It's my birthday and I'll kvetch if I wanna

Hi, Everyone,

Sorry I've been so lax about doing my Xcargo blog postings. But, well, things have just been fantastically complicated over the last few weeks. I've had classes to teach, lectures to prepare, taxes to get ready... I threw my back act. And I had a bout of something called "benign positional vertigo," which is perfectly harmless, but you feel sorta like Dorothy in the tornado except Toto bailed out for a Dramamine someplace back around Nebraska.

But, today, I simply have to start posting again. And I've got reason. It's my birthday. And I'm now fifty-three years old.

Which means I'm not 22 years old any more. And I have to wear reading glasses. And I'm taking Lipitor, and folic acid, and high blood pressure meds, and baby aspirin …once a day.

So, let's celebrate. Ready?

Whoop-de-freaking-doo.

Onward and upward.







Copyright © 2010 Michael Jay Tucker

Scott Brown

Hello, Everyone,

Well, first of all, sorry I've been out of touch. Things got a bit hairy for a while and I wasn't able to get to my Xcargo-ing.

But, now, I’m back from New Mexico and I'm ready for my first ever posting for 2010.

Specifically, what I want to talk about today is the recent election by which my home state, Massachusetts, selected Scot Brown, lawyer and former nude model, to fill the Senate seat formerly held by the late Ted Kennedy.

I know that some of you have asked for my reaction to this development. And, therefore, today, I'm going to try to give you that.

So, my reaction is…

ARGH !!!!!

I think that sums it up well, don't you?

Onward and upward.


Copyright © 2010 Michael Jay Tucker

Off To New Mexico

Season's Greetings, plus one sad, sick bastard

B52 Strikes and Armed Pro-Lifers

Linx

"Judge To Hear Key Motions In Kan. Murder Trial," by Kathy Lohr, http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=121746158&ft=1&f=1003

"Judge says no to 'necessity defense' for George Tiller's alleged killer," by Justin Kendall, http://blogs.pitch.com/plog/2009/12/judge_says_no_to_necessity_defense_for_george_tillers_alleged_killer.php

hair cuts from the west

the linx

Texas parents, school tangle over boy's long locks — http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5jHTRVxrCriQ0q9mjS5cP9NkcjONgD9CL6PO02

Texas parents battle school over son's long locks — http://www.usatoday.com/news/education/2009-12-17-texas-school-hair_N.htm

Texas parents battle school over son's long locks — http://news.yahoo.com/video/us-15749625/texas-parents-battle-school-over-son-s-long-locks-17178226

New Mexico #9: Sadness

New Mexico #9: Sadness


So, once again, I turn to New Mexico.

This one isn't going to be so funny, either.

It will start out light-hearted…or, at least, merely melancholy. But, then, gradually, it will slide away into the dark.

This is just to warn you.

*


You will recall that I'm writing a series about my trip to New Mexico last summer. Last time we had just gone to lunch at a restaurant at Santa Fe. My father had, with his sly humor, vast intelligence, and endless reserve of low-level sadism had just terrified a snotty, self-important woman of the sort described in song and fable as a Rich Bitch. A pleasant time was had by all. Except for the Bitch. But, then, she asked for what she got. And deserved worse.

Anyway, we ate. The sandwiches were good. We finished and then Martha and I spent some time on our own looking for a graduation present for my son—he was, you'll recall, just about to get his degree from the School of the Museum of Fine Arts.

So, Martha and I shopped. We didn't find anything we thought he'd really like. In the end, we got him a genuinely beautiful copper wall hanging form artist who lives in Albuquerque. I think he liked it. But who can tell? You give the gift and hope. It is a wise child that knows its mother. There is no parent quite wise enough to understand the child.

Anyway, so browsed a few more shops and, next we knew, it was time to catch the train. We met up with my parents and took the little van to the station.

Again, everything was magical. The station was wondrously clean. The conductors were young and cheerful. The cars were comfortable and new. We boarded and, shortly after, we were on our way.

At first, the magic continued as we went on our way. The sun was only then beginning its slow slant toward the horizon, and we'd have full daylight all the way to Albuquerque. Yet, still, everything…the mountains, the towns, the Pueblos, the adobe buildings we passed…began to take on that rose-honey color you see, sometimes, in the late afternoons of summer.

There was a crowd in the car, but, at first, people were quiet…as though no one dared to break the peace of the moment, or look away from the windows, for fear of missing something. The mountains and hills went past us, faintly glowing in the light, then we were in the Pueblos again, their streets peaceful and empty, the beautiful dome-shaped ovens beside the homes…

And then…

HE started talking.


*

You may remember way back, several New Mexico episodes ago, I mentioned that on our return from Santa Fe, we encountered a young lawyer on the train who began to lecture a pair of perfect strangers on the train about the bread ovens…and then wouldn't shut up.

Well, it was right then that the chap put in his appearance. We were not far out of Santa Fe when all of a sudden, we heard him address the party in the seat next to him. "Those are ovens," he said, cheerfully. "They bake bread in them."

