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

G'bye Ol' Friend

Thanks for all the movies, all the fun and all the laughs.

Leslie Nielsen, Actor, Dies at 84

*crickets chirping*

Wow. Sure is quiet around here.

World Series is over. Key to the city handed out. Parade is finished. Streets swept.

Good. Excellent.

So. What else is going on?

Football? Hmm. The 49'ers. Played in London. Beat Denver. Brought their record to 2-6.

*yawn*

Basketball? Not my thing.

Hockey? Meh. Maybe.

Nope. This begins the long offseason.

As Bart Giamatti once opined, baseball is designed to break your heart. "The game begins in the spring, when everything is new...and leaves you to face the fall alone.”

Alone.

Quiet.

Bored.

Pitcher and catchers report in 102 days. (Feb. 13, 2011)

Meanwhile. All the fun is gone. The good times are over. The party has walked away.

Funny what totally appropriate image the "randomizer" button will net you on stock.xchng.

"Cow's Behind" by Alix Morse provided royalty free via stock.xchng

When the Veil Thins

Tomorrow Dia de los Muertos or Day of the Dead is here again.

When all the plastic spiders and smashed pumpkins of Halloween have passed, I turn to this well known Latin American holiday to celebrate my friends and family who have passed on to the next journey.

Other cultures have similar holidays and traditions, the Bon Festival in Japan, All Saints Day in Europe, but it's the Mexican version of Dia de los Muertos that resonates with me.

The belief, loosely, is that on this day the veil between the living and the dead is thin, and so offerings of favorite food, booze, decorations and memorabilia will be seen, enjoyed and appreciated by our deceased.

I think Dia de los Muertos appeals to me because it brings a sense of humor and fun to a painful, somber thing. It's a chance for a community to come together and remember. To feel close to those we have lost.

Personally, just this past August, I withstood a very deep loss. Tomorrow I will remember my friend who died way too young.

I will remember my father who passed away almost six years ago. My mom will certainly remember her husband. Together, we keep his memory alive.

Grandparents, friends, family, people I hardly knew, famous people. We all deserve to be remembered by those we've left behind.

My grief is a slippery thing. Sometimes so overwhelming, I don't know how I can sit up and walk through the world. Other days, it's like a dull noise in the background. Remembering on a day like tomorrow helps keep me grounded. Keeps me sane.

The Things I Could Talk About Today

Every morning after I wake up, stumble over the cat and yawn three times, I start to think about my day.

Part of that thinking involves devising a topic for my daily entry to this little ol' blog.

Over the years, the topics have varied widely from news of the world to news of crevices of my mind. And food. Lots of talk about food.

So I thought quite a bit about what to write about today for this, my 997th post in the life of Oh Fair New Mexico.

I could write more about the really awful fire in San Bruno last night. About the stutter-stall from PG&E in addressing the situation, about the homes and lives lost.

I could go on a rant about the nature of mega-corporations (*coff*BP*coff*) and their inability to respond in crisis situations.

I could even write about the fact that my own employer is a way-too-huge corporation, and sometimes that worries me.

I might even wander out of my local area and riff on that wack-a-doodle "minister" (I use sarcastic quotes on purpose) who is so filled with hate and not a small amount of insanity, that he would endanger the lives of people around the world and American military troops just to get a little publicity for his wack-a-doodle 50 follower church.

I seriously considered discussing the conversation I had this morning with my boss, who is here in the US for three weeks, but who usually lives in London. He is a very kind, gentle and mellow man. He said to me this morning, "I don’t understand this man who wants to burn the Quran. Can you explain it to me?" I couldn't. It is beyond my grasp.

I could discuss my growing dread regarding the upcoming California governor's election in my state.

Or my belief that on both sides of the political spectrum, our US Congress has run so far off the rails that I’m unsure how we will ever find our way back.

And I could talk about how, really, this must be end of days because I can't fathom this world where being so rude, being so self-centered, and being so utterly oblivious are acceptable. And yet, it is.

I even considered discussing how I'm what is considered a very sensitive person. In fact, there are books written on this subject, "The Highly Sensitive Person" and such. And because of that, how my choice to watch a blazing fire on my television all last night is really NOT good for my soul. How tweaked out I am about this whole thing.

Yes. I considered all of those topics and more.

But it's Friday, and I'm exhausted. Three weeks ago one of my dearest friends died and I still can't seem to climb up out of that grief.

And watching people lose their homes and their lives last night really did me in.

So today, I’m going to talk about a dog.

My first god dog, a heeler and Chihuahua mix, has been a good dog. She's deaf and near blind and still very sweet. But she doesn't run around and chase the ball like she used to.

My second god-dog is an adorable little beast. I'm not good with dog breeds, but I think he is a boxer. He's a big, muscular dog with a menacing bark.

But he's the sweetest little pea-pod of a dog I've ever known.

And he likes his godmom back.

There now. Let's not think about the jacked up things in the world.

Look into those eyes. Doncha just feel better basking in the glow of this little bubba of a dog?

I know it makes me feel better.

Everyone just pat a cute dog on the head and love your neighbor and hug your family.

And let's all have a nice weekend, ok?

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.

An Unexpected Convergence of the Universe

Had a weird day yesterday.

Well, most of my days are weird. Yesterday was especially so.

I was working in the studio and painting up a storm. Since The Good Man was out and about, I took the opportunity to turn on the oldies country station I like. 104.7 out of Albuquerque does an internet stream.

It's a great station for classic country stuff. I try to spare The Good Man from my country music as much as I can. All for the sake of the marriage and things like that....

So as I painted, on the radio came Merle Haggard, and George Strait, a little Ray Price and even a stab at some Garth Brooks (the old stuff).

Well, it didn't take but a minute, and I was vacuumed up into the Wayback Machine. I found myself struggling with heart pangs that were hard to ignore.

It doesn't help that I'm also reading a Max Evan's book right now. In it, he describes horses and New Mexico plains and mountains...

Well, it's more than a girl can take.

I tried to fight off the homesick but it started to hurt deep inside.

So I called up my best friend.

"You either gotta come get me out of this wayback machine or you gotta get in here with me," I left on her voicemail.

She called back quick. "Open the hatch, I'm coming in!" she said.

So being the kind of friend that you keep around for some twenty plus years, she talked me down and reminded me that I'm just a couple weeks from actually *being* in New Mexico again. So could I just hold out a bit?

Feeling a lot better, I hung up the phone and turned off the radio.

Then the Good Man came home and all was right in my world again.

About an hour later, I heard my iPhone buzz.

I picked it up to see that my old boss from Sandia Labs was pinging me. She is a dear friend and the best boss I've ever had. She told me that she and her boss (who was my first manager at Sandia and is also a good friend and a fine Aggie alum) were having drinks while out on a business trip.
Their conversation had turned to stories about, well, me.

She was recounting a few of them via text messages (we had a lot of fun back in those days...the mid-90's) and she said, "That was the best time I've ever had at work. We should never have let you go to the Bay Area."

And damnit all if that sharp pang didn't come right back to my heart.

Now I keep in touch with my former amazing Boss Lady, but we haven't spoken a lot in the past year (other than to congratulate her on a recent marriage).

Sort of out of nowhere, on a day when I’m homesick anyway, there she was relating stories of a great time in my life back when I lived in Albuquerque.

And I seized up a little.

It was weird how all these events came together on one day.

So I talked it over with The Good Man. I told him I'm afraid of forgetting who I am and where I come from. He suggested that just that fear alone may keep it from being so.

He asked, "Do you want to move back?"

And I said, "No, because I think I'd yearn for San Francisco if I left!"

Over the weekend, we went to see a theater show, "The Tosca Project," that was so San Francisco and the heart of North Beach that I love profoundly, that it was moving and deeply gratifying to my soul.

The thought of being far away from the soul of that City is a sad thought.

Sometimes I’m a girl caught between all the Karens that make up who I am.

