An Oldie but a Goodie

This post first appeared on the blog in December 11, 2007. It's one of my all time favorite posts. Fixed a few broken links, made some minor edits and away we go! Everything is still very true. Happy Holidays!

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 was the one to make 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 folded bag and every candle and every small emergency when the bag caught on fire in the wind. I miss real luminarias.

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 wwent to Winrock Mall to shop, I'd always swing by the Bugg house to take a look. No one does lights like the Buggs did.

4) Neighbors bringing over a plate of fresh made tamales as a Christmas gift. When there are three generations of Hispanic women in a kitchen with some masa and some shredded pork, magic happens. Yum! I also miss that people would bring tamales to work in a cooler and sell them to coworkers. I was always good for a 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. Growin up, 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 aren'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……

*sigh* Now I'm homesick.

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.

You Want Weird? We Got Weird.

When I need a quick break from the piles of spreadsheets I'm working on, I often take a few moments to do the daily ABQJournal Word Sleuth.

Today's topic for the puzzle is "Food Cities", as in, towns with a name that is also a food.

Friends and readers, you'll be glad to know that our fair New Mexico has not one but two entries on the list:

Pie Town (in West central NM) and Chili (north of Espanola).

Odd names, to be sure. But let me tell you this, Pie Town is only scratching the surface of odd names for towns in the great State of NM.

Since we're near Pie Town, let's also visit Quemado. The word quemado means burned. There's a happy connotation!

What about Raton? Rat Town. Yay! Let's live there!

Ojo Caliente? Yes, folks, come live in hot eye!

Fruitvale. Mmmm, fruity!

Cotton City. Mmmm, cottony!

Catch a breeze in Windmill, near Cotton City. (they don't have a lot going on down in the bootheel, do they?)

How about Loving? I mean, I've spent time in Loving (down in the southeast of the state). It's just a normal town. You'd think folks would be doin' it in the streets or something, but no.

Then there's the easy pickings like Elephant Butte. Yes, yes, I know it's butte, like a hill, but is there ANYONE traveling I-25 who doesn't think the sign says elephant butt? No, I don't think so. It's giggle inducing.

And while we're at Elephant Butt (left the e off on purpose) let's talk about the neighboring town of Truth or Consequences?

More on the paths less traveled, let's go get the tingles in Tingle, NM, up in the northwest of the state (south of Gallup, and yes, even Gallup is a funny place name).

Or get fried in Crisp, NM (in the Lincoln National Forest).

And I won't start down the list of all the Navajo names like Ya-Ta-Hey and Chilili.

Folks, this isn't even nearly an all inclusive list. I'm just getting started!

Gotta love our state, we can make it quirky in three languages, and that makes us a part of every kooky trivia list, crossword puzzle and word search looking for a something little different.

In my best Hee Haw style: Saaaaalute!

I Will Find My Way

The Velcro on my Rand McNally road atlas had been rendered useless. Tan carpet fuzz from the back of the Jeep embedded itself irrevocably into the hook side of the mechanism.

The map was considered a "just in case" for getting lost, which happens often. The atlas was purchased well before there was something called a Google to provide maps on something called the internet.

That road atlas was aspirational. I bought it hoping that maybe I could travel a lot of those blue lined roads over the course of my life.

But suddenly the road atlas had meaning. It was more than a "just in case," it was an essential tool.

The page for New Mexico was well worn, but the page for California was starting to show the dirt and grease of eager fingers tracing a path over and over again. A reduced scale journey west to my new home.

The compass rose became my bouquet, a present from the universe, welcoming me to my new life.

At a holiday cocktail party, the map became obsolete. A friend and professional truck driver wrote directions on the back of an envelope. "This is the faster way to go, you'll shave several miles off the trip," he told me.

He'd personally traveled those roads. Roads that were visible to me only as lines on a page in my mind.

He was the first of many milestones on my journey.

The tattered envelope with scrawled black pen, "I-40 west to Barstow" wasn't anywhere near as magical as the pages produced by Rand McNally, but it was more useful, more functional. I clung to that envelope because my life really did depend upon it.

And then, finally, it was time.

May 1997, just a few days before Memorial Day, I climbed up behind the wheel of my Jeep while my best friend strapped into the passenger seat and took possession of both the envelope and the Rand McNally.

I-40 was a road I knew. Straight. West. No worries. Grants passed by quickly. Then before we knew it, there was Gallup.