His voice had a collegiate sound to it…the kind of voice you hear in a sports bar, or a bus and he's on the cell phone… loud, maddeningly chipper, and as inescapable as gamma rays at Chernobyl. He was the kind of guy to whom you'd love to respond in an appropriate way, but he's too big to hit and you don't have a chainsaw.

Somehow, he'd decided that the two women and one man next to him were tourists who desperately needed his wisdom. "It's great. You ought to try it while you're here. They call it fry bread and…"

The people tried to get a word in edgewise, "Well, that is, we—"

"But it's very rich. They cook it with butter or lard so you can't eat too much of it. And…"

"Well, we know, because—"

"And sometimes you can't get it in Albuquerque. But I think they sell it in Old Town. You really have to visit Old Town. It's…

"Because we—"

"It's a great spot if you're just starting out in New Mexico. Or if you…"

"WE KNOW! WE LIVE HERE!"

"Really?" And then, without missing a beat or displaying a trace of embarrassment, he changed the subject and was off on yet another lecture, this one on how convenient it was for him to commute from his home to Santa Fe…thanks to the train.

The three miserable souls beside him sank slowly in their seats, knowing the grim fate that awaited them.

*

He talked non-stop all the way to the station. I don't remember most of what he said…thank goodness…but pieces did stick in my memory. There was the long discourse on how boring the train ride really was, "I mean, all you have to look at is the scenery." But, he assured his victims, he could usually check email with his iPhone, so that made it a little better. So he could "get work done," instead of just "stare at rocks."

But, he continued, the train was a great way to commute. He got up at five in the morning, was at the train by six, and be in the office by seven. And then he'd catch the train home and be back by no later than nine. "It's great!"

He was on the way home early tonight because his daughter was having her birthday and he wanted to be there for it. She was, I gathered, six or seven. Usually he got home after she'd gone to bed, but today he was going to make an exception. "We're having a pony," he explained, "and a clown."

From there he was off on to the topic of child-rearing…on which, it seemed, he was a great authority. He'd seen some video on the subject, and read a book, and it was going to make everything just ducky for him while raising his daughter—the same one, that is, who was asleep when he left the house, and then was back in bed when he got home.

The theme of the book was that all human interactions are, in fact, based on commercial relations—business, in other words. So, "she doesn't get an allowance," he said proudly. "She gets commissions."

This, he explained, made all the difference. How so, it wasn't clear to me, but he assured his listeners that it did. And, besides, it would teach her to exist in a world in which nothing happens until someone sells something. Even better, "it eliminates all the tears." The girl would keep track of her commissions, and when they went to the toy store or where ever, she could buy only what she had enough commissions to purchase.

I listened. I wondered, Should I Warn Him? Should I, the father of a 25-year-old man (who knows the score) tell him what was coming? What will happen in ten years, when that girl would be sixteen, full of hormones, chasing boys, always on the phone, and telling her father exactly where he could stick his commissions?

I thought about it.

No. He'd never believe me.

In the words of the poet, there are some things that cannot be explained to virgins in either words or pictures.

*

Now, we begin our journey away from the light…


*

As I look at the material above, I realize I've been trying to be funny in this posting. At least a little. But, it hasn't felt quite right. It seemed forced.

Partly, of course, it was because of the lawyer—tall and blond, successful, every bit what this culture says a successful man should be. Or, woman, for that matter.

And, yet, in the end, he was sort of tragic. How little he understood of the world! How little it touched him. That great and magnificent world, with its mountains and desert, stretching off to infinity, and which he could have seen if only he'd looked.

And his child! I was joking—sort of—when I talked about what would happen when she was sixteen. But, it was perfectly true. Indeed, I understated the case. What will she think of this man, in ten years or twenty, when she looks back on him? The father who only appeared with a pony and a clown?

And what of him? What will he feel in forty years? When he is old? And he suddenly discovers that, by God, life is not like a corporation? That you cannot hold stock in it? Nor get a promotion by being in the office at seven? That, in the end, he who dies with the most toys, is still dead?

*

Ah, but there's the rub. We are taught this. We are taught to sacrifice all …everything in our lives!...if we "want to get ahead." It is unmanly to do otherwise. It is un-feminist to do otherwise ("you wouldn't say that if she were a man"). It is virtuous to be in the office at seven (or even six-thirty) and stay there deep into the night, your flesh growing pasty and pale under the fluorescents. Or minty green in the light of spread sheets and the powerpoints.


*


How much braver, stronger, wiser is the man or woman who defers their pleasures, their accomplishments, yes, even their fondest dreams. Who, once having the child, understands that this…the infant!...is their future, their destiny, their career. Who knows that the promotions will not come, the move to "the coast" and the corner office will be denied, because that is the nature of the bargain we have with life.

We are offered children, we are given the option of parenthood, and if we accept, then, well, the price is high. It is not happy. It is not easy. But it is the price.

The alternative is to be a stranger to your own children, and to court their justifiable hatred.

*

Let us then admit the greatness of the Small: the husbands, the wives, the stayers at homes, the worker-bees, the million-millions of men and women who are held in such thorough contempt by Hollywood and Manhattan and New England college towns.

