Of late, I have been to a funeral of my 89-year-old Aunt Jo in Cottonwood, Arizona conducted by a pastor with a tendency to repeat himself and rely on a karaoke machine, despite which he sang off key with great gusto.

Nonetheless, I suspect my aunt would have approved. She was surrounded by as much family as could be expected to show — all of whom thought the best of her and wished her happy trails in her journey of great reward. My and my sister’s presence emphasized my aunt’s and uncle’s effort to provide the support we needed at the time, and do all this with unflagging love and good humor.

My mother and father were deaf. I communicated with them using sign language. My use of speech was limited, if non existent. They brought me to a starting point and my first encounter with language.

 

 

 

 

This is a comment from June Caldwell Martin. She has a writes a column about southwestern authors for the Star.

 

Whenever I think of condemning the younger generation for its taste or preferences, I am reminded of my friends Bunny Herzog and Joe Baum and their indignation over modern music, specifically the latest piece that Bunny’s son, Arthur, was playing constantly.

Both Bunny and her significant other, Joe, arrived in Tucson because they were victims of cripplng rhumatoid arthritis. Actually, we didn’t use the phrase “significant other.” We didn’t refer to them as anything. They were just Joe and Bunny.

Bunny had been a member of a musical family in New York. Joe had been a professional violinist. He played in the famous Paul Whiteman Orchestra. That job being taken from him by arthritis, when he moved to Tucson, he sold insurance.

I remember Joe once told me once if you had $10,000 in the bank, you didn’t need life insurance. Of course, my father also figured out that an income of $300 a month would carry you comfortably through life. (I was surrounded by some questionable financial gurus.)

But to get back to Bunny and Joe’s dismay at Arthur’s taste in music. They felt Arthur had gone to rack and ruin (musically speaking). As mentors, they didn’t know where they had gone so wrong.

The new song that Arthur was nuts about?

Lady of Spain.

This an e-mail exchange I had with Sam Negri, a long-time friend and newspaper man.

Sam wrote today:

 

 

Thurday last, I bought some poems at the intersection of Campbell and Skyline. For a buck.

A man who said to call him the Homeless Guy wore a sandwich board and stood at the traffic island at the Campbell left turn bay. It said “Poems $1 for a few.”

At the time, I was heading west on Skyline, passed Campbell where the Poet was hawking. I passed him by unable to read all the stuff on his sandwich board. I had to drive a fer piece before I could make a U-turn, head east back to Campbell where I waited for the light to turn green and drove yet another fer piece where I could make a U-turn and gain the left turn lane in order to support a local poetry hawker. I thought perhaps they were his poems.

I waved by dollar bill and he came to my window. He was not a poet. He handed me three pieces of paper. They had been typed, copied and cut into strips. One was: “Biological Reflection by Ogden Nash.” It said:

 

A girl whose cheeks are covered with paint

Has the advantage with me over one whose ain’t.

 

I could have gone happily to my grave without reading that.

There was another poem by “Robery” Louis Stevenson. Not worth wasting your time. The other was by Robert Service.

No one is allowed on traffic islands in the city. The council banned people from traffic islands after a newspaper hawker for the Tucson Citizen was run over. It’s one of the many things that killed the newspaper.

It is unfortunate that I could but interview him but briefly until the traffic light changed. But he didn’t want to talk or give his name. He had the good sense to wear a hat and protect his nose.

His sandwich board said he had “no downers,” just stuff to brighten your day.” At the bottom of the sandwich board, he wrote, “Do not read while driving.”

Or not at all — as the case may be. But I give him credit for promoting cultural enrichment in heavy traffic.

 

 

 

 

I am amazed by of my new coffee cup. It has a glaze to daze and dazzle.

I acquired this cup for what some would say was a pretty penny. I say cheap at twice the price. Since then, I find a cup of coffee most unsatisfying if I do not use this cup. We have a very nice collection of cups, mugs, thermos cups for the car, cups from Mexico, China (what isn’t from China?) and even this country. But they are unworthy vessels. Not even the cup from the JFK library compares.

My superior cup was made by Phoenix potter, Joel Nilsson. In another life, he was a reporter for The Arizona Daily Star. We met there more than 40 years ago. He moved on to the Arizona Republic and wound up his career there as an editorial writer.

As potters go, Joel isn’t particularly ambitious. He has no shop. He has no Internet presence. He has an active Facebook page, which is how to connect with him. He say he does not want to become an industry. He is truly an artist.

Joel and his wife Pam last month showed up at the Oracle Arts festival. I met them there and bought two bowls. As an afterthought, I bought the cup. What a buy.

It sat around for a day or two and I tried it. This was a different experience. The cup’s surface was room-temperature ice, smooth, slightly textured. Very, very different. It was very odd, but oddly outstanding. I tried other cups to test my sanity. They had no textured smoothness to surface. I asked Edie to try it. She said, “Huh, unhuh.” She already wonders about me.

And well she should. I am a bit fussy. I have been roasting coffee for better than six years. I have roasted green coffee beans from Hawaii to Yemen. As I write, I am sipping a coffee from Burundi called Muyinga Murago. I have a burr (as opposed to blade) grinder. I have drip coffee maker that heats water to better than 190 degrees, the minimum needed for a proper cup of joe.

But I’d never given much thought to the cup. I asked Joel how he made this glaze. He said he did not know. He said he could not explain why the glaze was exceptional. It may have had something to do with oxidation, and how the gases interact in  the kiln. Or maybe it had something to do with the handle. In the end, he said, it was all a crap shoot.

Thus the Mystery of the Glaze, a conundrum that is perhaps best left unsolved. Lends mystique to a cup of coffee. I should be grateful. Thanks, Joel. By the way, the bowls are elegant.