A KENTUCKIAN LOOKS AT ARIZONA

A recent settler in the Valley of the Sun finds the human heart has an amazing capacity to adapt . . . and to love a new home . . .

Contrary to popular belief, West Virginia is a state in its own right. It's not the western part of Virginia or the southern section of Pennsylvania. It's a bona fide state, and not such a bad place to grow up. I can attest to this because I spent fourteen years of my life there. In the same breath, however, I must confess that I never considered West Virginia my true home.

My family moved there in 1962. It was only about 200 miles from our native Louisville, Kentucky, but it might as well have been halfway across the world because, as the months turned to years, the trips back "home" became more andmore infrequent. Not so much because of distance but rather inconvenience.

We were returning from one of those rare visits on one sticky summer afternoon in 1967 when I spotted a sign posted at the state line welcoming us to West Virginia. I leaned over the front seat to my Dad, who was driving, and said, more out of a sense of resignation than relief, "We're almost home."

He turned toward me, only for an instant, and his remark was brief, but it has stayed with me ever since. "West Virginia is where you live now," he said, "but your home is Kentucky. Never forget you are from Kentucky."

Home is such an odd word. It has so many connotations, depending on whom you say it to and where you are when you say it. Up until several months ago, home to me was a quiet, comfortable townhouse on a dead-end street in Lexington, Kentucky. Home was horse farms, Kentucky Wildcat basketball, Keeneland race track, and Columbia's Steak House.

many connotations, depending on whom you say it to and where you are when you say it. Up until several months ago, home to me was a quiet, comfortable townhouse on a dead-end street in Lexington, Kentucky. Home was horse farms, Kentucky Wildcat basketball, Keeneland race track, and Columbia's Steak House.

Now the word "home" bears an entirely different meaning. Gone are the graceful rolling hills of central Kentucky, replaced by-desert! The Sonoran Desert. One hundred and twenty thousand square miles of the most contradictory, confounding, curious piece of earth I may ever have an opportunity to experience.

When I first arrived in Phoenix, I was struck by the superficial appearances, by the very contours and characteristics of the land itself. My eyes were drawn to the somber mountains with their choppy ridges and sharp peaks jutting toward a paralyzed blue sky. I was mesmerized by city blocks framed by citrus trees. And the simple fact that the desert was more than sand dunes and cactus was a major discovery.

Now time has passed, and I find myself redirecting my attention from the land to the people who live here. Each has a different story to tell: why she came, why he stayed. But all share a common traittheir ability to adapt. As one of my new friends recently pointed out, most of the people here come from someplace else. Like the pioneers of little more than a century ago, they packed up their belongings, and, with a bellyful of optimism, traveled across a wide swath of country to Arizona. They didn't expect the streets to be paved with gold, but they were fairly confident they would find ample milk and honey.

So, now it's my turn. To adapt to my new home and reap the rewards. Granted, it is like night and day compared to my native Kentucky, but like the thousands before me, I feel certain that Arizona will reveal its generous nature also to me. Let the harvest begin.

DECEMBER 28 I have arrived in Arizona for the first time this slightly humid, rainy night. During the entire twenty-minute drive from Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport to the hotel in Scottsdale, I peer out the window, trying to make some sense of this alien state I soon will claim as my own. All I can see, all that I notice, are those imposing black mountains looming in the background like silent sentries guarding the Golden Palace of the Southwest. My husband nudges me, whispering so that the cab driver won't hear: "Your eyes look as if they're going to pop out of your head."

He is right. I'm acting like some dazzled schoolgirl from Hicktown, U.S.A. - and I'm having a great time. There seems to be such a rush to become acclimated to a strange place that people forget it's fun to be impressed, to be taken by surprise. So I'm in no hurry. I'm excited by this boomtown, and yes, perhaps even a little frightened by it. I had no idea that moving to a new city could stir the blood so.

JANUARY 19 The telephone rang about one o'clock in the afternoon. I picked up the receiver to hear the familiar voice of a friend back in Lexington. She was a native of North Carolina but because of marriage and chance had found herself transplanted to Kentucky, a resident for more than three years now. She gave me all the news, then asked the inevitable question.

"So have you found that great job yet?"

She had eased into it about as well as anyone could.

"No, afraid not," I replied.

Always encouraging, she was quick to respond. "Well, hang in there. I know a wonderful job is just waiting for you. The important thing to remember is not to get depressed."

