19 Lost - Granite Mountain Hot Shots Honored

(Updated June 10, 2023)

The beginning of the Honor Guard Procession approaches the intersection of highways 69 and 89A in Prescott Valley on Sunday as the bodies of the 19 Granite Mountain Hot Shot crewmembers who perished in the line of duty at Yarnell Hill, are returned to their community.

Granite Mountain Hot Shots Honored

by Marie Jarreau

    The lump in my throat gets in the way of finding words to express the grief over the deaths of 19 young wildlands firefighters.

    The younger of my two daughters began a career as a wildland firefighter. Beth left that occupation that she had come to love when she became Jonathan’s bride. They both understood that for the future they wanted dual-fire careers was not a practical fit. 

    Jonathan Nash, now my precious son-in-law, continues in a long time career as a wildlands firefighter.  Thoughts of him are always in my heart when I hear he's gone on a fire. As I think of him and other wildland firefighters I came to know, while living in Oregon and working as a journalist I recognize that they are a brotherhood of bright, energetic, problem solving, compassionate, dedicated heroes. There are both men and women among that unique alumni.  
    Though strong, independent individuals, in a way; they seem to have similar personality traits and characteristics. I’ve thought on occasion how much young firefighters seem alike.  There’s often that easy going smile and quick wit that encases the psychological and physical ability to spring into action at a moments notice to offer help - whether to scoop up a little kid falling from his first bike ride or to don boots and appropriate gear to run toward the danger of a raging wildlands fire.

    While we as non-firefighters flee the fire - the fire crews race toward the flames in an effort to cut off the fire’s fuels.  Their goal and concern: to protect the wild landscape they love; and lives and homes that may be in the path of the fire. They respect fire as an intricate part of the environment, they also know its dangers.  
The loss of the Granite Mountain Hot Shot Crew has brought new recognition to the sacrifice offered by all firefighters – structural and wildlands crews. Until this event, there had not been such a loss of these heroes since Sept. 11, 2001.

    I’ve had the honor of getting to know wildland firefighters from the standpoint of a journalist and as a community member that included wildland firefighters.  I accompanied crews on prescribed burns while living in Oregon in the course of writing news stories about their fire suppression efforts and practices. Losing these 19 heroes recently brought occasion for me to, once again, hear people talk about their gratitude for the firefighters.

    After listening to many who have fled wildland fires, there is that common theme that's repeated: Recognition and gratitude that the hotshot crews and smoke jumpers and Forest Service fire crews run "to" the fire to contain it while community people attempt to 'escape the flames.'
In truth, if they can help it, even the fire crews try not to go directly "into" the fire, rather, they use a variety of tools, practices and techniques to contain the flames to protect wildlands, wildlife, human lives and property.  My premise is that if they are heading "to" the fire rather than away from it - they "are," in a sense, going "into" the danger -  INTO THE FIRE.
 
 
 

    During this past week (June 30 – July 9, 2013) many of us have struggled to find ways to show our respect, offer condolences to the families, offer our own sacrifice and to honor those lost to the Yarnell Hill fire.  An impromptu memorial quickly appeared along the fence at the home base of the Granite Mountain Hot Shots in Prescott, Az.  It seemed to be the first place that people could congregate and honor those lost. A candlelight service was held at the local high school. Community meetings to address the progress of the Yarnell Fire suppression efforts also addressed the loss of the 19 firefighters.  Also addressed was the fact that one of the 20 man crew had not been among those attempting to shelter in place when the fire blew back on them. 

    Brendan McDonough had been assigned the duty as ‘look out’ for the crew and was in a different location.  He too, remains the subject of prayers and support, and heroic respect.

