The cusp between April and May of 2004 caught us in Las Vegas! (The real Las Vegas ... Nuestra Señora de los Dolores de Las Vegas Grandes, on the eastern base of the Sangre de Cristo in New Mexico.)
Shortly before Christmas in the preceding year, my wife suggested that we were getting up in years, and should probably be thinking about relocating to a pedestrian town, in anticipation of the declining abilities. She suggested Las Vegas, and I became so excited I could hardly breathe! We could go to Heaven, perhaps well in advance of our inevitable demise.
We went to scout out the place for my birthday at the end of April. Although we'd been there several times before, this was to be a critical appraisal.
One of the things I really wanted to do while there was to follow the Gallinas River up to El Porvenir. I had seen the name on maps for a long, long time, but did not know what to expect. I was surely expecting a little mountain village at the very least, and we were on the way up there on the narrow paved road State Route 65 beyond the village of Montezuma when my wife suddenly asked, "Did you know that El Porvenir means 'The Future'.."?
OMG! I'd never thought of myself as fluent in Spanish, but the simple combination of por (for) venir (to come) should have certainly been recognizable!
When we reached our goal, we hardly knew we were there. El Porvenir is not a village. It is a Forest Service campground at the base of Hermit's Peak, which provides a trailhead to the cave where John Augustani, the Italian hermit who hung around Las Vegas for several years selling hand carved Santos before finally moving on, and who was the inspiration for the name Hermit's Peak.
I wrote this originally on my wife's iBook at the Plaza Hotel in Las Vegas, and somehow it escaped me, and has been lost forever. Therefore, this slightly inferior account is recaptured from an old guy's memory, and seems to leave out some of the most exciting details of John Augustiani. Maybe Google might help both the reader and me to fill in these details.
For now, I'll simply close by mentioning that we've seen The Future, and I would someday like to go "Back to The Future", but for now, I'll simply say that my excitement eventually faded after my wife decided that we really shouldn't go so far away from our daughters and their families, all of whom now live nearby. I can't argue with that kind of logic.
.
Showing posts with label New Mexico. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New Mexico. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Santa Clara Day, 1961...Our Last Day Before Donna
It was the evening of August 15, 1961 when my mom and dad arrived in Santa Fe. It wasn't their very first visit, but they were still newcomers to the enchantment that I felt in the small 'city' in northern New Mexico. I'm not sure they ever understood that enchantment.
The purpose for their visit was to be the birth of our second daughter, whom we were expecting "soon". Mom was to stay a couple of weeks to help out with the new baby while dad hit the road to get back to his work of traveling to different cities as a factory representative for several furniture manufacturers.
The next day, we decided to make a sightseeing day of it, showing the "old people" the world we had discovered. We left our apartment at 530 E. Garcia Street in the morning, and headed up the hill to Camino del Monte Sol, where I worked at the corner of Camino Monte Sol and Camino Cruz Blanca, in the shadow of the prominent landmark, Monte Sol.
From the office, we wound our way along Camino San Acacio to have a look at Cristo Rey Church, a prominent monstrosity which is attractive to tourists, before heading up the "more or less" paved Upper Canyon Road. Looping back toward town on the unpaved Cerro Gordo Road, we turned back uphill when we encountered pavement at Gonzalez Road, and proceeded to the mountain. No newcomer to Santa Fe should tarry too long without going up the mountain! We actually went all the way to the ski lodge, but in August, it was pretty well deserted, and whatever snow lingered was hardly noticeable, as it was dirty enough to blend into the soil. The park road down to Tesuque was unpaved then, and somewhat rough, so we took it for its scenic quality.
Arriving back to the highway at Tesuque, we turned north to Española, and crossed the mighty Rio Grande. It was Santa Clara's Feast Day at the pueblo, so we joined in the festivities for awhile before heading down NM route 30 past Black Mesa and making a right at the intersection to go back up to Los Alamos.
We looped through Los Alamos, and apparently my old (forty-six year old) dad must have been getting tired, and certainly not knowing where we were by then, saw the sign pointing to "Bandelier", and mistook it for "Bernalillo", and remarked that we must be close to Albuquerque, which was a known quantity, and wanted to take it as a "short cut".
I took that as my cue, and headed for home. We arrived back home in the early evening, having felt that we'd put in an eventful day, even though the telling of it was not nearly so adventurous. Needless to say, we turned in early, both the old folks, my wife, and I. Our only daughter Adrienne, who had recently turned two, was never ready for bed, and she often would get up and wander around the apartment for long after we were asleep. She was asleep before dawn the next morning, however, when we determined that "it was time". I alerted the obstetrician's service and we left Adrienne with the old folks while we headed down to Saint Vincente's, which was only a short distance away, at the corner of Paseo Peralta and E. Palace Avenue. Apparently, we had timed it well, or pitifully, depending on your point of view, because I had only just settled into a chair in the waiting room, in order to wait for the long hours of anticipation, when the doctor himself came in and escorted me to where I found a wide awake Donna, casting a sidelong glance at me (a look which has a certain distinction which has remained with her throughout her life), and I almost expected her to say something, she seemed so alert.
Of our four daughters, Donna was the nearest to "natural childbirth", that we've experienced, and not necessarily by choice. My wife assured me that she didn't want to do it that way again, but it happened so fast that they didn't have time to "put her down" in the normal "hospital" manner. I'm sure it was our Santa Clara Day adventure that made our Donna unique among her sisters, who themselves, are each unique in the context of human existence.
.
View PreDonna Day in a larger map
The purpose for their visit was to be the birth of our second daughter, whom we were expecting "soon". Mom was to stay a couple of weeks to help out with the new baby while dad hit the road to get back to his work of traveling to different cities as a factory representative for several furniture manufacturers.
The next day, we decided to make a sightseeing day of it, showing the "old people" the world we had discovered. We left our apartment at 530 E. Garcia Street in the morning, and headed up the hill to Camino del Monte Sol, where I worked at the corner of Camino Monte Sol and Camino Cruz Blanca, in the shadow of the prominent landmark, Monte Sol.
