Saturday, February 14, 2015

The Valentine Chocolatier

Javelinas would be the ones with bacon, maybe a whole piece but more likely a little pile of chopped bacon, then covered with caramel and topped with chocolate, like a turtle but with bacon instead of nuts, pressed into a form the shape of the animal. Jackrabbits would have a center of prickly pear jelly. Maybe there could be a coyote filled with sage truffle. Lorena thought of all the goods she could make if she opened a chocolate shop in the nearby blink-and-you-miss-it town of Valentine and called it The Valentine Chocolatier instead of curating failure which at the moment felt as hopeless as it sounded.

Lorena pulled up, short of breath, and realized she’d been pounding the two lane blacktop pretty hard. She noticed the pink clouds and the birds. She didn’t know what bird made the pretty song; that would be a good thing to learn. She continued walking at a more relaxed pace. She wiped a trace of sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, although the dry air and the breeze mostly did the job, even on a hot autumn day like this. She walked for the exercise, sure. But today it was mostly to clear her mind, or at least change the channel for a little while.

She pulled one of the hamburger patties from the napkins in her pocket and threw it at the dog coming her way. Out on this stretch of road, she learned to be prepared. They weren’t strays, exactly; they had homes, but they didn’t go there enough or with sufficient enforcement for Lorena’s comfort. So she took to stopping at the gas station for some greasy meat before heading out on her afternoon walk.

The houses cleared out as she turned the bend in the road toward the dump. The Matilda Mountains to the north took on a dusty blue cast in the afternoon light. She could make a chocolate porcupine using piƱon nuts from those mountains as spines. As she passed the town park with the baseball diamond, Lorena envisioned little chocolate water towers like the ones in so many little Texas towns, full of booze instead of water. Maybe this is how she could use sotol, the northern Mexican moonshine in the same family as tequila. The Valentine Chocolatier: that meant she would have to live, or at least have her shop, in Valentine, even more dusty and woebegone than Bee Springs. The Museum of Chocolate, maybe that was it. Too much? With Van Lear’s Museum of Disasters, Kevan’s Museum of Tomatoes? She laughed that she now collected museums the way she collected heart-shaped rocks in the desert; once you had the eye for it, you found them everywhere. These fellas were crazy and she was crazy right along with them.

Lorena was noticing how good the afternoon smelled when she saw up ahead along the fence line what looked like a large upright piece of white plastic gently swaying in what really wasn’t much of a breeze. It looked like nothing so much as a wing. Lorena remembered the dream she’d had about the giant black horse; she had kept trying to make it a dappled gray horse, but it was still black. She rode the horse across an alkali flat at great speed, the horse galloping ahead of a high and thick trail of dust. She rode with ease, this horse that was gray but really black. And she breathed the smell of the horse and of the dust and of the sunshine itself. She could have been a bird; the movement of the horse through the air made that possible. But she chose to stay with the horse on the ground. The horse was not a bird. She remembered making the conscious decision that the horse was not a bird and she would not be a bird. She was the horse, a giant on the earth.

The wing was a wing and Lorena trotted up to find a woman trapped beneath it. Lorena called out to the woman and was met with a string of swear words that Lorena would have never thought to put together in that way: a biblical figure, a barnyard animal, and a sex act. She took it as a good sign. The woman was fastened into the seat of the crashed ultralight. And crashed, Lorena realized, was too strong of a word. The small craft was tipped so the pilot’s seat was on its side up against the bent wing on the ground. The other wing stood straight up in the air. Without too much effort, Lorena was able to right the craft and follow the woman’s direction to find her knife in the kit bag. Her safety harness had caught and she couldn’t get free. Lorena helped her cut her way out and soon they were standing on the road looking at the damaged wing.

“Between that damnable wind and them shit-cussin’ little pigs I just got all looped up.” Janny took off her leather flight helmet and sunglasses and Lorena realized she was quite aged. She wore a light blue jumpsuit and had white hair pinned up in a bun.