    Sunday, July 7^th I had intended to watch the televised broadcast of the Honor Guard Procession, bringing the bodies of the 19, from the coroner’s office in Phoenix - home to Prescott where the official memorial service would be held on Tuesday.
     As I watched the broadcast of the procession beginning in Phoenix I was suddenly compelled to actually be there and so made the 45 minute to one-hour trip to just outside the Yavapai County Fairgrounds where the procession was headed. They would travel thru Yarnell and so there was time for me to make my way to the fairgrounds. I was early enough to find an open parking spot just off the shoulder of the road at the intersection of highways 69 and 89A South. There were at least a thousand or more like minded people parked along the roadway for as far as my eyes could see. That was but a small part of the route the 19-hearse motorcade would travel from Phoenix to Prescott Valley with 'mourners' lining much of the route.

  

    The weather-thermometer in my vehicle read 104F for the outside temperature when I arrived about noon. Throngs of people stood along the pavement waiting for the procession of 19 hearses and accompanying entourage. Large and small red, white and blue flags and purple streamers waved above the landscape along the roadway of people and vehicles and motorcycles.
    Each time I thought about how ‘hot’ it was standing beneath the blazing Arizona sun, on the black tarmac beside the roadway, I immediately remembered that exactly one week before, the 19 young men we all stood waiting for had lay huddled in the midst of the inferno’s super heated gases in individual emergency "safety" shelters. Those shelters were no match for "those" high temperatures. 
Yes, as we all stood waiting - it was hot, but today it didn’t matter. 
One young woman stood beside me with her six and four-year-old fair haired sons.

    “We had to be here,” she told me. “No, I didn’t know them (the firefighters) but I needed to be here.”
Plying her sons with water and shading them with an umbrella, she explained that while her younger son might not remember the event as he grows into his own manhood, they would both know that this was important, and that they as a family (dad joined them later) had attended this procession to offer their own respect for the sacrifice of what she considered – national heroes.   
After standing on the roadway for nearly four hours, we knew the procession was approaching as a dedicated Smokejumper DC3 aircraft, with jump-door open and classic smoke-jumper red and white colors, began its flyover above us all.   

 

    Uncontrollable tears welled up and flowed from my eyes and a large lump developed in the midst of my throat as I saw the first of the 19 white hearses top the hill above us. Escort vehicles led the way as they turned the curve of the highway and travelled down to pass just before us. Other fire and emergency vehicles brought up the rear. The Granite Mountain Hot Shot Crew's own crew vehicles were also in the procession along with vehicles of other wildland firefighters. 

 

As they travelled on into the fairgrounds the red and white DC3 flew overhead again and dropped a flurry of 19 purple streamers from the sky.

    I heard someone make a comment that summed up the day’s events for me, and I know this to be true from my own experience with the environments that surround wildlands firefighters. That is: while others have come to recognize the sacrifices made by our firefighters - firefighters have been considered a community’s true heroes long before the recent great loss, and they will continue to be valued-so.   

    The sacrifice of the families and friends of these brave men can't be understated, I pray that they will all have the support and assistance they will need to get them through the pain they are enduring now and will endure for sometime, but also to appreciate that their lives, our lives are blessed to have had these heroes among us.

    Hearing of their loss on June 30^th, was heart wrenching for me.  My own method for working thru the emotional experience was the creation of an original song in simple tribute to the Granite Mountain Hot Shot Crew and their brothers and sisters who run toward the flames so others may escape the danger of fire.

 

  

     It was comfort to hear that, from the time the firefighters bodies were brought down from Yarnell Hill, taken to Phoenix and returned to Prescott, througout the memorial, through funeral arrangements and burial, there was a fellow firefighter accompanying them.

    Even through this deep loss there is at least one item of hope and salvation. It rests with the fact that Brendan McDonough is still with us. It was gratifying to also hear the support, respect and love given to Brendan as the only one of  his 20-man hot shot crew to return from the Yarnell Hill Fire alive. A fact seen as a blessing but one that will undoubtedly bring him both blessing and sorrow throughout his lifetime.

