Perhaps a Sunlamp Is Required

On this post-holiday rainy day, I reserve the right to be melancholy.

Holiday blues, weeping gray clouds, and general lethargy. Sure. It's my prerogative.

I am loath to say the next seven words I'm about to say but...

I heard this great story on NPR.

You may not realize how pompous I think the people are who quote NPR. Now here I am committing the crime I rail against.

The story was of a musician named Shawn Camp who had a record set for release back in the year 1994.

Through a series of events, the record was shelved until recently. Camp met the new studio head at Reprise who gave Camp's record a fresh listen and it was finally released in September of this year.

What's got me going here, got me writing a whole blog post about this story, is one of Camp's songs that they played on the air.

It was a beautifully written song about being at the funeral of his grandfather. For some reason, the words reminded me of the incredibly sad funeral I attended back in August.

Despite the passing of four months, I find I still grieve for my friend. I guess there's still something left to grieve, because lately he's been showing up in my dreams.

Listening to Shawn Camp's song reminded me of a dream I had just last night.

It was me, and my friend, and we were dancing. Just a simple two-step, nothing fancy, but we danced and he was whole and healthy and grinning from ear to ear.

My best friend was there too, and before I was even done, she got the next dance with him. The three of us laughed like it was, well, 1994, and it was good.

Now, this dream was particularly odd because in real life, my friend wasn't much of a dancer. Oh, he was long legged and tall, a perfect partner. But he had a farmer's sensibilities and didn't dance that much. He could, and did, but it wasn't something he did a lot.

But there in my dream we danced. When I woke up, I remembered seeing my friend's body laid out there in a casket inside the El Paso First Baptist Church.

The old Southern saying is "now, don't he look natural?"

No, he didn't look natural. In my dream smiling and laughing and giving me seventeen kinds of heck...that was natural.

I've always been pretty glad that at the end of the line for my dad, one afternoon when my mom had run into town for errands, my dad and I had a talk. It was uncomfortable and weird, but in that talk, a lot of things were said that needed to be said. I can happily say I have no unresolved issues there.

But with my dear friend, I have something unresolved. It niggles at the corners of my mind and sits on my chest when I have another dream in which he plays a cameo. I owed him an apology. I'd planned to deliver that apology when he came home from the surgery from which he never returned.

Perhaps in dreams I can find the way to lay my issues to rest, to lay down the burden I carry around, to feel at peace with the loss of my friend.

Or maybe we can just dance and forget about I'm sorries.

After my best friend is done (which may take awhile), I got the next waltz.

Cuz these Fat Babies were made for dancing

Photo by Karen Fayeth

Happy Gobble Gobble Day

To celebrate the holiday, I present to you a doodle from my marker board at work.

I was on a *really* long conference call. It was boring. I got distracted.

May you and yours have a fabulous, gluttonous day!

Photo taken by Karen Fayeth with an iPhone 4 and the Hipstamatic app.

Your Definition and My Definition Differ Greatly

So every once in a while, I'll read something in the daily news that grabs my attention.

Occasionally, something really makes my eyes open wide.

And then every once in a while, I'll read something that makes my eyes open wide, leap out of my head, fall down on the floor and roll around a while.

The following headline in yesterday's news had just this effect on me.

El Paso named safest US city

Uhhh.

Errr.

"...El Paso has taken the top spot for having the lowest crime rate among cities of more than 500,000 population in the annual rankings by CQ Press, a publishing firm based in Washington, D.C."

So, yeah, I'm gonna guess that those people at CQ Press haven't paid a personal visit to El Paso lately.

Look, I'm not going to bag on El Paso. It is the birth place of my best friend, and that itself recommends it highly.

It's also the birthplace of Sam Donaldson and Gene Roddenbury. So ok. Some decent talent comes from the town that Texas forgot.

Having spent a lot of time in El Paso, I could use a lot of adjectives to describe the city. I'm not sure that the word "safe" would burble up to the top ten.

I'll be fair here. I'll even take out the obvious concerns about El Paso sharing a border with arguably the most dangerous city in Mexico.

In the past year, approximately 50,000 additional troops were located to Fort Bliss, an army installation in El Paso. Those 50,000 include both returning troops and soldiers left after bases closed in other states. That 50,000 is soldiers only. Add in spouses, kids, other family and the number of new residents rises.

Then add in the high number of people who are fleeing the violence in Juarez and the numbers climb even higher.

Put it together and you'll find a city bursting at the seams. You can feel it when you visit, the town is growing so fast that infrastructure is having a hard time keeping pace.

That means busy police, fire and emt forces are being overextended during a period of economic downturn and government cost cutting. Sure, all of the new city residents will pay taxes into the economy which will help shore up infrastructure, but that kind of growth takes time.

And then let's talk about the ongoing immigration flow through a border town like El Paso. My best friend's folks live within visual distance of the border highway's Zaragoza bridge. They have bars on their windows. In their some forty years of living there, they've found desperate illegals hiding in their yard. Neighbors have been robbed. Violence occurs (but isn't often reported). I've been sitting in the back yard and heard shots fired.

El Paso is a fine town with a rich history. There is a lot to offer the residents who live in that city. Reasonable real estate costs. The Franklin Mountains are beautiful. UTEP is a fine university. Great weather. Even lots of job opportunities. It may even be a relatively safe city. But safest in the US? I have to question that assertion.

Evidently, I'm not the only one.

Some Call El Paso's Safest City Ranking 'Bogus'

And the Wheel Goes Round and Round

Back in March I talked about the Rosanne Cash album "The List," a collection of songs culled from a list of 100 must-know songs crafted especially for Rosanne by her father.

The List is an essential music history lesson.

That story and the resulting album became the inspiration for my best friend and I to endeavor to create our own list as a legacy for my two goddaughters.

It's been an ongoing process, serious work, and we're making progress.

