David"s Farewell

The following biography was written and read by my beloved son Matt as we honored my husband, David, yesterday April 17 . David was diagnosed with an extremely aggressive cancer in late March. He received the best of care from Hospice of the Valley and from our wonderful children.

By request, I am publishing David's bio.

Thomas David Herbert

28 April 1943 – 12 April 2011

INTRODUCTION

When my dad had about a week and a half left to live, he asked me to write his biography for the funeral. In a way, I knew it would be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Putting the words on paper would be saying a goodbye I have never wanted to say. In another way, though, I knew it would be easy, because it’s something I’ve been working on my whole life.

I’ve always watched my dad in amazement at how hard he could work and the variety of things he could do well.

Some of you will know the song, “A Country Boy Can Survive,” by Hank Williams Jr. It’s a kind of tribute to the self-sufficiency and know-how of country people—how they can build their own houses, fix their own cars, grow their own food, and so forth. I’ve always been proud of the fact that I could do two or three of the things mentioned in that song—some of the easier ones, like catching catfish.

Well, my dad could do all the things in the song, and more. He overhauled car engines, bailed hay, cut firewood, and shot and dressed deer. All you have to do is look across the valley at the house he and my mom have been building over the last 15 years, almost entirely with their own hands, to see what he was capable of.

Of course my dad could do much more than these practical kinds of things, and, of course, his life story started well before the last 44 years that I’ve been privileged to witness. To pay him full tribute, to give a full sense of how admirable, adventurous, caring and loving he was—to give some idea of how much we will miss him—we have to start that story from the beginning.

BIOGRAPHY

Dad was born Thomas David Herbert to Frank and Jimmie Herbert at home in Wheatland, Missouri, on the 28^th of April, 1943. He was the third of Frank and Jimmie’s five children, falling in the middle between big brother Eddie and big sister Peggie, and younger brothers Gary and Jonathan. He was born to farm life and learned early what it meant to work hard and occasionally, make some serious mischief. He and his brothers enjoyed jumping out of a barn loft onto the hay below, but without always checking carefully to see what else was in the landing zone. Although David escaped serious injury, his brothers were less lucky, occasionally landing on sharp farm tools, including, one time, a pitchfork.

Dad’s early school life in Wheatland, Missouri was a little less eventful, or at least it was until the 5^th grade. That’s when he met a pretty new girl who had just transferred from the one-room school house in nearby Avery. It was Nancy Trolinger. Dad wrote her the first of several poems that year. Who’s to say if there is such a thing as love at first sight in the 5^th grade, but whatever Dave and Nancy felt for each other then, it grew into a life-long love. Mom says Dad could be ornery in those early years, but he eventually grew into a young gentleman. By high school, they were going steady. No wonder Dad won my mom’s heart. On Valentine’s Day of their junior year, he drove a tractor 24 miles over snowy roads to give her red roses and a box of chocolates.

Dad wasn’t always present for school as he grew older, because work on the farm took priority. During sowing and harvest seasons, the Herbert boys were dutifully working in the fields, having to catch up on their studies later. Despite this hardship, though, my dad excelled in school and earned good enough grades to attend the University of Missouri in 1961, majoring in Spanish. He probably saw a university degree as a ticket off the farm and an opportunity to explore what else the world had to offer. He also saw it as a great way to be with Nancy, who was studying at MU as well.

In 1963, David got his first chance to travel abroad, studying Spanish and Portuguese at the University of the Americas in Mexico City. He was there when President Kennedy was shot, and for the rest of his life he remembered the compassion with which his Mexican hosts broke the news to him.

1963 was a memorable year in more ways than one, a year full of anticipation. David and Nancy were deeply in love and, despite the fact they were still studying at MU, were ready to get married. They exchanged their vows at the Wheatland Baptist Church on January 5^th, 1964. It was the start of a love and an adventure that would last the rest of his life.

My dad’s first job after college and marriage was teaching Spanish to 8^th graders in Warsaw, Missouri, near where he and Nancy had grown up. By late October that year, he already had a second job—helping Nancy take care of new daughter, Leslie. This would be another love to last the rest of his life. It started with long drives around Warsaw in the family’s VW Beetle. Leslie wasn’t an easy sleeper then, but she was soothed by going for drives with Dad in the VW. Later in life, Dad drove Leslie on long trips out West, to summer jobs in Texas and Montana.

Teaching Spanish to 8^th graders was a challenge for my dad, but not the kind he was looking for. In 1965 he joined the Army and, because of his college degree, headed straight to Officer Candidate School in Ft. Dix, New Jersey. The Army needed infantry officers for the war in Viet Nam, and that’s what my dad became. He followed up his initial training with assignments to infantry units at Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri and Fort Benning, Georgia.

In 1966 Dad acquired a new silver Ford Mustang and a new son, me. The next year he led our family on our first real adventure together—moving to Alaska. We drove the Mustang up the Alcan Highway, and Dad reported for duty at the Army’s Arctic Warfare School, where he learned how to trek across glaciers and sleep out in minus 30 degree weather.