“Are you OK? Did you hurt anything?”

“I expect I’ll have a bruise here on my sternum, but the fricker didn’t stop my heart.” She laughed and coughed a little. “I hope this here is Bee Springs. I’ve come a long way and I’d hate to think there’s farther I need to go. I’m Janny.”

“It is. I’m Lorena. Can I help?”

Janny was looking for a friend in town so they left the machine in the ditch where it lay. She got her kit bag from behind the seat of the ultralight, and they hitched a ride back to town with Ernie from the dump who was heading out but turned around on their account.

“I think I met you at the Firemen’s barbecue last week, didn’t I?” asked Lorena.

“I guess you did. You’re that gal helping out Van Lear at the museum.”

“So you know Van Lear? He’s still kickin’?” Janny asked Lorena

“Sure. Everybody here knows Van Lear. Is that who you’re here to see?”

“Mmhmm.”

Van Lear was one of the dearest men Lorena had ever met, certainly worked with. But why did men have to be so dang disorganized? His museum was a gem, but he was stuck in the 20th—19th?— century philosophy of more-is-more. She thought by coming here she would learn something from him: the wizened master, the guru, the patron saint of weird little museums in the middle of nowhere. So far, she had learned how to cook pulled pork, how to sweet-talk folks into giving their stuff to him, and how to change the starter in an ’82 Ford F250—not insignificant skills but not what she’d come for.

Kevan at least had sought professional consultation, and his tomato museum was up and running and somehow logical and inspiring and even funny, once you accepted the notion that it was an ode to tomatoes. Kevan himself, though, she could not figure out and decided, repeatedly, that she shouldn’t even try. She did wish, though, that she could find a way to be comfortable with him. She had once read Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s diaries of meeting Charles. Anne wrote that she refused to treat him special, even though he had just flown the Atlantic and was ridiculously famous; but she couldn’t treat him like everyone else because he was so clearly not like anyone else. So she avoided him. Evidently it worked for they married. Lorena didn’t mistake Kevan for Charles Lindbergh, but she was often at a loss with him because he too was clearly not like anyone else.

“I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten your name already. Would you tell me again?”

“It’s Janny. I used to know Van Lear.”

Bells started going off in Lorena’s head as she directed Ernie to the casita she rented. How many girls named Janny could one man know in a lifetime; one, she guessed as they got out of the truck. Lorena led Janny into the adobe cottage.

“Van Lear talks about you sometimes,” Lorena said. “You know he has a museum.”

“About disasters. I saw about it in a magazine one time.” Janny put down her bag and looked at the books on the shelf. Lorena got them both a glass of water and invited Janny to sit down. “Shippers, I hope he don’t consider me a disaster.”

“No, not at all. He talks about you as one of the few women he loved in his life. His wife was killed in a house fire here in Bee Springs, maybe fifteen years ago. That was the start of the museum.”

“I knew that too.” She drank her water and looked away from Lorena. Lorena was in no hurry; she hoped a story would come out. “I had a husband. And a boy. But they’re gone a long time now.” The room was quiet and Janny didn’t continue.

“Maybe you could tell Van Lear the story and he could put it in the museum.”

“No, it’s not a story. It’s more like a deep fiery pit of hell. It’s Goddamn abstract art.” She looked at Lorena then and made a funny little exhalation sort of like a laugh and very much like an end to this topic.

“So does Van Lear know you are coming? I’m surprised he didn’t say anything.”

“No, it’s kind of a whim that brought me here.”

Lorena didn’t think anyone came all the way to Bee Springs on a whim, especially in a mosquito-mobile. But she wanted to be helpful. This woman had a light about her with crackly skin turned pink in the sun, held up by unusually large and wide-set cheekbones. She had long fingers that Lorena had been taught to think of as piano hands. They flitted off her knee as she talked.

“Why don’t you plan on spending the night here. I have a spare room. And I can make dinner. We’ll have Van Lear over. Does that sound OK? I can invite another friend too, make it a party. We’ll go out and get your machine tomorrow with my friend’s truck.”

