Two Winterhavens, Ep. 19
- juliemorrisonwrite
- Jun 10
- 2 min read
Lisa takes us to a. Tucson dive bar with a link to a treasured song before Julie drives us a few miles to a 75-year beloved Tucson treasure that defines “community.”
Mug: Newsmakers, KGUN TV Channel 9
From an article in Arizona Highways, 2008
by Lisa Schnebly Heidinger
"Take a last, slow, lingering look around, prairie woman. You made your country strong. Still we’ll have to find a way to try to get along without you". These lyrics — written by Larry Armstrong and performed with the Tucson band Copper Moon — are about Armstrong’s great-grandmother, but they also describe Winifred J. Bundy. A woman who takes joy in both the vast outdoors and cozy spaces, who describes getting up at 7:30 a.m. and going to bed at 1 a.m. as “banker’s hours,” and who’s moving briskly from task to task most of that time. Slight and swift as a girl, her pale ponytail of original gold now glinting with silver, she seems a hybrid of sprite and settler, both whimsical and wise. Her skin is all that reveals her pioneer status, tanned and weathered like good leather, because as she fetches a stool and clambers up to examine the faded writing on an old photograph, reading in a clear voice with her back to you, she is surely 25 rather than the more accurate mid to late 70s…or older.
"Built you a house from the wilderness and the sod, prairie woman.”
Winn Bundy could have made other decisions when she came to this place just outside Benson in 1956. She could have pursued her studies at the University of Arizona, as her admired mentor and teacher, Lawrence Clark Powell, urged her to do. She could have focused on running cattle on her 640-acre spread, which has now become a sideline. She could have raised her children the way she did, baking every day and encouraging their dreams, without becoming a businesswoman as well. But Bundy took it into her head that she would like to own a bookstore. So, in 1974, without a market study to show that there were no customers to support it, she took $600 earned from dog-sitting and stocked two shelves in her foyer.
Used with permission.
Link to Prairie Woman
Wish Tree
by Julie Morrison
A
wish?
What else
but spoken seed,
suddenly released—
by fall or fancy—some
alchemy of gravity and surrender—
freed: trembling, tumbling, traveling—
wishes as wants with spurs, riding faith—
across impossible distance, or, maybe, right
near the roots that raised, grew, launched them
to ramble, riot, ricochet on, always on— toward futures,
for wishes can’t access what’s past—forward toward glints,
glimmers, seconds to spark—star—as times to act—
seed joining with effort as impulse, then attention, held—
held—nesting—nurtured until strong enough to sprout, branch,
stand on its own as grown, made, and made come
true.
Copyright 2025 Julie Morrison, All rights reserved
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