Shake it Nancy Alberg McGuire! 

Gotta deliver the message with the moves he gives us.

Have a happy joyous and free Sunday.

 

Directed

to Go Ahead and Do it Even though I’m Down in Front

by Kite Singleton

 

 Rodin.

Last night.

THREE TIMES it had to be said,

“Ma’m, we ask that you

PLEASE  not  touch  BALZAC’S  @$$.”

Here are some things to know about Bob Burnquist.

• He was the Brazilian professional skateboarder who was the first to land a fake to fake 900, the 5th person in history to have ever landed the 900. I have no idea what this means.
• He has a signature trick called “one-footed smith grind”.
• He started the Bob Burnquist Foundation to bring knowledge about organic farming and gardening to schools.

But back to this man with whom I had the privilege of living.

We only had about 120′ of concrete on the ranch, a curving 3′ wide sidewalk from the freestanding garage to the house.  You can see on this site plan underneath these words. Note that the larger curving drives between the buildings are NOT concrete but packed dirt.  In fact, this sidewalk was about the only concrete within a 6-10 mile radius of our home depending on the direction. [concrete inside of stock tanks does not count, not big enough for skateboarding even in a small circle.] But the point is, it was enough for this man I lived with to master many moves on the board he bought for himself.

Determination knows no dirt boundaries.

This man is likely both dee-jaying and studying engineering stuff like formations and reservoirs this weekend.  And I hope, dancing in-between all of the work and play…to keep it fluid…to keep it loose.  He taught me all of my best moves.

Thanks for showing me how to rein it in and check both sides of the gray in life. Dance hard, dance on.

 

 

I have been meaning to start this category for quite a while, and today is the day!

There is so much to say, but I’m trying to learn “edit” to essence. Baby steps.

So I’ll start.

Dedication Page

This was inspired by the sisterhood of:

Gina Graves Lloyd

Lisa Revare Hickok

Lenise Rudnick Ward

Lacy Amelia Adams

Janet Rosel Willimon

The Bijin Curly Haired Girl Consultant

and all of the other curly-haired women

in life with whom I’ve discussed hair.

So, this is the reason why today was the day.

I have tried to capture my head in this picture to illustrate my morning.

[This picture was trying to give you both a front view with the cowlicks at the side, and the back with the super tight curl at nape but frizzy fluff on top. My genre of au natural(ly) curly hair takes a bit of work & product to look good. I have done nothing + wind. ]

I woke up early, so started the day at 6:30 yoga fix, armed with every possible makeup and toiletry item to hit the ground running in this part of town after my bakery pickup.  But of course, there is always the one forgotten item. In this case, two.

Now I can handle the day perfectly fine without one or the other (and we all can admit to goin’ cowboy a time or two by necessity, can’t we?). But both the up under and the down under is just a bit too risqué. My dress was floaty, there was a slight wind, and I get my pain au chocolat at Hi Hat* right by yoga.

[*Which, by the way, in the summer is so intimidating on the front brickyard that I now wait inside and chat with Jamie].

Main idea here:  at 52, no one wants to witness a dress that (as Shirley MacLaine said to her daughter Meryl Streep) “just twirled up!” or a Courtney Love stray mamelon, even through fabric.

So, I was left without the blow-dry to pick up my baked goods, clutching my jean jacket at the waist and anchoring my chiffonade-ish fabric.

But I was thinking as I was driving back to The Illinois where I live in Hyde Park….

what if, just today,

I first put as much energy,

at the beginning of the day,

on a conscious focus

of controlling self: thoughts, words, actions, deeds

instead of

controlling the true integrity of my hair?

[and actually, I have to confess that upon downloading the picture, I noticed my Grandmother's Zorach Madonna and Child that are on the demi-lune under the mirror. So of course, I had to look up some pictures in Gardner's Art Through the Ages to see pictures of both the Virgin Mary and Mary Magdalen to see if they had curly hair. This is not to compare myself with their thoughts, words, actions and deeds, though I wonder if subconciously I may have been doing so (so, ego check, though it is always good to aspire to great women).

