ARIZONA!!!

I did NOT take these photos while driving.  I stopped...on the interstate....  But there wasn't much traffic.  And I'm closing in on my destination....TUCSON!!!!

Don't think I was driving 75.  I pretty much maxed out at 70.

Even though I was a slowpoke, those 248 miles just rolled by, and soon, enough, I was at the bottom of the state known for "The Big Hole in the Ground." 

 

A Nail, not a golf tee

No, it isn't a weird golf tee.  It's a handmade nail.

Sorry I don't have a better photo, but just think of this as "art."

The New Mexico Farm and Heritage Museum in Las Cruces looked like an interesting place and the day was sufficiently cool that I could incarcerate the canines in the car while I ambled through this indoor/outdoor museum. 

I like living history, perhaps as a residual memory of going to Williamsburg as a kidlet and seeing glassblowers and horse shoers.  This codger was making nails, mostly in a traditional fashion, though with the aid of modern tubing running to his fire pit.

Here he's cutting off a piece of hot metal, the length of the four-sided nail he'll be crafting.

Nail head.

Finished product.

 

 

I've given much thought to this simple nail, which took him about 5 minutes to make, though part of that time was talking with me and holding up his work for me to photograph.  I go to a big box store where I'm forced to buy a bag of 50 nails, or an assortment of 10 types of nails, when all I really want is two.  If I were forced to make my own nails -- or buy them from the person making them -- I would use the carefully, rather than wantonly, as I'm apt to do.  Don't get me wrong.  I don't wish to return to the days of handmade nails, but I do with we could learn the lesson of carefully shepherding our resources a bit better.

The Land of Enchantment

Six weeks since I last posted.  My goodness, I'm way behind.  Partly laziness and partly lack of access to Wifi, forcing me to use what some call a dongle, I call a gizmo, and Verizon calls VZAccess.  Even though I'm completely out of (chronological) order at this point, come with me as I drift through New Mexico, truly the Land of Enchantment. 

I'd prefer to keep left, but will definitely keep an eye out for rattlesnakes.

Abbey almost stepped on a baby rattler in a Virginia campground; I jerked her leash so hard, it's a wonder I didn't decapitate her.  On a birding trip in Arizona a few weeks after I took this photo, someone told me that the bite of baby rattlers is actually worse than that of their more mature mommas and poppas, because the baby doesn't ration its venom.  It just sinks in those fangs and lets loose the juice.  Regardless of whether this is true, I have no plans to play with baby snakes, big snakes, any snakes.   My first stop was Leasburg Dam State Park, near Las Cruces, the office of the Visitor Center pictured below.

No, she isn't hiding just because I walked in; she's resisting my request for a photo.  She did finally acquiesce.  She's actually a campground host, and does some work in the Visitor Center.  Public campgrounds could not exist with the wonderful people who volunteer to live there during the season.  These hosts live in their own RVs, in the campground.  They are a combination of desk clerk, smiling security, sellers of wood....  Usually, they are a married couple, but Matilda is unusual....

Matilda's big smile reflects her inner beauty.   Most campers are white/anglo/caucasian.  People of color are rare in either public or private campgrounds.  Moreover, a single woman as a campground host is unusual, although many single women volunteer as cultural, historical, and scientific interpreters.  When Matilda first came over to my site to check me in, I was surprised to see a person of color.  The next day, I had a question so knocked on the door of her RV, and when she invited me in, I sensed that she and her little canine lived alone...OK, without a man.  As ya'll know, I'm curious, and as we got to talking, she told me a bit of her story.  She and her husband had been camphosts at two different parks, Leasburg in the winter and somewhere cooler in the summer, for many, many years.  As with a surprising number of RVers, their RV was their home.  Several years ago, he died.  Being comfortable in Leasburg, with friends in Las Cruces and family in California, she arranged to stay on year round as campground host.  She was coming to the end of her RV living, though, as a dear friend had given her a double-wide in Las Cruces, and she was going to make the move to town.  She's an amazing woman.