And without whom the world would end in misery and dust.


*

Now… we move to the next part of my story. Less happy still.

*

The young professional wasn't the only reason for my sadness that day.

As we moved closer to my boyhood home, to Albuquerque, the delicate magic of the country, and the plastic wonder of the theme park known as Santa Fe, began to evaporate. The empty lots, the abandoned buildings, the dirty building, the long walls of concrete with the vast burden of gang graffiti and spray-painted obscenities…the features of a real city in this post-industrial age began to appear.

Then, we were back in the station at downtown Albuquerque. The declining light, which had seemed gentle and kind in the desert, was now merely dim. It played whitely over the concrete and the brick of the empty city, deserted on a Sunday evening.

Only the street people—and the police—were there.


*

We pulled into the station. We gathered up our jackets and purchases. The lawyer…thank heavens!...was gone.

We headed for the door. I led the way, for some reason. I don't remember why. Martha was behind me. My mother and father were behind her.

I came to the door of the train. There was a sort of bridge that led from the train to the platform. I crossed it, looking down just long enough to see that between the platform and train there was a deep gap. I could see a gravel surface below, the tracks, and the huge wheels of the train.

Martha joined me. Not thinking, we started ahead.

There was a woman's scream behind us.

My father had fallen.

*

I whirled and ran back. He was half on the bridge, one leg was over the side, down into the gap. A woman passenger and a conductor were holding on to him, desperately tight. The conductor pulled him up…finally…and I got to him.

He stood unsteadily in front of me. My mother was at his side, shaking.


*

He was embarrassed. He wouldn't stay. "Just lost my balance there." He led the way out of the crowd, thanking the woman and the conductor, and hurrying away from the scene.

*

How much pain he must have felt— the leg over the edge, the body on the bridge, straining to not to fall, the muscles contacting and tight.

He would not sit. He would not rest.

*

My father…

*

And that wasn't enough, was it? Not enough for fate and time. Not enough for a symbol. The universe wasn't finished with us.

*

We walked toward the station lobby. To get there, we had to take one route…the pathway that led from the station landing to the lobby building.

And as we turned the corner, we realized that there was a crowd of police and EMTs at the end of the path. In the street, we could see the blinking lights of emergency vehicles.

And they were kneeling and working on something on the ground.


*

We came closer. We had no choice. There was nowhere else to go.


*

It was one of the street people. He was on the ground. On the concrete. They were around him. The EMTS and the police. They circled him.

His flesh was dead white.


*

We went past him. We had no choice. There was nothing else to do.


*

We made our way past the police cars and the ambulance and the EMT truck. We made our way to the car where it was parked in the garage.

I drove us home.


*

We got to their house. We had dinner. It was my father's famous spaghetti. He's a very good cook. He served it cheerfully.

And, then, cheerfully, he asked us if we'd like dessert. Cheerfully, he brought out ice cream and cookies.

*

Then…

*

Then, the next morning, he cheerfully took me aside.

And cheerfully told me where all the family records were.

In case I should ever need them.

*

I didn't weep until later, in the guest room, with the door closed.

So no one would see or hear me.

*

Until next time.
























Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

Salem 1

trust

snowman kit

The quotes in Question

Among the quotes in question:

1) "If the antiabortion movement took a tenth of the energy they put into noisy theatrics and devoted it to improving the lives of children who have been born into lives of poverty, violence, and neglect, they could make a world shine."


and

2) "...there is no poison on earth more potent, nor half so deadly, as apartial truth mixed with passion."

Quotes

Do a search for "quotes Michael Jay Tucker" and see what you get...

Me, Publishing, Self-pity, good stuff like that

Michael Mugs

I promise I'll stop soon...

a morning walk

A little experiment...in video

New Mexico #8: Fantasy

It's been awhile since I've written about the trip to New Mexico. It wasn't that I didn't want to come here and write. It's just that life has been…complicated…

But you know all about that, don’t you? All our lives are complicated in this curious age—this age in which we live on the run, this job to that, that place to this, and, in the end, we find that (somehow) we are like Alice's Queen. Moving very fast. Yet not moving at all.

So…


*

Last time, I talked about my growing sense of unease as we walked through Santa Fe. I was having memories of people and situations I'd found in that town but which were not particular pleasant.

Also, I was experiencing a certain sense of unreality, as though I were not really there at all, or else the city wasn't.

Actually, on reflection, I realized I had good reason for that. Parts of Santa Fe aren't real. They are as illusionary as the Matrix, and twice as tenacious.

Oh, don't get me wrong. Much of the city—almost all of the city!—is perfectly real. You don't have to walk far from the Square before you come to the real, living Santa Fe. A few meters, and you discover houses and condos, offices and schools, places where people live and work, and send their children to be educated. Admittedly, there are fewer such places than there used to be (with each passing year it becomes more expensive to live in Santa Fe. Property values soar and residents flee to the cheaper suburbs, or even to Albuquerque), but they exist all the same.

