While reading the morning paper today a smile turned up the corners of my mouth as I read that yesterday was Nudists Day. It reminded me of a chapter I wrote for the book, From Thunder to Breakfast. Hube Yates was the storyteller. The setting was Cave Creek, Arizona. The time: 1977. After Hube retired from the Phoenix Fire Department, he started a riding stable in Cave Creek, and he’d always been a part-time preacher.
* * * * *
Hube was just hanging around the house when the phone rang. Someone wanted him to officiate at a wedding. He licked his thumb and shuffled the pages of his appointment book. He could fit it into his schedule, but there was one cause for concern: “I don’t have to travel too far, do I?” He had broken some ribs on a trail-ride and it hurt to turn the steering wheel on the pickup truck.
When the day of the wedding arrived, his caring wife, Patsy, said she’d go with him in order to save the wear and tear on his sore ribs. He said, “I wish you would.”
It was chilly when they drove up to a place that looked like a ranch with two or three houses, but this one also had an office. Patsy parked while Hube went inside. He found a fellow there wearing old Levis and a shirt. “I thought he was
dressed kind of casually for a weddin’, but we were early and maybe he hadn’t had time to get dressed yet.
“Patsy and I drove around for about twenty-five minutes until it was time for the ceremony. People had begin to gather, but they were dressed kind of haphazard. The man from the office came around to Patsy’s side of the truck to invite her into the house. The truck was kind of high and Patsy could see from the chest up that this guy didn’t have a shirt on. She thought that was kind of strange. He was the one who was goin’ to give the bride away.
“Patsy got out and walked right into him. She caught her breath. He was stark naked. There was no use to turn around and duck and go back. Oh, dear John, it’s hard to say just what her reaction was. Later she told him she thought, ‘Oh, my soul, we’re into this thing and the only thing to do is do the best you can.’”
Hube summed up his thoughts: “It’s hard to describe just exactly what goes through your mind when you discover you’re in a nudist colony. It’s like, ‘I don’t want to be here, but I’m here. Somebody’s got to marry these people.’”
The bride and groom wanted to be married out in the open. “What I should have done was carry the ceremony on and froze them to pieces, but I didn’t. They began to shiver a little bit so we went in the house.
When they got inside Hube noticed that Patsy looked at the ceiling and the fireplace. She found everything in there to look at but these people.
“They were not good-lookin’. The groom was all hollow-chested, and he was sick. The bride was a poor, thin, skinny little woman. I’ll tell you one thing, there was never a person who ever lived that looked half as good to me stark naked
as they do with clothes on.
“I’ve been a fireman for so long, and I’ve had to pick up hurt people and people committin’ suicide, and injured people in every kind of way. I’m not the kind who gets excited about everything. I have quieted down quite a bit over the years.
I pretended that the bridal party was fully dressed.
“The ceremony wasn’t any different from any other. It’s a man and a woman who are going to live together, and I think that any promise that they make to each other before their friends and loved ones is important.
“Before we left, the bride took her garter off and threw it. It landed at my feet and I reached down and picked it up.I handed it back to her, but she said to keep it. I stuck it in my pocket, and I still have the silly thing.
“I don’t know where he got it, but the best man handed me an envelope with money in it. He sure didn’t have any pockets.”
Hube was anxious to get Patsy out of there because he knew how embarrassed she was. He said that she shook her head all the way home.”
Several months later while he was loading groceries into his pickup outside the supermarket a couple walked up to him and Patsy and said, “Why, hello there.”
Of course Hube spoke to them. “So many people have ridden with me that I have to be around them a little bit before I remember their names. I was very cordial, but after they left, Patsy said, ‘You don’t remember them, do you?’”
Hube admitted, “No, I sure don’t.”
She reminded him. “That’s the couple you married at the nudist colony.”
Realization suddenly changed his expression to one of surprise. “Holy smoke! I didn’t recognize them with their clothes on.”
I live in Sedona, Arizona—right next to the Slide Fire in Oak Creek Canyon.
Everyone within about a hundred miles has seen the haze and the smoke billowing, depending on which way the wind blows. I’ve smelled it in the middle of the night and first thing in the morning. One morning I got up at three a.m. and peeked out windows to check for flames. None, thank goodness. The fire is about ten miles from our home by vehicle, but I expect that, as the raven flies, it’s actually only six or seven miles away by flight.
There’s a site called sedonawebcam.com which automatically photographs areas of the city in full color, real time. Full color seemed a joke when all I saw was gray and black, and faint silhouettes of mountains. I checked back at night, thinking I would see only black, and there was that, and the lights along 89A with traffic moving sensibly, It looked like a littte toy town. The next morning the smoke had lifted a little and I saw mountain climbers milling around on top of Sugarloaf Mountain. I could see clothing colors—a
red shirt, yellow pants, blue and black.
Several hundred people had been evacuated from their homes, most of
them taken to Flagstaff, up the road from the devastation of an area that had once been declared as the most beautiful canyon in the country.
All the while, brave firefighters were applying their skills, cordoning off sections where they could do some back burns so that fire would meet fire and burn itself out. They knew their jobs, and executed them well. So well that as of this writing no houses or businesses have been destroyed, and no lives lost. They are so appreciated, so valued.
Banners fly bearing this message: THANK YOU, FIREFIGHTERS!
There’s something about rain that makes me want to bake cookies or write poetry.
Thank goodness it doesn’t happen often, but it is doing it today in Sedona, Arizona.
It’s April, supposedly spring, but the forecast for the high is fifty degrees. It’s startling news for us.
Here’s my poem:
TODAY’S HIGH — FIFTY IN SEDONA
At ten in the morning the pine and cedar trees
are doing their little dance, shaking here, shaking there.
