The Sun and Mountains Remain

I watered Rob’s garden the other morning. His pint sized raised garden bed is home to some beautiful Swiss Chard, Bok Choy and Beets. They are healthy, happy and loved. Their radiance shines through their glossy leaves and gorgeous colors. “Hello!” they seem to exclaim, “It’s great to be alive!” The leeks are a little shyer, their sprouts growing more slowly as they add to their circular depth in private. I initially thought the leeks were angry but as I contemplated them I realized they are just taking their time to grow deeper and wider into their beings.

As I glanced around the area that is now designated an, “urban renewal” space for small plots of agriculture, I noticed the old Indian School that is pushed back from the intersection that also hosts a small high rise and some non-descript residential buildings. The light rail train moved past and my eyes settled onto a vacant lot adjacent to some condos. It was in that lot that I first remembered Phoenix.

My family traveled through the night in August 1978. I don’t remember much of the trip. My father carried me to the car from my bed at the motel in Searchlight, Nevada. My parents must have told me that we were leaving that little desert town and going to Phoenix to find work because I was not startled by the midnight change in my sleeping location. We didn’t have enough gas money to get back to our house in California and I know my parents hoped for more opportunity in Phoenix. The nighttime travel helped to insure the car wouldn’t overheat but August nights in the desert are hot and when I woke midway through our journey, I was thirsty, hot and disoriented. We pulled off the road and a single streetlight illuminated a closed gas station. We seemed to be there a long time but perhaps my 5 year-old brain miscalculated the length of that seemingly fruitless stop.

That’s all I remember.

Then I woke up.

The front bench seat of that Oldsmobile was staring at me. My sweaty hair was damped to my cheeks. I sat up and looked out the car window to see a far off yard with many people with white shirts. The people I saw milling around looked brown and they contrasted against the red brick buildings. The gate around the yard made me think they might be prisoners. It was early morning and the sun was casting her warm orange glow over sharp mountains that seemed to jut abruptly from the earth. I was alone in the car and glanced around to see where my parents and brother might have gone. I realized I was in the parking lot of a restaurant but I had no idea what the large milk silos were that hugged against the building. They looked like rocket ships to me, yet the restaurant sign displayed a carnation flower, which was confusing given the spacecraft.

I realized I was in Phoenix.

Prisoners. Sun. Mountains. Rockets.

I went inside.

Just like those rockets were not spacecraft but rather large storage towers for milk, the, “prisoners” were no prisoners. Well, not prisoners in the common sense of the word. The Indian School would operate until the early ‘90’s leaving behind a large urban corner lot adjacent to the VA hospital.

This is where I stood watering the garden that was ever so meekly bringing new life into the world. I tearfully wondered at how much had changed since I first arrived here. Not merely with the city itself but also within myself. Years had not just brought age to me but rather a plentitude of experience and hopefully some tendrils of wisdom. I think that empty corner lot feels the same.

I took one last look at those leeks that have yet to know where they are springing up and I wondered if they might feel as equally confused as I did when they awaken and realize they too are in Phoenix.