But, the Square, and the few blocks around it…they belong to visitors and those who sell to them. And, come let's face facts, that leads to a touch of the fantastic. We do not travel to distant places, nor pay inflated prices, for the joy of dealing with the same discomforts we meet at home. Unless we are an "adventure tourist" (and more about that in a moment), we charge up the Visa cards and suffer through the lines at airport security so that we may escape our lives. For our money, we want to be someplace where the sidewalks are clean, the meals come without our cooking them, the beds are made by magic…well, by maids, but it feels that way…and the help behind the counter is always smiling. In fact, it would be better if the help wasn't human at all. A large cartoon mouse in top hat and tails, his face frozen forever in an idiot's grin, would be best of all.

We pay, in other words, to inhabit an alternative reality, and at those prices, we damn well better get it.

Oh, and the Adventure Tourist? He, or she, inhabits the most unreal reality of all. She, or he, goes off into the wilderness on a pre-packaged thrill ride, dismissing as cowards those who might propose caution, and, then returns home with tails of a life changing experience…of terrors met…of confidence gained.

Except…

If the bungee cord should ever actually break, the bear actually elect to feast, the Iranian border guards really decide to fire…

They are so terribly, terribly offended.

*

And, understand, there is nothing wrong with this. There is nothing wrong with the falseness of tourist bubbles, in spite of the commandments of academics who tell us we should hate Disneyland (and by extension, fairy tales). People who say such things are those whose lives are sufficiently removed from daily struggle, tedium, and Quiet Desperation that they cannot understand the need for relief. They sit in their offices at Universities, grinding out turgid prose and unreadable books, failing always to understand that their comfortable, tenured lives are as fantastic and faintly ridiculous as a college kid in a Goofy suit, working his way through summer vacation.

But, that said, such places…like the Square at Santa Fe…will always have a whiff of the artificial, of unreality, of emptiness. At their best, they are like a thrill ride or an Imax movie. You buy your ticket, you lose yourself for a time, and then you walk away, relieved and exhilarated—but never believing that you have dealt with reality.

Or, at their worst, at their very worst, they leave you with the kind of vague disquiet you have sometimes in fever dreams, when you know you're dreaming, and that all you see is manufactured by Id and Unconscious, yet you do not choose to wake.


*


But…anyway.

We were going from the La Fonda, the hotel where we'd rejoined my parents, to a new restaurant my parents had discovered. My parents hunt restaurants the way that Teddy Roosevelt hunted lions and tigers and bears (oh my). They seek them out, somehow, noticing tracks in the hard soil, testing the air for the scent, and pursue.

And, amazingly, 99 times out of a 100, their discoveries are good. They always have at least three new trophies when we come to visit, the chefs' hats on mounted the wall, the leftovers stuffed and on display over the mantle.

That day, my parents were taking us to a new sandwich place they'd found. My father described it as half restaurant, half art gallery, and he led us out of the Square and up a side street. Soon, we found ourselves outside a smallish establishment with white adobe walls and blue wood trim. It could have been Greek, mysteriously transplanted by UFOs from Aegean shores. We entered. Inside the walls were decorated with various paintings from local artists. Some were good. Some were repellant. But, they were from Santa Fe. Therefore, by definition, they must be wonderful.

Under the paintings were the tables and the chairs. Men and women, and a few children, sat and talked and ate. A tall blond man materialized and asked what we wanted. My father said a table and give the total population of our party. A mere four. The tall man said it shouldn't be long. We stood in the little space before the cash register and waited while other customers came and went.

Martha and my mother fell into some conversation, I don't know about what. My father and I talked about … I believe we talked about physics. He is a physicist. A retired one but still active in the field. We were talking fusion power, and whether it were possible for the country to develop it, and if so at what cost.

And about the time I looked up and saw a woman come into the restaurant. She was, perhaps, in her late 30s or early 40s. Very stylish. Attractive. Well dressed. Large sunglasses. Short skirt. Peasant blouse. Large leather purse. She reeked, in other words, of money.

What sort of money? Who can say? Vice president of marketing on vacation money. Or real estate entrepreneur in New Mexico money. Or corporate lawyer between cases money. Or even, yes, affluent suburban wife from Connecticut money (no. Really. A few still exist. Even in this day of dual incomes and fast-track careers).

But, in any case, money. And she came into the restaurant, glanced at us, swept past, and went to the counter where the tall man stood guard. She spoke to him. I couldn't hear what she said over the sound of the crowd, nor what he replied, but there was some tension in the air. His hands came up as if to communicate something, or defend himself from a blow. Hers remained by her side, hands tight around the strap of her leather purse. Then, somehow, something was resolved. I half-heard, half read the woman's lips well enough to detect "then take-out." The man's face softened in relief. He hurried away toward the kitchen.

She paused for a moment by the counter, then drifted back to where the rest of us stood waiting for our tables. She looked at me. She looked at my father.

Always friendly, always open, he smiled and said, "Hello."