Over the weekend, I had the chance to see Rosanne Cash perform live at the Uptown Theater in Napa, CA.

I've been a fan for a while and I think Rosanne is a massively accomplished songwriter. I love the heart and emotion she puts into every lyric.

I figured as a consummate musician, she would put on a great show. I was in no way prepared for how stunning seeing Rosanne perform live really was.

Her backing band, including her husband John Levanthal on guitar, was one of the tightest bands I've ever seen. I told The Good Man during the show "I know musicians who would kill somebody to get at her drummer."

I've spent a lot of years in the company of musicians who struggled have a band that is tight and seamless. Rosanne has that in spades.

And talent too. She's an amazing, emotional and powerful singer. Like any great musician, the sound seems to pour from her effortlessly. It takes a lot of work to make it look that easy.

Then, after putting on a show that brought the house down, Rosanne went to the lobby and signed autographs for her fans. I got her signature on my copy of her recent bestseller "Composed" and had a chance to tell her that my best friend and I are working on our own version of The List.

And when I awkwardly mentioned that her gorgeous song "Seven Year Ache" is on the list, Ms. Cash smiled and shook my hand.

Made. My. Year.

What a powerful, beautiful, wonderful woman.

I am deeply inspired.

Photo by Karen Kristofferson, as posted on her @KarenKristo Twitter stream.

Never Underestimate

Here in my home, I have this cat that I managed to acquire by marriage, and is now part of my family. I'd had cats before so I knew what to expect going in.

But this cat is something different. Something special. Something about half a bubble off plumb.

Despite rightly being called a "special needs" cat, owing to suffering an especially high fever during her kittenhood, sometimes the wisdom of this not-always-so-smart pet just blows me away.

This cat has no patience for anyone. She wants to sit on your lap, but you're not allowed to actually touch her. Give her a skritching and you'll face the grip of her steely jaws.

Food must be delivered on time, or preferably early, or a string of thuggish behavior will ensue that begins with knocking things over and culminates in all out attacks on appendages.

She likes to fight before settling down for sleep at night, often leaving The Good Man with red marks on his arms.

She's rasty, moody and rather obsessive compulsive.

And, may I mention again, she has no patience for anyone. Or really...anyone who lives in the same house with her.

Guests? Oh, guests are great. She mews coquettishly and rubs legs and climbs up in laps and accepts chin scratches with chirrups and purrs and loving eyes.

In short, the cat is a tart. She'll give it away to anyone who visits, but for the folks at home...nothing. But here's where my heart grows soft. This silly, rasty, bitey cat is especially kind to kids.

Yesterday evening, a dear friend brought her eighteen-month-old daughter over to my place to watch Game 2 of the World Series. Her husband is on business travel and she wanted company.

Many cats I know will run hide under the bed when a toddler enters the room.

Not this cat. She adores children. The moment that toddler's toes hit the ground, we heard "kitty!" and it was off to the races.

The toddler pulled The Feline's tail, poked her ears and repeatedly hugged the kitty rather roughly. Did the cat run, bite or get nasty?

Nope. She went right back in for more, letting the child maul her while she head butted and purred.

Later, the cat was asleep up on top of her favorite perch, a stack of blankets on an old steamer truck. The toddler noticed the cat again, as though she'd never seen her before, squealed "kitty!" and went racing over.

I kept a close eye on things as I feared The Feline's patience was running thin. Toddler got a hold of tail and pulled hard. "No, no," I said, "We don't pull the kitty's tail." The toddler looked at me like I'd lost my mind, but let go.

At that moment, The Feline extended her paw out and I thought, "uh oh."

Then my rasty, tacky, bitey cat laid her paw (claws very much retracted) very gently on the baby's forehead. It was sort of like a "that's ok kid, you can pull my tail. We're all good."

And the baby giggled.

It was one of the most gentle and sweet gestures I've ever seen between two beings. They found a simpatico.

Again I'm amazed at the...well, I'd use the word humanity, but that wouldn't apply to a cat...the felinity?...that this little animal displayed.

I'm not much of an animal rights activist type person, but I will say this...never underestimate the soul of an animal. There is personality and spirit that is much to be respected.

Even a wacky, not quite right, bites my toes when I sleep kind of animal like mine.

Taken with my iPhone 4 using the Hipstamatic iPhone app

I've Become That Grownup

Last month when I visited New Mexico and stayed with my best friend, I made it a point to spend time visiting one-on-one with each of my two goddaughters.

They are ten and eight now, fully formed people, and their challenges go well beyond walking and eating and sleeping. The so-called "real world" has decided to come roost in their lives, and it is extraordinarily hard for me to adapt as quickly as they have.

My oldest goddaughter is incredibly intelligent and incredibly obstinate too (*coff*herfather*coff*). Her problem is that she is so smart and world savvy that she's knows when someone is pulling a fast one or isn't acting in the smartest way.

But she's only ten going on eleven, so her powers to right the wrongs of this world are slim. So far, anyway.

She told me about how her new teacher this year is teaching the students a new approach to spelling. "I know how to spell, this is so dumb!"

And her teacher is making the students learn long division. By last year she had long division down cold. "Why do I have to do this all again!? It's such a waste of time!"

You know what? She's right. She's absolutely right.

So what do I do as the adult she's looking to for advice?

Do I do the usual grown up thing and tell her that the grown ups are right and she should just mind what they say?

Because I can't do that.

Do I tell her fight?! Fight to the end for justice!

No, that's not good guidance either.

So I dug deep into my own experiences and came up with just this:

"Pick your battles."

It was advice that was handed to me in my first year of work. Like my goddaughter, I was willing to take on every challenge, rail against the inefficiencies of the bureaucracy, fight the good fight for every injustice.

The mentor assigned to me, a very easy-going sort of fellow who was revered by the leadership of that company was the first to sit me down and tell me this lesson.

