward slope of the trail. It wasn't easy. I announced that I planned to take the tram back to the visitor's center. The rest of our group planned to hike the remaining mile back from the tram stop. We followed the signs, but somehow ended up down near the creek on a sandy bank with no trail leading out. Oh, well. We turned around and backtracked up the trail, choosing a different route when we reached the marker. After schlepping along for another half hour or so, we found ourselves back down near the creek with no crossing in sight. The trail seemed to disappear, leaving us slogging through the sand. We could see the main road, a paved road opposite the creek, high above us, peopled with hikers, joggers, moms pushing strollers...civilization(!) ... but we couldn't figure out how to get there. After some discussion, Ron shed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants, and attempted a crossing. The water reached his mid-thighs and was flowing too swiftly for us to risk it. We were stuck. I was exhausted, having clearly overextended my stamina level at least a mile before. We were frustrated. (If these are the times that try men's souls, my soul had left the building.) The men felt responsible for finding a way out, but there wasn't an obvious solution short of backtracking all the way back to the original trail marker and trying to figure out where we had gone wrong. That was an unappealing proposition. We had started at 11:15. It was now 4:00. This was not our game plan. The guys made manly noises and offered up suggestions. Jane remained positive and optimistic, at least on the outside. I was super whiny, inside and out. (I know; you're shocked. Would you like some cheese with that whine?)

It was so crazy. We could see our goal, the main road, but the river presented an insurmountable obstacle. I'm sure there's a metaphor lurking there, but I haven't figured it out yet.

As Michael prepared to call the visitors center for help (yay! iPhone reception everywhere! but how could we explain where we were when we couldn't find it on the trail map?) Jane turned around to see a man hiking alone just behind us. She ran toward him, waving frantically, and he came off the trail (which was out of our view) to speak with us. We explained our situation and he smiled and said that we just had to follow the trail he had been on and it would take us to the dam and then on back to the visitors center. We were looking at perhaps 1.5 miles more. Jane told him that he was our saviour...and he smiled again. "That's so interesting. I just said a prayer before I rounded the corner of the trail," he told us. Cue the "Twilight Zone" music.

We hiked toward where he had pointed and found ourselves on more familiar turf. At the bridge we waded happily through the knee-deep freezing current and trudged back to the entry of the park.

In these times of economic fragility (unemployment out of control); mental instability(Littleton Colorado shooting today; college professor shooting rampage earlier in the month); political discord (still no healthcare bill), it's comforting to still see the goodness of humanity shining through. And to push the "cheese factor" just a little further, check out the double rainbow we encountered on our drive!

The Pull of the Moon

The moon exerts gravitational pull on the Earth, causing the tides to ebb and flow. Children exert a similar force on parents, a fact that became excrutiatingly clear to me as our weeks in Tucson marched on. While we were having the time of our lives exploring and enjoying our new surroundings, we were far away from the kids. I really missed them, and as the date of their visit drew nearer, I was feeling unbelievably drawn toward their arrival. It was a palpable pull, not unlike the pull of the moon (coincidentally the title of a favorite Elizabeth Berg novel). I couldn't wait to get my hands on them, and I threatened them with unending bearhugs and embarrassing smooches. How lucky that they would be here for Valentine's Day; at least I'd have a cultural cover for my behavior. I understand that I am in a fortunate group of folks whose kids live in the same city as their parents. (They even chose colleges partly for their proximity to home.) Perhaps that's why being away from them is particularly challenging to me. Believe me, I really appreciate my good fortune at having them nearby in Chicago. I am also so grateful to have the means to bring them out to Arizona for a quick visit and respite from the frigid midwestern winter.

David and Jolene and Carrie and Chris arrived last Friday night, world weary and winter pallid. Chris, in a black suit, came directly from his granddad's Friday morning funeral in Pittsburgh, Carrie arrived after a week of teaching all day and conducting parent conferences 2 evenings. Jolene juggles full time teaching with evening graduate school, and David has been piling in the overtime clearing flights of supplies and volunteers to and from Haiti . These kids were pooped! We were ready with a rental van that seated all 6 of us and a weekend agenda that blended sightseeing with plenty of time for chilling by the pool. I was armed with banana bread, chocolate chip cookies, and Valentine's Day goodie bags. I was in full mom mode.

