CONNIE SPITTLER
near Tucson, Arizona
About Connie Spittler
Looking at the Rillito River
This is a true story about the first time I saw a river when I was a little tyke. My mama remembers what I said, "I can't see the river. Somebody put water on it." And so she told me exactly what a river was. A few years ago I wrote this poem to commemorate rivers everywhere.
When I was five and wanting more,
Upon a fine Dakota shore,
My mama showed me something new,
A wet and rumbly, tumbly brew.
"A river, there, your first, you see.
That is a river running free."
"There's something wrong," I said. "Because
I know about the land,
There's water on the river.
So I don't understand."Now here in Arizona,
I gaze at riverbeds.
The empty curves dug in the earth
Devoid of watersheds.
Sand beds stretched out for miles and miles.
They wait with open mouth.
No sustenance of any kind
Comes from the north or south.For months on end, I watch the beds,
So fallow, empty, still
Wide open to the desert test
Of a survivor's will.
"Why do they call it by this name?"
I ask the crumbling sand.
"There's NO water on the river.
So I still don't understand."© 2003, Connie Spittler
© 2003, Judd SpittlerConnie writes: Married to a photographer, mother of a photographer, I cannot resist sending along one of their pictures of a beautiful Arizona dry wash. Ever so often, when the monsoons rush in, the rivers begin to run. We wait for such times.
Tom Mix, the Whoop-de-do, Bon Vivant Cowboy
Back in the 20's, he was King of the West.
He righted all wrongs on his celluloid quest.
He galloped "tlot tlot" through the Hollywood plains.
He caught all the crooks who were robbing the trains.
Round town, he was suave, a star sprinkled with gilt.
He was rich. He was smooth, played it up to the hilt.
His mansion was lit with a silver screen shine
That proclaimed the Mix name on a big neon sign.
He wore fancy dan outfits and lizard skin boots,
Indulged in wild weekends and long, drunken toots.
On his belt glittered diamonds, as well as on spurs,
While his six lovely wives wore voluminous furs.
He packed reels with action for 300 flicks,
Leading Tony, his pony, through daredevil tricks.
He strolled on through time with his tall cowboy walk.
But when talkies arrived, old Tom didn't talk.
Instead, bought a circus and toured through the land.
It was there, outside Tucson, he made his last stand.
Near a wash in the desert, his roadster of speed
Rolled on through the night like a tumbling weed.
All alone in his Cord, who knows why he swerved?
Inattentive or drunk, in a doze or unnerved.
His suitcase slipped forward, a moment he cussed.
When his car went amuck, Tom Mix bit the dust.
Now his name is a legend. And no one knows why.
Just a black and white cowboy. One hellova guy.© 2003, Connie Spittler
Connie says: I wrote "Tom Mix, the Whoop-de-do, Bon Vivant Cowboy", on the site where Mix met his death, on Highway 79 in Arizona. I heard about the monument/rest stop dedicated to one of the first silver screen cowboys and with research material in hand and a yellow pad, penciled a tribute to Tom in memory of
the Saturday afternoon matinees I attended as a little girl in Wagner, South Dakota. Contrary to published material, it is rumored around the neighborhood that he had his accident after attending a late night social gathering at a ranch on the outskirts of Tucson near where I now live.
About Connie Spittler:
Although Connie Spittler grew up in a small South Dakota town, she learned invaluable life lessons on her grandparents' ranch and the farms of relatives. Her profession as a writer/producer and that of her husband, a cinematographer/editor took them to ranches and farms from California to Michigan to Maine. For years, the duo documented the land and the people who earned their livelihood riding and roping, plowing and harvesting. Now, through workshops, classes and talks, Connie encourages others to tell and write their life stories as a gift to family, friends and the community at large.
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