12 JANUARY 2022 T he morning fog lifted near Indian School Road and toyed briefly with the sun for a moment. Then it drifted back down onto the glistening pavement. I thought of poet Carl Sandburg. Carl Sandburg and the frustration he inadvertently caused me and the countless others who attempt to emulate him in situations like this. Sandburg knew about fog. He knew how it felt and what it looked like. And how to magnificently describe it using only plain, everyday words. Once Sandburg wrote about the fog, the bar was elevated too high, far beyond the reach of the mortals who followed. Because, in comparison, all other attempts to explain, glorify or otherwise preserve the fog are futile. Sandburg had set the standard, and it was, and still is, unapproachable. We still try, of course. We arm ourselves with fancy words, then wander into the fog and seek to make it our own with phrases, metaphors, similes and clichés. But we fail. The fog’s essence forever eludes us. It dances around, teases, reminds us of other times and places, and dares us to record our feelings. Shackled by a tremendous inability, we write anyway. But they are scribbles. Whistles in the wind. Pebbles on the beach. Inadequate, superfluous. Oh, there have been some noble attempts, to be sure. Most of them try to convey an impression of eeriness because we like to make the fog mysterious. So we make our feeble efforts: “The fog drifted across the valley and swallowed it.” “The fog converted the entire village into shadow and silhouette.” “A poorly defined form emerged from the fog and drew closer.” Or, we turn to fog words. “Loom” is a fog word. A figure looms, a barren tree looms, an old mansion looms. They’re the mailman, a dead elm and that old rundown house on the corner on a clear day. But there’s magic in fog, and it reshapes the common and elevates the ordinary into the unknown. Also, a fog never covers anything. Nor hides, nor conceals. A novice might say it obscures, but the veteran knows that the fog only shrouds because “shrouds” is a fog word. In times of great and desperate need, some can use it in other descriptions, but it belongs to the fog. Sometimes, writers reflect upon our contacts with the fog and try to inject credibility into our words by dwelling upon an incident or an instant in the mist that altered or restructured our lives. We have all been touched by fog, in one form or another. Some of us have even been kissed by it. Others have been immersed, enslaved, or enraptured by the fog. It always sounds good while standing in the mist, surrounded by grayness and listening for distant footsteps or the wail of a ship’s horn. Or a cockney-accented greeting. But all attempts to convey these images from mind to paper meet the same obstacle: Carl Sandburg. On this matter, we will never achieve equality with him. We are, and will always be his inferiors because one day in 1916, perhaps while being held a willing prisoner of the fog, Sandburg combined these 22 words that have made all other references mere utterances: The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over the harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on. The fog grew more intense as I neared my journey’s end. The vehicles bearing us to our respective destinations slowed in begrudging respect. The traffic signals were green, red and amber outlines suspended in the haze as reminders of the real world. I turned into a parking lot, and my reverie was over. As usual, Carl Sandburg had won. As usual, it was no contest. In the extended time that has elapsed between 1916 and today, there have been many challengers to Sandburg’s words, and all have failed. The Lowe Road A former Valley newspaperman who now writes about his travels across Arizona, the U.S. and the globe. BY SAM LOWE My brief career as a fog analyst By Jennifer Marshall In October 2021, a well-known name in the Arcadia neighborhood – Dr. José María Burruel – passed away, leaving a tremendous void in the place he loved and called home. “José was a change agent,” his wife, Francis, said. “When he knew he was right, he didn’t back off. He was an advocate for those who needed help, and he helped people to help themselves. José cared about everyone, and he so loved Arcadia and the community.” Born in Phoenix, Burruel lost his father in a smelting accident at an early age and was subsequently raised by his mother, who worked as a cleaning lady to support her family. Burruel left high school and joined the Navy, serving during World War II. He followed in his older brother’s footsteps and became a submariner until he was injured in combat. He then returned to Arizona and attended Arizona State University, where he played baseball. After earning a bachelor’s degree in education, Burruel became a teacher. His career took him to Santa Monica, CA, where he worked with elementary students. “He enjoyed teaching,” Francis said. “He always believed in education and believed that it was the answer. He had a motto he used to say, ‘They can take away your car, they can take away your house, but they can never take away your education.’” While living and working in California, Burruel not only earned a master’s degree in education at the University of Southern California – this is where he also met and married Francis. In 1978, he and his bride moved to Phoenix and settled in Arcadia, at Jokake and Camelback Road, where the couple lived for 42 years. “I remember that Jose irrigated our trees as a young man and reported that he would sleep in our front yard between irrigation jobs,” neighbor Ellen Allare said. “When the water hit his extended index finger, he knew the necessary water level was complete!” Burruel continued his educational career, eventually earning a Ph.D. in education from ASU, in keeping with his motto. He was promoted to Assistant Dean of Students, and this is where he advocated for them. “Whether it was civil rights, immigration or educational issues, José was always an advocate for the people,” Francis said. “If someone needed help, he would help them. He enjoyed life, and he never sought notoriety.” In a career and life of service to others, Burruel would also become Director of the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights for Arizona and worked tirelessly with others to restore the Old Adobe Mission in Old Town Scottsdale, which earned a spot on the National Register of Historic Places in 2018. He also highlighted the contributions made by many other Hispanics in a book he wrote entitled Mexicans in Scottsdale . “He was truly an icon in the Hispanic community,” Allare said. “He was a people person,” Francis continued. “He had a magnetic personality and a great sense of humor that drew people to him, which meant he was someone who never met a stranger.” Saying farewell to a community icon Dr. José Marîa Burruel

# S C O T T S D A L E W E S T E R N W E E K During Western Week, Old Town Sco ! sdale transforms into an authentic old west experience, and a fun ride for the entire family. Trot on down and connect with Old Town’s history at the Hashknife Pony Express Arrival, Parada del Sol Parade or Arizona Indian Festival. Enjoy western museums, art walks, live entertainment, arts and cra ft s workshops all week long. Come say howdy! YOU’VE HEARD ABOUT THE OLD WEST. COME SEE IT. S C O T T S D A L E W E S T E R N W E E K . C O M JAN. 29 – FEB. 6, 2022