"I'm not," I assured her. "These things take time. Anyway, it would be really difficult to be depressed in this place. The sun shines all the time."

FEBRUARY 10 I saw him again today. He is a rugged man, the lines in his face carefully etched by time and burden, like fine wood on an antique headboard. He is an Indian and stands about six feet four, but he appears much taller because of his broad, square shoulders.

Every time I stop by the post office, I see him, standing behind the counter, facing a line of customers. Accommodating, but reserved. Polite, but distant. Today he was there again, although this time the lobby was empty. Not a soul to be seen, except for him, sorting packages into two large bins. I walked up to his window.

"Where are all the people today?" I asked, searching for stamp money in my wallet.

"For a change, we're slow," he sighed. "That doesn't happen very often. It seems like every day more and more people come in here. I guess 'cause more and more people keep moving here. Most of them from back east," he added. "Like my wife; she came from Pennsylvania." I took the stamps he handed me and smiled. "Well, if everyone is moving here, maybe you and your wife should go back to Pennsylvania." He looked at me as if I had just made the most preposterous suggestion he had ever heard. "No way," he said, shaking his head. He then glanced out the front window of the building. I followed his eyes and saw a blacktop parking lot and some newspaper stands. It was obvious he saw much more. "I love it here," he said quietly. "The mountains, the wide open spaces. This is my home, where I belong."

It occurred to me that I had seen his expression before. In the eyes of my father, in my husband's, in my own reflection. I had always thought the love I feel for Kentucky was somehow unique. Something people from other parts of the country could never understand, much less experience.

The postal clerk proved me wrong. I saw the love in his eyes, and because of it, Arizona looks different to me today.

"... your eyes look as if they're going to pop out of your head...."

Tucson is about 110 miles southeast of our home in Phoenix. We've heard it's a little less tame than the Valley of the Sun and more reflective of the true desert spirit; so we've decided to experience it for ourselves.

All along Interstate Route 10 are miles of creosote bushes, desert broom, and mesquite trees. The land strikes me as slightly melancholy, a sweet sadness reflecting its daily noble struggle for survival. Most of the brush is pale, stripped of color by the sun's unyielding rays. Only a few splashes of faded green relieve the carpet of camel-colored earth leading to the base of the next mountain.

In Tucson we make our way through Gates Pass to the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum, pausing en route to drink in the spectacular forty-mile view. The hillsides are a forest of sturdy saguaros reachingstretching to a sun that taunts and tortures; yet they remain steadfast.

The sky seems to be swallowing me. I feel as if I could stare out over the crusty earth, squint my eyes, and spot the tobacco fields of Kentucky.

I look down into the valley of stone and stubborn plant life. I can almost see the salty cowboys on seasoned horses trotting across the desert. This land did not surrender willingly to the paved road.

The wind is brisk; the air, crisp. Cactus wrens fly overhead, darting from bush to bush. I think of the game I used to play as a little girl, and, just for a second, I am queen of the mountain. My subjects are every paloverde, every prickly pear, and every thrasher nestling in every cholla in sight. My palace is perched atop the Tucson Mountains, my fortress against my enemies.

A child whimpers on the overlookbehind me, no doubt chilled by the fickle breeze. I hear footsteps.

"Are you ready to go?" my husband asks, and the kingdom vanishes. I nod reluctantly and walk past the toddler, now safely cradled in his father's arms.

Her nameplate says naturalist. I wonder what that means, exactly. What is natural to one person is quite alien to the next. To her, I am certain, the desert feels quite comfortable, like a worn slipper, or an old friend with whom you've shared a lifetime of secrets.

The concierge at the hotel had arranged for her to escort me on a nature walk. I was ignorant when it came to the desert and hoped she could correct a few misconceptions. It became obvious quickly that this woman could provide a dissertation on the topic. We walked along a dusty path at the base of the Catalina Mountains northeast of Tucson. She started with the basics.

"A desert usually receives ten inches of rainfall or less in a year," she explained. "Here we get two types of rains: the summer storms, which are more intense and come from the Gulf of Mexico, and the winter rains, which tend to be gentle and originate in the Pacific."

I listened intently for almost an hour while she pointed out various plants and birds, describing their reproduction cycles and emphasizing their significance in the delicate balance of nature. I took notes and tried to absorb it all.

As we neared the end of the trail at the hotel parking lot, her tone became more serious. "You know, it really gets to me when people say 'a desert wasteland,'" she said. I hadn't mentioned anything like that, but I could understand her point. A desert, yes. A wasteland, never.

