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Greetings fellow Gardeners,
Isn’t it beautiful when the wildflowers bloom after a rainfall, even in the arid desert landscape? Where did they come from? How did the seeds survive all this time? We take these appearances for granted without even asking any questions. But this is a miracle of life right in view and often overlooked—and it happens in all gardens.
This spring I have already found in our gardens: hundreds of sunflowers, Hopi red amaranth, many varieties of lettuce, arugula, kohlrabi, collards, broccoli, spinach, radish, Swiss chard, Chinese cabbage, squash, beets, carrots, cucumber, melons, tomatoes, fennel bulbs, garlic, onions, sweet potatoes, leeks, tomatoes, parsley, cilantro, basil, peppers, purslane, lemon balm, hollyhocks, larkspur, Johnny-jump-ups, even peach and other fruit trees. So many more will come as it gets warmer, culminating in the monsoon rains.
I am sure that you too have noticed that in your gardens certain plants show up in various places without your planting them there. These are the special treasures of all gardens. They are coming voluntarily and sometimes abundantly—especially if you left plants like lettuce that were going to seed or allowed plants like cucumbers to over ripen. In larger gardens the weeds can overtake some areas and bury some of the vegetables whose seeds mix in with the soil without you even noticing. Hidden underneath they mature and ripen. It’s a volunteer spirit that is quite vigorous and healthy. It shows a life-force bigger than any ordinary planted seed or transplant. It gained survival status and lets everybody know that it can outshine everything. Some of the seed may have been brought from far away by birds and other animals like javalinas and left with their droppings. The wind too can carry some seeds for miles.
Sometimes one must wonder how these seeds made it through all of the season changes. For me it’s proof of a well thought out creation with a master plan by a Master designer, creator—a true Master Gardener. If you ever find time to study seeds and learn of plants original homes, you would be amazed of the stories we know and as well as what we don’t know. Since the Santa Cruz River Valley has been farmed and harvested for over 4000 years—some believe 10,000 or more—we have a long heritage of the volunteer spirit.
This year I am asking you to Be Aware and not to pull all your “weeds” or “unwanted” plants but to pause and give them a second thought. Maybe some of these plants will beautify and eventually naturalize if you let them grow and seed again. There are some magnificent vegetable flowers which become amazing seed stalks that can move you to praise the Creator of all. Even certain weeds like the wild amaranth, lambsquarters, dandelion, elderberry, tree tobacco, devil’s claw and poppies can become habitat for a diversity of butterflies, birds, lizards and insects. Some of these weeds are edible and medicinal too. Naturalized gardens can be quite beautiful and with a little touch of design can become an integral part of the overall landscape, exemplifying the true principle of permaculture.
Sometimes I get to know people who come from far away but somehow were moved to live here. Often we call them transplants. But I notice also something in certain personalities: an inner drive, a survivor’s wisdom, a calling for a greater purpose, an understanding of everlasting spirit, a trust and faith that brings hope to others who might not have it. Be Aware of these volunteers of the spirit of life because they bring so much joy, peace, patience, love, understanding, and wisdom—just like the wildflowers that appear after a good rain in the desert. Appreciate them more and support them by allowing them to thrive. You can provide them a good home in your gardens, and in your introspective moments you might catch the Spirit of a Volunteer yourself.
We invite all of you to visit Avalon Organic Gardens, Farm and Ranch from May 7 through May 10, during our BeAware Festival (www.beaware2010.org/festival). You will meet an abundance of plant and human volunteers to cheer you up, to rethink about what really matters in life. We are also launching our first week of our Community Supported Deo-Agriculture (CSA) season (www.avalongardens.org/csa ). After several years of adjusting to our new home, we are now able to offer it all year.
