I am finding that on those days when we do not have friends visiting from far away, I often wonder what to do with myself after a full session in the office.   When we were on the road I would simply step outside and explore whatever the local area had to offer, because it was always different and intriguing.   But now with the knowledge that we are in the same place we were yesterday, I have to push myself outside.   It’s easier done when there is someone visiting.   They provide me with that extra motivation.

That’s a shame because   Tucson really does have an immense amount to offer, if one will just get off one’s posterior and take a look around.   On Friday afternoon, Adam and I took a walk down the wash that passes through our neighborhood, following it downstream to wherever it might go.   After a few miles of walking and zig-zagging, we’d discovered quite a lot of trail suitable for mountain biking, a massive tree with a treehouse, several large horse properties, a giant pond, several neighborhoods   — none of which I even suspected existed.   And it was all within walking distance of my house.

I have discovered that you really have to walk the washes and the alleyways to see the hidden parts of Tucson.   Behind every house in the east side there seems to be a network of dirt alleys, which range from wide-open roads to single-track mountain bike trails overgrown with desert brush.   These alleys were constructed to provide access for utilities, but they are also in some cases used as secret driveways to backyard parking.   While the streets end frustratingly at every cul-de-sac, making good exploration almost impossible by car, the alleyways run for great distances without regard for development plat or economic stratum.

Adam and Susan have taken off for a week to do other things, so I’ve lost my alley hiking buddy for a while.   But I am still intrigued at this hidden network of secret passages.   A trail bike may be in my immediate future.   Suddenly there’s a world of inner space to explore, right from my house, and I want to get to know it as intimately as the cotton-tailed rabbits do. A bike is the ideal vehicle for this program, and springtime in Tucson makes for ideal cycling weather.

We had planned to be in west Texas this week, attending a rally and then visiting Big Bend National Park.   But circumstances intervened and we decided to cancel the trip to take care of other things.   This left us with no travel planned at all, an unconscionable situation.   We remedied that a few days ago by planning a trip to southern California for early April.   Adam and Susan will be joining us again, along with Ken & Petey.   It seems strange that we are going back to the area we just visited in December and early January, but the desert wildflowers are blooming and the weather is much warmer, so there will be things to do that we couldn’t do before.   Besides, we never get tired of visiting that particular desert.

Our as-yet-unmet blog friends Bethany and Billy are up in northern California (Mendocino) in their Airstream experiencing the damp fog of the redwood coast.   They’re blogging that experience quite well, so we have agreed to cover the southern portion of California.   Now we just need someone to handle the central portion of the state and we’ll have it all wrapped up, Airstream-blog-wise.

In the meantime I will keep exploring Tucson’s inner spaces, and I’ll start bringing my camera along too, just in case I spot some interesting critters.   The wildlife here is really exceptional. This evening we had a visit from one of the neighborhood’s Great Horned Owls, a creature I have never seen in real life outside of (a) a wildlife sanctuary or zoo; (b) this neighborhood.   It’s amazing to me what lives here, and visits regularly.   My fervent hope is to encounter some javelinas in a wash somewhere.

I still haven’t gotten over the fact that we now live in a place where we can have a palm tree and a saguaro cactus in our front yard, a Great Horned Owl and Cooper’s Hawk in the backyard, whitetail rabbits and Gambel’s Quail in the alleyway, and the occasional lizard sneaking into the house. (I had to capture one in the bathroom last week and put it outside — easy enough if you’ve got a bucket and fast reflexes.)

This environment isn’t for everyone, of course, but it’s fun when someone comes through for a visit and enjoys it enough to take a souvenir.   Bruno and Leila, who visited about over a year ago on their annual vacation (from France), wrote today to say that the palm tree seeds Emma gave them survived the trip back to northern France — and now Bruno has palm trees growing in his kitchen on the cold and gray north coast of France.   Our neighbor Dottie, sensing perhaps that we were nutty enough to take them, has given us three more palm trees for the back yard.   Eleanor and I transplanted them yesterday.   Around here, palm trees are practically weeds, but the novelty hasn’t worn off for us yet.