She frowned. She mumbled "'Lo." He was not important. He was old and probably senile and didn't know to speak only when spoken to. She glanced away. She stood, still in her sunglasses in the restaurant's shadowy interior, and looked out into the street.

My father eyed her. He began to smile more broadly. I knew what was coming. It wasn't going to be pretty. But, I thought, she'd brought it on herself.

*

"So," he said to her, smiling, eyes twinkling, as merry as Santa Claus on the day before noel, "isn't it a lovely day?"

She looked at him, half in surprise, half in distaste. Had he really spoken to her? Had this strange, miserable creature actually addressed her?

"I mean," he continued, still cheery, "the light, and everything. But not too hot."

She looked him up and down. I knew what she saw. He is a small man, now (how did that happen? I remember him being so tall). His hair is white, long, and wild, seeking new discoveries around his ears, his forehead, the back of his neck, uncontrolled and vastly energetic, if somewhat thinner than it once was. And he has a beard now. Also white. Pointed. Not quite a goatee, but not quite anything else either. In one light it makes him look a little like Colonel Sanders. Ah, but in another, like Mephistopheles.

Her cosmetic tinted lenses flicked up to his face. You could see her logic as clearly as if her head were made of glass. "If I say nothing," she thought, "will he go away?"

But he didn't. I knew that light in his eyes. The eyes so cheery. So merry. So mild. So…inexplicably bright and hard.

"Well," he continued, "where are you from? We're from Albuquerque. My son and his wife"—indicating me—"they came all the way from Boston."

Even through her sunglasses, you could see the discomfort. "I…ah…I'm from California."

"Really? Where-abouts? North or south?"

The cosmetic lenses panned down, like a camera trying for a Dutch Angle. I knew what she was seeing then, too. His clothing. He affects satiny sports jackets, unzipped to reveal the white t-shirt. His pants? Inevitably jeans or khakis, just a size or two off, just a decade or so out of fashion. Athletic shoes, beaten soft from long use.

"Um…south. Las Angeles."

"Ah," beaming like a street light on a winter night, "we have relatives in Las Angeles. Maybe you know them…" He named one of my uncles.

The woman took a step back, a slight tremor shaking her body.

"No, wait," he continued. "Johnny's been dead for about two years ago now. I keep forgetting that. And, besides, he moved to Reno in '79. Have you ever been to Reno?"

Even through her sunglasses, you could see the panic in her eyes.

"Well, doesn't matter. You're from L.A.? We used to drive there…when he was little" —he indicated me. "That was a lot of fun." He turned to me again. "Remember that time we went in 1968? We where in that green van." He looked at her again, explaining. "No insulation in it. You ever try to drive across Arizona in the middle of summer without air conditioning? Yes siree! It was soooo hot…"

Her back was now literally against the wall. She held her purse tightly in front of her, like a shield. You could see her fingers digging into the leather.

"And we got to the border with California. They stopped us at the state line. Do they still do that? They used to check your car to make certain you didn't have fruits or vegetables that might bring in plant diseases. Anyway, I can always remember, the guard looking into our van, me in my t-shirt, my wife in shorts, and him"—me—"not looking much better."

She swallowed. Her teeth were clinched.

"And we hadn't had a bath for a while. I mean, we were camping, so how could we?"

Little drops of sweat were forming on her forehead.

"And the guard looked into the van and said, 'Oh, my God.' We must have looked awfu—…"

The tall blond man appeared with a take-out bag. The woman dashed past my father with her credit card already out. A moment after that, she was running toward the door.

"Have a nice day," my father said, as she went. "Great talking to you."

The door closed behind her with a bang.

My father smiled once more.

*

And lunch was quite good actually. We ate with a healthy appetite.

Then, we went to a couple more galleries. And, after that, it was time to head for the train, and home.

What we did not know was what would be waiting for us at the station.

But that's for next time.

*

Onward and upward.


















Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

I confess

Yes, I confess it. I have been dreadfully remiss about my blog. Xcargo has not seen me for 'lo these many weeks.

Forgive me? My only excuse is that I've been teaching three classes and I'm a bit overwhelmed by the grading. But, I promise, I'll return with yet more of Santa Fe.

That said, here's a little something to keep us going.

Have you noticed? All the clamor and fear about health care continues unabated …but, most mysteriously, the stories of men and women coming to town meetings with guns have gone away. Oh, yes, there's still yelling and screaming, but not guns, and not the more or less overt threats of violence.

It's almost as if someone flipped a switch. As if someone, somewhere, realized that this tactic was actually having negative effects… that it was frightening people.

Which makes one wonder, does it not? If someone could turn it off that way, then doesn't that mean someone turned it on in the first place? That someone, somewhere, created the whole thing… for their own selfish purposes…with lies and deceit.

Which, in turn, makes one wonder just exactly what they will do next.

And how dreadful it will be…

New Mexico #7: La Fonda

Right, so, last time, I'd gotten us to Santa Fe. We had come by train (almost magically) from the dead heart of downtown Albuquerque on a weekend morning, to the bright and sunny and oh-so-clear world of Santa Fe square.