 Weeks brfore their lives were taken on Yarnell Hill, the Granite Mountain Hot Shots were battling the Doce fire. The Doce was a big fire whose smoke could be seen with great intensity 50 miles away in Lake Montezuma.

 

    In recent years I've seen and heard comments that there are no more heroes for youngsters to look up to.
    Well, rest easy - we now have The Granite Mountain Hot Shots, all 20 of them, and the rest of their firefighting brotherhood.

Granite Mountain Hot Shots crew vehicle in Sunday's procession.

 

A Sense of Place: The Mulberry Patch

          (Updated June 14, 2023)            

                                                                                                                          by: B. Marie Jarreau

         Like tendrils, no like ribbons, no like fingers or ladders reaching up through green clouds – the shafts of sunlight that shone down through the leaves begged me to climb up and to see what secrets lay amongst the mitten-shaped foliage in the crown of the Mulberry trees. 
         I was somewhere between 10 and 13-years-old and this was my favorite space in the entire world. As number two of six children, it was important to me to have a favorite, private, special place filled with secrets. A shy, introverted child - it was sometimes crucial to my mental well being to escape the crowd. The Mulberry Patch was mine, and they all knew it. My older brother didn’t care, at 14 or so he had his own worlds to conquer and my younger siblings obligingly did not disturb me in my little green forest place.

Secrets Through the Windows

         It was mine and it was magical! Well, it was ‘sort of’ mine. The thick green expanse of berry-filled trees, vines, natural treasures and mysterious creatures were actually on the next-door neighbor’s side of a wooden slab fence that ran the length of the two properties – but the mulberry trees at the very back of their yard, refused to be contained inside the man-made boundary and spilled over the top of the five-foot tall fence over to our side of the fence. There were open spaces in the boards of the fence and lovely rounded knot-holes that served me as inconspicuous windows to the natural secrets of the woodland.
        My four-foot wide domain was marked by the wooden fence on one side, the solid side of a cinder-block storage house, about four-feet distant, on the opposite side. Another higher, thicker, wooden fence behind it all marked the rear wall. A concrete sidewalk that surrounded the building provided a solid, dry floor on which I could sit and contemplate the world of my little corner forest.  Unless the rain fell heavy, I was protected in my special place even from the warm summer showers by the thick canopy of leaves draping from the trees completely over the sidewalk area and onto the building’s roof. I loved being there in the rain. The sound of raindrops filtering gently down through the leaves, against the fence or the roof of the building was my own private symphony.
        The environment that surrounded me was, in my own mind, like a friend or like a teacher with the secrets it offered up, or like a comforter when I was depressed about one silly thing or another. Situated at the back of our own yard, some 50 yards or more from the house, I could go there and feel completely on my own; I treasured those times.
A good deal of my love of being outdoors, of learning, and of the natural world was fostered and nurtured by that little postage stamp space of a natural setting.

