ARIZONA HUMOR

humor:

About the middle of April, my husband, Dave, and I were driving our motor home through the Southwest on a well-deserved vacation. The scenery, of course, was what we expected, conjuring images of cowboys and Indians, sheriffs and outlaws and cattle drives and shoot-outs from the Old West.

A few miles after driving through Flagstaff, we followed some arrows that promised "Old West Antiques" five miles ahead. The signs led us off thetwo-lane highway onto an over-the-hills-and-throughthe-woods dirt road until we came to an adobe bungalow with cactuses along the front of the yard. Off to the right was a well-weathered barn with a huge red sign on the front that read "Antiques." To the left of the barn, inside a corral, there was an old man chopping wood. We didn't see any other signs of life, so we parked in front of the barn and walked over to see if he would let us browse through his antiques. As we approached, he stopped chopping and leaned on his ax.

"That sure looks like an old ax you're using," I said to start a conversation. "How old is it?"

"Oh, it's an old one," he replied. "This ax used to belong to Wyatt Earp."

"Is that so?" I asked. "It sure has worn well, hasn't it?" "Oh, I don't know," he said. "It's had a dozen or so new handles and four or five new heads since Wyatt used it."

The Long, Long Ride

Our six-year-old grandson, Brandon, had his first airplane ride from snowy, blustery Michigan to Phoenix. Upon arrival, he was awed by the beautiful plants and weather. "I wish our planet looked like this," he said.

Wyatt Earp's Ax Small Town Service

While traveling in Arizona, I stopped in at a small cafe and asked the cashier if she might have something for the hiccups. She held up one finger and disappeared into the kitchen. After a few moments, she returned carrying a large wet towel. Without saying a word, she swatted me across my face with it. Infuriated by her audacity, I demanded, "What do you think you're doing?"

"I cured your hiccups, didn't I?" she asked.

"I didn't have the hiccups," I replied. "My wife does. She's in the ladies' room."

No Seconds

When a doctor advised a friend of mine living in the East that a change of climate would do him good, he came to Arizona looking for a place in one of the smaller towns. Traveling to the southwest part of the state, he ran across a particularly nice, easygoing little town. A white-haired gentleman dozed on a bench outside the general store, so my friend headed his way.

"Say old-timer, what's the death rate around here?"

"Same as it is back East, bub," came the wry reply. "One to a person."

Poet for Every Season

On a trail ride to the bottom of the Grand Canyon in the late 1950s, we witnessed one of Arizona's famous monsoon storms. Rain fell in buckets, and our guide asked us to dismount and stand on the wall side of the mules "just in case." After about 20 minutes the rain stopped, and as the guide helped a few of us remount, he shared this bit of wisdom: Into every life some rain must fall, I could do without any rain a'tall.

Some good will come of this, I know, 'Tis a darn sight better than two feet of snow.

Ole Mother Nature must show her wrath, But, dagnabbit, this is twice this year I've had a bath.

TO SUBMIT HUMOR

Send us an original short story, no more than 200 words, about your humorous experiences, and we'll pay $75 for each one we publish. Send them to Humor, Arizona Highways, 2039 W. Lewis Ave., Phoenix, AZ 85009. Please enclose your name, address, and telephone number with each submission. We'll notify those whose stories we intend to publish, but we cannot acknowledge or return unused submissions.