The couple drove into the old,
copper mining town resurrected
as an artists’ colony with
studios on each of three tiers
of what used to be one side of
the mining pit. A grand old
hotel sat on top. When the
 
miners dug down deep enough,
people planted a garden of homes
and businesses on the terraced
red earth. The only thing
open on Christmas day evening
was a local watering hole
on the first tier, so the couple
 
parked, told their Chocolate
Lab they would be back soon
and headed for the bar. When
they opened the door the aroma
of no longer fresh sauerkraut,
sausage, boiled potatoes and
fish tacos greeted them. The
 
big voiced, female bartender
boomed, “Merry Christmas.
Some of us local yokels are
having Christmas cheer and
a potluck. Ya’ll are welcome.”
The couple tested their luck as
they picked gingerly through
 
the now dead as a duck potluck
and hoisted a few to the not
quite true four-part harmony of
“Jingle Bells.” More than a
few tears were shed several
lines into “Have Yourself a
Merry Little Christmas,” and
 
after the last fa, la, la, la, la
of “Deck the Halls,” the couple
thanked everybody for Christ-
mas communion on the road.
The man stood outside his
motel room, in the cold, starry,
moonlit night allowing him to
 
see the silhouette of the mount-
ain range just north of the border.
He thought of the contrast of
the beauty of the mountains
and the violence on the other
side. He thought of Jesus being
born in the desert between the
 
mountains and the border and
how Jesus would need plenty
of water to survive the trip
with Mary and Joseph all the
way to Tucson. He looked at
his Chocolate Lab and said,
“Peace on earth, good buddy.”