Wednesday, November 24
Staying in, getting out

What ho - another dreary day - and colder than a polar bear’s hind-end. There’s nothing for it but to do some writing and family history sorting out while huddling inside. Can’t even warm up in the spa; it’s not fixed yet.

Now we’re getting into our Colonial Brackens, Cantrells and Stalcups who began their American lives in Philadelphia, built and filled the Old Swede’s Church in Delaware and later hightailed it to North Carolina and Ohio. An interesting bunch that we amassed loads of data about.

I do have an article to write for the church newsletter but am deferring it just for now. Plenty to distract me from genealogy when I get home. I will take advantage of this time to do lots of catch-up. Finally, though, my butt wearies of sitting as all butts must and I suggest an outing, wishing I had packed my heavy coat.

A part of today’s destination was the historical museum, but we never got there, having been sidetracked by other things. I had in mind a drive up Oak Creek Canyon, one of the more picturesque spots in Arizona. On the way there, we stop to see the Hart Store of 1926 vintage. It is a charming place, now on the National Register of Historic Places, currently open as the Hummingbird Store. From the waterwheel outside to the inviting picket-fenced front yard to the interior, every room brimming with antiques and boutique items, it is fun to wander and exclaim.

Oak Creek Canyon . . .

Driving northward up Oak Creek Canyon, we are enthralled with the convoluted canyon cliffs softened by the autumn-hued cottonwood and sycamore trees following the winding waterway. At some places, Grasshopper Point and Indian Gardens, we stop for a walk down to the creek. Our walks are not a leisurely pace nor do we linger long creekside because the wind is numbingly cold and we are getting sporadic snowfall. None of that minimizes the beauty of the drive, one I have seldom done this time of year. The Canyon usually calls me during the summer months when the creek’s icy waters and the cliff’s sheltering walls are a relief from higher temperatures.

Grasshopper Point is as fine a swimming hole as one could want, but our yesteryear play destination of choice was always Slide Rock. How that has changed since it has become a State park, fenced and regulated. In the olden days, we squeezed our vehicles off the main road as best as we could to still allow traffic to pass. Then it was every man for himself as we slid our way down the dirt slope. If we were there in August, the anticipation built while we paused to pick blackberries along the way.

One trip to Slide Rock was sufficient for us to learn how to prepare before leaving home. That preparation involved cutting off the legs of a pair of denim jeans and sewing the legs onto the netherparts of the now-shortened pants. True, it looked pretty odd but was the only way to go; otherwise, two slides and your pink cheeks would be hanging out.

Unfortunately, the site has been “discovered”. The resulting hordes from the Valley have necessitated improvements and regulation, but I have resolved to return once again next summer to enjoy the frigid and fun slide.

I never think of Slide Rock without remembering the old home movies Grandma took while my sister and I and a mob of our friends chased Dad around the canyon bottom in order to toss him into the slide, which I think he only nominally resisted before whooping it up during his exciting ride down.

When we turned back homeward bound, we were astounded to see north slopes with substantial snow accumulation.

Best altered highway sign: the original lettering was “Watch for rocks”. Someone had carefully added “big red” just before the last word.

Thursday, November 25
Thanksgiving

Certainly my most unusual Thanksgiving day but with the typical phone calls back and forth, text messages received and sent, greetings exchanged all around and gratitude expressed for the blessings of an abundant, wonderful life.

Not willing to completely forego our traditional menu of the day, we brought with us a turkey breast, which Chris roasted to a turn. I sautéed vegetables to add to the stovetop stuffing and made a fine gravy. The homemade and frozen mashed potatoes were nowhere to be seen, undoubtedly left behind in the home freezer, but a modest feast was had nevertheless, even though the cranberry sauce came from a can.

While the smells of roasting turkey permeated our suite, we bopped out in Ruby hoping to shoot a self-portrait that would prove we had indeed been in Sedona. Mobs of people were out and about, also freezing their buns off so parking was at a premium. Perseverance paid off and we managed to drag the tripod and camera down several walking trails that allowed us photograph ourselves with Sedona’s trademark red rock cliffs in the background.

Chapel of the Holy Cross . . .

Our last stop was at the Chapel of the Holy Cross, one of Sedona’s most photographed man-made structures. An interesting story led up to its construction which I partially quote here: “The first conception came to Marguerite Bruswig Staude in 1932 in New York City while observing the newly constructed Empire State Building. When viewed from a certain angle a cross seemed to impose itself through the very core of the structure. She wanted to build a structure that would glorify her Creator and in thanksgiving for all that her family had received. She traveled throughout Europe looking for the ideal location. She returned to the United States and while she traveled through Sedona, she was struck by the beauty of the area and decided that this chapel should be built here. ‘This would be a monument to faith, but a spiritual fortress so charged with God, that it spurs man's spirit godward’.

Built on a twin pinnacled spur about 250 feet high, jutting out of a thousand foot red rock wall, ‘solid as the Rock of Peter’, the building of the Chapel was completed in April, 1956.” Staude dedicated the church to her parents.

As we entered the sanctuary, we once again felt the incredible energy of the place. I offered a lit candle in thanksgiving to all those who have gone before.

Birds added to the not-very-impressive trip list were house sparrow, cardinal, Bewick’s wren and pigeon.

Meeting folks . . .

Meanwhile back at the ranch, the turkey was nearly done but first we took another turn at the now-repaired spa and met some interesting folks while steeping ourselves. Claudio, originally from Ecuador, was there with his two preteen sons. He is an artist of many media, a goldsmith, and owns a jewelry shop, El Dorado, at the Hyatt in Sedona. Evidently, his creativity does not extend to musical ability but he has passed on his love of music to his boys, the oldest of whom plays classical and flamenco guitar and is now branching out to other instruments. One of his enjoyments is playing a native Andean stringed instrument that was originally fashioned from the shell of an armadillo - too bad I can’t remember the name of it.

After they left us, we were joined by a Japanese woman who had participated in a triathlon that morning in Goodyear. Her daughters were swimming in the pool instead of using the warmer spa. I never even checked the water temperature in the pool; with the weather we were experiencing, nothing but a 101-degree spa sounded at all attractive.

Coming home . . .

Anxious as always to return home, we packed quickly (as quickly as possible, at least, with that much paraphernalia) and are on the road at 10 a.m. Interesting as we approach Prescott to see snow in the higher reaches of the Bradshaws and the beautiful snowcapped San Francisco Peaks.

It’s amazing how rapidly a week flies by. . .