I hope to see many of you at our sanctuary of volunteers in Tumacacori,
Tarenta Baldeschi (Change Agent )
I have had some visitors lately. A couple of weeks ago, when the dogs were barking, I looked out to see two migrants standing in the shade of a tree in the corral. As I approached one raised his empty jug and said, in perfect English, “Ma’am, may we please have some water?” he then offered me a $100 bill for food. I told him to keep his money, but took the opportunity to ask a few questions. He and a young man from his village in Southern Mexico had been traveling for three days and they had been afraid to show themselves but were out of water and were starving. He had worked for 10 years in Visalia, California picking vegetables and is finding it hard to return to his job after he goes home to see his family. If he is caught now he will spend three months in jail so he is happy to hear that he is three miles north of the new Border Patrol checkpoint on 1-19 and one mile east of the Arivaca Road checkpoint. After profuse thank-yous and blessings they continue on their way in the warm afternoon sun.
Four days later I am watching a movie in the evening with a friend when the dogs start up a ruckus that gets close to the house. I flip the porch light on and we see at least ten desperate men using the hose spigot inside the garden gate. They were drinking like their lives depended on it. One man waved his arms at me and said, in perfect English, “Please, we just need water, please”. We watch, stunned and apprehensive as they gulped water and filled their jugs in the glare of the porch lamp. I realize I may have helped the leader a few years ago for him to know where the water spigot was and to take the risk of coming in to use it. With a grateful wave they staggered off into the pitch black night, other farm workers going to their jobs.
My questions are: Why aren’t these guys riding a bus to their jobs with a guest workers’ permit in their pocket? Why do these people, who pick our food that we eat, have to sneak in under the cover of darkness with death-by-dehydration and/or starvation hanging over their heads? And what, exactly, do the Border Patrol check points do?
On April 14, 2010, my two friends and I headed to Tucson to pick-up a cat that was ill and bring him into Lyle at the church that afternoon. Off we went, as far as the checkpoint that is. Young polite officer asked the question, “U.S. citizen?”
“Yes.”
“All of you?”
“Yes.”
He then nodded for us to go.
Then officer T. Collins tapped on the passenger front side window, startling the passenger who is looking at other officer and ahead.
“What country were you born in?”
“Alaska,” was her startled reply, “The Haida Nation.”
Officer Collin then came around to the driver–who was me—and stated that he already knew who I was and where I lived.
“Well, then there shouldn’t be any problem, you know we’re residents of Arivaca and most of all, of the U.S.”
The next words out of Officer Collins mouth were, “Pull to the side,” while flipping through his little green book. As we pulled up, a cruiser was sent to cut us off, as if we were flight risks. From there things only escalated. Officer Collins then informed us that he was gonna search the car – and that he did – several times, between interrogation of the three suspects, who are now in disbelief, and one of them is getting pretty angry at the intimidation tactics and threats of incarceration.
Another search. After that Officer Collins called in a K-9 Unit. Officer DeCarle arrived with the same enthusiasm. Coming to a screeching halt from 60 miles an hour, the door opens and up pops officer DeCarle. “Put those f*****g cameras away or I’ll have you handcuffed!” Cameras away. DeCarle then got his dog, which to some people might be scary. The dog went in and out of the car and trunk as many times as officer Collins had, DeCarle and Collins then informed us that a female officer was coming for a full body search.
Then they search the car one more time, put the dog away and inform us we can go. Purses dumped, papers flying, trunk dismantled. As we gathered ourselves the two officers stood behind me at the trunk of the car, just smiling as I picked up my stuff from ground. Offocer DeCarle then stated “Don’t leave no junk from your trunk there,” and walked on by to his truck and sped away. I have never been more ashamed of our Homeland Security. There was an apology by Officer Collins an hour and a half later. “Oh yeah, sorry,” and with a smile that we hadn’t seen previously, “Good luck with that cat” (he was informed during the interrogation that Jolene’s 15-year-old cat was to be euthanized).
The next day I got the Border Patrol number from our Xanthous Pages—disconnected with no further information. Next step the Internet—several listings with same number. I finally got a person on the line. He doesn’t know who you call for complaints, he’s with public affairs and everyone has gone home. There was no answer at the number he gave me. Who do you tell on Homeland Security? Homeland Security?
After two months of covering old crimes in Arivaca, perhaps it is time to turn to the law.