From the office, we wound our way along Camino San Acacio to have a look at Cristo Rey Church, a prominent monstrosity which is attractive to tourists, before heading up the "more or less" paved Upper Canyon Road. Looping back toward town on the unpaved Cerro Gordo Road, we turned back uphill when we encountered pavement at Gonzalez Road, and proceeded to the mountain. No newcomer to Santa Fe should tarry too long without going up the mountain! We actually went all the way to the ski lodge, but in August, it was pretty well deserted, and whatever snow lingered was hardly noticeable, as it was dirty enough to blend into the soil. The park road down to Tesuque was unpaved then, and somewhat rough, so we took it for its scenic quality.
Arriving back to the highway at Tesuque, we turned north to Española, and crossed the mighty Rio Grande. It was Santa Clara's Feast Day at the pueblo, so we joined in the festivities for awhile before heading down NM route 30 past Black Mesa and making a right at the intersection to go back up to Los Alamos.
We looped through Los Alamos, and apparently my old (forty-six year old) dad must have been getting tired, and certainly not knowing where we were by then, saw the sign pointing to "Bandelier", and mistook it for "Bernalillo", and remarked that we must be close to Albuquerque, which was a known quantity, and wanted to take it as a "short cut".
I took that as my cue, and headed for home. We arrived back home in the early evening, having felt that we'd put in an eventful day, even though the telling of it was not nearly so adventurous. Needless to say, we turned in early, both the old folks, my wife, and I. Our only daughter Adrienne, who had recently turned two, was never ready for bed, and she often would get up and wander around the apartment for long after we were asleep. She was asleep before dawn the next morning, however, when we determined that "it was time". I alerted the obstetrician's service and we left Adrienne with the old folks while we headed down to Saint Vincente's, which was only a short distance away, at the corner of Paseo Peralta and E. Palace Avenue. Apparently, we had timed it well, or pitifully, depending on your point of view, because I had only just settled into a chair in the waiting room, in order to wait for the long hours of anticipation, when the doctor himself came in and escorted me to where I found a wide awake Donna, casting a sidelong glance at me (a look which has a certain distinction which has remained with her throughout her life), and I almost expected her to say something, she seemed so alert.
Of our four daughters, Donna was the nearest to "natural childbirth", that we've experienced, and not necessarily by choice. My wife assured me that she didn't want to do it that way again, but it happened so fast that they didn't have time to "put her down" in the normal "hospital" manner. I'm sure it was our Santa Clara Day adventure that made our Donna unique among her sisters, who themselves, are each unique in the context of human existence.
.
View PreDonna Day in a larger map
Monday, May 24, 2010
Remembering an adventure of fate....
This evening (I'll probably finish this tomorrow, so perhaps I should say, "Monday evening"), I went to a choir concert at my ninth-grader granddaughter's school.
As I sat there waiting for the show to start, I thought about how times had changed since I was in ninth grade. In MY day, performances were staged in the gymnasium. Some gyms even had a stage built into one end for the times when the space was used for a play or concert. The acoustics were usually insufferable.
The theater at the ninth grade center where our granddaughter goes to school this year had a nicely functional space, with a large stage, sloped floor, and fixed seats. Looking up, one sees some acoustical devices which someone once told me were called "clouds". The "clouds" reminded me of a period in my life which I thought was somewhat anecdotal.
For my design thesis for graduation from the University of Texas School of Architecture I decided to design a "Fine Arts Center" for a particularly attractive site at the confluence of Bouldin Creek and The Colorado River (which later became Town Lake and is now Lady Bird Lake).
It was not until I started researching my project that I found that, in those days, Fine Arts Centers were not a regular fixture of virtually every reasonably sized city. I found, among the meager resources of the Architecture Library, only a single Fine Arts Center, the one in Colorado Springs, designed by John Gaw Meem.
I feel that I did a very mediocre job with my thesis project, and was quite disappointed with the way it turned out. Often I'm my own worst critic, and perhaps someone saw some merit in my design that I didn't, because I got a passing grade, and left The University, to go out into the world and complete my education in Architecture with a correspondence course to remedy a failing grade in American History.
During my first summer of working for an architect in Baytown, Texas, we made a trip to Albuquerque to visit some of my wife's relatives who lived there. We vowed to move to Albuquerque as soon as we could.
It happened that we were free to move to New Mexico in December of that year, and we promptly did so. I'm sure that it was sometimes, even usually, done differently, but I was accustomed to "pounding the pavement" looking for work. That's what I did (however, I drove around in my new VW instead of actually pounding the pavement). After looking unsuccessfully in ABQ for more than a week, Uncle Bill, who was making a trip up to the Taos area, offered to drop me off in Santa Fe to check around there while he went up to Taos, and would pick me up on The Plaza in the afternoon. sounded like a plan to me. I had been to Santa Fe the day before, and was quite impressed with it, although it was snowing just enough to keep me from seeing more than a block or so in any direction.
At the second place I visited, the architect looked at the work samples that I presented (featuring my Fine Arts Center), and made a phone call. I heard him say that the person to whom he was talking might be interested in my work. I asked him how far it was, because I was on foot, and he called up one of his employees, asking him to "take this fellow to Meem's office".
It turned out that the firm of Holien and Buckley, John Gaw Meem's successors, was working on.....A FINE ARTS CENTER for the University of New Mexico!
One of the very first things that I worked on at Holien and Buckley was the suspension for the concrete acoustical clouds in the recital hall, using steel rods. I doubt that those clouds weighed more than five or six thousand pounds (some details can be lost to time when you're an old guy), but a couple of boisterous Okies who worked in the office made up a rowdy story about a heroine opera singer on the stage, and a villain standing on the cloud above her head with a hack saw!
...
As I sat there waiting for the show to start, I thought about how times had changed since I was in ninth grade. In MY day, performances were staged in the gymnasium. Some gyms even had a stage built into one end for the times when the space was used for a play or concert. The acoustics were usually insufferable.
The theater at the ninth grade center where our granddaughter goes to school this year had a nicely functional space, with a large stage, sloped floor, and fixed seats. Looking up, one sees some acoustical devices which someone once told me were called "clouds". The "clouds" reminded me of a period in my life which I thought was somewhat anecdotal.
For my design thesis for graduation from the University of Texas School of Architecture I decided to design a "Fine Arts Center" for a particularly attractive site at the confluence of Bouldin Creek and The Colorado River (which later became Town Lake and is now Lady Bird Lake).
