Canadians, rat deterrents, eating out, genealogy, homelessness

At the RV resort where we are residing for the week, we have Canadians to the right of us, Canadians to the left of us, in fact, Canadians all around us.  Last year when we were here, there were many from our northern neighbor, but since their covid restrictions have been lifted, they have returned en masse.

I tend to “interview” people I meet, out of interest and possibly as a habit formed during my newspaper days; fellow RVers are perfect targets for my curiosity, and who doesn’t like to talk about themselves.  During a recent conversation, a mindset far different than mine came to light.

I began to discern a very different attitude with John & Jane, who reside temporarily in a very large motor home just to the rear of our dwarfed Wolf Pup.  She has retired recently from nursing at a retirement home (interesting that some of us like working with “old people” and then we are them).  She informs me that they don’t hike, swim, take classes or pretty much anything else that many folks do, so she’s bored whilst in residence here.

He must be pretty much the same, because he was plenty eager to join us at our “camp site” for an evening of visiting.  The lifestyle mindset difference became evident when I inquired about his work career, which he has yet to leave behind.

He told us he is a farmer, at which I immediately formed a mental picture: farmhouse, silo, croplands surrounding, livestock pastures and pens, chickens in the farmyard.  The reality is far removed from that.

The couple live in Medicine Hat, Alberta, and his (I say “his” because I am thinking she has never even visited it, much as if he worked in a factory) farm is about 100 miles distant.  He goes out there for a day or several, sometimes a week, but continues to live in the city.  It is a dryland grain farm with no livestock at all.  

Working that distance away seems perfectly fine to him: the road is paved after all, he explained.  As we compared various cultural opportunities, he said they have much of that available, also - at a distance of a mere 180 miles - good chance for a small vacay, he reckons!  Sounds pretty daunting to take in a play, if you ask me.

It would be interesting to discover if their story is unique or commonplace in Canada.

Another point of some pride for Medicine Hattians(?) is the claim to being the sunniest locale in the country, and he's not very happy about his "patio" here being on the side that doesn't get morning rays.  Seems odd to hear a Canadian complain about the lack of sunshine in Yuma, Arizona.

A mystery solved, homelessness . . .

I look forward to more conversation with another Albertan nearby, also a farmer, who seems to have a different story to tell.  We became acquainted when he pinpointed the strange whining noise we all were hearing to our trailer.  We heard it but had no idea it was emitting from beneath the Wolf Pup.  Seems the subsonic pack rat deterrent we installed was malfunctioning and being a person deterrent with its irritating noise. 

Continuing in the Canadian theme, I found that Medicine Hat, among other cities, has instituted a policy that claims to have virtually eliminated chronic homelessness there, being the first Canadian city to do so.  They define it as "three or fewer individuals experiencing chronic homelessness in a community and that this has been sustained for three consecutive months".

So there you have it: it can be done and is being done.  Somehow, I don't think that installing a bar in the center of public benches to insure no one can lie down on them, a mean-spirited action to my way of thinking, as we have in Prescott is going to help.

Now for the mystery, one of a genealogical kind.  Several years back, a geni client asked me to find information about her brother who died as a toddler before she was born.  For ages, I was unable to obtain answers for her about that and inconsistencies in her family story; however, during our transition to Yuma, the years of searching brought answers.

Questions had centered around her parents' marriage, as well as about the baby, but when I discovered that New York City had digitized records and put them online, I was excited to see what I could learn.

It went like this: we had a newspaper account of their marriage in 1921, and their son was supposedly born in 1922, but an online index, notoriously unreliable, put the marriage in 1924.  The mystery was solved when I found both their marriage certificate and the toddler's death certificate, although we are left to surmise why the sequence went down as it did.

So . . . the child was indeed born in 1922; however, the parents did not actually marry until 1924, despite the newspaper account.  My client knew that her father had married previous to her mother.  My deduction is that he couldn't wed my clients' mother before the child was born because he was still married to another woman, so the newspaper account was made to still gossip about the unwed couple having a child.  And ouila! at last we have answers to questions she had for years.

Lunching out, historic sites . . .

Our intention to lunch at the Garden Cafe, which we loved on our last stop here, was deterred, it being a Sunday and only brunch was available, which would have set us back about $60, at which I balked.  Those folks pointed us toward Yuma Landing Bar & Grill, and an excellent substitute it proved to be.  The fisherman's platter was an awesome Sunday meal, leaving us impressed and satisfied, and the decor was fun.  Here are the front doors and entrance hall.

Because we had walked the few blocks there, we appreciated the return through the Brinley Historic District, where I photographed a block of early 1900s adobe and brick houses and businesses . . .