“Oh yes. I hope he’ll come.” Janny said the last of that mostly to herself.

“Let’s plan on seven because I’ll need to go to the store.”

“I have a question that’s been on my mind about Van Lear’s museum. I thought about this when I first saw the story. When I knew him, his mother had passed. He kept her weddin’ suit in plastic and wouldn’t let me touch it; and not just the suit but the whole fartin’ outfit—hat, gloves, silk underpanties, ever-thin’.”

Lorena’s breath left her and a tingle went up her spine. “Is this the suit from Neiman Marcus in Dallas?”

“That’s right; she worked there and saved up a month’s salary to buy it all.”

“It is,” Lorena confirmed. “It’s part of the museum.”

Lorena left Janny to rest and take a shower. She knew the suit well that Janny asked after. In the museum, the story told of an anonymous woman who donated it to Van Lear, a woman whose wedding had never taken place, who waited for her man to come back. Lorena never imagined that the woman was Van Lear’s mother.

She went first to the museum to find Van Lear. He was chatting with Evelyn who had come at closing time for the weekly cleaning. Seeing Lorena, he grabbed his hat and walked out the front door with her. He wanted to ask about the oral history training she’d signed him up for. But she stopped him with the big news.

“Janny? Really? My Janny? Flying? Well, if anyone would fly to Bee Spring in an ultralight to see me after fifty years, crash land it, and then have me over for dinner, it would be Janny. I’ll be there.”

“Bring some flowers or something.”

Next she went to Kevan’s house. She had a firm rule that she did not get involved with anyone that she interviewed for her Museum of Failures in Winnemuca. She met Kevan when he came in doing museum research and stayed to commit his story of a failed love affair to video. Men had such a hard time being vulnerable, she observed, that when they were they thought they ought to do something about it—like seduce the interviewer. Well, that was some time ago and he took the rejection well. Their friendship had developed through correspondence, and now that she was here for a month working with Van Lear, she and Kevan didn’t quite know how to be around each other.

She knocked on his door and was relieved when he answered. “Hey, I hope you’re free tonight because I really need your help with something.” She hadn’t meant to sound desperate, but Kevan seemed pleased. She explained her situation and that she needed him to be there so she wasn’t the third wheel. He agreed. He really was a good guy, she thought.

“And I have to tell you something. That Neiman Marcus wedding outfit?” Kevan nodded; it was a highlight of the exhibits. “Janny told me it belonged to Van Lear’s mother.”

Kevan paused a moment, then said, “I’ve long wondered if that were the case.” They stood in the doorway in pain for their friend who carried the secret. “So what’s she like?”

“She swears a lot.”

“Should be an interesting evening.”

“You should fetch him. I’ll feel weird alone with them if he got there first. And bring flowers or something.”

Lorena had one last thought. “I have no idea what Janny’s intentions are, but it would be nice for Van Lear to have a lady friend. He’s just so committed, though, to the memory of Ruthie.”

“That’s true. But he also has a knack for picking himself up and starting over, don’t you think? That’s his theme, right? Like you museum people say.”

Kevan had recently told her about meeting his father the day he smashed into two turkey vultures on the road up to Carlsbad, just a stranger out of nowhere who arrived at the right time with the right skills to kill the flopping birds where they lay on the road. As he was leaving he introduced himself as that mythical figure missing in Kevan’s life and then he was gone, unsuspecting. Van Lear told her that once when he, Van Lear, mentioned that Kevan hadn’t had his disaster yet—and Van Lear believed that everyone, sooner or later, had a museum-worthy disaster—Kevan replied that his whole life was a disaster. Lorena got it; well, she didn’t get it, and she wondered if she could get it if it could make a difference to Kevan and to her and Kevan. All in all, starting over with a chocolate shop seemed perfectly sane.