See, Hear, Feel, Smell, Taste

        There was so very much to see and feel and hear and smell and taste within that exotic space: where the sidewalk ended a richly organic area of soil separated the concrete from the wooden fence. Layer-upon-layer of seasons-and-seasons of fallen leaves, bits of branches and berries and bug body parts had been deposited beneath the mulberry canopy for years.
            Lying belly-down on the cool shaded concrete sidewalk in the summer heat, I would spend great expanses of time rummaging through the moldy leaves and debris with a stick or other piece of hand-size dried branch. Carefully, I overturned the bits of leaves and other organic ‘fluff and duff’ watching for anything that moved. The top layer of the ground was littered with leaves and bits of leaves in various earth-tone shades; green, yellow, brown, gray, wet-black; depending on the degree of decomposition that had taken place. Peering deep into the decomposing material there - my nose usually only inches away to focus as close as I could for ‘crawlies’ - I took in the earthy aroma of rich healthy organic soil. I still love that smell.
            Some days brought me luck in finding little pearls hidden beneath the moist, smelly material. Less than half an inch in diameter the little off-white colored orbs actually bounced as some were (first: accidentally) dropped onto the concrete walkway. I learned from my frequent visits to the local library that they were probably snail or salamander eggs and larger ones - snake’s eggs. That was intriguing, I had seen small snakes around our yard and garden; and snails - with their little spiraled backpacks - hurrying along in slow motion, but I had never seen a salamander! With the very idea that       
salamanders might inhabit my little woodland patch I spent many hours silently, immobile watching carefully, waiting to see a salamander. I did eventually get to spot what looked like a yellow-spotted brown salamander. The fleeting glimpse was enough for me. I was not quite up to handling  ‘slimies.’
        The woodland floor could be noisy with insects and birds also digging through the duff for a tidbit to eat. I could sit for hours just watching, listening and focusing on the colors and the slightest movement, but sooner or later my attention would be drawn to another angle. Dark gray, oval segmented pill bugs were everywhere. They could cover a dead bird or a piece of rotting fruit like an army of mini-armadillos. My younger sister called them “roly-polys.” There were occasions when she and I would spend time rolling them back and forth between us in imitation of the boys’ game of playing marbles. Colorful spiders, beetles, slimy-shelless-slugs, green-jeweled or fuzzy brown caterpillars, folded green or brown tree-frogs with golden eyes were all among the treasures that fascinated me as I focused on the floor of my private forest.

 

The Great Lizard Escape

Even the old wooden fence could be crawling with life, especially lizards! They were truly my favorites. At any given moment a jade green anole lizard would brazenly stand on top of the wooden fence and with piercing beady-black eyes stretch upward on his front legs and dare me to come closer! Sometimes, besting his threat, I’d slowly reach behind him and grab his tail to dangle him high overhead. Usually, he’d simply and magically drop himself away and leave me standing their holding onto a wiggling piece of lizard tail! There was just something really ‘gross’ about holding a living, squirming, lizard tail between my fingers without a lizard attached to it! It was quickly added to the composting duff.

        From time to time on a summer’s afternoon, I could hear in a distance my brothers arguing over the proper size of folded, rolled-up newspaper-baseballs before they’d begin their afternoon game, but this was only background noise to the natural chorus overhead in the mulberry canopy. I could hear more clearly the “n`ack - n`ack” call of bright, blue jays.  Sometimes just a fleeting glimpse of a blue and black streak amongst the green leaves was all I saw, but I knew it was a jay. Hefty, raucous birds their big wings rustled the leaves, loudly - but they didn’t care. They considered the trees their own domain
        The ‘poof’ of bright red color against the jungle green was more usually seen in fall and I loved the beautiful crimson colored Cardinal birds. Robins and sparrows and an occasional wren, her tail stuck up in the air, and sweet singing warblers were all part of the chorus performing in the woodland stage. Sometimes a really unusual streak of orange would dart through the tree tops. I would learn later that this might be a Baltimore Oriole on annual migration to the Yucatan. The Yucatan, a far off place to which I was also destined to visit in years to come, had not yet crossed my area of knowledge.

Rare Winged Warriors

Another rare sighting in the New Orleans area in those days, and I didn’t see them often, were hummingbirds!  When one of these little winged warriors happened into my mini-forest I could barely contain my excitement.

            I remember the first of few sightings - first I heard the high speed buzzzzz.  Initially, I was annoyed thinking one of my brothers had thrown a rock at my head. Then I saw the tiny flying bird, just a bit larger than a cicada.  
The hummingbird, green-iridescence in the air, darted by with its wings moving about a million-miles a minute! I really wanted to call out to the boys and my sister so they could see it, but knew that my call or their loud and boisterous approach would only scare the bird away, or the boys would climb all over my woodland paradise bent on capture. In my quiet contained excitement, I simply enjoyed the sight and sound as the hummingbird visited several tall yellow wildflowers standing in the sunlight just outside the shade of the trees.  
            The cicadas were another species of fascinating creatures, whose ear-piercing screeches could be heard in the top of the trees. Their one or two-inch long clear, hardened, discarded larval  jackets left clutching onto the trunks of the mulberry trees could, in some years, be very numerous.