In its unique fashion, the Army, after training Dad for the Arctic, gave him his orders for the jungles of Viet Nam the next year. It was an expected development but one that my mom dreaded. He was a 1^st lieutenant and would almost certainly lead men to war. We took another trip down the Alcan Highway before he shipped off, Leslie and I too young to understand that we were having one last family adventure before Dad set out on an uncertain, dangerous assignment.

It didn’t take long before Mom’s fears for Dad were realized. Just two months into his tour, he was wounded by mortar fire. After medical treatment, he was sent to a safer assignment away from the main fighting, learning Vietnamese and getting to know the local villagers. But eager to get back to his job as an infantry man, Dad sawed off the cast the doctors had put on him and went back to flying in and out of combat zones on Huey helicopters. Not all Dad’s troops believed in the mission, and none of them accepted its dangers stoically. Years after the war, Dad told me he sometimes had to order soldiers at gunpoint to get on the helicopters and go fight. He called these the hardest parts of the whole experience.

The most dangerous day for Dad came on December 7^th, 1969. On that day, while Mom, Leslie and I slept in our small apartment a world away in Springfield, Missouri, Dad’s platoon was ambushed by a larger force of Viet Cong near the Mekong River. They shot and killed Dad’s radio operator, who was standing next to him, and quickly pinned down the rest of his platoon, killing and wounding several of Dad’s soldiers. Dad advanced under heavy fire to direct his platoon’s counter-fire from the front, treating the wounded along the way and encouraging his men to keep going. Eventually, he had to call in air support near his own position, which brought the fight to an end. The Army awarded Dad a Bronze Star with Valor Device for heroism in combat. Dad never talked about it; soldiers rarely do.

Back home safe from Viet Nam, Dad received short assignments to Ft Wood and Ft Benning (again), and then got orders in 1974 to go to Korea. There, Dad’s life—all of our lives—changed in a fantastic way, when we adopted Nicki and Maria from a small Catholic orphanage outside Taegu.

When the family returned to Missouri in 1976, Dad thrived on his opportunity to be a new father again, reading The Diggingest Dog and other favorite books to the girls at bedtime. He taught Nicki and Maria the right way to brush their teeth, which he called the “jiggle and jab” method and which they still remember. When Nicki and Maria were old enough to eat solid country food, Dad made family breakfasts of biscuits and gravy. Those breakfasts became a tradition.

In the late 70s, the Army started shedding the surplus of officers it had taken on during the Viet Nam war years. Dad was one of them. He left active duty in 1979, and moved the new, larger Herbert family back to his childhood home in Hickory County, Missouri. He and Mom bought 100 acres of farmland and an old country house in need of serious renovation. Whenever he wasn’t busy working on the house, Dad pursued an impressive variety of jobs I can only call eclectic subsistence farming: he raised pigs, cattle, and goats, planted a large vegetable garden, occasionally fished, drove walnuts to market that we kids collected, and cut cedar posts for cash. He kept up farming but eventually took a job as a social worker, in which he came to appreciate the plight of the working poor. Some of his colleagues scorned the people who came to the office to apply for state benefits, but not Dad. He knew many of the poor were working but just couldn’t make ends meet. Farm life is hard and depends quite a bit on luck, which can always go bad.

During those years, my mom, who had finished her degree in education, was doing two things: teaching elementary school and growing tired of the Missouri winters. A trip to sunny Las Vegas in December 1988 persuaded her that the family’s new direction ought to be southwesterly. Dad agreed, and in June the next year, he, Mom, Nicki and Maria moved to Phoenix. Neither one of them had a job when they packed up and left—this was going to be another adventure.

Mom was an excellent teacher, and it didn’t take her long to find a job at a Phoenix school. With her in the family driver’s seat for the first time, I watched my dad take on some new roles and show new sides of himself during the Phoenix years. First, he took a job as an America West flight attendant and claimed, rather improbably, I thought, to like the work. Now Dad never came off as macho, but let’s face it, as a soldier or farmer for the first 26 years of his adult life, he was a tough guy. He still did Army calisthenics most mornings and could jog upwards of 10 miles. Why did he become a flight attendant? Only later did I understand from Dad’s example that all work is honorable work if it provides for your loved ones and produces a useful service. Dad wanted a steady income that would pay for a house in a good school district for Nicki and Maria, and that’s what he got from America West. He worked there 13 years, so I guess he really did like the job.

Dad also changed overnight from an extensive do-it-yourselfer to a new home owner who claimed he didn’t want to do another day’s work on house upkeep. I really started to wonder who this new Dad was. The house he and Mom chose in Glendale was sparkling new, with a pool and jacuzzi, not the perpetual work-in-progress we were all used to in Missouri. Again, though, there was more to Dad’s changing ways than just whimsy.

He and Mom had always loved being together, but more often than not, they were engaged in the hard work of raising a family and carrying on the habits of self-sufficient country folk. In Phoenix, they started to have fun together, which meant dropping some of those old habits: they jogged together along the canal, they went to a local sports bar, had date nights, frequented a favorite pizza restaurant, hiked the Grand Canyon. When the girls were old enough, they took weekend getaways. What looked so unusual to me about my dad’s new leisurely side was really something very simple and compelling: a life-long couple was discovering how much in love they still were and that fun was an awfully important part of life.