Mainly, I just wanted to check out their hair. For the record, Mary Magdalen usually has just a bit of a wave which is pretty low maintenance. She is most often portrayed as a bit weary which is of course her sorrow at finding Jesus' body removed, but also understandable given her early life.  The Virgin Mary always has that veil over her head. I bet she realized early on that the Son of God was going to be a bit of an unruly-handful-of-a-boy to the point of going missing that day he ran off to his Father's house, which scares any parent silly. By the way, the storyteller Reverend Paul Rock at Second Pres gives me all this great material. Check him out.]

So here in my confession of the meaning

of that tangent, or lack? of focus…

I am not sure sometimes

when I do try to control what I can,

my thoughts, words, actions, deeds

if I am doing so,

or if I am going on some other path?

And so this reminder again.

When I direct my gaze,

I should pause so often

to recognize

that I am only

a soldier.

[note: this is word for word from my journal-sketchbook notes, my thoughts today in red.]

Monday July 14, 1980.  raining.

Woke at 9:00.  Susan Keck and Cindy Brown were at train station. Gave them directions to my hotel, headed to run 3 miles, breakfast, and waited for their arrival. They weren’t here until noon. They walked from Place de la Concorde!!!

Cindy Bean [Cindy was with KU French, the group I traveled with before Parsons] came over and we talked all afternoon. They, they headed to walk to the Eiffel Tower.

I went to le St. Germain Café for un café and letter writing. The sun did peep its head out for about 15 minutes. Yea!!

While running, I was able to see the military parade for Bastille Day. It was exciting, all blue coats, french flags and military music. The people that actually were in crowd at the parade got caught in the flow and were almost swept away! They said you have to move with the crowd or be trampled. Lots of grabbing hands that “wanted American Girls Bottoms,” they told me.

[darn, I missed it! No, honestly, the French men terrified me. I was just dying to see a good, wholesome & safe, midwestern boy in t-shirt  & bermudas with crew socks that summer, but there were none to be found in Paris. They were probably over in Amsterdam going going for the hard-core! ].

Mom called back and I loved talking to her. [I had called my mother. Back in that day, one didn't speak with their parents all summer if they were abroad. This was an emotional emergency after a stressful day with grand-mère.].

Dinner at 7:30-was supposed to be at the Hotel Regina to meet Granda at 6:30. Mom and I finished talking (I’m in jeans) and it’s 6:45.

[later, after the evening's events]

I’m writing again with a report of mon soir de souvenir. After my earlier report,  I tore into a dress and headed out on this evening of adventure. Late. took off heels & put in my hand and ran! Running through the streets of Paris, barefoot w/ shoes & purse in hand. Arrived at 7:00, seeing my destination.

Thought I had PLENTY of time to get to Tour d’Eiffel. Our reservation, we were told, would be given away at 7:40.

but….the 5-10 minute was was not to happen ON BASTILLE DAY!!??

Métro stop Trocadero is across Seine. No big deal, except that all three bridges (one directly across & one on either side) to the tower were closed for fireworks.

I said, “Granda!  It’s the second floor of the Eiffel Tower!  I just ran it and I’ll do it again. WE ARE NOT going to lose this reservation!” So off go the heels and I sprint away.

Of course, the gendarmes found it very cute and amusing and American that I was all dressed up & jogging along the Seine again, but NOT cute enough to allow “passage speciale.”  They were setting up for the fireworks.

Arrived at 7:45 at the le tour d’Eiffel, pushed some money at the elevator operator man to get me to the front of the line and headed up.

Maitre d’ very nice and amused. “Mais, où est Grandmere?” I waited, knowing it had been a fifteen minute jog and thus a 30 minute walk.  I knew very well that I’d likely do dishes all night to pay for the “set menu” if she did not appear avec l’argent pour payer. Voila, elle arrive! The waiter could see my relief, and we had beaucoup d’attention après ça.

It was a nice dinner.

Poulet

Crudites

Poisson

dessert, etc.

Mais, un problème. The Lido reservation at 10:30 (and it’s 10:00). The taxi driver says,”aahh, noonnn… there eez no way to go down le Champs-Elysées ce soir!”  So, I ask a man at the Sheraton-en francais-and tell him mon problème. Voila! I slip him 2 francs, we’re off, and arrive with 15 minutes to spare.