Slithering Snakes Not Slimey!

Along with crawlies, climbers, scratchers, flyers and even occasionally some nasty ‘stingers’ in the form of wasps, mosquitoes, horse-flies and fire-biting red-ants there were also slithering snakes in my neighborhood jungle.

            Though ours was a neighborhood of single family homes in the midst of the city we still were not that far from waterways and small bayous. That moisture supported lots of life forms throughout the area. Green garter snakes, striped garter snakes and what I think was an occasional mud snake – almost black on top with reddish splotches on sides and belly – could occasionally be seen sliding along a branch, under a log or even along the fence. I’ve always had a healthy respect for snakes and enjoy seeing their vibrant colors. They have reason for existing just as birds do, they are part of the scheme of things though we may not understand nature’s blueprint.
            I was intrigued however, when I finally gathered up enough daring to identify and capture a harmless green garter snake with my bare hands. I had spent a good bit of time watching them and I just had to know what their skin felt like! I had come to understand that snakes were ‘slimy.’ The fascination came as I was prepared for the feel of slime but instead felt a sensation from the skin of the snake - of tiny solid shiny scales. The movement of the scales as the snake used them for locomotion tickled my sensitive young hands so that I finally dropped the little guy to the ground. I could now understand how they moved with such speed. He was gone before I could focus on where he/or she might have landed!

World Travels from the Mulberry Patch

        There were times when I sat, perched on a fallen log beneath the tree canopy, not quite in tune to the sights and sounds of my private jungle but rather focused a million miles away. Aside from being my personal place of refuge, the Mulberry Patch was also my very favorite place to read and study.  Sometimes I was in the real Brazilian rainforest, or deep in the Pacific Ocean diving in the Mariana Trench studying rare sea creatures, or I might be traveling through Tibet. Sometimes from the comfort of my private woodland place I followed Marco Polo across Asia and into the darkest unknown reaches of China.  
        I first devoured a copy of a National Geographic magazine beneath the mulberry canopy, reading until my mother finally urged me to quite trying to read in the darkening, evening light.
That mulberry patch - I’m sure - is long gone by now, wiped clean of its historic inhabitants by Katrina some years ago if not ‘developed’ before that, but it will always remain in my mind as my first “window to the world.”
        I have since maintained the same curiosity as I had then - maybe not with the same drive but - a little like Marco Polo, “to know about all the things that are in the world."                                                         

 

Leonid Meteor Shower

(Updated June 14, 2023)

To Catch A Falling Star!!!

By B. Marie Jarreau

 

 Leonid Meteor at point of ignition 
across the handle of the Big Dipper. 
                     Photographed from atop Wright's Point, Harney County, 

Burns, Oregon. Nov.19, 2001

For my two teenaged daughters and me the historic Leonid Meteor Storm provided  

a magical night of  "raining meteors!"

Leonid PUBLISHED!

Smoke Trail that resulted after ignition

                                                                                                          

Star Trails circle Polaris

B. Marie Jarreau

Listen to the Noise!

(Updated June 17, 2023)

Detail from old postcard by Jim Lynch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Listen to the Noise

                                                                                                                                by: B. Marie Jarreau

                                                                                                                                                                                               

        A jambalaya mix of offbeat notes and loud-thumping-bass-beats peppered with high pitched clarinet calls and wailsome saxophone sighs floated, danced and barged their way around our 1950s-60s, New Orleans 7^th Ward neighborhood.

 

Traveling on the warm night breezes, the sound carried with it news that there was Cajun food to be had and spicy music to be heard. 

Some residents were not as fond of the sounds that lay upon the otherwise tranquil environment: “Listen to that noise!” could sometimes be heard filtered through the loud music.