Pick your battles.

Figure out the fights that one, you think you can win and two are worth putting all the energy into. If it meets both criteria, then go for it.

And fight for the ones you can't win if it really, really matters. But remember you can't fight them all if you want to win any.

So I found myself sitting in the cooling evening breeze in the backyard of a Las Cruces home, imparting this same knowledge to a ten year old.

"Do you honestly expect the teacher is going to look at you and say, 'wow, you are right, I was teaching it wrong. Let's do it your way!'"

Her eyes went wide and she shook her head.

"So what are you trying to get to? What do you expect?"

She wants to be challenged. Ah, ok. There's something we can work with.

I told my girl that life is going to be pretty tough if every day is spent digging in her heels.

And so all of that best answers the question posed by the idea generator today:

"If you could pass on a piece of advice that meant a lot to you when you received it, what would it be?"

Pick your battles.

I might be qualified to impart that wisdom from my position in the long and deep trenches I carry behind me, heels worn down to the nub.

Propagation of the Species

I work across the street from a public park that borders on marshlands, very near the actual Bay. The proximity of water and the tasty grasses in the marsh entice lots of birds to come visit and stay.

Among others, we have egrets, herons, spoonbills and sandpipers. All so elegant and beautiful.

Here's a rather grainy shot of a snowy egret, one of my favorite birds. This one usually keeps a beady eye on everyone walking by:

Many of the birds that we get in our beautiful marshes are on the endangered or near endangered species lists.

So it's good we have a nice habitat here for them.

That said, ya wanna know what bird isn't on any endangered list and is pretty much in zero danger of extinction?

Geese.

@#$%ing Canada Geese.

Or, as I like to call them, feathered poop factories.

Taken with my iPhone, this is by a walking trail:

That's not even a small portion of the inventory.

Here's a wider shot:

Again, to the left and right of this frame there are at least this same number if not more geese.

The one in the center of that photo charged at me, hissing, so I didn't take any more photos.

The geese eat grass, lots and lots of grass, then they process it internally and drop the leftovers right in the middle of the walking trails.

Their drop offs equal the size of the leavings of a large dog. Only a whole lot greener.

Just. Ew.

This morning coming into work, there was a goose right in the middle of the driveway (which is a long narrow single car path). The goose moved neither right nor left, but strutted right down the center of the lane. I counted ten cars in line behind while Mr. Goose waddled his way into the day.

I was in car number eleven.

These cranky birds have certainly figured out how to continue the prosperity of their species. In a big way.

My elderly uncle, unfortunately now deceased, used to shoot bottle rockets at the Canada geese that befouled the walkway in front of his house in Indiana.

They sort of frown on that here in California, don't they?

All photos by Karen Fayeth. Click on any photo to see a larger size.

Continuing on a Theme...

Perhaps fitting given my post from over the weekend, I read an article today in CNN with the title: "Homesickness isn't really about 'home'"

Oh really?

The article is aimed at parents of new college students and tries to help worried folks get through it. For example, the article recommends that at the first sign of acute homesickness, parents might refrain from swooping and taking the kids back home.

I think that makes sense. The transition from home to college is a big one, and kids have to find their own way.

But because I'm me, and I'm here to talk about me, let's see how this might or might not apply to my situation.

I recently had a profound bout of homesickness for New Mexico. (Refresh your memory here)

From the article: ..."homesickness is defined as 'distress and functional impairment caused by an actual or anticipated separation from home and attachment objects such as parents.'"

Um. I moved to the Bay Area thirteen years ago. This isn't about a new or anticipated separation.

I left my folk's home for college about twenty two years ago, so that's not it either.

And to be honest, I'm not sure I can rightly call New Mexico home anymore. It's where I was raised. It's where I'm from. It's who I am. But I have to say that where I live now is probably best defined as home.

"...it stems from our instinctive need for love, protection and security -- feelings and qualities usually associated with home."

Yeah. But here's the weird thing, I have a happy home. I have an amazing husband and with him I feel loved and safe every day. I have up days and down days, but taken on the average, I'm pretty content with my life. So what's up with that?

I also know that if I didn't live in the Bay Area, I'd suffer a profound bout of homesickness for my Bay Area home. I'd miss the amazing art and culture and the family I have made here.

"'Yet despite the way it's coined, homesickness isn't necessarily about home. And neither is it exactly an illness, experts said.'"

It's not? Then how come I *long* to sit in the kitchen of my best friend's home, deveining green chiles, cussing and discussing and laughing with her kids? I get a pain in the center of my chest so bad it's sometimes hard to breathe.

If that's not a sickness, I don't know what is.

I'm a woman torn between my two homes. I am a New Mexican. I am part of the Bay Area. I'm both. Maybe I'm neither.

I'm still caught somewhere halfway in between. (Where would that be? Barstow? Cuz ain't no way I'm calling Barstow home, let me tell you THAT right now.)

I guess I'm what one might call blessed. Blessed to know two distinct geographic regions of the country where I have family and love and kinship and all the things that make life worth living.

So I'm still going to call it homesickness, no disrespect to the authors of the study.

Then I’m going to recycle my not very sophisticated image because it's the best visual representation I can manage to convey how I feel.

I Left My Heart....

Wait. Where did I leave my heart?

If you are a Twitter type of person and you follow my tweets, you may have gotten some of-the-moment tweeting about what I'm about to describe.

There was an "incident" upon my departure from New Mexico about three weeks ago. I've tried to brush it off, but I find I cannot. I'm rather shaken to my core.

The executive summary is this: I got my heart broke by an eight year old girl.

And I may never recover properly.

I flew out to New Mexico for one of the annual "Chick's Trips" that my best friend and I love to put together.

I came in on a Thursday afternoon and my friend picked me up at the airport. Earlier that day, her husband had taken their two daughters, my goddaughters, on a camping trip. He was out spotting elk for an upcoming hunt His girls are avid outdoors women, so they are able to help.

