On the way to Bisbee Arizona from Sierra Vista, I notice sign that read: San Pedro House. I pulled over thinking it might be a ruin but it turned out to be a 1930’s converted ranch house that now functions as a visitor’s center and bookstore/gift shop.
A 100 to 150 year old massive Fremont Cottonwood Tree towers near the house and I pay my respects to the colossal god.
I had been to Bisbee before when I was six years old. That was more than 20 years ago. All I can remember from the trip was a journey 1,500 feet down Queen Mine straddled on a miniature train. I held the person in from of me (whoever that was) wearing a yellow hard hat with head lamp on my head.
The silhouette of my lean grandmother with enormous gems wrapped around her bony fingers sticks in my mind.
The bracelet around my own wrist is from Bisbee. The turquoise bracelet I rarely take off and always nonchalantly answer “Bisbee” when people ask me where I got the chunky bangle. The thing has been with me through all the highs and lows of my life.
In Old Bisbee, Beatniks hang in the street and breweries are places of worship.
Hundred year old houses built-in the mining boom nestle in the cliff that hovers over the town. Steep stairs lead to front doors perched on hills.
Color is splashed in peculiar places. This town oozes ecclectic. I love it here. I’m at home here. This is my native land.
Next stop: Tombstone
Slangshot 