Those residents simply tolerated the weekend’s intrusion since the event was often a fund raising activity for the local church or perhaps for a recent high school graduate’s college fund - and it was a rarity that any ‘trouble’ ever occurred around these events.  This was a time when parents and neighbors had much more control over maintaining a peaceful environment than we experience today.  However, whioe that ‘noise’ brought some objection, others couldn’t wait for each lively jazz-filled fund-raising, fun raising ‘Supper’ event. 

 

What’s Cookin’?

We had only to follow the sound or the aromas to purchase a plateful of delicious home cooked fried chicken, soft-shell crab, seafood gumbo, potato salad, po-boy sandwich with all the ‘trimmings’ or whatever the ‘ladies’ had been cooking-up since early in the day.  Gentlemen delighted in entering that kitchen doorway with a hearty, “Hey good-lookin’ what’s cookin’?”  

“Red-beans and rice and everything’s nice,” the familiar reply.

There might be six to eight ladies, young and older, working together in colorful cotton aprons, to make sure the food they offered would be talked about with great admiration throughout the coming week.

 

                 But oh, the music!

Fedoras and English Driving Caps

Wives, daughters, grandmothers and sweethearts worked in the kitchen preparing and selling plates of food through the screen door while husbands, sons, grandfathers and eligible bachelors gathered in the backyard gardens to add the musical spice to the honeysuckle-scented evening air.

Even in the warmth of the New Orleans environment it was not uncommon for these backyard musicians to sport Fedoras, English driving caps, derbies; silk vests with pink or yellow shirts – starched and pressed; and fine jacquard-patterned tweed-like slacks – sharply creased down the center of the pant legs, front and back!  Even the footwear told a story about the style of its musically inclined wearer: oxblood Brogues with decorative 'punching' over the toe or stylish wingtips in three shades of leather finished off the ensemble.

My memories of these events seem to go back to about age 8 to 11.  We (siblings and/or friends) might walk over to purchase a supper with or without an adult escort with no concern for safety (oh! the good ole’ days!).  The location might be one-city-block away or even four, rarely more than that.  We were not allowed to stay for the music. It was an ‘adults-only’ area.

Often there was a solid-wood fence, separating the musicians from those approaching the kitchen door to make a culinary purchase. We were in awe of the music; but also very curious about what else adults might be doing in the privacy of the backyard.  Occasionally, we were able to catch a glimpse through the weathered boards or knotholes of the fence, or maybe a quick look when someone entering or exiting didn’t immediately close the fence-gate. 

 

Don’t You Dare Go Back There!

We might see the tables dotted with fine crystal glasses, wine or other interesting bottles, ashtrays; and cigarettes caressed in long slim feminine ivory or Bakelite holders, the smoke swirling around like ribbons dancing with the rhythm. This was enough indication that the music area was off limits to youngsters – no one had to say, “Now, don’t you dare go back there!”  We knew better!

Our enjoyment of the music was easily-had just sitting on the front steps as the sound traveled throughout the neighborhood and into the late hours of the night. The music began playing around sundown, after the men arrived home from work and donned their ‘sharp’ evening-attire and gathered their instruments. Some arrived later. We all knew the best music would be played a few hours into the ‘session,’ perhaps when more musicians had arrived from farther away – or after they’d passed the initial blending of the players. Perhaps after a shot or two of bourbon.

Front Steps, New Orleans - 7th Ward, 2001 - (Not exactly me :o)

 

Listen To The Noise!

Other neighbors would either sit on their porches or stroll around the block taking-in the sounds. You might hear, “Listen to that awful noise! When are they gonna be quiet over there?”

Most often the dialog would be, “Maaaan, Listen to the Noise! Ain’t that a beautiful sound!” 