Then the Arizona border.

My tires made a noise as they passed over, and I cried. I didn't just cross this border casually. It meant something. It was a new frontier.

The entire State of Arizona lay ahead. Since Arizona was familiar, it eased me in. We settled into the miles while listening to Tom Jones and George Strait. We listened to everything I had in that Jeep and then tried to find decent radio stations.

Six hours. That's how long it takes to traverse the State of Arizona.

Then my tires made another small sound and another border was crossed.

I was in California. I didn't cry this time. Simply renewed my resolve and kept driving.

That was thirteen years ago, but it could be yesterday for how fresh it remains in my mind.

May I never lose my resolve. May I never lose my desire. May I never lose my ability to read a good old fashioned road map.

All it takes is a map, a little guidance from someone who bothers to care, and a step in the right direction and you can find your way.

If only someone could draw a map to help me navigate the more difficult emotional roads in my life. Those are uncharted.

I am both mapmaker and traveler and the journey never ends.

But the compass rose is still just as beautiful.

Photograph by Karin Lindstrom and used royalty free from stock.xchng

This week's Theme Thursday is map.

Revised Sentiments

Since I'm still in that obnoxious happy Holiday mood, I've been listening to my own mix tape of fave Christmas tunes in my car to and from work.

I don't play them much at home. Not sure The Good Man would go for piping all my insane Xmas cheer into the house.

Aaaaanyhow, this morning I was listening to the George Strait song, "Christmastime in Texas" and the line "it might look just like a summer day" which, of course, made me think of Christmas in New Mexico. I think there was snow on Christmas just once when I was growing up, and that was all melted off by noon.

Christmas in New Mexico was more like sixty-five degrees and shorts and a tshirt to play with my new toys outside.

I've always loved all the standard Christmas tunes, but hey, to a New Mexico kid, they don't really apply.

So I decided to tinker with some of the classics to give them more of a New Mexico vibe.

Here just a few, feel free to add your own!

______

"Up on a Housetop"

Up on a rooftop, stick stick stick, tar paper roof laid on too thick

"Walking in a Winter Wonderland"

Walking in a surprisingly summerlike wonderland

"Silent Night"

Silent night, holy HELL my neighbor's yard decorations are bright

"White Christmas"

I'm dreaming of a red or green Christmas. Green please, with a fried egg on top. Pass the tamales. (whoops, lost the natural rhythm of the song there....thoughts of Christmas tamales will do that to me)

"Let it Snow"

Oh the weather outside is windy, and the weeds are very tumbly, and since we've no place to go, let it blow, let it blow, let it blow

"The Christmas Song"

Calf's nuts roasting on an open fire, branding iron nipping at your flanks
(yeah, ok, so winter isn't exactly branding season, but go with me here!)

"Jingle Bells"

Paper bags, paper bags, burning in my yard

"Frosty the Snowman"

Nobby the mud tires, on a very four wheel truck,
with a four on the floor and a headache rack,
and two headlights made out of halogen

__________

Ah, mud tires and a headache rack. Now that's what Christmas means to me.

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'

The Lonely Road

I'll send the angels to watch over you tonight
And you send them right back to me
A lonely road is a bodyguard
If we really want it to be

-- From "Sleeping in Paris" by Rosanne Cash

Yesterday I climbed into the Jeep and went on a long overdue road trip, just me and my steel beast, 130 highway miles and lots and lots of thinking.

The reason for the trip was nothing earth shattering, just had to head up to the north side of Sacramento to attend some work related meetings.

Clocking in at just under three hours, it was a ghastly drive, not only because it lacks any sort of interesting things to see, but the stop and go traffic kept me on my toes most of the way.

I left plenty early to avoid commute traffic but had no luck. California's Highway 80 is a busy road no matter what time of day.

As I drove, dodging other cars, stepping quickly on my brakes for yet another slowdown, stopping to pay the toll on the Carquinez Bridge, and cursing under my breath, I yearned for a different sort of road trip.

Growing up in New Mexico, the ability to hop in the car for the sole purpose of a long thoughtful drive was something I took advantage of every chance I got.

While living in Albuquerque, sometimes I'd gas up the car and drive to Soccoro, only to turn around and drive home.

I can't lie to ya, Albuquerque to Soccoro isn't a visually interesting drive either, but once out of the city limits, it's a pretty easy road with hardly any traffic. I'd set the cruise control on 75, point 'er south in a straight line and let my mind work out the problems of the day.