It was not until I started researching my project that I found that, in those days, Fine Arts Centers were not a regular fixture of virtually every reasonably sized city. I found, among the meager resources of the Architecture Library, only a single Fine Arts Center, the one in Colorado Springs, designed by John Gaw Meem.
I feel that I did a very mediocre job with my thesis project, and was quite disappointed with the way it turned out. Often I'm my own worst critic, and perhaps someone saw some merit in my design that I didn't, because I got a passing grade, and left The University, to go out into the world and complete my education in Architecture with a correspondence course to remedy a failing grade in American History.
During my first summer of working for an architect in Baytown, Texas, we made a trip to Albuquerque to visit some of my wife's relatives who lived there. We vowed to move to Albuquerque as soon as we could.
It happened that we were free to move to New Mexico in December of that year, and we promptly did so. I'm sure that it was sometimes, even usually, done differently, but I was accustomed to "pounding the pavement" looking for work. That's what I did (however, I drove around in my new VW instead of actually pounding the pavement). After looking unsuccessfully in ABQ for more than a week, Uncle Bill, who was making a trip up to the Taos area, offered to drop me off in Santa Fe to check around there while he went up to Taos, and would pick me up on The Plaza in the afternoon. sounded like a plan to me. I had been to Santa Fe the day before, and was quite impressed with it, although it was snowing just enough to keep me from seeing more than a block or so in any direction.
At the second place I visited, the architect looked at the work samples that I presented (featuring my Fine Arts Center), and made a phone call. I heard him say that the person to whom he was talking might be interested in my work. I asked him how far it was, because I was on foot, and he called up one of his employees, asking him to "take this fellow to Meem's office".
It turned out that the firm of Holien and Buckley, John Gaw Meem's successors, was working on.....A FINE ARTS CENTER for the University of New Mexico!
One of the very first things that I worked on at Holien and Buckley was the suspension for the concrete acoustical clouds in the recital hall, using steel rods. I doubt that those clouds weighed more than five or six thousand pounds (some details can be lost to time when you're an old guy), but a couple of boisterous Okies who worked in the office made up a rowdy story about a heroine opera singer on the stage, and a villain standing on the cloud above her head with a hack saw!
...
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Old Man's Rambling Remembrances #30
Someone I know is spending several weeks before and after the solstice in the mountains near Las Vegas, NM. I am so envious! Northern New Mexico is where I live, no matter where I may be. Although our regular visits have slowed down somewhat, I coninue to have my memories.
TAOS WEATHER SNOW JOKE
5/9/99
My wife always goes prepared. A week’s trip usually requires packing for all contingencies for at least 11 days.
There are two passes which lead directly into Taos across the Sangre de Cristo Range. You may approach by the river road from Santa Fe, but the shortest way is to go in through one of the passes from Las Vegas (New Mexico). As we approached the village of Mora north of Las Vegas, the wife made a call to Donna, to let her know the correct phone number where we might be reached.
“Would you believe”, she said to Paul, who had answered the phone, “that we can see fresh snow? Just a few patches, but it’s fresh snow!” I turned right at Mora toward the slightly longer route, because I wanted to explore the road up to Angel Fire. I had recently recommended that road to my sister, but had never been on it myself. Within ten minutes, we were surrounded by vistas of solid white, with a “Central Texas style BLIZZARD” (a light snowfall anywhere else) which limited visibility to about one-third of a mile. “It’ll be gone by the time we get to Taos,” was my analysis.
When we arrived, however, there was still a light snow falling. My sweet wife almost wailed “I didn’t pack for snow in May!”. I have no idea why she was so concerned. We were in Taos, for goodness sake! We had jackets, you have to have jackets in northern New Mexico, whatever the season, but she was afraid she wouldn’t be “fashionable”.
In Taos she could have gotten away with wrapping the bedspread around her and stepping out
into the town. In the little city of mud, almost anything goes, although we we've never noticed complete nudity.
By Thursday, the “style” had evolved from serapes, jeans and boots to shorts and sandals, and I
noticed that, although she did not wear any of those things, she looked perfectly fine! In Taos, people know how to live.
..
TAOS WEATHER SNOW JOKE
5/9/99
My wife always goes prepared. A week’s trip usually requires packing for all contingencies for at least 11 days.
There are two passes which lead directly into Taos across the Sangre de Cristo Range. You may approach by the river road from Santa Fe, but the shortest way is to go in through one of the passes from Las Vegas (New Mexico). As we approached the village of Mora north of Las Vegas, the wife made a call to Donna, to let her know the correct phone number where we might be reached.
“Would you believe”, she said to Paul, who had answered the phone, “that we can see fresh snow? Just a few patches, but it’s fresh snow!” I turned right at Mora toward the slightly longer route, because I wanted to explore the road up to Angel Fire. I had recently recommended that road to my sister, but had never been on it myself. Within ten minutes, we were surrounded by vistas of solid white, with a “Central Texas style BLIZZARD” (a light snowfall anywhere else) which limited visibility to about one-third of a mile. “It’ll be gone by the time we get to Taos,” was my analysis.
When we arrived, however, there was still a light snow falling. My sweet wife almost wailed “I didn’t pack for snow in May!”. I have no idea why she was so concerned. We were in Taos, for goodness sake! We had jackets, you have to have jackets in northern New Mexico, whatever the season, but she was afraid she wouldn’t be “fashionable”.
In Taos she could have gotten away with wrapping the bedspread around her and stepping out
into the town. In the little city of mud, almost anything goes, although we we've never noticed complete nudity.
By Thursday, the “style” had evolved from serapes, jeans and boots to shorts and sandals, and I
noticed that, although she did not wear any of those things, she looked perfectly fine! In Taos, people know how to live.
..
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Wild Hogs and Madrid
A few days ago, my wife saw that a movie called "Wild Hogs", with Tim Allen and John Travolta was scheduled on FX, and we decided to watch it.
A large portion of the movie, about a wannabe 'biker gang' of "middle age crazies", which included Allen, Travolta, Martin Lawrence, and William H. Macy, took place in New Mexico. I hope everyone knows, I'm a serious New Mexiphile, and the unlikely travels of the "gang" took place in a part of NM that's near to my heart. What makes the travels "unlikely", is that after passing the "last gas station for 200 miles", they ran out of gas and pushed their bikes into Madrid (not MaDRID, as in Spain, but MADDrid, as in New Mexico), in the Ortiz Mountains near Santa Fe.
