Family Retreat at Crown King, Arizona

The last time Harold had been to the cabin was when he winterized it back in 2006, and Marie was worsening but still alive.

The aging pickup turned onto NF-32’s graded surface (national forest road) and he watched the odometer for 1.3 miles to make the left turn, and then negotiate 2.8 miles of bumpy ruts causing the old truck to wail its squeaks of strain and age, weaving to avoid fallen trunks until it reached the reprieve of his smooth drive, marked by a yellow-flagged stake.

In the ‘6os, he had built the rough-hewn cabin by hand, and even hauled granite to top the bladed road of the drive and build-site blanketed with cool, pine-scented air and shade from towering Coconino Pines nearby.


In low gear, the noisy, creaking pickup ground granite under the tires as Harold mashed the brakes in reaction to seeing clean windows on the cabin, and a pair of jeans and flannel shirt swaying over the porch rail, as if drying.

Calling, “Hello? Hello?,” as he entered slowly, the cabin was definitely being lived-in, with foodstuffs and clothing, neat in their proper areas, but the handfull of shotgun shells on the small, planked table riveted the octogenarian's attention.

The loud metallic click, from the doorway behind him, spun him around and he was staring up...level-eyed with twin shotgun barrels, behind which, stood his son, Marvin, whom he hadn’t seen or heard from in 12 years, long prior to Marie’s diagnosis.