One of the streets in Arivaca, over on the west side, is named Paul Street. Chances are, this is named after a well-known Sheriff of Pima County, Robert H. Paul. Or at least you would think that. However, the owner of an Arivaca homestead, just west of town on the Refuge property, was Robert J. Paul, the son of the Sheriff. So perhaps it would take some serious investigation to find out just which one the street is named for. Robert H. Paul, a native of Massachusetts, came to Arizona in 1877 as an employee of Wells Fargo, and decided to stay. Having had several years of experience as a sheriff in California, Paul decided to contend for the Pima County Sheriff position. It took some doing, as ballot box-stuffing was a common practice. After it was all over (a story worth reading) Paul had won, a position he held from 1881-1886. As Sheriff he was fearless and tenacious in his pursuit of the lawless, which included Doc Holliday and the Earps. At 6 foot 6” he was larger than life. In 1881 Cochise County split off from Pima County, relieving him of a large and difficult territory. In 1890 he became U. S. Marshall for the Territory, and held that post until 1893, after which he served as Justice of the Peace in Tucson. He passed away in 1901.
Around the turn of the 20th century, there being so much smuggling along the border and lawlessness in general, the Territorial Legislature decided to create a company of Rangers, along the same line as those in Texas. This took effect March 21, 1901. According to Joseph Miller, “Arizona towns scattered along the border were the daily scenes of murders and fierce personal encounters, and the smugglers and cattle rustlers were grown so bold as to ply their business openly…so well organized were these men that the few civil officers and scattered troops of the U. S. Cavalry were powerless against them. ”* The Arizona Rangers were chosen from (mostly) cowboys who knew the border range and were good shots. They were to patrol the territory, especially the border, catch those fleeing from the law and break up the smuggling rings. Burton Mossman was chosen to be the first captain. It was he who chose the first 14 Rangers. Later that number was increased but never to a large number. Mossman held his position for a year, and was replaced by Thomas Rynning. The only known local person who became an Arizona Ranger was Charles Eperson of Oro Blanco, a relative by marriage of Alonzo Noon. The Rangers’ duty was to uncover smuggling and other illegal operations, catch and transport the alleged criminals to the nearest law enforcement officer. At this they were very successful, and reports showed that several hundred errants were arrested each year. This was during the unsettled years before the Mexican Revolution when Emilio Kosterlitzky’s rurales patrolled the other side of the line. In 1905, Rynning reported: “The most cordial relations exist with the Mexican authorities who have at all times assisted and cooperated with us in the pursuit of criminals and the recovery of stolen property taken into Mexico. We have always followed fugitives into Mexico and the International line is no longer a protection for criminals from Arizona. ” Times have changed.
J. T. “Rye” Miles was Sheriff of Pima County from 1917-20. He had come to Arizona from Texas as a cowboy and joined the Arizona Rangers. After they shut down in 1909, he worked as a livestock inspector. (One of his relatives lived in Arivaca about that same time—J. T. Chambers worked at the Arivaca Ranch for several years.) Rye is mentioned (with a photo) in California Cowboys when he was working a big Arivaca roundup in his capacity as livestock inspector. Rye Miles was elected Sheriff of Pima County in 1916 and held the post until 1920. He passed away in Casa Grande where he served as Town Marshall and Constable.
The following references are available from the Library: *The Arizona Rangers, edited by Joseph Miller, California Cowboys by Dane Coolidge, Arizona Sheriffs: badges and bad men by Jane Eppinga, and Robert Havlin Paul: Frontier lawman: the Arizona years by Roy B. Young. Also visit the Arizona Rangers room in the 1904 Courthouse in Nogales.
After two months of covering old crimes in Arivaca, perhaps it is time to turn to the law.
One of the streets in Arivaca, over on the west side, is named Paul Street. Chances are, this is named after a well-known Sheriff of Pima County, Robert H. Paul. Or at least you would think that. However, the owner of an Arivaca homestead, just west of town on the Refuge property, was Robert J. Paul, the son of the Sheriff. So perhaps it would take some serious investigation to find out just which one the street is named for. Robert H. Paul, a native of Massachusetts, came to Arizona in 1877 as an employee of Wells Fargo, and decided to stay. Having had several years of experience as a sheriff in California, Paul decided to contend for the Pima County Sheriff position. It took some doing, as ballot box-stuffing was a common practice. After it was all over (a story worth reading) Paul had won, a position he held from 1881-1886. As Sheriff he was fearless and tenacious in his pursuit of the lawless, which included Doc Holliday and the Earps. At 6 foot 6” he was larger than life. In 1881 Cochise County split off from Pima County, relieving him of a large and difficult territory. In 1890 he became U. S. Marshall for the Territory, and held that post until 1893, after which he served as Justice of the Peace in Tucson. He passed away in 1901.
