a good cup of coffee and the bottom of a margarita

I was mad for a couple of days!
During a critical outburst (re reflective perspective), I tried to alter the accumulating bad mood in the van. I felt I was trying to be positive but in the intensity of dissatisfaction, I was accused of thinking I knew it all, having to have the last word, and not allowing others to have an opinion. The words were cruelly spoken to a person who was already physically and emotionally frayed.
I was that person. I closed my mind and my ears and my heart. I put on headphones so I wouldn’t be tempted to try to lighten anyone else’s mood. I decorated, sorted the rsvps, and hired a band. I was having an all out pity party. Of course, I didn’t see it that way. I’d had enough. When I had to interact with the other members of the group, I was short and humorless.
We left Taos fairly early. The plan seemed to be to drive to Santa Fe, grab a bite and visit Jackalope, a huge international flea market type place, and then head home.
Jackalope is awesome. Two years ago, I found all kinds of things there. This year, I would find a southwest style rug for my back patio, we’d find the perfect rings, and I’d find a fairly reasonable string of turquoise that I could take apart and use in my studio. Jackalope, here we come! There was a sense in me that if I could do all that, the aggravations would melt and I’d be okay and laugh again.
We stopped at a few little towns with interesting attributes on our way from Taos to Santa Fe. At Las Trampas, we photographed an old church. Our group loves the southwest mission architecture. Not having a camera, I got my sketch pad and my pencils and went to work on an old adobe house with a very interesting courtyard wall and gate. Louis offered me his camera. I declined, but asked him to photograph the old home for me.
We wandered into a private art gallery owned by a man from Italy in a small dying hamlet called Las Trogas where the only store was stocked with an assortment of beer and two stale pastries. It had an old residue caked coffee maker that was unplugged and a disgruntled employee who griped about movie stars coming into the area and driving up property prices. I really wanted coffee. The gallery had some good quality pieces, though it was quite small. It didn’t take long to see it all and we were back on the road.
The town of Chimayo is quite interesting. It has an unsettled air about it. Two years ago we had visited the chapel there and eaten lunch at Rancho de Chimayo a lovely little restaurant. This time, we stopped at the weaving outlet. It was a great place with looms set up in a room next to the merchandise area. I wandered into the room and watched the weavers and asked some questions. It was quite interesting and I pointed several others of our group in that direction. Some of our number bought hand-woven rugs there, but I was waiting for Jackalope. Beside the rug outlet, was a little souvenir store. Louis and I looked at their limited supply of jewelry and ornaments and decided to wait for Jackalope. Yeah, you’ve probably guessed by now.
Louis visited the Museum at Chimayo and I found him there. It was an interesting place: small, but culturally strong with an enthusiastic, interesting, informative owner.
When we joined the others, we learned that our plans had adjusted. It was a little early, but we would eat at Rancho de Chimayo. It was a nice adjustment. Lunch at Chimayo. A good cup of coffee. A good last sit down meal together and on our way.
We arrived at the restaurant to a sea of cars. October is the high color tourist time. Rancho de Chimayo is a unique restaurant. It was full. The wait would be at least 45 minutes. When you travel alone, you can evaluate and adjust quickly. In a group, adjustments come more slowly and don’t always consider everyone’s point of being.
After a good wait had already passed, Louis and I started up the hill to an interest area above the restaurant. Others were coming down the hill purposefully. We enquired as to their intentions and learned that the three of them weren’t going to eat lunch, but were headed into Santa Fe to do a little more shopping. We’d meet up with them at the square after we’d had lunch. That was the moment I knew there would be no Jackalope. Separated as I had been for a couple of days now, I was furious. No inquery, no invitation, just “This is how you will do it.” I felt used and tossed.
I am an odd sort. The strangest things pull me into perspective. The wait was long. My jaw was set. It would be over soon. I looked at the few items in their sales displays. When we were finally seated and our orders taken, I pasted on a smile and watched and listened to the others interact. Then the waiter brought the coffee. I’d not had a good cup of coffee since the restaurant in Pagosa Springs. This was pine nut coffee and its robust aroma filled the table. I drank it so quickly that it was a wonder I’d tasted it, but I did. It was delicious. The waiter filled my cup again, and again. It never stopped tasting good.
The lunch was hilarious. We really acted like hicks from a tiny town. Everyone was passing food back and forth for tasting. One lady bought a margarita, and another drank the bottom out of it with a straw. Since she’s not a big drinker, it hit her fairly quickly. The one who ordered it spooned some of the ice from the top and passed it to another kindly. Two margaritas had been fixed by mistake and before the lunch had ended the waiter brought the other- complementary. We were a friendly group, after all.
The lady who originally ordered the margarita was overjoyed. She sipped a little and offered to share. You guessed it. The other lady finished most of it off from the bottom. We all laughed. I asked the second how often she drank alcohol. “Almost never,” she replied.
The mood had lightened considerably. I was no longer thinking of what I had lost, but seeing what I could salvage. Most of our afternoon was spent in that leisurely setting at that leisurely pace. I bought a pound of coffee to take home with me and a sampler for another. The dam inside me had a crack in it.
There wasn’t much time to shop when we made it to Santa Fe. I found a rug for my porch and a small gift for my best friend. I saw some awesome turquoise jewelry too expensive for me to buy. My husband and I wandered into a leather shop that inspired more ideas to try when I got back to my studio. We looked once more for rings, but of course they were not the creative pieces we had seen in Pagosa Springs. Next time we’ll buy rings!
As we loaded the car for the long drive home, I realized the natural flow of my life and emotions were in balance again. I had not yet processed the reason for my bad interlude. That would come with time and God’s grace, but I could laugh and look kindly and care about others again.
It’s amazing the perspective you gain from a good cup of pinon coffee and the bottom of a margarita.
The picture above is of the outer seating area of Rancho de Chimayo. They were preparing it for a large group reservation even though the day was somewhat nippy. If the photo albums are working, the new album is Taos to Santa Fe and home. If you can't access it that way click the album name above for the direct link.

