My tribe
Various things are written of late about identifying one’s tribe, as in like-minded folks, people who share your values and/or your interests. It’s a common theme of memes, and possibly indicates a sense of a dearth of inter-personal connections. After all, as a species, we have a need to belong - somewhere/anywhere.
I am not unique as I seek connections with folks who “get” me. Those with whom I have a bond know only one aspect of me. Perhaps we share a particular history of involvement as neighbors, school chums, professional links, work pals or hobbyists; still we know only a limited aspect of each other. With some, we have an extensive, perhaps lifelong history; even then, we see others through the lens of our own experience.
What brings on this bit of introspection? A short but long awaited visit to Heber-Overgaard, a burgeoning community on the Mogollon Rim, not for the place, but for the opportunity to be with Patty & Johnny.
John has been in my consciousness since before I was even aware of it. He is the brother of my Aunt Margaret, and so much more. Our family connection precedes my existence - going back to my mother’s childhood in Prescott. Our families were friends in those long-ago days of the area’s small-townishness.
John’s mother (Mrs. Williams she forever was to us) helped to care for my bed-ridden great grandmother Molly Catron, so I was told. Margaret Williams and Mom (Mary Louise) were schoolmates and friends. I wasn’t around, but I know from Aunt Margaret that she loved my uncle, Lewis Kelley, from a young age, and eventually, they married, making her Mom’s sister-in-law. The two couples enjoyed countless adventures together on the ranch and traveling.
My link with John’s (he was Johnny Frank to us to distinguish him from Johnny Herbert, his nephew) family strengthened significantly by my kinship/friendship with Johnny Herbert, who is a mere one month younger than me. What mischief we two conjured! It seems that we often had free rein to run wild, and run wild we did. I will leave the specifics of our escapades for another writing; suffice it to say that we were two of a kind. What one didn’t think of getting up to, the other did.
My penchant for delving into family history has fleshed out the particulars of the Williams clan and their parallels with mine from their Texas sojourn to their migration to Arizona. It has also revealed that Johnny Herbert and I share an ancestor. You see, he is not biologically my first cousin, only in spirit, because his father was Thomas Herbert Miller, grandson of one of the earliest folks to settle in our region - Daniel Leroy Miller. The Millers, father and two sons, arrived hereabouts in 1863 with the Walker Party in their search for gold. His father died when Johnny was just one month of age, leaving Margaret to later marry her girlhood crush, Uncle Lewis.
How surprised I was to learn much later that Johnny and I both descend from Elizabeth Miller and George Hoppes, who married in 1778.
See how that works: I’m writing about my tribe and my kinship for two people, and the next thing you know, my fingers have been tippy tapping without my knowledge or permission. So back to Johnny Frank and Patty.
The pair invited us (or did we invite ourselves?) to bunk in a fifth-wheel trailer next to their charming cabin in the woods. Because visits with them have been few and far between, we quickly made plans and were on our way for a quick two-day stopover.
As we approached our destination, I noted a number of highway signs admonishing travelers to "Watch for horses". I was curious that there would be so many wild cayuses to make the warnings necessary, so our hosts took us for a late-afternoon run through the outback as demonstration. Sure enough, we spotted herd after herd, most down to waterholes for an evening drink.
Without a telephoto lens along, many were too distant to photograph well, but at one spot, I disembarked and walked a ways closer. Still, I kept some distance because I didn't want to spook them away from the water.
Despite that I was standing completely in the open (or because of it?), they commenced to proceed directly toward me while continuing to graze as if I were not present. It was slightly surreal; it felt as if they were going to walk right up to me without the slightest hesitation . . .
. . . right up until the lead mare declared that enough was enough, and she would brook no more of her herd's interactions with that crazy human clicking away.
She laid back her ears, bared her teeth, and tore into them ferociously and noisily . . .
. . . and they whirled as one and ran, which is exactly what I would have done - she was scary as all get out!
The truck and the countryside . . .
The big project at the Williams homestead is John's ongoing restoration of a 1959 GMC stepside half-ton pickup.
He's making steady progress . . . inside the cab, on the body that requires more hours sanding than Carter has little liver pills, and under the hood . . .
Tearing ourselves away from the casa and garage, we enjoyed a drive into the countryside along the Little Colorado River, Big Lake and points in between, with time out for fruit cobbler in Greer.
That's Patty at the base of the tallest skinniest tree I've ever seen.
What an awesome two days with an awesome two people!
