It’s the best of time in Arizona! Temperatures are languid and mild, bunnies and squirrels frolic on the lush greens of a recent rain, and the colors pop out of the fragrant earth: wildflowers–it’s spring time. I took pictures on my recent hike to Wind Cave. Which of these flowers do you know?
(Ssh! There is a cheat sheet here at Southwest Desert Flora BUT: test your memory before you peek)
Environmental Day at the Capitol earlier this year, struck my memory chord like a gong chiming in my head. Activists from all corners had gathered on the Arizona Capitol grounds in Phoenix to lobby for water protection measures and have a word with their District reps.
Water rights are a hot topic in Arizona. All the Southwestern states’ livelihoods depend on their secure water resource, mostly the Colorado River share quotas.
The Colorado River is so dammed up that none of its waters reach the Gulf of California any more. Lake Mead, in 2023, was at its lowest since the Hoover Dam (1 of 15 Colorado River dams) was built. 2023 was another heat record year with 50+ days over 110F. It’s a damn’ dry situation. For many Native Americans, Navajos included, water has always been scarce.
My friends took me to Gallup. More precisely, a rural lot outside town on the Navajo reservation. I had been cautioned: there is no running water. So bring a pallet of bottles. For that part, there would also be no royal flush. I got it. Outhouse. No worries there. I had grown up on a farm with a Plumpsklosett.
A couple of miles on the north side of Gallup, my GPS turned me onto a dirt road. I made it across the narrow bridge, but was soon stopped by a curious horse in the middle of the road. Anyways, the rainy spring had made the road rutted, but after I got the hang of it, the tracks became quite passable.
It was a beautiful scene out here in the afternoon. The horizon started to take on an amber glow, the boulder mountains toned into a warm ochre, the blue zenith sky darkened to let the stars out, and the scarce pine trees poked their spiny arms into the fresh air. All was quiet out here, except for the dogs.
My friend’s house had a warm, cuddly, welcoming air to it. It was very much ranch-style in its decor with blankets, Native art, and the occasional antler. This was a much privileged outing for me, because a group of strong Native women shared their time and space with me. And I finally would get to see Window Rock, the Navajo capital, as well.
We had the most comfortable picnic with fine mattresses to sleep on. We were glamping on many things, television included. However, there was no running water. And you feel that right away. The kitchen had two large water containers by the sink, but, unlike rare wine, the water in it had not improved its taste since its delivery. It was only old and best used for washing dishes. And still, it seemed to be too precious for that as well. We used paper plates all the way through.
I learned fast: keep the hand sanitizer and wipes on the cabinet by the entrance for the bathroom trips, don’t drink too much, so you don’t have to go too often, and save your paper plate for the next meal. I learned to brush my teeth with bottled water and spit each mouthful into the desert bush. I had this urge–when preparing breakfast, making a sandwich, getting sticky fingers–to go to the sink. But the sink had no water. A long time ago, when the family still lived here, they carted in their water on a truck to fill the tank outside. But that was the old days.
Many Navajo families have no water lines going to their houses. Imagine, any and all water has to be hauled over long distances and bad roads. Imagine how hard it will be to maintain proper hygiene. Imagine how health-compromised individuals might suffer. Or what about elder and infant care? Staying well and healthy requires a reasonable amount of water.
Yes, on the second day I felt the dearth of water. My armpits got stinky. I wetted a Kleenex and went to work. But what about the long range? How would I keep clean, wash up, brush off the dust? I don’t think there was a creek nearby and many hopes for rain in the Southwest are in vain. All you can do, really, is drive to the next truck stop on IH 40 and use their public showers.
I wasn’t ready to do that just yet, but on the third day I hit the pedal to the metal to get home to my own comfort.
Back to the Environmental Day. One Native organization, Tó Nizhóní Ání (“Sacred Water Speaks”) from the Big Mountain community on the Black Mesa Plateau in NE Arizona, protested the industrial abuse (hydroelectric project) of water: The Black Mesa Pumped Storage Project.
Pumping groundwater to the top of a plateau to make it generate electricity—a questionable project. It would seriously endanger the aquifer. As of this February, three of such proposed pumped storage projects were fortunately denied. A remarkable victory for the Navajo environmentalists.
Native activists are fighting for the Earth and US ALL. Water is so precious. We think we know that. But that’s not enough. Someone needs to make us FEEL its preciousness.
Therefore I propose a universal
Switch off the water main in the evening and see how the next day goes. And touch no faucet at work or school either. Toilet included. Don’t flush. How will you get through the day? You will be allowed to prepare for the water emergency by your own design. But don’t forget: No water will run for you on tap. And why should it? Water needs a break too. It runs all the time.
With The Medford Remains Jackie Sereno has put out her second “Circling Eagle Mystery,” after her debut novel “Breaking Ground.” Her second volume of the family saga tells us about the making of a murderer, a Native American boy breaking free from the foster system. This story with a real twist unfolds on two time lines. Richard Circling Eagle investigates his father’s mysterious demise and his mother’s unexplained disappearance. The Medford Remains is an incredibly rich and suspenseful murder mystery and family saga playing in Northern Wisconsin. For all of you who like Tony Hillerman stories, Jackie Sereno very well matches that in-depth research.
I had the great pleasure to help Jackie with the pictures for her Medford Trailer. Actor Cainan Thomas from Fort McDowell (AZ, Yavapai) was the model for the key pictures of the story. It was such a nice adventure to set up for the shots at my friend Renate Mousseux’s house in Fountain Hills. As his former teacher, Renate has know Cainan and his family since his childhood. Cainan is an actor who has played Native American characters in movie productions.
The pictures (below) turned out great. Here is the gist of the story: “Decades after Thomas Circling Eagle’s suicide, his wallet is discovered buried in an abandoned barn. That puzzling fact intrigues his now grown son Richard, especially because its contents contradict the suicide assumption and include a reference to mysterious human remains uncovered in the wilderness near Medford, WI.”
That sets Richard on a quest for the truth.
A long forgotten wallet with troubling clues inside.