Soft hearted know it all!

I walked into the tiny shop in Taos Pueblo that looked for everything like the dozen I’d already been in.  My husband and I had looked for rings again.  We’d perused the small southwest style ornaments and looked at a few hand woven rugs and blankets.  We’d admired and critiqued several pieces of art: me by my “great academic understanding?!” and my husband by plain old taste and common sense. I’d bought fry bread – yum – and we’d picked it away, savoring each greasy, tasty bite.  It was much like a cross between a funnel cake and a sopapilla.  The woman who sold it to me offered me cinnamon or honey but I wished to shop so took it just as it was.  She did supply me napkins which made the shopping less of a problem to the shopkeepers.

Louis needed to take a run back to the van to get another lens for his camera, so I stayed in the general area he departed.  I ran into friends and looked at their acquired treasures.  Eventually I meandered into the tiny shop.  A fire in the small fireplace warmed the air.  Several customers milled about looking at the shop’s array of pottery, scratch work, and paintings.

A girl who appeared to be in her early 20’s was tending it and I gathered quickly that much of the artwork was her own.  I had walked in on the front end of an argument.  At first she was trying to be kind to the couple who were insisting she should have her works photographed and reproduced.  She tried so hard to explain her point of view.  It went on.  They thought they were being complimentary and after all it was to her benefit.  She could sell the prints more cheaply and retain her originals.  I felt for her.  She had a room full of customers, yet could not say “What a neat idea!” and turn away from these bullish boors.  I thought why must we artists be so blasted honest?  “Come on girl just placate them and get them out of your hair.  You have customers here.”  Of course, I didn’t say that.

She was about to cry.  Her eyes were misty and her voice shaking when I could no longer stand it.  “I don’t have my works copied either,” I offered loudly from across the room. “I know a guy who does that for artists, but I want my pieces to be one of a kind.  It’s almost an issue with me.  I have nothing against other artists doing that, but it’s not for me.  If I repeat a painting, it will be slightly different each time and that gives it a personal value in my mind.”

The couple looked at me as though I’d just relieved myself in the floor.  The girl smiled, lips quivering and turned away for a moment to busy herself, face and eyes shielded from view.  I smiled at the staring couple.  I knew I’d not see them again and they could go away saying “How rude!  How stupid!  We weren’t even talking to that woman,” and it wouldn’t matter at all.  I think the girl understood and wished she could be so cold, so uncaring toward the strangers who were trying to make her forsake her artistic idealism.  They hadn’t left the store yet when she straightened  herself and walked to where I was.  I commented on the work she had done, she explained her process and we busied ourselves talking about technique and materials.  The couple snatched up an inexpensive memento and she put on a victorious smile and took their payment.  Several others came around to listen to our discussion of her work.  The couple walked out.

Business was going well for her as we talked.  Bright eyed, she began to converse with me as though I were a colleague more than a rescuer or customer.  Between customers, I told her about the clay I make up and she talked to me about her own process.  As we talked, a new process began to evolve in our conversation.  I said “I wonder if . . .” she said “What if you . . .” Before I left, my mind was full of a new artform to work on.  We exchanged e-mail addresses and spoke of some long distance collaboration in the future via web.

Some members of the artists group wandered in and I laughed and talked to them.  My husband came in and warmed himself at her fire.  She was busy with other customers and yet the air of affinity continued.  When we did leave, she smiled and said “I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” and I walked away, excited to tell my husband the story of how I “saved” this poor girl by being a soft hearted, hard headed know-it-all.



The Taos Pueblo, if you don't know, is a working community.  While some vendors come in from surrounding areas to work the tourists, many of the shops are attached to dwellings where the keepers live.  For a fee, you can intrude into the lives of these gentle people, though you are asked to be polite and not enter any space uninvited.  While most churches in that area have a museum quality even when in use, the Taos Pueblo reserves its church interior to its own worshippers.  The public is not invited to gaze without worship.  I wasn't offended.  You have to pay a fee to take a camera into the pueblo and are given a strict list of dos and don'ts including no close photos of residents without permission.  I loved the place!  There are tour guides who will lead you and inform you if you have the patience.  Much as we did in Versailles in 2002, we attached our ears to various tour guides for a time and received some very interesting information about the culture.  Pictures are on my albums: Taos Pueblo.  If you can't access it through My Photos, use the link.  Grace, Peace. DW

Reflective Perspective

I saw the most awesome sight.  It needed to be recorded. 

My husband stopped the vehicle, handed me his camera and I stepped out to breathe in the crisp sweet air.

The other vehicle stopped and we radioed our intentions to them.  Others saw some of what I saw, but they didn’t get it.  I could tell by where they stood they didn’t see it: 

Perspective joining the sapphire of an altitude sky and distant purple peaks sprinkled with early fall snows.  A little row of protected color contrasting the deep evergreen on the hillsides.

The field of waving grass that had somehow escaped the hay mowers and the cattle’s maw.

Willows and Cottonwoods by a distant creekbed, waiting for the fall to convince them that they too should shed their silvery foliage for winter’s rest.

I drank it in with a childlike giggle.  The Spirit inside was rising with joy over the unified creation.  The camera snapped; my lungs were full, my mind was full, my heart was full.  I drank it in.

I stood at peace and mentally captured my surroundings again.  Anticipating more to come, I rushed back to the van and handed my husband his camera. 

But another of our number had seen his own vision and was on a quest for his own fulfillment.  And he wandered out of our vision away from our fulfillment.  45 minutes later after the other vehicle gave up and drove on, after others had given way to their frustrations in a vocal upheaval at having to wait, after realizing my own loss at what I didn’t know or see, after the other group had radioed that they were on their way back from what we could only imagine, our friend returned.  His excitement at the shot he felt he had gotten was not dampened by our disgruntled disappointment.  He cared not that the Token Old Ladies were tired of waiting.  “Just wait ‘til you see what I got!” he continued to exclaim.

I pasted on a wan smile though I’m sure my eyes were full of fire.  Mentally, I took it out on the older women for being so gripey, and withdrew from interaction for a time.

Only after several weeks passed did I realize what I gave up for that right to a bad mood.



Reflective Perspective



It started out just you and me

An envelope of deity

The awesome scene surrounding me,

Unspoken praise.



But other voices entered in;

Motion snatched my conscious when

My peaceful, sweet gave way to then:

Intruding haze.



And soon the present noise drowned out

The beauty it was all about

And left behind frustration’s doubt,

A downward gaze.



The incident left bitter taste

And I sat selfish thought incased

But did not know what I debased

For many days.



A photograph within my hand

A lovely site sprang up again

And bid me come, and gaze, and stand,

My vision raise.