The wail of the sax and syncopated jazzy guitar notes danced round and round with the clarinet’s lofty lilt and the mellow buzz of a trumpet as fingers pumped the pistons. The ‘thump - bump - bump’ of the big fat bass kept it all connected – it was a noise to be savored; and free for the listening.

Music really does have the power to reach-in and touch the soul in places where little else does, regardless of your age. I remember being mesmerized by the soothing melodies and the rocking vibrations that drifted over the fence, following the old cobblestone city streets beneath the canopy of ancient old white-oak trees. The sound meandered-in - through our front gate then took an unrestricted path to embrace my senses.  I had no experience as a musician, merely a listener, but even then, I had a deep yearning to be part of the magic of music.  

Decorative New Orleans style front porch rought-ironwork.

 

A shy, introvert all of my youth, it seemed that that experience would never be part of my life.  Then the ‘Beatles came to town’ and expanded my interest in music even more. I was as goggle-eyed as all the other girls over Paul and John, but I listened intently and fell under the spell of the music and the lyrics as much as with those handsome personalities.

 

  Yearning For A Guitar

 I don’t recall anymore neighborhood ‘Suppers’ and associated jazz sessions after that. I don’t know if they’d ended or if the Beatles simply overshadowed that experience. I do know I yearned for a guitar. Our senior year in high school  (Joseph S. Clark Sr. High - 1969) my girlfriend’s parents gave her an acoustic guitar. As I remember it was a maple top Sears & Roebuck standard catalog six-string, acoustic.

They wanted her to play. She could not have cared less about music beyond the fact that we were all in love with Paul McCartney and we all enjoyed dancing to the mugic of the music makers. She had no interest in "making" music. 

 When I left home to join the Air Force shortly after graduation, she gifted me with that guitar as a going away present.  Not long after, I became captivated with the music and songs of John Denver. My own love of music became a real motivation to do something about that lifelong desire to take the leap from music appreciation to become a music maker.

Later, as an Air Force Air Traffic Controller, I was stationed at Mather AFB, just outside Sacramento, Calif. working odd shift hours. All of my spare time was spent teaching myself to play the guitar using song books and familiar recordings. Air Force boot camp and the ATC career field had helped to lessen the stress of my introvert’s insecurity and I even began to play a song or two for a few close friends when the occasion was right.

I continued to play off and on throughout my life, though I all but gave it up for a (now ex-) husband who offered only discouragement and ridicule.  Later, as a single mother, raising my two daughters and holding down a full time job, my interest in music was mainly restricted, once again, to that of - listener.  

Though I’d never envisioned myself a professional entertainer (that life seemed too wild and unstable for my interests) I did enjoy creating music with voice and guitar to share with friends. Many years later, I began to make time for the music I’d loved for so long: Beatles, John Denver, Joanie Mitchel, Bob Dylan, Emmy Lou Harris, Aretha Franklin, Willy Nelson, Hank Williams, various folk singers, even an occasional pop tune.  I played for small audiences of family and friends and sometimes performed fund-raising concerts for non-profit events where a few local ‘fans’ made sure they attended.

 

Fate Dragged Me Back Into Music

Now, let’s move ahead several decades where I find myself retired from the daily job of earning a living and, happily, as a first-time grandmother.  I breathe a sigh of relief when I think that upon making a recent move, from Oregon to Arizona, I toyed with the idea of getting rid of my collection of 4-5 guitars and settling down to the retired life to knit, crochet, paint, make crafty things and just become ‘grandmotherly.'  Instead, fate stepped in and dragged me back into music – not exactly kicking and screaming!

Having made the move to Arizona, I was once again gifted with a music connection. Not with a guitar this time, but with a great group of neighbors/friends who are supportive of my interest in creating and sharing music. The group actually began with a new next-door neighbor who had been involved in music for well over 50 years as performer and producer and operated his own small recording studio in Canada. A diversion for him from the rigors of the day-job as 'mild-mannered-tax-consultant' but, none-the-less, a passion. Kris Baldwin was the proverbial "music-producer-who-moves-next-door-and-turns-you-into-an-actual-singer-and-recording-star!"  You know - it's the stuff that dreams are made of!  On a small scale, relative to our Northern Arizona community, this is exactly what he - as mentor - did for me. 