Lorena found a rotisserie chicken at the store and decided to make a pot pie. She bought a biscuit mix and other ingredients and then added some butter pecan ice cream to her cart. Checking out she realized that she was making a meal like her grandma would make; she thought that was appropriate.

Janny’s bedroom door was closed. Lorena worked quietly in the kitchen cooking dinner and tidying up. She noted how easily she and Kevan functioned when it wasn’t about them. So he knew about Van Lear’s parents; well he’d known Van Lear all his life. She could imagine Van Lear as a father figure for Kevan, or a grandfather. Van Lear knew how to ease an unspoken hunger. The story Kevan had recorded of his failure was real enough and painful, but it probably wasn’t the only story to tell. All she could do was speculate. She had mailed him the story of her failure but he never mentioned it.

She put the pot pie in the oven and set the table. These were people she had come to care about, and she cared that they were happy. Some people made it look so easy, she thought, couples who made sense together. How did they get past what they needed to get past?

Lorena heard the bedroom door and turned to find Janny cleaned up. She wore a simple beige linen dress and a scarf around her shoulders, a little makeup and her white hair in long braids. She was beautiful. Lorena wished she’d had time to bathe and change and put on some make-up.

“Van Lear always hated my braids,” Janny grinned.

“You know men. He probably never met another woman in braids since that he hasn’t thought of you.”

“I’m countin’ on that.” The two women smiled in recognition of Janny’s crazy journey to Bee Springs.

“If I know Van Lear, then, those will be the first words out of his mouth: I always hated those braids,” said Lorena. She juiced a grapefruit and made them a tequila cocktail.

It wasn’t but a little later that she looked out the window and saw the men walking up the road with the last ribbon of light in the sky behind them. She couldn’t tell what they carried in their hands but it was something.

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Dreams of Spring

I visited the Denver Botanic Gardens on Friday to take in the orchid show. They time this purposefully, when all is gray and hope is far away. It worked; how lovely. Now it is February and spring inches closer. We consult rodents to bolster ourselves for the remaining winter. But orchids are far lovelier, and I am glad for their acquaintance.








Wednesday, January 28, 2015

The Line

My latest High Country News comes to me this week with a collection of essays about issues confronting the West now and into the future. It also comes with a collection of thoughtful reader-suggested quotes. This, from Barry Lopez: “One of the great dreams of man must be to find some place between the extremes of nature and civilization where it is possible to live without regret.” I know that line; I’ve been thinking a lot about that line. It is different for each of us, and I currently find myself on the wrong (civilized) side of that line. I dream of life on the other, more natural, side.

Also this week comes a picture and a story from my friend Brian about horses. I wrote him that I am house-sitting. He countered that he is horse-sitting. He is spending his winter riding Icelandic ponies around the high desert of Eastern California. I’m reading Cormac McCarthy about people riding horses around the Chihuahuan Desert in the 1850s.



It comes together in a dream I’ve been having—a waking dream, so probably more like a fantasy. I have a horse, a giant draft-sized horse. He insists on being black, although I want him to be dapple gray. We ride out across the desert for days on end accomplishing nothing except being free. I wrote to Brian to ask what the appropriate minimum tool weapon against rattlesnakes would be in this situation. To pretend to be practical, the fantasy has me living in my little desert town without a car and traveling everywhere on the back of my giant horse. Mary Oliver wrote a poem about traveling on a horse that turns into a swan. Galloping across an alkali flat would kick up a trail of dust which could be bird-like, but I don’t think we turn into a bird. I think what is beautiful about this image is not what is traditionally thought of as magic such as the transmogrification of species; rather the beauty and magic is in the semblance of reality—this could happen to me.

If I can just cross that line back to the natural world.

I’ve been writing about this in a story that may or may not be done in time for Valentine’s Day. It is a Valentine story, although to call it a love story would be to put it in a Hollywood frame of reference, because although it is a love story, a reader might not recognize it as such. Anyway, my character dreams of a giant black or dapple gray horse and she distracts herself from her current challenges with thoughts of opening The Valentine Chocolatier in Valentine, Texas, where she will make javelina-shaped treats much like turtles but with bacon instead of pecans: bacon, caramel, chocolate pressed into molds the shape of these little wild desert pigs. I don’t mean to suggest, you see, that we don’t need something called civilization: just a question of dosing.