If my ancient memory serves me, Michael Corenblith's grandmother was a gracious lady named Mrs. Madrid (like in Spain). I wonder if the play on words prompted the selection for this setting for the major portion of the movie.
For what it's worth, I appreciate your choice of sets, Mick! I've watched Madrid over about forty years, growing from a ghost town to a rather lively place populated with unique people. Once when I was there, I think it was in the '80s, I saw a genuine "Austin City Limits" highway sign on someone's front porch.
It certainly made for a fun-filled movie, however unlikely the whole plot seemed to be! Thanks for making me feel I was there, Mick!
Following is a memory:
AN OSCAR FOR ONE OF MY BOYS? NAAHH!
3/25/01
A tape of “The English Patient” was playing when my wife found the article about Mick in the paper. Naturally it was too late to make plans to watch the Oscar awards.
The year was 1969 or thereabouts when I gave in to the repeated phone calls from one of the administrators at Reagan High School offering me potential employees through their work-study program. The following Monday morning, a young fellow knocked on my door (when Lauren was born, I decided to have my office at home for about four years).
“I’m Mick Corenblith, and I’m here about the work-study program”. I put him to work, and several months later, the guy from Reagan called, offering me potential employees through their work-study program. “Got one, already” I answered, and I assured him that my employee was neat and clean and well mannered, (I didn’t mention the shoulder-length hair, since it was neat and clean). It was after I hung up that Mick confessed that the guy hadn’t sent him, that he had simply overheard one of the telephone conversations, and had tracked me down.
After graduation, Mick started studying Architecture at UT, and continued to work at my office, but he changed his major to communications after a couple of years. He worked for me about five years, total, and was a model employee, and a lot of fun to have around. He kept me up to date on the latest music, and assured my wife that shoulder length hair would continue forever to be fashionable for men. He was still wearing his shoulder length hair when he came by the house a few years after he went to Hollywood, but since that time, it looks as if he’s finally given it up.
It always gives me a little thrill whenever I see Production Designer Michael Corenblith in large letters spread across the screen, and Mick’s nominated for an Oscar for designing “How the Grinch Stole Christmas”.
A FOOTNOTE: (2-01-2010)
Recently, after reading this, Mick informed me that the decision had nothing to do with his grandmother. To select the sites, he has to take many things into consideration, including economics, consideration of "the talent", availability of facilities, a local labor pool, etc. New Mexico had already been selected before he was hired. He selected Madrid for its location as the most favorable of several sites in that general area of New Mexico. I like my version better.....;^}.
,,
A large portion of the movie, about a wannabe 'biker gang' of "middle age crazies", which included Allen, Travolta, Martin Lawrence, and William H. Macy, took place in New Mexico. I hope everyone knows, I'm a serious New Mexiphile, and the unlikely travels of the "gang" took place in a part of NM that's near to my heart. What makes the travels "unlikely", is that after passing the "last gas station for 200 miles", they ran out of gas and pushed their bikes into Madrid (not MaDRID, as in Spain, but MADDrid, as in New Mexico), in the Ortiz Mountains near Santa Fe.
If my ancient memory serves me, Michael Corenblith's grandmother was a gracious lady named Mrs. Madrid (like in Spain). I wonder if the play on words prompted the selection for this setting for the major portion of the movie.
For what it's worth, I appreciate your choice of sets, Mick! I've watched Madrid over about forty years, growing from a ghost town to a rather lively place populated with unique people. Once when I was there, I think it was in the '80s, I saw a genuine "Austin City Limits" highway sign on someone's front porch.
It certainly made for a fun-filled movie, however unlikely the whole plot seemed to be! Thanks for making me feel I was there, Mick!
Following is a memory:
AN OSCAR FOR ONE OF MY BOYS? NAAHH!
3/25/01
A tape of “The English Patient” was playing when my wife found the article about Mick in the paper. Naturally it was too late to make plans to watch the Oscar awards.
The year was 1969 or thereabouts when I gave in to the repeated phone calls from one of the administrators at Reagan High School offering me potential employees through their work-study program. The following Monday morning, a young fellow knocked on my door (when Lauren was born, I decided to have my office at home for about four years).
“I’m Mick Corenblith, and I’m here about the work-study program”. I put him to work, and several months later, the guy from Reagan called, offering me potential employees through their work-study program. “Got one, already” I answered, and I assured him that my employee was neat and clean and well mannered, (I didn’t mention the shoulder-length hair, since it was neat and clean). It was after I hung up that Mick confessed that the guy hadn’t sent him, that he had simply overheard one of the telephone conversations, and had tracked me down.
After graduation, Mick started studying Architecture at UT, and continued to work at my office, but he changed his major to communications after a couple of years. He worked for me about five years, total, and was a model employee, and a lot of fun to have around. He kept me up to date on the latest music, and assured my wife that shoulder length hair would continue forever to be fashionable for men. He was still wearing his shoulder length hair when he came by the house a few years after he went to Hollywood, but since that time, it looks as if he’s finally given it up.
It always gives me a little thrill whenever I see Production Designer Michael Corenblith in large letters spread across the screen, and Mick’s nominated for an Oscar for designing “How the Grinch Stole Christmas”.
A FOOTNOTE: (2-01-2010)
Recently, after reading this, Mick informed me that the decision had nothing to do with his grandmother. To select the sites, he has to take many things into consideration, including economics, consideration of "the talent", availability of facilities, a local labor pool, etc. New Mexico had already been selected before he was hired. He selected Madrid for its location as the most favorable of several sites in that general area of New Mexico. I like my version better.....;^}.
,,
Monday, July 13, 2009
A Pleasant Memory of My Beloved Home
In 1961, Labor Day was on September 4, and I lived with my wife, my daughter Adrienne, who was two, and my daughter Donna (who had not yet finished her first month out in the open air of our world), in an apartment in Santa Fe, New Mexico, my spiritual home.
On this Monday, July 13, 2009, with a predicted high of 102°F, I think of the day before Labor Day in 1961.