He wrote songs that he felt suited my voice, coached me to find the richness that he felt possible there and motivated me to continue reaching for the very best my music talents might offer.  He then recorded the resulting music efforts and encouraged my own efforts in song writing. We spent hours in the small studio annex, recording tracks and used them to produce "my first CD" titled 'Coming Into Focus' – with potential for more! 

I refer to "Coming Into Focus" as my 'training-wheel' music experience as I had no earthly idea of what I was doing, the process or what to really expect. With Kris' encouragement, my vocal efforts grew into a stronger and richer-fuller vocal sound. Soon we teamed up as a music duo for performances throughout the Verde Valley which includes the well recognized tourist-mecca of Sedona-Arizona. From coffee houses, backyard, bar-b-ques, wineries to concert halls we soon had a devoted following of music fans, a music presence on the world-wide-web (BroadJam, CopperDog Studio, Women of Substance Music podcast) and three more CDs of our music. For me this was trully a dream come true - that I never really knew I'd had!

 

Still Making Noise

My interest in music is stronger than ever thanks to that encouragement and I feel as though I had grown, musically, more in that first year of our association than I had in the previous 50 years. Yes, an exciting music involvement that didn't happen until I'd crossed into my 60s!  My interest in listening to and performing music now reaches much farther beyond John Denver and Pete Seeger. I finally came to feel that I was an active part of a well populated and active music scene in and around Sedona. With other participants - all of that 'certain-age' - we simply loved sharing the music as good friends, with little to no drama or personal upheavals. 

Friends/neighbors were invited to my home for an evening of cheese, wine and music as was the case with invitations to the homes of others on a regular basis. It was our favorite way to enjoy one and other's company. Music was always the catalyst.  It was an amazing era from my point of view - just having friends gathered together to share the music, which included some ‘gutsy’ guitar strains often from some "old" guys who'd played with well traveled bands in the 60s-70s, There were sambas and old ballads, jazz, sea chanties, rhythym and blues, country and even classical notes, It was a lively, intoxicating music scene and I was in the midst of it!

Still Making Noise

It was that: ‘life come full-circle’ scenario. 

At one point on an evening when the music event was held in my backyard I wondered if we might be disturbing other neighbors with the volume of our music. For a moment I wondered if someone in the neighborhood might be thinking: 

“Listen to the Noise!”

 



(Photos and illustrations by B. Marie Jarreau except where otherwise noted.)

 

…

For the Christmas Season

                                                                                                                                                                                                    (Updated June 17, 2023)

~ Once Upon A Christmas Moon ~

                                                         B. Marie Jarreau

Once upon a Christmas Moon

   The world was filled with joy

   For the blessings all knew

     Would be flowing soon.

  And from afar and many a-mile

With gifts of goods

    And heart of gold

            Came a gentle-man

                             With twinkling, jolly smile.

  Upon a flying steed this traveler be

Above the rooftops,

                   Over river, low and highland,

                            And above snow shrouded tree.

Bringing for all a gift or a giggle

From deep with-in his bag

                        A new blue bandanna or a shiny kazoo

                  Or a doll for ‘Sis made of rag.

      A Christmas tree, a brown fuzzy bear,

A pocket knife for a boy

                 A golden pup with stubby tail

                                Or a book for 'Aunt Bess' to enjoy.

         Snug on their pillows the children did wait

         But soon fell asleep in the night,

For no gifts are given

            Till the early magical hour

                   Of Christmas morning light.

Once Upon A Christmas Moon

            As quiet as a church-pew mouse

A gentleman, kind,

       On a carousel horse

    Brought hope and happiness

     To every heart and house

. . .

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