Part of the problem is that civilization is broken. Ours works a lot better for some than others. One of the stories in this High Country News is by Cally Carswell about protesters at a tar sands extraction site in Utah. She compares their vigil with other struggles going on in America right now: Occupy; minimum wage; the killings by police of Eric Garner, Michael Brown, and Tamir Rice; her attempt to obtain affordable health care under the Affordable Care Act. “All had one thing in common: the sense that our society is designed to work for some and not for others, with the balance tipping ever more in favor of those who need the least help. When I applied for health insurance, I felt something similar: The deck was stacked, against me.” She then tells an ugly story about a minimum wage fast food worker’s fight, a sentiment not far from the protesters’ in Utah. “People want a society with a little more humanity, one whose outcomes are less determined by corporations that serve only their shareholders, valuing profits above the stability of the atmosphere or the dignity of their workers.” She concludes by echoing the advice her editor shared about the protesters before she began reporting, “They’re not like regular people.” Carswell responds, “That may be true, but these are not regular times.”

The struggle that Carswell describes in Utah is a very common struggle between those who would speak for nature and those who would build up the machine of civilization to bulldoze nature. We know we are all complicit as we heat our homes and drive our cars, myself included. According to Cormac McCarthy, things weren’t any more pleasant in the era of horses on the plains. Who are we that we cannot bring humanity to our societies? Who are we that conflate the notions of civilization and domination? Who are we that stack the deck?

Wendell Berry says this:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the
      great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

Cooking Elk, Part II

It took me one hour to make the pot pie and longer than that to try and get a decent photo:


The house where I'm staying, like my house would, is filled with colorful dishes, not so conducive to foodie photos. But rest assured, this was/is delicious. I had a pack of elk steaks remaining in the freezer and one last lonely elk sausage. I adapted the Pioneer Woman's chicken pot pie recipe. And voila...elk pot pie.

I crock-potted the elk in some beef broth on low for about six hours last evening. I put it all, elk and broth and pot, in the fridge for the day.

Put some olive oil in Ginny's big, deep Lodge cast iron pan*, add a medium onion, 2 celery ribs, and 2 carrots, diced fine. Let 'em sit there softening on the stove while you get your act together.

Chop the cooked elk meat into small pieces. Somehow mix your pie crust in the meantime and put it in the fridge to firm up. I used Bob's Red Mill gluten-free pie crust mix plus butter. Worked great.

Put the meat in the pan with the veggies. Add a couple of tablespoons of flour or your pie crust mix and stir it all up. Let the flour coat the meat and veggies and get sticky. Then add some of your cooking liquid from the crock-pot or fresh broth. Add a little wine if you've got it. Add some water. Keep adding liquid as it thickens until your pan is full or it seems right (and this is why I will not have a food blog, ladies and gentlemen). At some point, if you like corn, throw in a half cup of frozen or canned corn. (If it were summer, I'd cook an ear and cut the kernels off; as we've established, though, it is nothing AT ALL like summer right now).

Let it all cook a few minutes. Throw in some turmeric, salt, pepper, and a dash of thyme. The last thing to add is a quarter cup (or a little more) of half and half and stir it all up well.

I hope by now you've decided what pan to cook it in. If I had all my stuff, I would have used my 3 1/2 quart Le Creuset french oven* from start to finish, stove top to oven. Ginny has a similar piece, but it is too big. So I used my old trick of putting the mix back into the crock-pot pot, putting the pie crust over it, and baking it that way for about 30 minutes at 375. Because of the depth of the crock pot, I find I need to broil it at the end for a few minutes to brown up the crust. And you could do the right thing and brush it with an egg before you bake it. Or you could forget...