Straight roads and very little traffic produce a very fine form of therapy.

My all time favorite drive and think road, however, is Highway 28 in southern New Mexico. The stretch of road from Las Cruces to La Union and back includes canopy of pecan trees arcing over the road, arboreal arms to embrace and hold me safe in case I need to cry.

I got a lot of thinking taken care of on Highway 28.

Not so much on California's highway 80. The thinking was more like, "uh, stopping again? Why? Oh please don't slam into me!"

But still, it was a road trip and there is something beautiful about me, my decade old Jeep, shuffle on the iTunes and a problem to work out in my mind.

Oh, by the way, something else happened while out there on the road.

First, this occurred:

Shocking, isn't it?

Then, from out of nowhere, this happened:

(No, mom, I wasn't driving almost 80 while taking a photograph of my odometer. Why do you ask?)

It's the first car I've ever owned from fresh off the lot to one hundred thousand miles. Sort of proud of my little Jeep.

And just because I'm feeling gratuitous, here's a quad cam shot of the Bay Bridge (because the Golden Gate gets all the love).

(Click for full size)

Ok, I'm wandering off the point here. Let's tie this whole thing together, and get back to where we began.

I discovered today that any road, even a commute time busy three lane highway in Northern California can be a lonely road.

And a lonely road is a bodyguard if we really want it to be.
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All photographs by Karen Fayeth, and taken with my iPhone 4. Bay Bridge shot from the QuadCamera app.

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.

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.

*Gulp*

Not gonna explain why.

Just going to say this photograph made me well up.

Miss you, my Fair New Mexico

(Photo by Dean Hanson of the Albuquerque Journal)

Photo source: Albuquerque Journal

It's been a while

It's been a while since I had a fabulous news story about another Notable New Mexican.

From The Smoking Gun:

"The New Mexico man who earlier this year mistakenly defecated in a stranger’s car--believing it was his girlfriend’s vehicle--has cut a plea deal sparing him jail time."

This after he threw a cinder block through the glass door where she works.

Yeah.

The article goes on to state that this charming gent has since enlisted in the Army.

Customer Service Has Not Died

Despite all appearances to the contrary, customer service has not died.

Nope, there is still a small patch of wonderful service to be found in Southern New Mexico.

You'll recall a week ago, I wrote of my joy and my subsequent despair regarding buying actual New Mexico grown chiles here in Northern California.

In that blog post last week, I mentioned that I wrote a rather terse letter to the New Mexico Department of Agriculture, complete with photographs, about my sorrow.

In fact, I'll let you in on the text of my actual letter, sent to Mr. David Lucero at the NMDA:

_____

Dear Mr. Lucero - I found your email address from the www.nmda.nmsu.edu
webpage, though I'm unsure if you are the right person to contact.

I am a native New Mexican now living in Northern California and while on
a Southwest Airlines flight, I was happy to see an ad in their inflight
magazine for Hatch Green Chile coming to a long list of supermarkets in
my area.

My husband and I plan to buy a lot as we enjoy our green chile
throughout the year by finding kind friends back home to bring us the
good stuff.

While at Whole Foods recently in (town name redacted), California, I saw a sign for "Hatch peppers" and I was very happy (Whole Foods was on the list of stores that would carry the product).

As I picked a few from the pile, I looked closer at the sign and I
noticed it said "grown in California." (see photo attached)

Now, I'm confused. Is this the "real thing" as advertised by the NMDA
and just mislabeled? Or has someone appropriated the Hatch name for
not-Hatch peppers?

I chose not to buy any that day as I'm unsure.

Hence why I'm coming to you for advice and guidance.

Are Hatch chiles going to be available in the Northern California Bay
Area? Also, is someone perpetrating a terrible fraud by selling
California grown peppers under the branded Hatch name?

On behalf of my family, we thank you and appreciate any guidance you
would provide.


All my best,

Karen Fayeth

_____

Honestly...I expected no reply.

Imagine my surprise when not only did I receive a VERY nice email from Mr. Lucero thanking me for providing this information, he also told me that he's taken up the issue with his national Whole Foods buyer (who was cc'd on the email) and also with his shipper, Seco Spice (also cc'd on the email).

Then, and here's where my mind gets blown, Mr. Lucero indicated that a Mr. Ogaz from Seco Spice would be happy to send me along a box of roasted and peeled chile if I'd be willing to pay shipping.