Of course, Dad was still a devoted father. In fact, he seemed devoted in a whole new way. This was a third new interesting side of the man that came out in Phoenix. From our childhoods, Leslie and I knew a caring, loving father who made us laugh and left us lots of room for independence. Our decisions about what to do with our lives were more or less up to us after high school. With Nicki and Maria, however, Dad made some radical adjustments to this laissez faire approach. He was involved. The girls were in high school in those years, and dad actively coached them all the way through it. He talked to them about career interests, taught them the importance of a balanced checkbook, made them take hard math courses to keep their options open, checked up on their grades, encouraged extracurricular activities and prepped them for college entrance exams.

Dad’s Phoenix years might seem unremarkable to an outside observer. He was just a guy who moved his family west and changed some as a result—Americans have been doing that for 200 years. But to me, those years showed something much more remarkable: a man willing to re-think life and change fundamentally in his 40s—a time when many of us believe we’ve got everything figured out. Given his life experience up to that point, Dad certainly could have relaxed in the assurance that he had seen it all and could just put the family on cruise control. But he didn’t; he experimented bravely with parts of himself he likely hadn’t even known were there. I will always admire the courage and creativity he showed in those years. His example taught me that my loved ones deserve the absolute best I have to give them, even if it means stepping far outside my comfort zone or admitting there might be new ways to do things.

Dad was, of course, still Dad, though. He still fell asleep during TV movies and snored on the couch, still woke up noisily of a morning, splashing as he shaved and clanging pots and pans together as he washed them as if to announce it was time for all decent people to awake and get to work. In 1994, after he and Mom saw Nicki and Maria off to their adult lives, they found a way to bring together their new, more leisurely companionship and their old love of country life and hard work.

It was then that they moved here to Yarnell and bought the plot of land they came to call Badboulder. They set to work clearing the scrub oak from it, dodging rattlesnakes and planning the house they would build there someday.

That someday materialized slowly, as there was lots to do, and Mom and Dad took plenty of time off to travel and check in on the kids’ adventures. They hosted elaborate 4^th of July parties, which took days of preparation and were very important to Dad. Mom and Dad were frequent visitors at Leslie’s house in Phoenix, and made a joyous trip to San Diego in 2009 to see her marry James on the beach. Dad loved taking Mom to the California Coast, and this was, of course one of their most memorable trips there.

A few years earlier, Dad had taken Mom all the way to Macedonia to see me marry my beautiful wife, Bibi. He even kept up his good humor while one of Bibi’s rambunctious uncles tried to steal Mom away for a night of dancing.

In 2006, Dad and Mom were in Denver for Nicki’s and Guy’s wedding. Typically for Dad, he took Nicki running the day before. It was a good way to relax before the big day, and a memory that Nicki will always carry with her.

After college, Maria found her way back to Phoenix, which meant she spent lots of time with Dad, along with Mom and Leslie. In fact, Maria had the great luck to live at Badboulder for much of the last year before she joined Dad’s beloved Army and became a medic. Maria will always treasure those months spent watching and helping Dad work on Badboulder and occasionally sharing a margarita and cigar on the deck watching the sunset.

Gradually, whenever Mom and Dad were not out sharing their kids’ new lives, they were joyfully building their own here in Yarnell. The dream of Badboulder eventually did take shape. In various ways, we all participated in it, drawing sketches, painting decorations, or doing other small jobs. Mom and Dad, however, did all the real work. In fact Dad worked harder on that house than I believed humanly possible for a 50- or 60-something. Several days I tried to keep up with him making and pouring concrete but had to quit by noon. He kept going till evening, when he would stop work to water plants and feed and pet his dogs. He loved his dogs.

It’s impossible to describe how the dream of Badboulder took shape; you have to see it for yourself. It seems too big and too expressive of so many hopes and memories for one man to have built it by himself. And of, course, Dad would never put it that way—he didn’t build it himself; it was fusion of his and Mom’s work and dreams. In a way, it brought together everything Dad learned in life and everything he passed on to us. People would often ask him how long it would take to finish the house, but Dad always avoided giving a direct answer. I think I know why. Working on the house, like the rest of his life in Yarnell with Mom, was a journey in which the destination mattered far less than the joyful things that happened along the way. And why rush to the end if you are enjoying the trip so much?

On one of my Dad’s last conscious days this spring, while he was bent over with pain and weakness, he heard the song, “These Are the Days,” by Van Morrison, playing on the TV. He knew it was one of Mom’s favorites. Smiling at Mom, he stood upright, took her in his arms and, asked her to dance. For Mom, that dance symbolized all the effort and sacrifice Dad had made since that 24-mile tractor ride 52 years ago to make Mom smile and pour out his love. Despite his pain, he was still enjoying their journey.

CONCLUSION

When my dad was studying Spanish in Mexico City in 1963, he read Don Quixote, by Miguel Cervantes. It was to become one of his favorite books. I still remember, as a young boy, seeing it on a family bookshelf and being impressed that anyone would make the effort to read such a long, heavy book, and in a foreign language at that.

In Don Quixote, Dad would have read something Cervantes said about summing up the value of a man’s life. “A man, in the end,” Cervantes said, “is the product of his own works.”

Now I don’t know how much store my dad put in that observation, or if he even made a note of it. But he certainly lived his life as if it were foremost in his mind. He loved purposeful work. You couldn’t say he was addicted to it, but he always put the utmost care, foresight and determination into what he did. There was obviously more to his work than what he was doing with his hands at any given time.

