gypsyjudge.com

            My last post was December 30, 2017.  A time of innocence.  Descriptions of Christmas, photos of my granddaughter doing cartwheels on the beach, the beauty of Nature.  I left Florida and headed back to the high desert.  But the world as we knew it blew up in February, and I flew back to spend 2018, helping as possible, being present.  Now, I’m beginning to write again.

            On February 12, 2018, Gregory Dallas Taylor shot my daughter-in-law, Frances T. Cooley, six times in the upper abdomen. In spite of all of the medical expertise and interventions, her wounds were fatal, and she died on February 21, 2018, leaving her husband/my son and their two children, then 17 and 11 years old. Dallas gave a video confession, and there was significant other evidence of his guilt.

            My father, Woodrow Melvin, was a Judge; I am a retired Judge. But for this murder case, I was not the judge. I was a family member, one who knew perhaps too much about murders, legal nuances, strategies, and autopsy photos. And I had to trust the system to which my dad had dedicated his entire life, the system in which I exclusively worked – I had to trust the system to provide justice for my son and two grandchildren. It was a very strong case and yet you just can’t KNOW what a jury will do.

            The State Attorney’s Office did an outstanding job; law enforcement followed through on essential details. The Bailiff was kind to me. Although there were few familiar faces 18 years after my retirement, it felt like I was back with my people and that I had brought this impossible problem home for resolution. I took comfort in the familiarity of the “dance”.

            On Friday, December 14, a jury in Escambia County found Dallas guilty of First Degree Premeditated Murder and Judge Bergosh sentenced him to life in prison without parole. My 18 year old grandson watched justice play out over these months, and he can rest better, knowing that Dallas will never draw a breath outside of prison. In the process he experienced a better way to resolve the most serious of conflicts.

            I’m very grateful for all the work that went into bringing closure for my family and for the courage of the jury to make a serious call.

            As my dad often said, “The wheels of justice move slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine.”

17. My heart changed my mind.

Sometimes, my life does not move in a linear fashion.  Sometimes, my blog posts jump back and forth across time lines.  Sometimes, I make plans but my heart changes my mind.

My last post was of losing my good friend and four-legged companion, Misty.  This post speaks of things before and after that.

After finishing the Habitat build in Las Cruces, NM, on November 12, 2017, Misty and I took the motorhome north to Elephant Butte State Park, near Truth or Consequences, NM.  Within the NM State Park system, you can stay in a park for two weeks, but then you have to leave; you can go to another state park, and come back to that particular park a week later.  This generates an interesting cross current of RV’ers moving around on two week schedules and creates a subculture of gypsy friends.

At Elephant Butte I became friends with Mary, a free-wheeling single female who pulls a large toy hauler with her diesel truck.  She rides a Harley and rides it well.  Mary and I rode our bikes over to Hatch, NM – home of the famous Hatch chilies.  I smiled at the spicy smell of red peppers in the fields.  I’m familiar with what you can smell on a motorcycle in Northwest Florida and South Alabama – peanut dust at harvest time, red clay recently plowed, pines after a heavy rain, and salty Gulf air. And then there are universal smells – meat on an unseen BBQ grill, a wood fire, freshly mowed grass, burned rubber, dead skunk.  In Hatch, I added fields of red chili peppers to my two-wheel olfactory encyclopedia.

After two weeks at Elephant Butte State Park, I loaded the motorcycle into the bed of my truck, hooked the truck to the rear of the motorhome, and Misty and I drove over to City of Rocks, our favorite NM State Park – the place I found and lost Misty.  See my blog post 16. Mysteries of Misty for that story. And at City of Rocks, I crossed paths with Mary and two other RV’ers I’d met at Elephant Butte.

