100 E. Soto Street. Willcox, AZ August 12, 2011

While driving in downtown Willcox, I saw a small, old gas station that was converted into a hobby shop that’s been out-of-business some time now.  The building was painted entirely white expect for a red and blue rocket ship painted vertically on the side of the building.  I placed, photographed and documented #120 on a window sill not far from where the rocket ship was painted.  An art piece alongside a rocket ship -  “the sky is the limit.”                   Ooooooooh!     
  

Tractor between Stadium and Arena Way Roads. Thatcher, AZ August 10, 2011

I placed, photographed and documented #119 on an old rusty tractor I drive by often throughout the course of a day seeing patients.

Hubbard Cemetery - Graham County, AZ August 10, 2011

When I’m driving down Safford-Bryce Road I often go by a gravel road that goes to the top of a hill.  At the top of the hill is Hubbard Cemetery.  Curiosity got the better of me so I turned on to that road to check out this cemetery.  One knows that they are out in the country when signs are used for target practice.  The sign, “Hubbard Cemetery.  Hours open 6:00am – 9:00pm.”  was riddled with bullet holes. 

I parked at the entrance and got out of my SUV.  I decided to talk a walk through the cemetery since today’s summer sun was shaded by cumulus clouds anchored in the sky.  A grave stone caught my attention.  It read, “Mosiah Lyman Reed Hancock – April 9, 1854 – January 14, 1907 – Grandfather.”   Now this was a guy who was around these them parts when the local Indian Wars were in progress.  I placed, photographed and documented #118 next to his grave stone.  So badly I wish he could somehow tell me his stories.  However, for now, rest in peace.     
  

 

445 Haskell, Willcox, AZ August 12, 2011

Up and down the main drag of the city of Willcox is occupied by handful of motels that are now out of business.  A few have been converted into low income housing.  A tiny room to live in, however, it’s at the right price for someone’s budget.  Every now and then I have to visit one of my patients in these cozy abodes that once were a refuse for couples having lurid affairs or perhaps a visitor to Rex Allen Days’ festivities.

I placed, photographed and documented #117 at was once the front door to the manager’s office.  The quaint collection of white, cement- block cottages with stucco roofs were now a home to “art.”  The new tenants consisted of one plastic cowboy and one plastic indian.  They just checked in for a bit of tourism and adventure.  “Welcome to Willcox – the home of singing cowboy Rex Allen.”                                    

Joe's Furniture Co. Truck, Duncan, AZ July 18, 2011

I usually prefer to place my cowboy and indian art pieces only on cloudy days during the middle of summer.  It’s hot enough already without the sun beating down on one’s body.  Whenever I leave my vehicle for only brief periods of time, I leave the air-conditioning running full blast.  Then I take large, portable sun shades which I prop up inside the vehicle’s windshield.

Yesterday, I bought a pair of black flip-flops encrusted with huge crystals and rhinestones to wear on my feet.  Normally, I don’t ever wear anything but cowboy boots whether it is hot outside or not.  However, when it comes to sparkle and bling, a true cowgirl can never have enough of it.  Whether it comes from Tiffany’s or the Dollar Store – we love our bling!  However, this is not the best footwear when it comes scouting a perfect location for an art piece placement.  One is never sure when they might step into a rocky space scattered with rust metal or a snoozing rattlesnake.  

Today I met with a patient in a sparse housing “subdivision” in Greenlee County.  As I drove through it, I saw a beat-up and graffiti painted old pick-up truck.  I could see large lettering on the original paint job.  This was once a truck for “Joe’s Furniture Company – Clifton/Morenci.”  It had no front grill, smashed windows, flat tires and no door in the back.  Joe’s Furniture Company is now non-existent.  I have no clue of it ever existing at least in the past 6 years.   

This appeared to be a great place to place a cowboy and indian art piece but not a great place to walk around in sparkle laden flip-flops. I placed, photographed and documented #116 on the glove compartment’s open lid inside the truck.  I finished and stepped carefully as I walked back to my car.  As I drove away, gratitude for finding such a great placement along with no injuries to my feet emitted joy from my heart.  With my pedicure and feet intact, it was good to know that nothing living was injured during the course of furthering my artistic expression - today.

                          

 

 

                      

Putt Putt Golf Course, Willcox, AZ June 5, 2011

Francesca and I crashed for a few hours at Sarah’s.  Blurry eyed, we left Sara’s as the sun was rising in order to make it back to the RocknW for feeding and A.M. chores.  Staying up last night to the wee hours of the morning reminded me of my youthful years when cousins, friends and I would dance all night long to new wave, glam and punk rock beats at bars and fetish clubs at the fringes of many a city.  Only now I’ve traded in my glam rock glimmering baubles for cowgirl rhinestones.  This girl embraces her “inner bling!”

On the way home, we drove down Haskell Avenue in Willcox.  Franscesca pointed out a seven foot clown figure in the middle of a field with high weeds on the left.  I turned the SUV around.  What was the story? 

The story was that this was an abandoned putt-putt golf course.  Besides the clown figure there were other putt-putt destinations.  The two that immediately caught my attention was a huge cowboy boot and a teepee a few feet away from that.  I placed, photographed and documented #113 in the teepee.  I stepped carefully around cow dung and did the same with #114 in the cowboy boot. 

I got back into the SUV started the motor and turned around back on to Haskell Avenue.  At this point of the morning, all Francesca and I could think about was breakfast.  We stopped at the first open restaurant in town.  We walked in, dirty cowboy boots and wearing last night’s clothing, and found ourselves a table.  After we got our coffee, we took big sips and smiled.  We reminisced over last night’s adventures and reviewed our plans for today.  Life is good.  Sometime at bit too early in the day – but good!     

     

  

 

The Old Elfrida Post Office. Elfrida, AZ June 4, 2011

Francesca, my British cowgirl bud was staying with me for a few weeks.  While I was at my Home Health & Hospice job during the day, she did training with Lady Latte along with a few other jobs around the place.   Tonight was the night that Francesca, Sarah and I were heading out to Elfrida for a bull riding competition.

The Longhorn Steak House in Elfrida was connected to a small arena where bull riding jackpots were held.  We hadn’t had any rain in southeastern AZ and forest fires were consuming the countryside.  This was a good way to take our minds off of all that.  For a ten dollar admission, we could watch a while having a few drinks.  Sarah had met one of riders before and had a bit of a crush on this particular cowboy.  (In fact, this particular love interest won the jackpot that night.)  Then after the bull riding, a few musicians played on the restaurant’s veranda.  Drinking, flirting, dancing and story-telling went on into the early hours of the morning.      

Before the start of the evening’s events, I noticed the abandoned Elfrida Post Office across the highway from the restaurant.  Francesca and Sarah went into the restaurant a head of me.  I walked over to the old post office.  I placed, documented and photographed cowboy and indian found art piece #115 on front window’s ledge.  Everyone else around headed into the Longhorn Steak House and ignored my preoccupation with the post office.

At the end of the night I realized that the art piece ended up having the best seat in the house.  To watch the bull riding?  No.  The art piece had a prime view of all the men and woman who coupled up and left the festivities for a few passionate smooches in the dark night.  The night that was occasionally lit by a truck or car’s headlights or the orange glow from a fire on a mountainside off in the distance.  There were sparks on the horizon and between two sets of lips as the evening ended and smoldered – both smoky memoires.