A few years ago Dad told my mom that their life together in Yarnell was the happiest time of his life. I’m sure he had lots of reasons for feeling that way, and I don’t pretend to know what all of them were. I do, however, know how they can be summed up.

If you look out across the valley at the big, green house he and my mom have been building together—better yet, if you get up close and see the hundreds of details that reflect a lifetime of shared joys and passions—you will see that the house is a living thing. It is a monument to the kind of deep marital love that can only be worked out and experienced over the course of decades of commitment and companionship.

Every detail in the house is the product of those good things marriage is supposed to teach us about loving others: when to compromise, how to blend one’s ideas with someone else’s till there is no telling them apart, how to keep faith and courage in trying times, how to have a proper disagreement. And how to grow as a result of all of it.

So my family is left with the question—what are we to make of Dad’s last, most ambitious work, and the one he enjoyed most? As I walked through the house two weeks ago, I was wracked with heartbreak by the knowledge that my dad would never do the same thing again, would never be there again with his tape measure and level and books about structural engineering. If a man truly is the product of his own works, wasn’t it a tragedy that my dad would have to leave this one undone? Doesn’t it leave all of us undone?

Well, my dad was not much for the tragic view of life. He’d been around the block enough times to know that no one ever gets to finish everything they start. Important things always get left undone. The best one can do is leave behind works of such value that your loved ones hold onto them and work on them as their own projects and experience that same joy they originally produced.

Of course I’m not talking about the house anymore. I’m talking about what it stands for—a love of family that came close to perfection in the life my father led. Loving one’s family well is a project that doesn’t come to an end—it gets passed along in continuity. I feel sure that’s the example my dad wanted to set.

I’ll close by noting one thing about my dad that I haven’t given enough emphasis yet. He loved making the people around him laugh, lightening their mood. He was occasionally the consummate clown, who enjoyed theatrically pouring margaritas into ridiculously large glasses and acting goofy for the kids’ entertainment. He cracked jokes right up until the last week of his life.

We pay our solemnities today, but Dad would not want anyone to leave here with a heavy heart. In fact he told me as much. It’s probably an impossible request—that we leave here in a light mood--but the story of my dad’s life shows that what seems impossible really is possible—you really can come home from a terrible war and be whole again, you really can build a house on a sloping field of boulders, and you really can say goodbye without letting go. There is so much left to hold on to.

Cat's Claw, Manzanita's EVIL Stepsister

I HATE cat's claw. To say it's my least favorite chaparral scrub would just be too mild.

Cat's claw is a shrub that sports many stems growing from it's base. If unmolested by pruning shears the base becomes more trunk like, growing upward a couple of feet before sending out all those flesh-ripping branches. Multiple prunings that take my enemy back to its roots should weaken or destroy; no, the plant comes back with a vengeance by doubling its shoots and barbs .

Here at Badboulder this shrub is found alongside our pathways, usually nestled so close to a granite boulder that pruning results in abrasion from the rough stone walls in addition to the bloody snags from the claws. Despite leather gloves and thick clothing, I always come away from a pruning session in need or peroxide and antibiotic creme.

My research provided me some interesting information--this plant has pain relieving properties. Native Americans made a mush of the seeds for back pain. Both a topical jell and a capsule form of cat's claw is sold on-line for pain relief. Rather surprising for a plant that has only given me pain.

Pouring salt and vinegar after severe pruning gave us mixed results. Just last week, we think we discovered the reason for spotty eradication.

After my annual wildfire prevention efforts, I applied generous amounts of salt and quit for the day. That night the javelina herd came snorting and plowing through the area and ATE all the salt.

We now know that we can't depend upon winter rains to dissolve the salt. Water or vinegar must immediately be applied to stay ahead of a grubbing javelina.

I do not go out of my way to do battle with cat's claw, therefore we have plenty of this plant draping its lacy leaves across boulders.

If we ever get a line fence around all of Badboulder, David says he is going to transplant cat's claw to vine over and discourage intruders. What a vision!

FROM THE KNOTHOLE: I've been associated with Yarnell over 20 years. Lived here most of that time. During that 20 years, I have come to no conclusions about this town of 500 people, other than we seem to have one of every kind here. Retired diplomat, community activist, PHD, whiners, do-gooders, hermits, cowboys, psychics. Got 'em. Gossipers, ex-cons, druggies, saints, artists, vintage cars, beehives. Yes sir, got those too. Rich people, poor people, old timers, new comers, misfits, community pillars, outlaws, deputies, pianists, POW's, veterans. Yup. St. Joseph. He's here. Antiquers, gardeners, ranchers, farmers, florists, nurses, doctors, engineers, plumbers, electricians, backhoes, dinosaurs. All right in town. Bar keepers, shop keepers, land offices, barbers, hairstylists, office help, home help, spiritualists, welders, carpenters, steel erectors, grave diggers. Yes, indeed. Well people, sick people, cancer survivors, exercise studios, souvenirs, health food, spice shops, garden shops, and hard wares. Right here, in little old Yarnell. And a crazy infantry colonel dug in on the hill. That's me.

a parting shot from bbman: oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. sir walter scott, not shakespeare.