Around the turn of the 20th century, there being so much smuggling along the border and lawlessness in general, the Territorial Legislature decided to create a company of Rangers, along the same line as those in Texas. This took effect March 21, 1901. According to Joseph Miller, “Arizona towns scattered along the border were the daily scenes of murders and fierce personal encounters, and the smugglers and cattle rustlers were grown so bold as to ply their business openly…so well organized were these men that the few civil officers and scattered troops of the U. S. Cavalry were powerless against them. ”* The Arizona Rangers were chosen from (mostly) cowboys who knew the border range and were good shots. They were to patrol the territory, especially the border, catch those fleeing from the law and break up the smuggling rings. Burton Mossman was chosen to be the first captain. It was he who chose the first 14 Rangers. Later that number was increased but never to a large number. Mossman held his position for a year, and was replaced by Thomas Rynning. The only known local person who became an Arizona Ranger was Charles Eperson of Oro Blanco, a relative by marriage of Alonzo Noon. The Rangers’ duty was to uncover smuggling and other illegal operations, catch and transport the alleged criminals to the nearest law enforcement officer. At this they were very successful, and reports showed that several hundred errants were arrested each year. This was during the unsettled years before the Mexican Revolution when Emilio Kosterlitzky’s rurales patrolled the other side of the line. In 1905, Rynning reported: “The most cordial relations exist with the Mexican authorities who have at all times assisted and cooperated with us in the pursuit of criminals and the recovery of stolen property taken into Mexico. We have always followed fugitives into Mexico and the International line is no longer a protection for criminals from Arizona. ” Times have changed.
J. T. “Rye” Miles was Sheriff of Pima County from 1917-20. He had come to Arizona from Texas as a cowboy and joined the Arizona Rangers. After they shut down in 1909, he worked as a livestock inspector. (One of his relatives lived in Arivaca about that same time—J. T. Chambers worked at the Arivaca Ranch for several years.) Rye is mentioned (with a photo) in California Cowboys when he was working a big Arivaca roundup in his capacity as livestock inspector. Rye Miles was elected Sheriff of Pima County in 1916 and held the post until 1920. He passed away in Casa Grande where he served as Town Marshall and Constable.
The following references are available from the Library: *The Arizona Rangers, edited by Joseph Miller, California Cowboys by Dane Coolidge, Arizona Sheriffs: badges and bad men by Jane Eppinga, and Robert Havlin Paul: Frontier lawman: the Arizona years by Roy B. Young. Also visit the Arizona Rangers room in the 1904 Courthouse in Nogales.
This month, thoughts of farming are overshadowed by the death of my grandfather.
My Papa was our first dance partner. Standing on his cowboy boots with bare feet, our hands wrapped around his thumbs, my and I sisters waltzed and two-stepped. We danced to the rhythms of his harmonica and to the um-pa-pa of his accordion and, as he sat, legs crossed, we perched on his boot, bouncing and laughing, pretending we were riding a horse.
On dark, cold, snowy Christmas mornings, Papa made sure we believed in Santa Claus. Jingle bells and pounding on the roof could have only been reindeer and a sleigh! His hands helped to build our first home and he was our hero in his big yellow truck that he used to plow the snow out of our driveway and, once, to rescue our school bus that was stuck in a snow drift. He loved to fish and taught us how to thread wriggly worms onto a hook. As adults, Papa eyed our boyfriends with skepticism. When he met Stewart over 20 years ago, my future husband had long hair, a tie-dyed t-shirt and was driving a pink and purple striped truck. “Why don’t you ride with me? ” Papa said, taking me firmly by the arm. I smiled over my shoulder as I walked away from Stewart, feeling honored to be protected by my Papa, who I knew would sit down with Stewart soon enough and would approve.
