"The Glass Castle" by Jeannette Walls pg. 35 (The Joshua Tree)

 "The Glass Castle" by Jeannette Walls  pg. 35

AFTER WE PULLED UP  stakes in San Francisco, we headed for the Mojave Desert.  Near the Eagle Mountains,
Mom made Dad stop the car.  She'd seen a tree on the side of the road that had caught her fancy.

    It wasn't just any tree.  It was an ancient Joshua tree.  It stood in a crease of land where the desert ended
and the mountain began, forming a wind tunnel.  From the time the Joshua tree was a tiny sapling, it had been
so beaten down by the whipping wind that, rather than trying to grow skyward, it had grown in the direction
that the wind pushed it.  It existed now in a permanent state of windblownness, leaning over so far that it seemed
ready to topple, although, in fact, its roots held it firmly in place.

    I thought the Joshua tree was ugly.  It looked scraggly and freakish, permanently stuck in its twisted, tortured
position, and it made me think of how some adults tell you not to make weird faces because your features could freeze.
Mom, however, thought it was one of the most beautiful trees she had ever seen.  She told us she had to paint it.  
While she was setting out her easel, Dad drove up the road to see what was ahead.  He found a scattering of parched 
little houses, trailers settling into the sand, and shacks with rusty tin roofs.  It was called Midland.  One of the little 
houses had a for-rent sign.  "What the hell,"  Dad said, "this place is as good as any other."