Fabulous. That meant some one-on-one girl time with my best friend in the world.

There was cussing. There was discussing. There was a trip to the Ruidoso Downs.

Big fun!

We all got back my friend's house in Las Cruces on Sunday afternoon. I had to fly out Monday.

So Sunday evening I got to have some quality time with my little girls (who are not so little anymore).

I had a chance to chat with the older of the two, she's ten, and has had some troubles with another girl at school. I wanted to make sure that going into fifth grade, she was holding up ok.

I got to sit next to the younger of the two, she's eight, at dinner.

The next morning, the eight year old asked me to go on a walk with her out to look at her flowers in her yard. I told her I would be happy to.

As time will do, it went all slippery and got away from us. Nina Karen didn't get her walk in with the younger goddaughter.

This all came to a head at the El Paso airport. We arrived a bit early and my kids wanted to come inside the airport to see me off.

Without delay, my younger goddaughter began insisting to her mom that she needed to come with me on the plane.

Her mom told her that she couldn't come with me.

"But why!?!?" was the inevitable reply.

What followed was a long and persistent debate between mom and child about, logically, why she couldn't just get on the plane and come home with me.

Then the tears began in earnest. My younger goddaughter began sobbing.

And that's when the truth started pouring out....

"You and Nina Karen always go off somewhere and we never get to go!"

Early on, my friend laid down some age requirements for chick's trips. Plus, sometimes Mama just needs a break.

"We always have to go with dad and you get to go have fun!"

Which isn't very nice to the dad who is lots of fun. But he's a boy and boy fun is different.

"Nina Karen always comes out here and we never get to go to California."

Well, sure. Since I don't have little ones, and I get awful homesick, I do tend to fly that way a bit more often.

"Other than her name, I don't even know Nina Karen!"

Ok, that one hurt. That's so not true, and she later apologized for having said it. But in that moment, she broke my heart.

She wasn't done by a long shot.

I held my baby girl in my arms as she cried and cried, her tiny body racked with sobs. Of course, I started crying too. Then her mom was bawling. And her big sister was crying from the get go.

Four weepy girls all clutched together at the El Paso Airport.

I apologized to my girl and through tears she said she forgave me.

After a while, her sobs began to slow down. Then, time went and got us again. The long hand moved too quickly on the clock face, and it was time for me to leave.

I had to go home. But which home? My California home because The Good Man waited for me there. He is my heart.

But that little crying girl is also my heart.

I've never felt so torn between two places in all my life. It literally felt like being ripped in two.

I cried all the way through the security line, and the TSA man shooed me along.

Then I cried all the way through the terminal.

I used my phone to call my husband to tell him what happened, and started sobbing even harder.

With every tear, my heart broke a little bit more. Ground glass under a bootheel.

I'm not sure yet how I'm going to try to make this right.

My best friend is working on a road trip out here, maybe, to cut costs and make it easier for them all to come out here to California.

I'm working over in my mind a plan to go back to New Mexico. But when? Our weekends are booked through Labor Day.

I just know that I am as heartbroke today as I was three weeks ago.

The Hispanic culture embraces a concept called "Comadres". Co-Mothers. Best friends are like mothers to each others children.

I don't have kids of my own, but actually, I do. Those two girls are as dear to me as if I'd birthed them from my own body. I feel their pain, I revel in their joy. I would sacrifice for them with nary a thought.

Nina Karen has got to make things right.

I'll tell you this, I'll never again miss the chance to take a walk with my girls just to look at the flowers.

"Las Comadres," a painting by Juana Alicia.

¡Baila Me!

When the Gipsy Kings command you to dance, you dance.

It doesn't matter if you don't think you can dance. You dance anyway. You shake the maracas the Good Lord gave ya, and you have a good time doing it.

After many years of yearning to see the Gipsy Kings live, last weekend, I finally got my chance.

I got tickets back in April. I jumped on line the very second they went on sale and my diligence paid off. I scored two tickets second row center.

I knew it was going to be a good show. I had no idea it was going to be one of the most amazing shows I've ever seen.

The music of the Gipsy Kings is beautiful, traditional gitano music, played by brothers. The men, from two different families, were born in France, children of gitanos who fled during the Spanish Civil War of the 1930's.

What I mean to say is...they are the real deal.

Their music moves me in ways I can't understand.

Best not to even try to understand.

Three songs into the night, Patchai Reyes commanded us to dance.

And the people in the venue rose to their feet, and we danced.

Even The Good Man who doesn't dance got up and danced. It was useless to resist.

At the beginning of the show, six men walked out with matching nylon strung acoustic guitars (four of them played upside down by left handers), hit a couple tune up notes and they were off to the races. I was struck by the blinding fast guitar work.

As the venue allowed photography, I tried to capture even a tiny bit of what we experienced that night. I found I was too enchanted by the music and didn't actually take a lot of photos.

But here is a photo of Andre Reyes that gives you a small idea. I used as long an exposure as I dared to capture the movement of his hands. (Click to see a larger size)

My mother tells me that somewhere in the murky waters of my genetic past, we are what she calls "French gipsy".

I understand that to be a true Gitano, you must be Gitano on all four sides...meaning, all four of your grandparents must be full-blooded Gitano. I’m not fully Gitano on any sides, but the rhythm resides somewhere in my strands of DNA.

On warm summer Saturday night in an outdoor mountain venue, the Gipsy Kings plucked the strings to my soul.

And I danced.

Oh, did I dance...

Soot of a Most Sorrowful Kind

Over the weekend, I read on "Only in New Mexico that there had been a fire on the highest trestle bridge of the Cumbres & Toltec Scenic Railroad.

A Google search netting me an article in the Denver Post with a photograph of the fire on the Lobato Trestle that is both beautiful and heartbreaking.