Scrub Oak, Manzanita's Ugly Stepsister

Perhaps I was so passionate about Badboulder's manzanita in our last blog David fears that readers may confuse me with Pollyanna. Such is not the case.

Sonoran scrub oak, most common habitat being central AZ, gives me the grumps.

I have truly tried to like this scrub/small tree because it is hardy--requires very little water. It can grow out of a crack in a granite boulder. Actually a blasting permit and dynamite couldn't kill this stuff. The scattered bits and pieces would develop roots and flourish.

I know that it provides sanctuary and food for birds and animals and that knowledge should endear it to me. Unfortunately Badboulder's ungulates, mule deer and javelina, prefer to browse on fruit trees, vegetable plants, and pansies. I've never spied any animal munching down on scrub oak. Our live oak trees provide billions of acorns; so the paltry few acorns provided by our scrub oak are readily available for propagation.

The Sonoran scrub oak, no doubt because of our arid climate, doesn't need to reproduce vegetatively, but sends out great multitudes of sprouts. These sprouts are the only plant that can grow seven feet in height in just one season here at Badboulder.

I try to fight back scrub oak during rattlesnake hibernation. In order to win the battle, I would need to challenge it on a daily basis. That won't be happening.

I have found that I can eventually trim it into a semi-manicured look, shaping it into low bushes and small pom pom trees. After about ten years of my trimming, the shrub requires only semi-annual trims. The greater problem being all the sprouts that need removing from the base of the pom trees. Edward Sissorhands would be most welcome here.

Wikipedia writers describe the scrub oak leaves as small," spine-tipped teeth". I am wondering if they ever experienced one of these leaves jambed under their fingernails or sprinkled into their bras. Scrub oak has needle sharp teeth.

Those leaves never deteriorate, they will be here the next millennium. To avoid sinus flare-ups or asthma attacks, cleanup requires HazMat gear.

Initially my landscaping plan was to eradicate scrub oak--no chemicals--just a bow saw and pick axe. The scrub oak won, so now I try to contain some of it--still no chemicals. David's solution is to let it grow into the brambled mess that surrounded Sleeping Beauty's castle. I would love to be the beautiful princess discovered at Badboulder Castle a hundred years from now when Prince Charming breaks through the mighty wall of scrub oak.


FROM THE KNOTHOLE: Someone once told me that the amount of leisure time one enjoys is a measure of nobility; you know, the more leisure time the nobler. I always thought it had something to do with family bloodlines. Either way, by either measure, I don't claim to have a noble bone in my body. I'm just a backbreaking, butt-busting, shamelessly independent American. Came by it honestly. One of my grandfathers is said to have believed that you must work hard and sweat everyday. That, he said, is the secret to good health. The Herberts in my family were known to ridicule the Kellys in my family for being studious, intellectual, and weak. When I was growing up, the supreme insult from my father was to be called a Kelly. My father was the consummate Herbert; his mother was a Kelly. The Kellys, especially compared to the Herberts, were more genteel and smaller physically. They pursued trades and industries that required use of the head as well as the back. And, oh my gosh, they read books. Tennessee Ernie Ford probably had the Herberts of the world in mind when he sang, ...if you see me comin', you better step aside..

a parting shot from bbman: been to white castle lately? yum.

Transplanting Manzanita

I love getting helpful planting tips from gardeners who have won the battle that each of us Yarnellians face up here on this rocky, windswept mountain. One prized piece of information came to me as an aside the day a stranger helped me cope with a rattlesnake- bitten cat.

George, the stranger, operated an antique shop next door to our veterinarian. His home and spacious garden were located to the back of his business. While I waited for my kitty, George gave a tour of his beautiful shady garden to help soothe my stressful day. (News of rattlesnake bite travels fast in these here parts).

He attributed all his gardening success to the dense shade provided by native trees--transplanted from Kirkland Creek ONLY in the month of January.

We've been heeding that advise for transplanting manzanita, an ornamental evergreen native to Yarnell, with good results. Several years ago, two manzanita plants came up in our driveway; David transplanted them in January. They are now shoulder high.

Manzanita, according to Wikipedia, grows in the chaparral biome of North America but doesn't even list AZ in the zone. Indeed it is much prized, but not protected, and grows beautifully here in AZ. The berries and flowers are edible, its thin mahogany bark can be dried and used for a tea and Native Americans used its leaves to clean their teeth. Some species are among the rarest plants in the world; one endangered species was recently cloned in CAL.

Today it was my turn. Again, two manzanita plants sprang up in our driveway. This was their second winter, time to transplant before they became sizable enough to risk being run over. Thankfully no cloning is necessary for Badboulder's manzanita.

Manzanita is far and away my favorite chaparral shrub. I will go to great lengths to avoid getting into their space.

Their beauty as ornamentals is such that I once convinced David to set a dead one in concrete. My sis and I strung it with fairy lights as we laughed and sipped a margarita. The lights now need replacing--a delicate chore as it is old enough to be a bit crumbly. I need my sis and a margarita.

I was working away from home the day an APS representative informed David that the chaparral, on our land but under their electrical line, must be cut. David asked them to please spare the manzanita, pointing out that it never attains great height, doesn't have a long life span and was the most desirable plant we owned. They left the beautiful manzanita which has benefited from the removal of dense brush.

