Even in Anywhere USA.....

Socorro NM was the next exit off of the highway, and where we had plans to bed down for the night.

We harbored visions of a desert hamlet, windswept and interesting, steeped in history, the air filled with coyote howls, the back streets with tumbleweed.

As we pulled off the midnight highway , we were instead met with the ubiquitous glare of hotel chains, golden arches, fast "food" signs and the usual garish clutter that makes a starry night invisible.

"Where are we?" Cathie said. "Anywhere USA" I replied.
We checked into our hotel and fell asleep.
The next morning, I decided to walk the strip, the bright sunshine dominating the sometimes bleak landscape of now unlit fast food joints and second tier motels offering " ree Breakfa & Wifi" .
On either side of this retail thoroughfare, single wide trailer homes and two room houses created ramshackle neighborhoods that ran into the desert and toward the snow capped mountains, as if fleeing the urban sprawl.

Amid all of this I found El Camino - a diner and coffee house from a time gone by, it's huge roadside sign an echo from the days when cars had fins and teenage boys and girls would "go steady".

After coffee in it's red leather and carpeted environs, I rambled further, and was happy to discover that even corporate-heavy consumerist landscapes cannot subdue a town with roots far deeper in the desert sand than anything thrust upon it in the last few centuries: the unique architecture and adobe styling developed by early settlers by necessity still informs the modern structures, and even among these, only a block away from the the grey hum of business route 25, stands the San Miguel Mission, established in 1562, and still standing tall and strong.

The missions were set up to offer a halting place for weary travelers and pioneers in search of a better life on their trek north from Mexico through the desert heat, and those that stand today serve as houses of worship for the Christian masses.

Socorro slowly revealed it's charms. The Manzanares Coffeehouse served up a good sandwich and a friendly artisan space to kick back and admire some local art or just stare out the window at a quiet plaza where life moves pretty slowly - a scene that makes it hard to imagine that just 15 miles away, in 1945, the first nuclear test explosion was carried out, setting the wheels of the atomic age in motion. These days , mining and mineralogy are what keep many of Socorro's wheels turning, with the local technical College drawing students, or "Techies" as they're known locally, from all over the country.

That's a lot of stuff going on for a small desert town, but Socorro seems to carry that weight effortlessly .

Before leaving Socorro the next morning, I made room for one more stop at El Camino. I ordered breakfast and sat at the counter with coffee and the paper. The friendly waitress seemed to be three places at once at all times, my coffee cup never getting below half full, and much sooner than expected, i was looking at a full plate of food - The Eggs Mexicano were magnificent, and set me up for the road ahead. I lingered long on the plush counter-stool, sipping coffee and soaking up the quiet steady flow of locals that came and went. When the time came to leave El Camino and Socorro behind us on the desert highway, it was with a silent mental note- get back here sometime.

SPIRITS IN THE MATERIAL WORLD

In the laid back desert city of Albuquerque NM, in the heart of downtown , stands the Kimo Theater. Opened in 1927, a competition was held to find a name for the building. A native American chief entered the name Kimo, meaning "mountain Lion" and "King of All", winning the grand prize of 25 dollars.
We arrived for our sound check and were met by our stage manager, Cathy who showed us around and made sure we had what we needed.
"Do you have WiFi here?" I asked. "Yes we do," she said, "the password is Bobby". I thanked her and asked "Why Bobby?". "Bobby's our ghost" she replied. Sensing my piqued interest, she asked me if I would like to see "the shrine". "Oh come on," I thought, "quit pulling my leg."