The sadness immediately hit me in the heart. The Cumbres & Toltec railroad, billed as "America's Highest & Longest Narrow Gauge Scenic Railroad," holds a special place in my heart.

In fact, I did a post about my memories of the Cumbres & Toltec back in 2007. Looking back to that post, I rather enjoyed reading what I wrote, and I was filled with melancholy at the idea that the railroad won't be running this summer due to the damage.

I believe that either New Mexico or Colorado, or both, will fix the bridge because the railroad is a big tourist draw. However, times are tough and money is tight. So who knows how long it might take before the Cumbres & Toltec is up and running again?

On his blog, Jim Baca was kind enough to post a couple family shots from his adventures on the Cumbres & Toltec.

Having recently semi-reorganized my rather vast pile of family photo albums, I did a dive into the memories and dug up a few photos of my own. There was a family trip back in August 1978, and I found a couple photos worth sharing.

As mentioned in my 2007 post, Captain Type A, also know as my dad, rousted us all early from our beds in the Apache pop up trailer we'd camped in the night before. I'm unclear why we were up so early, but it was, ostensibly, to go and catch the train.

Chama sits at 8,203 feet, so even on a nice day the mornings are rather chilly. Getting out of bed wasn't the easiest of tasks that day.

I recall my dad being pretty excited and the rest of the family being...well. Um. Fairly excited?

Look at this happy group! (I'm the shortest one in the front.)

Man, is that a spouse and three kids that are LOVING the head of the household right now?

And also...helllooooooo seventies! How much denim is in that photo?

This is the station where the journey begins on the Chama side. That little figure huddled off to the right sitting on the wagon under the Chama sign is me.

Cold. Cranky. Waiting.

But I suppose there was a payoff. Once the sun came out and it warmed up and the train actually got moving...well heck, look at that face!

I'm diggin' it!

I remember really having a lot of fun once we were actually on the train. The end point of the trip, Antonito, was a charming little tourist town. I thought it was big fun since I'm a longtime lover of souvenir and tchotchke shops!

We ended the day covered in soot and ash, tired but happy. It ended up being worth it, a fun family trip, even if the beginning was a little rough.

I'd like to think that the Cumbres & Toltec will get up and running again, because there are whole legions of children who haven't yet been tortured by their early rising father at an elevation of eight thousand feet.

Whoa

If asked to give a one word review of the Kris Kristofferson/Merle Haggard show at the Mountain Winery last night, that would be it.

Whoa.

I bought tickets to the show only to see Merle. You see, Mr. Haggard is part of the essential soundtrack of my life.

Recall my earlier discussion about the task my best friend and I have undertaken? Creating our own version of "The List" for her kids (my godkids)?

We are compiling what we consider to be the music of our lives, music my beautiful godkids need to know as it tells the story of their family.

Yeah. Merle's on that list. More than once.

So the chance to see Merle live was too much to pass up.

Kris Kristofferson was just part of the ride.

The show started with Kris. Now look, I'm not actually a big fan of Kris as a performer. His voice has always been a bit warbly to my ears. However, I do acknowledge that he is one of America's premiere songwriters. His name is on many, many of the classics that help make up the tapestry of American music ("Me and Bobby McGee" is only scratching the surface).

So out strolled Kris with and acoustic guitar and a harmonica. Alone. And he played a healthy portion of his own catalog in one hour's time.

Kris seemed uncomfortable and nervous, but I found his performance immensely intriguing. He laughed when he forgot the lyrics to songs he wrote himself. He rolled his eyes when he hit a bad note on his guitar. And he laughed. It was a really engaging thing to see.

At the end he thanked the crowd for their energy.

Ok, look. Kris Kristoffereson may have just won me over to his side.

Oh, lest I forget. Before Kris left the stage, he invited up a friend. A man by the name of John Prine. Now, I was not familiar with Mr. Prine, but a quick Google led me to volumes of information about the man.

Mr Prine is also a prolific songwriter and responsible for a lot of the heart of folk music. He's also one of the writers on the song "You Never Even Call Me By My Name" made swaggeringly famous by David Allen Coe.

God, I love that song.

After Kris and John had played a tune, they invited up another friend.

A lady by the name of Joan Baez.

Yeah, look, I’m neither hippie nor baby boomer, but I was still in awe of the talent standing there together on the stage.

It was truly unforgettable.

At the break, there were ladies crying in the restroom, sharing stories of what the music of Joan Baez and John Prine meant to them.

It was less of an emotional thing for me, and more of a "whoa...I'm so proud I got to see this."

And then...

Oh and then...

Merle finally took the stage. I couldn't believe it. I might have started to cry a little bit myself.

I kept saying, "I can't believe I'm here, eight rows away from Merle Haggard!"

Ol' Merle is 73 years old and survived the removal of a malignant tumor on his right lung a couple years ago.

So he started out a bit slow, and the voice wasn't quite there.

But he warmed up nicely. Soon enough, he was bringing the heat to songs like "Momma Tried" and "Big City".

Merle started out the night with "Twinkle Twinkle Lucky Star" and sailed through his own songbook, ending with "Oakie from Muskogee."

He invited Kris, John and Joan to come up and join him for that last one.

As The Good Man and I first got to the venue and we had to navigate all the Mercedes driving, wine sipping, self-entitled looking Northern California people, I texted my best friend that it was times like this where I question why I ever moved to California.

By the end of the night, looking at four legends of American music on one stage, I remembered. Back in my growing up years in New Mexico, it was unlikely we'd get a show like that. I moved to California for the art, the music, the creativity that runs through the Bay Area.

The kind of place where Joan Baez is just sitting in the audience and is casually invited up on stage.

So ok.

I used The Good Man's iPhone to capture about 30 seconds of video. The image is terrible but the sound is all right. This is the last 30 seconds of the show, Joan, John and Kris are gathered together at the left. Merle is in the middle.

