EDITOR'S LETTER

editor's LETTER My mom lives next door to the Ringling Mansion.

It's a gorgeous Victorian that sits on a small hill in a small town best known as the birthplace of the Greatest Show on Earth. Not far from there, about 40 miles, another phenomenon was born. Growing up, I wasn't curious about Frank Lloyd Wright. I knew he was famous - Simon & Garfunkel sang a song about him but I had no idea why. The Ringlings, however, were fascinating. Like characters in a book by Jules Verne, they were wealthy impresarios who traveled the continent on circus trains. And then there was the mansion. As a boy, I'd stare at it with fascination, the way Charlie looked at the chocolate factory. I wanted to see inside.Many years later, I got the chance, but by then, my interest in the Ringlings was eclipsed by the allure of Frank Lloyd Wright. Living in Arizona, it's inevitable. His footprint in the desert is hard to miss. Taliesin West, Gammage Auditorium... some of his best work is here, but it was a small house in suburban Phoenix that intrigued me most. The house he built for Raymond Carlson.

When you sit in Mr. Carlson's seat, you quickly realize that you'll never be Raymond Carlson. Like Harold Ross at The New Yorker, he was larger than life, a visionary editor with an aura of mystery, power and awe. He made this magazine, and he made some impressive friends along the way, including Maynard Dixon, Ansel Adams and Frank Lloyd Wright.

Early on in my rite of passage, I began to feel his presence. I'd heard the many tales - the true stories and the urban legends - and finally made a trip to his hallowed home. I couldn't see anything, though. By then, it was surrounded by high walls and tall trees, which made it even more intriguing. I wanted to see inside, and thought about knocking. But I never knocked. I figured someday I'd get the chance. And so I did. In August.

Jeff and George invited me over. They've owned the home since 2003. Walking through the front gate, I felt like an Elvis fan who'd finally made it to Graceland. And I wasn't disappointed. Like seeing the inside of the Ringling Mansion, everything I'd envisioned came to life. At last, I could stop wondering. They walked me through the living room and the kitchen, past the phone booth, and then upstairs to Mr. Carlson's fourthfloor study, which is now the master bedroom. So many times I'd imagined our editor emeritus in that room, writing one of his beautiful essays - he marshaled vowels and consonants the way Mozart composed counterpoint.

"He never let me read what he was writing," Betsy Baker says. "He was always writing, though. And he wrote longhand most of the time. There was an old typewriter up there, but I can't ever remember him using it."

Betsy was one of the neighborhood kids when the Carlsons lived there. And she was always at the house. "I used to wonder if he'd roll his eyes when he saw me coming around the corner, because there was no sneaking up on that front door. Not with all of those windows."

The windows are still there, but the driveway that Betsy loved so much is gone. "In those days, it came in off of 12th Avenue," she says. "It was a long driveway, with a bigrose garden on the left-hand side. I have fond memories of it. When we moved in, I was into roller skating, but there weren't any sidewalks in the neighborhood. So Raymond said, 'C'mon over, you can skate on the driveway.' And I did, but he didn't like the way I skated. He said, 'Roller-skate like you're waltzing.' And then he starts singing, I was dancin' with my darlin'... I must have looked puzzled, because I was only 7 or 8. Nonetheless, he was singing the Tennessee Waltz, showing me how to skate. That was the start of our special relationship."

"He was a very good man," she says. "He lived large and he was... [she pauses to smile] ... he was really good at making friends." I asked her about Frank Lloyd Wright. "Raymond told me that Frank was at the magazine one day, and Raymond mentioned that he was going to build a house. Frank asked, 'Well, do you like my work?' And Raymond said, 'I love your work, but I can't afford you.' Then Frank says, 'I have two prices: very expensive or free.'"

Frank Lloyd Wright died on April 9, 1959, at St. Joseph's Hospital in Phoenix. Three months later, in our July 1959 issue, Mr. Carlson wrote: "As these pages were readied for the press, we learned of the death of a dear friend of ours, Frank Lloyd Wright. Mr. Wright designed our lovely, wonderful house, so each and every day of our lives we are reminded of his kindness, his infallible courtesy, his wonderful wit and humor, his generosity and understanding."

Some people are larger than life. Some of those Ringling brothers are on that list. And so is Frank Lloyd Wright. Betsy says Raymond Carlson was larger than life, too. I never had the privilege of meeting him, but I feel more connected now, after standing in his study. Thank you, Jeff and George, for that opportunity. And in the spirit of the season, a special thanks to our many readers around the world, who have stayed with us in these difficult times. On behalf of everyone at Arizona Highways, I wish you all a happy Thanksgiving.