Sure enough, at the end of the hall, nestled in an alcove under the stage sat a mixed and colorful jumble of tchotchkes and accoutrerments from various acts that had previously graced these halls and left a little something to appease the ghost of Bobby - ballet shoes, masks, candy, drumsticks etc. So finally the obvious question- who was Bobby?
Well, back in 1951, during one of the Kimo's regular movie matinees, a 10 year old boy named Bobby was scared by what he was seeing on the screen and ran from his seat, following a stairwell downstairs beneath the theater, and close o the boiler room where he stayed, safe from the on-screen bogie men. As fate would have it, one of the boilers in the room exploded, fatally wounding young Bobby.
I asked Cathy if Bobby ever made his presence felt here in the theater.
She recounted a tale of one musical act that came to the theater, and on hearing the story of Bobby and his shrine, one of the band members proclaimed quite plainly "I don't believe in ghosts".
That night , just before showtime, the sound-mixing desk refused to power on, much to the frustration and bewilderement of the technicians at hand. In desperation, a staff member ran downstairs, respectfully placed a small bag of candy on the shrine to Bobby, and returned to the stage area. The sound-mixing desk powered up and the show proceeded without a hitch.
Before our show, I took a guitar pick, signed a quick "thank you" on it for Bobby, and left it on the shrine. We had a great show, and left with very fond memories of the KiMo theater in Albuquerque NM. Thanks Bobby.

Sardines

The plane was the smallest I had ever boarded. I should have expected as much when I asked the girl at he gate if there was room in the overhead for my guitar, and she replied "There is no overhead."

Me, 17 passengers, a pilot and co-piiot hopped on board. Turns out the co-pilot was also our cabin steward, and from where I sat, I could see out through the front windows in the cockpit. The cheery co-pilot made the usual announcements - no microphone or speaker system necessary , and if he had added "....and as we approach our destination, we will fill the cabin with brine and land in the canned food section of the supermarket." , I would not at all have been surprised. Neither would it have been the first sardine reference heard on board.
Looking through the cockpit window, I couldn't help but notice how small the window was as it sat atop a myriad buttons and dials. But then it struck me - why have a big windshield on an airplane? When's the last time 18 sardines at 30,000 feet hit a deer?

We took off from Denver CO, where, as I may have mentioned elsewhere in this blog, people just seem happy, and as my wife - a one time resident of the state - likes to point out, it's hardly surprising given it's natural beauty, clean mountain air, sunshine and endless outdoor pursuits. I've heard it said that Colorado is an expensive state to live in, but I suspect it to be money well spent.

We were headed for Farmington NM, a quiet town on the Colorado Plateau that shares Denver's mile-high elevation and sits at the confluence of the San Juan and Animas Rivers. Soaring towards our destination, the clear sky allowed us a perfect view of the San Juan mountains below us, snow-capped and silent, standing like noble elders, perhaps bemusedly watching the coming and going of us tiny creatures over centuries, our lives lasting no more than a blink of their eyes.

We touched down on a cool sunny day, and I headed for the hotel. My driver told me that coal mining and the power plant are major employers here, and it does feel like a working town. It seemed like every second car on the road was an unwashed flatbed of some kind, many of them lining the broad main street like so many tired horses, hitched to their post and dutifully awaiting their master's return.

Once I reached the hotel, I was told that a river walkway ran right behind the premises, and that it was worth checking out. Later in the day, I headed back there as a bright sun was starting to fall behind the trees. Mallards and Canada geese populated the banks. "Maybe looking for sardines" I thought, chuckling. The shallows of the Animas river babbled along beside me as I walked a loop of 2 miles or so, and although never far from the sound of traffic, the river serves as an easily accessible respite from the urban landscape, perfect for joggers, walkers and nature lovers.

My friends JD and Emily, who live in the area, told me of Farmington's apparently under utilized array of hiking and biking trails in the area, and if time had allowed I would have investigated further, but this is a working town, and I had to go to work. Oh well. Next time, but if you get to it before I do, let me know what you think.

Things that make you go "Hm".

As my wife and I walked towards downtown Saint Paul in the afternoon sun, we turned the corner of St Paul Cathedral, National Shrine of the apostle Paul, overlooking the city from its perch at the end of Summit Avenue. The Cathedral is a testament to Archbishop John Ireland's determination in 1904 to provide a "mother church" for the community, and standing 306 ft with walls of solid granite and local stone from Mankato MN, it looms large on the city skyline.
It was in the shadow of this magnificent structure, and after a short lull in the conversation that my wife idly inquires " Have you ever seen a squirrel poop?".
I had to say I haven't.
"And" she continued, "do they poop on the ground or in the trees?" .
Once again I was stumped, and the implied threat of the latter question was not lost on me. I felt a quiet sense of gratitude that the skies in these parts were mostly populated by sparrows.
Back to the burning question though- anyone out there seen a squirrel poop? let me know, and no fibbers.