They are all warbling and off key and Joan's mic is too loud...and still...it's a beautiful moment in time....

(may have to double click the box below to get it to play, click again to stop)

Memorial Day, Not Just for Humans

Big thanks to Jamie Dedes over at Musing by Moonlight for giving me the best happy weepy moment of the holiday weekend:

The things that matter

I had a really great time being in southern New Mexico over the weekend. I got to spend time with many of my old Ag College friends who still rely on the weather and the earth to make a good part of their living.

I got back to my rural roots. It was a fresh reminder.

While I whine and complain about all the rain we got this year in Northern California, I was reminded, plenty reminded, that water is still the heart of life in a town like Las Cruces.

Simple water. Yet not so simple.

As we drove out to my best friend's house, which is well and gone north of Las Cruces, my old senses kicked in. I smelled the water before I saw it. We rounded a corner and could see that the main irrigation ditch was running high.

"Someone must have ordered water," I said aloud to no one in particular.

"That looks like almond trees going in," I pointed out to my husband.

"Whoa, that used to be a cotton field...looks like they put in chile," I commented.

I greeted each pasture and expanse of farmland like an old friend.

"Chickens!" I exclaimed when we came to a traffic jam on the road (us and another car). The Good Man had asked, "um, why are we stopped?" and I had the better view around the car ahead.

There was a bantam rooster doing his strut on the warm asphalt of that rural New Mexico state road. We all waited for him to go by. He took his time.

Once at the party, The Good Man and I at one point talked with my best friend's dad. He said that they were having trouble with a neighbor up the road diverting their water. They'd order and not enough would show up.

I've been reading a lot of Louis L'Amour stories lately. In those books, diverting someone's water is a killing sort of offense.

I said to my dad-by-proxy, "you oughta weld that guy's gate shut" and he laughed. Don't think he hadn't already considered it. (and by gate, I meant irrigation gate, not the entry to his driveway)

As the night wore on, it got to be about two o'clock in the morning. The evening dew, such that it was, was starting to settle. I said to my husband, "this is good hay cutting weather." He asked why, and I said, "the dew makes the stalks wet and they bend instead of break."

I used to date a guy in college who had to end our dates fairly early because he had to get home and cut hay. I learned to recognize that smell. It meant it was time for him to scoot on home. Time to work when the water is in the air....

The next day, out at my friend's place, I learned the water in the irrigation ditch was running so high because it was a "free day" for the community. They got to water as needed.

I was wearing flip-flops and I tromped around the soggy yard helping my god-dog look for his favorite ball. The water made the air smell sweet. It also made the frogs come out and sing their sexy mating songs rather loudly.

We ate dinner outside with a chorus of humping frogs to accompany our meal.

All because of water.

Living in the city like I do, I take water for granted. I turn on the tap, and there it is. It falls from the sky and I curse the nuisance.

Yesterday, I was shopping at Nordstrom for a nice outfit to wear for a very important meeting today.

While I shopped in luxury, I looked down at my flip-flops. They still bore the dried mud from my friend's home. I tossed back my head and laughed at the beautiful, grounding irony of it all.

May I never forget the land and the people who rely daily on the value of pure, simple water.

Rather out of focus photo of my cranky god-cat and the gate at my friend's place.

Things you learn about yourself when you travel

So, this past weekend, The Good Man and I made a whirlwind trip to Southern New Mexico to celebrate my best friend's 40th birthday.

There was bbq brisket and tender ribs and homemade ice cream with homemade german chocolate cake on the menu.

Of *course* I was going to be there.

It's not a bad trip from San Francisco to Las Cruces, but it does take a skosh of effort sometimes.

So while riding planes, trains and automobiles, I learned a few things about myself.

Here's some of the top thoughts while on the journey:

The speed of the girl, while in motion, is variable depending on geography.

New Mexico, the land of mañana, moves very, very slowly. San Francisco, on the other hand, moves very, very quickly.

I do ok going from the super fast pace to the nice slow moving pace.

I have one hell of a time coming back from slow motion into 90 miles per hour.

In fact, I think I stripped a gear.

The sort of person you are becomes self evident after sitting for an hour on the tarmac.

San Francisco was having bad weather yesterday, so our connecting flight was delayed by a couple hours. Then they said, "hurry up and let's get loaded" so we complied. The plane backed from the gate, rolled toward the runway, and stopped.

And there we sat.

And sat.

They were having a hard time getting a window for take off. They said we could go at any minute. So we all had to stay seated and buckled in.

As we waited.

You really get a sense of a person under these sorts of circumstances.

The lady behind me started making ever more angry calls to her husband. The people in front of us who started out as strangers quickly became friends, trading stories about delayed flights in their collective past.

A lady across the aisle angrily flipped pages in her magazine and sighed. Loud, frustrated sighs.

Me, I read. I had a really good book, so that helped. But after a while, I was getting grumpy and frustrated too. So then I put down my book and started fidgeting. And then it seemed a good idea to start annoying The Good Man because isn't that what husbands are for?

I guess I'm the sort of person that can be patient...but only for a little while.

Southwest Airlines open seating policy makes people rather aggressive.

Seriously. It's a seat. It's not a gold medal event. Find a seat. Sit in a seat. If you have to sit in a middle seat, it doesn't mean you lost the contest. It just means you have to sit in a middle seat for a few hours. Get over it.

Airports will go to great lengths to get you to buy their overpriced food.

I'm almost positive Auntie Anne's pretzel place was piping hot cinnamon sugar odor into the terminal. Gooey tasty cinnamon suguar. It was damn near irresistible.

I saw another guy with three Popeye's boxed meals walking by. He was by himself...

And then there's Starbucks. Evil place. They suck you in.

I *might* have to succumbed to some of these delights, but the food in the airport is NEVER as good as it is at a real stand alone shop.