And, just as we left off last time, we encountered a sleek young woman, almost a girl, careless and thoughtless, indifferent to others, in the way that only a certain class of wealth may allow.

Today, we move to the La Fonda.

*

The La Fonda is a hotel on the square, that is, the Plaza of Santa Fe. It is quite old. There has been an inn, or rather innS at the same location for something like 400 years. But, the La Fonda that sits now on East San Francisco Street dates from the 1920s, when Fred Harvey, whose restaurants and hostelries were once the stuff of legend, established his own hotel on the sight. It remained a " Harvey House" for generations until (at least according to the hotel's current website) it was purchased by a local businessman in the late 1960s.

It's quite beautiful, really—a large adobe structure, seemingly as ancient as the city itself, and with the graceful curves of a pueblo church. It is quite and cool, a little shadowy at times, but pleasant. I've stayed in it once. The rooms, too, a pleasant enough…a little expensive, perhaps, for the usual middle class, family crowd, but not too bad. And besides, that's Santa Fe. You wouldn't be in the city if you didn't expect to pay just a little bit more.

More often, I've eaten there. There was a restaurant on the first floor we would go to when I was a child and my parents would take me on a visit to the city. I believe it was there that I first tried something like Nouvelle cuisine, 'lo these many years ago. But it is hard for me to remember.

In the last few years, I have usually only gone to the café that's attached to the hotel. You can get quite good espresso there. It is one of the few places in the Plaza where you can. And you can see interesting people while you drink it.

But, there is a odd thing about my relationship with the La Fonda. On on hand, I very much like it, and I would recommend it to any one traveling to the city.

On the other…we have a history.


*

Martha and I made our way to the La Fonda where we would be meeting our parents. From there, we would go to lunch.

We turned the corner and there was the hotel…warm and white, and, on the inside, all worked wood and Spanish tile. We went through the doors and up into the lobby. I looked around. I saw the huge fireplaces that burn, as the saying goes, merrily in the winter. During cold weather, visitors come from the world over to ski at Santa Fe and the Taos, and then, they come here for wine and wood smoke.

And it was then that I had my memory.

I took my first degree at a University in New Mexico. To the annoyance of my poor father, I was an English major. And, while I worked my way through Early American Lit and Late European Poetry, I took Creative Writing Classes.

One of these classes was a disaster. It was taught by a writer whose name I will not reveal, but suffice to say that he was the first professor I had ever encountered who used his classroom as a weapon. Not to put too fine a point on it, he was a bully. I have met his kind many times since then, but he was my first experience of that particular breed. He surrounded himself with an elite crew of sycophantic students and, each class, would amuse himself by selecting one of those not in his band of groupies for ritual dismemberment. We would submit our stories and he would, with a robust and eager cruelty, rip them (and us) to shreds.

I am happy to say that he was, himself, not a particularly great writer. Oh, he was published and all that, but there was something missing in his work. There was something cold about it. He would write about emotions, but somehow, they did not reach you. They floated in the abstract, just beyond your reach, so that you felt you ought to feel sadness or joy or grief…but couldn't.

He was quite worldly. He'd been a journalist in Washington and Vietnam. That should have made him wise and insightful…but it didn't. He became one of those men and women who have Seen The Unvarnished Truth, and never let you forget it. You, they silently inform you with a sneer and supercilious look, haven't seen the Real World. You haven't seen people Die In Battle. You haven't Toughed It Out. You haven't heard the helicopters over Khe Sanh. You haven't seen the B52s in the sky.

The fact that his war had been, for the most part, spent a comfortable distance behind the lines, and that he left Saigon long before the choppers made their final, desperate flights…well, that was beside the point.

I've sometimes wondered what happened to him. I've Googled his name, now and then. There are a few references to him in the 1970s and 1980s. But, then, he's gone. It is as if he'd never been real.

But the one thing he left for me, for my memory, was…the La Fonda.

*

This man, my former professor, came from a well-to-do family that lived in the Santa Fe area. His father (or so he said) had come West after World War I and started a large sheep ranch. The sheep must have done very well indeed for the Dad, because the Son (my professor) was duly sent to an expensive college in the East…a college, in fact, only a short drive from where I sit now, in Winchester, MA.

After his time as a global journalist and (to quote the immortal Jethro Bodine) international playboy, my professor had moved back to Santa Fe. The city had, in fact, a considerable role in his fiction and his personal anecdotes, both of which we who were his students came to know rather well.

The thing I remember most about his picture of Santa Fe was that it really wasn't a city at all. His Santa Fe was a great comfortable place, almost an extended family, in which everyone (or, at least, everyone who mattered) was accepted and cherished. In a scene in one of his fictions, he presents us with him and his family and his friends, gathered around one of the great fireplaces of the La Fonda, celebrating the holiday season on a cold evening just before Christmas. A lovely image, indeed.

Ah, but there's the rub. It was not a scene into which just anyone was admitted. As he, himself, was quick to admit, HIS Santa Fe was not everyone's Santa Fe. There are other Santa Fes. There was the Santa Fe of the politicians who came and passed laws in the capital building. There was the Santa Fe of the locals, the men and women whose families had been in the city for generations. There was the Santa Fe of the tourists and the visiting movie stars. And, there was the Santa Fe of the servants, the men and women who staffed the hotels and restaurants.

