Author Archives: Emilie

I left the Marfa Lights viewing area just at dawn and headed south on Texas 67 toward the border town of Presidio. 67 is a simple country road with windmills scattered on the bases of hillsides. The scenery is beautiful—rolling hills of golds and greens, a lovely twisty road, and mountains as a backdrop in every direction. But not enough pulloffs for viewing and photos.

Two road repair areas held me up briefly, but in all, it was a loverly drive.

For some reason, in my mind Presidio was a little semi-ghost town, maybe a population of a few hundred. I envisioned collapsed roofs and falling-down, crumbled adobe structures.

 

Imagine my surprise when I found a small bustling town of about 3300 people. I learned there was a coffeehouse in the downtown area and, of course, headed right there.

Town was busy, but the lone coffeehouse was closed. A woman on the street said it was always closed. There went my only chance at a good cup of coffee.

 

On to Texas 170, the road to Terlingua, a road often called the most scenic in Texas. That claim gets no argument from me.

The views before, after, and in the middle of each curve begged me to shift my eyes from the road. And there must have been at least two hundred curves or twists in the sixty-two mile drive. Google told me it would take about an hour and half. Closer to two and a half for me.

Even the straightaways, which were few and often lasted only about a quarter of a mile, were stunning. But as on other routes, not enough pulloffs, and the those that existed weren’t near the view I’d wanted to capture. Pullovers! I want more pullovers!

 

Sadly, the several road repair stops never offered much of a view.

The journey took me quite close to the Río Grande, sometimes coming withing about ten feet of the river.

I took it slowly, stopping just to gaze around when I’d (finally) find a pullover. I saw a number of camping areas along the way, some close to the road and others further away. No services, just a place to stop and spend a few days hiking and taking in the beauty.

In a few hours, I reached the town of Lajitas. Once a booming town and location of a major border crossing, when area mines closed, Lajutas dwindled to just four residents by the early 1970s.

That’s when a Houston corporation bought it, restored what buildings it could, and created a golf resort.

Yes, it’s true. In the middle of wild rugged mountains, a small valley on the Río Grande is now a golf resort with a private airport.

Lajitas, Texas: A Big Bend Country Ghost Town (Turned Resort)

The irony of it all is not lost on me. My guess is the resort is filled with people who won’t go to “scary” Mexico, in general support a border wall, and under almost any other circumstances, would never go to a small border town. But they fly in to Lajitas, golf, and spend the winter in a beautiful area with daytime temperatures in the seventies.

And like the rest of this route, there is no border wall. A wall would destroy the wild beauty. As one who lives just a few blocks from a thirty-foot wall, I can’t tell you the delight I found in driving so many border miles of unspoiled, intense beauty.

I reached Terlingua near 1:00 and splurged on lunch at DB’s Rustic Inn BBQ. I then wandered town and found a $2 shower. Wow! I settled myself in the shade of an old porch in the ruins of the Terlingua ghost town to read and write a bit.

I camped in a quiet spot, had some great coffee at Espresso y Poco Mas, and headed for Big Bend.

My senior pass I bought years ago got me into the park free. I didn’t wander but headed right for Boquillas Crossing.

Yay!! Crossing to Mexico by rowboat had been the impetus for this entire trip. I got to Boquillas Crossing and entered the Customs building where a Park Service employee verified that I had a passport. Then, down the path to the river.

To Mexico, where I then rode a burro into town!

I had a nice lunch and returned to the US where I had to go into the Customs building again. A Park Service employee took my passport and held it up to a computer screen where its image was sent to a human somewhere else. The Park Service man returned my card and I approached the screen. A bored, disembodied voice asked if I had anything to declare. When I responded that I didn’t, he sent me on my way.

What a bizarre re-entry to the US!

From there, I searched for a (free) place to spend the night, but everything was either taken or w-a-y down a bumpy dirt road. Spring break. What did I expect?

So I headed out of Big Bend, my mission to cross the Río Grande accomplished, and headed to Sanderson for a visit with another woman who has roamed the country. She landed on my property at the beginning of the Covid shutdown and was basically stuck there for a few months. But at least she had a full van she could stand up in! I’m in my RAV.

An aside: As I sat in the shade in Terlingua Ghost Town and wrote, a couple walked by. The woman waved. Just then her husband got a call and wandered the other direction to talk. The woman and I chatted awhile, exchanging bits of info.