But they manage to sucker in almost every weary traveler, prisoners of TSA policies, too weak and famished to resist paying seven dollars for a soggy hamburger.

It ain't right.

Millions of years from now, archeologists will describe us as a quaint nomadic tribe so attached to our possessions that we dragged them around with us in small wheeled wagons called "samsonites".

Honestly. Have you ever seen people so damn attached to their suitcase full of crap?

Ok. Well. I am way guilty on this one.

But at least I'm willing to check my rolley bag and not have to clutch it to my chest, and cram, shove and heave-ho it into the overhead compartment.

Ah well, as the old saying goes, all's well that ends well. It was a fantastic trip to New Mexico, much green chile was consumed. Many wild college era stories were told and fun was had.

Now back to our regularly scheduled insanity....

A belated ode to the Queen Mum

I know that Mom's Day was yesterday, and was well celebrated, but today, in searching for a blog topic on my favorite idea generator, this little bit popped up onto my screen:

"What happened in your mother's life when she was exactly the same age you are now?"

So I thought about it. And then thought to myself...whooooa.

My mom's life at age *mumblefortyonemumble* was quite a bit different than mine.

And by quite a bit, I mean a LOT.

Let's see. Well, for one thing...mom and dad were juggling three kids aged thirteen, ten and six at the time.

For the record, when I imagine what that must have been like, let me just say...GAH!

On the fun side, back then we used to go bombing around the wilds of New Mexico in an 1972 blue and white Chevy Blazer ("Karen, get out and lock in the hubs!"). My dad was big on road trips.

The back seat was bench style. I'd cram in the middle between my brother and sister.

Mom would pack up a lunch of cold fried chicken with all the sides and we'd head up to Cuba, New Mexico, in the Jemez mountains, to spend the day.

It was on one of these trips that the now infamous piñon nut up the nose incident took place...I'll spare you the details.

We'd spread a blanket under a tall, shady tree and eat. After lunch we'd all head off in different directions to explore.

Dad would bring a portion of his vast gun collection and each kid would take turns learning how to load and shoot every one. Our target was an old, soft tree that had been felled by lightening.

It was important to him that we weren't scared of any of the guns kept in the house, and we weren't curious about them either. We knew what they were and what they were for, and were very respectful of them.

Yes, I was shooting guns at the age of six. It was big, huge fun!

Mom wasn't much for shooting. She'd participate sometimes, but mostly she'd be off to the side keeping a wary eye on us.

It had to about that time in my mom's life, too, when we were taking a hike up in at our Cuba property. My mom, who was always looking down at the ground in search of a geode, instead found herself a genuine arrow head.

No, not one of those you find in a tchotchke shop in Arizona.

A real, honest to goodness, genuinely used by an actual Native American, arrowhead. The land we were on was once the hunting grounds of the Jicarilla Apache, among others.

Let's see...what else was going on in mom's life at that time....

She cooked dinner every night. Homemade tortillas and venison burrito meat were faves. (At the time, I would balk and get weird about eating Bambi meat. But in honesty, it tasted pretty good. Ssssh, don't tell mom, okay?)

She volunteered as a librarian at my elementary school so she could be out of the house, but still around for her kids. She was running my sister and me to our ballet and tap lessons. She would proofread my homework, too.

A career secretary (now known as an executive assistant), she was hell on a typo or misspelled word.

Back then, life at our home wasn't always perfect. It wasn't always bad either.

So at the age I am now, Mom was managing a constantly in motion family focusing on kids and husband and work and home and putting a lot of effort into her days.

Me, I focus on work, my still fairly new husband, and spoiling my overindulged pets.

You know...in comparison...I have it pretty easy. And I owe my fairly easy, happy life to my mom. She worked hard so that her kid's lives could be better than hers had been at the same age.

And in that, dear mom, you are a resounding success!

Thank you!

P.S. to mom: I'm sorry we couldn't be together on Mom's Day this year like last year. I hope my stinky brother** took good care of you this year. I'll bet he didn't give you a hand crafted present like I did last year.

I'm still your favorite...right? Right?

** (because all boys are stinky)

Cheating my way to a daily blog post

Cranky. Oh so very cranky. Crakasaurus kind of cranky.

And so, may as well channel my snark for the good of my daily blog post goal.

Today I'm retreating to an old trick used before on this blog, a conversation with the Imagination Prompt Generator.

It spits out a thought provoking prompt. I reply with the first thing that comes to mind.

Herewith, no cheating, taking the prompts exactly as they show up.

IPG: What keeps me going?

Me: A finely balanced concoction of sugar, fat and salt (not necessarily in that order) combined with various quantities of coffee, beer and margaritas, (not necessarily in that order).

IPG: Generalizations are...

Me: Generally useful in a generic sort of way.

IPG: Define kindness.

Me: Refraining from ramming my automobile into the $#&*head who cut me off, and when I honked to notify him of the pending collision, flipped me off, then called me an unflattering name.

I did not sway into his lane. I did not nearly remove the driver's side fender of HIS sh**ty work truck. I was minding my own business when he came swerving into me.

I could have retaliated when he pulled over and stopped at the mobile taco truck.

I refrained.

THAT is digging deep for kindness.

IPG: If your best friend was right here, what would you say?

Me: They built a new Sonic Drive-In twenty miles from here. Load up, I'll drive.

IPG: Five books that changed your life are...

Me: Ooh, this is going to be a tough one.

Gonna go with:

Red Sky at Morning by Richard Bradford

Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry

The Boys of Summer by Roger Kahn

Johathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach

and

Bless Me Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya

This is in no way a comprehensive list because so many books have changed my life.

If you were to ask me again tomorrow, the list might change. Also, I only picked fiction...there is a whole other list for non-fiction.

IPG: Describe a favorite childhood friend and something you did with her or him.