I worked for a firm which had been inherited from John Gaw Meem, with a couple of raucous Okies, a Yankee from New York, a Texan with whom I'd had classes at UT, and a New Mexican who had met the Okies while in school at OU, and coerced them into coming to Santa Fe.
Our firm was a partnership. We had a laid back boss, and a skittish boss, who worked well enough as partners, but sometimes were both a source of amusement as well as consternation for those of us who worked under them.
It came to pass, sometime about mid-summer, that the skittish boss wanted to build a new house. He put his old house on the market before he got started on the plans, thinking it would take months to a year to sell it, but it sold within the first month. Not too good for a skittish fellow, who must get high behind and get his project under way.
He, his wife, and their son moved into an apartment, but the apartment was certainly not adequate to house their vast collection of house plants, so they were arranged on the portal of the office building, virtually filling the fairly large space.
On Sunday, September 3, I was thrilled to awake to a moderate snowfall which was still under way, and I quickly roused our neighbors upstairs, who were from New Jersey. The lady of the neighbor couple exclaimed, "Snow on September 3, why, that doesn't happen even in Jersey!" (I hate it when Damyankees judge everything to the standards of Yankeeland).
After church at St. Francis Cathedral, we packed the neighbors and our kids into our 1960 VW and drove out to view the white. We drove by the office, which was only a few blocks away, expecting devastation on the portal, but there was not a house plant to be seen!
Arriving at work on Tuesday morning, I noticed that all the plants had been moved indoors.
I asked the boss about it, and he explained that they knew better than to leave house plants out later than Labor Day, and they had come in on Saturday and moved them all inside.
Many years later, on September 3, 1977, we had a beautiful cool, fall-like day (not all that normal for Central Texas), and even the kids, who really knew little of Santa Fe, remarked, "It's just like Santa Fe!"
On this Monday, July 13, 2009, with a predicted high of 102°F, I think of the day before Labor Day in 1961.
I worked for a firm which had been inherited from John Gaw Meem, with a couple of raucous Okies, a Yankee from New York, a Texan with whom I'd had classes at UT, and a New Mexican who had met the Okies while in school at OU, and coerced them into coming to Santa Fe.
Our firm was a partnership. We had a laid back boss, and a skittish boss, who worked well enough as partners, but sometimes were both a source of amusement as well as consternation for those of us who worked under them.
It came to pass, sometime about mid-summer, that the skittish boss wanted to build a new house. He put his old house on the market before he got started on the plans, thinking it would take months to a year to sell it, but it sold within the first month. Not too good for a skittish fellow, who must get high behind and get his project under way.
He, his wife, and their son moved into an apartment, but the apartment was certainly not adequate to house their vast collection of house plants, so they were arranged on the portal of the office building, virtually filling the fairly large space.
On Sunday, September 3, I was thrilled to awake to a moderate snowfall which was still under way, and I quickly roused our neighbors upstairs, who were from New Jersey. The lady of the neighbor couple exclaimed, "Snow on September 3, why, that doesn't happen even in Jersey!" (I hate it when Damyankees judge everything to the standards of Yankeeland).
After church at St. Francis Cathedral, we packed the neighbors and our kids into our 1960 VW and drove out to view the white. We drove by the office, which was only a few blocks away, expecting devastation on the portal, but there was not a house plant to be seen!
Arriving at work on Tuesday morning, I noticed that all the plants had been moved indoors.
I asked the boss about it, and he explained that they knew better than to leave house plants out later than Labor Day, and they had come in on Saturday and moved them all inside.
Many years later, on September 3, 1977, we had a beautiful cool, fall-like day (not all that normal for Central Texas), and even the kids, who really knew little of Santa Fe, remarked, "It's just like Santa Fe!"
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Then and Now?
VOICES OF CHACO
10/6/06
THERE IS NO QUESTION THAT CHACO CANYON IS A MYSTERIOUS PLACE. NO
ONE KNOWS, OR WILL EVER KNOW, WHAT WAS HAPPENING THERE A THOUSAND
YEARS AGO. WHAT HAPPENS THERE TODAY, HOWEVER, CAN BE DOCUMENTED.
AFTER ARRIVING AT CHACO CANYON ON THE AFTERNOON OF THURSDAY,
SEPTEMBER 7, WE DISCOVERED A FAVORABLE CAMPSITE IN A SMALL BOX
CANYON CONNECTING WITH GALLO CAMPGROUND. AFTER WAITING OUT A
BRIEF THUNDERSHOWER, SET UP OUR “FOUR-DAY CAMP”. FOUR-DAY CAMP
RESEMBLES THE SAFARI CAMPS ONE USED TO SEE IN OLD MOVIES, WITH EVERY
LUXURY KNOWN TO MAN.
THERE WERE MANY ASPECTS OF CHACO WHICH FASCINATED ME, BUT ONE OF
THE MOST IMPRESSIVE WAS THE SILENCE. THERE IS LITTLE NOISE IN CHACO.
THE ONLY BIRDCALLS I NOTICED WERE RAVENS, AND EVEN THEY SEEMED TO BE
HUSHED MOST OF THE TIME.
I KNOW THAT CHACO WAS, AND STILL IS, CONSIDERED A VERY SACRED PLACE.
COULD IT BE THAT EVEN THE FAUNA USE THEIR TIME IN CHACO TO BE QUIET,
AND LISTEN TO GOD?
AFTER CHACO
5/09/09
Some may recall that I've sometimes mentioned my awe at the number of people who must have lived in the Southwest in ancient times.
I have later come to realize that it's not so much that there were so many people, it's just that stone buildings last much longer than people. The people that built all those permanent structures in the southwest would stay in one place for a time, from a few hundred to nearly a thousand years. Then, for whatever reason, they'd move on to build permanent structures elsewhere. Whether or not they forgot the old places, the old places would remain, ever so gradually sinking into the land, until at some distant time, they might be discovered and "restored".
I often think, as I drive around out little town, how many structures are being built, compared to how many we once had. Our population has increased, of course, but in no way proportionate to the amount of permanent structures being spread upon the land.
We've managed to, in some ways, take control of our environment (often at the expense of the enviroment), and the need to "move on" has faded away. We now stay in one place, and build, and build, much in the same way as the ancestors, but instead of starting over in a fresh new place, we cling to our fouled nest.