We found we were on a similar route. I then mentioned I was from Bisbee. “Bisbee! We were there a few weeks ago for the Vulture Festival!”

I told her I’d been there also. We laughed and kept chatting. She said they were headed to Big Bend next and planned to take the little rowboat across the Río Grande the next day. I laughed again and told her I had plans to do the same thing.

And guess who I ran into in Boquillas the next day! By the time we’d talked in Boquillas, I had an invitation to their home in northern New York. And then we found we were both headed to Texas Hill Country! And we laughed again realizing they live just a few blocks from the northern border while I live a few blocks from the southern.

To finish, here’s the hardware store in Sanderson.

More soon!

I didn’t reach Alpine and Marfa until my third day of travel even though I could have easily made it in under eight hours. This trip is much about leisure, so much leisure that the one-hour trip between Van Horn and Marfa took me nearly three hours.

I left the Van Horn area at dawn and cruised slowy down Texas Highway 90 to Marfa.  

Whoever is promoting Marfa has done a fine job, because the first references to were about thirty-five miles north of the town. That’s where I found Prada Marfa, a sculpture created in 2005. There are even some Prada shoes and purses inside the little building.

Then another twenty or so miles down the road, I found the next Marfa sculpture.

The diorama came complete with music seeming to emanate almost from the car.

Then about seven miles before town, there was a big “Welcome to Marfa” sign.

And finally the town, about 1800 people if you ask Google, or about 1500 if you ask the locals. 

But I continued to Alpine, another twenty-five miles east.

I wanted to see Alpine because I’d been there once before, maybe twelve or fifteen years ago, on a train trip from Arizona to New Orleans. What I remembered about the town was the train stopping and Border Patrol agents having everyone get off while they searched the train. 

Alpine is a sweet little town filled with artist’s studios, cafes, and murals and more murals. It has a population of fewer than 6000 people, but there are probably close to fifty murals! The last count was forty-four, but the woman at the welcome center said she knew more had been added since the mural map had been made.

Map in hand, I roamed town a bit looking at murals.

MURALS

And other art.

After wandering and seeing the art, I headed back to Marfa.

My first stop was Wrong, an art gallery and store. I’d met the owners in Kino in January and wanted to stop in. Well worth the stop! Jewelry, a lunar calendar, artwork, and much, much more. If you’re ever in Marfa, visit there and spend money.

There are some beautiful historical buildings in town, too, including the county courthouse. I elevatored up three floors and then walked up the last two levels.

There’s a beautiful old hotel, the Hotel Paisano (originally El Paisano Hotel) designed by Trost and Trost. (Bisbee, by the way, has a Trost house.) The hotel opened in 1930. It’s famous for headquartering the cast and crew of the 1956 movie Giant and is on the National Register of Historic Places.

Part of what drew me to Marfa was the Marfa Lights, lights that are sometimes seen at dusk and ocassionally later at night, about nine miles east of the town.

https://visitmarfa.com/visit/page/marfa-lights

I went there to watch and hope, and to spend the night. About thirty other people showed up, but unfortunately, you can’t prove the Marfa Lights by me. I did however, see a fine sunset.

After a quiet night, I headed south to Presidio and then northeast to Terlingua, which you’ll read about in my next post.

Bisbee loves its vultures. Bisbee also loves parades.

So what does Bisbee do when turkey vultures migrate back here for the summer? We have a vulture parade!

This parade has been happening for many years, at least 13 but maybe more. It used to be held in Old Bisbee, but for the last three years it has been in Vista Park during the regular Saturday Market.

Enjoy!

A vulture announces the beginning of the parade.

I cannot capture the California Central Coast in words. I can’t even capture it in photos. I can share only little tiny pieces: waves, flowers, and sunsets. Sea lions and otters. Food. Oh, the food!

Majestic. Awe-inspiring. Comical and whimsical. Views that captured me so completely I couldn’t move. Traffic that terrified me enough that I had to hand over the keys. I live in a town of 800 and was unprepared for LA freeways.

Elle and I drove straight through to California on day one and stayed two nights in a northern suburb of LA, heading into the city on day two. I didn’t drive, of course. Elle and her mother wanted to hit the garment district, shopping for fabrics and checking out fashions. I chose to do what I do well: visit a coffeehouse. I chose one that specialized in French pastries.

We also got caught in traffic.