The visible ones? Juuuust kidding...sort of.

I'd have to say going to the rollerskating rink with my childhood best friend Kathy, wearing bell-bottom jeans and shaking it to the Bee Gees.

Kathy rocked. Wonder what she's up to these days....

IPG: ____ was my favorite cartoon because...

Looney Tunes. Because they are all oh so very sarcastic.

That's always appealed to me, ya big maroon!

If I had 15 minutes to evacuate my home before it was to be destroyed by a hurricane, what 10 things would I grab (not including people or pets)?

Oh geez. That presupposes that I have a presence of mind about these things. I imagine if someone said "15 minutes! Go!" I'd spend about fourteen and a half running around in circles howling and freaking out.

Assuming my husband and pets are safe and I have the luxury of grabbing stuff....

Hmm. Hard to say, really, as I don't get bound up in material things.

The few things that matter most are my wedding ring and some of my folk's old photo albums.

I'd say my camera gear, but honestly, that can be replaced. My clothes and shoes can also be replaced.

Maybe some vintage family items my mom gave me. And my backup drives with years of my writing stored safely.

Other than that....

Honestly, it is hard for me to come up with a solid 10 items off the top of my head. My family and my pets are everything and most of the rest is replaceable.

But this one has me thinking. A lot.

Maybe this is the question to end on. It's at least distracted me from my oh so very grumpy state of mind.

Better get back to it.

As the poem goes, Thursdays child has far to go.....

With that, onward to the rest of the day!

New Additions to Our Family

So, out of nowhere about a month ago, I decided I wanted to get a new pet.

I've no idea where this impulse came from. It just did. Considering that we can't have any more fuzzy pets in the rental place where we live, it became clear that I had to go small.

Like fish sized.

Hmm. Trouble is, the only fish I've ever owned in my life was a goldfish from the New Mexico State Fair.

That one lived quite a while, by the by.

So this quest required some research. I looked for a fish that was easy to get set up and easy to care for. The answer was simple, a betta.

I spent hours going through the pages on bettatalk.com and I learned a lot. I made lists. I fretted. I thought about it a lot. And then yesterday, the waiting was over.

The Good Man and I went to the pet store.

And we came home with not one but two new fish friends!

Without further ado, may I introduce you to:

Margaret The Fish

She is actually The Good Man's fish. When we set out on our journey, we were just going to get one fish. But once we got to the store, The Good Man was so charmed by this inquisitive little girl, she had to come home with us.

I'm charmed by her too, actually.

So heck, easy solution. We decided to get two fishes and let them live in their own tanks side-by-side.

It's a good solution.

Margaret is a pretty little fish and she's happy to have interaction and already recognizes us. She's not eating a whole lot yet so we're hoping she's still just a little shocky from the move and will be feeling right soon.

So now that you've met Margaret...please meet:

Frank The Fish

So named because of his vibrant blue eyes. He has all of the looks and none of the charm of Sinatra.

As you can see in his photo, Frank is a bit of a stalker. He stares at Margaret.

A lot.

In a creepy mouth breathing way.

He'd totally send her inappropriate messages on Facebook if he was a human. Instead he just stares. A lot.

Margaret mostly ignores him.

So we've got them set up in their respective tanks and they are doing (*coff-coff*) swimmingly.

As for the existing member of our pet family....

Well, the word indignant comes to mind.

The feline is sort of not amused by these new items taking our attention.

Thankfully, she doesn't try to attack them. She just watches, shrugs, and walks away.

I suppose all will settle down in the house soon.

And The Good Man and I are learning a lot about how to care for these new friends.

I never thought I'd be a fish person, but here I am, all enamored of my fish.

Tis a crazy, wonderful, mixed up life.

Voice from the past

So I've been lightly reading the kerfuffle and conversation surrounding the new Nike ad featured Tiger Woods, with an overlay of the voice of his father, Earl Woods, taken from an interview in 1994.

Here's the ad, if you haven't already seen it:

Of the ad, Tiger has said: "...I think any son who has lost a father and who meant so much in their life, I think they would understand the spot."

Hmm.

I'm not a son, but I've lost a father and I have to say the ad makes me very uncomfortable. I'm not sure I do understand the spot.

While it might be "...very apropos. I think that's what my dad would say," the context of an advertising spot, intended to sell Nike gear, seems...a little wrong.

I've no doubt Tiger might have turned to his dad for guidance during the fallout from his recent troubles. But would his dad have chosen that forum to have that conversation with his son? I think not.

I find the ad very powerful and I think it's a very public reckoning for Tiger. But I still gotta say...it makes me uncomfortable. It just doesn't feel respectful to the memory of his dad. Just my .02

By the by, hearing your father's voice from the past can be an eerie thing. I recently found a video of my dad giving a presentation. It was filmed about five years before his passing. The Good Man and I watched it, and I found it difficult and a bit disturbing. And oddly, in some ways, comforting.

I've no plans yet to use it in a marketing campaign. I'll keep you posted on that.....

Happy Awkward Easter!

Because you didn't ask, I decided to provide a blast from the past.

Easter, April 8, 1976 from our backyard in Albuquerque:

I'm only sorry I had to drag my siblings into this.

I'm the shortest one. You know, the one with a deathgrip on my Easter basket.

Man, I loved that dress. It had a sash and everything.

We'd been to Easter Mass that morning.

Mom had sung "Jeeeesus Chriiiiist is riiiiiisen todaaaaaay!" loudly along with the congregation and the church organ (man, she loved that song. Something about all the allelujahs.)

Ham was in the oven and the backyard Easter egg hunt was soon to begin.

I always did love Easter. A new dress. New white sandals. A basket full of candy. Yeah baby!

Anyhow, Happy Easter to all who celebrate it!

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Oh, also, because no one asked, on the next page of that same photo album....

Here's what the 1976 Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta looked like: