CHAPTER 10
It was almost three weeks before we saw The Jorgenson's again. Aunt Molly had been cutting hay--the weather was perfect, and it's not just a cliche--you have to make hay while the sun shines. The grass is cut and lies in the field to dry out before being baled into rolls or square bales. Rain will cause moldy grass.

Harris phoned and said the hay was in and asked me and Aunt Viv to come for supper. Viv took a pineapple upside down cake, the only dessert she could make foolproof every time. Harris had told us we'd be having Mexican, so I made salsa, extra hot, to take.

Harris was sunburned; he said he'd been trying to help Molly out in the hayfield and had taken lessons on how to drive the baler. He had cooked his favorite Mexican dishes, caldo made with beef shanks, which was a meal by itself, and beef enchiladas made with beef from Molly's freezer. He had driven all over looking for cilantro before finding some, and said he's plant his own soon. He was looking much healthier than the first time we saw him.

Aunt Viv restrained herself till after we had stuffed ourselves, then said "Okay, you left off where Douglas was saying goodbye--then what?" Harris said "Douglas dropped us off by the highway on his way to work and advised us since we were determined to hitch hike to save money, only to accept rides from little old ladies. Trouble was, we didn't find many little old ladies to pick us up, but we made it across the bottom of New Mexico and got to Tucson Arizona. It was 120 degrees, we were on a lonely stretch of highway, with no trees-not even a cactus around, just red sand and rocks and no water.

We were in trouble. Then a bus passes us; we were waving our straw hats and screaming but it just kept going. Then a miracle. The bus off in the distance, starts backing up and we ran toward it. The driver opened the door and we fell in, grateful to be saved. The driver says "Are you guys nuts? I ain't supposed to pick up hitchers, but the folks on this bus said I had to go back. They know anyone out on this road will die. By tomorrow you'd be just a little shriveled up pile of gnawed coyote snacks." I whipped out the money I had hidden in my sock. "Tickets, I'll buy tickets," I croaked.


"Later" the driver said and got back on the road. We looked at our saviors. A bus full of Indians, Hopi or Navaho, I'm not sure which. The women's broad brown-red faces were full of concern. From a shopping bag under her serape, one woman pulled out two bottles of beer. Another woman gave us tortillas rolled up with red pepper mash inside. We ate and drank then shook hands and thanked every one of our saviors.

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