When the others finished shopping, we ate some fine, fine food at a little hole-in-the wall. We had sandwiches on fresh, crusty baguette. I had tuna salad, and it was the best tuna salad—and maybe the best sandwich—I’ve ever had, the secret recipe handed down to the cook from his Cuban mother.

The following day Elle and I headed north, stopping at a coffeehouse in Santa Barbara and visiting Old Santa Barbara Mission, built in 1786. Our visit to the coffeehouse had my sister dub our visit the California Coffeehouse and Pastry Tour. She was not wrong. We hit a coffeehouse every morning and a few afternoons, often supplementing our caffeine with baked goods.

In Santa Barbara I also saw my favorite hedge and gate.

Slowly, slowly up the coast, visiting Guadalupe and its cemetery.

In Pismo Beach we stopped to see monarch butterflies but could see them only from a distance. Next, late lunch on the pier.

Further north to have some beach time near San Luis Obispo. Then on to San Simeon where we saw the Hearst Castle from afar and elephant seals from a lookout point. We spent the night in San Simeon.

The next day, day four, we headed north again, stopping in Ragged Beach for, yes, coffee. And a killer breakfast with a fabulous view from the patio.

On up to Gorda which is the southern end of Big Sur country.

About five miles further on at Sand Dollar Beach, the road was closed due to the major slides that happened during the rains last month.

More beach time, a visit with friends, then back south and east to Highway 101 where we headed north to Salinas then west to Monterey for the next three nights.

Day five. A lovely coffeehouse in Monterey, then south.

We splurged and paid to take 17-Mile Drive along the coast. Views, views, and more views!

We had breakfast at the famous lodge at Pebble Beach where we split a breakfast of eggs, potatoes and and Kobe beef—the best, most tender beef I’ve had in my life.

And coffee.

Further south through the village of a Big Sur and finally to the the northern road closure.

Back slowly north to Monterey and our motel.

On day six we stayed around Monterey and Carmel, visiting Cannery Row and other local sights, battling mobs of tourists for parking and walking space and viewpoints.

Day seven we had a heavy breakfast on a pier and a visit with a group of sea lions. A group is a herd, a harem, a rookery, or a bob. I rather like rookery.

Then down 101, west to coastal Highway 1, with more beautiful scenery and then traffic jams as we neared Los Angeles

After a final night outside of LA, we drove through morning rush hour, which was about as awful as you can imagine. Then across the desert, into clouds, drizzle, and into Tucson’s afternoon rush hour. It was a long, nearly thirteen-hour day before we got home.

The beauty was spectacular. I was completely enchanted by the waves, their constant crashing as they slowly erode the cliffs. About five or six times daily I’d exclaim, “The waves! My god, look at those waves!”

I must return for a more leisurely trip. More time with sea lions and sunsets and waves. Especially the waves.

I never thought I’d go back to Puerto Peñasco.

I visited the first time in 1971 when it was small town of about 7,000 along side a Tohono O’Odham village. I camped on the outskirts and never even saw the town. I returned in 1985 when it had swelled to 10,000—one comfortable hotel and a few restaurants. I loved it.

In 1993, I was horrified by the population explosion. There must have been 25 or 26,000 people there. I told my then-husband it was ruined and I’d never return.

But when my friend Frank was house sitting there and got permission for me to come visit, well … well, it was Mexico after all. Even with a winter-time population nearing 80,000, it would be nice to see Frank and I figured I’d enjoy the sea and food.

So I went, deciding ahead I’d have to pretend it was someplace I’d never been. And because it was completely unrecognizable, in a sense that was true. I’d never been to this Puerto Peñasco before.

Let me tell you who Frank is. We met about six years ago when he was couchsurfing his way across the southern US, headed back to his home near Seattle. He found my offer of a place to stay via the website, couchsurfing.com. It was free then, but today it’s a subscription site, though affordable. If you want to travel affordably, sign up—it’s great!

Frank has been leaving the cold, rainy northwest for Arizona sunshine every winter since and has stayed with me many time. This time, I’d be visiting him.

I crossed the US/Mexico border before 8:00 am and arrived in Cholla Bay (also Choya Bay, the gringo spelling) before 10. Frank helped me get my things inside, showed me the rooftop deck, and we immediately went out for a late breakfast.

Great huevos rancheros at Xochitl’s Cafe though the salsa was gringo-ized and not very spicy.

In the ten days I was there, Frank and I sampled a lot of restaurants, saw daily sunrises and sunsets, visited bakeries, and toured around a bit. All this in addition to shopping for groceries, wandering the malecón, and lounging on the roof.

