Days At The Ranch

I never really wrote about my first ever horseback ride in the canyons of Cerillos. I very impulsively made the decision to book a sunset ride as it just seemed the thing to do. It is amazing how all my yee haw has been ignited like a brush fire. I have even bought a pair of boots. More on that later. Yee haw big time...

I arrived at the Broken Saddle Ranch in Cerillos. The sun was still pretty high as I had gotten there early, as the cowboy rather sternly informed me that I needed to get there on time. Turns out my good doobee-ness wasn't all that necessary as the cowboy waited for a young couple from Baltimore which put us about 20 minutes closer to sunset. I parked and headed for the sign in area, a tiny building which appeared to be roofed with steer skulls. The bones were pure white, bleached from the burn of sun. There were two small corrals and several pretty horses that looked at me as if they begged me to let them stay out of the sun in the shade. Lots of snorting and tail swishing. Clearly pissed. Naw...

Met a nice couple from Oklahoma City. The guy looked like that cute doctor (who was on The Bachelor)who now has his own show. Cute. The girl matched his movie star looks with a perfect make up job. perky boobs and a tight little ass in her tight jeans. I wanted to hate her, but she was charming. The other couple was from Baltimore...yes...the tardy ones.

Our trail cowboy was named John Wayne-really-and he was the archetypal cowboy with a floppy felt hat with greasy spots on it. His jeans were faded and baggy in the seat, held up by a well loved leather belt with a silver buckle the size of a box turtle. An old faded plaid shirt and a red kerchief around his neck completed the look. And he was dusty as all hell. I was soon to find out why.

As we were all total neophytes, he gathered us in the corral and a cute blonde wrangler gal brought the horses forward one by one. Baltimore Emily was the first to mount and she was freaking out every time the horse moved. Old John was very reassuring and told us how these horses were gentle "beginners" horses. He gave us a ten minute crash course in horse handlin' to include the crucial foot in stirrup position: stirrup across ball of foot, heels down. He also told us to keep our legs turned out with our knees bent and how to clamp onto the horse using our thighs. A too quick review of steering with the reins- and we were off.

My horse was named Danvers and was reasonably responsive. We spent about ten minutes just ambling along and then Johnny Boy informed us we were going to pick up the pace. He kicked his horse into action and told us all to keep up. Well...I kicked the horse and it took off like Secretariat. I clamped my thighs and tried to look like I wasn't scared to death as my boobs bounced up and down with considerable force. I should have worn two bras, I think, in retrospect. It was terrifying-but oddly thrilling- all at the same time with all that snorting clippity clopping muscle clamped between my thighs. I had feared the worst but here I was-still astride my trusty steed. I began to relax and enjoy (except for the clenched thigh component) and delighted as the cowboy weaved our posse up through the canyons, stopping now and again to look at the vistas of the Jemez and Sangre De Christo mountain ranges that surrounded us on all sides. The mountains purpled as the blue skies golded. Astonishingly beautiful. At about this time, 30 minutes in to the ride, the sweat of my brow mixed with my sunscreen with a healthy dose of dust. My eyes burned and watered and I squeezed them hard shut on and off and sopped at them with my shirt. When we reached the vista point where John had perfectely timed the sunset for pictures of each of us on our horses back lit by the firey sky...I was informed (by perfect Whitney from Oke City) that I had black streaks running down my cheeks from under my sunglasses. She, on the other hand, looked like she was ready for a photo shoot. She did confess to me later that she regretted wearing a tiny thong because it rode up her ass (and perhaps other crevices) and was burning badly. Oddly...I felt no sympathy.

As the sky lost its fire with the setting sun, my eyes were still afire. But the twinkling stars and the whitening half moon were beyond beautiful, even through the burn and the tears. I let the horse rock me with her rhythmic clip clopping and softly sang James Taylor's song, Sweet Baby James, very quietly to myself. For those few moments, I felt happily alone. But another look up at the moon over the mountains, made me think of Chris. On this-our thirtieth anniversary-I hoped he could feel my love.

At trails end when I had to remove my glasses lest I look like Stevie Wonder at the ranch, I looked horrid. But frankly didn't give a damn.

Happy Anniversary!

August 8, 2011

Thirty years ago today, I married my high school sweetheart. I am not so pie-eyed to say that it has all been smooth sailing-what marriage is?

You start out as a couple unable to think that you'll ever want to be away from one another. I remember how he used to smell my hair and tell me he loved the smell of me-disdained any perfumes or lotions -because my very essence , it seems, was just right for him.

I remember his mahogany colored eyes and his kisses that told me he would love me forever.