[while the Franc has changed quite a bit, especially since it's now a Euro, I have to say that I was a bit scotch that summer with my money. I think this was like 50 cents so I don't know that that translates to now. Being a woman from the era when it was an assumption that women were poor tippers though this is no longer valid or verified, I just wanted to get it on record that I now am an excellent tipper.]

The Lido was great. I could take the women, but the men were a bit much. [I sure wish I'd added more details here, or at least a good sketch as I cannot remember anything. They may have just be flamboyant in their dress. I'm sure if it were anything more it would have been embedded in my mind. I was with my Grandmother, Millie, but that being said I'm sure if it were racy we would have discussed it! ]

There was a “Steal the Mona Lisa” Dance Act, a Japanese Act, a Broadway musical act, Atlantis act, and this gymnastic/dancer couple.  And, a magic show, juggler, dog trick show, and the kind that throws their voice.

30 minute trip to get home due to traffic, but the city was kicking!

Our going out to the Champs-Elysees & Eiffel Tower on Bastille Day in Paris is like going out in downtown Washington, D.C. on the 4th of July, 1976!  Très-stupide!!

We can survive anything.

To Bed.

Susan & Cindy, poor things, were wrapped in our bedspreads on the floor!!

And so, for your entertainment, the beautiful women (and their French Girl Bottoms) at the Lido in Paris. The Rockettes in thongs and with bare (pick your words, boys!)….

 

In church today, it started with a smash production by the choir and kidlets. Here ’tis…

That’s Don Fisher at the end and Kite Singleton is in there in the left wing. I’m new, so I don’t want to venture with any other names. There’s not enough in there yet to get it wrong well.

So, introducing Paul, no picture of him this am in his robes with colorful yoke of Christ around his neck.

 I think he must have just arrived in KC from 5th Ave. Presbyterian

in NYC when they took this picture since he still appears to have his soul patch…

I hope I am not being disrespectful, but he makes the best subtle funnies in his sermons,

so I don’t think he’ll be bothered too much. I apologize to all others, I’ve lived away for a while.

Anyway, Reverend Paul Rocks sermons are on the Second Pres website, but today’s has not posted yet. Great storyteller, worth the radio stop.

So, this is what today’s events looked like, at least from my life’s experiences. That is, we were celebrating Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem.

When I am in church, I remember paintings that I studied when I was in college. So many of those that are so vivid to me are those from my early Northern Renaissance class taught by Linda Stone-Ferrier at KU Department of Art History. Besides the subject matter now telling me that God was always there, how he spoke to me in my language, they are hyper real.

It was a time when drawing accurately and from life had been dormant for over 200 years. It was a resurgence of Classicism, that pagan, Roman, pre-Christian time, multiple God time. So this was a risk, to not throw the beautiful baby out with the bath water of pre-Christian times. It is all we.

I am a classicist and get stuck in this stage when I paint, of course, not to compare myself with Giotto!  I like to see how real, but flat, but photographic I can be in using outline and color. Not for the art of it, don’t think I’m there, but for the craft. It is said as a young boy in Cimabue’s workshop, the ornery apprentice Giotto painted a fly upon one of his Master’s paintings when he was away. It repeatedly fooled his Master upon return who would try to swat it away.

And it was on plaster, that soft organic surface which absorbs and cracks and crumbles and has been the walls in both of the homes I have lived in during my second growing up (or childhood) of 22-52.

I won’t say much as you can wikipedia Giotto. But, I know this is one of my favorite scenes because it is like a stage.  And, as Shakespeare wrote, “All the World’s a Stage.”

Which will go back to one point of the Reverend Paul Rock’s Sermon today. But in a sec.

Here’s the context of Rev. Paul’s staging for the words of the day:

Basically, the celebration probably looked about like Woodstock. But without (well, let’s say fewer…everyone was invited) chemicals. The high was from Him.  There was disrobing, dancing, yelling, pretty unruly.

Christ had told his disciples that he would be crucified on the cross the after this journey. But, in their elation with celebrating the Good Lord and Jesus, the son of God, they were still in Party Mode. (Speaking of and BTW, Go Hawks. Feel the athlete-warrior passion.).

The disciples were asked to get their people to just tone it down a little. But Joy cannot be contained. And along the way, Christ invited everyone to come. Some were given a task, others were invited down from the box seats. But everyone was invited to participate in the Party.