When I walk into the garage at my grandparent’s log home on Lake Ida in Alexandria, Minnesota, I pause and inhale deeply. My sisters do the same and we smile at one another. They know. We have spoken of it many times before – how the smells of Mama and Papa’s home never change and the first whiffs upon arrival – always after a grueling, long trip – bring back flashes of memory going back to our earliest years. And, over there, where it always is, waits Papa’s chair and a spare for a visitor or maybe one of us, and a side table with his collection of pipes. Here we would sit and talk endlessly as he puffed. That sweet smell of tobacco, too, was the smell of fond memories. Then the door to the entry is opened. The screen door bangs its familiar greeting as we step into the living room, our luggage in tote. “We’re here, Mama! ” we shout, looking around the living room at the furniture that we have sat in for decades. We briefly marvel, once again, how nothing has changed – the rug where we played with dolls and Lincoln Logs (that are in a box in the loft) is the same and is where, more recently, we watched our own kids – the great grandchildren – play with the same well worn toys. The staircase to the loft is in front of us and I am so happy that I will be sleeping up there instead of in the new bedroom that was put in the basement. I will climb those stairs tonight – stairs that I used to slide down on my bottom – to sleep in the loft where I will be able to hear the comforting tones of conversation continuing in the kitchen below but will not be able to make out words as I drift into sleep. Beside my bed I know I will find a basket of children’s books that will include, along with a few recent additions, worn copies of Ferdinand the Bull and Miss Lucy which I will be sure to read before heading back to Arizona.
Through the picture window in the kitchen, we can see the lake and it is magnificent. The ice, we are told, has just melted, and now the water is choppy and rough. It will be too cold for a swim this trip, but we will dare each other and will walk down the hill to the dock and perhaps stick in a big toe, just to say we did. Squirrels busily hop and scamper precariously from tiny branch to tinier branch on the maples that frame the lake view. The trees are still leafless from winter and I can see more of the lake from the kitchen window than I can on most visits which are in the summer – July or August, when a break from Arizona heat is needed and the lake will be warm enough for swimming.
We sit in the familiar chairs of the kitchen where everyone gathers, even if it gets too crowded and someone has to sit on the floor. Cousins will stop by, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews and friends – “We could sit in the living room, I suppose, ” Mama will say at some point, but we won’t move. We will visit and talk and laugh while we sip coffee and sample new recipes and stuff ourselves full of my Aunt Sam’s homemade bread – still hot from the oven, or Aunts Doris’ “hot dish” (a Minnesota word for casserole). So much is the same this sweet, wonderful place locked in time and I feel embraced like a child, comfortable and safe within these walls, surrounded by family. A sanctuary preserved to which I have always been able to return, but this time things have changed.
Now, Papa’s chair in the kitchen is empty with his fishing journals in a basket on the floor. His tools in the garage are untouched and his boots are on a shelf in his closet. Papa’s garden is ready for spring planting of potatoes and peas so we help my Aunt Sam who has decided to double the size of the plot this year. We till, pound in fence posts, string chicken wire and stake out rows. Most significantly, we all join forces to remove a giant rock that Papa and Aunt Sam gave up on every spring and cheer as the boulder was finally dislodged.
That night I go to bed listening to soft voices coming from the kitchen as I have done so many times. The log house creaks as it settles and when someone walks through the house it sounds just like the shuffling of Papa’s boots and I drift into slumber.
Agua Linda Farm
520-398-3218
Stewart@AguaLindaFarm.net
www.AguaLindaFarm.net
P.O. Box 975, Amado, AZ.
85645
Agua Linda Farm Journal – May
This month, thoughts of farming are overshadowed by the death of my grandfather.
My Papa was our first dance partner. Standing on his cowboy boots with bare feet, our hands wrapped around his thumbs, my and I sisters waltzed and two-stepped. We danced to the rhythms of his harmonica and to the um-pa-pa of his accordion and, as he sat, legs crossed, we perched on his boot, bouncing and laughing, pretending we were riding a horse.