One day we visited El Barco, the women’s oyster co-op. El Barco is the only female owned and operated oyster farm in Puerto Peñasco, and they also have a restaurant with a view.

We roamed CEDO, the Intercultural Center for the Study of Deserts and Oceans, where we saw the skeleton of a fin whale. The bones were found in the area in 1983 and were eventually moved and reassembled at the CEDO site.

We visited two bakeries, my favorite La Tapatía, where breads and rolls were still baked the old fashioned way.

Frank took me to the malecón and I went back once on my own. A malecón similar to a boardwalk in that it fronts the ocean or sea. It’s often made of stone. It or the area around it usually has stalls with vendors selling food, local handicrafts and arts, tickets to boat rides, blankets, clothing, and more.

There are lots of boats in Puerto Peñasco.

I was fortunate to be in town for Día de los Muertos, Day of the Dead. Vendors sell marigolds for people to place on the graves of their loved ones. The belief is marigolds attract the souls of the departed, so graves are decorated with them as are altars created specially for the holiday.

One area of town had a display of altars.

Catrinas were everywhere. Catrinas are skeleton dolls, artwork, and even sculptures representing the dead for Día de los Muertos.

CATRINA

Each morning, sunrise lured me to the rooftop.

Most days ended with sunset on the beach.

My ten days in Puerto Peñasco showed me it’s not good to write off a place because it isn’t the way it used to be. Peñasco is a vibrant small city. I’d found it wonderful in 1971 and 1975. If I hadn’t felt so irritated by its growth, I’d have seen it was probably wonderful also in 1993. I sure thought it was on this visit.

I left Ajo as the eastern sky was beginning to get light.

I made a stop at Roadrunner Java. It was the only place open at that hour and I’d read online that the coffee was good and donuts were excellent. That review was almost correct. The donut and coffee were both excellent. I highly recommend stopping if you’re ever in town, but go soon. The owner is not young and the business is for sale.

Down the road I went, passing the town of Why, still sleeping at just after 6 AM.

And I made my goal, Organ Pipe for sunrise sunrise.

I crossed the border easily though I got an alto (stop) light which meant my vehicle had to be inspected by the aduana, Mexican customs. I chuckled as the vehicle behind me, truck bed piled high with furniture and trailer equally piled, got a pase (green, no inspection) light. The aduana inspected my vehicle for approximately 30 seconds, and one agent asked where I was coming from. He was shocked and pleased when I said Naco. Then he smirked a bit and asked if I had any weapons. I pointed to my fist and said, “Only this.” He laughed and let me get going.

Soon I was south of town and skirting the western edge of a desolate plant and animal preserve called Reserva de la Biosfera El Pinacate y Gran Desierto de Altar.

Fromthe Mexican government’s page: “El Pinacate y Gran Desierto de Altar, is a magical place of stark beauty, unusual creatures, unique plants, and remarkable geological features. It is the largest active dune field in North America and features the unusual star-shaped dunes. In the area there is a spectacular volcanic shield, where there are lava flows, cineritic cones and impressive giant craters.” https://www-gob-mx.translate.goog/semarnat/articulos/reserva-de-la-biosfera-el-pinacate-y-gran-desierto-de-altar-161908?_x_tr_sl=es&_x_tr_tl=en&_x_tr_hl=en&_x_tr_pto=sc

I made no stops for photos, just headed southwest to Puerto Peñasco. By that time I was desperate to get my toes in the Sea of Cortez.

Made it. Ahhh!

I left home around 8:30, made a few stops and finally headed west from Tucson toward Ajo, Arizona, today a small community that was once a mining town.

My ultimate destination was Puerto Peñasco, located at the bottom of the map near the left. Right on the water.

On the west side of Tucson, I picked up Arizona highway 86, soon entering Tohono O’odham land.

Highway 86 is a two-lane road that was in rough shape. Patches on top of patches on top of patches made for a bumpy ride. It was partly overcast, and for about half an hour I got drizzled on and even even heavily rained on.

I passed towns and turnoffs with names like Chiwuli Tak and Pisnemo, listening to radio station KOHN, Hewel Ñi’ok Radio, the voice of the Tohono O’odham Nation.

The station played a broad array of music: Mexican, oldies from the fifties (even Elvis), country, and the best—traditional and new O’odham. New O’odham is a style called chicken scratch. Chicken scratch music is recognizable for its moderate use of saxophone, some drums, and lots of accordion.