But life happens. And reality sets in. The roller coaster of life is set in motion as the your years together continue. There are such happy times-but there are crappy times as well.

And yet, as I look back over the thirty years that I have been with him, the times that have maybe been -less than perfect -are somehow blurred. What comes through-true and clear- are the times that he has really been there for me-when he has really been my partner.

Some stand out more than others and I can remember these with a crystal clarity.

Our long arduous journey with infertility really tested the metal of our union. But it was his hand in mine that saved me during a scary ultrasound where we were told our baby (after two miscarriages) might be seriously deformed-anencephalic was the brutal term. I remember how he attempted to smile at me reassuringly- but his hand was sweaty and he was white as a ghost. We simultaneously heaved a sigh that blew the black cloud away as, when after an excruciatingly long four minute ultrasound, Dr. Benaceraff said, "There's nothing wrong with this baby!" And damn...she was right.

And there was the terrifying moment when we received the call that my sister , Maggie, had had a stroke and that she was "probably not going to make it." I was 36 weeks pregnant. My body began to shake uncontrollably from the shock. And it was his presence there with me, in the bed, that tethered me to the world that had so suddenly flew off its orbit. He held me together-kept me from exploding. He and Alex-the son I had not yet met. Upon awakening from anesthesia after 32 hours of labor and an emergency C section- there he was again. My husband. The terrible weight of losing Maggie was cleared- for a holy moment- as I delighted to see him holding our tiny bundle so tenderly.

When my Mom had the first of multiple strokes- in 2003- and her protracted three years of dying so slowly-falling away from us all in layers-I found no other solace than to huddle like a baby on his soft beer belly-my head tucked under his chin- with his arms all around me. Only there-only there- was I safe.

I know that this love letter may seem to be a real downer. But it seems that the extremes of life-such as these few that I have recounted- define true love.

And I truly love you, Chris.

Last evening-when I was out on my first ever horseback ride in the lovely canyons of Cerillos, New Mexico-at sunset-with the light fading and a half moon growing whiter against the night sky-half a country away from my husband-all I could think of was him.

Broken Saddle....

August 7, 2011

I was really crazy this AM waxing on about orange spiked water. I maintain that it's just those little things that are refreshingly different from your own every day existence that wake up your senses and tell you to pay attention to the smallest things. Or maybe it's the altitude!

I think that is what writing does for me. It helps me to catalog all of the stuff that I am noticing. It's all in the noticing , really. Isn't it? Look around-wake up to all the nuances of place-and the people that people those places...

I have had a glorious day. I spent at least 5 hours just meandering through hundreds of artisan tents with every manifestation of the Southwest that one could imagine. I bought a hat...an expensive hat. I could have bought a cheap one that would fray and crack in no time....but I wanted to somehow acquire a hat that I might wear for a decade or more. And I will.

I swear...a wide brimmed southwestern hat makes your inner cowboy come out...and how can that be bad? When you place a wide brimmed hat atop your head-you feel a little more free-maybe even rebellious. Like that spirit of the Old West has been ignited anew and the smoke of this place-the melange of Native American and Spaniard influences-permeates you. Makes you roll your rrrrr's the way you learned to do way back in high school.

I bought large moon shaped turquoise earrings from an old Santo Domingo Indian. And I bought a lovely gourd with a tiny little kiva in it-an ancient Native American sacred structure- to be hung on my new Hampshire tree in December. On that wintry day in December, I will be reminded of this perfect day in Santa Fe.

But the most amazing part of my day was a horseback trip into the canyons of an ancient little town called Cerillos. Our guide, John Wayne (I thought he was kidding) was gentle with us- a group of 5 gringos with no horse experience beyond watching old John Wayne movies....

To be continued....

Orange Spiked Water

August 7, 2011

What a difference a day makes. I was feeling an odd sense of sadness and emptiness at last night's post. It is an odd feeling to be away from home without someone to chat with as you brush your teeth, someone to giggle with while you window shop, someone to oooo and ahhh over the yummy guacamole. And so I was feeling that way last night. But not now. I awoke with a new resolve. I remembered the deep need that I have been feeling to get away from my everyday life, to tune into my inner frequencies which have become so jangled of late. As I washed my face, I savored the quiet and readied for an adventure into Santa Fe Plaza.

But first, I went to breakfast and there was this huge water container with a spigot with lots of ice and wheels of oranges floating around. The water tasted ever so slightly of orange. Why the hell that made me feel renewed and ready -I do not know. But I made a mental note to get me one of those water "tanks" for home!

The breakfast was sumptuous and I ordered a latte, not really sure of how a latte is different from a cappuccino or an espresso. What the hell. I am living on the edge now. The man with a brown face and a lovely Spanish accent brought me the hot steamy cup of strong coffee topped with a snowy cap of foam. Delightful.

I occupied myself reading the turista magazine overviewing the sights to see in Santa Fe. History and art and natural beauty abounds here. I will need to come back. But for today, I plan a walk to the Plaza, an old section of Santa Fe chock full of shops and galleries. I need a wide brimmed hat and even found a place that sells used cowboy boots. I may need a kerchief around my neck if I keep this up!

And on a lark, I have signed up for a sunset horseback ride in the canyons of an old town a bit south of here called Cerillos. Yee fuckin' haw!

It may be true about this transformational business. Being alone and quiet and open to new experiences. I am off to shop and wander through the ancient streets of Santa Fe. And in the morning, off to Ghost Ranch where I am told the true magic awaits....

Ghost Ranch Trip

August 6, 2011:

The desert will lead you to your heart where I will speak.-HOSEA 2:14

I have arrived in New Mexico-en route to a writers' retreat at the Ghost Ranch. I have come with a deep sense of emptiness. I can't seem to shake it. And so here I am-almost unbelievably so. I have traveled thousands of miles to put my writing hand to the fire. I need to clear this numbness that I feel inside. I need to pull myself out of this self loathing-this lack of trust in my own heart.

It has been said that the sheer beauty of the Ghost Ranch will transform you. Transform you. Quietly and astoundingly it will seduce you. I am childishly hoping that this glorious piece of Earth, with its wide open blue sky, its pink canyons and fossil- loaded cliffs, its Cerro Pedernal-will somehow sit me down, realign my thinking, pump me up with its clean thin air-and set me on course again. It lies in wait for me in the northwest corner of New Mexico. I am almost afraid to go. I mean, what does that say about me if I am not transformable?

And so I imagine the best scenario. Imagine the pink enveloping me in a little cloud that follows me around until I breathe it in and fill my chest so deeply my belly bloats. I will hold that breath in. I will not breathe out until I have forced every molecule into my arteries, until my whole being courses with a redder blood.

Gone Away

“Roger?”

Bea calls up the stairs, peering through her thick lenses at the light in the upstairs hall. “Where is that man? Our show’s about to start.” She tisks, and shuffles across the kitchen floor to the window that looks out over the garden. As she parts the lace curtains, she sees her own hand.

“Is that my hand? Where did those age spots come from?”

She peers into the sunlit yard, but can’t make out anything much. “Maybe he went to the woodpile to get some kindling.” She puts her hands on her hips and pouts. “Oh, that man!” The music blares, announcing the first contestants. “Oh, now listen! There’s my show coming on. Roger?” she asks the walls.

The faded blooms on the wallpaper offer no help; they just look back at her, benign pink blobs. As she heads to the den, she brushes the sleeve of Roger’s barn coat, hanging on the peg by the door to the garden. With that comes the sweet smell of pipe smoke. And then she hears a noise upstairs.

“Roger! Come down, now. It’s time for our show.” She thumps her hand on the newel post and then swats the air in frustration like she’s brushing away a fly.

“Mom?”

She makes out a form at the top of the stairs. “Dennis? Is that you?”

“No, Mom. It’s Madeline.”

“Madeline? Madeline who?”

“Your daughter in law, Madeline!”

“Oh.”

“Are Dennis and Kenny up there with you or are they still at school?”

“No, Mom. They’re at work. No more school for them. Uh…why don’t you go settle in with your show and I’ll bring you some tea.”

She heads for the den. “I don’t know where Roger’s gone,” she hollers over her shoulder. “Maybe he has to work late tonight, huh?” There’s no response. “Maybe another beer delivery added to his route? Do ya think that’s where he…”

Madeline appears with a tray balancing steaming hot tea and marmalade toast. Suddenly Bea’s chest tightens. She has a flash of memory so fast and so bone awful that it makes her gasp. It’s Roger. He looks so thin and he’s lying down on a white- sheeted bed and his face looks frozen and his eyes are closed. His jaw is slack and she can see his gold tooth with him gaping that way.

“Roger?” Her voice feels thin and lost in the room. It flies away and leaves her alone. There’s a silence. Madeline studies her own hands, lifts her cup of tea and nudges the other cup toward Bea.

“Have your tea now, Mom.”

There’s that flash again. She hears the words again in her head, the room spins. Someone is saying, ‘He’s gone, Mom. Say goodbye….’ She remembers leaning down to kiss him, she remembers the way his cheek felt. All bristled. And it was cold, like kissing a stone.

“Bea? Would ya like to have a little tea? I put lemon and three sugars in. Just like you like it.”