Again, a campground where each site has a covered picnic table, most likely because it can get quite windy, making a canopy impractical.  My photo skills cannot capture the river valley just below the campground.

Trying to stay hidden, as usual.

Leasburg Dam State Park is tucked between I 25 and I 40 in what even a few years ago would have been  classified as the back of beyond.  Today, civilization is encroaching, though comfortably far away.

The not so mighty Rio Grande River

And a vineyard near the campground. 

This camper was in the tent-camping area, with no hookups, therefore cheaper than what I pay for water and electric hookups.  I could do without a water hookup, but I'm spoiled for light, heat (definitely needed even in NM in February), and my computer.   It finally occurred to me that this solar array is the reason this small poptop is in the tent camping area. 

So I walked over, knocked on the door, stepped back to be polite and not pushy.  A youngish man came out, and I asked if I could take a photo of his solar panel for my blog.  He seemed to think that a bit odd, but not in a hostile way.  We then discussed the benefits and limits of his home made solar system, with me not understanding very much of the technical part.  Regardless, I was impressed.

As with many state park visitor centers throughout the country, this one reflects its local heritage.  All in all, Leasburg Dam State Park was a good find.

VROOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

I completed a two day motorcycle riding course offered by the Motorcyle Safety Foundation.  Here is the result.

It was a loooooong two days.  Actually, this is the work of a recently deceased Tucson artist who worked in metal and discarded items.  However, if I did ride anywhere other than the football sized range on which I practiced, I would most likely closely resemble the image above.

And yes, I did indeed pass both the written test and the range riding test -- evidence above.  If I lived in Arizona, I would have trotted down to the DMV this morning and exchanged this piece of paper for a motorcycle endorsement on my driver's license, making it legal for me to ride a motorcycle of any size, shape, and form not only in the state of Arizona but anywhere in the U. S. of A.  Given that I had the lowest passable score on the riding test of any person who'd ever taken it (I may be exaggerating but not by much), I agreed in writing, using my own blood, to never, ever take the handlebars of a motorcycle within the state of Arizona.

If I don't get a motorcycle, though, what am I going to do with this cute little sticker?  Suggestions accepted.

My class was intime, to say the least.  For most of the course, there were only three of us.  Here are two of my fellow students as we face our written test.  No wonder Jacki has such a dour look.  For me, of course, the written test was a breeze.  I'd typed out the practice questions in the back of our book, then typed in the answers, complete with page number where each answer was located.  I highlighted the answers in red, and printed three copies, one for each of us.  Can you spell a n a l?

One of our two instructors, who looks as if he's assuming the persona of evil testing person.

And the second instructor, out on the range.  Course format was about 8 - 10  hours of classwork, and about 8 - 10 hours of riding instruction.  Instructors are certified by and follow the curriculum of the Motorcycle Safety Foundation, although the course itself is offered through Pima Community College.  Fortunately for me, the West Campus where the range is located is about three miles down the road.  I say fortunately because we began at 6:30 AM.  Both instructors participated in both class work and range instruction.  And, again fortunately for all of us, we were a very small class.  I say fortunately because, as a student on the range, I self-classified into the severe developmental delay category.

All the stuff on the table and bench is mine.  I'm a wuss; I don't like discomfort, such as comes from cold, wind, and rain, all of which we had on Saturday morning, our first day on the range.  With me I had extra pants, shirt, and dry socks.  The dry sock thing is genetic.  Daddy said that after the invasion of Okinawa, when the Marines had to wade ashore from their LSTs, the first thing he did was pull out a pair of dry socks and put them on.  On this day in April but an almost wintery Saturday morning, I was wearing sweats under water-resistant pants with a warm lining, and four layers on top.  Except for my hands (I was wearing crummy left-over gloves from previous students), I was warm!

Sunday morning on the range was sunny and became warm, but at 6:30, it was still chilly, especially when riding, even though I'd barely make it up to 15 miles per hour (aka the fear of falling factor).  Here I am stripping down a bit, having removed the sweat pants, a few top layers, and am now putting my shoes back on.  Beautiful, beautiful day.

