On The Move to On The Road

There are two metropolitan areas of considerable size in Arizona that should not exist. Phoenix, the fifth largest city in the United States, is one of them. Spread out over a vast desert adjacent to the intersection of the mostly dry Salt and Gila rivers, Phoenix has to import much of its water from the Colorado River to sustain its massive population.

Tucson is the second metro area that should not exist, growing from a small Indian village along the banks of the Santa Cruz River in pre-Columbian times to a metro area that spreads out below the Catalina and Rincon mountain ranges to accommodate nearly a million residents. The reason it should not exist is that the Santa Cruz River stopped flowing years ago, and until the Central Arizona Project brought the same Colorado River water to Tucson in 1993 it was the largest city in the United States that depended entirely on ground water. The simple truth is that more water has been pumped out of the ground in Tucson than can ever be replaced, and it is only a matter of time before the desert reclaims its own.

It is this place we have chosen for a home, and in the last four months we have lived here I have often wondered why. We left Bisbee in rather a hurry last April when we were lucky enough to find a cash buyer from our home. Neighbor disputes, an unstable rock wall behind our house, and the steady erosion caused by the drainage subway in front of the place all convinced us that we needed to bail on this little town. Another factor in our decision to leave was the deteriorating infrastructure of Bisbee. There are simply not enough people paying enough taxes to maintain the roads, sewage lines, water lines, and electrical grid. The slow decline of these public necessities would be depressing for anyone considering Bisbee as a home, but I must admit the climate is enough to seduce the most hardened skeptic into giving it a try. Unfortunately for us, the beautiful year-round weather was little comfort during the year we spent in quarantined isolation.

And so we came to Tucson. We found a really nice old adobe home, built in 1947, with red concrete floors and the old fashioned crank-out vertical windows. This historic home is somewhat famous, having been described by author Jack Kerouac in his novel On The Road. This house was owned by a "beat" writer named

Alan Harrington when Kerouac visited in 1949 and he subsequently wrote about it in On The Road. The property came with a wall completely surrounding the house, and a nice little courtyard in the back where we quickly established our shade structures and outdoor shower facility. We live right next to the ruins of Fort Lowell, a military post active during the Apache wars of the nineteenth century. Since it is a historic district, no houses can be built that do not conform to certain design standards and the neighborhood looks like an old Mexican barrio, which it is. We are less than a mile from a supermarket and pharmacy, and to the south of us stands the largest hospital/medical complex in southern Arizona, Tucson Medical Center. Even with all these things so near by, the feel of the place is one of rural living, almost like being way out in the uninhabited desert.

We live in a city that should not be here and adapt as best we can. We make our water work twice: shower runoff goes directly to the trees in the courtyard; dishwater from the kitchen sink gets dumped on the cactus in the front yard, and rinse water from the washing machine is piped via the hose to various plants that look as if they need it. If Tucson is truly doomed, it will likely not happen in our lifetimes and, by being responsible stewards of the water we currently have, we can contribute to the delay of the inevitable.

Living in a Bubble

Although many things have changed since I retired from academia, one aspect of our lives has remained the same. Most of my working life was spent surrounded by political progressives, both in the workplace and in the neighborhood where we lived. Now we are still living in a "liberal" bubble where most of our fellow Bisbeeans share our outrageously radical views like gun registration is a good idea, people who cross the international border looking for work should not have their children taken from them, and that a president who is beholden to Moscow is not a good thing. These modest beliefs are not widely shared outside the Bisbee city limits, though.

A drive to nearby Sierra Vista will reveal clusters of Trump campaign signs and compounds of rusting RVs tucked away in the desert defiantly waving their "Don't Tread On Me" and MAGA flags. There is more than a little menace in these displays. After all, one must ask about the motivation of some people in shouting to the world their anger and defiance. Persuasion? Hardly.