That's it: more cooking with elk. Delicious.

*Nobody pays anywhere near full price for this stuff, by the way.

Friday, January 16, 2015

My Crazy Life

I’m reading a novel today and in the story they are riding a train somewhere in North Africa. And I’m reminded that I’m a person who has ridden on trains where the bathrooms are just holes that deposit your deposit onto the ground moving underneath. A sign tells you not to use the bathroom while stopped at a station, but of course. That’s an interesting experience to have in one’s pack because it signifies all the experiences that are related and connected.

I am sitting inside today on my coveted day off on my coveted long weekend because I am still, but nearly successfully, getting over this cruddy cold that now is approaching four weeks in duration. The lay low weekend should kick the last of it out so that I can return to normalcy and sing again and have an interest in fruit smoothies and going outside. 

I have not written here in some time: December was a challenge with a death in the family. January has not improved with our cold and snowy weather. There is a solution, of course, and it is spring.

I’m watching a boy in a red knitted hat out the front window playing with the ice chunks in the small river going across the street. It was a skating rink, now more of a swimming pool as our temperatures are in the 40s today. Earlier a man across the street broke up some ice, presumably in the vicinity of a drain. No dice; the long narrow pool remains—to the delight of the hatted youth. 

I am in Colorado. I will not return to Marfa until the weather is better and/or I have license to stay forever. Aside from love, I’m quite accustomed to getting my way…eventually…and when I bend my will toward what is being offered (a not-insignificant caveat). So I am concerned now only about getting through this hell called winter where I so hoped and believed I would not be. Blessedly a house has come my way with a comfortable bed, a luscious shower, and a kitchen that makes me quite happy—a housesitting gig for friends for the winter. And it is full of books that I have not read. So far: Jim Harrison, Cormac McCarthy, Paul Bowles…and the promise of Cervantes when time has cleared Moby Dick out of my head (which I read entirely and with delight in December). 

So in fact the laziness of my current days would not lend one to think of my craziness: though rhyme does suggest contrast. I think I was reading Tolstoy on a train with the toilet hole. I think I was young and impressionable when a friend told me that, like the Bowles character, he preferred to be a traveler, not a tourist. Many years later I realize we all want to be an awful lot of things that maybe we aren’t and never will be. But I have been a traveler.

My one victory over the torpor of winter, oddly, is dating. I’m dating. It’s part exhausting and part fun and mostly going nowhere. But I like Indian food and pink margaritas and the charcuterie that is enjoying popularity right now as much as the next person. So why not enjoy with company. My terrible habit, alas, is giving them all names instead of really giving them a chance: The Climate Change Denier, The Train Conductor, The Unemployed Clown. In this pursuit, as I hinted above, I’m not accustomed to getting my way, but actually it seems like I am right now—because I really have no expectations. It’s kind of amazing that I’ve found so many men to have a date with. That in itself seems crazy. I think of it as practice…at my age?!

Eh, me and the kids splashing in the urban ice pond. We’re doing the best we can. The crazy part of life rarely seems crazy at the time; it seems like what one must do to breathe and feel like a full human being—only sometimes I do stop and laugh and think, yeah…crazy…and then I keep going because it is what I must do to breathe and feel like I’m using my time in a way that makes sense. And so when I’m using my time in a way that feels wasteful, then I’m bothered (which, to be clear, refers only to my current job and not at all to a day spent reading a good book which is never wasteful). I think that’s what I’ve just spent eight paragraphs sorting out. I think the hatted boys who have now gone home spent a few minutes just now feeling fully human in the ice pond on my street. And I was smart to pay attention.

I'm going now to fry a trout in bacon fat for my supper. 

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Give a Field Guide

One of the great joys of adulthood is learning something new. This can often be enabled with a field guide: to birds, stars, vascular plants of the Southern Rockies--you name it. But some of the most important adult learning is actually about ourselves. And despite the unending supply of self-help books, sometimes one just needs a field guide. This year I found just the right one. I bought this off the table at the Marfa Book Company, a spot that uncannily often/always has waiting the exact book I'm supposed to be reading right now. This one surely qualifies.