 

 

. . . and a unique handsome structure at the end of the block.

We noted a few townie birds as we walked: collared dove, mourning dove and house sparrow.  I would have thought to find white-winged doves here, but have not seen any yet.

As always, the brilliance of bougainvillea catches my eye.

Birdwatching along the Colorado . . .

We walked (a lot!) off our lunch along the Colorado River where it flows beneath the Yuma Territorial Prison,  birdwatching and chatting with a young couple who had lived in Mazatlan and were running trails with their two Mexican rescue dogs complete with bells tinkling on their collars (the dogs' collars, that is). 

We learned quite a bit from interpretive signs along the way.  What at first we surmised were field roads traversing abandoned farm land were actually dikes crisscrossing wetlands.  Because the controlled river flow no longer seasonally floods the adjoining flatlands, an extensive system has been set up to artificially flood the area and restore the wetlands.  Much of it is so thickly vegetated as to be impenetrable.

These photos show one of the low dikes . . .

. . . and a portion of the control system that pumps water from the river. 

Constructed canals and channels flow out to irrigate the wetlands.

The Colorado is much diminished and controlled as it nears its southern terminus, but is nevertheless beautiful and life-giving.

 

 

By far the most prevalent bird we spotted was yellow-rumped warbler: they were very numerous, just as in my Prescott back yard this winter.  The only others that were new to the trip list were blue-gray gnatcatcher, ruby-crowned kinglet and verdin.  We spotted a kestrel later out in the open country.

In the category of "What in hades is this?". . . 

Don't remember ever seeing these seed pods before but there were plenty of them out there.  For want of a proper name, I will call them chicken legs until someone corrects me.

A comet, an inspiration and two fish

The green comet struck a chord with me, but then every comet that wanders near our solar system interests me, as do myriad other extra-terrestrial happenings.  Since the time in 1965 when my mouth hung open in awe at the sight of the phenomenal Ikeya-Seki comet, I have not wanted to miss one that came along in our neighborhood.  Comets aside, other starry sights fascinate, too.

The current visitor has an absurd difficult-to-remember moniker, leaving us Earthly beings to refer to him as the green comet.  His arrival coincided with our stay in Yuma's southern warmth, so we took advantage of dark skies out by Mittry Lake for our search.  

We had read about where in that vast sky to look for him, so with trusty binoculars (from Jay's Bird Barn, of course) in hand, we began scanning and continued scanning and scanning, but coming up with nary a comet to be seen.  As the thrill of the search began to wane, the arms grew weary and the evening breezes blew colder, we were about to pack it in when my pard spotted our elusive target.

Although we were satisfied with our success, I have to say the so-called green comet displayed nothing of that hue in my eyes, while his countenance was substantially less than impressive.  In fact, he could be described at best as an exceptionally faint fuzzy blob that could have been mistaken for a wisp of a distant cloud.

I don't blame the comet; he was showing off the best he could after a harrowing trip through the reaches of space, and I'm satisfied that we can say we saw him.  It would be unfortunate if he received no notice after that monumental swing around the sun.  Needless to say I was not able to photograph him, so I satisfied myself with a photo of the skyline shortly before dark.

Our drive along the shores of Mittry Lake, both to be in place for dark sky viewing and the following day intended more for bird viewing, netted us some avian life to be added to the trip list.  I find it fascinating that panning across a waterway can reveal certain birds, and panning the same waterway again, suddenly there are others that were not in sight at first.

At Mittry Lake, we added to the birds we had identified on the road: turkey vulture, white-crowned sparrow, great-tailed grackle, northern harrier and common raven, to include great blue heron, American coot, violet-green swallow, red-winged blackbird, western grebe, ring-necked duck, ruddy duck, pied-billed grebe, belted kingfisher, northern shoveler, black phoebe, neotropic cormorant, and a lovely snowy egret that casually walked across the dike in front of us before finding an appropriate perch on a snag above the water.

Of course the vegetation in the southern Arizona region differs drastically from our more northerly climes, always a delight in the variety.  I enjoyed the landscape views, as well as some of the humanity also out for the joy of it, even an unusual kayaker.  For some reason, she couldn't seem to remain upright in her boat seat, so spent more of her time slipped down so far that she had to hold the paddles above her supine body, unable to see where she was heading.  I declined to photograph the humorous sight to protect the innocent.

 

This was a fascinating reflection shot.

Fishing, not catching . . .

At Martinez Lake in the Imperial Wildlife Refuge, fishermen were having no success whatsoever, even those in some very pricey fancy watercraft.  Disappointed though they all may have been, we were the stars of the day with our casual bait fishing from shore that netted us a good-sized bass, a one pounder, and a nice bluegill.

