A year or so ago, a mega-mall opened along a busy stretch of Route 77 in Oro Valley. A bait-and-switch, neighbors thought they were getting Redondo Drive and instead were saddled with Walmart. The allotment of acreage versus viable market for Tiffany's and the like should have been the first clue that something was amiss.

The mall is situated in on a broad alluvial plain -- something of a rarity in Arizona -- that is also subject to violent flash flooding (a possible solution?) The tarmac laid from one end to the other assures that the flooding will in fact be exacerbated.

The concrete assures that the run-off now will be siphoned away, instead of percolating into the large aquifer below the plain. (This is a serious issue as water engineers in southern Arizona now admit their predictions about water availability into the future were far too optimistic.)

Back to the Mall -- Driving in, one is shuttled down series of winding narrow one-way chutes that meander through acre upon acre of nothing but parking lots. Sight lines are blocked and there is no signage to indicate purpose or direction. After what seems an eternity of maze meandering, one stumbles by chance upon a remote cluster of buildings housing a series of warehouses masquerading as friendly retail experiences.

So, in a sports store there is literally 10,000 square feet devoted to women's sports apparel with almost no variety from one brand to the next. The shopper is overwhelmed by an unending array of THE SAME STUFF .. shorts that are either mid-calf, short or short-short and tee-shirts in the same five colors, largely made out of some kind of inorganic and one hopes inert fabric. Differentiation -- if any -- occurs in the colored piping that follows a seam or the logo placement. This is somehow meant to generate excitement.

In the next store, whether it be Best Buy or a cosmetics outlet, one finds the same – endless rows stocked with glittery goods that, upon closer inspection, offer little variety. One cannot fail to note, as well, that there are perhaps only two or three other customers in each stadium-sized shop.

On some level, the experience within the stores mirrors that of navigating through the parking lots, one qualified by disorientation, vast distances and the promise of bounty unfulfilled.

Heading back after teaching yesterday evening, I stopped to clean off my car windows at a gas-up cum stop-n-shop off of La Canada, in that redoubt of unrepentant conservatism, Oro Valley.

I only half noticed a tall, big boned woman fully made up, with dark hair firmly fixed in place and a bright white sweater set washing the windows of her bright white gold-trimmed Lexus SUV.

As I set about my task, another woman -- less kempt, with mussed red hair and a friendly mien -- passed by and whispered "Maybe you want to wash your entire car while you're at it?"

I looked up with raised eyebrows and she leaned closer "Just like that woman over there -- doesn't that crack you up?" And sure enough, that is exactly what the dark-haired woman was doing.

This gave me immediate pause to wonder whether the once privileged of Oro Valley were reduced to using the squeegees at the Stop-n-Shop now that they could no longer afford to have their vehicles regularly detailed.

I glanced over at my new friend as she filled the tank on her weathered 10-year-old Nissan Altima.

Alright, it is time to wipe the dust from my eyes and wrestle myself out of this sandy hole into which I've burrowed. After all, spring is newly arrived .. lupines, poppies all popping up, first bug bite of the season (black widow .. not scorpion), owls are courting on the telephone poles and my husband claims he has sighted the first turkey vulture.

Strangest of all phenomena though is the changing of the oak leaves from green to bright yellow -- a springtime phenomenon in chaparral -- whereupon they drop and sprout new leaves all over again. Spring and fall are all wrapped up together.

Met a woman originally from Puerto Rico and she agreed that the desert here resembles the rainforest, without the rain. What more can I say of this country? The hominid fauna remain as odd as the other types of desert fauna and flora .. all (in a sense) are outsized or odd-jointed characters living in mean circumstances.

Mother's Day in Oracle...

This morning, my husband and I headed to DeMarco's Pizzeria, the de facto local sandwich shop, for breakfast. DeMarco's is one of two eating establishments in Oracle. The other is Rivera's, a Mexican restaurant where one can find huge burros stuffed with some rather good carnitas or carne asada, as well as on occasion albondigas soup.

Oracle's eatery list might also include the a road stop on 77 called the Chapparal (no seating, a rickety old fan, fluorescent lighting, deep freezers full of no-name ice cream and thin grilled hamburgers). There is also the rough-and-tumble Cadillac Chapparal (no relation) – located some 15 miles away in the middle of barren scrub land, which some refer to as Bikersville. There one encounters not just bikers, but hardscrabble families and a bar filled with the widows of old cowboys. It remains a comfortable and friendly place, even while recently relocated into a huge corrugated hangar. One notes the discernible absence of Saddlebrooke retirees.

The Cadillac Chapparal, while not that old, remains one of the few "old time" places extant. They'd of course look askance if I used the word "extant" but, be that as it may, the steaks – done on an enormous outside grill – are worth the trip, as are the 1950s-style homemade pudding cakes (both the chocolate and pineapple-orange are recommended).

Other than that, there is a putative Italian restaurant in Oracle but, in spite of a recent expansion (including the installation of a gleaming white fountain), the food within remains without merit. One can only surmise that the Grandmother for whom the restaurant is named was a most ungenerous cook. A guess at the stable of ingredients used in a pasta sauce might include corn starch, canned peas and powdered garlic. The pasta is so well cooked, it dissolves on contact. Unlike the Chapparal, this restaurant has a devoted Saddlebrooke following, no doubt made up of those on restricted diets.

Anyway, this morning at DeMarco's there were large families gathered at tables with pink helium-filled balloons. We chose a table next to one at which a middle-aged woman sat by herself looking over a menu. She had small eyes and a snub nose set into a pale, slightly flaccid face, which in turn sat under under a bowl-styled bob of straight silver-blonde hair. She wore shapeless dark green pants with a white cotton turtleneck and appeared to be reading a newspaper.

