Page 33 - Ninety Miles From Nowhere

emeralds, and my favorites I read over and over — like visiting with old and dear friends.
A first I tried to read in the shade of a tree, but soon became too chilled to be comfortable. I would then move into the sunshine to get warm, but after half an hour there, the direct rays of the sun at this high altitude made me too warm, so back into the shade I’d go. Suddenly I exclaimed aloud, “This is ridiculous!” Besides I wasn’t getting much reading done, zigzagging back and forth that way. I finally solved the problem by sitting in the shade wearing a warm sweater, with a blanket over my lap. More evidence of our deceptive climate.
One of the greatest events was mail day which came only once a week. Instead of driving thirty miles — one way — to pick up the mail at the Beaverhead Post Office, we rented a box at the Magdalena Post Office and put up a large wooden box on the
Beaverhead road. The mail carrier left our big bag of mail in our box on his way to Beaverhead, and picked up our outgoing mail the next morning on his way back to Magdalena.
We greedily read our mail that afternoon and finished the letters we’d been engaged in writing all week. If we received any new mail that required an immediate answer, we had time to write our replies. Then the next morning the bag was taken down to the road for pickup.
Receiving mail was always a joy, but when I was alone it was a veritable Godsend. It was like having Christmas once a week. One week I really hit the jackpot, with
fifteen letters, three packages, and five papers and magazines.
When I had a car I spent considerable time visiting the neighbors — at their invitation. It pleased me that we were free to spend one hour for a visit, one day, or a week if it pleased the both of us.
Soon my solitude was over for awhile when my former landlady at college in Chickasha, Oklahoma, Mrs. Forman, came to visit me. Her husband wouldn’t hear of her driving out here alone — into the “Great Unknown”— so she brought with her an elderly black woman named Sarah. Sarah had once worked for Mrs. Forman’s mother and later for Mrs. Forman. I already knew her, of course, since I had lived in Mrs. Forman’s home for two years.
Sarah had brought along her guitar but steadfastly refused to play and sing anything except religious songs. The trouble was that she jazzed them up to such a foot- tapping tempo that no one would have suspected they were religious in nature.
When she met new people, Sarah always let us know afterward what she thought of them. If she regarded a woman as “po’ white trash,” she spoke of her as “Ole Sal”, but if she thought she was a lady, she called her “Miss Anne.”
Both of the ladies seemed to enjoy their stay while they were there. I think it was the peace and quiet all around us that appealed to so many people, especially those from the city. They stayed two weeks and we kept busy all the time. We took drives in Mrs. Forman’s car, and daily walks up the canyons.