• He welcomed everyone.
• As we all are, sinners.
• Sinners, each day, a different way, and always to begin anew.
• And always questioning ourselves to trust in God to speak to us, to love others, all others and ourselves.
• To learn, to think, to hear what he is saying, to question our “know.”

And, to keep it simple and open our hearts to love God and to invite everyone to his table.

So to bring it on home, the last song, Hymn 91, was “Ride On! Ride On in Majesty!”

And before we sang, the very Reverend Paul reminded us that we all have a part in the Play, on the Stage.

• Figure it out.
• Play it to the best of our ability while we are on this earth.
• Get down from our box, even if we have the best of seats and paid for the play.

Participate, connect, and share joy and love with others through our acts and our words and our actions.

And on a personal note, I sometimes get confused about my part right now and in the past. I often want to play too many, too soon, too fast for one moment. So I am reminded to stay in the moment to quiet self and get direction.

But I would say that my family does ride, does use God’s land to both feed us and do his work as a steward. So this hymn spoke to me.

So to John, Jack, and Lacy:  I am very fortunate to see you what you do so well, and to participate in my way.

Ride Tall, He’s always watching.

Hosanna! Loud Hosanna! Oh, give thanks, for the Lord is Good! 

 

 

The route from the ranch to Taos goes:

• liberal.
• bypass guymon at Hitch Feeders, now pig farmville.
• Boise city
• Clayton
• and then the long stretch to springer (83 miles).

Taylor Springs consists of a bathroom, scones, a gift shop, a John Wayne picture above an antique commode and gas, among other things. Everyone from miles around gets their mail here and there are only about 16 boxes. I felt right at home when I saw they had a few provisions for the locals such as canned vegetables and a very huge frozen brisket. No milk, it might spoil for lack of customers.

We had this in the nearby town of Gate when I lived on the east ranch with mailing address in Forgan, in the Oklahoma Panhandle. Gate was big time, though. That is, relatively more populated. In Gate they would have chili or chicken and noodles in a crockpot so you have frito pie or whatever was on their menu if you stopped in over the noon hour and there was anything left.

Someone told me once, “those people in Gate only got running water a few years ago!” But, I think that was just people trying to think they are better than other people.

Leave it to me to find the most expensive thing in the gift shop. I photographed in the event that anyone is collecting vintage child’s cowboy boots. These are very nice.

 John Adams would always always say to me when we drove to Santa Fe,

” it could be a lot worse.” I would laugh, as I never really felt that way about living on the high plains, or anywhere for that matter. 

We actually had a former cowboy, Mike Simmons, who later worked in northern new Mexico on a ranch. It was outside of Roy which is close to Wagon Mound, so named as the Mesa looks like, yes, a conestoga if u are driving I 25.  ”Outside” being a relative term.  They were 65 miles from town and the kids were on the schoolbus for an hour and a half.

Mike Simmons, who was Polish, was most famous for an expression that has been passed down within the Adams Family. He was digging around for something (don’t ask me what for, probably a water line to a stock tank?) out in a pasture with Dave Holden. Dave was a “lifer” cowboy on the XIT, at least at that time, as Dave grew up with John Adams.  After they hit the line as always happens one knows who digs, Mike wondered if it was a gas line. So of course, threw a match down into the pit.

After it razed off his eyebrows and took his hairline a few inches back, Mike smiled and said, “That’s some kinda HOT!”

This can really apply to anything, though I tend to use it for foods. For example,

• taking that bite of pizza too early,
• tricking your by son telling him wasabi is pistachio ice cream,
• eating fried cracklings from the skillet when making chicken,
• or, too many packets of peppers per one bite of thin pizza. I like pain with my peppers.

Now, I do take issue with this next remark as it might seem to imply to some that Cowboys are not smart and this is not true of those I have encountered. Smart is, anyway, is as smart does says Forrest. But, as Raymond Adams told me once:

“We don’t hire accountants as cowboys.”  I just look at this statement as this. They can all count, but the Cattleman is always there for the final one, in the field and on and off the truck. And frankly, the cattleman really aren’t accountants nor can they explain the tax return much better than any average person.  Accountants are accountants. 