Of these other Santa Fes, my professor remained proudly ignorant. Except in so far as they impacted his life or comfort, it was as though they did not exist.

And thus, as he dreamed before the fire and awaited the coming of Christmas morn, he felt quite alone …except for his friends. They and he had (they felt) an almost infinite privacy. No one, other than they, was there. In their room. Before their fire.

Only, lots of other people WERE present. The staff, the tourists, the locals…all of them passed through the lobby on their various missions. But, he did not see them. They did not belong to his circle. And, so, they went by, as transparent as ghosts or gusts of wind, leaving no mark, and making no sound.

*

We entered the hotel. We marveled again, as we always do, at its woodwork and tile. We visited the shops in the lobby and admired the jewelry. Once more I asked Martha if she wanted something. Once more, she declined. (Though, happily, later and in another place, she would allow me to buy something for her.)

We waited for my parents. They duly appeared. We discussed lunch. They had a place they wanted to take us—a restaurant they’d found last time they’d been here. We said it sounded fun and they led the way out the door.

And yet, even as we walked, I began to feel something very strange. Even as we made our way through the Plaza, in the gentle air, feeling the sun on our faces…

I began to feel…

Unreal…

*


But that’s for next time.










Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

New Mexico #6: Santa Fe

So, last time, I finally got us out of Albuquerque. You recall that last we met I ended on a down note. I had talked about the dead zone which is downtown Albuquerque early on a weekend morning. I talked about the train station that had once been quite beautiful, but which is, now, pleasant enough…yet a little too planned, a little too much the brave effort, a little too utilitarian, a little too much refurbished bus stop with city seals and corporate logos.

You'll recall, too, I mentioned the dying bird and the street people, the latter in masses in the lobby of the station.

Well, today, we'll head for cheerier climes.

At least at first.


*

So, we boarded the train—the Rail Runner—and almost instantly everything was magic. The train is new. Everything about it is new. The seats are not worn. The carpets are clean. The great windows are sparkling and transparent. Young people, the conductors, in new uniforms, move up and down the aisles collecting tickets.

It struck me that it was all a wonderful adventure in the past—a return to the days when train travel was gracious and comfortable, and also, back to my youth, when my family would take me to California to visit my Uncle and Aunt, and we would go to Disneyland, then so bright and shining. And, while it wasn't my favorite ride (my fav was the monorail) we would take at least one circle round the park in the train from Main Street USA. The well-scrubbed conductors and engineers would pose smiling for photos.

It was like that, a little. For just a moment, I was six years old again. Uncle Walt was in his heaven. And all was right with the world.


*

We moved out of the city. The downtown was replaced by light industrial parks, then small homes, then countryside. Around us stretched hill-lands and grasslands, range and mesa, sage and tumbleweed. We could see the mountains in the distance.

We talked. My parents told us about their trip to China. We told them about our son—David—and how he was going to graduate from college. We watched as the crowd of other passengers grew around us.

A pleasant voice came over the intercom and said we were entering Indian lands. We were asked to reframe from taking photos. This out of respect to the sensitivities of the local people.

We pulled then, through, a pueblo…a small town of adobe and empty spaces. Here and there were the dome-shaped brick ovens in which fry bread is made. They are beautiful and strange, those ovens. Organic, almost. As though they grew there, or were thrown smoothly on the mandala wheel of the potter.

On the way back, we would hear a young lawyer (a man who seemed unable to keep his mouth shut) begin to lecture a pair of total strangers in the seat next to his. "They bake bread in those," he said, and went into detail. He assumed they were tourists, eager to hear his wisdom. The man and two women tried repeatedly to get a word in. Finally, when he took a breath, they interrupted. "We know. We are from here."

It didn't stop him from talking all the way to the station.

The train moved on.

*

We moved upward and through hills, past the highway, then away from it. For a moment, we would be an open field, cattle grazing in the distance, a string of barbed wire between them and us. Then, we would be in the hills, empty and steep.

Then, rather suddenly, we were there.

We were in Santa Fe.


*

There are two stations in Santa Fe. We went to the second one. It is in the midst of new buildings—shops, restaurants, offices. All very clean, very fresh, very bright.

We exited the train. Conductors appeared as if by magic at the doors and helped everyone down the steps. The morning sun slanted brightly down from the East and the station platform was soft yellow in the early light.

We walked along the platform and more smiling young people in uniforms appeared. "This way to the free buses…" they motioned us. "This way to the shuttles downtown."

We followed their cheery directions. We found ourselves in a white van where a pleasant man told us the stops of the van and how often it ran. He noted particularly the final run of the evening so that we wouldn't miss our train…assuming, of course, that we didn't stay the night.

And, a few minutes later, we were in the Square.