It’s all part of the inner space experience, I guess.   We have to grow a few palm trees and a saguaro cactus to truly feel and appreciate the sensation of living in southern Arizona. In the spring we may even adopt a desert tortoise and give it sanctuary in our back yard (desert tortoises who have lived in captivity can’t adapt back to the wild, and every year there are always a few who need a new home).   Eleanor is planning to put out a hummingbird feeder, too.   I guess you could call it “putting down roots,” because we are planting and adopting things around our home base nest, but still we do it with a careful eye to future travel and try to avoid getting into things that would limit our options down the road.   Fortunately, desert plants and animals are pretty self-sufficient.

It’s a constant battle in my mind between the things that keep us here and the things that send us out on the road.   On one hand there are the nesting activities of home and the inner spaces that beg for exploration, and on the other hand there is the call of the unknown and the lure of friends and family scattered across the country.   We think we have balance, but I am always questioning it.   I suppose that never will end.

Tonight it was Furious Truckstop Waitresses against Vice Squad, and once I heard about it, I knew we absolutely had to be there.  Roller derby … right here in Tucson?   It’s an icon of American pop culture, right up there with drive-in movie theaters.   I never thought I’d have a chance to see it live.

Problem was, Eleanor had memories of fierce hair-pulling antics and epithets screamed from the one roller derby she attended in Boston many years ago.   She didn’t want to go, and wouldn’t let Emma go.   So I dragged Adam and Susan, who are visiting in their Airstream motorhome, across Tucson to the place by the interstate where Tucson’s bravest babes battle in an oval track.

It turned out to more of a family event than reprise of “pro wrestling” or The Jerry Springer Show.   Tucson Roller Derby is popular and fun.   The rinkside was packed. The parking lot around the building was packed.   We had to park two lots away.   Sure, the rollergirls are colorful with tattoos and bruises, but they are also real people, not invented characters from the mind of a TV producer.   They consider themselves athletes and do this for fun and exercise, not money or glory.

I wish the lighting had been better, or that I had a big honkin’ fast lens for sports.   This was serious fun to watch and photograph.   The crowd was almost as colorful as the rollergirls, and the halftime band were punk rockers called “The Fisters.” The announcers were a riot.   So it was worth documenting. It was definitely worth the $8.50 for an advance ticket at Bookman’s.

Going to something like this helps break down the barriers that get between people.   Here are a bunch of people who look nothing like me, do things that I don’t do, listen to (and play) music that I don’t, and take risks that I wouldn’t.   It doesn’t matter, because in the end we’re all people enjoying a good time together.   We share values. (I was watching the girls hugging each other at the end of the game, talking to each other, and signing autographs for the little kids.)   We’re not divided by arbitrary lines (political, racial, economic, social, religious, etc.)

I like people who know how to get out in the world and have a good time. And now that I know Tucson Roller Derby is not a freak show, and that it’s less violent than most of what’s on TV lately (including football), I wouldn’t hesitate to bring my daughter along to see the fun.   She could benefit from the role model of real women competing on the athletic field for fun.

Sadly, the Furious Truckstop Waitresses (FTW) got pummeled by the Vice Squad last night.   Both teams had some strong players, but it was a lopsided score at the end, 185 to 33.   I think with a little work FTW could come back in a big way.   But it will be a while before I see that.   They won’t be playing again until April 18.   Next game is Iron Curtain vs. Copper Queens, on March 28.

More Tucson Roller Derby photos

We are experiencing Christmas season as defined by Tucsonians.   The usual signs of an urban Christmas are here, such as crowded parking lots, and Santa Claus appearing every retail outlet for miles.   Those are all background to my eye.   It’s the little things that are different about how it’s done here which strike me.