This is another funny John Adams-ism and he is VERY as was his father, Raymond, and all of his brothers, Eddy, Clay, and Uncle Charlie.

People often commented about what a great life this would be…the fresh air, slower pace, and in general their idea of slow and leisurely pastoral lifestyle. Even more humorous, how lucky one was to have been fortunate enough to have been “given” this to work. Won’t even go there. Usually, it was somewhat based on the perception of  having  a horse farm in southern Johnson county and not by anyone owning a ranch who employed someone to live on it and manage. Though John usually would say very little, I know his thoughts and words to me were:

“do you think I’m living out here for my health?”

Ranching is the business. Cows are on the ranch that make the beef. The rancher and cowboys take care of the cows and the rancher takes care of the business no different than an owner takes care of his be it a store or a factory. Wide open spaces with no people or towns for miles and miles are where the cows are. Where it takes an hour to get milk or the kids to school.

At least it is for those whose cows pay the bills and send the kids to college, for it does take work and active management to make a ranch make money. Ours was not a Party Ranch, though I did have some nice parties there.

And another tidbit, in the realm of “advice.” And this is from a city girl, so I’m just trying to help out if the situation ever arises socially. Don’t even think to ask how many acres or head of cattle one owns in a casual conversation. There will be a pause. And you will get a reply something like,

“enough to keep us busy.”

And I like to explain to people why this is not acceptable to mannerly, old school, rural people as John did not, being more polite than I, perhaps. It is similar to asking to see someone’s tax returns, number of shirts they have sold, or how many mailings they do per day.

It is funny interesting, as often there are people who ask who know exactly what they are asking and I can see the calculator tallying. I know because they ask me!!  But this goes on everywhere. Don’t let anyone fool you that holding onto a few assets for several generations (can anyone do division?) over time means everyone learned the same manners about talking about money. Being that I am not from one of those families (my mother scared me with “rags to riches, riches to rags” from birth!), it really isn’t relevent for me to be discussing anyway.

The ranches down here are different than where I lived in southwest, Kansas. They are very large and spread out with sometimes one employee tending to areas that seem to be a whole township to me. With the climate, sparse vegetation and years of drought the cows per unit is very very low. So ladies, if any handsome man tells you he has a ranch in New Mexico, you might want to check on the stats and definitely go for a visit before getting too serious.

I was actually already engaged after I saw the XIT where we were to live. I visited for the first time after I was engaged on a return trip from Santa Fe where I flew into Liberal. And, I cried a bit after this trip for no real reason I knew of except being an emotional person. It was and still is the most beautiful ranch I have ever seen and I was in love. And I guess that cowgirl expression that “if you are going to say no, it’s best to say so right away” just didn’t apply to me as I’m not really a cowgirl by birth. I seem to dive in, have trepidation, and think it is too late to turn back. It has always brought adventure. But, I am now learning other ways that are softer, where I can say maybe and someone will wait until I’m ready to go.

I really did not intend for this to be a story, I just wanted to post pictures from Springer. But I will only add one anecdote about the restroom stop at the intersection in Springer. In part, it is because I have some great pictures from this intersection with my daughter. The story is this: I lost $400 in cash that I had saved for my Santa fe trip in the restroom one time when I was traveling with my sister and left my coin bag.

[I do tend to stress around nuclear family with three eldest children and me the youngest as everyone is always needing something or someone to organize, ME.]

It really cramped my shopping, so at first I was so depressed and down on myself for a bit. But, I went home after having spent no money at all and having had a lovely time. This can be a GOOD FEELING AFTER A TRIP, I had this in France, too. And guess what?  A very kind lady called me a week later with my cashola. She tracked me down somehow by calling some numbers in my wallet, having picked it up and not wanting to leave it there!  God really rewarded me for my parsimonious-ness that day.

So Springer brings me thoughts of prosperity and good fortune, always!

Here are one lovely sentimental picture from Springer, New Mexico at the Cactus Club with my daughter Lacy, about Christmas 1989 when she was not even a year old.

So, I guess the other stories and pictures will have to be another day.

The End, but only of this story. 

The route from the ranch to Taos goes:

• liberal.
• bypass guymon at Hitch Feeders, now pig farmville.
• Boise city
• Clayton
• and then the long stretch to springer (83 miles).