When we furnished our condo, I wanted to display a piece of manzanita, a memento from Badboulder. It was a casualty from the burial of our propane tank. Amazingly, some leaves are still intact, adding interest to our RED wall.

Usually in January, the sweet fragrance of the manzanita's tiny pink blossoms perfumes Badboulder's air. We've had shiveringly cold nights for over a month this year which probably accounts for a delay. It'll be worth the wait!

FROM THE KNOTHOLE: Back when I used to work for America West Airlines, one of my best friends was Jim, but I called him Manzanita Man. You see, to make extra money, he had a permit from the U.S. Forest Service to go into national forests and cut manzanitas. He used plaster to set the cuttings, usually around 6 feet tall, in a 5-gallon bucket. He was connected with several interior decorators in the Scottsdale area who placed manzanitas in the homes of their wealthy clients.

a parting shot from bbman: where were you when kennedy was shot? one of our favorite perennial questions. don't think i have ever met anyone who does not connect with that day. i was in mexico city attending the university of the americas. i was living in a room over the garage of a rather wealthy mexican family. when i arrived home that evening, the mother of the household and her daughter, rosita, came to meet me and, through sobs and tears, offered condolences for the loss of president kennedy.

Scout, Badboulder's Lazy Feline

Scout, our huge orange and white cat, was born in a back alley of downtown Phoenix. One of Maria's co-workers rescued him and his sister Savannah from their feral environment when they were actually a bit too young to have left their mother. However, under Maria's watchful care they grew to be two of nature's majestic cats, both in size and personality.

"The smallest feline is a masterpiece. Leonardo da Vinci "No matter how much cats fight, there always seem to be plenty of kittens". Abraham Lincoln "One cat just leads to another" Ernest Hemingway

They came to live with Maria in December of 1999, sharing a house with her roommates and many dogs of every description--the most notable being two chihuahuas. One chihuahua was a talented actor and the other could sing. No doubt, these performing creatures helped shape the cat Scout would become--an expert at avoiding mayhem and noise.

"A cat is nobody's fool". Heywood Brown

Scout enjoyed adventures in the large backyard. Later, when Maria moved into another roommate situation, Scout's domain included a swimming pool in the backyard with plenty of block fences to strut upon as he made his daily prowls of his neighborhood. Savannah was the shy, retiring type and didn't relish the great outdoors. When Maria achieved her goal of living alone in an apartment, Scout lost his outdoor excursion privileges.

"It is in the nature of cats to do a certain amount of unescorted roaming". Adlai Stevenson
"God made the cat in order that humankind might have the pleasure of caressing the tiger". Fernand Mery


Savannah tolerated, even flourished in Maria's apartment but Scout became a malcontent. He spent his hours sitting on a table looking longingly at the complex courtyard with its pool, palms and block fences. Eventually, he targeted Maria's most prized possessions--her soccer shoes and soccer duffle bag. Even neutered tomcats will spray their owners items when frustration sets in and Scout won the battle.

"The trouble with cats is that they've got no tact". P.G.Wodehouse "Cats know not how to pardon". Jean de la Fontaine "Cats can be very funny and have the oddest ways of showing they're glad to see you. Rudimace always peed in our shoes". W.H.Auden

When Maria phoned requesting Scout change from city to country cat, I was surprised with the promptness in which he was delivered. Initially Scout resided in our cattery until he came to view his new surroundings as home. A native American friend gave me some expert advice--butter the new cat's paws. The cat will lick the butter and all traces of the past away, thus removing scents which might be used to attempt a return.

"The way to keep a cat is to try to chase it away". Ed Howe "It is as easy to hold quicksilver between your finger and thumb as to keep a cat who means to escape". Andrew Lang

After being released to explore the nooks and crannies that boulders provide, Scout would return to the cattery for naps and for night time protection. He continues to frequent the shady cattery loft on warm spring days.

"Nothing is more determined than a cat on a hot tin roof. . . .". Tennessee Williams

Scout accompanies me on all my landscaping forays. After risking a tail shortening by my pruning shears, he retreats from underfoot and curls up for a nap deep inside whatever bush or thicket I'm trimming. If I'm moving wheelbarrows of granite, gravel or stones, Scout faithfully follows me on every trip.

"A cat sleeps fat, yet walks thin". Fred Schwab "In the beginning, God created man, but seeing him so feeble, He gave him the cat". Warren Eckstein

When winter sets in, Scout becomes a house cat moving from easy chair to easy chair as he follows the sun's strongest rays. When summer arrives, it's back to the great outdoors for Scout. He embraces space; the neighbors report he never wanders into their yards.

"It is with the approach of winter that cats become in a special manner our friends and guests. It is then too that they wear their richest fur and assume an air of sumptuous and delightful opulence." Pierre Loti

Our My Blue Desert daughter owns two small cat-chasing terriers. On rare occasions we have small children visiting. Scout is such an expert at hiding when those events occur that there's not one peep of his orange and white fur to be found on Badboulder. Within fifteen minutes of their departure he comes meowing his way out of hiding.