On dark, cold, snowy Christmas mornings, Papa made sure we believed in Santa Claus. Jingle bells and pounding on the roof could have only been reindeer and a sleigh! His hands helped to build our first home and he was our hero in his big yellow truck that he used to plow the snow out of our driveway and, once, to rescue our school bus that was stuck in a snow drift. He loved to fish and taught us how to thread wriggly worms onto a hook. As adults, Papa eyed our boyfriends with skepticism. When he met Stewart over 20 years ago, my future husband had long hair, a tie-dyed t-shirt and was driving a pink and purple striped truck. “Why don’t you ride with me? ” Papa said, taking me firmly by the arm. I smiled over my shoulder as I walked away from Stewart, feeling honored to be protected by my Papa, who I knew would sit down with Stewart soon enough and would approve.
When I walk into the garage at my grandparent’s log home on Lake Ida in Alexandria, Minnesota, I pause and inhale deeply. My sisters do the same and we smile at one another. They know. We have spoken of it many times before – how the smells of Mama and Papa’s home never change and the first whiffs upon arrival – always after a grueling, long trip – bring back flashes of memory going back to our earliest years. And, over there, where it always is, waits Papa’s chair and a spare for a visitor or maybe one of us, and a side table with his collection of pipes. Here we would sit and talk endlessly as he puffed. That sweet smell of tobacco, too, was the smell of fond memories. Then the door to the entry is opened. The screen door bangs its familiar greeting as we step into the living room, our luggage in tote. “We’re here, Mama! ” we shout, looking around the living room at the furniture that we have sat in for decades. We briefly marvel, once again, how nothing has changed – the rug where we played with dolls and Lincoln Logs (that are in a box in the loft) is the same and is where, more recently, we watched our own kids – the great grandchildren – play with the same well worn toys. The staircase to the loft is in front of us and I am so happy that I will be sleeping up there instead of in the new bedroom that was put in the basement. I will climb those stairs tonight – stairs that I used to slide down on my bottom – to sleep in the loft where I will be able to hear the comforting tones of conversation continuing in the kitchen below but will not be able to make out words as I drift into sleep. Beside my bed I know I will find a basket of children’s books that will include, along with a few recent additions, worn copies of Ferdinand the Bull and Miss Lucy which I will be sure to read before heading back to Arizona.
Through the picture window in the kitchen, we can see the lake and it is magnificent. The ice, we are told, has just melted, and now the water is choppy and rough. It will be too cold for a swim this trip, but we will dare each other and will walk down the hill to the dock and perhaps stick in a big toe, just to say we did. Squirrels busily hop and scamper precariously from tiny branch to tinier branch on the maples that frame the lake view. The trees are still leafless from winter and I can see more of the lake from the kitchen window than I can on most visits which are in the summer – July or August, when a break from Arizona heat is needed and the lake will be warm enough for swimming.
We sit in the familiar chairs of the kitchen where everyone gathers, even if it gets too crowded and someone has to sit on the floor. Cousins will stop by, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews and friends – “We could sit in the living room, I suppose, ” Mama will say at some point, but we won’t move. We will visit and talk and laugh while we sip coffee and sample new recipes and stuff ourselves full of my Aunt Sam’s homemade bread – still hot from the oven, or Aunts Doris’ “hot dish” (a Minnesota word for casserole). So much is the same this sweet, wonderful place locked in time and I feel embraced like a child, comfortable and safe within these walls, surrounded by family. A sanctuary preserved to which I have always been able to return, but this time things have changed.
Now, Papa’s chair in the kitchen is empty with his fishing journals in a basket on the floor. His tools in the garage are untouched and his boots are on a shelf in his closet. Papa’s garden is ready for spring planting of potatoes and peas so we help my Aunt Sam who has decided to double the size of the plot this year. We till, pound in fence posts, string chicken wire and stake out rows. Most significantly, we all join forces to remove a giant rock that Papa and Aunt Sam gave up on every spring and cheer as the boulder was finally dislodged.
That night I go to bed listening to soft voices coming from the kitchen as I have done so many times. The log house creaks as it settles and when someone walks through the house it sounds just like the shuffling of Papa’s boots and I drift into slumber.