There were also quite a few community announcements, most in the native language, so I couldn’t understand a thing. In all, it was very enjoyable.

I saw several signs commemorating or protesting the disappearance of Native women.

And right before I left the reservation, a casino.

About 20 minutes later I was in the town of Ajo. I got a meal at the only open restaurant and then wandered town for a while.

The plan had been to continue on to Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument and camp there, but by the time I wandered, it was close to sunset. I was exhausted and didn’t feel like driving, arriving in the dark, and searching for a place to camp. If, in fact, there were any spots even available.

So I watched the sunset and checked into a motel.

And it’s a good thing I stayed in a motel. The overnight temperatures at Organ Pipe dipped into the 40s, and I really wasn’t prepared for much below 55 (which had been the original forecast).

New plan: up early and be amid the giant cactus for sunrise.

My friend Pam lives in Tucson and has a little casita in the village of Mata Ortiz, Chihuahua, México. Mata Ortiz is a village of about 2000 people with typical small town shops—mostly food and other necessities.

But about seventy years ago, villagers began using clay in the area to form pottery, copying old pieces they’d found in fields surrounding the town. By the 1990s when I first visited, the community was becoming known for fine ceramics, and potters were beginning to show their work in galleries throughout the US, then Mexico, and eventually, throughout the world. The pots, not always traditional designs these days, carry prices up to $3000.

Pam and I left my house around 8 am on a Monday morning heading east on US Highway 80. East then northeast into New Mexico and to the tiny town of Rodeo, today with a population of fewer than fifty people.

Years back, I’d always stop at the Rodeo store and restaurant. I’ve purchased food there and had some great meals in the little cafe.

Pam and I decided to stop for a quick visit, maybe pick up some food to take on the trip. We found only a few snacks available—very few—and the restaurant owner/cook/waitress/cashier was having a cup of coffee with a friend. There were no other customers.

We chatted with them briefly and I told the owner how much I’d always loved the US Highway 80 map mural on the south wall of the cafe. Pam and I then headed on our way having found nothing at all to purchase.

Soon we were headed east on New Mexico 9 going through Animas (about 125 people) and Playas, (around 50 people), a town once built and owned by Phelps Dodge Mining Corporation. Then to Hachita (also around 50 people), Hermanas (no longer exists), and finally Columbus, with a population of about 1400.

As we drove from Hachita to Hermanas, we looked for any signs designating the area where Phelps Dodge Mining Corporation, the then Bisbee (AZ) mining company, had dumped a thousand or so miners in 1917. Read the book Bisbee ’17 for the history of the 1917 Deportation, or watch the 2017 filmof the same name (though not a takeoff on the book) to learn about that tumultuous and cruel time in history.

In any event, we found no clues to where the miners had been abandoned and could not even spot any remains of the town of Hermanas other than a cattle pen and a water tower.

We turned south in Columbus and headed for the border.

Crossing into Palomas, Chihuahua, we stopped for lunch a block south of the border at the famous Pink Store.

And then we drove southwest, stopping in Janos to see the ruins of the the Franciscan Mission built in the early 1700s, as well as the ruins of Capilla Capestrenses de Guadalupe.

Through Nuevas Casas Grandes, then Casas Grandes which was settled in the 1660s, past the Mormon community of Colonia Juarez, and finally to Mata Ortiz and Pam’s house.

We wandered Mata Ortiz, enjoying the views and visiting friends.

We made one trip back to the city of Nuevas Casas Grandes for pesos, and another trip back for a great lunch at a mariscos (seafood) restaurant.

And of course, we saw a lot of pottery. And bought some.

We visited the ruins of Paquimé, a once large city founded, experts believe, around 1050.

We went to Colonia Juarez and saw the Mormon Temple. I also bought the best empanadas I’ve had in my life, and believe me, I’ve had many.

Friday we packed up and headed home, again crossing the border at Palomas, but this time we stopped for green chile cheeseburgers in Columbus at the Borderland Cafe—worth going out of your way for if you’re driving I-10 through New Mexico. It’s only about half an hour south of Deming. Then, rather than heading back to the interstate, you can head east or west along Highway 9 and enjoy the rural scenery.

I’d say visit Mata Ortiz, but you need a passport, an FMM (Mexican travel permit) Mexican auto insurance, and a permiso (Mexican temporary import permit—a fee plus at least a $3-500 deposit) for your vehicle. Don’t drive down without all of that!