A Maine Event

In Carthage, western Maine, the woods grow thick with Oak, Beech, Ash and Pine. As I looked out over a late September morning, from my hilltop lodging, I saw the faint hint of crimson and yellow begin to bleed ever so slightly into the dappled greens that spread to the horizon, where it met a cloudless blue sky.

One  way up to my lodging - the Skye Theater and Arts Center - was a  dirt road that was laid in the early eighteen hundreds by settlers who farmed the surrounding land and founded the community of Carthage .
From the road, this sparsely populated woodland reveals a few barren cemeteries that stand like ruins, shaded by the towering forest, and serve as the only evidence of a once busy and bustling thoroughfare, now mostly used by logging trucks and a few remaining families on the hillside.

Come breakfast time, Phil, a longtime resident of the hillside, and active community member, pointed us in the direction of The Front Porch Cafe in East Dixwell, and his recommendation did not go amiss.

The Front Porch Cafe, an old rambling colonial style house, has been converted on the inside into a carpeted, wood-lined dining room that butts right up to the kitchen, the aroma of blueberry flapjacks held me for ransom almost as soon as I walked in.
Now normally I'm an eggs n hashbrowns kind of fella, having learned a long time ago that my eyes grow much larger than my belly, but those blueberry flapjacks are singing my song and staring up at me from the menu. I know I'm gonna get crushed under a 3-stack of dish-diameter 'jacks, but I go for it anyway.
The coffee was great , and here , if I may, a word -

I like coffee. I like good coffee and I'm even happy to suffer the "other stuff" if need be, the stuff that looks like coffee, smells like coffee. but man it ain't coffee. But that "other stuff", to my mind, does also have a rightful place; namely that place that glares at you through the midnight dark from the side of the highway, all garishly colored neon shouting " roadside diner" - the greasy spoon - home of the hangover breakfast . I expect the "other stuff" in that environment and I oddly look forward to it's role in completing the scene- greasy  cafe/ diner and a cup of the other stuff to wash down whatever the hash slinger slings my way. In fact, when I am served good coffee in that environment  I'm oddly disappointed, sorely tempted to hail the waitress saying " Take this back - this is excellent!" but I never do of course.

This cafe though, although serving hashbrowns and eggs-a-plenty, was no "other stuff"- serving diner. The deep bean coffee aroma filled the homely dining area, and wafted outside into the chilly morning , beckoning passers by like comely sirens from shore. Ok that's a slight exaggeration, but it was pretty durn good, and served in tall chunky ceramic mugs made locally, and before I knew it, I had washed down the whole 3 flapjacks, covered in maple syrup. I felt like a real man- an overstuffed, bloated fat real man that needed to take a nap pretty quick.
Before that could happen though, there was a surprise in store;
As we filed out of this established, full and feeling it, the owner followed us outside saying" Hey - you guys met Murphy yet?"
With that, she faces the garage that was kitty-corner to the cafe shouting " Murphy!! Murphy!! C'mere, boy!" And with that , Murphy, a black n white dappled mutt, came scampering over the roof of the garage, greeting all he surveyed with an excited bark or two. The garage roof is clearly his domain; he was happy to stand , not budging and just happy to greet his audience from on high.
As our host  said "Murphy, will you sing for us? " for a moment, Murphy looked almost as confused as we did, but as she launched into the opening strains of The Monster Mash,  Murphy howled right along; a good two verses of harmonizing,  entertaining us with a unique rendition of a Halloween classic before we finally had to take our leave. Thanks Murphy. Now about that nap......

Brooklyn NY

Marine Park

Between avenue U and Fillmore, on a small corner of Marine Park's green space is an oak shaded loop-walk  for strolling, jogging, cycling or , as was my intention, just whiling away a hot June afternoon. At one corner, a Bocce Ball court (see above)  keeps a handful of older men engaged in their game and a little conversation, or maybe a lot of conversation and a little of the game.
In the middle of the loop, bating cages are scattered throughout for future A-Rods and Jeter's to hone their skills, and what park benches were shaded by those grandiose oaks never found themselves alone for too long. Although the hiss of traffic is omnipresent, the space remains quite peaceful, and it's surprisingly easy to find oneself unwinding steadily among the dog walkers and sun worshippers.

