Where Mouses Go When They Die
Milady's ancestors on her Daddy's side were some of the first settlers to move into Arizona's Sonoran desert. They got out of Oklahoma years before the severe droughts of the late 20s and early 30s sent hundreds of thousands westward. Considering how difficult it had to be to make a living out of rattlesnake and cactus inhabited land, irrigated by brackish water, their decision to move there must have seemed like a bad idea at the time.
But from what I'm told -- and what I see -- they made a good life of it, raising seven healthy children, none of whom ever did much more than a day in jail. Two of the boys started a fiberglass boat manufactory in Yuma, and died wealthy. One of the girls -- a real beauty -- caught the eye of a prince of a man, and they live the good life today in Marin County, CA, the lady still as beautiful as ever. I knew my wife's father for only a few years before he died, and if the quality of the life those Arizona settlers lived can be judged by that man, then those folks lived about as well as it is possible for humans to live. Judge him by his favorite song, "Blue Eyes Cryin' in the Rain," as plaintive and perfect a tune and lyric as ever came out of Nashville.
As we speak, milady's out there in Arizona visiting the homestead. Her uncle David, who still lives nearby, worked until he could work no longer to convert a large part of the family land into an animal refuge. He named it for his mother, erected a monument to her and his father's memory. There's a bronze plaque on the pyramid, etched with the names and dates of all the deceased family members, with room left for the others to be added. Milady says the place is a paradise, the series of small connected ponds providing homes for turtles, beavers, mud hens, and recently, two large blue herons. At night, the coyotes bark and wail, she says, and the desert silence answers. I'm hearing -- and I believe it -- that every now and then, it actually rains.
The best laid plans of mice and men . . . sometimes work.
But from what I'm told -- and what I see -- they made a good life of it, raising seven healthy children, none of whom ever did much more than a day in jail. Two of the boys started a fiberglass boat manufactory in Yuma, and died wealthy. One of the girls -- a real beauty -- caught the eye of a prince of a man, and they live the good life today in Marin County, CA, the lady still as beautiful as ever. I knew my wife's father for only a few years before he died, and if the quality of the life those Arizona settlers lived can be judged by that man, then those folks lived about as well as it is possible for humans to live. Judge him by his favorite song, "Blue Eyes Cryin' in the Rain," as plaintive and perfect a tune and lyric as ever came out of Nashville.
As we speak, milady's out there in Arizona visiting the homestead. Her uncle David, who still lives nearby, worked until he could work no longer to convert a large part of the family land into an animal refuge. He named it for his mother, erected a monument to her and his father's memory. There's a bronze plaque on the pyramid, etched with the names and dates of all the deceased family members, with room left for the others to be added. Milady says the place is a paradise, the series of small connected ponds providing homes for turtles, beavers, mud hens, and recently, two large blue herons. At night, the coyotes bark and wail, she says, and the desert silence answers. I'm hearing -- and I believe it -- that every now and then, it actually rains.
The best laid plans of mice and men . . . sometimes work.
posted by Benedict S. at 8:30 AM
2 Comments:
Very nice Frank but there is a downside too. You didn't tell about the cropdusters spraying malathion and "mustang" on the crops the past three days right overhead.
My Dad's favorite song was "Cattle Call." I like
"Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain" because it reminds me of him.
Bon.
Trust it to a woman to pour cold water on a Mouse's daylight dreams.
OK, milady. I got your message. Reality is not always beautiful.
[Hey. Did you say malathion? That stuff's not good for you . . . or for the coyotes, either.]
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