Flying Sand and Swirling Dust

These are the opening paragraphs of a story I’d like to write based upon the years I taught in a small, border town in the Chihuahuan Desert.  Perhaps I could create a series of short stories or a novella based upon my life in the desert. 

 

FLYING SAND AND SWIRLING DUST by Sara Etgen-Baker

I glanced in the side view mirror of the U-Haul truck.  One mile forward, one more, and then another.  With each mile forward everything familiar was slipping further and further away.  Lush, tree-covered  green hills slowly gave way to parched, bland land covered in sage brush and low-lying mesquite trees.  By late afternoon there was absolutely nothing in front of me except miles of Chihuahan Desert.  Flat was the land—yellow, ochre, and brown. 

By dusk, a gnawing wind blew tumbleweeds across the interstate.  Just this side of the border, the sun was setting through the yellow, howling wind. “Time for dinner,” my husband said.  So, we exited the interstate and stopped to eat in an old trailer converted to a diner.  Once inside, I heard the sand patter like rain against the trailer’s metal walls and brush across the windowpanes. A fine silt accumulated beneath the door and on the window ledge. I breathed in and choked; the desert tasted brown and bitter on my tongue. 

I looked out the window; the only thing between the diner and the interstate was a battered barrel cactus, a couple of yucca plants, a few cinder block houses, and a ramshackle motel aptly named The Desert View Motel.  Eighteen-wheelers roared past the diner leaving clouds of dust in the dry desert air.  The hot wind carried the dust across the parking lot of the diner and deeper into town where all the dirt roads seemed to lead nowhere in particular.  I’d given anything for a glimpse of a single blade of grass.

“You’re not from around here, are you, honey?”The waitress asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“I can always recognize newcomers to the desert.  The emptiness and harshness are shocking at first.”   The waitress handed me a menu.  “But you’ll get used to life here in the desert.  It’s free of confusion.  It is brutally honest and harsh.  But it’s also kind and fragile.  Give it a chance.”

I stared out the window.  Dust and sand were everywhere.  I wondered how I’d ever flourish here. 

This is a story I wrote about my aunt, Ann Etgen-Atkinson.  I remember so clearly the day I saw her ugly ballerina feet.  I was young and had no idea that dancing en pointe in those beautiful shoes actually damages a ballerina's feet. 

TURNING POINTE by Sara Etgen-Baker

“Point your feet!  Rotate!  Don’t stick your butts out!  Stay out of your heels.”  I looked up from where I was sitting.    There was no music—only the thump-thud sound of the dancers en pointe and the ballet master shouting.  “Dance to the tips of your fingers and toes!  Plié!  Spot!” 

Ann obeyed; sweat ran down her face.  “Tours chaînés déboulés,” he barked.  She struggled as her sleek muscles quivered with exhaustion.  I’d never seen my aunt rehearsing.  So, the contrast between seeing her stage performance—where she glided effortlessly on the tips of her pointe shoes—and seeing her studio rehearsal baffled me. 

 “Rond de Jambe en l’air and Frappé.”  The master paused; the dancers gathered at the barre.  “Fifth position, preparation sur le cou de pied.  Single frappe en croix each position getting two counts.”  He strolled around the dance studio. 

 “Close Fifth position front.”  Ann panted for breath.  “Single rond de jambe en l’air en dehors twice at 45°.”  Her corded tendons stood out like insulated cable.  “…Now close to sous-sus front.”

But when the curtain rose later that winter evening, there stood my aunt—her feathery light body rose en pointe spinning like the wind across Swan Lake.  Her tutu fluttered like the wings of a bird at dawn.  Each pirouette and leap mesmerized me as her body told the story of Odette, the Swan Queen, and her love for Prince Siegfried.

Backstage afterwards, I cringed when Ann removed her pointe shoes revealing calluses, misshapen toes, black nails and reddish-purple flesh.  The contrast between her beautiful pointe shoes and her battered, ugly feet startled me.  Ann noticed my reaction and handed me her pointe shoes.  “Take these.  Remember life, like dance, is a beautiful art form.  It’s hard work.  It’s painful.  It’s ugly.  You sweat.  You fail.  You succeed.  You try again.  You push.  You fight.  But always remain graceful.”

My aunt’s gift that winter were not her pointe shoes; rather it was her words that served as a turning pointe when I learned that life, like ballet, is a battle between beauty and pain. 



 

Here's a story based upon the Christmas when my Grandmother Stainbrook made me my Sunbonnet Sue Quilt.  Although she died when I was quite young, I have some truly special memories about her.  Enjoy the story! 

 

SUNBONNET SUE

She lowered her reading glasses down to the tip of her nose peering at me with those warm, brown eyes.  “Why’s my little Miss Sunshine so down tonight?”

Indeed I was moody that Christmas clinging to my grandmother’s side and dogging her every step. 

“My new dolly is lonely and cold,” I muttered. 

“Maybe she needs a blanket and some hot cocoa.”

“Uh, huh,” I nodded.

 “Fetch your doll teacups; I’ll make cocoa for you and your doll.” 

I complied returning to her kitchen where she gingerly filled each teacup with steaming, rich hot cocoa.  She then turned to my mother and me proclaiming, “Let’s make a doll quilt; we’ll have our own quilting bee—the three of us—like in the old farm days.”

With that, we scurried to my grandmother’s sewing room where she retrieved the Sunbonnet Sue pattern and a box of scrap material; she carefully pinned different parts of the pattern to material.  Then, she wrapped her hands over mine guiding them through the thick fabric.  “This is how you cut out the fabric using the pattern.  Now, here’s the scissors; you’re on your own…get started little lady!”

 After carefully cutting out six bonnets, skirts, arms, and feet, my grandmother propped me up on a stool as I watched her and my mother sew the pieces together.  Her sewing machine hummed and evidently slowly sang me to sleep.  

So, the next morning I awoke with my doll lying next to me wrapped in a cherished memory—a Sunbonnet Sue quilt of pinks, yellows, reds, and calicos.  A few months later, my dear grandmother died unexpectedly of a massive coronary.  Although her death saddened me, both my doll and I remained covered by her quilt of joy and love that warmed us like no other.  Even now—50+ years later—I still feel my grandmother’s eyes watching me and her spirit guiding me.  Sometimes when the house is silent, I even hear her voice—golden threads of wisdom and encouragement—and am reminded that our lives are like quilts—bits and pieces, joys and sorrows—stitched together with love.