Category Archives: New Mexico

This Old House

I’m work­ing on the This Old House issue of my regional arts mag­a­zine, and in the process of writ­ing a story on pen­i­ten­tiary tiles, I began to think about my adopted home town, Las Vegas, New Mex­ico.… ——- My home­town in New Eng­land held a node on the Rev­o­lu­tion­ary road. Most of the towns­peo­ple —

36 Days Past Solstice

I shifted from fourth gear to third as I ditched a Santa Fe strip-mall street for the steep grind of uneven asphalt that split a west-side mesa into two snowy halves. My young son, 9, leaned against the door, sketch­pad on lap. His hand knew the rou­tine, knew our unkempt roads meant his space­ships sported

An Experiment of One

Two weeks ago, the Straight Talk Express parked in front of Las Vegas’ iconic “Calumet Says Howdy” mural. The sexy cow­girl with her end­less legs seemed to sit on top of the broad, bold font announc­ing McCain and Palin, grac­ing the bus with her campy pres­ence. The Repub­li­can con­tender and his run­ning mate didn’t ride

A Case of Mysterious Identity

Vivian Vance and her sis­ter owned the house I call my own. They lived in this sim­ple cracked-stucco box on the edge of the Great Plains, where Mother Earth New Mex­ico gives birth to a flat-chested Okla­homan girl, a long-legged Texas boy. When Vivian as Ethel Mertz told Lucy Ricardo that she grew up in

A Mom Called Paladin

A man walked across a desert wash. His black boots hit dry ground. His hand didn’t hover near his hol­ster. He let it match his stride, let it swing in a care­free arc that spoke of con­tent­ment, of a man fully present in his body. The sage­brush rus­tled, almost bowed in plea­sure as he passed.

Extrasolar

I met a sci­en­tist. He stood in line at Wal-Mart, both arms bal­anc­ing an over­stuffed hand bas­ket filled with Twinkies, Sara Lee pound cake, two Hun­gry Man din­ners — Sal­is­bury Steak and Chicken Cac­cia­tore, a gal­lon of store-brand whole milk, a clear plas­tic box filled with but­tery crois­sants. I looked at my own push bas­ket.

Pennies

A young Navajo man sits out­side the most pop­u­lar break­fast place in town. Niyol sits cross-legged most morn­ings as I walk my boys to school, sits with the same ripped jeans, the same black sweat­shirt that speaks of a thou­sand nights near the river. Some­times I raid my penny jar and give him a small

La Salsa

My town held a Latin Dance Fiesta last week­end. The gro­cery store clerk stuffed the flier in my paper bag between a dozen free-range eggs and a pack­age of dried pinto beans. Her braided sil­ver bracelet caught the jagged edge of the bag and left a small tear. “You gotta go. My boyfriend plays gui­tar with

Marty Cherryseed

My youngest son crawls beneath my gramma’s quilt these moun­tain sum­mer morn­ings. I brace myself to brave the scuffed pine floor in my bare feet as he flops on his stom­ach and places vin­tage comics on my extra pil­low. I leave him to my warm bed, leave him to care­fully turn frag­ile pages, to become

State of Confusion

When movie cam­eras focus on the dusty Mex­i­can bor­der replica span­ning the Uni­ver­sity Avenue bridge, they will cap­ture the dark hours before sun­rise. A man bleed­ing from a bul­let wound will carry a bat­tered valise filled with two mil­lion dol­lars cash, money found in a West Texas field lit­tered with a dozen dead vic­tims of