I don't have any answers. I figure I'm just going to have a very high electrical bill this month, what with all this constant use of the Wayback Machine (it's not Energy Star rated.....)

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.

Just Another Marble in the Brain Jar

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the nature of memory.

Mainly, because my own memory sucks.

What was I saying?

Oh yes.

Some of this memory loss is, I think, is a hazard of having put in a few years on this ol' planet. Over time, one tends to collect a few things in the closets like bottle tops, tattered paperback books, and stacks of memories, both good and bad.

I sometimes think of my brain as a big storage device. Lots and lots of space. Too many bits of memory get shoved in there, and it's time for an upgrade.

But maybe that's a little too Silicon Valley for my tastes.

Let's try another metaphor.

Maybe my brain is more like a big glass jar filled with marbles. Some are large, some small, some are in between. So as I go about living this crazy mixed up life, these marbles roll their way toward the jar and drop in. These new residents tend to push out the old when I've run out of space.

There is only so much room in the jar, of course, and once filled to capacity, something's gotta give.

As I was getting my hair cut last night, I spent the color "cook time" working over this particular visual metaphor. Unfortunately, I was thinking about it while also pouring over the pages of the current "People" magazine.

Without my consent, some fresh, small marbles found their way into my jar.

For example, I don't really need to know that one of the Jonas brothers broke up with his girlfriend. *plink*

Or that Jon and Kate plus 8 lady just celebrated the birthday of her sextuplets. *plink*

That some blonde chick named Heidi needs "time alone" from her overbearing husband. *plink*

And that weird Svengali-like husband of that sad, tiny, actress that recently died has now also shuffled off this mortal coil. *plink*

These are not vital memories. These don’t need to be kept in the jar. If they do manage to stay in the jar, then other, better, memories have to slip out.

Oops, there goes making Thanksgiving turkey drawings by tracing my hand onto the paper.

And there goes the name of my childhood friend who lived by the park, across from the swimming pool. We took gymnastics class together at the YMCA. What *was* her name?

Don't tell me a Jonas brother shoved my friend out of the brain jar!

I suppose the trick is to let those lightweight worthless marbles flow in for a moment and then find a way to shove them right back out.

If I get too many of the trivial marbles, there's no room left for the big meaningful marbles to find a permanent home.

Of course, some of those big marbles are so heavy, they can't possibly be washed out. My wedding day. Holding my oldest goddaughter for the first time (I cried). Cracking jokes with my pops while he was in the hospital.

The big ones stick around, no matter. The middlin' sized tend to go all floaty without my permission. They are the hardest to hold onto.

But I try. Oh I try.

Let's just hope that at the very least, I can manage to hang on to most of my important marbles.

Because I surely would hate to, you know...lose my marbles.

Photo from the KM&G-Morris public Flickr photostream.

Oh my mortality

I had a doctor's visit this morning. Nothing special, just a routine check up for blood pressure and all of that.

My doctor was running late so I had some time to sit and entertain myself.

When all my email was read on the iPhone and I'd caught up on Twitter, I started people watching. You know, people watching at a medical center is quite a thing. You see a lot...

Anyhow, pretty soon, a nurse came down the hall pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair.

They came into our waiting area and the nurse helped the man to get up onto his feet, and he then took a few steps with the aid of a cane.

As he shakily got to his feet, he said to the young nurse, "Who would have thought it would come to this, eh?"

He said it in a wry way, but it carried a deep note of sadness.

The man was, by all appearances, pretty healthy. He was probably in his late seventies and from what I could see, was suffering a very bad hip.

The nurse helped the man get settled into the seat, with a groan.

He gave me a weary smile and I smiled back.

The nurse said to the man, as she departed, "one of my patients told me that his best advice was simply this: just don't get old."

"Yes, certainly," said the man, with a sigh.

The whole exchange made me a bit melancholy. I remember when my dad struggled with rapidly advancing lung disease. His mind was fine but his body crapped out on him way too early.