Saturday found us on the scenic road to Kartchner Caverns. We packed a picnic lunch which we enjoyed in the state park before touring the amazing live wet caves that were only discovered in the 1970's. We got a good dose of geologic information in our tour. The hundreds of millions of years of drips and drops that created the formations of stalagmites, stalactites, soda straws, drapes and flow walls put our puny lives into perspective. Fascinating. Chris, who majored in geology at IU, was particularly excited by our expedition and added to our understanding of the information. We came home and ate abundant appetizers before grilling steaks and settling in for an evening in front of the fire. I could see the travelers mellowing, and it was heavenly for us all to be together.

On Sunday eagle-eye David spotted a dead hawk in our yard and a quail pecking at the gravel. Chris spotted a bobcat in the side yard (a first for us!)and Michael ran out to try to snap a photo. The bunnies were out and about amid the cactus growing in the yard, and hawks soared overhead. A tiny taste of desert life right here on the homefront.

After David and Jolene returned from meeting her grandparents for brunch, we all headed to Sabino Canyon for a hike. Although the park was mobbed with weekend hikers (the weather was perfect: sunny in the mid-70's), we quickly found our way to a path up a bluff overlooking Sabino Dam and felt as though we were in a wilderness of our own. When we did encounter people, everyone we passed was so friendly. It was such a beautiful day, it would have been hard to be grumpy. The kids were convinced that people were smiling because I was greeting them first, but I assured them that this had been our experience every time we hiked. People genuinely are so psyched about being in the midst of this glorious nature world that they just grin their way through the canyon. It's contagious. Really. (And in case you wondered where all the clothes and gear they sell at REI and Erehwon and Dick's end up, this is it. The hikers are serious about what they do and they dress for it.)

Jolene and I relaxed in the hot tub Sunday afternoon while the rest of the group soaked up rays and lounged by the pool, sharing music from their iPods. After my muscles sighed "thank you" I was ready for the evening. The girls had several Cosmos before we left for dinner. Our tongues were loose and wagging as we regaled ourselves and the guys with outrageous stories of David and Carrie's teen years. How glad am I that they are grown?!

We had late dinner reservations at Pastiche, a restaurant we had heard about but never tried. It was all decked out for Valentine's Day, and most of the clientele was young couples on romantic dates. We were a rowdy group and we enjoyed our meals in laughter that may not have been widely appreciated by the young lovers around us, although our waitress got a kick out of our giddiness. It was a laugh-filled evening.

Monday came too quickly and travel mode set in as the kids got ready for their departure. While they were here they got a good dose of the lifestyle that has enchanted us, and we got a good dose of them. Enough to carry us along til we see them at home in early March.

They say that a mother is only as happy as her least happy child. Check out the photos of our happy children and decide for yourself how I am feeling. Woohoo!

This Old Broad

We set out to visit the Saguaro National Forest the other day. The saguaro (pronounced sa-hwah-ro) is the largest cactus of the Sonoran Desert. (Here comes the science lesson, people.) It grows nowhere else on earth. I never knew that. No wonder we see it on the Arizona license plate and in every Western reference (including my blog page). Reaching heights of as much as 50 feet ( a 4-story building), they can weigh as much as 7 tons after a rainfall and can then survive 2 years without another drop of rain. Their root systems can reach 100 feet in diameter. Slow-growing, a 6-inch-tall cactus might be 10 years old, and it can take 70 years for a saguaro to sprout its first "arm." The oldest-known saguaros are around 200 years old and may have as many as 40 arms. Supporting the spongy interior is an internal framework of sturdy ribs. The exterior is actually "pleated" so that it can expand and contract as it absorbs and uses water. Fascinating. (Thank you, Frommer's Guide, for the info)

At the visitors center of the Saguara National Forest, (which has the coolest view, btw) visitors are asked to pay the entrance fee to enjoy the park. I studied the signage and realized that seniors, age 62 and better, can purchase a LIFETIME pass to ALL properties administered by the National Park Service -- national parks, monuments, historic sites, recreation areas, and national wildlife refuges -- for a one-time fee of (drumroll, please) $10. Yes. $10. For life. I am in awe. It's called the "America the Beautiful --National Park and Federal Recreational Lands Pass -- Senior Pass." So, I went over to the desk to speak to Nancy, the parks volunteer who was stationed at the register.

Me: "I see that you sell a special $10 pass to the park here."

Nancy: "Yes, dear, but I'm sorry. You must be 62 years old to qualify."

(You can see where this is going, right?)

Me: "I am exactly 62."

