My sister Bec and her family used to be city slickers. I say used to, because now two-thirds of them live here in Arizona, which is the Wild Wild West. Her daughter lives in L.A. and is a professional dancer, so she gets a Wild Wild West pass.

Anyway, one time when they were in Colorado on vacation, back when they lived in northern Virginia just outside of Washington, D.C., they were driving on I-25 from Denver to Fort Collins to visit Jen. Suddenly cars ahead of them came to a stop, so they did the same. When they looked to see what was holding up traffic (could it be a presidential motorcade like they sometimes ran into in D.C.?), they were quite surprised to see that it was a herd of cattle making its way across the interstate.

We’re not in the urban east anymore, they thought.

While my Wild Wild West story withers in the face of hers, still I was reminded earlier this week that when it comes down to it, we are just cowboys and cowgirls here in Arizona. Well, probably not in Scottsdale or Fountain Hills, but definitely here in Mesa.

We pulled up to the driveway of our house, and had to yield to our neighbor, who was riding down our street ON HER HORSE. And, as you can see, not in some fancy dancy English riding wear. I’m talking cowgirl hat and cowgirl boots.

Fountain Hills and Scottsdale might have fancy golf carts in their grocery store parking lots; we have horses.

Yippy-i-o-ky-a.

Have a good weekend.