How angry that must make a person, your legs, your lungs, your eyes, your whatever body part you want to name just doesn't work like you know it should.

Ugh.

And me. Still fairly young but full of the knowledge that I'm not taking care of myself as well as I should. Now is the time to tend to these things.

Time marches on, whether I'm keeping step with it or not.

And even now, I know some parts of this ol' rig don't work like they should. But I still have time.

Time to remember to enjoy my legs that still carry me easily, a heart that still beats strong. Lungs that take in air without coughing.

Yes. It was just a nice reminder, a needed wake up call.

Because one day I might be uttering to a kindly young nurse, "who would have thought it would come to this?"

Sorry for the sort of down post today. The rain and the doctor's waiting room has me in a very thoughtful place.

Hey, how's your day going?

How's my day? HOW'S MY DAY!?!??!

This, this is how my day is going:

This is what happens when you take the lovely rubberized cover off your iPhone and then go to a meeting and, whoops, drop it face down on a beautiful gray granite floor.

I have many, many curse words yet to go today.

By the by...the phone still works. Just not really inclined to run my finger across the screen.....

A bit sad

I'm sad to have to convey that last night, just past 11:00, my little fish Frank passed along.

It seems he succumbed to an internal bacterial infection, which was hard to diagnose, and the antibiotics we put in the water weren't enough or in time.

He was only my little fish for eight days, but he was a good fish and a member of our family.

Last evening at the grocery store, I ran into a longtime friend and when I confessed I was sad because I thought my fish would die, she said, "ah, no matter. Flush him and get another one."

I appreciate that many folks would feel that way. It's just a small thing, a $5.00 fish from the pet store.

And that's fine. We all go about life our own way.

For me, I'm not ashamed to actually feel very sad and even cry a little for my fish, who had to struggle so much for life so much there at the end.

I knew when I bought him that he might not be 100% healthy. The Good Man and I agreed to foster him at home so he would either recover, or if he succumbed, he would do so in a big tank with humans around to protect him.

And so we did.

I pimped out a nice matchbox coffin for my friend and gave him a proper goodbye in the side garden of our house.

He was just a fish, but he was my fish, and he was well loved.

By the by, Margaret, the female betta who came home with us the same day as Frank is doing fine. She's happy and does a little fish dance when we walk up to the tank. I never before thought I could find a fish cute, but I have to say, she's an adorable little fish.

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.....

We all have to remember in our own way

A tree stands in the median on I-25, north of Las Cruces, not quite to Radium Springs.

It's a scrubby little tree, maybe a mesquite or a juniper. You know, the kind of hardy tree you see out there in the New Mexico desert. Something tenacious.

This particular tree stands out because it's festooned with tinsel and garland.

It's been that way for several years. I've seen it, driven past it several times, actually.

The first time I saw it, the time of year wasn't much past Christmas, so I figured it was a leftover holiday decoration.

But when I saw it again a few years later, I realized it wasn't just leftover holiday decorations, but something more serious. I knew it was a roadside shrine often found in our fair New Mexico.

The roadside shrine is a memorial located where someone has lost their life out there on the roads. It's a pretty common sight in New Mexico.

It's a tradition I grew up with and so it's never occurred to me to question it. I find outside the borders of my homestate, it's questioned. A lot.

Questions of taste and decency, actually. Whether it's appropriate, or not, to put one's grief so garishly on display.

See, I think we in our American culture have really weird and uptight ideas about death and dying. Ok, it's probably because I grew up in the cultures of New Mexico that I feel that way.

But I've always really appreciated the Hispanic and Latino cultures celebrating and remembering their loved ones who have moved on. I appreciate the ability to show grief openly without remorse or embarrassment.

Dia de los Muertos offrendas and roadside shrines are simply the outward display of deeply held cultural beliefs. Beliefs such as that the dead have moved on to another world, but a world that is not so far away from our own.

A woman is comforted, perhaps, by knowing that her child, while not in her arms, is not that far away. While she remembers with a keening loss the child who was taken away, she can still bake bread and place sweets on an offrenda, and it helps her cope.