"The cat is mighty dignified until the dog comes by". Southern folk saying

Scout is living in his twelfth year now, displaying the wisdom of an older cat. He hasn't eaten a lizard in years, saves a good bit of his energy for napping, strolls the perimeter of the pond only to admire fish and drink the cool water, and ignores most of young Zorro cat's playful overtures.

"Nothing's more playful than a young cat, nor more grave than an old one". Thomas Fuller
"There are two means of refuge from the misery of life-music and cats". Albert Schweitzer


Scout easily transferred from his big city domain to life in the boulders. Like all the pets we've rescued, Scout became part of Badboulder life and a true treasure.

"If man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve man but deteriorate the cat". Mark Twain "I love cats because I love my home and after a while they become its visible soul". Jean Cocteau

FROM THE KNOTHOLE: Hey, you all, it's me, up here in the knothole, and boy do I have a tough job, trying to keep my eye on four women. It's kind of like the Eagles, you know, strumming and humming their way along Interstate 40, slowing down in Winslow, Arizona, with seven women on their mind, hoping to leave their troubles behind. Fat chance. So, I am not in Winslow, Arizona; I'm in Yarnell, Arizona on Highway 89. Four women on my mind? Yup. But it's all legal. So, don't call Sheriff Joe, the toughest sheriff in the world, just yet. You see, one woman is my spouse in the house. That's the incomparable Badboulderlady. The other lovely ladies are my three daughters, not in the house, but certainly on my mind, whether I am in Winslow or Yarnell, Interstate 40 or U.S. Hwy 89. So, what's my point? Well, we are getting to that, having disposed of the prologue.

When most people think of hand-me-downs, they think of old jeans, used dresses, cast-off coats, etc. Not me, no way. I think of cats and dogs. You see, Badboulderlady collects cats and dogs like a black sock attracts white lint. And the three daughters, well they sometimes shed pets like a bouquet eventually drops its petals. You see, a pet is a little like a bouquet. When new, always very pretty. But, after you have owned it for a while, some of the natural luster begins to fade. Also, pets are a little like that box of chocolates in the Forrest Gump movie: you don't really know what you're getting. Sometimes pets just don't work out. Scout is not the only pet that has been reassigned to Badboulder nor is Maria the only daughter that has had a pet that didn't fit into their life. So, more than once, our daughters have turned to us to assuage some of life's inevitable pains, like giving up a pet.

a parting shot from bbman: did you ever meet someone who just sticks in your mind? i have. many times. especially in the military service. maybe it is because in the military you do things that no sane person would choose to do: train in the cold, the rain, the mud; go for days with little or no sleep; go for days or weeks or months with no hot food; leave home for lengthy deployments; think, sleep, and eat combat 24/7. i am sure if we went to iraq or afganistan, we would meet some really gritty and unusual soldiers.

while serving on the staff of the 172nd support battalion at fort richardson, alaska, during 1968-'69, i met one such memorable individual--major shugart, the battalion executive officer. major shugart was a man of several dimensions. he led men to kill in combat (1st infantry divisuion--the big red one). he led men (there were no women in the battalion) in prayer at a lavish thanksgiving meal. he chewed men out for their flaws. he praised men for their attributes. he smoked like the devil. he went to the gym and worked out like hell. one could criticize major shugart for the opposing extremes of his conduct. i commend him for the broad broom with which he swept through life. in his own way, he did it all.

Back to Badboulder for Christmas

My leisurely retirement days took an unexpected turn in mid-October. My ninety-one year old mother was diagnosed with an aggressive sarcoma in her left leg. In a matter of days she lost her mobility, started a radiation program and needed assistance with all facets of her life. My sister and I became Florence Nightingale and Clara Barton--acquiring skills quickly thanks to the staff at Carrie Babb Cancer Center in Bolivar, MO. Our dear Aunt Bonnie and Mom's wonderful neighbor, Leann, a retired nurse, gave us practical advice and provided comfort to Mom when we slipped out for an occasional walk.

The two of us met Mom's needs for five weeks before entrusting a nursing home associated with the cancer center with that job. We were replaced with a staff of about 15-16 skilled and caring people who quickly began treating her like a queen.

Providing around the clock care is so demanding physically and emotionally on caregivers that time becomes a blur, meals sometimes consists of a handful of nuts, a bath is pure luxury, and any connections made to your own family is done with some quick texting on a mobile phone. This said, I'm so grateful that I had the opportunity to help my Mom and connect with my sis.

Mom has spent little time dwelling on the gravity of her illness and determined that she was going to see herself through it with a sense of humor. Her Christian faith provides her with strength to tolerate the pain associated with her illness and the loss of her independence.

Now to the logistics of our care providing. My sis and I took turns with the night shift, drowsing some and using an alarm to keep continual pain meds on schedule and assist with bathroom walks. On our night off we relied on sleeping aids to refresh and restore ourselves in order to meet the daytime routine. We took turns driving the eighty mile trip for daily radiation. One trip was achieved by driving around, through and beside some unseasonable November tornadoes. Sis and Mom were nonchalant about the weather but those screaming sirens sure got my attention.

We mastered the art of pushing her wheelchair to the point that she was no longer fearful of those excursions. We cooked her meals--this involved permitting her to eat potato chip snacks and the occasional hot dog, as well as insist on some nutrition. My sis won favor by cooking turnips not once but twice.