In no time, however, she became glued to a cellphone – her flat wheedling voice wheeling out and overpowering all other adjacent conversation. So while we managed our intake of bacon and eggs, we (along with a good portion of the room) could not help but listen in. The following snippet occurred during the second or third call:

"Yes, well I'm up here in Oracle. You know so many people want to move here now and I'm thinking of selling some of my properties. ...

"Oh so I wanted to get in touch because I had the most amazing dream. That was why I took the other call because I thought it might be Reynaldo and I also wanted to tell him too about the dream. So this is it. I dreamt you were going to Africa – no, you were already set up there in Africa. And I dreamt I went to see you only I found out that you had committed suicide. Yes, suicide – you committed suicide and left a note about how unhappy you had been. And I was just sooooo sad – I kept thinking there were still so many things I had wanted to say and to do with you. ...

"Well, I'm so glad to hear you're feeling better and – you know – you've got your life all together now. ...

"Yes, well, I'm here in this restaurant but I had no idea it would be so crowded on mother's day. There are all these large parties, yes, with 7 or 8 people. And people coming in. ...

"No – I'm here by myself. I was supposed to meet Reina to talk about the properties, see and it's Mother's Day.

"Yes, I really should go – something's come up, I've got to get off the phone now."

Sleeping with the enemy...

A week or so before I moved out west to the ranch of my childhood longings, I had a dream in which a new series of apartment buildings (with requisite stucco and red tin roof details) had been erected throughout the property. I asked my friend why she didn't warn me that this was slated to happen. She said I ought to be grateful as our house didn't look down on the developments as did hers. I said "But I wouldn't have moved out here had I known."

And indeed, a large developer has purchase 700 adjacent acres on which a grid will soon be scripted for high-end architect-designed housing.

This dodgy little town – which despises most form of government and would cast its fate to whatever wind happens to be blowing by on a given day rather than act as steward of its own destiny (because of the greater fears of what a government led by neighbors might conceive) – of course lies just beyond the burgeoning forts of Oro Valley and Marana, and their gleaming phalanxes of SUVs and homeowners who, like members of the Foreign Legion, have amassed here from far-off places like Michigan and Minnesota.

Change will come. (Or not, if we are depleted of oil and water. That will produce change in the form of famine that will most certainly stave off any notions of growth and progress. I am sure a not insignificant minority here find this a preferable option, begging the question: are these truly the last people I want to be stuck with in the proverbial life boat?)

It does seem many if not most of the local wells are now dry and there are new reports that the Colorado River (upon whom much of the state – and certainly Maricopa, the 4th most populous county in America) is at record lows. One might think this would act as deterrent to the housing boom. Alas only a momentary dip in the market is staving off the grafting of new developments on the steep and rocky hills next door, where we walk our dogs in the late afternoons.

Just a few of the locals...

The town name of "Oracle" may act as unconscious lure to minor actors borne by great gestures.

THT has now moved to Mexico. He (of the bushy beard and snaggle tooth) was known at one time to deliver the mail on horseback. D is a self-taught stone mason who shows symptoms of rabies at meetings with county supervisors. RS abandoned the family garment business to homestead on a mountain. CS, who studied architecture in his youth, collects model trains and has obsessively recreated floor plans for every local historic structure.

Of course, many folks arrived when the idea of engraving a novel identity seemed a noble calling, and the only acceptable norms were those of transgression. It was no wonder then that the newcomers of the 1970s – who immediately set about trying to preserve local history and fighting off growth – were looked at askance by the old-timers who had actually lived that same history, including the crippling poverty of the Depression, and likely looked forward to selling their holdings to the big developers.

A typical example of a recent Oracle denizen would be a self-discovered painter who left East Coast husband behind in order to divine the principles of wisdom through the media of acrylic .. by painting luridly colored pod people and some additional landscapes. But perhaps that is mean-spirited of me.

And what of myself? While I miss the stimulation of cities, I was admittedly motivated to move by one of those sticky little childhood promises to myself. This is an odd thing: as a child I had spent summers here on the very same ranch and had always yearned to move out.

That very first summer spent here when I was seven, the barn was still empty except for a few leftover bales of hay. As the newly arrived artists began to claim portions for their studios, I decided we kids needed space of our own (especially as the barn proved the greatest lure for a short spell).

So I lit on a yet-unclaimed corner, erected a barricade of boards and other bric-a-brac. On one board in particular I drew a skull and crossbones with the words "Keep Out!" and "Private -- No Trespassing". I thought myself to be very bold. Some 35 years later, after finally making a permanent move to the same ranch, my husband one day brought back a piece of wood to our house. I peered at the tiny, nearly invisible script, and beheld my own tentative pronouncements of years past.

From the eye of the potato...

I suppose the romance has worn thin. Perhaps it is time to abandon life and its incremental perturbations in a tiny village somewhere outside of an almost city in a frontier state without means or design. At the very least I should abandon nomenclature that in any way seeks to glorify said existence.

For example, Oracle is truly just a boundless scrappy town whose line of demarcation runs through its center. American Avenue is a bleak winding throughfare called where one finds most of Oracle's businesses sitting in cinderblock shells – sometimes stuccoed – dotted every half mile or so. Maybe a little over half are open, many of those with faded/peeling or hand-painted signs. There are no sidewalks, just a dusty unshaded path that disappears in parts.

There is a kind of sloth that settles in .. a slow way of speaking that exposes an unvarying lassitude and a general lack of interest with the details, sometimes masked as irony.