And a happy me.

The riding range is the size of a football field, and sits just down from PCC's instructional buildings.  We could run up to the buildings if need be, but why waste precious riding time?

When students arrive, motorcycles are ready.  Otherwise, they remain quiet in a beat-up cargo container, along with helmets and crummy gloves, if a student lacks them.  This makes it possible for someone like me, who lacks a helmet, to be able to ride.

#10.  Mine own for range instruction.

Sweet little machine.  Just my size.

Jackie and Larry await range test scores.  I didn't think I would pass the range test, as I'd gone so far outside the box that even Boss in Cool Hand Luke wouldn't have been able to find me.  The box is a rectangle within which the rider does two U-turns, entering one end and exiting the other.  I'd actually managed one very good box during practice but during the test couldn't do it with three tries.  Regardless of whether or not I passed, I was thrilled that I'd actually finished (and with minimal whining), especially given the miserable weather on Saturday.  My fellow classmates had least some riding experience, and had done well on the range, and I knew they'd pass.  The instructors had assumed I'd want to be the last person to test, and were a bit surprised that I wanted to go first. 

Notice how beautiful the weather is:  sunny, clear, no clouds.  Contrast that with the day before:  miserable, wet, rainy, cold.

Instructor expressing his feelings about having his photo taken.

Class photo!!  The young man on whom I have a strangle-hold joined us only for Sunday's range instruction and testing.  His class had actually been cancelled about halfway through because the weather got so bad.  Apparently, that's a rarity.  He was reluctant to join in the photo but he had no choice!  My fellow students were very kind to me, in my ineptitude.  Thank you to them and to our intrepid instructors!

How to Dry Clothes in Dry Climes

OR: No This Is NOT a Yard Sale.  Way back when we bought a house in Tempe, we very quickly bought a washing machine; I HATE going to the laundromat.  However, we held off getting a dryer, instead stringing line around the carport.  Clothes were protected from the sun and in the "dry heat" of Arizona, well, they were dry almost as quickly as I got them hung out.  When it rained, we'd hold off washing, unless it was a necessity; then, we'd run down the street to friends and use their dryer.  That worked pretty well, since it didn't happen more than about once a year.  Then we hit a rainy spell.  And it rained and rained.  We built an ark, and it rained some more.  We bought a dryer.  Back in Tucson, I'm loathe to use the dryer when the sun is free...and fresh, so here's my method.

Oh yeah.  Gambel's quail.  The reason to watch carefully.

 

Hail!

Hail happens, even in Tucson, though rarely.  And here's the evidence.

I like hot-tubbing when the air is cold, but not sure about being hit by hail, even though the hail was a bit smaller than a marble.  Even my head isn't quite that hard...I think.

Didn't hide the patio stones but covered them pretty well.

Not only did this volunteer survive, it is thriving.  I've been pulling other little green stuff that sprouts between the patio stones but this one had the courage to bloom around the time I arrived...and will be there when I leave ... which will be soon.

 

Ouchy!

The desert is not the place to walk barefoot.  The desert, in fact, requires, nay demands, strong footwear.  Neither Shirley's backyard nor front yard nor side yard has that green stuff on the ground that back east we call lawn.  Shirley's yard is desert.  So walking Abbey in the back desert with me wearing flipflops was....

Not intelligent, as you can see from a couple of the critters which I removed from one foot.  I call them critters rather than plants because, without any provocation whatsoever, three of them leaped off the ground and viciously attached themselves to my foot.  They are impossible to remove by hand.  And they seem to have little barbs which imbed themselves into tender, innocent flesh.  I had to remove my flipflop and limp, with the maimed foot bare, over rocky ground, back to the house.  Now, an efficient and effective way to remove these barbarians from flesh is with a comb, but I'd forgotten that technique.  Altogether, I had 11 barbarian invasions from the three pods.  Several were in so deeply that their departure left little puncture wounds.  Fortunately, no infection.    Damn dog!!!