NOW ON AMAZON: Jackie Sereno, The Medford Remains
Guest Column by Dan Baldwin, Ghost-Writer & Author
I remember the 1950s when conformity in life, belief and culture was not only expected, it was demanded. Most people went along, but there were a few on the fringe who refused to conform. This was before the age of the hippie. (Although of that generation, I have more in common with the beatniks—jazz, writing, being cool as opposed to being loud, “sick” comedians like Lenny Bruce, Mort Sahl.) We seem to be living in a retro-fifties era today. The cries for conformity are everywhere. If you’ll watch the news carefully you’ll see that the “free” kids of the sixties, who are now in their seventies, are bringing back the worst of the fifties.
That’s true in the writing universe, too. As with the “pantsters” vs. “plotters” debate, we have an ongoing confrontation between those who believe in the conventional and those who believe in the cool (originally a beat term).
Dan talking to the spirits of the past with his pendulum
The conformist seek comfort in well-established, inflexible rules. The cool isn’t afraid to risk pushing the edge of the box or even punching through now and then. For example, the conventional believes with the faith of a 12-year-old Southern Baptist at her first tent revival that a work must—must mind you—be rewritten and rewritten and rewritten until like Goldilocks says, “it’s just right.” The cool, with the confidence in his own ability looks across the uncharted literary landscape and says, “I wonder what’s over there” and then makes the journey to find out.
Being a beat generation survivor, I think of myself as a cool. I send my works to first readers for their input. I listen to that input, evaluate it, and incorporate their suggestions if I agree with them. A conventional writer will automatically submit to the recommended changes of an editor, critique group, best friend, fellow writer, or first reader without hesitation. Why? Because that’s the way it’s done. The rule book says so.
A conventional knows for a fact that the way to publishing success is to get an agent who will get a publisher who will then publish the work. He knows for certain that this is the only sure-fire method. The cool knows that he can take that road or choose another, such as self-publishing. I’ve debated the pros and cons of traditional vs. self-publishing and each side has its share. The amount of emotional attachment some authors have to conventional thinking, however, borders on religious belief.
I am not against conventional writing, publishing or marketing techniques provided they are not employed by rote simply because ‘that’s the way we’ve always done it.’ To me, conventional or cool should be a choice and not a self-imposed mandate.
Something to think about, eh? Give it some thought.
Dan Baldwin has been my role model and motivator for the last 15 years. He has penned and ghosted probably more than 70 books. Mysteries, thrillers, westerns, and the paranormal are his favorite genres. In his spare time he works as a psychic detective to let the departed speak through his pendulum. You can contact him through his website below.
Never mind the ads–Dan’s interview starts a couple of minutes in.
November is Native American Heritage Month. The Mesa Public Schools NAEP celebrated a fabulous Heritage Night at Westwood High School. The evening was filled with Native royalty, sizzling dance performances, and a heart-felt community spirit. The evening started with an invocation by Freddie Johnson, Diné, and the Land Acknowledgment read by Vice Principal Paul Davis. Keynote speaker was Steven P. Toya Sr. from New Mexico, a much loved counselor and educator. NAEP Program Director Esther Nystrom was visibly proud of her District team that night. Senior NAEP Liaison Debra Toya from Mountain View High School had brought the Royalty and top performers to the stage.
Amazing performances by the internationally acclaimed Indigenous Enterprise group (top row) and Renae Blackwater/Maswade (above).
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The fancy Rooster Dance
Multi-talented performers
The Drum Group (above) fired up the spirit of dance. Then the Traditional Akimél O’odham Singers (below; Salt River Pima) invited everybody to join hands for a social dance.
Everybody dance, and . . .
. . . they all did.
Finally, Thunder and his brother Tyler read us a story called “Thunder’s Hair.”
Here Tyler and Thunder are with team leader Tiffany (middle) and their mom (right).
Debra Toya and Esther Nystrom provided gifts for Royalty and honorees.
Great job, everybody!
IMPORTANT NOTES:
Arizona is home to 22 Tribal Nations that comprise approximately 28 percent of Arizona’s land base. Two important legislative bills impacted the Native American communities in 2021:
Dr. John W. Molina is a remarkable health professional and activist. I met him first at my own house, when he attended my friend Renate Mousseux’s launch party for her memoir, Renatle, Mosaic of Life. Renate had known Dr. Molina for many years. She had organized fundraisers for his Las Fuentes clinic in the past. Dr. Molina makes a striking appearance, looking the part of a Native American doctor wearing a long braid and traditional regalia.
A couple of years later, I got to edit and produce Dr. Molina’s own life story. Having worked with Native American youth in the Mesa School District, his memoir was a real eye opener for me as I kept editing away. Molina’s title evolved over time and became Im Jittoa Bo’o—My Healing Journey, leaning on his Yaqui heritage. And the content reads like a movie. The “Healing Journey” and life experience thrilled me on many levels. I fell right into it. This book, which came as a complete and quite clean manuscript to me, helped me see the Native American experience through Molina’s eyes.
Dr. Molina’s story is written in an engaging narrative voice. He is careful with word selection but all out honest. He grew up in the little Yaqui town of Guadalupe near Tempe as a day laborer’s son. He finished high school (an exception in his community back then), hired on with the Navy, then became a pastor for a Christian church, studied psychology, and eventually landed a community project looking after diabetic patients from his own village. Molina saw many unattended ailments and a great need for a doctor. “Why don’t you become that doctor?” his mentor challenged him. And so he did. After medical school (UofA), Molina specialized in OBGYN and founded the Las Fuentes Community Clinic. So much for the first 25 percent of his CV. He is also a jurist, healthcare advocate, and Doctor of Humane Letters, the whole list is hard to remember.
Molina is totally honest about his bumpy road to success. He faced bullying, alcoholism, prejudice, peer pressures from his own tribe, but whatever he set his mind to—he accomplished it each time at a high price and at his own risk. Tragedy struck not only once. Racial bias in the professional arena did not deter him.