I sometimes wonder if at some distant future time, there will be archaeologists who delve into our ruins and speculate on the sort of life we must have led. Will their speculations concerning our legacy be as noble as those given the people of Chaco? I really don't see how they could possibly be.
..
10/6/06
THERE IS NO QUESTION THAT CHACO CANYON IS A MYSTERIOUS PLACE. NO
ONE KNOWS, OR WILL EVER KNOW, WHAT WAS HAPPENING THERE A THOUSAND
YEARS AGO. WHAT HAPPENS THERE TODAY, HOWEVER, CAN BE DOCUMENTED.
AFTER ARRIVING AT CHACO CANYON ON THE AFTERNOON OF THURSDAY,
SEPTEMBER 7, WE DISCOVERED A FAVORABLE CAMPSITE IN A SMALL BOX
CANYON CONNECTING WITH GALLO CAMPGROUND. AFTER WAITING OUT A
BRIEF THUNDERSHOWER, SET UP OUR “FOUR-DAY CAMP”. FOUR-DAY CAMP
RESEMBLES THE SAFARI CAMPS ONE USED TO SEE IN OLD MOVIES, WITH EVERY
LUXURY KNOWN TO MAN.
THERE WERE MANY ASPECTS OF CHACO WHICH FASCINATED ME, BUT ONE OF
THE MOST IMPRESSIVE WAS THE SILENCE. THERE IS LITTLE NOISE IN CHACO.
THE ONLY BIRDCALLS I NOTICED WERE RAVENS, AND EVEN THEY SEEMED TO BE
HUSHED MOST OF THE TIME.
I KNOW THAT CHACO WAS, AND STILL IS, CONSIDERED A VERY SACRED PLACE.
COULD IT BE THAT EVEN THE FAUNA USE THEIR TIME IN CHACO TO BE QUIET,
AND LISTEN TO GOD?
AFTER CHACO
5/09/09
Some may recall that I've sometimes mentioned my awe at the number of people who must have lived in the Southwest in ancient times.
I have later come to realize that it's not so much that there were so many people, it's just that stone buildings last much longer than people. The people that built all those permanent structures in the southwest would stay in one place for a time, from a few hundred to nearly a thousand years. Then, for whatever reason, they'd move on to build permanent structures elsewhere. Whether or not they forgot the old places, the old places would remain, ever so gradually sinking into the land, until at some distant time, they might be discovered and "restored".
I often think, as I drive around out little town, how many structures are being built, compared to how many we once had. Our population has increased, of course, but in no way proportionate to the amount of permanent structures being spread upon the land.
We've managed to, in some ways, take control of our environment (often at the expense of the enviroment), and the need to "move on" has faded away. We now stay in one place, and build, and build, much in the same way as the ancestors, but instead of starting over in a fresh new place, we cling to our fouled nest.
I sometimes wonder if at some distant future time, there will be archaeologists who delve into our ruins and speculate on the sort of life we must have led. Will their speculations concerning our legacy be as noble as those given the people of Chaco? I really don't see how they could possibly be.
..
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
3-7-09 The Steadfast Tin Frog
You started it, Gary!
My Flickr friend from down the faultline has expressed the idea that this could perhaps be the "the elusive Aztec frog, once believed to be extinct".
Is it possible that it was last seen at Aztec, New Mexico? Since my youth, I had been skeptical of things relative to Aztec. That's the site of the renowned Aztec ruins and the restored Great Kiva.
For fifty years or more, I thought of the restored great kiva as a hoax, much elaborated and enhanced to hype it up for the attraction of tourists.
I saw the restored kiva in November of 1995, and thought it was quite impressive, but I still thought that very much of it was most likely conjecture, and veneered with modern ideas and styling. It was not until December of 2005, when I returned to Frijoles Canyon after many years of absence, and later in September of 2006 when I visited Chaco Canyon, that it began to work its way into my stubborn brain that great kivas were a significant feature in the ancient cultures spurred by the phenomenon of Chaco Canyon. There was a fine example at Frijoles Canyon, which had been excavated since the last time I'd been there.
The Great Kiva was most certainly not a one-of-a-kind tourist attraction. There are countless great kivas in the southwest, and it takes only a little imagination to believe that the restoration at Aztec is no doubt historically accurate.
Am I talking here about ancient cultures or amphibians? I've lost track now.
Tonight, just as The Mentalist was getting under way on our TV I heard, through the front door, the trilling of the toads! They have come to join the living leopard frogs, which have been serenading me nightly for weeks.
Tonight I will hear their voices in concert close by, beneath the open windows of our upstairs bedroom. Perhaps the Aztec frog will be so emotionally moved as to join in their song. We shall see.
Then, a predicted cold front will bring rain and chilly weather, and my wife will surely nag me to close the windows.
I'll still hear the concert, but it won't be the same.
An epilogue on the morning after....March 11, 2009
The toads retired before I did last night. The singing stopped before 10 PM. Perhaps it was because of the impending change in the weather, perhaps it was simply that they were tired after their mass incursion from wherever they had been, and needed to rest. Whatever the reason, I did not get my bedtime serenade last night.
This morning, about 6:12 AM, I awoke to the sound of swiftly moving air, and raindrops. Being well aware that my wife would not savor the idea of rain on her freshly painted window sill, I got up and closed the windows. Tonight, I feel fairly certain that it will be cool enough that I will leave the windows closed tonight as well.
I'll still hear the toads, mingled with the voices of the leopard frogs, but it will be muted. The direct communication with nature will not be happening for a few days longer.
A FOOTNOTE:
The friend from down the faultline is no longer down the faultline, He's out on the Chihuahuan desert taking photos and living his dream! Live it up, with your EyeOnTexas. I'll envy you always.
..
My Flickr friend from down the faultline has expressed the idea that this could perhaps be the "the elusive Aztec frog, once believed to be extinct".
Is it possible that it was last seen at Aztec, New Mexico? Since my youth, I had been skeptical of things relative to Aztec. That's the site of the renowned Aztec ruins and the restored Great Kiva.
For fifty years or more, I thought of the restored great kiva as a hoax, much elaborated and enhanced to hype it up for the attraction of tourists.