A mourning wife can drive to the spot where her husband met his end, and remember him. She refreshes the shiny bits of paper, and can feel her husband not so far away.

I think this is healthy, personally, and I don’t find it to be weird. I find it to be beautiful.

Those roadside shrines are called descansos. They aren't just tacky plastic crosses and brightly shining tinsel. For the family that constructed the shrine, they are an essential part of the grieving process.

The garlanded tree located in I-25 highway median is a descanso to honor the memory of a child.

The shrine in the photo at the end of this post honors two kids who rolled their ATV by the irrigation banks on the Bosque in Los Lunas.

When someone you truly love dies, the grief never goes away. It tends to ebb and flow, welling up sometimes, overwhelming. Other times, the volume is turned down and you can almost, but not quite, forget.

I think we all have to find our own way of grieving.

No one can say who is right or wrong.

Source: Las Cruces Sun News

Heartbroke no more

There's this famous quote from this guy named Bart Giamatti. He was a baseball commissioner and had a bit of character.

Ol' Bart was also a writer. He liked to put down in words what he felt about the game of baseball.

He was a true fan and had a lot to say.

At the end of every baseball season, one of his quotes from a work entitled "The Green Fields of the Mind" is trotted out and poured over by the faithful, including me.

The piece begins "It breaks your heart. It's designed to break your heart."

Bart's talking about how baseball begins all fresh and new and sparkly, stays with you over the course of 162 games, and gives you a story arc that includes Spring, Summer, AND Fall and then goes away abruptly.

Finds you when it is warm, leaves you when it is wet and cold.

Sort of a fair weather friend, that.

And every October, I get a little down. The World Series ends, baseball isn't on the radio anymore and I have to actually decide what to watch on TV instead of having it decided for me.

No longer do I worry over a pitcher's arm or that catcher's bum knee or why the hell that guy took that bad route to get to a routine fly ball.

Baseball leaves a big empty that cannot be refilled.

Like a whirlwind romance that fills my days with daydreams and my nights with passion and I get to thinking I could never live without it.

And then it leaves me.

But weirdly, baseball is a fickle lover.

Because come March, baseball finds it's way back to my arms.

Yesterday, because I could feel the return on the wind, I engaged in my annual viewing of "Bull Durham." It's a preparatory event. An ablution. A ritual cleansing to prepare me for the return.

This morning I will have either "61*" or "The Natural" playing in the background while I work, to continue my readiness.

And then, today, at noon, or 12:05 actually, I will once again hear Duane Kuiper say "Giants baseball is on the radio."

While it may only be a Spring Training game, some harmless flirtation and not the real thing yet, I will listen. I might even cry when I hear Jon Miller's voice (it's happened before).

I will hear how Bengie Molina may or may not have lost weight. I will hear how our multi-million dollar Cy Young winning, dope smoking kid has fared in the off season. I will listen for details on the new kids and assessments on the old kids and I will find that yawning chasm inside of me will begin to quiet again.

Because today, my love has returned to me.

It broke my heart, but I will forgive and forget. I will give myself with reckless abandon, not caring that October looms somewhere out there. No, today I will pretend that it will never leave me again.

God I love baseball.

Best Laid Plans

Or something like that.

I'd meant to do a round up post on my thoughts and experiences from spending Thursday afternoon at MacWorld 2010.

This, the first year without the presence of Apple at the show.

But I pretty much summed it up on Twitter:

"Steve kicked the baby bird outta the nest and it ain't flying. At all."

The air is out of the show. I have been going to MacWorld shows as a feature of my employment since 1995. I've seen a lot of 'em.

I'm used to the buzz in the air all around Moscone Center. Even in Apple's down years, there was a lot of energy in San Francisco surrounding the show.

It was the wondering, the excitement, the anticipation. What will be announced? Can I lay my hands on an iPhone (no, they just twirled in a tantalizing fashion in a glass case with security guards), what accessories can I buy. What cool 3rd party products will I see?

There was no buzz. There was no "wow" product at the show. There was no life.

