She took a careful drag, watching the smoke curl upwards before fading into the dim, stale air of the cramped trailer. She’d grown used to the ever-present haze long ago. Of course, she wasn’t genuinely inhaling; she was just mimicking the grown-ups whose habits shaped the atmosphere around her. She smiled, satisfied, and carefully placed the cigarette back into the glass ashtray as she had seen her mother and her friends do.
The small space was sparsely furnished—its interior cramped but familiar, comfortably worn like a favorite old sweater. A 1950s metal table painted a once-bright turquoise, now faded and scratched, anchored the dining nook. Just a few steps away stood the makeshift cooking area: a tiny, single-burner stovetop and a shallow sink perched on a chipped countertop. A lingering scent of bacon grease and instant coffee hovered in the still air, mixing with the faint odor of dusty curtains and warm linoleum floors.
Against one wall sat an old sofa, its tired floral fabric bleached by desert sun sneaking in through thin curtains. A battered floor fan hummed softly nearby, stirring the heavy heat. From Jeannie’s vantage point, these simple comforts felt reassuring. The gentle whir of the fan, the quiet clink of her mother’s spoon against a coffee mug, and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath bare feet—all reminded her she was home, safely tucked inside a world no bigger than a few steps from corner to corner, but cozy in its own right.
Jeannie’s bedroom was at the end of the hall, right after her parents’ room and the bathroom. At seven and the eldest of three, Jeannie had long since learned to navigate a world defined by thin walls and drifting smoke. She shared her room, with its faux wood-paneled walls, with her five-year-old sister, Mimi, and three-year-old brother, Ken.
Toys spilled out of a large cardboard box in the closet. After the kids were put to bed at night, Jeannie lay awake and peered down the hall to the TV. The hall was so long and narrow that it was as if she was watching TV through a telescopic lens. While her parents watched The Rifleman or Star Trek, she reveled in the thought that she was “staying up late” watching grown-up shows.
But today, her mom’s friend was setting her hair. Just as she had seen her mom, Bobbi, and her friend Sue do for each other. Other moms went to the salon to get their hair done once a week. Lacking the funds for such extravagance, Bobbi and her friend did each other’s. Jean Marie (as Bobbi called her) sat at the table while Bobbi and Sue talked, gossiped, and drank sweet tea. Sue took the straight comb, pulled hair pieces into little squares, and wrapped the curlers tightly against her head. Each tug was painful, and to be honest, the black mesh rollers against her head with their spiny bristles didn’t feel very good either. But it didn’t matter. Jeannie, as she liked to be called, was feeling very mature. She was doing what she’d often seen her mom and Sue doing: getting her hair done, smoking, and gossiping about the town residents.
The town was Salome, Arizona. Population 360, about 90 miles northwest of Phoenix. Almost a ghost town, it rivaled other Arizona cities such as Why, Hope, and Nothing, AZ. Salome was a place of stark beauty, with its arid desert landscape and the ruins of a stage stop. Salome’s reputation as a desert inferno so dry local frogs didn’t know how to swim was coined by town founder Dick Wick Hall. His wife, Grace Salome Pratt, gave the town its name and motto — “Where she danced.” It’s said that Salome got out of the car barefoot and quickly took to dancing to keep her feet from burning on the hot desert sand.
In this dry, heat-stricken landscape where survival took many shapes, Bobbi forged her own path through marriage and motherhood, ultimately defining Jeannie’s world. At just twenty-five years old, Bobbi was a natural beauty. She wore her brunette hair in a short updo that showed off her high cheekbones and blue eyes. She had a natural tiny waist and ample bosom that might remind you of Dolly Pardon.
Bobbi had recently married Jim-her third husband. Each of her kids had a different father. There was a photo of Bobbi, pregnant and posing with all three children, taken before Jim entered their lives. The story whispered later—never by Bobbi herself—was that she had driven to Tucson to have the baby and gave it up for adoption. Whether it was true or just another piece of family folklore, Jeannie couldn’t say. The constant flux of men in her mother’s life left Jeannie with a sense of uncertainty, but she had learned not to dwell on those who disappeared. What mattered was who was here, now.
Jim loved telling the story of the first time he met Jeannie in the apartment. After being introduced, Jeannie looked at Bobbi and inquired, ‘Is he going to eat dinner with us?’ Jeannie didn’t like sharing their little food with the men Bobbi brought home. Jeannie had already assumed the role of protector of the kids and family resources at seven years old. Jim said that that’s when he knew he would marry Bobbi and take care of the kids.
To Jeannie, Jim seemed like he belonged in the desert—sun-weathered and solid, with calloused hands and eyes that held promises she hadn’t heard before—promises of steadiness and care. His quiet reliability contrasted with the shifting men who came and went.
Jim was a carpenter. A union man. He worked construction jobs wherever the union sent him and wherever there was work. He would rise before the sun and pull on his worn jeans, a white T-shirt, and a long-sleeved flannel—an unlikely choice at first glance but a practical shield against the desert’s relentless sun—along with his steel-toed boots. Before leaving, he would grab his lunch packed by Bobbi the night before and carefully store it in his gray Stanley lunch box with its domed lid and silver thermos full of hot coffee. He would head to the union hall and be sent to wherever there was work. Sometimes, he would get hired on by a job, and the work would be steady. He’d rise early and return about 3:00 in the afternoon before it became too hot to work in the blistering Arizona sun. Sometimes, there was no work, and he would return home before Jeannie left for school.
The family was in good spirits. Jim had been hired on by a job in Salome. Steady work!
Jeannie couldn’t wait to start second grade tomorrow. She adored school. This special occasion called for getting her hair done. Feeling very full of herself—very adult-like—she asked for a cigarette. Jeannie was as surprised as her mother when Bobbi said yes and lit one just for her. It was the first, last, and only time she would ever smoke.
But that moment lingered, a hazy milestone in her young life. She may not have inhaled the cigarette’s bitter fumes, but the taste of that bold step stayed with her. In that dim, cluttered trailer, with her hair tightly rolled in cheap curlers, Jeannie unknowingly staked a claim on her future. Pretending adulthood, testing limits, she made a silent promise: no one and nothing would control her except herself. The seed of self-determination was planted, shaping the strong-willed woman she would become.
Young Jeannie in Salome, 1965