As a border resident, I always have my passport on me and I buy Mexican auto insurance yearly. I get a six-month FMM twice a year and drive only where no vehicle permiso is necessary.

I’d been in Louisville two weeks and most of the time it had been slightly overcast and cool. Sometimes downright cold.

Then, there it was, a day comfortable enough to be outside, and there was actual sunshine off and on. We decided to hop in the car, wander around rural Kentucky, and search country roads for old barns for me to photograph.

Jeannie drove, and it was my job to look ahead for two things: interesting barns, and places we could pull off to the side of the road.

We and three of her children had taken a nice back-roads drive through gentle rolling hills up to Madison, Indiana, the previous week, the only other sunny day, and there were fabulous old barns but nowhere to pull off the highway and too much traffic to just edge over to the side. As a lover of old barns, I’d been horribly frustrated to not be able to take any photos.

So, on the next sunny day, coincidentally a day with few obligations, off we went!

We headed east about thirty miles to Shelbyville. My sister knew of an old barn there, and I was itching to see and photo it and whatever else we ran across.

From there we headed north on a few local roads through farmland with old homes and glorious old barns.

And then the first surprise. We were pulling into the town of New Castle, less than an hour from my sister’s house (if we hadn’t made any stops). I spotted an old barn and Jeannie saw a parking lot.

After I took a quick photo, I noticed a log cabin just ahead, right in downtown, and there was a parking area immediately across from it. Yay!

As we climbed out of the car, I spotted the sign in front of the cabin: The Bookstore at Berry Center.

“Jean! It’s a bookstore! Wanna go in?”

“Of course.”

We climbed stone steps to the door, me thinking a bookstore called “Berry Center” would be about gardening. We were promptly greeted by a young woman whose name we later learned was Emma.

“Have you heard of the author Wendell Berry?”

“Sure! Love his work.”

It turns out the Berry Center was named for Wendell Berry who had once lived in this town and currently lived just up the road. We explored every nook and cranny, both floors, of the sweet little shop. The upstairs held mostly children’s books while those for adults filled the downstairs.

We chatted for some time with Emma behind the counter before we left.

Then on to searching for more barns

And then the second surprise. Rather, a group of surprises.

We decided the next stop would be La Grange, for a few reasons. One, my sister had heard there were good restaurants there. We were getting hungry and decided to stop for a late lunch. Second, we were raised in the community of La Grange, Illinois, and thought it would be fun to spend a little time in another La Grange.

The first surprise was right on Main Street. There were tracks running right down the middle of the street, and yes, up to thirty trains a day roll right through downtown. Locally the area is called Trains on Main.

No trains were coming as we turned onto Main Street and found a parking spot across from the restaurant we’d decided to eat in. Not eat in, actually, because I still won’t eat in a public place. Too many unmasked people too close together for me. So we were across the street from the restaurant from which we could get some takeout.

The restaurant, called One Nineteen West Main, had a great door.

And it had a fabulous menu that included fried green tomatoes and something called potato cupcake bites, mashed potatoes with cheeses and chopped ham rolled in crumbs of (we think, though it doesn’t say so on the restaurant description) potato chips then deep fried.

As we pulled out of town, we found another surprise: The county courthouse looked like it was being moved!

We later learned it wasn’t actually being moved. It had been lifted so a new foundation could be poured underneath it. The courthouse was built in 1854, making it nearly 150 years old.

And that was our last big event on our adventure. We headed back to Louisville, only half an hour away, no more barns to see but delighted with our day.

I walked into the Health Department in Bisbee’s old county building and told the woman at the desk I needed a health permit.

The woman called to the health inspector, Arnold, and he came out to meet me and schedule an appointment.

Arnold introduced himself and asked what kind of business I’d be opening. “A little grocery store,” I replied. “I opened a few weeks ago.”

The look of shock on his face would’ve made me laugh except I realized something very serious was happening.

Arnold sputtered and even flapped his arms a bit. “But you have to have the permit before you can open! Tell me where the store is. I’ll be there on Monday. What time do you open?”

“It’s at 7 OK Street, and I open at nine,” I told him.

“See you then.” And he headed back to his office shaking his head.

Arnold’s was the first act of kindness. As I later learned, he could have marched right down and closed the place.

I’d opened my little grocery, the Bisbee General Store, a few weeks previously. I had approximately zero business sense and an equivalent amount of experience running a store. I’d had no idea I needed a permit. I’d simply opened.