Sweeping her arm in a semicircle as if it were a magic wand, she added, "How can people see all of this and make a comment like that?"

I had no answer.

At a very early age, I learned to respect the land. Maybe it had to do with growing up in Appalachia, where people are as deeply rooted in the soil as the crops themselves. In that part of the country, the land is part of your identity, your family name, the tradition that binds you to earlier generations.

Perhaps it was that influence that fostered my early fascination with the land, but it also stemmed from something much closer to home. Every spring, as predictable as the seasons themselves, my father planted a modest garden in our backyard. It wasn't large, but it always provided us a generous supply of meaty tomatoes, sweet corn, and tender green beans.

It was a ritual. First we would bury the tiny seeds in old tin cake pans under layers of rich black soil. Next, Dad would arouse the sleepy ground outside with a poke of the pick and a nudge of the shovel, preparing it like a guest's room the week before company arrives. Once the wobbly sprigs had peeked out from under potting soil, they were transplanted outdoors; and before we knew it, we had endless summer suppers of fresh vegetables. There was magic in that soil, and I was careful to show a kind regard for the field that fed me.

There is magic in the earth of Arizona, too. Ask my postal clerk or the naturalist. They see it in the springtime, when the saguaro is crowned king of the cacti with a coronet of gleaming white blooms. They see it in the resilient shrubs and wildflowers as they triumph, year after year, over desert heat and little rain. And they see it at day's end when the sun dances on Squaw Peak or majestic Camelback Mountain in Phoenix, creating a symphony of light and shadow, a patchwork of harmonizing hues: auburn, copper, mahogany, chocolate.

A KENTUCKIAN LOOKS AT ArizonA JUNE 6

I am driving west on Camelback Road toward Litchfield Park, a suburb of Phoenix. Hypnotized by the rhythm of the road and the sound of the engine, suddenly I am 2000 miles away, heading south on U.S. Route 25 from Lexington, Kentucky. Farms line the road; row after row of corn, sturdy, promising stalks, some five feet high. But no, I'm not in Kentucky, I'm in Arizona, in the desert, and the corn is not 2000 miles away, but a mere ten feet from the right window of my car. Adapting, always adapting. Does this desert know no bounds?

JUNE 26

Today I was introduced to a woman originally from the Midwest. She now works for a major corporation in downtown Phoenix. She has lived here for about four years, and as far as she is concerned, Phoenix is home. We talked for several minutes before she ventured a question.

"Did you know anyone here when you moved to Arizona?" she asked.

"Not a soul," I answered.

She took a sip of her diet drink, and reflected. "I used to live in Los Angeles, but I think the people here are more accepting. Most of them come from someplace else, and they know what it's like to be new and not have any friends."

A pause, and she continued: "The lifestyle is so much more relaxed, and there's so much opportunity." Another pause. "I think a lot of people come here looking for something better. In most cases, they find it."

I met with a real estate agent the other day. When I entered his office, he offered me something cold to drink, which I gladly accepted. "This is my first summer here," I told him, "and I've never drunk so much water in all my life."

"It's not the best time of the year right now," he conceded, "but the way I look at it, it's the price we have to pay for living in the desert. So we have two or three months of hot weather? The rest of the time, we have the most perfect range of temperatures you could ask for. I think it's a fair trade."

So do I.

JULY 4

I feel as if I've been on a journey these last six months. Learning, absorbing, reacting. This strange desert land has taught me a valuable lesson about life, about people, about change.

The good example is ever-present, for although the sun is unforgiving at times and the heat unyielding, Mother Nature is undaunted. She accepts the conditions and adapts. As a resident of this fair valley, perhaps I am expected to do the same. To embrace the terms, good and bad, and go on.

Shortly after I arrived in Phoenix, several people told me to enjoy the winters because summer would come, and I would soon curse the sun and hate the oppressive temperatures. They said I would grow tired of dust storms, August monsoons, and monotonous robin's-egg skies that herald yet another sunny day. I don't think so. Like the real estate agent, I think the deal is more than fair, the harvest more than bountiful.

Oh, I admit it. I still hear Kentucky calling me like a familiar church bell ringing on a sleepy Sunday morning. The sound is sweet and inviting, like a lullaby that lingers long after you have left your mother's arms. But for now, I am staying here, learning that the human heart has an amazing capacity to love a new home, much like a new child.

Welcome to Arizona!