Our old friend Ammo Grrrll writes in a celebratory mood about her move to Arizona in a piece she calls I GOT PLENTY OF NUTHIN’ AND NOTHIN’S PLENTY FOR ME. She writes:
When we first moved to our Dusty Little Village (DLV) in Arizona, occasionally people from one or another Big City would come to visit. They would notice that to get to our new home from the airport, they would have to travel roughly 20 miles southeast from suburban Phoenix through lots and lots of empty desert.
“Why in God’s name do you live out here in the middle of nowhere?” they would ask. “There’s NOTHING between Chandler and your house!”
Well, that depends on your definition of “nothing.”
Today on the way back from shlepping my husband’s gun to the gunsmith, and running through a couple hundred rounds at the range, I saw our stunning herd of wild horses that number close to 100 now, with many new babies which knowledgeable cowgirls call “colts.” They were no more than 20 feet from the road and many drivers were snapping photos with their cellphones, a few even pulling over to do so, if they were also smoking or eating. The wild horses generally pasture just past the Cement Factory. Hey, city slickers, do YOU have a Cement Factory? I thought not.
I also saw a number of fascinating dust devils – violent, isolated little dust-tornadoes – that look as exotic as Moses’ burning bush.
Many cacti were in bloom with spectacular flowers in fuscia and Day-Glo Yellow. And the dignified old Saguarros – the State symbol of Arizona – cover the landscape like sentries alert for unwelcome intrusions such as over-priced coffee emporia or California taxpayers who voted to ruin California fleeing to Arizona and then saying, “Hey, let’s run that experiment again.”
I had the opportunity to buy “fresh seafood” from a truck by the side of the road. Highly-perishable “Sea”-food, hundreds of miles from the nearest sea, sold by an unlicensed, undocumented gentleman from a pickup in 103 degree weather. What could possibly go wrong?
Could there be anything worse to buy from a roadside truck? Well, yes there could. Just a couple more miles down the road, yet another pickup had deeply-discounted mattresses on offer. Who could even guess at the provenance of roadside mattresses? “What’s this? Bloodstains?” “No, is camo.” “Ah. Well, no harm, then.” Nothing clears guests out faster than letting it slip that the $12.95 mattress in the guest casita came from a roadside pickup. Unless it’s the gamy shrimp in their mini-fridge.
You call it nuthin’. I call it home.