Willcox Playa

A memory: Summer 1960

it couldn’t just rain in Willcox —
a mass of grit and silt blown from the playa
had to fill the air teasing everyone
with the odor of wet dirt —
how odd that we could say it smelled good
while tons of the stuff flew
through town at fifty miles an hour

even inside we were not entirely
out of the storm
the onerous grit infiltrated
windows and doors
adhered to our teeth
filled our noses and ears
coated our game boards with an annoying
layer of silt

the wind howled like
ancient blood hounds released for the hunt
wire fences glowed and crackled with static electricity —
soon lightning hammered off Thor’s anvil
careened across a furious sky
crashed into the earth in a blinding flash
letting loose window-jarring blasts
sometimes so close we cringed —

then it would rain

a remembrance

ca. 1961 Willcox, Arizona

I remember when I lived
with the sweet smell of dust and dirt
drifting off the Willcox range
the earthy aroma of leather and feed
horse corrals and the flies of summer

Episcopal church services
were held in the Methodist Church
with its heavy air and odor of candles —
led by an itinerant reverend —
an Englishman who drove up
from his parish in Tombstone
every other Sunday evening —

I was fearful of the purple-haired
old ladies in the congregation
with their strange perfumes and powdered faces
who seemed to own whatever earth
they were walking on at the moment —
I avoided them —
they had mysterious powers of some kind
I was sure of it

mostly I remember the arid openness
cattle hanging out at water tanks
gnarly cowboys and handsome horses
sweet kids like Judy Pride
Lee York and Bertha Skates
pit BBQ for Rex Allen Days
Dos Cabezas and the Chiricahua Mountains

still I’m wondering why
after so much time and distance traveled
I have (just once in a while) a scary dream
about purple-haired old ladies
who reach out stiff-armed
grab my and my brothers’ faces and say
in voices deeper than Willcox thunder
oh what handsome boys you are —