“But…where’s Roger?” Her arms and legs feel all tingly; her head feels like it might fly away like a lost kite.

“Remember? Dad died on Sunday, Mom. He’s gone to heaven, Mom.” Bea looks at this stranger telling her lies.

“We’ll be okay, Mom,” the stranger says. “Please… have some tea.”

The images fade away. The contestant squeals, her breasts bouncing as she spins the big wheel.

“Do ya think she’ll win the grand prize today, Mom?”

Bea’s gnarled hands get quiet; lay there in her lap like nesting birds.

Boots

Matt is six. I'm babysitting him tonight, trying to give you some time to yourself. A little time alone, so maybe you can just sit, get quiet, close your eyes, take in some really deep breaths.

I can hear it in your voice when you're getting sick again; it gets sort of gravelly and low, like a wounded animal. You seem quick to lose your temper, you lose that go with the flow easy way of yours. Your smile is weak, seems a struggle to summon one to your face. And then it's gone before I see your teeth. Your illness is usually held in check by the medication. But there are times when it claws its way to the surface, gets in there behind your eyes and tries to suck your soul down to your feet.

I see you there in the window.

Collect yourself, Mag. Please. Hold on.

Matt comes bounding out of the apartment. You just wave to me from the window, your hand swiping the glass in a slow arc.

His coat is unzipped in this fierce cold. No hat. No gloves. More fallout from the monster inside you, your mom skills drop away. He climbs into the warm car and I try to buckle him in. But he's turning to you. He presses his nose and both hands against the window, and softly says, "Bye Mom..." You wave again and then the curtain drops. As we pull away, I can see you through the gauze, just sitting there... so still. As you disintegrate, he follows in your wake.

He turns to me and I can almost see a shade pull down and then another one go up. For awhile, he can pretend that life is only about this outing with me. About that big cheeseburger with extra fries and lots of catsup. And his favorite-a hot fudge sundae-with extra cherries.

He looks so tired tonight.

As we pull out of the parking lot of the burger joint, the street light paints a swath of light across his legs. He's wearing knee high rubber boots and his legs are tucked underneath him. I shoot looks over at him, study his profile against the misted window. He's lost there in his own head. Somewhere happy, I hope.

Just then, I spy a glint of green, a cat's eye, peering back at me. I look again. There's a hunk of glass, submerged in the rubber sole of his right boot.

"Hey, what's that?" I say, poking at the smooth curve of glass.

His hot fudge smile melts, and he quickly straightens his legs, so that the boot soles face forward. "Nothing... I dunno. Can't we go to Walmart now... for my toy?"

"Sure.... but can I see the bottom of your boot? I swear I saw a piece of glass...we should check that out, Matt. If it's glass, you could get a bad cut."

"Can't we just go to Walmart...for my toy?" He deflects my question again, a professional at this, like a goalie in the net.

We head into the store. He trots across the parking lot, sort of skitters a bit, up on one toe like a crab.

"Matt! What is up?" I say, looking quizzically at his feet. He looks up at me from under an awning of brown bangs, but there's no reply.

I see the bubble gum machines just inside the sliding doors. My opportunity to pause the action.

"Hey, Matt! Let's get some bubble gum! I want a red one! What color do you want?" He looks up and away, like he's choosing what color to paint the sky.

"Blue!" he shouts.

"Alright! C'mon, BLUE!" I sound like I'm in Vegas at the roulette wheel.

He holds his palm outstretched and I give him three quarters. He fumbles with the big coins and then, one at a time, he lays the coin flat in the slot. He has to kneel to crank the handle. And just as he does, I spy the green eye again, winking at me from the bottom of his boot.

"It's BLUE! And I wanted BLUE!" he squeals, as the third ball drops.

As he kneels there, I grasp the heel of his boot between my thumb and forefinger. It's a marble! And it's stuck in a hole on the bottom of his boot.

"Matt! What's that? A marble in your boot? What's that all about?"

He drops the blue gumball and quickly stands up. "I just want to get my toy!"

"No, wait, buddy. What's with the marble?" As the words leave my foolish mouth twice, I see the shame pour over his face. It drags his eyebrows down. The corners of his mouth quickly follow.

"It's stupid! I wanna go home! It's just a marble. I put it in the hole in my boot...so the water won't come in!"

I wish I had a big white sheet... I'd throw it over our heads, over my stupid mouth. And I'd pull you in, Matt. We could just hide there awhile, under the soft billows.

If I could, I'd pull you under there too, Mags. We could hide from this pain of yours, this pain that's hanging all around us here, so dirty in the air. And we could all just wait, under that white, until the thunderheads clear and the sun comes out again.