People wonder if I’m lonely, traveling alone.  The reality is – there is an amazing community of RV’ers out there – friendly, helpful, and adventuresome. At the Habitat build in Las Cruces, I became friends with Dyana, another fulltime solo female RV’er.   On Monday after I lost Misty on Friday, I met Dyana in Deming, NM, (about 30 miles south of City of Rocks), and we had lunch at the Adobe Deli, an eclectic place in the middle of nowhere that was once an old school and now slightly resembles a weird museum with strange antiques and stuffed/dead animals perched in every corner, ledge, and open space, watching with glassy eyes as we ate startlingly good food.  From Adobe Deli, we took a short ride south to cross the Mexican border into Palomas to shop at the Pink Store (they serve you free margaritas while you browse through a little bit of most anything Mexican that’s colorful, beautiful, and unique.) With Dyana’s encouragement and prodding laughter, I came back with a bouquet of brightly colored paper flowers for the too clean motorhome, because the flowers make me smile – and a black ceramic Day of the Dead tile of a happy dead dog, because it makes me laugh out loud.  I’m reminded that Misty is a happy dead dog – after eating serial last meals, stalking the rabbits, hearing the coyotes sing, and smelling every bone in Pet Smart.  I didn’t put my needs first and wait too long to deal responsibly with her new reality.  Misty was not yet in pain.  And her memories are outlasting my pain. 

After two weeks at City of Rocks, I drove through the desert alone, with colorful flowers and a black ceramic tile of a happy dead dog. When I get Misty’s ashes, I’ll bring them back to City of Rocks.  But for now, I was heading west to an RV park in Benson, AZ (near I-10 and the New Mexico/Arizona border).

Over the summer I’d discussed my travel plans with my granddaughter; I explained I couldn’t make two trips from Arizona to Florida and asked if she wanted me to be there for her September birthday or Christmas.  She emphatically chose September.   So, I was in Florida for her birthday and then drove the motorhome back West in October. I had rough plans to return to Florida in the Spring; I’d spend Christmas with friends in Benson, AZ.

But we’d made those plans in the summer and I left Florida in October.  This was December! To an eleven-year old, the world changes quickly.  I checked into the RV park in Benson, AZ, on December 5 and paid for a month.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

On December 8 I was comfortably seated in my motorhome in the desert, Face Timing with my granddaughter, when she said, matter of factly, “Did you realize that if you were here on December 18, you could hear my Christmas choral program?”  I laughed.  And by the time the sun came up in the desert, my heart had changed my mind.  My mind had no choice except to rationalize what was coming next.

I put the motorhome in storage in Benson and drove the truck back to Florida.  And I learned that 1,600 miles in three days is too far, too fast, especially in a small, light-weight pickup.  But I got back in time to see my granddaughter’s Christmas program on December 18.

On Christmas Eve, we went to Peg Leg Pete’s on Pensacola Beach for incredible seafood.  Everyone ordered something different and then shared.  After much great Mexican food in the desert, at the beach I shamelessly gorged myself on fresh seafood – raw oysters, oysters Rockefeller, steamed shrimp and crab legs, fried shrimp and fried oysters.  Then we waddled across to the Gulf and played on the sugar-white beach.

my granddaughter a few days ago

Me, a few years ago

And now?  I’ll head west soon.  The high desert is calling, and my mind is scrambling to justify the many miles between here and there.  The simple rationalization is – I left the motorhome in storage, and the rent is due January 11.   

16. MYSTERIES OF MISTY

In July of 2015 I parked my RV at City of Rocks State Park in western NM; in the adjoining lot was a van.  The woman was outside cooking on a hot plate (they lived in the van), and a beautiful black and tan German Shepherd lay quietly at her feet.   As I began to unhook my travel trailer and settle in, I spoke to the woman and of course complimented her on her Shepherd. Within five minutes, she offered to give Misty to me. I’m a startled believer in such chance encounters. I’ve had Shepherds most of my life; each one showed up uninvited. They graced me with years of companionship, and then in failing health required that I make the agonizing decision to put them down. I’d lost my last Shepherd two years earlier.

The lady in the van first explained that her husband was very ill, was going into hospice, and she couldn’t take care of him and Misty, and that he only had two weeks left. We agreed that Misty could stay with me for the next four days, and we’d see how it worked. I stressed they could change their minds, but that I had to leave in four days. They explained they’d had Misty since she was a puppy and that she would be 11 years old in December, 2015.  That was hard to believe, as fit and spry as she was.

Misty is regal

Misty quickly claimed the couch and my heart

magical rock formations and mysterious clouds

the view out the back window of my RV – City of Rocks

The wife spent a lot of time in my rig over the next few days (I lived in a 32 foot travel trailer with two slides; they lived in a black van.) The following morning she said, “I’m the world’s worst liar.  Greg is sick but he doesn’t want to go into hospice.  So he’s going to kill himself.”  After 10 years as a trial lawyer followed by 10 years as a judge I’ve developed a good poker face.  I said nothing but thought, “Easy, Laura.  You don’t know his situation or how you would handle it.”  But then she added “And I’m going with him.  I can’t bear living alone.” It was harder to keep a bland face with that comment.