The question then is how to get lost. Never to get lost is not to live, not to know how to get lost brings you to destruction, and somewhere in the terra incognita in between lies a life of discovery. 

The book is a few years old, so you can buy it used here...

Or, really, any book at all that speaks to your heart is a welcome gift to a friend on a quest.


Saturday, December 6, 2014

Give Holly Hats

My friend Holly makes lots of cool stuff...I mean like fine arts and crafts, not the kindergarten-style products I try and pass off. (I have words; I can't have everything). Anyway, you should get a Holly hat. I think that's all she has available right now--no bags or stuffed sheep or notecards. They are well made, colorful, warm, fuzzy..what more could you want in a hat? Here are a few samples that I own:



Yes, they will take you amazing places. Buy your Holly hat here...

Friday, December 5, 2014

Give Neil

When I was in Marfa last week, my host friend invited me into her current mini-obsession with Cosmos, now streaming on Netflix. This old Carl Sagan series has been brought back to life with astrophysicist Neil DeGrasse Tyson taking on the the role of our host in the universe. It's fun and compelling; and Tyson, as usual, is completely engaging and science-nerd-dreamy.

So today's recommendation is a Neil DeGrasse Tyson action figure! Yay science!


Oh, except they aren't actually real. They are a very cool art project done by some creative dude in his basement or something,

OK, so I kept looking and found this Neil that you can actually buy on Etsy.

To tell you the truth, though, the Etsy doll lacks some essential Neil-ness,

So then I found this, which in the end becomes today's recommendation. 

He's free. You print him and fold him yourself and he can sit on your desk and remind you how absolutely cool you can be if you dig physics too. Better yet, for the holidays, give Neil to a young person for inspiration; the universe is infinite and so should be our dreams. 

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Give a Pass to Understanding

It's hard to think about fun holiday gifts in the light of yesterday's news of a Grand Jury in New York's refusal to indict the officer who killed Eric Garner. So please bear with me if this seems self serving.

Someone you know needs a National Park Pass. Maybe you? I had originally planned to wax poetic about natural parks and sites of cultural significance and fun recreation areas. Please visit those too! But more relevant today are our sites of shame, sites of conscience, sites of civil and human rights. Fortunately for all of us, the National Park Service now preserves these sites too and tells the stories of a more diverse face of America. Working at Manzanar NHS made me aware of how important these stories are to all Americans. It's not a perfect system; we have a long way to go to full inclusivity. But we are getting there, and you can help by visiting these sites and paying witness. As Ranger Michael says, "Stories at National Parks are meaningful and remind us of who we are, where we came from, and potentially where we're going." (The video's a bit corny, but he's spot on about stories.)


Today I'm recommending an America the Beautiful pass which gains you entry at all national park units and other federal lands as well. The pass is $80, so a bit more pricey than my other recommendations. Two people can share a pass, and the entry fees it covers are often up to $25 for each park. Keep in mind that many of the memorials, such as the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial shown above on the Mall in Washington D.C., are free to visit.

Other ways to get a pass:

Active Military? Free!
Americans with Disabilities? Free!
Americans 62 years or older? Ten bucks for life.
Volunteer 250 hours a year with the NPS? Free!

Learn more here...and obtain your pass at any federal recreation site that charges fees. If you can use a pass there, you can buy/obtain a pass there.

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Give Blooms

A gift that keeps giving for weeks after the holidays are past is the gift of an amaryllis bulb. Find them now at a local garden store or nursery or florist or even a home store. They require little work on the part of the giver or the lucky recipient. And what a payoff come the doldrums of January. Paperwhite narcissus work well too. Buy them...everywhere.


Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Give Poetry

On this second day of holiday gift suggestions, this one is broad and wide and of a philosophical nature. We all need more poetry in our lives, whether it is a handful of printed words arranged just so on a page or the sensibility of light and the touch of the earth upon our souls.