I saw the restored kiva in November of 1995, and thought it was quite impressive, but I still thought that very much of it was most likely conjecture, and veneered with modern ideas and styling. It was not until December of 2005, when I returned to Frijoles Canyon after many years of absence, and later in September of 2006 when I visited Chaco Canyon, that it began to work its way into my stubborn brain that great kivas were a significant feature in the ancient cultures spurred by the phenomenon of Chaco Canyon. There was a fine example at Frijoles Canyon, which had been excavated since the last time I'd been there.
The Great Kiva was most certainly not a one-of-a-kind tourist attraction. There are countless great kivas in the southwest, and it takes only a little imagination to believe that the restoration at Aztec is no doubt historically accurate.
Am I talking here about ancient cultures or amphibians? I've lost track now.
Tonight, just as The Mentalist was getting under way on our TV I heard, through the front door, the trilling of the toads! They have come to join the living leopard frogs, which have been serenading me nightly for weeks.
Tonight I will hear their voices in concert close by, beneath the open windows of our upstairs bedroom. Perhaps the Aztec frog will be so emotionally moved as to join in their song. We shall see.
Then, a predicted cold front will bring rain and chilly weather, and my wife will surely nag me to close the windows.
I'll still hear the concert, but it won't be the same.
An epilogue on the morning after....March 11, 2009
The toads retired before I did last night. The singing stopped before 10 PM. Perhaps it was because of the impending change in the weather, perhaps it was simply that they were tired after their mass incursion from wherever they had been, and needed to rest. Whatever the reason, I did not get my bedtime serenade last night.
This morning, about 6:12 AM, I awoke to the sound of swiftly moving air, and raindrops. Being well aware that my wife would not savor the idea of rain on her freshly painted window sill, I got up and closed the windows. Tonight, I feel fairly certain that it will be cool enough that I will leave the windows closed tonight as well.
I'll still hear the toads, mingled with the voices of the leopard frogs, but it will be muted. The direct communication with nature will not be happening for a few days longer.
A FOOTNOTE:
The friend from down the faultline is no longer down the faultline, He's out on the Chihuahuan desert taking photos and living his dream! Live it up, with your EyeOnTexas. I'll envy you always.
..
Sunday, February 1, 2009
An Old Guy's Random Rememberings #11, (Post inspired by a new Friend who is an old friend)
GILA HOSPITALITY
5/18/99
5/18/99
My wife had just finished a mystery by Michael McGarrity set in the Gila wilderness area, a central southwestern portion of New Mexico that we have skirted to the north and to the south, but through which we have never traveled.
“I can’t believe that such bad people can live in a place like that” was her summary comment. I agreed with her.
In the first week of June, 1976, we were on US60, along the northern fringe of that area, in a pickup and travel trailer borrowed from the wife’s dad. We were about halfway through the absolute biggest prairie dog community we had ever seen, when there was a jolt, and I looked back to see the trailer trying to dig itself into the pavement.
We pulled over and found that the extended trailer tongue had folded. We disconnected and drove the pickup about six miles toward Arizona to the next “town”, Red Hill, New Mexico. Red Hill was a combination filling station, café, dance hall, and convenience store surrounded by two or three mobile homes.
I explained our plight to an old fellow named Bill Stroud, who said “you need someone who has one of those portable welding machines, now let me see,....”. He paced around for a minute or two, deep in thought, and said “I know a fella in Quemado (about 25 miles back), and I think I saw one of those machines parked in his yard”. He got on the phone and called the guy (on a Sunday morning), telling him what had happened.
About 45 minutes later, a young man showed up with his son in a pickup, pulling a trailer mounted welder. We bought five gallons of gasoline for his generator, and he followed us back to our broken trailer. After about half ah hour, while our girls and his little boy watched the prairie dogs together, we were whole again.
When we asked how much we owed him, fearing the worst, he said “nuthin’, glad to help out”. My wife handed the little boy a ten and told him to buy his dad and mom a hamburger. We continued our journey to a fine time at the Grand Canyon and then down to Oak Creek and Sedona.
We will never believe that the kind of renegades and murderers described in the mystery novel could live around there.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
An Old Guy's Random Rememberings #10
NEW MEXICO’S BABES
8/8/00
8/8/00
A year or so ago, some people in Taos took a perfectly good trinket shop and replaced it with a gallery called the Blue Rain Gallery, a very high-end establishment that I’d never be able to patronize. I swore that just for spite, I'd never set foot in that gallery. That should surely teach them a lesson.
Thursday morning, however, I was looking at a New Mexico magazine while waiting for my wife to get ready to go to our daily dose of “Georgia O’Keeffe Country”, and noticed an article about an artist by the name of Margarete Bagshaw-Tindel who would be visiting at the Blue Rain later this month.
Forty years ago, at about this time of year, after my wife and I, along with our very young first daughter, had made a trip to Albuquerque and become enchanted with the "Land Of Enchantment", I had seen an article about a Santa Clara Indian artist named Pablita Velarde, who did not impress me all that much as an artist, but she certainly was a looker! We later moved to Santa Fe, and I began to hope to run into Pablita Velarde in person some day. It never happened.
About fifteen years later, in 1975, I read an article in New Mexico magazine about another artist, Helen Hardin, who was Pablita's daughter. I can't remember Helen's art at all, only that she was even more a beauty than her mother.
Now we are at last Thursday, and I'm looking at the article which shows Margarete Bagshaw-Tindel, Helen's daughter, with her grandmother, Pablita, who is now 83 years old. Not only is Margarete a fine looking woman, but she is an extremely talented artist that I'll always remember.
When it came time to “discuss my feelings” about Georgia O’Keeffe (I was in a class with about seven women, and no other men), I revealed that I had first seen Georgia in an Ansel Adams photo with some man (Orville Cox) whose name I can never remember, and was not sure I knew which was which.
I told my "classmates" as we sat around a table at Abiquiu Inn, a couple of miles from Georgia's winter residence, that if Margarete Bagshaw-Tindel had been painting her kind of work at the time I was in college (which would have to have been when her grandmother was 38 and her mother was 12), I would have understood what my instructors were trying to teach me, and I’d be a better man today.
They all giggled, but I really was serious. With access to those paintings, I could have gotten the insight I needed to better understand what I was doing in college.
And as a bonus, Margarete Bagshaw-Tindel was a babe, just like her mother and grandmother.