Nancy: "No way!"

Me: "I think you are my new best friend."

Nancy: "You've got to be kidding. I'm afraid I'll need to see proof. Do you have an ID?"

Me: "Why, yes I do." I pull out my license.

Nancy: "Your driver's license photo is beautiful. Wow. I wouldn't have guessed that you are 62. You must exercise regularly and eat right."

Let's just not burst her bubble, OK?

So, there it is. Our country is doing something right. We respect our senior citizens and welcome them into our most treasured properties. When I get over the realization that I am officially and legally a senior citizen, I'm sure I'll appreciate the perks! In the meantime, here are some fabulous photos of our hikes in the Saguaro National Forest and the Coronado National Forest. This old broad gets around plenty well!

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I've been knitting a scarf. Honestly, that's about the extent of my knitting talent. This one is a beauty. Did I choose the pattern for its name (potato chip scarf) or for its appearance? It's a toss up. Love my chips, I do. But this was really a beautiful, ruffly design. Anyway. I selected the yarn at my local Evanston knit shop and told the woman I was trying to push myself beyond my comfort zone of colors. I choose an inordinate amount of browns, black and whites, some subtle tweeds, for my knitting...nothing too daring (except for my amazing afghan that is ablaze in fiery reds and oranges... yes, but I don't wear that one...but I digress.) The yarn I selected is Japanese and is called "The World of Nature." In a single skein of yarn the colors range from greys to purples, to mossy greens, to aquas. I had no idea how it would look once it was knitted. I was taking a chance.

I explained to the yarn shop woman that I didn't want it to be "stripey" when it was done. She assured me that it wouldn't. As someone who likes to have control over lots of things (OK, everything) it was hard for me to give myself over to the randomness of this yarn. I found myself examining it closely as I knit, straining to see how one color worked itself into the next color. It was SO cool! I'd be knitting grey and then there would be a g-r-a-d-u-a-l bit of light lavender mixed in to just a bit of the strand. In the next row there would be a slub or two of deeper purple, but just a bit. Further along the purple would overtake the grey until suddenly the whole row had changed to purple. Magical.

It got me thinking about how I make changes in my life. SO gradually. I am sure not a 'jump in with both feet' kinda girl. At least I don't think I am. I try out a little something and then add a little something more, and then a little more...and voila! A change takes place. It's my style. Case in point: my hairdo? Move the part from center to just right of center. Tiny steps. Angle the bangs a tad. Shorten up the back into more of a bob. Voila! I've got this century's version of my high school 'page boy!' I'm so not a risk taker.

When it was time to retire from teaching, the package from the district (for which I am grateful down to my toes!) required us to give notice a full 4 years out. That worked for me. It let me deal with the emotions and the realities of ending a career over a long stretch. When I first signed my 'irrevocable intent to retire' I wasn't at all sure that I was making the right decision. By the time I reached my last month in the classroom I had made the big shift, writing gleeful songs to celebrate the end of a long road where I had walked in lock step to a rigid schedule. A bell would ring and I'd wake up (5:30 a.m., folks). A bell would ring and class would begin. I'd have to wait for a bell to eat; a bell would allow me to pee. The day to day rigidity was a reality that had been imposed on me. At the end of a carefree summer (yes, I know I was lucky to get summers off. I am so grateful.) a bell would ring and my empty classroom would fill up with students who all brought their various needs and talents, their wit and their hormones, their insights and their family's baggage into my domain. At the end of a school year a bell would ring, and the kids with whom I had spent every day (and to whom I had given no small piece of myself) would walk out the door and disappear (for the most part) from my life. It all seems unreal, except that it was my reality for more than 30 years.

In retirement I didn't jump right into a million activities. I let myself marinate in the unstructured days and weeks. I devoured books. I watched too much TV. Monthly, I explored my feelings with my wonderful women's group. Then I signed up for a class at Northwestern. I volunteered at the soup kitchen. I added a weekly guitar class to my gradually building schedule. I heard about a great Current Events class at the JCC. Michael and I started to attend weekly. I took up mosaic again. I added treadmill time to my days. All of this unfolded over the course of a year and a half. It felt right. No drama. No sudden abrupt agenda shifts. It still feels right.