Holy jumping jehoshaphat!

So I'm currently getting shipping costs from the very kind Mr. Ogaz.

That's amazing.

I want to publicly thank both Mr. Lucero and Mr. Ogaz for helping a poor New Mexico expat find her way home via the ol' dinner plate.

By the by, I checked with my friends down in the greater Las Cruces and Anthony metropolitan areas and they know the Ogaz family and Seco Spice and can vouch that they are top notch people and growers.

So here's a HUGE public thank you and a plug for the good people over at Seco Spice and the NMDA.

: sniffle : It makes me very proud to be a New Mexican.

Roast, My Pretties! Roast!

Can't think of a better smell.

Oh...wow...speaking of Fall....great photo of the burning of Zozobra from the ABQJournal. (you are right, NewMexiKen, my gloom might have been in the Zozobra. I'm feeling better just looking at that photo.)

The Delicious Eagle Has Landed

So there I am, sitting on a Southwest Airlines flight, headed for El Paso.

As we haven't yet cleared 10,000 feet, I can't use my Kindle, so I'm idly flipping through the pages of the Spirit in flight magazine.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but an ad for the beautimous Hatch green chile.

The copy claims that this precious commodity will be for sale in many grocery chains near me!

Look!

I unceremoniously tore the ad out of the mag. I had to clutch it to my heart!

I showed the ad to my friends there in the southern part of New Mexico, and they told me that due to NAFTA, the local farmers are getting beat out on selling their beautiful crops.

The New Mexico Department of Agriculture is putting on a marketing drive to try to stir up some sales.

The tagline? "Get Your Fix."

Why yes, I think I will. Thankyouverymuch.

So I was in my local Whole Foods store, perusing the fresh produce, when my peripheral vision locked on the word, "Hatch."

There, in my very store, shiny green peppers stacked high.

I RAN over to the display.

But my brain said, "hoooooold on a minute."

I looked a little closer at the sign.

Can you read the sign in this image?

It says, "Hatch peppers" and just above that it says, "Grown in California."

What the @#*$%@&*^%$!!!!

No.

Just no.

This is not right.

This is NOT correct.

This is definitely not ok.

So I laid the waxy green vegetable back on the pile and walked away.

This was not the treasure I sought.

Over this Labor Day weekend, I wrote a terse email to the NMDA asking them if the word "Hatch" can be applied to California grown chiles, or if this sign is in error.

I await their reply.

Yesterday, during my lunch hour, I ran to the Nob Hill Foods (also known as Raley's) near where I work to pick up a couple things. I never shop at Nob Hill, but it was the closest grocer near work.

Once again, my "Hatch" radar picked up something at the periphery.

I fear I couldn't get excited.

I slowly walked toward the word "Hatch" and sniffed the air near the display.

And I looked closely at the sign. They spelled "chile" wrong.

But still...could it be? Have I found the good stuff? Did I just accidentally stumble upon The Precious?

Yes. Yes I did.

I filled a produce bag to bursting and made them mine. Those beautiful chiles sat in the backseat of my car all afternoon, and they made the inside of my car smell heavenly.

This year, The Good Man finally gets to know what the smell of roasting green chile (and the smell of Autumn) is truly about, because it will permeate the corners our home.

Aw. Yeah.

Where I come from....

....that's a damn fine donation!

"ALBUQUERQUE - Albuquerque police briefly evacuated a Goodwill store after someone left a pistol, ammunition, a grenade and some marijuana in a collection box.

Police spokeswoman Nadine Hamby says the items turned up in the box Thursday.

She says the Albuquerque police bomb squad determined the grenade was a World War II-style inert - or inactive - grenade.

Hamby says the bomb squad took it away to be destroyed.

The police report did not list what type of guns were in the box or the quantity of marijuana."

Source: Las Cruces Sun News

Expanding My Mind

When I was in graduate school at NMSU, I was required to take an International Management class.

This was the early 90's in Las Cruces. "International Management" meant discussing NAFTA and the Maquiladoras on the border.

Don’t get me wrong, that was very valuable learning, especially when NAFTA was in its infancy and no one was certain the impact it would create.

In the final analysis, I find that no matter how wonderful the professor or how much I enjoyed the class, the "international" portion of my education class was seriously lacking.