Taylor Springs consists of a bathroom, scones, a gift shop, a John Wayne picture above an antique commode and gas, among other things. Everyone from miles around gets their mail here and there are only about 16 boxes. I felt right at home when I saw they had a few provisions for the locals such as canned vegetables and a very huge frozen brisket. No milk, it might spoil for lack of customers.

We had this in the nearby town of Gate when I lived on the east ranch with mailing address in Forgan, in the Oklahoma Panhandle. Gate was big time, though. That is, relatively more populated. In Gate they would have chili or chicken and noodles in a crockpot so you have frito pie or whatever was on their menu if you stopped in over the noon hour and there was anything left.

Someone told me once, “those people in Gate only got running water a few years ago!” But, I think that was just people trying to think they are better than other people.

Leave it to me to find the most expensive thing in the gift shop. I photographed in the event that anyone is collecting vintage child’s cowboy boots. These are very nice.

 John Adams would always always say to me when we drove to Santa Fe,

” it could be a lot worse.” I would laugh, as I never really felt that way about living on the high plains, or anywhere for that matter. 

We actually had a former cowboy, Mike Simmons, who later worked in northern new Mexico on a ranch. It was outside of Roy which is close to Wagon Mound, so named as the Mesa looks like, yes, a conestoga if u are driving I 25.  ”Outside” being a relative term.  They were 65 miles from town and the kids were on the schoolbus for an hour and a half.

Mike Simmons, who was Polish, was most famous for an expression that has been passed down within the Adams Family. He was digging around for something (don’t ask me what for, probably a water line to a stock tank?) out in a pasture with Dave Holden. Dave was a “lifer” cowboy on the XIT, at least at that time, as Dave grew up with John Adams.  After they hit the line as always happens one knows who digs, Mike wondered if it was a gas line. So of course, threw a match down into the pit.

After it razed off his eyebrows and took his hairline a few inches back, Mike smiled and said, “That’s some kinda HOT!”

This can really apply to anything, though I tend to use it for foods. For example,

• taking that bite of pizza too early,
• tricking your by son telling him wasabi is pistachio ice cream,
• eating fried cracklings from the skillet when making chicken,
• or, too many packets of peppers per one bite of thin pizza. I like pain with my peppers.

Now, I do take issue with this next remark as it might seem to imply to some that Cowboys are not smart and this is not true of those I have encountered. Smart is, anyway, is as smart does says Forrest. But, as Raymond Adams told me once:

“We don’t hire accountants as cowboys.”  I just look at this statement as this. They can all count, but the Cattleman is always there for the final one, in the field and on and off the truck. And frankly, the cattleman really aren’t accountants nor can they explain the tax return much better than any average person.  Accountants are accountants. 

This is another funny John Adams-ism and he is VERY as was his father, Raymond, and all of his brothers, Eddy, Clay, and Uncle Charlie.

People often commented about what a great life this would be…the fresh air, slower pace, and in general their idea of slow and leisurely pastoral lifestyle. Even more humorous, how lucky one was to have been fortunate enough to have been “given” this to work. Won’t even go there. Usually, it was somewhat based on the perception of  having  a horse farm in southern Johnson county and not by anyone owning a ranch who employed someone to live on it and manage. Though John usually would say very little, I know his thoughts and words to me were:

“do you think I’m living out here for my health?”

Ranching is the business. Cows are on the ranch that make the beef. The rancher and cowboys take care of the cows and the rancher takes care of the business no different than an owner takes care of his be it a store or a factory. Wide open spaces with no people or towns for miles and miles are where the cows are. Where it takes an hour to get milk or the kids to school.

At least it is for those whose cows pay the bills and send the kids to college, for it does take work and active management to make a ranch make money. Ours was not a Party Ranch, though I did have some nice parties there.

And another tidbit, in the realm of “advice.” And this is from a city girl, so I’m just trying to help out if the situation ever arises socially. Don’t even think to ask how many acres or head of cattle one owns in a casual conversation. There will be a pause. And you will get a reply something like,

“enough to keep us busy.”

And I like to explain to people why this is not acceptable to mannerly, old school, rural people as John did not, being more polite than I, perhaps. It is similar to asking to see someone’s tax returns, number of shirts they have sold, or how many mailings they do per day.