Our mom is quite social, thus we gladly entertained a multitude of visitors who bolstered her well-being. Many came bringing gifts of food which we welcomed wholeheartedly and some shared their uplifting stories of battles with cancer. Friends phoned daily to inquire of Mom's well being and the mail never ceased to include wishes for a speedy recovery. Grandchildren, grown with jobs and family commitments, continue to jet in to cheer and support their beloved grams.

GG's response to radiation is slowly showing favorable results which permitted me to fly back to sunny Arizona literally missing the first sub-zero wind chill temperature reading in Missouri this winter by mere hours. Allegiant Airlines took deicing precautions at 2 pm and I arrived in Mesa to 80 degrees and sunshine by 4pm. I arrived home for the glorious Christmas season!

It's difficult to find a rendition of "White Christmas" that I don't find enjoyable listening. But, if I inadvertently sing along it's pure blasphemy on my part. Sunshine in the swaying palm trees with blasts of scarlet bougainvilleas says Merry Christmas to me. I've managed to stir up some of our family's traditional Chex Mix and peanut butter fudge. Knothole Man hung my favorite nativity scene and we're enjoying peace and good will here at Badboulder.

I'm wishing all a peaceful, joyful and healthy New Year.

FROM THE KNOTHOLE: I wonder how many people who read this blog have thought about going to the nursing home, or let's call it a care center. Wonder how many of you have long term care insurance. Do you know what it costs per month to stay in a care center? How will you pay for it? Me? I hope to stay in my knothole.

a parting shot from bbman: Ba mui ba. Means 33 in the Vietnamese language. These numbers appeared on the side of big brown bottles of beer commonly available in Vietnam when i was there in '69-'70. i was told that beer 33 was a legacy of the French military presence in southeast asia which ended in 1954. to all the wonderful french people. gotta love 'em.

Badboulder's First Window Mosaic

My craft/guest room captures early morning rays through two large windows and a full view door. The early morning summer rays are so intense that we use black drapes to help sleepers avoid a 5 am wake-up call from the sun. Smaller south facing windows provide natural light without heating the room too much. David custom made these long, narrow windows--not any easy job.

In December of 08 Badboulder experienced a winter storm that brought some 80 mph wind gusts along with rain, sleet and snow. We had never witnessed a mountain storm of that magnitude but saw another less than a month later in January of 2010. This fierce storm uprooted three ancient pine trees in a nearby neighbor's yard. Alas,it also slightly cracked one of our long narrow windows.

Over time the small crack spanned the width of the window. Fortunately only the interior pane suffered. Window replacement would be a bear and distracts from more important jobs, thus I've been given carte blanc mosaic privileges.

Initially I thought subtle, clear or pearlized jewels might be in line but they just highlighted the problem.

Trips to Hobby Lobby(the divorce incubation store) and three Michael's store resulted in the materials needed to make an Asian inspired mosaic on the windows. Hobby Lobby sells adhesive leading for faux stained glass projects. I'm using this for branches. After some searching through Michael's jewelery-making aisles I found some black leaf-shaped gems. I'm using Aleene's glass and bead glue to adhere the gems to the glass.

I traced the shape of the window crack onto white paper with a carpenter's lead pencil, then darkened the line with black crayon. First I arranged the "leaf" beads in a weeping downward pattern that is perhaps a bit more of an Asian look. Eventually, I decided those leaves needed to be stretching for the sunlight and tilted them upward.

I'll reverse this design and create a similar pattern for the opposing window. The window in between will get a more upright branch of leaves.

My intent is to solve the problem with decorative mosaics that becomes part of the decor. Hope this looks better than duck tape.

The old "necessity is the mother of invention" adage has provided another fun, DIY Badboulder project. Just what I need on these cold, snowy and ice-covered days!

P.S. This became another of those work in progress projects. Off to the big city to buy glue--mine had pretty much solidified. Actually I'm off for a girls' night out but like all Yarnellians I always buy necessities as opportunity avails. Should I ever have an audience with a queen, a president or the pope I would probably multitask and buy a loaf of healthy bread or some other essential on my way home. Just a fact not a whine--I love life up here!

FROM THE KNOTHOLE: Well, here we go again, looking through the windows of Badboulder into her very soul. And what do we see? Badboulderlady, of course. And that, folks, is about as close as we will get to Badboulder's soul. When I asked Badboulderlady, deep down in her soul, who she would rather visit with, the president, the queen, or the pope, I was a bit surprised by her response. I presumed that she might want to take on the pope and help him see the world from a different point of view. Keep in mind that we are from Arizona where a prominent Catholic Hospital was recently sanctioned, i.e., stripped of its Catholic status by the local bishop for performing an abortion to save the mother's life. Or the queen who really needs to get over this business of being offended when the curtsy or the bow is omitted. Nope, Badboulderlady would choose neither the pope nor the queen. She chose the president. Why, because of the three, his office is the most prestigious.

a parting shot from bbman: 5 cents: the price of a coke when i was in high school; 22 cents: the price of a gallon of gasoline when i was in college; priceless: receiving a box of jello parfait dessert and a manual egg beater from my mother while in the middle of the jungle in vietnam in 1969.