Just over a month previously, I learned my grandmother had left me a small amount of money when she’d died. $2000. In 1973, that was the most money I’d ever had—and it would continue to be the most for many years.

I decided I wanted to open a little shop and asked people around the community what it was the town needed. Almost to a person, people said they wanted healthy food: grains, beans, whole wheat flour, herbal teas, etc.

Note: When I speak of “the community” here, I refer to Bisbee’s newcomers, the artists and hippies.

The one thing I knew about food was the bulk 50-pound bags couldn’t sit on the floor as they did in Mexico. Sacks of flour, beans, sugar, and salt sat right on the floor of the little market I shopped in across the border.

I bought 55-gallon garbage cans for the bags to sit in, and some friends built a little raised area of 2x4s and plywood. Another act of kindness.

I zipped up to Tucson and got old catalogues from the food co-op there and once back at home, I called a few places in Phoenix and placed my first orders.

In under three weeks, I’d opened my store, and it was a few weeks after that when I’d met Arnold in the health department on a Thursday afternoon.

On Friday, I opened the store as usual and put out the word that the health inspector was coming, and I needed help on Sunday making the place sparkle.

People showed up off and on all day. Windows were polished inside and out. The bathroom was scrubbed. Shelves were dusted and the offerings creatively displayed. Walls were washed down and the floor was mopped.

By around two o’clock, the place really did sparkle—as much as an old worn shop could sparkle, anyway. Amazing community support and kindness.

I showed up Monday just before nine, secure in the knowledge that my little store would easily pass inspection. Three customers were waiting for me, and I saw Arnold walking down the hill from the health department, clipboard in hand.

I unlocked the door and as I opened it, a dog went charging in.

On top of that, the overnight winds had blown out a high window. There were glass shards all over the shelves, grain bins, and floor. Dust and leaves had blown in the open window and were swirling about.

And Arnold walked in.

And the dog ran up to greet him.

The inspector looked around, dazed. “I think you’ve got a little work for this place to pass inspection, ma’am.”

An understatement.

He walked about, checking things off and making notes on a form. In just a few minutes, he tore off the top sheet and handed it to me.

“Just fix these things up, and I’ll be back on Thursday.”

I looked down the checklist. He’d only marked the obvious: dust and debris on shelves and floor. No mention of the glass, and no mention of the dog.

Again that Monday, I spread the word. A short time later, someone appeared with an extension ladder and measured for the new window. He tacked some cardboard up to keep more dust and leaves out.

The same young guy returned the next day and installed the glass. No charge. Kindness indeed.

And the angel cleaning crew showed up again, ridding the shop of all traces of leaves, dust, and glass. And of dog fur.

On Wednesday at close of day, all I had to do was a light dusting and sweeping to be ready for Arnold’s Thursday morning visit.

This time, I opened the store to a clean shop. Arnold showed up within half an hour, again prowled the place with his clipboard, and made little checkmarks on a sheet.

“Congratulations!” he said with a grin. “You can now open your store.”

He handed me the top copy and pulled out an official health department permit for me to post on the wall. Then he gave me a warm, friendly smile and walked out the door.

About six months later, after working morning and evening shifts as a waitress while keeping the store open all day, I knew I couldn’t go on working seven days a week.

Monday through Saturday, I’d waitress most days from 6-9 am, open the store, close it at five, and waitress from about 5:15 until 9 or 10. On Sundays, the store was closed but I often waitressed an eight-hour shift.

“What should I do?” I asked Maxine.

“Turn it into a food co-op,” she replied.

A week later, about forty people met at the store. We all sat on the floor and talked of how to create a co-op. Within a few hours, we’d drawn up an agreement. For cost of inventory, I’d sell the store to “the people of Bisbee” and payments would be made over time as proceeds allowed.

Someone wrote up the agreement and everyone there signed it. The Bisbee Food Co-Op was born.

The co-op later incorporated and kept that wording: The Bisbee Food Co-op was owned by the people of Bisbee.

People stepped forward, helped weigh all the grains and inventory the stock. They drew up a semi-formal contract, handwritten on a clean piece of paper, outlining the debt and how it was to be paid.

The co-op remained the heart of the community for many years. And that community grew to encompass many more than just the artists and hippies who once organized it into a successful store.

Over forty years later, the co-op eventually died a slow death due to mismanagement. But it never would have been here in the first place without a lot of community support and kindness.