We might have discussed Japan but only very briefly, and mainly it was topic of fear as Japan was kicking our butt in manufacturing (they still are).

But that was it. Conversations about EMEA (and the Euro), the technology boom in India and vast low cost production from China were all still a long way off.

So they taught what they knew at the time and the rest I've had to figure out for myself.

Over the past two days, I've had telephone meetings with my employees located in Sydney, Sao Paulo and London.

These are three very different countries and cultures. How I speak with and manage my team varies widely. The concerns, the attention to detail, the speed of work is all over the board. I have to figure it out for each person individually so I can be the best and most effective manager possible.

Today after chatting with London, then Sao Paulo, I needed to speak with a supplier representative. I thought he was in the US until I looked at his business card. Nope, Hong Kong.

"What the hell time is it in Hong Kong?!" I wailed aloud as I'd already calculated too many time zones for the day.

For the record, 10:15am is 1:15 tomorrow morning in Hong Kong. So glad I didn't just ring up his cell phone.

But that one moment of frustration aside, I honestly love it. Every minute of these calls and building the relationships with my team is a learning experience. I've worked for companies that touted themselves to be a global company. My current employer truly is.

The other day I walked to the cafeteria and as people walked past me, I heard Italian, Spanish, what I believe was Cantonese (my ear for the various Asian languages is not strong) and many, many central Asia languages spoken amongst my coworkers.

We are truly a multicultural company filled with profoundly intelligent people. I know there are many people who fear the vast influx of people from other countries of the world to the US.

Me, I love it. I feel more a part of the world than I ever did before (heck, my own brother lives in Kuala Lumpur!).

Each day my mind expands and I grow and I love every minute of that.

Last week, when I was in New Mexico, a buddy of mine from back in the day asked me what my job was these days.

I told him about the job and he'd heard of my employer (it's a biggie).

He shook his head, spit out some Copenhagen, looked me square in the eye and said, "That's pretty good for a little girl from New Mexico."

Yeah. Not too bad.

(My phone lines are, indeed, humming)

Experiments at Night

A couple weeks back, I posted some of my first experiments with night photography, including my favorite shot of the Golden Gate Bridge.

This past week, while visiting New Mexico, I decided to try the next step in my night photography lessons, and that is capturing star trails.

Figuring this out required a little astrology, a little photography understanding and a LOT of knowledge about my camera.

Fortunately I had the incredibly well written book Creative Night: Digital Photography Tips & Techniques by Harold Davis (a Bay Area guy), to guide my way.

Due to the very long exposure times on night photos, a tripod is a must. Since I didn't feel like carrying my tripod on a plane, I borrowed one from my best friend's husband.

He uses the tripod to mount his field glasses when he goes hunting, so the tripod head had been...uh...modified. I think "modified" is the best way to describe the carnage that had occurred to the tripod head.

In order for me to use the device, he had to pound out the ten-penny nail wedged in there to help stabilize his field glasses. He also had to find the right sized wrench so I could tighten the bolt that holds the camera in place.

And even then, the camera would suddenly droop but thankfully didn’t drop.

Despite my less than super high tech borrowed tripod, I was able to make it work and was grateful for the borrowed gear.

I took a few photos that night and learned a whole lot about the process. Like, did you know a full moon is so bright it will wash out an exposure? I didn't...until a few nights ago.

The most exciting of the photos from that night is below. It's not well composed at ALL because it has nothing in the foreground to provide a sense of perspective.

What this photo DOES prove is that I have figured out how to take photographs of star trails. This was an eight-minute exposure. A longer exposure will net longer star trails.

I'm incredibly excited about this new knowledge!

Onward to the stars!

(click the photo here then click the photo again in Flickr to see larger sizes, if interested)

Time Marches On

I remember the day I met him.

The year was 1989.

One of my friends had her eye on a boy who was part of a new Agriculture-based fraternity trying to get established at New Mexico State University.

Since he was in charge of getting new members to pledge, my friend had volunteered herself...and me, to work their rush party. It was held on a Sunday afternoon in one of the meeting rooms at the Pan Am Center.

We were there to pour fruit punch into paper cups and socialize with the prospective pledges.

My friend demanded I come with her, and so I did. I poured punch, I spoke to a few of the guys I already knew from the Ag College, and I felt uncomfortable.

Then I had this moment where I could feel someone looking at me, so I turned to look back. Over in the corner, behind a couple other fellows, was this boy.