A couple of nights ago we wandered over to the La Encantada Mall to see “snow.”   This upscale mall features little patches of fake grass in the courtyard.   Since grass is scarce around here — even the plastic variety — that’s a minor novelty in itself, but it gets better.   Every Friday and Saturday evening at 6:00 and 6:45 p.m. they turn on a machine that blows fake snow out into the courtyard.   The stuff is actually some sort of soap bubbles, and children quickly learn not to try to catch it on their tongues.   The event reaps dozens of children and adults romping around in the bubblebath, shrieking with pleasure and gathering up tiny bits of the stuff to toss at each other.

Only in Tucson have I ever seen people playing in fake snow while standing on fake grass.   It impressed Emma, although she is certainly no stranger to snow, but I quickly lost interest.   I had just seen the real thing up in Louisville earlier this week, and that was plenty for me.   Fortunately, this event happens directly in front of an Apple store (computers) and that meant I had more intriguing gadgets to examine than a “snow”-making machine.   Maybe Santa will bring me a new MacBook Pro this Christmas…

People ask if we have Christmas trees here.   Yes, we do.   Sure, cactus are commonly decorated with lights outside, but inside the house people seem to prefer the traditional evergreen tree.   Since evergreens are scarce here, they are imported from wetter places like Oregon, and driven down by the truckload.   Vendors are selling them all over town. After Christmas, the city collects them and “treecycles” them.   Or, you can get a fake tree.

All this fakery — or perhaps I should say, “symbolism” — made me wonder whether there were any “real” components of the Christmas season available.   I can’t expect snow, but at least I can expect holiday cookies, a fire in the fireplace, and some traditional singing.   Fortunately, those elements are alive and well.   Downtown at St Augustine Cathedral, we heard five choirs singing “A Holiday Card To Tucson” this afternoon.

Sure, there were palm trees outside the cathedral, and the temperature was a balmy mid-60s, but at least the music was well-done and entirely authentic.     So yes Virginia, the spirit of Christmas really does exist in Tucson. It’s just a little different, like the Southwest Nutcracker that is performed with ballet dancers dressed as coyotes and Native American squaws.

I’ll have to keep searching Tucson for the extremes of Christmas over the next few weeks, whether real or symbolic.   It’s part of the process of getting comfortable with spending this time of year in the desert.   We won’t always be here, but when we are we need to feel like we are home.   I expect a strange but compelling mix of butterflies and sleigh bells, dust storms instead of snow storms, grapefruit instead of sugarplums.   It’s something new, and that alone seems reason enough to explore and embrace it.

When we lived in Vermont, there were two big fall rituals that we observed without fail.   In late September, we’d go to a pick-your-own apple orchard and gorge ourselves on Cortland apples.   And in mid-October, we’d go to the pumpkin patch and pick the biggest pumpkins we could find for carving.

Pick-your-own (PYO) is a lot of fun.   Sure, a cynic might take the view that we’re paying for the privilege of doing farm labor, but there is something to be said for getting out of the supermarket and browsing a pumpkin patch, blueberry grove, or apple orchard to find your food with your own eyes and hands.   There’s the earthy greenness combined with a festive air, as people happily go digging through the branches and leaves to find the perfect fruit.   There’s the sense of getting closer to the source of your food, buying it right off the farm rather than picking through fruit that came in on a jet from Argentina.   As Linus so aptly described them, pumpkin patches — and other farms — are places where you can still find sincerity.

We often grew our own pumpkins in Vermont, since we had acreage.   Our pumpkin patch occupied half of our 50×50 ft garden, and except for the year when we grew sugar pumpkins that the rabbits liked, we usually harvested a couple dozen pumpkins of various sizes.   Helping find pumpkins among the giant green leaves, and stack them in the wheelbarrow, was Emma’s first outdoor job at the age of two.

