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want to kiss, fish or sit. You could imagine youself in a foreign country on a lake, not a man made bottled up body of water. It seemed all the parts of the drive that my mother thought were the most dangerous were the most interesting. Arizona became another country.

The flat desert reappeared. We had now gone through three counties. This was the time I thought it was safe to sleep. We were more than half way and my mother's voice as she talked to my sister became calmer. It seemed like we were going to make it to our grandmother's house. This part of the desert gave Arizona its bad name; not even cactus grew here. If you were able to get out and walk it would be hostile, the ground littered with broken pieces of jumping cactus, rocks, and white limestone coming to the surface. This is the desert we gave to the Indians and it became The San Carlos Indian Reservation. As we drove through the reservation there were no houses with electricity. Fires were burning, but not campfires. The Indians that lived here didn't camp they lived in wigwams built out of the materials found in the desert. The horses had shelters built from wood in the shape of a one-room house. My mother said, "the Indians are stupid because the horses have a better place to live." I guess she didn't know horses were the Indians most important property. My mother thought property was clothing and jewelry and animals could be fed for a few days and then forgotten. Nothing to care for.

The night became our blanket. The car moved between the sky and the asphalt. We were all safely put in a room on wheels going down the highway away from my

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