And the conversations kept getting weirder.  I felt like I’d fallen into the Twilight Zone, in this remote desert spot. Over another cup of coffee, she told me it was important that Misty live with me because “I don’t want to take her with us because she has too much life left in her.”

During another talk, I asked what was wrong with Greg: “Oh, he hasn’t been to the doctor. “ — “What! Then why did you say you have only two weeks left??”  She replied, “You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to plan something like this.”

To put it mildly, I didn’t know how to deal with all of that, nor did I know what to believe. They were giving me the creeps, and I wanted to just run away, with Misty, in the middle of the night.  But I’d told them I’d leave on Friday, and I very much wanted this particular black and tan, now sleeping on my couch, to be safe. I knew from my days as a judge, that if I called law enforcement, the couple could readily discount any concern that they were a “threat to themselves or others”, and I would only succeed in “flushing” them – and they’d leave WITH Misty, to do whatever they chose. I called a retired Methodist minister; I talked with a friend who is a psychiatrist. I had long candid conversations with the wife. And Misty stayed with me, on a trial run, until Friday, my set departure date.

Finally Friday arrived; filled with dread and confusion I took Misty outside and told Greg, “Here.  Misty is yours.”  I had spent sleepless nights, bracing for whatever weird story would come next.  Yet the Husband replied, “No, Misty is yours.” The wife hugged my neck and said, “You’re an answer to our prayers,” The two of them left on a long walk; I hooked up the RV. Misty and I drove away.  I haven’t seen or heard from them since.

For two and a half years Misty and I lived in an RV, making trips from Florida to Arizona and parts in between. With Misty as a formidable companion always by my side, I felt secure.  “I can do anything.”

A year and a half after I began traveling with Misty, I had a medical issue at the age of 69 for which my cardiologist recommended a service dog. I wasn’t interested in buying a service dog; one German Shepherd in a 27.5 foot motorhome was enough.  Misty was the smartest Shepherd I’ve had and in good physical health. I contacted a service dog training school in Tucson, AZ. Though Misty was “too old” to go through the school (four years is their cut off age), they referred me to one of their trainers and we went to work, after hours. Misty took to service work in ways that startled both me and the trainer.  She had an unflappable demeanor, was very bright, and totally food motivated.  I swear she would have done a double back flip for a treat, if I could help her understand what I wanted.

In the first of many adaptions that will be required as I age, I also traded in my 32 travel trailer and big diesel truck for a small motorhome with no slides and a miniature truck to tow behind.  I call it my little old lady motorhome.

my little old lady motorhome at City of Rocks

Between her good looks and calm demeanor, Misty was the poster child of good will.  She was particularly fond of children, and gently let tiny strangers pet and poke.

Misty also had a way of knowing when a grown-up needed a special dog fix.  One day when we came out of Wal-Mart (she was on-duty, wearing her superwoman red cape that read “in training”), she stopped as we approached a man standing between the parked cars.  He spoke quietly, “I had a German Shepherd.” I responded, “Yeah, they’re great dogs,” and took a step.  Misty didn’t move.  I paused, a bit confused by Misty, for her whole focus was on the man. She wasn’t tensed, just intense. He said, “My dog was looked just like her.” I trusted Misty and her instincts; I said, “Free” and she moved to him. He buried his hands in her fur and dropped his head. Then he added,” I had to put my dog down last week.”  His wife was standing behind him; she caught my eye and quietly mouthed “Thank you.” After a few quiet moments, he stood up and walked away.

Though Misty remained alert and so very good looking, in August, 2017, she began having trouble with her hips (a common problem for German Shepherds). The vet said it was arthritis and we began an extensive (and expensive) Rx regime. When we left NW Florida in the motorhome early October, she was fine though still not back at the top of her game. By early November, we were back at City of Rocks SP in western NM – a place we both loved, and the place she had first come to me.

November 3, I took Misty to East Lohman Veterinary Clinic in Las Cruces, NM, for her monthly Adequan injection; she was slowing down but still in control of her world.  But when we went to Albuquerque to visit friends for Thanksgiving, she drug her left rear foot on the sidewalks to the point the toe nails bled, a lot. I dialed back her activity level even more but she was soon dragging both rear feet; she couldn’t tell where her hind legs were, so they would get tangled up or slide out from under her at weird angles. She was noticeably worst when we left Albuquerque.

I didn’t want to take her to a stranger, though Dr. Ross was certainly not the closest vet.  It was only miles, so I made another appointment in Las Cruces for November 30.  We were back at City of Rocks and drove into town early to meet friends for lunch at Rudy’s, a popular BBQ place in Las Cruces.  Misty came in with me, wearing her superwoman cape that says “In Training.” She lay on the floor of olfactory heaven and took a pill wrapped in my roasted turkey breast.  Again, people bragged on her – how pretty, how smart, how calm. But the BBQ was hard for me to swallow.

Soon we were at the vet’s.  Dr. Ross sat on the floor beside Misty, going through the neurological tests I’d watched before.  But in less than four weeks, the results were very different.  With compassion, patience, and professionalism, Dr. Ross explained Misty had rapidly progressive neuropathy, and there was nothing that could be done to help her. She stressed that Misty was not in pain, and said there was no reason to do hip X-rays, give her the Adequan shot, or continue her on the pain meds. I leaned against the steel exam table to brace myself, and Dr. Ross gently rubbed Misty as she talked.  She explained that soon, Misty would fall down and be unable to walk.  She would lose control of her bowels and bladder. I asked for a time line, and she said a month at the longest, perhaps a week, or that she could fall the next time I let her outside.  She emphasized that the decision was completely mine and gently added, “I can put her down now, or you can wait as long as you chose.  I had a dog with progressive neuropathy, and I waited till he fell and couldn’t get up.  Then I put him to sleep.  It’s your decision how to handle this.”  I finally found enough air in my lungs to speak, and the words came from that deep place – a strong place where love lives.  “I don’t have your skills set.  I can’t put her down in the middle of the night, or the middle of the desert. And I have a bad back.  I can’t pick her up when she falls.” I stood there with no clear answers, watching Misty through clouds of tears. The room was quiet; the vet was not hurrying me. Finally I could speak again, “I don’t have it in me to put her down today. I want to take her home with me, to say goodbye.  But this is Thursday, and I don’t trust the weekend.  Plus, I’m 85 miles from you.  I’ll bring her back tomorrow.”

Misty and I drove back to City of Rocks State Park, and the bad jokes began. I asked what she wanted for her Last Supper; we agreed on lots of rotisserie chicken and home-made chicken soup on top of a little kibble.  Our only goal was to insure she didn’t get an upset stomach.  She wondered why we hadn’t started this Last Supper routine months ago. Friday morning she happily inhaled her Last Breakfast – a repeat of the menu from the night before. Then just after sunrise, we took the Last Walk, up through the rocks. Her ears were on full alert; the adrenalin was flowing as she hurried hither and yon, pulling on the leash, convinced she could catch those darting rabbits if I’d just turn her loose.  As we turned to go back to the RV, a pack of coyotes began to sing.  Misty’s coyote angels, calling her home.

Then we got in the truck and headed back to Las Cruces. I’d packed her a Last Picnic of yet more rotisserie chicken and we left early to stop at a city park near the vet.  But as I made the turn, there on the corner was a Pet Smart!  Misty’s all-time favorite place.  So we skipped the park and went to Pet Smart.  Misty walked up and down the aisles, smelling every bone and bag of dog food within nose reach.  Twice. But then it was time to go.

At the vet’s office, Misty and I were led into a room with a soft blanket on the floor, and I began to parcel out yet more rotisserie chicken. As I sat on the floor beside her, Dr. Ross gave her a shot that relaxed her and then injected the lethal dose in her artery.  The process is …. more than words can convey. Soon the vet nodded and said, “She’s gone.  You can stay as long as you like.” I got up, shaking my head and responded, “No.  I have to go now.” Then I leaned over and buried my hand in her still warm fur and looked straight into the vet’s eyes, “You won’t find a better one than this.” I left through the back door and sat in my truck until the sobs subsided enough I could see and drive.

Back at the RV, I began to clean house.  The next day, I took laundry – mine and Misty’s – to the Laundromat.  I came home to an RV that was too clean, too quiet, too empty.

Two days later I went with Dyana, a friend from Las Cruces, to the Pink Store in Palomas, Mexico.  I bought very large, very bright paper flowers and a vase, because they make me smile.  Then I bought a Day of the Dead ceramic tile; it’s a very happy dead dog.  I bought it because it makes me laugh.

Four days later , I drove away from City of Rocks without Misty. Someday soon, I’ll come back to our favorite place to scatter her ashes.  City of Rocks, where I found and lost Misty.

In the meantime, I have outrageously colorful flowers on my table and a ceramic tile of a very happy dead dog.  I believe Misty is happy – laughing over memories of olfactory heaven in a BBQ place, great last suppers, rabbits, coyotes, and even a last trip through Pet Smart.

Misty wasn’t in pain.  I still am.  And she’s worth every tear. The mystery of love.

You can only spend 14 out of 20 days in a NM state park. It was that time, so I hooked the truck to the back of the motor home and took a short ride from City of Rocks State Park to Las Cruces, NM to join the Care A Vanners, nine other RV’s parked at the Mesilla Valley Habitat for Humanity.  Care A Vanners are a subculture of RV’ers who travel around the country with a purpose – to help Habitat build affordable, safe housing for strangers.  Care A Vanners can be a strange group – generally, as in Las Cruces, it’s not a group of spring chickens but a group that, with few exceptions, qualify for senior discounts and Medicare. The exceptions in this group were Jake and Angela, a couple in their early 30’s who choose to spend the majority of the year volunteering for Habitat; they work nights and weekends to support themselves and then go home, to regroup financially, by working harder still. There was much cross-generational banner, and the young couple added a different flavor of levity to the group.

As I said, Care A Vanners can be a strange group.  And so this gaggle of mostly old people came together for ten days to pound nails.  Forming a chorus line of limping, creaking, grunting, and stretching as we tried to work out charley horses, crunchy knees, bad backs, and blown shoulders, we worked HARD, framing, building walls, attaching sheathing, and lifting trusses.

Jake and Angela, the youngest and strongest, volunteered on the roof.  

Many days the core group of Care A Vanners was joined by volunteers from the local community. 

the officers with the Las Cruces Police Department were a big help. And, yes, we felt very safe!

We also had the great privilege of working alongside several future home owners. What a joy to watch their eyes sparkle as they talked of how excited their kids are! The houses Habitat is building are more than just decent housing – they are homes to be proud of, homes to raise children in.

This Habitat affiliate does not allow nail guns, so we pounded – by hand – every single nail. Actually, we pounded many more nails than were “necessary.”  The wood was hard, there were knots, and our aim wasn’t always good.  When there were two or three bent nails on the floor for each one securely in the wood, Pete and Dyana, the two supervisors, never complained or criticized – their goal was a quality product, and so they bought lots and lots of nails.  When the plates failed to line up flush, we pulled them apart and tried again. When the nails attaching the sheathing missed the studs and flashed “shiners” at us, we pulled them out and began again.  We used lots and lots of nails 😉

I hadn’t worked on a Habitat build in seven years, and something strange had happened.   Now 70 years old, I’m somehow not as strong and don’t have as much stamina.  What??  But my sudden onset of aging wasn’t obvious to the others; they were too busy dealing with their own.  So we made bad jokes and took pride in the fact that though we were all given the senior discount without having to ask for it, we weren’t home watching TV, or sitting on a bar stool complaining.  As the days went by, each of us hurt somewhere.  My “some where’s” generally woke me up for a conversation during the middle of the night.  Shooting pains across my upper right shoulder after a particularly long day of hammering, followed by red-hot pain between my right thumb and forefinger – right where I held the hammer. Ice, ibuprofen and wine seem to help. Collectively we went through almost as many ibuprofen as we did nails.

a can can? Well, what do you expect when you give grey haired women hard hats and hammers?

Pete helps out by adding his weight. Two men standing around, while a woman hammers.

Mesilla Valley Habitat stresses excellent product (let me repeat – they were NOT shy about telling us to pull something apart and begin again), safety, and, yes, FUN.  So there was much banter during the work day; those exchanges intensified as we sat around the camp fire after hours and were in high gear in the morning circle.  Pete and Dyana were serious if not a bit fanatical about safety 😉  (everyone, always, had to wear a hard hat – period – no exceptions)  Eye protection – but no gloves – when using a saw.  I consistently added hearing protection to the litany of required safety items, but I’m not sure it was enough, given my significant hearing loss.  I have an appointment with an audiologist this week; I hope to learn it’s a reasonable option for me to work other builds, with consistent use of hearing protection.  Somehow manual labor – for such an important purpose – is very good for me.  Good work with good people for a good cause.

