On the way to Tucson last month I drove past Picacho Peak. A rocky spire just outside the city. The western most battle of the Civil War was fought there in 1862 (never learned about it in school) between a band of Confederate Rangers from Tucson and a Union Calvary patrol. The Union soldiers lost and for a while the Confederate flag flew. Carleton’s California Column took it back without firing a shot. I noted that two of the Union soldiers killed in the previous battle were buried at the National Cemetery in the Presidio, San Francisco.
I am at the age where I’m losing friends more and more often. It feels like the childhood game of musical chairs: when the music stops, someone’s seat is taken.
I read an article about Sally Field interviewed at the new Whitney in NYC. It ends with her thoughts on sex. The star says, Sex is part of a package no matter where in life you are or who you’re with. Society sees as part of that package being very, very young and very, very thin. But I don’t think there is an expiration date, like on a carton of milk. Mother Theresa said, life is a song, sing it.
A trip to Tucson is never complete for me unless a roadrunner appears. My omen of good luck. One ran across the driveway today plume tail up, neck outstretched. I’ve never seen one fly, but they do.