The prize of the day, though, was the positively sublime weather.  As we whiled away the time out there, we might have moved on, but the inertia of basking in the sunshine watching birds made a departure seem like far too much effort.  It could not have been more perfect.

Birds we identified thereabout included Anna's hummingbird, phainopepla, eared grebe, American robin, ring-billed gull, double-crested cormorant, white pelican, great egret, roadrunner, and an osprey perching on a dead tree branch sticking up far above the water except when it was showing off its better-than-human fishing abilities.

An inspiration . . .

An encounter of the non-feathered variety offered me an enhanced view from my perspective at this stage of life.  We chatted with a couple who put into the lake near us with their kayaks, primarily because they were using inflatables and I've been thinking about switching from our hard-shell boats to the lighter variety - easier to load and travel with and to store, at least that's my take on the matter.

They were Canadians - who isn't in these parts during the winter - and quite pleasant to converse with.  They were forthcoming regarding the pros & cons of hard-shell versus inflatable kayaks.  They own both, but opted to bring the lighter version rather than try to load the others on top of their vehicle during an all-out blizzard with sub-zero temperatures at their departure.

All well and good, but the inspirational part was when the gentleman informed us that he is 87 years of age, has had both knees replaced, and is still getting into and out of kayaks (a tricky maneuver for anyone) in order to spend hours paddling around the lake.  I quickly determined to cease referring to myself as "old", an appellation that denotes a limiting attitude.

Treasures - what was lost . . . 

. . . is found.  My grandpa, Zack Kelley, had only one sibling - his brother Archie, who had three children.  Sadly for the extended family, Archie's relatively untimely death resulted in grandpa's side of the family losing track of Archie's offspring over time.

We knew two of them lived with their mother in Prescott at one point way back; however, despite Dad's persistent requests for me to find his cousins, it took many years before I tracked Ray to Boise, Idaho, and Nola in nearby Congress, Arizona, surprisingly enough.

Since then, we have been privileged to visit with two of our cousins, although we never met Modell.  Dad got to see them after a long separation, and we've enjoyed spending time with them and their families.  

 

Last week was another opportunity for a lovely day of a house-full of visiting and eating.  We gathered at Nola's, and were amazed at the feast she produced for eight people from her tiny kitchen where helpers scooched past each other to bring out dish after dish.

We reunited with Nola, Doris (cousin Ray recently passed away), Dennis & Terrie and Greg & Tracee and shared family tales while devouring everything in sight - first treasure.

There was time for sharing family trees, which we have aplenty . . .

 

. . . and old family photos, which we also have aplenty.

We walked off that sumptuous Sunday dinner with a jaunt down to the incredible botanical garden that Nola & her friend have created as the ultimate neighborhood wonder - second treasure!  She calls it her cactus garden, but that does not come close to describing the extensive landscaped area beautifully designed for strolling wandering paths around gorgeous impressive desert exotics - each one a well-tended example of its species.  I regret that, while I was overwhelmed by what she has created, I was distracted with chatting and did not near give the place its due with attention and photographs.  It is well worth a full magazine layout.  The amount of time and work that she devotes to the amazing creation is incredible!

As we spent more time getting acquainted with our kin, Nola emerged with a handmade quilt!  She told the tale of being visited in 1946 in Sweet Home, Oregon, by my grandparents/her aunt & uncle, Zack & Pearl (Taylor) Kelley, accompanied by Nola's grandmother/my great grandmother Julia (Winans) Kelley, and being gifted the quilt top that had been hand-pieced by Julia.  She subsequently researched the pattern - Welcome Block - that was created from fabric scraps and flour sacks.

Nola has cherished the quilt through the years, lovingly done handwork to finish it, and gifted it to me along with a note explaining its origin - third treasure!

 

My heart is full!

On the bright side

Many years ago, I attended an afternoon presentation by a lovely gentleman by the name of Chris Chenoweth.  He was an ordained Unity minister who had spoken at Unity of Prescott that morning.  I confess that I seldom retain specific takeaways from talks, films, books or articles.  My modus operandi seems to be that at best, I will gain a sense of what I heard or read or watched and will recall any emotion or impression it conjured.

Not so with Rev. Chenoweth.  While there was undoubtedly far more meat in his talk, one particular aspect not only got my notice on that occasion, it has stuck with me for years: indeed, it has become an integral part of how I live my life.

I recently had the opportunity (if it could be categorized as such) to follow the fine reverend's advice, and I am grateful that I had that important tool at my disposal.

It happened like this: the señor was anxious for us to drive south to the lower Verde River where it exits from its entrapment at Horseshoe Lake.  While I had spent substantial time thereabouts in my younger years, it was mostly when I lived in Phoenix oh so long ago, thus a doable day trip.  Departing from Prescott, however, causes the driving/enjoying ratio to be lopsided - too much driving in comparison to the time spent playing.  Thus I was not as enthusiastic as I could have been, but I agreed nevertheless.

An early start and we were away, with lots of highway travel, never my favorite, followed by our more typical dirt road stint to gain our goal.  A good bit of time later, we arrived at the base of Horseshoe Dam where the water's release creates a great roiling as it shoots from the gate.

Right at the get-go, there is a huge sign warning of the danger of venturing out onto the rocks at that location, but because it refers to possible water releases from the overflow, my pard opined that we could blithely ignore that admonition; the lake is far too low for water to be released.  In that, I am certain he was correct, but still I hesitated before agreeing to go along.

We ventured out to the far end of the rocky shelf, and sure enough, we were not washed downstream by gigantic bursts of water, I am happy to report.  I made my way out there slowly and cautiously; the uneven footing was difficult, especially with my camera strap slung across my neck and shoulder and my binoculars further weighing me down.

All was well until . . . well, until it wasn't.  Just as I approached the farthest edge of the ledge where it dropped away into the river, I felt uneasy and bent down to steady myself with a hand.  That was when we both watched my $300 prescription sunglasses and case jettison out of my shirt pocket and launch themselves into the river.  I quickly snatched a fishing rod lying next to me and coaxed the floating case back to shore, but before it could be snatched to safety, it sank into the depths.  To say I was shocked would be the ultimate understatement.  I could scarcely believe it happened.

Needless to say, I expended quite a bit of energy bemoaning the accident and beating myself up over it.  And that is when I harkened back to Chris Chenoweth's long-ago advice which I have adopted to get me through many an unpleasant situation.

However he characterized it, I call it the "yes/but" philosophy.  It goes like this (and I always come up with three examples): "Yes", that bad thing happened, "but" it could have been my phone and that would have been so much worse.  "Yes", that bad thing happened, "but" it could have been my camera and that would have been disastrous.  "Yes", that bad thing happened, "but" I could have slipped and fallen into the river, and heaven knows how that would have ended.

Seems that I can pretty much always come up with a "Yes/but" scenario from which I can feel gratitude that what happened wasn't even worse.  So . . . I have an expensive pair of glasses to replace, but certainly it could have been worse, and I am grateful that it wasn't.

We did spend some time jawing about whether one of us should strip down and go in to see if we could dive to find the lost glasses, but finally concluded that: 1. It would be a dangerous undertaking in that roiling cold water, and 2. It would probably be fruitless anyway.

Not the first family glasses to be lost in the Verde . . .

The whole affair put me in mind of a Kelley family event from my childhood, another involving the same river but further down near Ft. McDowell.  It was a favorite area for my family and friends to frequent, often spending a long summer Sunday at the Verde - fishing, barbecuing, tubing and just generally reveling in being there.

That particular time, we were with our friends & neighbors, the Congers, and we had brought along Dick Conger's canoe, which was launched easily.  Dad & Dick were playing with the boat when my older brother Frank dove into the river without thinking that he was wearing his new glasses that had been purchased just the day before.

Boy howdy, the uproar that ensued when they became dislodged from his face and sank below the surface was most unpleasant.  I feel badly for him to this day when I think about it.  A lot of time was spent in the search for those glasses, none of it successfully.  He most likely relived that fateful moment many times, just as I did, except that I had the benefit of the "yes/but" philosophy, and Frank was in deep Dutch with our parents, who had five kids to feed, clothe and provide glasses for.

The river . . .

Just as the upper Verde has many moods as it finds its way across the landscape, so it does farther downstream, but without the high canyon walls.  It runs wide & placid in places and rushes through narrows in others.  Much of the shoreline is a tangled mass of thorny vegetation, impassable for much of it.

The Mazatzal Mountain range with its wilderness area makes up the eastern skyline from that vantage point.  Although the region is replete with abundant and extraordinarily statuesque saguaros, I refrained from photographing the many splendid specimens . . .

. . . but one in particular had me calling a halt.  A ways off from the road, I spied a crested saguaro - and what a beauty it was.  Nothing would suffice but that we sauntered over to where it was standing tall on a hilltop in order to appreciate it up close.

These are a rarity; evidently it is unknown why some grow in that unusual configuration.  I admired it as a delightful sculpture by Mother Nature.