Some of these Care A Vanners will stay at Las Cruces until March.  Others will move on, to see the country and aim their RV’s at another Habitat build.  Often Care A Vanners provide the backbone (though admittedly an old, creaky bone) for home construction.  Mesilla Valley Habitat will build five houses this season, a goal that could not be realized without a cadre of aging gypsies who enjoy working and playing hard.

we looked like an army of ants, but together it wasn’t hard

And up they go. Pete was part traffic cop and part conductor of a disjointed orchestra .Because he knew what he was doing & we did what he said – believe it or not, no one got squashed, and one more house has roof trusses

And Las Cruces does such a good job, there are no available Care A Vanner RV slots for the rest of this build year.  But there is always room – and work – for anyone who shows up

For more information see   https://www.habitat.org/            https://www.habitat.org/volunteer/travel-and-build/rv-care-a-vanners and

https://www.lascruceshabitat.org/

From the high deserts of New Mexico

Night rider’s lament:

Why do you ride for your money
Why do you rope for short pay
You ain’t a getting’ nowhere and you’re losin’ your share
You must have gone crazy out there

There are some things I just can’t explain. Like –

Why did you leave the Bench, your role as a Judge? Why would you walk away from a secure position that paid very well, with incredible power and prestige?  Before retirement age, long before the big benefits kicked in? You didn’t have to go! Why would you get rid of everything and ride around the country, alone, in an RV?  Why don’t you go back? You can make good money doing mediations!

          Where do you live?

          When are you coming back to Florida?  Where are you going next?  Where will you be in February? Where are going when you leave here?

A motorcycle friend had a T-shirt with the emblem of a Goldwing.  Under the Wing, it read “If I have to explain, you wouldn’t understand.”

This is the best I can do today to “explain.” Right now my RV is parked in western New Mexico at City of Rocks State Park, south of Silver City, NM. This is the view from my kitchen window.  Early yesterday I saw several jack rabbits; the low rays of the sun illuminated their ridiculously large ears that rotated like large radio antennas. (Very Large Array on not so large rabbits). This morning, as Misty and I were out walking, we visited with a delightful Canadian couple who had stopped here for a few nights as they travel in a conversion van.  Gordon and Ginny are close to my age (I’m 70).  They are bright-eyed, engaged with life, and enthusiastic about their shared passion for birds.  And they are respectful, humorous, and gentle with each other.  Still – after 20 years!  Gordon volunteered that they share “a great partnership.” Shortly after we talked, they rode away, heading to southeast Arizona to look for more birds, as they amble back to British Columbia.  We swapped contact information, and I hope to visit with next summer in British Columbia. Check out his amazing photography at his website, www.f8at125.com

“Why do you rope for short pay? “ Why do I prefer to ramble, observe and listen, instead of being fully engaged in the legal world?  Maybe I’ve gone crazy out here.  But it’s a good crazy.  Sunshine to saunter in, in this forever-changing  wide-open world of the high desert.  A world in which I can see forever.  Further than my eye can see.  So from the mesa top, I look southward til my eyes get tired; then I like to pretend to mark that furthest spot.  Take a break, then begin looking southward from there. Each morning I sit to watch the sun rise behind the mountains out the rear windows of my small motor home. The west side of the mountains is black/purple as the sky behind it begins to lighten.  Soon above the mountain peak, there’s a subtle plume of blue in the orange/pink sky.  Something like a cloud wisp in the cloudless sky.  As the sky gets brighter with the sun inching closer to the edge, the blue/purple plume undulates slightly.  It looks too magical to be real, but I can’t blink it away. Then the plume disappears as the sun pulls itself up over the mountain, throwing light daggers and quickly changing everything, But I have another appointment tomorrow, just before sunrise, to see that the plume reappears.

Last week, I spent time with special friends, Marion and Jamie Newton as they worked on the annual fund raiser for KURU, the small, local radio station in Silver City, NM.  Jamie interviewed on the air a fascinating couple – Phil and Kathy Dahl-Bredine – to discuss their book, Milpa, from seeds to salsa, and their vital work of sharing with the world the wisdom of the indigenous people in the Mixtec region of Oaxaca, in southern Mexico.  Like the book, the interview was bilingual – Spanish and English.  Marion and I listened to the interview on her car radio, parked in the shade with the windows down. Yesterday I rode back into Silver City to meet with Phil and Kathy.  They have lived in southern Mexico for 17 years, and their respect for the people and the culture is palpable.   Over a glass of iced tea at a restaurant known as The Toad, Phil and Kathy talked of their work with the team who wrote Milpa.  Their book, of coffee table size,  explores through a blend of essays, recipes and documentary photography how the ancient agricultural knowledge and the wealth of 1000 year-old seeds and planting practices still in use among the Mixtec peoples of southern Mexico can help meet the worldwide ecological and food crises of today. I’ll do a separate post with more details about the book. This is their Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/milpafromseedtosalsa and their blog is at http://sustainablemilpa.blogspot.com/

Like me, Phil and Kathy are no spring chickens.  They have seven grown children state-side, and they have lived primarily in the Mixtec region of Oaxaca, in southern Mexico for 17 years. They leave the U.S. in two days, going back to southern Mexico, near the Guatemala border.  They will travel by bus.  Not a big motor home or a chartered bus.  They will take the ordinary bus that ordinary Mexicans use to travel across their country.  Like the people they will travel with, Phil and Kathy are both ordinary and extraordinary.

City of Rocks State Park is one of my favorites and I return here almost every year. The views are varied – long vistas across rolling plains, punctuated by mountains.  Nightly, there’s a jaw-dropping star party in the ink-black sky.  Silver City, a 45 minute drive to the north, is a fascinating, eclectic place with a wide range of people.  I have close friends in the area. The Gila Cliff Dwellings can be a day’s outing.  Yet as I sit in the quiet, writing, I hear rocks crunch under the tires of a lone truck heading out. The sounds of leaving piqued my interest – where are they going? My intrigue with the sound suggests I’m getting ready to go, too, to see what’s around the bend.

OK, but – really, “Why do you rope for short pay?” Every day I speak with kind people and experience Mother Nature. Every day I have time to sit, without words, and look out the window.  I write and most days I take a nap. Misty and I spend time outside, exploring.  Yes — expensive things break, I get stranded, I get lost.  Some days I get down on myself for not “accomplishing” something.  Yet life is good, people are kind, and Nature is awe-inspiring.

She asked him why does he ride for his money
Why does he rope for short pay
He ain’t getting’ nowhere and he’s losin’ his share
He must have gone crazy out there
But she’s never seen the Northern Lights
Never seen a hawk on the wing
Never seen Spring hit the Great Divide
And never heard Ol’ Camp Cookie sing

Beginning again – again

Somehow, I get tangled up when I cross back to the Adult World, and things take much longer than I plan.  So it was that my short time planned in NW Florida turned into a long time, full of responsible adult things.  But, after sifting and shifting minutia I was finally able to get back on the road.  And again, I find myself, leaving to be me.  A sojourner, a gypsy, a lover of open roads.

Misty (my German Shepherd) and I drove the motor home with the truck in tow and motorcycle in the bed for 1,200 miles to New Mexico and spent nights with Wal-Mart to offset the startlingly high cost of gas. I tried a new approach – driving only 300 miles a day, rather than the 400+ I always drove before.  It was less tiring, but still a very long way.  In route, I conducted a scientific experiment and determined I do not enjoy a 4,000+ foot decrease in altitude, going down the mountain from Cloudcroft to Alamogordo, NM.  Nothing bad happened, but it was not fun.  Stopped in at White Sands National Monument for a photo op, and then began a tour of some of my favorite NM State Parks. Though this looks like the beach along the Gulf of Mexico, it’s the desert.  See the mountains in the background?

After almost a week in one place, I’m settling in, settling down.  And I’ll leave again soon.  That’s what gypsies do.

I love the high desert, the low humidity, the plateaus, the mountains.  The changing light, the varied bird sounds, star-gazing without city lights.   Early this morning, I heard coyotes singing themselves home from a hunt.  It was the closest, loudest and longest song I’ve heard, from what seemed like several dozen coyotes.  It was happy magic. Yesterday I was at the kitchen sink when a LARGE roadrunner landed on the water facet outside the window.  He left as I picked up my camera.  Like the coyote songs, the roadrunner image is only recorded in my heart.

I’ve begun to play with my camera – a good measure of my contentment.  I took a hike above the Mimbres Valley with my friend, Marion, today, and share a couple of pictures from that outing.