Martha down shifted, creeping down the narrow winding road. Her sinuses had cleared, elevation changes no longer signaled by the pressure in her ears. She drove slowly not out of caution, her head swiveled rapidly from the view of the expansive valley to the strange rock formation which made up the mountain. She felt like an ant in a pile of pea gravel, the many round stones heaped together to make the terrain. But these stones were pea gravel times a million, giant round boulders, through which the narrow winding road had been cut.
Early for the workshop in Wickenburg, Martha took the time to drive through town. It was a typical tourist down town, with old buildings, a rail road, t-shirt shops and Native jewelry. Stores weren’t open yet, but that didn’t matter to Martha, she had no desire to actually enter
the stores, she liked the drive through tour. Viewing town killed about twenty minutes, she headed out to the conference center. Maybe they would let her check in early, a nap would be nice before the conference started after lunch.
This area was desolate, but filled with houses. She had met people who liked desert living but she could never relate to the draw. Just divine through was depressing, she craved mountains, liked the feeling of being on top of everything, having an endless view.
Her room wouldn’t be ready for hours, no luck there. At 10:00 in the morning it was already sweltering, and this was October. Unseasonable hot, everyone kept repeating. Not usually this hot. Martha was worried about the things in her car, she cracked windows and brought her camera and laptop inside with her, there was no shade, no trees for that matter.
The conference center was beautiful, decorated in a a traditional southwest mode, with big leather couches and navajo print overstuffed chairs, surround a huge stone fireplace. After checking in Martha sat on one of these couches, checking email and Facebook, making sure the automatic bills had all paid. Soon other women joined her, everyone chatting in a friendly way.
It was fun to be at a conference where the first question after the usual “where are you from?” was “what do you write?”
The thing about leather couches is they are slippery. When large and overstuffed are added to the equation, sitting upright for very long becomes work. Martha soon pulled her feet up beside her, knees bent and leaned onto the arm. The warm air and the drone of the women’s voices reminded her of one of her most wonderful memories. She had gone with her grandparents and her great-grandma Thompson to visit relatives in Napa. The ride had done the usual, car sick and headache, she didn’t travel well at that age, although she loved road trips anyway. After a pony ride and playing in the cul-de-sac with newly met distant cousins, the headache had become unbearable. She had gone inside and laid on the couch her head in Grandma Thompson’s lap, the soft wrinkled hand stroking her forehead. There was a ceiling fan she watched go round and round, as the voices of the two old women, Grandma Thompson and some elderly aunt, droned on and on. She had completely relaxed, cooling down, the headache diminishing. When she thought about that moment she always felt completely loved, no strings attached, only comfort and security present.
This moment was enough like that, bringing back the memory, to lull her into a doze, not quite asleep, awake enough to keep herself from snoring, although an occasional snort might be likely to creep out. She found her self stretched out on the couch, not caring that this place was a little snooty, they probably frowned upon guests sleeping in public areas. Maybe they will get my room ready faster.
With that thought she fell asleep.
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