Now we are suburbanites, and our backyard is not yet ready for gardening, so we decided to take part of Saturday to drive down to a farm about forty miles south of Tucson for a little PYO action.   We had promised Emma the opportunity to repeat the pumpkin-picking tradition and since we were visiting Tumacacori National Historic Park anyway, the farm was right up the road.

Let me testify here: pumpkin picking in the desert is not the same as in New England.   We weren’t foolish enough to expect a grassy hillside but nothing prepared us for the horror of this experience.   As we left the car in the dusty field that served as parking lot, a man loading pumpkins into his car with a somewhat sour face warned us to grab the first pumpkins we saw.   “Last year they cut down the thistles … it wasn’t like this.   I don’t know why they didn’t this year.   Don’t go into the patch, just pick the ones up front.”

We had no idea what he was talking about.   He appeared to be a disgruntled customer, and that seemed a shame on a sunny afternoon at a pick-your-own-farm.   Meanwhile, throngs of families with small children were converging on the haywagon that was carting people off to the further reaches of the farm.   We hustled over and got in line.

After a few minutes, we realized that we could walk to the drop-off point for the haywagon in much less time than we would be waiting in line, so we started off.   In three minutes we were at the designated spot, and ready to tackle the pumpkins.

Except for one thing: this didn’t look like the pumpkin patches we remembered.   There were weedy plants everywhere obscuring the pumpkins.   These weeds were dry and looked like Russian Sage (tumbleweed) but tall instead of bush-shaped.   It looked like a demented hayfield. Still, naive as we were, we plunged into the field in search of pumpkins.

Have you ever accidentally stood atop a red ant hill while wearing sandals?   Ever waded waist-deep into a field of stinging nettles, while wearing shorts?   Ever walked into a live electric fence?   I have, and I can tell you that all of those experiences were sheer pleasure compared to the experience of walking into this pumpkin patch full of weeds.

It was an excruciating form of torture.   With the first gentle brush, the weeds shed thousands of tiny spikes which immediately embedded themselves in our clothing and skin.   Our mistake was immediately evident:   at dozens of points on our bodies we were being impaled by enemies too multitudinous to fight.

Every step ground the little spikes further into my socks, drove them deeper into my shirt, and increased the threshold of pain.   We were all struck with an immediate desire to flee this field of nightmares, but escape was just as excruciating.   Only by remaining motionless could we get relative relief, and that was not a useful option.

At this point, I realized that we weren’t the only ones suffering in the field.   Nobody was smiling; only men with blue jeans and boots were adequately protected, and they were in the field looking for pumpkins on the orders of their family members, who were standing safely in the dusty tractor road.   I looked at my short black socks, and saw that they were tan with thousands of loosely attached spikes.   I was not dressed for this battle, and neither were Eleanor and Emma, who were now struggling to find a safe place to stand without pain.   Like quicksand victims, struggling only hastened our fate.

Pick your own pumpkins?   At this point we wanted nothing more than to jump up on that haywagon and head to the nearest concrete-lined supermarket.   But we had come all this way, forty miles from Tucson, half a mile down a one-lane dirt road, and $7 for admission.   We came to pick pumpkins in a field, and by golly, we were going to pick pumpkins, or die trying.

I can only assume that the same attitude was driving the other victims of this wholesome family experience, because like us, they were wading into the cruel weeds and picking out pumpkins with fixed and determined grimaces on their faces.

In the end, we came out with three pumpkins in our arms, and thousands of brutal thorns embedded in our clothing.   The pumpkins were a bit small for carving but nonetheless symbols of our bravery and willingness to bear up against pain in the honorable quest for holiday gourds.

I cannot say that this experience gave us that special feeling of having once again shared a treasured tradition.   I think our emotions initially ran more to a sense of thankfulness for mere survival.   By the time we reached the parking lot, we had shed most of the irritants attached to us and were back to smiling, but it was the smile of the person who has just left the dentist’s office after a root canal.   Next year, we’ll look for a pumpkin patch with a little more sincerity — and a lot fewer thorns.