Water, water everywhere, in drops, in streams.
The rained-on dog comes in for her rub-down.
There is no guilt in dogs, I read somewhere.
She does not look ashamed about getting drenched.
Her tail is wagging—
that plume-like tail that looks as though
she is conducting an orchestra and,
at the same time, brightening a dreary day.
She’s clever that way.
Gene K. Garrison
ARTISTS OF SEDONA , a narrative art-history book, is my latest. It’s not out yet, but I expect it in June or July, 2014. It’s about artists who were drawn to live and work in and around this beautiful little town in the red rocks of northern Arizona.
Gary Every, who wrote the Foreward, said, “There are enough sculptors currently living in Sedona to create their own bronze age.” A perfect example is world-reknown John Henry Waddell. “The Gathering,” a figurative group, is typical of his work.
Photo: copyright by Gene K. Garrison
In his nineties this remarkable man is still creating bronzes.
I will keep you posted on the progress of this book. I promise.
Gene K. Garrison
Last evening my husband and I watched the above documentary about thousands of new electric cars being collected, taken to remote locations and smashed to smithereens. It was scary. The film was made in 2006,and here it is 2014, and I had never heard of it before.
This is not fiction, folks. Some group doesn’t want to compete with a product that reduces air pollution, uses no gas, etc. Their tactics are worse than disgusting. To say that it’s unfair is an understatement. It’s an attack on the American economy and it’s people.
You can see this documentary on YouTube, and other articles about it through your search engine. Please watch.
This is a test. I am using Helvetica 14. I had it set for 12. I’m writing a book, and this word processing system is driving me crazy. I keep getting corruption messages. The spacing changes by itself. Line lengths change. Font changing simply happens. I have to keep glancing up at the controls to make sure it is still at the correct settings. I place photos in the chapters and they quite often disappear. Some of them have been put in place three times. Margins change as though they have minds of their own.
I’ve called my computer consultant a half-dozen times. He works on it and there’s an improvement for the current problem of the day, but then something else goes wrong. Yesterday he gave up and told me to call the company that manufacturers the software and get it reinstalled. Now there’s another problem. I can’t find their phone number, so I’m venting.
I wanted to ask readers to please purchase my books as gifts. You know my name, and you can certainly find amazon.com. That would make me feel a lot better. But what I want even more is to find that phone number.
Do you see those photos of my book covers over to the right? I’ll be pushing them from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. at the Sedona Book Festival at Yavapai College, 4215 Arts Village Drive, Sedona, Arizona. That address is perfect if you happen to have a GPS, which I do, and love. If you do not have one the best thing is to go to the intersection of Cultural Park and route 89A and follow the cars in to the parking lot. I’ll be in Room 34, on the left as you go up the steps or ramp, Table 13.
I wrote several of my books when I lived in Cave Creek where I interviewed almost everyone in sight for more than 20 years. My favorites were the old-timers, and that’s whom I concentrated on in my book “There’s Something About Cave Creek (It’s The People).” They lived there in the 30s and 40s when the road to Phoenix was dirt, and taking a prisoner to jail was an all-day task. No wonder it was difficult to hire anyone for the job of sheriff. There was one man who took it on simply because no one else would do it. Actually, he was a musician. Sometimes on Saturday nights there was need for both a musician could play “all the pluck instruments” AND an officer of the law.
The book “From Thunder to Breakfast” had nothing to do with cooking. It was about Hube Yates who, at age eleven, moved from Oklahoma to Phoenix, Arizona by covered wagon. The family were pioneers, Westerners to the core. When I met Hube, he and his wife, Patsy, lived in Cave Creek, Arizona. He had retired from the Phoenix Fire Department
after an illustrious career which included heroism, and ran a riding stable. I absolutely loved listening to him tell stories. He was good at it, so it made our book a breeze to write. He had a special vernacular, such as “It was spittin’ rain.” And there was “from thunder to breakfast.” He used that every once in a while, so that’s where the title comes from. It means “all over the place.” For instance, once when he was driving the family’s Model-T Ford to get his younger brother and sister to catch a train, it tipped over in a mountainous area and suitcases and boxes popped open and the contents scattered from thunder to breakfast. It made perfect sense to me once, but
now I think the title might be confusing. The first edition sold out in record time. It continues on the market because it’s historic in a fun sort of way.
The next book was a departure in subject matter. “Widowhood Happens” was first published by a company in California, Burning Gate Press, under the title “Widow . . . Or Widow-To-Be?” After the publisher decided that there must be an easier way to make a living than publishing, the book lay dormant until I read about Print-On-Demand. This was my chance to get it out there in front of the public again. It was also my chance to change the title. I also corrected an oversight. I had written this book, that shows by example that it’s wise to prepare for this event, only for widows. I should have written it for men too, so I did that. Then I thought, my gosh, I forgot to mention Hospice. It is so important! So I did that — went to quite a lot of trouble to make it right. It’s written in a narrative style and imparts much knowledge — not by me, but by the widowed people and professionals I interviewed.
After all that, it was time for a children’s book. I had taken many photos of javelinas, wild pig-like (but not REALLY pigs) animals that roam our desert washes. What else could I do with them but write a book? It’s a charming children’s non-fiction book with photos of javelinas from both Cave Creek and Sedona. A neighbor, Al Brown, added some photos he took of javelinas in his yard.
So that covers the books I will have at the Sedona Book Festival on October 5, 2013. Please stop by. If you can’t do that, they’re available at amazon.com or can be ordered from your favorite bookstore.
I’m in the process of writing another one titled “Artists of Sedona.” You’ll never hear the end of it.