We had started talking about getting away from Chicago's winter before I retired. We took our time exploring places. Ventura, California? Maybe. South Carolina? Not warm enough. Florida? Not so much our style, we decided. Tucson came up for discussion. It kept resurfacing as a contender. We spent days and then weeks online poring over the maps and listings of rentals. We spoke to friends and acquaintances. We bit the bullet and signed a contract in August, which gave us lots of time to get ready. We made lists (OK, Michael made lists and I just ruminated) of what to bring, how to travel, etc.... It all unfolded in a gradual way.

And here we are, loving the easy life of a temperate climate, single-floor living, mountains right outside our window...and the amazing opportunity to explore to our hearts' content. Bit by bit we are learning our way around this warm and welcoming community. We've found the greatest hiking in Sabino Canyon, the coolest deli (Shlomo and Vito's), a great bike path along the Rillito River (which only has water running in it after it rains), any number of galleries and clothing boutiques, an awesome Asian 'Farmer's Market' unlike anything we've seen before, a nearby town with an artists's community, Tubac, with fun shops and friendly shopkeepers...and we've just begun to scratch the surface.

And my scarf? It's done. It's gorgeous. A boutique owner even offered to represent me if I wanted to knit more and sell them at her store. No thanks, but hey! You know what? My scarf looks exactly like the mountain range. See for yourself. Colors shift gradually as the sun and clouds pass over them. They are always different colors depending on the time of day...lavender, rose, smoke...You can't put your finger on when the changes occur. It's subtle and spectacular. A lot like my life these days.

Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore

I am a midwestern girl. Raised in Detroit, schooled in Ann Arbor, I've lived in our house on Michigan Avenue in Evanston, Illinois (which I LOVE and have no intention of leaving, btw) for 37 years. It's not that I haven't been around; it's just that my travels have always coincided with the school calendar: Wonderful summer trips to Wisconsin, Upper Michigan, houseboating in Kentucky and, yes, Europe. (ahhh, Provence. Sigh.) Winter trips were to resorts in the tropics during Winter Break. We'd join the hordes in Cancun, Acapulco, Puerto Vallarta, Aruba, St. Maarten, Guadalupe where I'd pick up a quick sunburn (hello, basal cell carcinoma) and a few extra pounds from lounging by the pool and catching up on my reading.

As we wrap up week one of our Arizona adventure, I'm coming to appreciate so many things. First, it is an amazing treat to travel whenever the spirit moves us rather than lockstepping with the academic world. Second, there is a world of difference between vacationing somewhere and living there. Third, there are greater choices in winter than the two extremes I've experienced (winter slush and snow ... and palm-lined beaches)The desert climate of Tucson suits me suprisingly well. The lack of humidity means great hair days(yay!) and cranky contact lenses (boo!). The brisk, bright days are energizing, and the cool nights make for great sleeping.

I'm just knocked out by the uniqueness of the flora and fauna here. My expectation (wrong!) was that everything would look dead and parched. Where was the thrill in cactus, anyway? Actually, I find the varieties of cacti fascinating. We've got the full complement on our property. There are the tubby barrel cacti with their golden "Burger King" crowns, the Gumby-shaped saguaros, the garden variety prickly cactus, fuzzy "Teddy Bear" cactus, and my personal favorite, the purple cactus. You gotta love a cactus that matches your outfit! We also have fabulous agave plants and even a few palm trees. All the flora is sculptural; some are whimsical. Just gorgeous. I really don't miss the grassy lawns of home. Anyway, they're currently buried under dirty snow.

This morning we took a walk "around the block." That translates to an almost 2 mile loop through our 'hood. We have been seeing cotton -tailed bunnies, geckos, and quail (with their cute crested heads) on a fairly regular basis. We have been alerted that we can expect to see javelinas (like wild pigs, but uglier), bobcats (they don't bother humans), and probably some harmless snakes. (I watch each step I take, which is a good thing because they don't clean up their dog poop here.) We are always reminded that we are sharing the earth with nature's creatures.

So, we headed out this morning for a brisk walk, sticking close to home because of the dire weather predictions. (The most we got all day was a bit of a drizzle and some dark clouds.) Within our first 100 steps we encountered 3 well-fed coyotes in a neighbor's yard. They were gang-hunting a rabbit. I froze. Michael hollered at them. So macho. They ignored us and went about their chase. This reminds me of our first hike in Sabino Canyon earlier in the week. The rangers made a very big fuss about the danger of mountain lions there. We were instructed that should we encounter a mountain lion we would have no chance of outrunning it. We were to make ourselves look large and maintain constant eye contact with it. Michael nodded, agreeing. It's all his experience with the bears in Alaska, I assume. I informed him that while he made himself look large and maintained eye contact, I would be crouching and quivering, silently shitting myself alongside him. We make a great team.