It is funny interesting, as often there are people who ask who know exactly what they are asking and I can see the calculator tallying. I know because they ask me!!  But this goes on everywhere. Don’t let anyone fool you that holding onto a few assets for several generations (can anyone do division?) over time means everyone learned the same manners about talking about money. Being that I am not from one of those families (my mother scared me with “rags to riches, riches to rags” from birth!), it really isn’t relevent for me to be discussing anyway.

The ranches down here are different than where I lived in southwest, Kansas. They are very large and spread out with sometimes one employee tending to areas that seem to be a whole township to me. With the climate, sparse vegetation and years of drought the cows per unit is very very low. So ladies, if any handsome man tells you he has a ranch in New Mexico, you might want to check on the stats and definitely go for a visit before getting too serious.

I was actually already engaged after I saw the XIT where we were to live. I visited for the first time after I was engaged on a return trip from Santa Fe where I flew into Liberal. And, I cried a bit after this trip for no real reason I knew of except being an emotional person. It was and still is the most beautiful ranch I have ever seen and I was in love. And I guess that cowgirl expression that “if you are going to say no, it’s best to say so right away” just didn’t apply to me as I’m not really a cowgirl by birth. I seem to dive in, have trepidation, and think it is too late to turn back. It has always brought adventure. But, I am now learning other ways that are softer, where I can say maybe and someone will wait until I’m ready to go.

I really did not intend for this to be a story, I just wanted to post pictures from Springer. But I will only add one anecdote about the restroom stop at the intersection in Springer. In part, it is because I have some great pictures from this intersection with my daughter. The story is this: I lost $400 in cash that I had saved for my Santa fe trip in the restroom one time when I was traveling with my sister and left my coin bag.

[I do tend to stress around nuclear family with three eldest children and me the youngest as everyone is always needing something or someone to organize, ME.]

It really cramped my shopping, so at first I was so depressed and down on myself for a bit. But, I went home after having spent no money at all and having had a lovely time. This can be a GOOD FEELING AFTER A TRIP, I had this in France, too. And guess what?  A very kind lady called me a week later with my cashola. She tracked me down somehow by calling some numbers in my wallet, having picked it up and not wanting to leave it there!  God really rewarded me for my parsimonious-ness that day.

So Springer brings me thoughts of prosperity and good fortune, always!

Here are one lovely sentimental picture from Springer, New Mexico at the Cactus Club with my daughter Lacy, about Christmas 1989 when she was not even a year old.

So, I guess the other stories and pictures will have to be another day.

The End, but only of this story. 

I will quit talking and telling stories. Here are more Springer pictures.

Beautiful old buildings in use.

 Magistrate Court. Springer, New Mexico.

Hmm…I think the Zia Theater might be Clayton, NM. Someone correct me.

This is the R. H. Cowan Livery Stable, a beautiful building.

I cannot read the date.

For me, here is where the fascination begins…

There is nothing more special and interesting than a town that is in some stage of much much later mid-life but is still very much alive…

And when things are left untouched, with no one coming in to perfect, re-work, clean-up or tear out.

To not try to make young again or worry if others see their antique and patina as trash or think it is depressing….it is not.

Simply content to accept…

Just like a person might be….could be….

So honest.

Here, I’m going to take you on an adventure….

This is where I saw the first anomaly….the red corrugated tin was fine, but the asian manner in which the side columns were arranged seemed out-of-place….

So I ventured beyond and yes, Tonto, it does not look like we are in Indian Country…

There is some kind of old hotel here. Not the era of the Brown Hotel, of course, but perhaps when Raton had horse racing. Which, by the way, is sorely needed and desperately wanted in rural northern New Mexico. I heard it got caught into politics with horse racing around Albuquerque which is a loss. Nothing can be as interesting or exciting as traveling in places where people have not ventured for some time.

I don’t know if you can see, but there is a pathway that heads in with a bramble arbor that arcs overhead which a person must walk under…It’s like the artist that does those kind of boyscout lashing architectural structures (KU Campus by the Chapel) but in a time before it was art…

I just really could not scale a stucco wall, but I did see this on a rope over the wall.

A Key?

A clue?

What story to tell…

And what will my ghost be like?