Along with studying the academics, Molina also observed the ancient knowledge of medicine men. As a healthcare compliance officer for Native Health, he now makes sure that Native American patients receive good quality of care. He has reached a position that allows him to work from his cultural roots, through a holistic outlook, to serve the the whole human being. As a young physician laboring through 36-hour-shifts, he also strove for integrative approaches and, when possible, allowed the traditional healing methods to cure the body as well as the soul.
Many times Molina encountered serious doubts and discrimination. “You are a doctor?” hospital parking attendants would ask him when he walked by in street clothes. At a very young age he had realized that a white coat makes all the difference.
My favorite passage is the part where Molina hashes through the decision making process of becoming a doctor. He tells his mentor. “If I go to medical school, I will probably be 40 years old by the time I become a doctor.” His friend replies, “You will be 40 years old whether you become a doctor or not.” Simple fact. Age is an arbitrary measure, but what you do with your time has real value.
As I navigated through the book, my admiration for this man’s determination, ambition, and compassion grew with each chapter. As an anthropologist I was fascinated by the fact that Dr. Molina also turned to traditional healers and the deep knowledge from the past.
Molina narrates his story with bone-chilling honesty. He shares painful details about his affliction with addiction, family tragedies, and professional trials and tribulations—as well as his remarkable, almost miraculous successes.
All throughout his reflections, Molina does not go easy on himself. He has led a full and restless life, but he overcame, regrouped, and always put himself back on the straight road again. Now, granted, he is still a workaholic, but all to the benefit of the Native American nations and their health improvements.
Im Jittoa Bo’o—My Healing Journey, by Dr. John W. Molina. Read it. Molina’s book will enrich your outlook. Money is not all that counts. Insights are important too—and maybe a long list of credentials. Or better, what you did to help others.
You can find out more about Dr. John Ward Molina MD JD DHL on his LinkedIn page.
And you can buy his book on Amazon
The heat is on in Mesa. It’s the new construction fever. Whole subdivisions are sprouting up over night. The most awful, megalomaniac, commercial buildings just shot up two blocks down by Falcon Field. Not that they have been sold yet, it’s just so that the investments may be attracted.
Californians are coming to Arizona in droves. Can’t blame them. Arizona is still a little cheaper and has not totally burnt down yet. Let’s just see how long the water is going to last. The Tempe Town Lake—now with flashy glass-and-steel towers and beehive-like apartment complexes—is not real water, it’s just for show. But since we got more business, we need more roads to support the growth. Thank God, we have a lot of rock in Arizona. We are blessed with it, unless this rock is being mined right next to your house.
Do you get the picture? Unfortunately, the Mesa monster holes, as large as meteorite craters, look a little flat from Google Earth. And you can’t see them when driving by, as they are hugely bermed up. You could bury a whole town in some of them. Here are some of these holes along the 202:
Arnold Annen ist ein Keramik-Poet. Hier (oben) eines seiner Designs, das er der Natur (Mikroben) abgeschaut hat. Wir haben ihn und seine Partnerin Violette Fassbaender–unsere Freunde–kürzlich besucht. Beide Künstler sind einzigartige Keramik-Pioniere, Arnold mit seinen zerbrechlichen Schalen, Violette mit ihren marmorierten “Steinen”.
Our friend Arnold Annen from Basel, Switzerland, creates poetry in porcelain. His large bowls and luminescent sculptures are paper thin. His partner Violette Fassbaender, herself an accomplished ceramicist, helps Arnold push the edge of a fragile art.
We recently stayed at Arnold and Violette’s house amidst scores of highly exclusive, one-of-a-kind artifacts. All pieces of their collections were mindfully arranged to evoke a symphony of inspiration.
In 2014 Arnold, who has gained much recognition in Europe and Japan, won a prestigious award at an international ceramics show in Chicago, Best of Show at SOFA.
Who would have guessed this world fame when Arnold was born in the small town of Gsteig (Gstaad, Switzerland) in a small farm village. Arnolds relentless passion for the ceramics process drove him to perfection. Among of our most priced household possessions is a pair of paper thin porcelain cups that Arnold gifted us.
Violette’s concept in ceramics is drastically different. She creates organic patterns from different colors of clay at different stages of moisture to build them into objects resembling rocks from nature. Organic patterns as in nature.
The detail in Violette’s hollow “rocks” tells stories of ancient magma–or an observant walk through the Swiss Alps. Eye-catching blocks of “Urgestein” shape-shift in the sheen of daylight versus dusk. She also has perfected her technique since she began her organic quest in Japan. Her deceptively casual patterns require a high level of skill, simplicity, and abstraction. The soul search. Or the simple admission that there are no accidents in life.
We spent some wonderful hours with these two remarkable artists who we are glad to call friends. Their hospitality is heart-warming as well. We enjoyed some very tasty, home-cooked meals at their house. Memories.
There is much more to know about Arnold and Violette’s art. Further reading:
ARNOLD ANNEN in Neue Keramik, 2014
VIOLETTE FASSBAENDER in Naked Clay
E-Mail KONTAKT:
Arnold Annen & Violette Fassbänder
Music by Waco Brothers, live at Monty Hall, Harm’s Way.
Music by Josh Armistead, Full-time Casual album, Peace with my Brothers.
Music by classy firetruck.
Music by catch-me-if-you can police. Video by Susmita Makin.
Music gratefully borrowed from the Free Music Archive.
Renate Mousseux gathered with her friends Bruno, Barbara, and Brigitte at the Fountain Hills Gallery after a body language presentation. Like many, they had been looking forward to Renatle’s Mosaic of Life with suspense.
“Renatle, Mosaic of Life” is now out on Amazon. The cover looks sassy and the story is full of suspense. I am so excited! Renatle’s mosaic of life adventures came beautifully together in her memoir. It is out on Amazon as paperback, plus a digital version on Kindle. Here is a review from the Fountain Hills newspaper.
One fine day, I chatted Renate up after the German luncheon about doing a story about her for Amerika Woche. Right there my own life changed. For this interview, Renate and I met in an Indian restaurant. She gave me the full scoop about her body language expertise—and some playacting examples. We had a fabulous time.