The surrounding streets were eerily calm. The San Francisco flagship Apple store, located within walking distance of the show, was no more busy than an average day.

Even the people running the booths at the expo were lacking energy.

What was once one of the most hotly anticipated shows in the tech geek world is now nothing more than a limp echo of what it once was.

So that's that.

End of an era, I suppose.

Blame it on the rain...

So under deeply dark gray skies and a relentless rain, I drove this morning down highway 101.

I had on the local country station because that's the kind of music I'm listening to these days.

That fairly dated song by Tim McGraw "Live Like You Were Dying" came on.

You know the one, goes something like this:

"I went sky diving/I went rocky mountain climbing/I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu
And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter/And I gave forgiveness I'd been denying
Some day, I hope you get the chance/To live like you were dyin'."

This song always did bug me. Dunno, I'm not the hugest Tim McGraw fan anyway.

But back in 2004, I really got a whole other view. I can't hear the song without remembering.

I have this very dear friend, let's call her Jane (it's her Nom de Bebida).

Jane is about 90 pounds soaking wet and bouncy like a golden retriever. She is intensely athletic, too. I mean, despite being tiny, her body is finely hewn with long muscles and power. In other words, the exact opposite of my own rig. Which may be why we get along so well.

I once quipped that she has spin class for breakfast, power yoga for lunch and windsurfing for dinner.

And it's true. That's an actual day from her life.

Back in 2004 she went on a windsurfing trip to an island with a name I can't recall. I believe it is part of the Canary Islands.

While there, she caught a particularly nasty parasite.

The side effects of this hitchhiker looked an awful lot like meningitis, meaning very painful headaches as the lining of the brain swells, utter fatigue, and more.

She went into the hospital and the doctors could not figure out what the heck was wrong with her.

For weeks she suffered. Huge doses of painkillers, doctors trying everything and still she didn't improve.

At one point, they were unsure if they were going to be able to help her. Meaning...they weren't sure if she would survive. They had a long talk with her boyfriend about options.

Finally after what must have felt like forever to our Janie girl, someone figured out the problem. With some meds and her own body's immune system, everything kicked into gear and she started to improve, but recovery was very slow.

Once she came home from the hospital, she was told to rest. Rest, ha! You tell a golden retriever to rest? Are you kidding?

But she did rest as much as she could.

When she started to go a little stir crazy, I'd go get her and we'd go for short trips out to lunch or something. She'd fatigue so fast it was frightening to see.

Toward the end of summer of that year, Tim McGraw came to the Shoreline for a concert. Jane wanted to go, so I piled a lot of blankets and her tiny body into the Jeep and took her to the show. We sat on the lawn.

When the big finale came on and McGraw sang his top of the charts song, the crowd stood swaying and sang along. Janie and I sat on the ground and listened.

The first chorus rang out into the night air and my very down to earth, very blunt friend looked at me and said, "I don’t like that song."

"Yeah, I don't like it much either," I replied. Then Jane startled me.

"I don’t want to live like I am dying. I want to live like I am living," Jane said, pretty emphatically. "I've tried dying. I don’t like it."

And I hugged her real tight that night, because she was right. I didn't like her living so close to dying either.

So now whenever I hear that damn song, I remember my Janie girl demanding that she wanted to live like she was living!

By the way, just this year, at the age of 43, that girl got pregnant (naturally) with her first child and gave birth to the most delicate and beautiful baby girl.

Now if that ain't livin' like you wanna live, I don't know what is.

And I smiled to remember my girl. She's a ray of light on a rainy day.
_____

I believe this sudden serious turn on the blog is probably a surprise after the past several posts.

It came as sort of a surprise to me, too, when I wrote it in my head this morning.

Blame it on my melancholy mood and the relentless winter rain.

(iPhone photo taken moments ago)

S'long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good byyyyyyye!

Well 2009, here we are.

It's been fun, you know. Well, sometimes, anyway.

I mean, you've provided some laughs and all.