Mary Ruefle, in my stand-out book of 2013, writes:

Ramakrishna said: Given a choice between going to heaven and hearing a lecture on heaven, people would choose a lecture.

That is remarkably true, and remarkably sad, and the same remarkably true and sad thing can be said about poetry, here among us today.

That slim admonition led me directly to this poet whose 2014 volume is today's recommendation. I cherish this book. You might too. Or any other favorite poet. Read poetry, chew on poetry, share poetry, live poetry, write poetry.

Buy Saint Friend here...


Monday, December 1, 2014

If One Must Shop

Despite my Grinch attitude toward the lead-up to Christmas, it occurs to me that people do like to shop and give gifts, and that in moderation this can be a lovely pastime. In that spirit, perhaps I can make some recommendations of items that would be nice for your loved ones to receive and beneficial to real people who make them. So...

Marfa Brand soap is delicious. This is the new flavor for the holidays, but my absolute favorite is the Cedarwood Sage flavor made with goat milk from Malinda Beeman's happy Marfa goats. Yes, it's pricey, but made by hand and nice to have around.

Buy it here...www.marfabrands.com/

Sunday, November 30, 2014

The End of November

The end of this month represents a few things. First, the end of daily blogging. Thank you to the approximately six of you that read my novel. Second, the end of society as I would choose to be involved in; as I was in Target this morning picking up a feminine product, the clerk asked me if I had a good black friday. I apologize to my family ahead of time, there will be no Christmas shopping. I am planning cards. Third, the end of good weather...i.e. for now the end of Texas weather; the Colorado sky threatens snow today. Finally, the end of the mixed theme NaBloPoMo. I actually enjoy daily blogging if I have a theme. Let me cogitate. Meanwhile, grocery stores are justifiable, but otherwise what hell it is here in civilization.

Saturday, November 29, 2014

The End of Vacation

I took some pictures of myself yesterday, all blue and tan and brown and happy. And I realized that after a week of vacation is a great time for pictures. And what a nice vacation: four days of volunteering; one grand adventure day of scenic drive, hike, and fun with my friend Mary Lou; a museum; visits to many favorite dining establishments; dinner parties with Dedie and Lonn; snuggly comfy beds; and wonderful people familiar and new. Today I drive home. Fortunately I have more vacation coming next month.






Friday, November 28, 2014

The End of the Trail


I visited the Museum of the Big Bend at Sul Ross State University in Alpine this morning. My primary objective was to enjoy their temporary exhibit of aerial photographs by Paul Chaplo. And I did; I enjoyed it immensely. I had just had a conversation with first my father and then my Thanksgiving hosts about my joy of flying commercially over the Colorado Plateau because I knew the landscape which I viewed, some of it intimately by Jeep or foot. This exhibit of the Big Bend showed me a lifetime of exploration opportunities, beginning/continuing with my upcoming Christmas camping trip. A secondary objective was to see an artifact that my host is currently writing an article about for a monthly history journal.

  

The title today seems apt in continuing the theme that the end of one thing is often if not always the beginning of something extraordinary. But endings are hard, and I don't want to not honor that. So for now we will focus on endings, and meeting them with grace.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

The End of the World


This is a bit of wisdom I came across in my new book, Architecture for Travelers, by Joshua Edwards. He walked from his old home in Galveston to his new home in Marfa and invited us all along by way of a book of poems and stories. He took photos too, but that's another book.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

The End of the Day

Which around here, this week with the new moon, means it's time for the star show.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

The End of an Era

Spent yesterday and part of today helping to pack up the offices of KRTS, Radio for a Wide Range. But not to worry; they are just moving into a new building. The golden age of Marfa Public Radio is still ahead.

Monday, November 24, 2014

The End of the Road

El Rio Grande.
Empanoramacize at http://360.io/D7qwjf

Sunday, November 23, 2014

The End

The End.