Several weeks later, Renate approached me about writing her life story. I had no idea what all was to come in Renatle’s Mosaic interviews. I was in for some genuine enrichment.
We started taping Renate’s story. Once a month I drove to her house on top of a Fountain Hills peak and listened to her true tales. War times in Germany. Concealed at birth. Prankster childhood. Love gone awry. Down and out in Los Angeles. More than once, my jaw dropped. Renate laid it all out. Barred none.
I won’t give away more than what is on the back cover: Renate was the love child between a French jazz trumpeter and a German patrician business woman. Renate’s questionable existence was concealed from the family for months. Aunt Liesel finally discovered the baby and brought her home.
As a toddler, in 1944, Renatle survived the infamous Tigerstorm carpet-bombing attack on her hometown Freiburg (Germany). The whole town lay in shambles. In that night 3,000 people died. Renate’s uncle and other good Samaritans brought aunt, grandmother, and baby Renate to a Luftschutzbunker—with nothing else but a blanket wrapped around their nightgowns.
Yes, but her mother and father, Trudel and Emile, were buried alive in rubble of the dental lab where they worked. By a miracle, both were rescued days later and put into a hospital for a year. They never fully recovered . . . and then, mother . . .
Tears welled up in her eyes. She asked me to stop the recorder.
More pauses were to come. Why did Renate go to America? She was expecting and wanted to give her baby a home—but not a brute, bisexual, drug-addicted father. Renate escaped, but barely. Finally, things seemed to fall into place in Arizona, with her teaching immersion classes for French and German. It all seemed good, or was it? Her new husband had charm and pedigree.
“I never dwell on the past, even though I sometimes cry”, Renate said. She is one of the most cheerful and people-oriented persons I know. And like any serious Girl Scout she is looking to do at least one good deed a day. She always carries a gift for unforeseen occasions in her purse.
Now it’s two years later and the book is done. “Renatle” turned out well. And so did her book.
Since we started writing, Renate has made many appearances at TV stations commenting on presidential candidates’ body language or the expression of witnesses in high profile murder cases. She started her flourishing BodyLanguage4Success business after her retirement as an Arizona foreign language professor for almost 30 years. More information at BodyLanguage4success
All this fame could have spoiled Renate, but quite to the contrary she is a charming, helpful, and very open person. A gem. And I learned a great deal from her. Each interview and every editing meet was a lesson for me. Here we are at the Fountain Hills Gallery presenting Renatle’s Mosaic.
“We judge a person in less than the first two minutes of an encounter based on their appearance and behavior,” body language specialist Renate Mousseux says. “65 percent of our communication comes across in nonverbal expressions.” That’s significant.
Renate, my friend from nearby Fountain Hills, is unstoppable. Not only because she drives a Jaguar. She has achieved outstanding honors in foreign language (French, German) education. After her retirement from a busy high school and college teaching career, she ventured into BodyLanguage4Success.
Renate, or as she likes to be called “Renatle” in the Freiburg dialect, has commented close to 50 times on presidential speeches, criminal cases, and witness depositions at Arizona TV stations. She has read every book about body language that she could get her hands on. Now she delivers highly involving seminars to professional or social groups. Here is her take on Hillary Clinton for a Phoenix TV program:
And here is her piece on Trump:
Renate reads through the body language. She has eyes in the back of her head, her students discovered. “I could tell from far if anyone in class was cheating or not,” Renate says. “They called me Eagle Eyes.” Since she was a child, she liked to observe and imitate people. In college, she put funny mime acts on stage. Consciously or not, we all do it and read it—ever so sublimely.
“Body language doesn’t lie, especially not in the long run,” she says. She keeps the humor light and on its feet. When she models the stances, gestures, and facial expressions at a seminar, she draws the audience into some real life situations.
I have seen Renate in action many times. Her gigs are definitely charming and entertaining. She means every word she says. How is your handshake? Let’s see. She can give you good advice for an excellent first impression.
“Well, Schätzle, when you are with me, you don’t need to do this,” she tells me and gently pulls my hands from my hips. She caught me again. Hands on hips means a defensive attitude. Honestly, I didn’t mean to. Do I have to investigate my subconscious now?
Also beware of crossed legs, arms behind back, or someone stroking their chin. There is an explanation to everything, but one odd behavior alone does not make a “criminal.” I learned these features from Renate while taking notes for her book. We have been working on her life story, Renatle, A Mosaic of Life, for some time. Later this fall it will be ready for the launch.
Renate’s life story is an incredible adventure. She married into a Hollywood disaster, was down and out, and overcame some terrible blows. Yet she always stayed positive. Her turbulent story, a roller coaster of curve balls, will be available on Amazon soon.
Recently, her hometown paper, the Badische Zeitung published a write-up about her activities. CLICK on image. 
“We always have to see the whole picture of a person and not judge them by a single feature,” Renate says. She has, among others, volunteered her skills for Find Me, a worldwide network of psychics working on missing person investigations.
Body language is active twenty-four hours a day. In company with people, you use body language as much as the other one. In fact, some 800 body language signals are emitted within a thirty minute conversation.
If you want to find out more, see Renate’s website BodyLanguage4Success
When you thought, no stranger things than a “bra” can happen, look at this. Well, I had to protect my miracle tree this year. We have tons of grackles that can empty a whole fig tree in a day. So how could I keep my sweet apricot secret and the fruits for myself?
Don’t take me wrong, I would share the treasures of nature. Here, birdie, have an apricot. We have some “love birds”, itinerant green parrots from central America, that would make for such a nice addition to our backyard zoo. We have squirrels, lizards, stray cats, geckos, quail, pigeons, humming birds–and too many grackles. But our birds are either stupid or greedy. Or bad mannered. Do you think, they would the eat whole thing up? No, they peck a little bite out of each sweet apricot. Just enough to make each fruit unfit for human consumption. Give me apricot bird defense!