*

Like most historic cities, Santa Fe is centered on an ancient square. There is a monument in the center of the square, and a bit of grass. Along one side of the square is the Palace of the Governors, from whence the Conquistadors once ruled, and which is now a museum. Along the other sides of the square, and stretching off deep into the city, are shops, restaurants, tourist attractions, art galleries, hotels, sculpture gardens, historic churches, more restaurants, women's clothing shops, handcrafted furniture studios, more art galleries, more hotels, more shops, and then, for change, more restaurants.

My parents suggested that we split up. They didn't want to hold us back, they said. So they said they'd meet us at the La Fonda hotel at noon. We would go to lunch from there. We agreed. They vanished in the direction of the Palace.

We went to the shops. We were, in fact, on a mission. Our son, as I said, was graduating from the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. We wanted to find him a gift for the occasion. We weren't quite sure what to get him. He likes Southwestern art. He has a small collection of Kachinas, though he has no room for them at his apartment, so they are at the house with us. Still, they wait for him and for the time when he'll reclaim them. One morning, one future day, Sun and Mudhead, Eagle and Maiden, will fly from us to him.

Which is just as it should be.

But we weren't quite sure what to get him. We had thought about another Kachina, but those are hard to ship. We thought, too, about a Zuni fetish, perhaps the badger or the bear, though I suppose the lion would suit him best.

So, one of the things we wanted to do was just browse…just see if we saw something we thought he'd like.

Honestly, though, I was a little reluctant to get him anything in Santa Fe. It is, after all, a city full of travelers and tourists. And prices go up accordingly.


*

We toured. We shopped. We made our way, with our cameras, among our fellow tourists, with their cameras. We window shopped. We looked at the mannequins wearing "broomstick dresses," and squash blossom necklaces. We went past the Loretto Chapel with its supposedly Miraculous Stair, constructed (it is said) by Saint Joseph himself. It is surely not true. But it makes a rather sweet story. We looked at the jewelry on display by the sidewalk vendors in front of the Palace. Martha refused my repeated suggestions that I buy her something.

We decided we saw nothing that would suit our son. So, we headed for the La Fonda.

And then, we began to notice what we had seen all along, but which we had chosen not to see.

The Wealth.


*

Now, understand me. There is nothing inherently wrong with people who have money. Indeed, I'd very much like to be one.

But, let us face facts; riches are no more a guarantor of virtue than is poverty. More, there is a kind of wealth (careless, indifferent, arrogant) that is most unattractive indeed.

And Santa Fe has money. Not all of Santa Fe, of course. Most of the people there have mid-sized incomes at most. But, recall, this is a city which has drawn to itself the affluent for almost a century—movie stars and best-selling novelists, entrepreneurs in search of simplicity and romance, lawyers of a bohemian bent, oil men from Texas, trust fund babies.

You see them, and their money, periodically, unexpectedly, in a flash…like the parting of clouds that reveals the sun. You'll be in a gallery, you'll glance away from a painting, and there will be a celebrity you know. Or, you'll be at a restaurant, glance at a table, and there will be two women, their clothes more expensive than your car, sampling Chili Rellenos with tentative forks. Or…in our case that morning…the blonde girl, as sleek as a centerfold, so very pleased with herself, and with her hateful little dog whose name was not Toto.

We had decided it was time to head back toward the La Fonda where we would meet my parents. We turned into the square from a side street, and she was there on the sidewalk—a woman somewhere in her twenties, wearing an expensive short white dress, carefully shaped hair, designer sun glasses, quite pretty in her way, yet with that certain self-satisfied hardness that comes from knowing that you are almost always the center of attention.

We heard her before we saw her. She was yelling to some companion across the square that they would meet up later. We heard her cultured but—at that moment—shrill voice as it cut over the traffic.

We turned and looked. She was standing on the walk with a small dog on a leash. I don't remember the breed. Something tiny. It pawed restlessly at the ground. She pulled it forward and they went on a little ways. Then, it halted and would not go on in spite of her urging. It lifted its tiny rear into the air and…

Shit upon the walk.

*

I, too, have a small dog. A Shih Tzu. I walk him every morning. He, too, does his business on the way. I carry a little stash of plastic bags expressly for the purpose of cleaning up after him. Yes, that means I am bourgeois, and I follow the rules, and I wash my hands after I use the john. Doubtless many men and women find me amusing for that.

But, I feel there is something so very crude about leaving excrement in a public place. And, more, that there is something arrogant in thinking that someone else, someone lesser than yourself, will deal with your messes.

And the young woman? With her dog?

She watched, faintly smiling, while it finished its leisurely crap. And then, without a backward glance, she led it away.

The little pile that it…and she… had left behind remained steaming where it was.


*

It was a little thing. A small thing. A trivial thing. In Manhattan or downtown Boston, you wouldn't give it another glance.

Yet, for me, in this place, it was a metaphor.

*

Martha and I watched her go. Martha said something about the sheer thoughtlessness of her action. I agreed.

We shrugged. Well. Time to head to the La Fonda.

Yet, even as we walked, I began to wrestle with curious ideas…

About the difference between a city and an amusement.

But that's for next time.






Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker