Riding a Catalina Mountains High

by Ernie McCray

Visited the place of my birth a little while ago.
Tucson.
Needed the trip so desperately
during bluesy soul-sapping times like these
as that desert town,
over the years
when life was somewhat getting me down,
has always eased my mind
gifting me with a kind of assurance
that nothing has really budged,
that everything’s going to be okay,
making me feel that way
going back to my childhood days

when it cut me just enough slack

to let me be me,

even granting me a degree of

what people refer to as popularity

although I’d rather call it acceptance

since that’s all I’ve ever basically

wanted in life

from society,

to not be shunned

and cast as a nobody

so, the notoriety I achieved in that city,

my name in several local halls of fame

and included in the African American Museum of Southern Arizona

and all that

was way above anything

I could have ever possibly conceived,

so, it’s no wonder Tucson means the world to me.

But, nothing in the Old Pueblo

has meant more to me

than the Santa Catalina Mountains

which are as impressive as the Alps to me

as that range triggered

so many of my childhood dreams,

as on bad days,

say, like when Jim Crow shenanigans seemed

way too much in my way,

I would imagine leaping over them

to other worlds

where there were circuses

and carnivals

and all the ice cream I could eat

and pretty girls at my feet

and I would return

fully reprieved.

So, when I saw the Catalinas

on my visit to my hometown the other day,

up close, one day

as a waning sun beautified them in spectacular shadowy ways

on my way to a café

in the foothills,

life seemed ever so promising

and I went with that feeling

as I went about meeting new friends

and wrapping my arms around old friends

and returned to San Diego

refreshed,

back to, in any way I can,

making the world more to my liking,

as my eyes are forever on the prize.

For days now I’ve been riding a Catalina Mountains high.