Don’t you dare eat my apricots, birds! I came up with a whole arsenal of bird defense. What best to do than conceal the prey? With plastic shopping bags I wrapped the heavy laden branches. Yet more area was to cover. With a 7-yard-long turban I barred the landing spots on the lower ranges. The bird net was harder to install. It got caught at every little nook and cranny. What about up there? OK, these CDs on fish line glisten and reflect. Hopefully the birds hated dancing discos? Finally, a plastic owl, the “super tank” in my armamentarium for the bird defense, took its post on the fence pillar.
I didn’t quite trust my installation. Wait a minute! What about scare crows? An easy fix. I grabbed some themed t-shirts (faces printed on them) from my daughter’s closet. I attached paper plate faces from a school project with cloths pins on the hangers. And then I hung my scare creatures in the most suitable locations.
Voilá! Now don’t dare to come, birds! Or I will sick the stray cat on you.
I SAVED THEM:
If you want to make enchiladas, you need to have a sauce. Don’t cook this green enchilada casserole when you are in a rush. Make the sauce ahead of time. This recipe is enough to feed eight people. But you can also prepare individual portions in the microwave.
Green Enchilada Sauce:
2 pounds tomatillos (or more), peel, wash, & cubeChop onion finely, sauté (2 TBS oil) in sauce pot until glazed. Add jalapeños and bell peppers, keep stirring (10 min). Add the tomatillos and keep cooking on medium heat, until the vegetables turn mushy (ca. 15 min). Then add shredded garlic, lime juice and chopped cilantro. Cook until well blended (ca. 5 min). Add 1 cup water, let this bubble up one more time. Then blend this mixture (careful hot!) into a sauce with your blender or food processor. The sauce freezes well for later use.
Make the enchiladas:
Fry the flour tortillas 1 min each side in oil. Create your stack of 12 tortillas.
For the filling:
Roll the enchiladas: Use ca. 2 TBS filling and cheese, and roll up each enchilada, put them all neatly in a casserole. An 9×12 inch form can hold 8-12 enchiladas. Pour the green sauce over the enchiladas, sprinkle generously with cheese and bake this 45 minutes in the oven at medium heat. Serve with rice and black beans.
For individual portions: Roll up your (2) enchiladas on a dinner plate, pour sauce over them, sprinkle with cheese, and cook in the microwave for 1 minute.
Hang in there with me, and read the whole story to see what this means.
One fine spring morning, the doorbell rang unexpectedly. A little aggravated I jumped up from my computer and suspiciously pulled the door open. Could have only been special delivery or preacher guys this time of day.
Francisco stood there smack in the middle of the walkway. “You need clean up,” he says. “Your trees too big.”
“No, if I trim them now, they will only grow faster.” It was April. “Come back in June.”
“Look,” he points to my debris-littered island. “We make it all nice.”
I am not worried yet about my “naturalized” landscape and send Francisco off to other gardens. Mine can wait. Yep, sometimes I need a little help from the pros, especially when I can’t put up with the loads of trimmings.
About two weeks later, in the middle of a household commotion, the bell rings again insistently. It was a really bad time. I thought we had a deal? Come back in June? Apparently, Francisco had jumped a month in his calendar.
Well, turns out, it wasn’t Francisco but Jacinto, his brother. “Your trees, trim?” Maybe. I remembered we had a major party coming up. OK, OK, do clean up! The price was negotiated as usual. Settled halfway. As long as the sum is right, my yard crew goes the extra mile.
My landscapers always show up instantly. At least one magic worker starts with a saw or rake usually within 5 minutes after I call them. Thus Francisco makes sure that I don’t change my mind or hire someone else for the project. He brought Jacinto plus two more helpers along to my “construction site.”
Fine by me. These men work hard, clean up tidy, and try to honor my requests for strange style cuts for my bushes (al mano, no maquina).
This job turned out bigger than expected, because the citrus tree had gone wild and proliferated extensive growth. Towards the end of their assignment, I asked Francisco as usual for horticultural advice in yard maintenance. Sometimes Francisco’s expertise turns out to be helpful, sometimes it’s not working at all (like killing Chinese Elm roots with gasoline), but every time he is eager to come up with some expert idea.
I have this mid-size, really lush apricot tree. In the last three year it had not had any fruit. Quite to the contrary, its little shabby apricot brother on the “desert” side of my backyard had sweet little fruits galore. Was my best tree still pouting since the last trim that I had given it myself? What could I do?
“Usar Ro-pa-mui-yer.”
“I don’t understand, what did you say?”
“Ro-pa-mui-yer.” He said it more slowly.
“Where can I buy that?” What a strange name that was for a fertilizer.
Francisco laughed. “You don’t have to buy it, use your own.”
I was confused. “Like what?” I asked
“Calcetines,” (stockings), he said, grinning all over his face. “O pantaloncitos (underwear slips). O camisa (undershirt).”
Ropa de Mujer! He is saying, “women’s clothing.” Was he serious?
“And how do I use these with the tree?”
“Wrap it around, hang it in there. I don’t know.”
“For how long?”
“A day, a week, as long as you like.”
“Eres chistoso?” (Are you kidding me?)
“No es broma, es un truco.” (No, it is not a joke. It is a trick.)
A trick?
“It will awaken the tree’s desire to produce.”
So I guess, the tree was male.
I tried it out. I hung a bra in that tree for a day. Let’s see about the results next year, Francisco.
INDEED, HERE IS MY APRICOT YEAR ONE YEAR LATER:
It seems strange, but Arizona is a winter paradise. Not only for snowbirds from Wisconsin and North Dakota who flock here to the Valley of the Sun, but also for people who really like snow. We have it good in Phoenix. When El Niño’s clouds move in, we get a heavy rain in the valley. But up in the mountains, Payson, Prescott, Flagstaff, and so forth, it’s another story. They get the flaky stuff.
So we go to see the snow. It’s a real attraction for us. We grab our hiking boots and bundle up. Yes, we use those gloves and hats once a year. And off we drive. We can see the white beauty from afar on Four Peaks Mountain. Let’s go!
Smoky the Bear advises us in Payson that fire danger is low today. No wonder, the snow pile reaches well above his waist. We drive up to the trout farm on the Rim by Horton Creek. Barely a one-lane track is ploughed. What if we get head on traffic! We don’t want to get stuck in the berm. No snow tires, chains or shovels anywhere. Who knows if our T-Mobile will get a call out of here.
But we are driving through a winter wonderland of pristine snow. The pine trees are loaded, bending under the heavy white weight. Is this Narnia? We expect snow creatures, but they are only happy sledders parked by the road.
We get out at the parking for the trailhead. The trout farm is closed, but there is a little trail into the snow-covered forest. We tread gently into the quiet scenery. Sculptured trees of sugar loads decorate the path besides us. Paff, that snowball hit right on my chest. Wait a minute, take this!
We like to see and touch the snow, and then be out of it. We basically know all the coffee shops in Flagstaff, our favorite one Macy’s with its coffee roaster and inspiring photographs. Yeah, we could trying skiing sometime on Mount Humphreys, but we are too lazy. Instead we enjoy the vista across the winter wonderland from up there.
This is Arizona winter wonderland. You may see Prickly Pear cacti covered with snow. They sure look funny that way. Or a white cap on a saguaro, a Santa-guaro. When it snows, we run to catch a whiff of it. And we get out of it just as quick. What a good deal.
Look at our beautiful Arizona snow mountains: Four Peaks, Bell Rock, Mt. Humphreys
The same bald spot from last year came back to haunt my yard
Grass (no double meaning) does not come easy in the Southwest. It is hard to grow grass in Arizona. I don’t know how the golf courses do it. They are grooming the most perfect carpet grass. Only during a short fall intermission, they raze the green splendor to spread mulch for winter seeding.
Here I am with yet another bald spot in my greens. Water, fertilize, aerate, pray–it never seems to convince all the areas. Even Bermuda avoids some locations. I have never been able to figure it out.
I also have a “wild” grass, kinda rough, pokey slowly spreading in my small meadow. I wished it would take over the naked turf. But it’s not happening, or only very slowly.
In the meantime, I am sowing Bermuda in the spring and Bluegrass in the fall. That is what my fall mission looked like:
No, this is not a pet graveyard. It is actually an overseeding area.
I better had the area covered because pigeons and other birds like to stir up any morsels. Ooh, I staked the net precisely to the ground. Only that there was one little crack open. An intelligent pigeon found exactly that spot. Never mind perfection. I chased the pigeon out and fixed the last little hole.
So far so good. The bluegrass actually filled in quite nice, but it never makes it through the summer. And the Bermuda does not want go there either.
Perhaps the shadow patterns have something to do with it. Where there is no shadow, the Arizona sun burns holes into such outlandish vegetation as grass.
Things can change, right? After about ten years of trying all the wrong things, I might have won a decisive battle against Bermuda grass. This is what my backyard corner looks like now:
Finally, this desperate corner has been freed of the Bermuda curse
DO YOU SEE THE GRASS IN THE WOOD CHIPS? NO? GOOD! It’s gone for now. I asked my exterminator guy. He had the answer: Glyphosate. It worked.
THIS IS WHAT BERMUDA GRASS CAN DO:
Three years ago, I started removing the very original Bermuda jungle
That’s what left of the Bermuda in the last corner
When we bought our house ten years ago in northeast Mesa, the whole terrain was overgrown with Bermuda, including the 50 rose bushes. We had no irrigation then, because our predecessor watered the lawn by hand. Needless to say, we had better things to do than standing around in the sun all day.
Bucket full of roots
In Arizona it is not cool to have grass, at least not a lot of it, because it uses up too much water. Arizonans have Xeriscape, desert plants, rock gardens, and at most a little drip irrigation. The city even pays homeowners to abolish grass.
Anyhow, having been raised on a farm, I wanted to keep a little green. So we had irrigation put in, but I also decided to convert half of our yard into rock-scape. That’s how my nine-year nemesis with Bermuda grass began. It takes an old-fashioned Catholic to deal with Bermuda grass from hell. The battle is not over yet.
How had Bermuda come by its name? Its roots reach as deep as the Bermuda triangle, at least that was my theory. Bermuda hairline roots are about 12 inches long. The mean thing are its fat tubers that go haywire in the dirt. It also sprouts long offshoots on the surface that intermittently take root again.
Fat runaway Bermuda roots
All these bad attitudes make for a hellish combat. OK, so I took to the spade, shaking the good dirt from a bad ball of Bermuda. This labor was much easier after the ground had softened from the rain. Where the Bermuda was ingrown with tree roots, the fight became especially tedious. While irrigating the volatile spot, I stirred, grabbed, pulled, twisted, whisked, probed, felt the devious grass roots. Sometimes I had unearthed half of the tree’s rootball before giving up.
I bent shovels and broke forks. And, darn it, after an area was dug up, the remaining Bermuda roots thrived even better. It took several tilling repeats for an area to be cleared well enough so that it could be finished with gravel.
Herbizides did nothing to Bermuda. Although the grass visibly turned brown, the roots happily continued to thrive. For a while I used a Bermuda root killer, but it soon was removed from the market by environmental control. By then, fortunately, I had converted the whole south side into landscaping rock, used some three tons to cover it.
I kept digging and developed myself a Bermuda hunting sense. I can distinguish its roots and feel the best way in the dirt to completely extract it. Bermuda gets bunched up at landscaping borders. So I dig especially deep there. I make absolutely sure that the borders of our lawn are trimmed down to the dirt so that no shoot crosses the line.
Regardless, some of the Bermuda always gets away. Twice a year I have to dig up certain spots in the rose beds. That’s OK.
More roots
There is one corner in our yard, however, that I haven’t been able to tame in nine years. We had a Chinese elm tree there, which went rampant too. Although we removed that tree long ago, we are still fighting its roots. Now imagine crazy tree roots mixing with the Bermuda—an unconquerable situation.
I have dug up the last Bermuda triangle perhaps three times this year. Left it alone too long over the summer, it all went haywire. Even my yard helpers toiled to no avail. At the moment this corner looks like clean dirt. Woe to the Bermuda if it sticks its ugly head out again!
Ich hätte es mir gleich denken können: der Sommer kommt ja wieder. Zu spät für die Flucht nach drüben. Obwohl—bei uns in Arizona geht der Sommer eigentlich nie ganz weg, auch nicht im Winter. Deswegen kommen dann die Snow Birds aus Iowa, Minnesota und Nebraska. Aber leider ist ihr alter Schnee dann unterwegs schon geschmolzen. Von Rodeln keine Spur, denn in Arizona brodelt der Asphalt.
Jetzt im Juli ist es grad so schön warm, dass du dir auf der Kühlerhaube (welch eine Fehlbenennung) ein Spiegelei braten könntest. Hundert Grad (37 C) sind da nichts, das haben wir mehr als fünf Monate lang. „It’s a dry heat“, eine trockene Hitze, scherzen wir Arizonier dann mit unseren Touristen. Obwohl, wenn das Thermometer auf knusprige 115 (46 C) klettert, dann sind wir gespannt, ob es keinen Knacks kriegt.
Mir bleibt die Luft weg, wenn ich aus dem gekühlten Haus in die kochende Garage geh. Die Spucke ist mir schon längst vertrocknet. Wenigstens habe ich Ofenhandschuhe für die Autotürgriffe dabei, weil die auch schon glühen. So, erst lass ich mal 10 Minuten den Motor und die Kühlung laufen, damit ich das Steuer anfassen kann. Es ist kein Scherz, schon viele Babys und Haustiere sind in solchen Folteröfen gestorben. Und nur Vollidioten bestellen sich in Arizona eine schwarze Innenausstattung fürs Auto. So meschugge bin ich noch nicht. Bloß nichts drin liegen lassen, was schmelzen oder explodieren könnte.
Aber was kannst’ machen? Bei so einem Sauwetter jagt man keinen Hund mehr auf die Straße. Hab ich Fieber? Da lebt man wie im Dämmerzustand und Unfähigkeit zu irgendwas so vor sich hin, wie unter eine Glasglocke. Klimakühlung im Haus, im Auto, im Mall, von der Natur keine Spur, lieber nicht, die ist grausam heiß.
Sculpture by Heloise Crista at Taliesin West
Mein Garten ist schon arg vertrocknet trotz Sprinkleranlage. Die Tomaten sind Dörrobst. Sogar den Kakteen wird es zu heiß. Erst als ich die Schattensegel über den Kaktusfeldern im Botanischen Garten wahrnehme, verstehe ich, warum meine Aloepflanze so traurig aussieht. Da brennt es direkt runter auf den Steingarten, gegrillte Aloe also.
Sogar zum Baden ist es zu warm. Im öffentlichen Pool schwimmt man herum wie ein Wienerwürstel in der Erbsensuppe—und das Wasser sieht auch so aus. Nein, danke. Auf dem Salt River kann man sich in einem Autoreifen treiben lassen, nicht schlecht. Aber am besten mit T-Shirt und Trainingshose bedeckt, sonst gibt’s rote Garnelen zum Abendbrot. Solardach haben wir zwar, aber die Zellen kommen mit dem Strom für die Kühlung nicht mehr nach. Kann man nur hoffen, dass das bisschen extra Schatten unter den Platten die Sonne etwas bremst. Auch dem „Sonnendach“ wird die Hitze zu viel.
Barracks at Goldfield Town
Kurz gesagt, Arizona ist ein Winterparadies. Im Sommer gibt es genau drei verschiedene Temperaturen: „hot“, „hotter“, und „bloody hot.“ Arizona ist der einzige Staat, der keine Sommerzeit hat. Wieso? Weil wir ignorieren den Sommer ganz einfach. Deswegen kriegt er auch keine besondere Zeit. Ganz im Gegenteil sind wir froh, wenn die Sonne abends schnellstens wieder abhaut. Wir haben angeblich auch einen „Monsoon“, aber alles was dabei herauskommt sind Blitze und Staubstürme. 
Trotzdem hat Arizona ganz herrliche Regenbögen—einmalig auf der Welt, weil ganz ohne Regen. Ich glaube wir machen die mit Panavision, oder so ähnlich wie ein Feuerwerk.
Na gut, am Wetter kann ich nichts ändern—aber meine Einstellung schon. Jetzt habe ich folgendes probiert: ich habe mein chinesisches Schneesturmposter anmeditiert und mir vorgestellt, es ist Winter. Und es hat funktioniert. Es war wie Weihnachten. So habe ich nichtsdestotrotz gleich Schmalznudeln und Plätzchen gebacken. Ignorieren ist das Beste, was man tun kann, wenn an der Lage nichts zu ändern ist. Aber manchmal wird’s mir trotzdem ganz “Chihuly.”
NOTE: No disrespect intended towards cultures ancient or new, but rock art makes my imagination fly.
When you hike out here in the scenic Sonoran Desert and farther beyond towards New Mexico, you may stumble upon traces of ancient art. On slabs of rock, protected overhangs, or inhabitable caves, humans of times long gone have immortalized themselves on petroglyphs: ancient “graffiti” of the Southwest?
When I come across such rock art, I can’t help but wonder. What were the people of old thinking? Anasazi, Hohokam, and their descendants have depicted wildlife such as stags, turtles, snakes, and birds in prominent places. Mixed in are symbols, concentric circles or spirals, arrows, jagged lines like lightning, and interesting geometric patterns. Of course the human figure always plays an important role too. We can guess from the figure’s attributes what their rank and role may have been. Only guess we can.
I have always been fascinated by petroglyphs. When I look at these sketchy and attractive ideas on the rock in front of me, my mind goes on a time travel. When I look at them long enough, I feel a presence. Or more present about myself?
Many anthropologists have studied petroglyphs for their significance. Life-style, rituals, worries, and worship might be deduced from such stick-figure-like images. It must have been quite cumbersome to chip the images out of the granite; limestone seemed an easier medium for carving. No matter what rock, I conclude that the ancient artists were persistent and their pictures were important to them. It also seems that I can sense the ambition for skilled expression to make the image just “right.”
