How to Be Alive
August 1, 2008
Blue morning, I wander out barefoot and find my spot beneath the tallest Arizona Ash tree. Once, this tree lost half its limbs in a storm, but it’s still the tallest. Settling in, rackety thoughts silence until quiet enough for me to ask and hear answers. Dad always said we walk around like zombies, most of us, working but not really living. I need to figure out how to be alive, so I remember a time when he was.
We woke up before sunrise and pulled on our running shoes for a quick jog up the dirt road, working up a good sweat, our three dogs surprising cottontails and roadrunners along the way. On that particular morning in August the busy sky distracted any driver along the road. Thunderheads sprouted in the East and sunlight striped pink and morning glory blue. Just barely making it to the cattleguard, with a grateful glance up I turned and headed back home, now just a few paces behind my Dad.
After all the gardening chores were done, my Dad and I rested in his unfinished house on the hill. He had been building us a place on the ranch for years but the going was slow. He had other jobs to do, and there was no electric power all the way out there “off the grid. ” Today was especially slow because of the monsoon humidity. The air was quiet and still, except for the sound of a solar powered football game on TV. Dad sat sinking into the blue velveteen couch, a condensing Coors in his hand. I’d been playing Barbie dolls on the cold tile floor, when all of a sudden I heard a crackle. A flash of light sprinted across the sky, and my Dad yelled, “Lucy, get out here! ” He was already outside, barefoot in the gravel. We looked down South toward Mexico and watched as, within minutes, the distant mountain ridges turned gray, their outlines blurring until we couldn’t tell whether the lines we saw were the land or the water. “This’ll be a good one. Maybe an inch! We sure need it. ” The gully washers, the turd floaters, always found their way, eventually, to the ranch. You just had to be patient, endure the drought. Because after it “rained like a cow pissin’ on a flat rock, ” everything was ok again. The grass came up within minutes. The cows had feed and, best of all, I could take a break from watering corn for one day.
Inside, the house had cooled and wind blew in from all directions. The few windows that did have glass repelled a wall of water moving in fast. My Dad’s eyes lit up, his whole body tightened and jumped as he ran from window to window. We spent the next hour hootin’ and hollerin’ and getting wet in the rain. Finally, we stood at the biggest picture window and stared in calm joy as the water knocked on the glass, like a visitor wanting to come in, raindrop pellets shooting perpendicular arrows into the structure. The “real” monsoons all came from Mexico eight miles South. Not from the West as some may say. To the West presides I’itoi, the Tohono Odom Creator god. According to legend, he lives on top of the tallest mountain, Baboquivori Peak. Growing up out there, no matter how high we hiked, the Baboquivori Peak seemed parallel, at eye level, our mythical Olympus.
But on the day my Dad died, I didn’t feel a drop. I was actually at the ranch that day and not by his side in the city, but in his house. My sister and I had been waiting for his coma to end for six days. She took up the bedside vigil while I returned home for him. On that day, the clouds built themselves up in the stillness and sweat of the sky. The land held its arms wide open, waiting to catch the first drop. All day the desert waited. The pond looked up into the black-bellied clouds. The mountains reached up in an attempt to pierce a small hole, and the rattlesnake tongues tasted only slight moisture in the air. Nope. The sun set, the clouds closed up shop, and the frogs didn’t sing that night. Patience.
All his life, my Dad kept his eyes on the sky, looking for rain. “You see how those clouds are moving in from the South? ” He’d say, “That’s what we need. ” A cowboy sometime carpenter, he spent most of his time outside. Bending over toes, impossibly balanced on the parapet of a fifteen foot rooftop, somehow he managed to watch the building clouds. He’d keep his eyes on the job at hand, pounding nails one two three, but all other senses followed the sun, the clouds, the passing day. Evening he’d sit silently with a cold beer and wait.
“Is it going to rain today, Dad? ”
“No good, ” his chin bent down, his head shaking slowly.
When I went North to college, our telephone calls were primarily about the rain, or the lack. “Been gettin’ any rain down there, Dad? ”
“Hell no. It’s not hot enough, ” and he’d be pissed because he knew exactly where and when the clouds had to build. He could tell by the heat on his skin if the conditions were right. And damn it, the weather wouldn’t cooperate. “These clouds are just going to fizzle out, ” he’d report. I knew what he was waiting for. I’d been there with him when great monsoons hit, but it’s true most of ‘em did just pass on by.
On the third day after his passing, we had a service in the community center. Everyone was saying nice things about Chris Clarke, while I sat in the front row, needing to pee, suffering in the sweltering inside space. The thunderheads grew tall outside while the town sang songs. Danced. Afterwards, we all convoyed back to the ranch. The house on the hill, now complete with glass in all the windows, glowed in peace. I should have recognized the stillness.
My Dad’s storm, the one he built with his life, moved in fast. He was more than a man barefoot on the gravel now. He was in control. I’itoi gave him the go ahead and he manifested the storm he had always envisioned. For us, he opened up heaven and threw down one hell of a storm. Out of the South, huge thunderheads rolled over each other, tumbling into our little party. The mountains disappeared behind visible waves of falling water. I stood swaying on the back porch wall and watched as the rain blew in. My friends made a chain with me as the wind whipped around our skirts, and we giggled like silly girls as the three mountains in the East disappeared one by one. The wind blew hard, playfully trying to knock us down. Thunder and lightning took turns, but sometimes hit simultaneously, real close. Soon, the creek was bringing water up from Southern canyons. The wind blew in gales, tearing out trees and dead branches. Before it passed, I turned and faced the storm head on. I caught its breath in my hair and in my lungs. I caught that breath and it almost knocked me down.
After the tremendous rain, the hills reappeared, looking greener already. As the guests were leaving, I walked down the hill toward the old Ash tree. Along the way, I could see that the storm had done a lot of damage. Tall grass laid flat, huge branches rolled down the flooding creek. Rounding the bend, I saw a clear hole in the sky where my Ash tree should have been. I took slow steps forward until, there, at my feet lay the delicate tree tops that had once waved fifty feet in the air. A brilliant white stripe of exposed wood cut down the center of the ash. One half still stood while the other half lay beside it, torn down the middle. I lifted my eyes and saw that many other neighboring branches and small trees had fallen with it. In disbelief I stared at the destruction, imagining the crashing sounds no one had heard. I sat down and started covering myself in dirt. For the next few months I had no interest in being alive.
So here I am with my tree thinking that over, but I don’t hear any miracle answers. Except maybe just run and watch the sky, patiently. Fall and rise again. With a grateful smile, I get up, dust off my jeans and head on back up the hill, only a few paces behind my Dad.
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4 Responses to “How to Be Alive”
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Maggie, Thanks for printing Lisa’s story. The 10th anniversery of Chris’s passing has special meaning to us. But I believe this may be the seed Lisa has needed to continue to write the stories she holds. Her Clarke family has left her with lots to tell.
Your hard work is appreciated by us every month, as we search out our copies from various spots in southern arizona. Thank you and your writers for all you do to keep us on the same wave length.
WOW!!! I had no idea Lisa was a writer……That was just amazing!!!!!
What a beautifully written and touching story Lisa. You’ve managed to capture his soul with your brief words and bring back memories of Chris being a gentle person and a loving father. I’m sure everyone would love to see more of your writing so don’t stop now. As your Dad would say, “We sure need it!”
Beautiful writing, Lisa. I miss your dad.
ps, keep writing