Now that the dust has settled over the election fight, I find myself wondering about the safety of our bubble. There are more than a few people in Arizona whose sense of outrage finds expression in chest-thumping firearms display. A Hispanic female reporter for Telemundo who was broadcasting an election night vote count in Phoenix was surrounded by a group of gun bearing goons who wore no covid masks as they shouted insults at her. Rumors of a violent militia movement in Pinetop have also reached our ears. Even the campground host at our Parker Canyon Lake retreat opined that we would soon be under the rule of "President Harrison" because Joe Biden will resign in six months. (I called bullshit on that one; the host was unarmed at the time of this pronouncement.)

But this insular community we have joined can also be dangerous. Living in a bubble can definitely contribute to cultural myopia, a lack of empathy for anyone who feels differently than those we surround ourselves with on a daily basis. (Witness my reaction to the campground host.) All the same, how someone can clutch an assault rifle and shout Second Amendment slogans while simultaneously opposing abortion because it is "murder" is difficult to fathom. (As John Prine once said, "Now Jesus don't like killin' no matter what the reason's for.") However, if we are ever to heal this nation while moving forward from the Orange years, we must try to listen, and understand, the other side. For most Americans, the real test will be around the Thanksgiving table this year. Hopefully, love will prevail.

Groundhog Day

Over a year ago when I first retired I imagined the possibility that all the coming days would seem the same and, as if to manifest that fever dream, the pandemic restrictions arrived this spring to make sure every new day in Bisbee would be like yesterday, weather permitting. A rather lukewarm response to the spreading sickness on the state and local level in February was followed with a more heated lukewarm response in March featuring the closing of businesses and a suggestion that we all stay at home for the entire month of April, limiting trips outside the home to get groceries or exercise.. From what I have observed I would estimate about two thirds of my fellow Bisbeeites have followed this suggestion, with a visible one third laughing at the restrictions and carrying on as if there were no danger at all.

I find myself doing very little to vary my routine: walking miles every morning, eating a late home made lunch, throwing darts with a steadily increasing accuracy,and filling my evenings by binge watching English murder mysteries on Amazon Prime. This repetition is not particularly onerous, although one does miss eating out in restaurants, bending the elbow in the local pub, and gathering with friends. The biggest loss for me personally is the inability to visit the Copper Queen Library and replenishing the limited supply of reading material I have on hand. In my desperation to find some sort of literary escape I actually submitted myself to finishing Wallace Stegner’s Angle of Repose, a boring 569 page slog whose ultimate conclusion seems to be the surprising revelation that most marriages require compromises. (Who knew?) My next unread tome is Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens, and while it, too, exceeds 500 pages (my edition is 831, not counting the preface) I believe I will find more sympathetic characters within its covers than Stegner’s irritating roster of complaining, snobby prigs. I have heard the library will allow curbside pickup in another week, but since their collection of Dickens is pretty limited, and inter-library loan services are still closed, I will either have to purchase volumes online or simply wait if I want to continue my acquaintance with one of the greatest writers of the English language.

One thing that varies a routine existence of repetition are the terrifying forays to the local Safeway where, jostling among the masked and the unmasked, shoppers take their lives in their hands just to see if toilet paper has returned to the shelves. I used to enjoy grocery shopping, lingering in the aisles as I debated the costs between generic and name brands and impulse purchasing many delicacies that we could easily do without. Now my hands sweat inside the gloves I wear while my eyeglasses fog from the desperate breaths I gulp while trying to avoid other shoppers. It is an ordeal, not a pleasure.

I don’t know if society will ever return to “normal.” If this is the “normal” I should expect for the remaining years of my life I will need more than Charles Dickens to help me through.

A Cautionary Tale on Super Tuesday

“When Fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross” This quote has been attributed to Sinclair Lewis, but no one knows for sure. The only sure thing is that the quote has become all too accurate.

Garbage In, Garbage Out

After a lengthy hiatus from this blog it is high time I returned to the practice of sending out digital dispatches to the void. Much has happened since I last took keyboard in hand including a holiday vacation to New York City and Washington D.C. I included the latter town in our Christmas plans because I wanted Jayne and Benjamin to see the place, and I was hoping to meet with the Orange Idiot to encourage his resignation. Unfortunately he heard I was coming and left to hide at Mar-A-Lago the day before we arrived.

But I have not reappeared to rehash what was a wonderful journey that also resulted in a beautiful Ganesh head tattoo on my right forearm. No, I am here for a more important reason: to complain about the aggressive fauna of Southern Arizona.

The citizens of Bisbee enjoy trash service twice a week, and the backup beeping of the garbage truck is always a comforting sound issuing from the end of our driveway on Monday mornings. Generally speaking, I try to bag up our rubbish on Sunday night and, in an attempt to avoid attacks by domestic dogs or rampaging coatimundis, I often place the bag in the back of my car to sit overnight. I followed this regimen earlier this week, but disaster struck anyway.

Sleep has become difficult for me in my advanced years and some mornings, like last Monday, I get up far too early. In this case it was shortly after 4:00 am when I gave up the effort of attempting to fall back into the welcoming arms of Morpheus. I listed to the radio and had my breakfast while waiting for the dawn to come which would allow me to start on my morning walk up to the Mule Pass Divide. It was still dark at 6:00 am, although the eastern horizon had started to become visible and I decided it was safe to retrieve the trash bag from the car and place it at the end of the driveway. Then, after another cup of coffee and getting dressed for the walk, I left the front door. I could not believe my eyes. There, at the end of the driveway, were two very large javelinas rooting through my trash like Republicans at a fundraising dinner. My temper got the better of my discretion as I ran towards them yelling “Get out of here you mangy pigs!” They did not challenge me but took off up the mountainside like goats, leaving me to clean up their mess.

I make this complaint because just the previous week we entertained our out of town friends, Bill and Barb Wood, by taking them on several walks around town. Bill, a talented photographer, snapped this photograph of a mural just a few blocks from our house. At the time we had a chuckle, but I little realized this was nothing less than a prophecy in paint!

Books, Bytes, and Biblioposers

As readers of my other blog “True Archives” know, I am not the most enthusiastic booster of academic libraries and librarians. I have long recognized the threat of university librarians and their fanatical embrace of everything digital to destroy the printed legacy of mankind, and in my retirement from serving on the margins of their profession I have seen little to change my mind. During my morning walk today I recalled a criticism leveled at me during my final years of employment that I “had not kept up with the latest trends in the profession.” The specific example cited of this perceived personal failure was my inability to understand exactly what is meant by “digital humanities.” I still don’t understand what that term means, but I find it amusing the accusation of my ignorance came from those who had NEVER published in the humanities (digitally or otherwise) while my own modest contribution to history totals nearly fifty journal articles and three books. I guess my humanities understanding is limited to the actual practice of scholarship rather than the application of zeros and ones to the discipline of history. Guilty as charged.

I only bring this up today because I have had occasion to interact regularly with the professional, courteous, and friendly staff of Bisbee’s Copper Queen Library and I am overjoyed to discover their own dedication to print. Unlike their academic colleagues, the public librarians of Bisbee recognize and value books, and their collection, while small, is bolstered by an efficient interlibrary loan system that insures a steady flow of volumes I am interested in reading. Their public programming is outstanding as well, sponsoring a weekly lecture series, regular showing of interesting films at our local theater, and operating an annex in the San Jose neighborhood that is entirely staffed by volunteers. I am certainly not the only one who recognizes the Copper Queen Library as the gem of our town; Library Journal has honored the place with its annual award as the best small library in America for 2019. Imagine, a library that honors and promotes book reading! This is quite heartening in this age of darkness wrought by computers and their tireless boosters.

Random Rants

It is time to divert from the biographical trajectory of this blog and get right down to the problems with modern American life (aside from our idiot President). Here, in no particular order, are my most recent complaints:

1) Why do they advertise the evening news on the evening news? I mean, are you not already watching it?

2) The costumes worn by bicyclists are among the most stupid of any sport. Even the most fit athletes have a problem with spandex.

3) I do not understand those who complain that people seeking healthcare in Canada must wait weeks for an appointment. When was the last time you tried to get an appointment with a dermatologist in the United States? I am sure they saw you right away...

4) Why does our government retain the penny? It costs more than a penny to make a penny!