That makes me wonder even more. Did the ancient ones have “professional” petroglyph makers, specialist who made art for money? Was “petroglyphing” a rogue craft or an underground culture? Were some images chiseled for magic purposes to ward off evil spirits, make the crops grow, or smash the enemy? Was this a calendar documentary to leave a legacy, the history of the tribe? Maybe. How can we know? And then a crazy thought strikes again: What if the ancient ones were just having fun? (Or the elders might sent the troubled individuals for some rock art therapy. Or told the kids, now go get busy, chip some rocks, and draw me a picture.)
Some very strong images have conquered merchandising and government. The Kokopelli flutist, a fertility and growth symbol, has become a mainstream icon. The sun symbol is gracefully adorning the heart of the New Mexico flag. So there must have been some lasting value to these plain engravings. Petroglyph art feels alive and buzzing today. Many hikers such as I go out looking for them to get lucky once in a while.
Our closest petroglyphs are just 30 minutes away in Gold Canyon at the end of the Hieroglyphic Canyon Trail (1 hour hike). Where the trail peters out, we stop in the canyon by the gulch for a rest. It’s such a scenic place, with a view all the way to Phoenix. On the sunny side of the canyon, we marvel at a tapestry of petroglyphs all the way up the rock wall. How did they get so high up there? This idyllic place, the end of the road (?) or a dating cove (?), must have been enjoyed by native people hundreds of years ago just as much.
Another time we toured the Palatki Heritage Site nearby Sedona. This protected cove nestled into an overhang of the Mogollon Rim (mud-brick cliff dwellings nearby) shows many-layered styles of petroglyphs, some perhaps 2000 years old, others superimposed by modern vandals. Defacing ancient art is obviously a despicable act; however, you might see it also as a “response” and “dialog” with artists across ages. Think ahead 1000 years; today’s senseless scribbles might become of interest to future researches. (Right now, they are deplorable.) At Palatki you can see “black” petroglyphs located above a popular fire place. The smoke of ages has adhered to the pictographs, since the rock surface was eagerly absorbing the sooth on the roughened up surface.
Bandelier Monument in New Mexico near Los Alamos is a fascinating site of ancient pueblo/cliff dwellings and petroglyphs. The site was already abandoned when Spanish/European settlement arrived. 
What you can witness there are the remainders of an elaborate architecture and society including plenty of pictographs. A ranger pointed out the drawing of a macaw high in the cliffs. It is assumed that these birds were traded live from Central America. As we modern people try to piece together ancient cultures, we repeatedly discover that these societies were far from “primitive.” So, go see some rock art real soon. It will make you wonder, I hope.
You may want to start your tour with famous petroglyphs “by the roadside” in Albuquerque, Petroglyph National Monument, more Information here.
I met Dan about seven years ago “on the job” for our local Up Close neighborhood newspaper. Dan had just co-authored and published a very interesting book FIND ME in collaboration with retired police officer Kelly Snyder. In Find Me, you have missing and—most likely dead—people being “read” through an international team of psychic investigators.
Bodies were located and cases solved with the help of these rather unconventional investigative methods. Dan’s psychic specialty is map dousing. He asks the universe “yes-or-no” questions while dangling a pendulum over a map. But he also helps search-and-rescue-teams canvas rough terrain with a passion. Dan Baldwin: ghostwriter, adventurer, and medium.
Find Me wasn’t Dan’s first book. But it was probably the first one published with his name on the cover. Dan is a ghostwriter of about 50 titles with other people’s name on them. “As long as they write my name on the check, I am all fine with it,” he jokes in his trademark wry humor.
Since those seven years ago, Dan has published 3 Westerns (CALDERA, CALDERA, A MAN ON FIRE, TRAPP CANYON), 2 murder mysteries (DESECRATION, HERESY), a novel (Sparky and the King), and a movie script in addition to his work for hire. Speaking about prolific, Dan can shake out a good story in about an hour. And he still takes the time to tutor novices like me whose books take on average 10 years.
Once in a while, Dan disappears into the Superstitions wilderness or other epic landscape. He gets ideas out in the desert, where he explores collapsed gold mines, follows the Apaches’ trails, or chances on potsherds and tragic wagon ruts.
And then he writes a book again. Some settings are brawly, ribald Western towns, other scenarios may chase across an archeologist’s field of dreams. And all these colorful worlds are quite tangible and informed, like a painted movie backdrop. Now, I am having trouble with some of Dan’s characters. There are a few awfully evil types, outright vicious villains in his books. Not the typical manslaughter cases but totally rotten demises. I can’t believe that Dan wrote them. He is the nicest guy.
“I wrote one of the bad guys that had it coming after my dentist,” Dan jokes. He delighted in the virtual payback opportunity, and the dentist didn’t mind. It seems? Wait, maybe Dan will find out at the next sacamuelas appointment.
Dan likes to cultivate a solid “bad boy, best friend” reputation. He does have quite a few friends, one of them Harvey, and—no—he is not imaginary. Many in his writers circles, I guess, like Java mornings, plain, black, and strong.
One day, a bunch of us (Georg, my German mystery writer friend, his wife Angelika, and I) went hiking with Dan. He wore his impressive buck-skinner knife on the belt just in case a bear might show. Of course we felt fully protected, or were we?
As the case may be, Dan has been a good sport on a couple of joint projects. A couple of times, he and I had a guest appearance in an elementary school, showing the kids the real world ropes of riding, oops, writing. Just one word after another, but with outline please. And make a good lead sentence to set the tone for the story.
The kids were mightily impressed with Dan’s hat and library full of self-written books. I taught them a bit of journalism. Together we made an excellent desperado author pair. Only that he spoke the more popular language. Although, can he write in German too? I don’t think so, Danny Boy.
Now what other claims to fame must be mentioned? Dan has a website, writes a blog, and is a board member of the Society of Southwestern Authors. And as we speak he might be churning out another braggardy lawyer profile for a trade journal or indulge in a Playboy bunny’s memories. There is no telling with what Dan will do next. Oh, suspense!
Contact Dan at baldco@msn.com