He was the sort of quintessential cowboy you might find on the front of a western novel.

His eyes met mine for a moment, then flicked away.

Those eyes, a color somewhere between blue and black and gray. The color of a late afternoon storm on a hot August day in New Mexico.

He wore his hat low, and he looked at me again from under the brim, eyes in shadow.

My heart stopped, then skipped eight or ten beats.

I looked away and had to will myself not to stare. He still looked at me.

One of those "moments" passed between us.

A little while later, my friend dragged me around the room. I was her wingman as she made chirrupy conversation with all who would listen. Without warning, I found myself face to face with those smoky eyes.

"Karen, this is Michael**," my friend said, by way of introduction.

"Hi!" I said, fixing him with my most winning smile.

He nodded and touched the brim of his black hat with his hand.

Oh swoon.

"How are you?" I asked, trying to get something going.

"All right," he replied in a way that I think Louis L'Amour might describe as "laconic."

That was the extent of our first meeting. My pal quickly dragged me off. Michael was not the boy she had in her cross hairs, so we went across the room to chase that one down.

As it turned out, Michael was friends with a lot of people I knew, so over the years, I'd come to know him a bit more.

He always wore extraordinarily pressed shirts and jeans.

He wore a straw hat in summer, a black Stetson the rest of the year.

He always wore a carefully groomed handlebar mustache (or as they called it in the 70's, a "Fu Manchu").

He'd grown up on the family farm...pecans, cotton, green chiles.

He was studying biology with plans to become a veterinarian.

He always spoke in that slow quiet manner, and rarely had much to say.

Because of this, it became wickedly easy to tease him. He'd always have a comeback, something smart and funny, spoken in that slow, quiet manner.

I had a wild, unabashed crush on Michael.

Of course, the feeling wasn't mutual. We did manage to become decent friends.

This past Thursday afternoon, after laying my friend to rest, I sat outside at a folding table in La Union, New Mexico. We were gathered there to have a reception in memory of our friend.

I sat with my best friend and we visited with a buddy of ours from way back.

A shadow passed over the ray of sun to my side, and a chair across the table from me was pulled out.

Michael himself sat down.

He looked at me with that same intensity, and said in that slow quiet way, "Now that looks like trouble."

"Hey Michael," I said and he smiled.

Those intense eyes looked at me from behind the lenses of his corrective glasses. When he smiled, crow's feet crinkled at the corners. The dark hair of his handlebar mustache showed gray.

I sat back and looked at him. He looked at me.

I struggled for something to say, trying to get something going.

Something that might sum up the past fifteen years or so it's been since we were last in the same place at the same time.

Something meaningful.

"Goddamn you have a lot of gray hair. What the hell happened?" I said.

"I had that put in," he replied, smoothing back the hair at his temples. "It makes me look distinguished."

He had that familiar wry look in his eye and I laughed.

My heart skipped a couple beats then found its footing.

"I'm glad I'm not as old as you," I said. Then I inquired about his wife and kids.

I don't suppose I have a crush on Michael anymore, but behind all the attributes that have taxed my forty-something year old friends (and me), he hasn't changed a bit.

**Names have been changed to protect the innocent

Ow! *Slap*

And here we are at Friday, the end of another week.

An unusual week on my part, but happy to see Friday nonetheless.

Much to process from my day yesterday seeing old friends, burying a dear friend and reminiscing.

But for today, I'm here to talk about a feature of our Fair New Mexico that I really, really don't miss.

Mosquitos.

Now, where I live, I'm sure such creatures exist. It's just that I've not seen 'em.

I'm ok with not seeing them. Pinche insects.

I arrived Wednesday evening at my friend's home out in the boonies north of Las Cruces, and noticed water standing in all the pecan groves and cotton fields.

"I see everyone is irrigating," I mention.

Nope, they tell me. Rain. Three inches arrived the day before I did.

Which leaves standing water.

Perfect habitat for *slap* mosquitos.

I sat for maybe eight minutes outside at a table with a citronella candle on it. My arms. Fine. My ankles? Ten bites on the left, eight on the right.

Mosquitos in the house, too!

As I slept, I got zapped on the earlobe. The earlobe! The one place I forgot to apply repellent.

Gah!

And I won't mention a spot rather close to an unmentionable place where I was also ruthlessly attacked. Twice!

