TattleTalesFromABroad: Trekking to Tucson

Okay…I’m backkkkkkk!!! Did anyone miss me?

Lawyers only ask questions when they know the answer. I don’t know the answer to my question…so, if you didn’t miss me or even notice I was gone, now would be the time to be diplomatic and simply nod yes.

“Aw! Thanks. Nice to be back. I missed you like crazy, too!” I'd answer.

Okay, maybe I’m being diplomatic. But, truth be told, I do miss writing and feel a sense of joy, sitting in front of my laptop writing to you again.

Yesterday I decided to do a little Spring cleaning, even though it’s July. I found a box filled to the brim with files. I couldn’t remember what was in each file, so I brought arm-fulls to the dining room, cluttering up my dining room table and began to open each folder gingerly so nothing would fall out.

One of the great joys of being a freelance writer is finding bits and pieces of stories handwritten on napkins, envelopes and scraps of paper. All kinds of creative little treasures yet to be finished that were jotted down in a frenzy a long time ago and forgotten.

I even found the first chapters to two novels I had started way back when. Pretty exciting stuff. The finding that is and hopefully the stories yet to be written.

So in the organized clutter, I found a sweet little story. Well, it’s not exactly a story, more like a detail about moving to Arizona with my family when I was a little girl. Just a little something I’d like to share with you.

When my family moved cross-country from New York to Arizona, I only had my clothes, Barbies, minus one head, and a large pickle jar with two turtles floating haphazardly in water that swished back and forth violently in the car as I held the jar securely on my little girl lap.

I’m sure to the poor turtles the speed at which my father was driving and the way the water was swishing made them feel as though they were in a Tsunami. But, it was literally sink or swim when my father announced one day to my mother without hesitation, “I sold your red convertible. We’re moving to Arizona!” The only option would have been adoption for the little hard shelled pets or the toilet bowl. That being said, I saved the two little creatures from their demise or potential troubled childhood with mean stepsisters and brothers and took them to the wild, wild west.

Mom and Dad were strategically placed in the front seats, naturally. Like who else could drive the car while Mom read the AAA map? I was too young, and besides, my legs weren't long enough to reach the pedals. And remember there wasn’t GPS at that time. Just maps and a compass.

Dickie and I sat in the back seat of the car with towels. Lots of them.

Dickie was Mr. Perfect. I always thought he was Mom’s favorite once Bobby went off to college. He was blessed with brains, good looks and a charismatic smile. Unfortunately the Gods also gave him motion sickness which made the 2,000 mile trip an interesting yet volatile experience for my brother…thus extra towels lined the back seat and floors in the car just in case. And believe me, there were many “just in case” moments.

Once Bobby, head instigator, tickle monster and Barbie decapitator went off to college, Richie a.k.a Dickie- Goodie-Two-Shoes, and I became great pals. Even with the six year age difference. We only had each other as we trekked all the way to Arizona. It was us against the unknown. And as far as I was concerned, my parents though well-intentioned, uprooted us from all things New York and familiar, like friends, Jones Beach, culture and equally important Mallomars.

Traveling cross-country to children in a car for a week was brutal. Technology hadn’t been invented so it was more difficult to stay entertained for more than a nano-second. And so without diversions, the conversation began something like this (and probably from me.)

“Are we almost there yet?”

Well, this died out by day 3. It just seemed to me that we were never going to get there. Wherever there was. I was geographically challenged like my poor father. It was up to my mother and her notorious sense of direction and excellent map reading skills to get us to the desired destination.

So, without CD’s for listening to current music, a DVD player for watching movies, ipods, Ipads, and cell phones, my imagination took flight.

Growing up on Long Island, the land of suburbs and all things green made me wonder what “the desert” would look like. I was convinced Tucson would look like the Sahara desert and kept a watchful eye out for sand dunes as far as the eye could see.

Sand Dunes

Eventually we made it to Scottsdale which was surprisingly beautiful and we vacationed at Mountain Shadows resort for weeks. Talk about Shangri-La. Maybe the move wouldn’t be that bad.

Heidi Goldman at Mountain Shadows

My pale, pasty New York skin was bronze from sunbathing, using a heavy dose of Bain de Sole, the covering of choice in Arizona compared to Coppertone. Coppertone was slathered on the bodies of everyone I knew when we went to Jones Beach in New York plus they also received a complimentary covering, more like a schmear, of sand that filled every pore on their lobsta-red body.

I pictured Lawrence of Arabia and me trudging through a sea of sand on a camel, my head wrapped in a schmattah-like turban with music beginning to crescendo.