Remember that time we celebrated my wedding anniversary?

How about all the tweets we shared?

The endless blog posts?

Remember that vacation where we laughed in the summer sun?

Yeah...those were special times. Really, I'll always hold those memories deep in my heart.

It's just...

Well...

It's not working out.

You see, despite all the fun, you've ravaged my wallet.

In this year, you made me have to *gasp* cut coupons, lower my thermostat and NOT buy this ever so delicious navy blue leather bag with a cute little strap and matte finished hardware and the most adorable zipper front pockety thing.

I haaaate not buying a delicious handbag with a really cute pockety thing!

But I didn't buy it. I walked away.

And I'm still sad about that.

I'll always remember that stuff too, 2009.

How you made gas prices stupidly expensive. How you let all those celebrities die. How you let Tiger cheat on Elin.

You have a dark side, 2009. I see it now. I see it so clearly.

I've been fooling myself all along

I think it is best if we part ways.

Really, stop trying to cling to my leg.

We're done.

Seriously.

Fine. You want me to say it?

I'll say it.

But when I say it, it's really over.

Ok. Here we go. I'm saying it.

It's not you, it's me.

There.

Feel better?

Now get out of here. We're through!

Have I met somebody new? Well...maybe.

2010 has been coming up in conversation a lot lately.

Maybe 2010 will treat me the way I deserve to be treated.

Let my retirement recover some of its value and help me possibly find another cute little leather bag to assuage my grief.

Until then...to you, 2009, I can only say....

So long.

Farewell!

Auf wiedersehen

Good byyyyyyye...

Why so glum, chum?

I spent most of the day yesterday feeling blue.

No, not from the frosty wind chilling my face.

Blue as in full out, deep down, all the way to the soles of my feet holiday depression.

This happens every year.

What I can't seem to work out is why.

I started thinking, sifting through the memories, trying to figure out when the shift occurred.

As a kid, I loved Christmas. Even after I knew the truth about Santa, I still loved the holidays. To me, they were always filled with magic and a quiet happy peace.

My mom loved the Christmas holiday and always did her best to make it a nice time. Dad was always a cranky pants about any holiday, but crankiness aside, he would let the holiday be what it was.

He was never depressed about it, more like uptight over money and not much of a "ho ho ho" kind of guy.

So I can't say it started as a kid.

In fact, I was all about the holidays all through childhood, into my teen years and through college.

I think, based on my not very scientific analysis of a jumbled brain full of memories, that the holiday blues came on in my twenties.

When I was out of school, living alone in a really wonderful apartment in Albuquerque with a knockout view of the Sandias.

I had a good job with a good check and really, a pretty good life. But I was alone, and the season, for some reason, made me really blue.

I recall, that year, drinking a bottle of not very good wine and laying *under* my Christmas tree. A night spent looking at the lights and trying to muster up some joy.

Sad. It was a great drunk, but it was an alone drunk. And I was depressed again and hungover in the morning. Ugh!

So, ok. One might understand how a lonely twenty something making her way in the world might feel a little down at the holidays.

But that doesn't explain yesterday.

I then thought about all the bad holidays over the years. The Christmas seasons that weren't so happy.

Like the December my dad's lung disease took a turn for the worst, and Mom and I spent Christmas day in the hospital, having to make some really difficult choices.

But The Lazarus Dad recovered that year. Really, it was something of a Christmas miracle.

So, while yes, December often makes me think of that difficult time, I don't think that is the root of the blues I'm feeling today.

All is well in my little world. I have a wonderful husband who is the best holiday gift I could ever ask for. I have great friends and family. A place to lay my head at night and food to eat. And a rasty feline who makes me laugh.

So what's the boggle, then?

Maybe now, at age forty, I feel a little blue because December isn't just the holiday season, but it ushers in the end of another year.

Another year ending where I wonder to myself where all the rest of the days have gone. I wonder what did I do to make the days count?

The end of December has become a time, I suppose, for assessing myself over the year. For grading my performance.

