Some Local Arizona Observations and this Christmas past, too

I like a little chicory in my coffee, but found none locally. A person of poor hearing advised me to go to Phoenix, he said they have it there. I was warned that in my quest I should keep my wallet in my pocket, attached to my hand. Others echoed this cautionary sentiment. It seems there is a certain wariness Arizonans have about the lofty estate of Phoenicians. I did find there a great many people ready to take my money; I also found an unusually large collection of politicians, like locusts, in Biblical proportions. True to their nature and through unwanted conversations — they were everywhere and could not be avoided — they reaffirmed my opinion of most politicians that low on their list of civic priorities were widows, orphans, and children, and just about everybody else. I rarely give advice, as I am known for my humility and moderate speech, but there are times when our elected officials need reminding that they are the tail and the voters the rest of the dog. It ill behooves a tail to wag without instruction from that to which it is attached.

As I said, I went to Phoenix for chicory on advice of a deaf man, and found my request misunderstood, for I found instead chicanery — this is not an additive I would ever put in my coffee. However, in one respect of the many warnings given me, it is the shiftiness of Phoenicians to which I must speak. In this they have been maligned. It is their yards — front and back — and side yards, too, sometimes — which cannot be trusted. Phoenicians have built themselves harmonious, solid domiciles, but on shifty property. In a good wind, vast acreages of prime real estate rise up, and with nary a look down whoosh their way to Florence. I understand the new State Penitentiary there has had to add another story as the ground floor has become a basement. I have also heard it reported, but do not believe it to be true, that in Florence funerals are cheaper than elsewhere; they dig no holes in their cemeteries — the deceased are simply laid out on the ground in an appropriate funereal state, while the bereaved have but a little wait before Phoenix buries them.

You are probably asking yourselves when will I get around to saying more about Christmas? I had a nephew, long beyond the age of a child, who thought of me as a surrogate Santa Claus. In an unlearned hand (he was from that side of the family), he wrote me a Christmas request. It was an unusual request, but with some effort I managed to meet it. When we met sometime later, he approached me angrily and demanded how I could use him and the United States Post Office in such a repulsive, unforgivable manner. I told him calmly that I had generously acceded to his request and did not understand his unkindly attitude. Was the quantity wrong? It turns out I misread his irregular hand; he had written me for a red hat, not a dead cat. I no longer take written requests.

M.T. (deceased)