Added Jan 31, 2009
As I contemplate these three generations of New Mexican beauties (and surely by now Margarete should also have a grown daughter), I have to marvel at what an old guy I've become.Post Script
Research indicates that Margarete's daughter Helen will be about 20 now, and without seeing her, I'll have to believe she's continuing the family tradition of beauty. She has no interest in becoming an artist (but she's still six years younger than her mother was when she decided to try her hand at art, and that had been only nine years before Margarete came to my attention).
Friday, January 30, 2009
Two on the same day, it just isn't ME, but here it is anyway
Thanksgiving for remembering.
Today I paid a visit to my "place of employment". I've been retired for more than five years, but my heart lingers at the site of my dream job, much in the same way that my soul lingers in Santa Fe. Besides, being on the payroll gives me an excuse to run up there on payday, to find out that they've already mailed my paycheck.
While I was at Belco today, there was some conversation about Thanksgiving. I immediately thought of a Thanksgiving story, but I do not often have the ability to tell a story in a crowd of people (there were three besides me, if I recall correctly). I talk much too slowly for most people's patience, so I usually wait until I get home and write it out as a "door hanger" to send back for the crew to read.
I distinctly remember having written this story before as a door hanger, but could not find it anywhere, so it's being re-written here from the dubious memory of an old man. Some time later, I'll post another story from the same time period about another Taos adventure.
Over the Thanksgiving weekend of the year 2000, we made a trip to Taos to get a piece of custom-made furniture we'd ordered. As it turned out, we never got that piece of furniture, but that is irrelevant to this story.
It was only after we'd turned north on US84 between Santa Rosa and Las Vegas (New Mexico) that we entered a significant snowstorm. we made our way slowly toward Las Vegas, doing our best to avoid the few automobiles that were traveling along the highway, and skidding and spinning all over the road (flatlander Texans, they really don't belong here).
We got to Las Vegas about noon, and were REALLY undecided about how we should proceed to our little city of mud, about 70 miles away. We sought a place to have lunch, and it appeared that every place in town was closed. The storm must have been going on here for some time. There was quite a bit of snow on the ground.
We finally went to the Plaza, and to the Plaza Hotel, thinking that "just perhaps", their restaurant would be open, because they had to deal with hotel guests, who transcended the duration of the storm.
It was almost unbelievable! We entered the restaurant, and were warmly greeted. It seems that we has stumbled upon a special Thanksgiving dinner that they were giving. Although we should have had reservations for this event, the weather had kept some of the people who had made reservations away, and they found us a table. It was a wonderful meal, a lot more than we'd expected for a "traveling" lunch on the road, but it seemed to be the only game in town!
We spent the next hour wondering if we should go our normal route across the mountains, of if we should take Interstate 25 to Santa Fe and follow the Rio Grande up to Taos. After much debate and soul searching, we settled for the regular route over the mountains.
It turned out to be an excellent choice. The road was completely clear, and we encountered only a couple of small patches of ice in shady portions, which did not inconvenience us in any way.
After we got to Taos, we spent a lovely weekend, in beautiful weather, and found that our piece of furniture was not ready, nor had it even been started. More than a year later, we gave up and, on another trip to Taos, talked to the artisan, who promised us, and even showed us on a list, that our piece was coming up for fabrication within the week.
We told him to forget it, and traded most of the deposit we'd left with him almost two years before for a wall cabinet, and he still owes us $60 in trade, which I have vowed to never worry about again in my whole life.
Today I paid a visit to my "place of employment". I've been retired for more than five years, but my heart lingers at the site of my dream job, much in the same way that my soul lingers in Santa Fe. Besides, being on the payroll gives me an excuse to run up there on payday, to find out that they've already mailed my paycheck.
While I was at Belco today, there was some conversation about Thanksgiving. I immediately thought of a Thanksgiving story, but I do not often have the ability to tell a story in a crowd of people (there were three besides me, if I recall correctly). I talk much too slowly for most people's patience, so I usually wait until I get home and write it out as a "door hanger" to send back for the crew to read.
I distinctly remember having written this story before as a door hanger, but could not find it anywhere, so it's being re-written here from the dubious memory of an old man. Some time later, I'll post another story from the same time period about another Taos adventure.
Over the Thanksgiving weekend of the year 2000, we made a trip to Taos to get a piece of custom-made furniture we'd ordered. As it turned out, we never got that piece of furniture, but that is irrelevant to this story.
It was only after we'd turned north on US84 between Santa Rosa and Las Vegas (New Mexico) that we entered a significant snowstorm. we made our way slowly toward Las Vegas, doing our best to avoid the few automobiles that were traveling along the highway, and skidding and spinning all over the road (flatlander Texans, they really don't belong here).
We got to Las Vegas about noon, and were REALLY undecided about how we should proceed to our little city of mud, about 70 miles away. We sought a place to have lunch, and it appeared that every place in town was closed. The storm must have been going on here for some time. There was quite a bit of snow on the ground.
We finally went to the Plaza, and to the Plaza Hotel, thinking that "just perhaps", their restaurant would be open, because they had to deal with hotel guests, who transcended the duration of the storm.
It was almost unbelievable! We entered the restaurant, and were warmly greeted. It seems that we has stumbled upon a special Thanksgiving dinner that they were giving. Although we should have had reservations for this event, the weather had kept some of the people who had made reservations away, and they found us a table. It was a wonderful meal, a lot more than we'd expected for a "traveling" lunch on the road, but it seemed to be the only game in town!
We spent the next hour wondering if we should go our normal route across the mountains, of if we should take Interstate 25 to Santa Fe and follow the Rio Grande up to Taos. After much debate and soul searching, we settled for the regular route over the mountains.
It turned out to be an excellent choice. The road was completely clear, and we encountered only a couple of small patches of ice in shady portions, which did not inconvenience us in any way.
After we got to Taos, we spent a lovely weekend, in beautiful weather, and found that our piece of furniture was not ready, nor had it even been started. More than a year later, we gave up and, on another trip to Taos, talked to the artisan, who promised us, and even showed us on a list, that our piece was coming up for fabrication within the week.
We told him to forget it, and traded most of the deposit we'd left with him almost two years before for a wall cabinet, and he still owes us $60 in trade, which I have vowed to never worry about again in my whole life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)