And sadly, every year, I seem to only be able to see where I was lacking. Missed opportunities. Places where if I'd tried a little harder I might have made something really great happen.

Oh, I know, there are a lot of things I did right this year. There are successes that I don't actually see when I let the dark cloud take over.

This post isn't a plea for reminders that I'm ok.

This post is more a letter to myself. A report card.

That reminds me all on my own that I'm ok.

Because I am.

But for some reason, every year about this time I have to take the tiger by the tail and ride the very dark ride for a while.

Here we go: whooooooa!

One thing that always cheers me is pictured below. It's an ornament made by my kindergarten teacher. I couldn't tell you her name, but I remember the day when she placed a personalized ornament into my grubby little hands.

There was my name! In glitter!

I still have it. It's looking a little tattered these days, but it holds a place of honor on the tree.

I look at this silky blue ornament with silver glitter and try to remember that kindergarten Karen who still believed that reindeer would bring Santa to my roof.

That somehow he'd slip down the very narrow chimney on our free standing fireplace (remember these babies from the 1970's?) and leave us lots of toys and goodies.

That the day would start with the smell of mom's homemade cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning.

That we could open the gifts in our stockings first, but had to wait a while on presents under the tree.

That Christmas day was full of surprise and wonder and laughter.

If I can remember that kindergarten Karen, I might just be able to pull myself up and out of these blues.

Christmas Redux

I think it's time to re-run what has to be THE most popular post ever in the three years on this blog.

Going back to December 2007.

It's all still true.

Top ten things I miss about Christmas in New Mexico

1) Annual shopping trip to Old Town. A mom and me tradition. Every year I'd get to pick out an ornament that was mine. I now have all those ornaments in a Thom McAnn shoebox that, yes, Sunday night I opened and hung them all on my tree. They are like a history of my life. I remember buying most of them and it gives me a good sense of continuity to have them on my tree.

2) Luminarias. I always made them at my house. My mom would drive me to an empty lot to dig up two buckets worth of dirt and I'd fold bags, place candles and light them. It was my job and I loved every second of it, every folded bag, every candle that caught the bag on fire. I miss them.

3) The Bugg House, which, sadly, is no more. My sister lived over on Prospect and we'd go for a Christmas Eve walk in the evening to take a look at the outstanding display of holiday spirit. When I would go to Winrock Mall to shop, I'd always swing by the Bugg house to take a look. I miss it.

4) Neighbors bringing a plate of fresh made tamales as your Christmas gift. When you get three generations of Hispanic women in a kitchen with some masa and some shredded pork, magic happens. Yum! I also miss that people would come to work with tamales in a cooler and sell them to coworkers. I was always good for a half dozen or more.

5) A ristra makes a good Christmas gift. I've given. I've received. I love 'em. They'd become a moldy mess here…and that makes me sad.

6) Biscochitos. My love for these is well documented.

7) Sixty-five degrees and warm on Christmas Day. I think one year there was actually snow on the ground for the 25th. But it was melted by the end of the day. Oh Fair New Mexico, how I love your weather.

8) Christmas Eve midnight Mass in Spanish with the overpowering scent of frankincense filling up the overly warm church. Pure torture for a small child, but oh how I'd belt out the carols… And when we came home we could pick one present and open it. Gah! The torture of picking just one!

9) New Mexico piñon, gappy, scrawny Christmas trees that cost $15 at the Flea Market and were cut from the top of a larger tree just that morning. Look, to my mind, it ain't a tree unless you are using low hanging ornaments to fill the obvious gaps. These fluffy overly full trees just ain't my bag. If you ain't turning the 'bad spot' to the wall, you paid too much for your tree.

10) Green chile stew for Christmas Eve dinner and posole for New Year's. My mouth waters. It's weep worthy. I can taste the nice soft potatoes in the stew, the chicken broth flavored just right…ouch! And posole to bring you luck with red chile and hunks of pork. Yeah……

Which is not to say I don't have happy holidays where I live now...but sometimes I feel melancholy. And that's what the holidays are for, right?

Image via.