We continued around the loop of Flecha Drive. Our rental home is in an area called the Flecha Caida. In Spanish it means "fallen arrow." All the mailboxes have arrowhead-shaped markers on them. This is one of the first planned communities in suburban Tucson. It's in what's called the Lower Foothills of the Catalina Mountains. Our home is more than 50 years old, made of burned adobe bricks. The homes are spread out on large acreage. It hardly feels suburban. More like a lovely rural area. In fact, on our walk we met some neighbors, Fran and Peter. Aside from their beautiful golden retriever, Jake, they have several horses. That's Lulu in the photo; isn't she a beauty? Apparently we live in an area where keeping horses is allowed. There are several other homes with corrals. Way cool. I want a pony.

Everyone we've met has been so friendly and welcoming. My impression is that everyone is always in a good mood. We hear, "Have a great day," on a regular basis. Store clerks, shop owners, and many locals we've run into have been so helpful and genuinely delighted to share their knowledge of the town. There is even a radio station that advertises itself as providing "encouraging programming." Given the horrific situation in Haiti and the upsetting Senate election in Massachusetts, I think I'll try tuning in. If all else fails, I can always just go for a walk.

Su Casa es Mi Casa

We have lucked out, big time, in the house we are renting. After poring over websites from VRBO and various local furnished rental sites last summer, we landed on this house on Flecha Drive. It looked kinda cute in the photos. The listing agent assured us we'd love it, but you know how that goes in the world of sales. We were so very pleasantly surprised when we got here. "Our" home is the epitome of gracious living in the Southwest. Built of burnt adobe bricks in the 1950's, the home is loaded with character. Coming from our Victorian in Evanston, we would have felt out of place in a super modern house. Set up as an open "v" shape, each room boasts double French doors that open onto the gloriously landscaped pool in the backyard. (The shot of the pool in this post is taken from our bedroom. ooohh-ahhhh. The home sits on 3 acres, but the area immediately around the house is walled. (We are told that we now have no need to worry about mountain lions. I think this is not a joke. More on that later.) It is in an established "neighborhood" of winding roads dotted with well-spaced houses in the foothills of the Catalinas. The mountains greet us every day. I am reminded of the song from "Hair." "Good morning, starshine. The earth says hello. You twinkle above us; we twinkle below." Oh, how we twinkle here.

Our hosts, Ed and Mary are probably our age. We have found so many things that feel just like home, including reading glasses stashed in every nook! They have the identical styrofoam exercise roll that we use to stretch out our backs. Recall that we packed every bit of minutia we thought we'd need. We need none of it. The kitchen is amazingly well-stocked: beyond the obvious basics, we also found an Espresso machine, Cuisinart, martini shaker, microplanes, sharp knives in every configuration, beautiful dinnerware and serving pieces that could set a table for Bon Appetit. Cookbooks include James Beard, Southwest Cooking, and Jewish Cuisine. The linens are super fine, with down comforters and pillows, soft cushy towels...the works.

What amazes us the most is the generosity and hospitality of the owners. This home is full of delightful Mexican antiques (they also have a home in Mexico, we are told, as well as one in Colorado and San Francisco. Sweet life, huh?!!) Spectular, well-lit artwork graces the walls; exquisite sculpture stands in corners everywhere. Our every need is met, whether it's a conveniently placed lamp by a cozy leather reading chair or all the documents to synch our laptop with their printer and fax machine. A full library of fascinating books fills the shelves so we can acquaint ourselves with the birds, beasts, and bugs as well as the Southwest or Tuscany or Mexican silver... The house is wired with stereo speakers in all rooms as well as poolside. The library of CD's is filled with classical as well as jazz and rock music. Their welcome letter encourages us to use it all and enjoy. And we do. We do.

Some have asked us how our life is different here, since we're retired anyway. Every day is a Saturday when you're retired. So why do we feel more relaxed, romantic, mellow? Well, I'd say this house has an awful lot to do with it. There is a vibe that embraces us and makes us feel so welcome and comfortable. We LOVE our temporary home and are excited to share it with our visitors! If you look carefully at the last photo in this post you will see two doves perched on the wall just outside the front door. They are there each day when we awaken. We think they are lovebirds...and we think we are too. :-)