After a stroll around the loop, I decided to grab the next available bench and watch the squirrels, who in turn watched the starlings as they also foraged in the grass, both seemingly unaware of the frisbees skimming right above them.

Amongst the joggers, baby strollers, and cellphone huggers, I saw a small disheveled sandy colored dog moving e-v-e-r   s-o  s-l-o-w-l-y in my general direction, idly sniffing at the base of each oak before moving in a slow, gentle movement that almost looked like a kind of dog- Tai Chi. Directly behind him was his master, an elderly gentleman with glasses, in a white t shirt and wearing a baseball cap.


"Good seat" he said, stopping to look in my direction. "Yup - not bad" I said. " I can feel the breeze on my back." he offered.  " Feels good I'll bet".  "Oh yeah. I've lived here my whole life, just beyond those trees"  he said, pointing.  "Oh?".  "Born 1931. That's a long time. The mayor back then told my mom not to sell the house - they're going up in value, he said."  "He was right". I said.
He  pointed in the opposite direction ; "I used to swim over there. We used to swim and fish, and even then, there was a sign saying 'water polluted' " . "Hm" I grinned.  "Yup. Take care my friend, C'mon Rusty", and with that, the two old timers shuffled on. I took one more stroll around the loop, stopped and looked at a squirrel for a minute or two, and moved on. I hadn't expected to feel so relaxed in the heart of Brooklyn, but there I was, happy to have stumbled upon an oasis of sorts not realizing that just the next morning I'd find another one......

The Oasis Diner

The Oasis Diner, on Quentin Rd and Flatbush Ave is a family run Greek diner that was calling my name as soon as I saw it one morning with breakfast on my mind. This place hit the spot- the server pointed me to a booth and handed me a coffee and a menu. I took my time perusimg the many options as around me a steady stream of neighborhood faces filed up and down  the aisle and filled the room with their familiar exchanges like " Hey George, how's the wife?" and "'zat your car out front ? she's a beauty.."  

After I ordered I sat for a while, continuing my people-watching as three guys at the register discussed the Yankee's chances this season. An older woman picking up an order  blessed us all as she left, and my plate landed in front of me with a "there y'go, hun. Enjoy." from a waitress who was a blur most of the time.

The cheese omelette was great , the home fries were among the best I've had, and the coffee kept coming. I took my time over breakfast , savoring the atmosphere as much as the food, and as I payed at the register, I mentioned to the young guy taking the check that I'd be back again. With a  faint smile he said " Oh good - I'm happy." Me too , I thought.

One day in Dublin , Ireland......

This is Pat Ingoldsby, a poet, and a Dublin icon. He was siting on Westmoreland Street, surrounded by his books and busy finishing a poem in his notebook when I approached. The self made sign above his head read "Dublin Poet - anywhere else I'd be a god."

"Howrya Pat", I said " I want to buy a book from you". " Ah, howrya", he said, "and I've just finished one - can I read it to you? Tell me if you can relate".

He proceeded to recite a poem recounting his difficulty with math and his love of words as a young boy. When he was done he looked up at me and inquired earnestly; " well - can you relate to that?". Indeed I could and I told him so, and after he had lamented the presence of letters in mathematical equation, I suggested that perhaps it's just the words trying to invade and overthrow the math world. He liked this idea and a warm smile spread broadly from under his hat.

Pat is at once whimsical, sincere, biting and curious in his observations of the world he sees around him.His poems reflect the  people he meets as he sits peddling his literary wares on the streets of Dublin, as well as reflections on the natural world as he sees it from the strand in Howth where he lives. In his life he has known both fame and obscurity and  I would hazard a guess that he has little time for either.

As we chatted, he picked up a book and signed it to my wife and I in a large, looping deliberate hand that , when he had finished, read "thanks Patsy and Heather for saving my day". before we parted he recited one more poem that  came to him; a few lines pondering whether the pursuit of wealth is as valid as the value of natural beauty.

And with that , we said our goodbyes - warm handshakes, broad waves and smiles and a mutual wish to enjoy the rest of the day.

"What the world needs now is love, sweet love".  Burt Bacharach wrote that.

" - and a few more Pat Ingoldsbys". I wrote that.