Hate 'em. Always hated them. Sure, I grew up with bug bites up and down my legs, and it was a fact of life. But living without them sure has been pretty durn nice.

I don't miss them. At all.

I'm not usually a fan of chemicals in the air, but even I cheered when the neighbors called the city to have the spraying truck come out. It helped, but didn't eliminate all the little buggars.

*scratch* This Benedryl lotion I'm using isn't helping one bit.

In other, happier, news I've been experimenting with night photography because the light noise at my friend's place is minimal. You can see the ding dang milky way out here!

If I get anything decent, I'll gladly share the results here.

As for now, onward to the weekend.

There Is This Man I Know...

It would be wrong to call him a cowboy. That implies something he's not.

He is, in fact, a farmer. Chile, corn, cotton, alfalfa. He fretted the drought and smiled at rainy skies.

Except that time it rained so hard it washed away the seeds he'd just planted. That night, he fretted while the rain fell.

That's unusual for a farmer.

He has a smile that could light up a room, the sky, the world.

He has the mind of a trickster, and his wry sense of humor is what drew me in.

Back then, he was a tall, slim drink of water.

His chest bore a long scar, a remnant from open heart surgery in childhood. It fixed a congenital problem. For a while, anyway.

That surgery colored his whole world. He was told he might not live past the age of twenty.

But he did. He lived. Oh, he was alive.

He took me out to dinner. We each ordered steaks at the truckstop diner in Vado, New Mexico.

It was far more romantic than it sounds.

He took me fishing and let me use his brand new rod and reel. I managed to irretrievably knot up the fishing line. He didn't even get mad.

Because he is a gentleman.

He took me for long rides down bumpy dirt roads. I sat next to him in the cab of his pickup, holding on tight, grinning.

He has a confidence that is older than his years.

He and I had some fun then parted ways amiably. I still call him my friend. More than a friend. A dear friend. "One of us" from a loosely knit group of kids who made a family while running around Las Cruces, growing up and getting educated.

I haven't seen him in years, but over the years I'd ask after him and sometimes he'd ask after me, too.

He's got an amazing wife and three sons and the weight of responsibility for his family's farm. A responsibility he stood up to each and every day.

Last week, he had surgery. That ol' heart problem was giving him trouble again.

The surgery went well, but he got an infection at the hospital that he couldn't quite fight off.

Sunday morning, my friend, my family, someone who showed me how to live passed away.

He was just 40.

I can't stop being angry. It's not fair. No one ever said life was going to be fair, but I don’t care. It's not fair.

I'm not good at grief. I've lost a father. I lost my best friend from high school. I lost a grandmother who was very integral to my life.

You'd think all the practice would make me better at this.

I'm not good at this.

Sometimes it's just easier to be angry.

It's an acceptable stage of grief.

Can't I Just Have Something Nice!?!

That title must be said in an Edith Bunker sort of voice.

Come with me to the Wayback Machine...

I remember back in the day, grade school era in Albuquerque, when I used to spend time over at my best friend Kathy's house. It was small, white with pink trim, located over by Montgomery park, across from the public swimming pool.

That little house had this front room, right as you came in the door, that featured these really nice blue velour couches. Very cushiony.

However, those pretty couches were covered with thick plastic wrap. Her mother explained that was "to protect" the couches.

In Albuquerque on a hot summer day, those dang couches were miserable.

There were also plastic runners on the floor. This was "to protect" the carpet.

I once stepped outside the line, as is my way, and got my ear chewed off by Kathy's mom.

That tiny Hispanic lady also drove a metallic blue Oldsmobile. Kathy and I used to take gymnastics lessons at the YMCA. Kathy's mom would take that Olds to the car wash every single week during the hour we had our lessons.

She wouldn't pay to have it dried, just washed, so she'd roll up with water droplets hanging off the sides. (You can get away with that in the 7% humidity of New Mexico.)

Why am I telling you this?

I got to thinking about Kathy's mom today as I was looking at my brand spanking new iPhone 4.

It's a beauty of a new phone. A bit heaver than the last model. The screen is amazingly clear. The black and chrome styling. Haaawt!

So here I am with this beautiful phone that isn't cheap. It's something really, really nice. And what did I do? I put an ugly plastic case around this marvel of industrial engineering.

You know, "to protect" it.

I tried to find the coolest case I could, but really, there's not much out there that enhances the beauty and design of the iPhone.

I'm just "keeping it for nice."

I know you know what I mean.