How was it I was blinded to

The beauty I could share with you

And took instead a soiled spew

A hateful maze.



So come and change my subvert mind

Beauty before, dark paths behind

Accompanied by a kinder kind

Renewed by grace.

Next Time (New Album)

    

There always seems to be the “next time” mentality on a trip like our artists’ trip to the southwest. Next time we need to. . . Next time we won’t . . . Next time let’s remember . . . This trip was not an exception. We didn’t make it to Chaco Culture. Next time we need to do that and look through the huge telescope. We didn’t get around to soaking in the hot mineral waters at Pagosa Springs. As stressed as we felt, we should have done that. And we didn’t take the Cumbres Toltec Train ride from Chama. But northern New Mexico had a long deep freeze just as the color was starting and the leaves just dropped. Fall color was very scarce on the road from Pagosa Springs to Taos.
The trip from Pagosa Springs to Taos became a purposeful drive. We did stop in Chama to photograph the railroad and peruse the shops a little while. That’s where we learned about the color. And we did take a side excursion that went different than any of us could possible have known. That has it’s own story. We stopped to photograph the Halfdome of the Rockies and the Rio Grand Gorge bridge.
Somewhere on that road, is a big pink building that at one time was a schoolhouse. It sits alone on a angry barren piece of ground. We may have overlooked it, but we’d had no success for miles in our quest for a restroom. People were becoming crabby. Everyone. The land lay flat and open and it’s hard to hide behind sage brush. We’d stopped twice already to find establishments vacant or closed. Then we saw the big pink building which billed itself as an art museum.
Art museum. Well, we were an artist’s group. An art museum would have art, yes? and bathrooms, yes? We turned in and piled out. It was an eerie place. The sculptures had an attitude. “You think I’m ugly? Come here and I’ll show you ugly!” We picked our way down a little path that wound through belligerent, angry pieces that expressed understandable, yet unsettling sentiment. The religious symbolism was overwhelming. The political symbolism was monstrous. It left me thinking “What did they do to you?” before I even entered the building itself.
All of our number were wide eyed and a little tentative as we entered a huge wooden door that looked like it could keep you in or out at will. Attached to it was a large technically acceptable piece that depicted Adam and Eve being driven from the garden by a sweet looking angel. The ugly anger on their faces accompanied by the explicit sign language expressed by the two toward the enforcing angel shocked the sweet simple sensibilities of the group of artists from Arkansas on a fun inspirational trip. We really just wanted to use the bathroom! Wandering into the large hall, we were assaulted by a body of work both artistically and visually startling, using penetrating colors and lines with every form of perversion to express outrage.
The man who lived there rudely directed us to the bathroom. Upstairs, where the restrooms were, the furnishings were put together as museum pieces and artifacts: their presentation clean and precise. Yet it was obvious that they were in use as well. It added to the eerie intruding aura of the place. References to laws and realtors and developers only hinted at the injustice that had created this huge body of work. I can’t say I understand. I don’t. I have no real knowledge of what made the man so bitter inside and out. Unlike most museums, there was no donation box or plea for support. Glad I could leave, I felt saddened for the prison the man lived in. I could not sleep in that place without being woefully changed.
Heavy in spirit and heart, we got back into our vehicles and continued our drive to Taos. Eventually the pungent distaste we felt would subside leaving us with questions and a memory. A short way down the road was a village built for living independent of commercial utilities: strange looking houses that resembled a variety of crashed space ships. It was like an exhale of relief when I finally settled into the hotel room: cramped, tired, homesick but safe.
Next time, we won’t stop there.

A mountain and a sapphire sky

   

   

        

     

The newest Photo Album is Wolf Creek Pass and Treasure Falls.  Beware these pictures contain acts of unbridled violence! LOL  This picture is looking down from the upper deck by the falls to the bridge at the base of the falls. 

Before we left on our trip, I mentioned in a fellowship meeting at my church that I hoped I could stand on a mountain and be renewed.  One of that group prayed such for me.  It was ‘cute.’

By the time we arrived in Pagosa Springs, we were all tired: tired of riding, tired of driving, tired of not sleeping, tired of each other.  We were all getting internally frazzled.  Pagosa Springs boasts natural hot mineral waters that are healing to the body and soothing to the psyche.  We were excited about “soothing”.  Added to that, our hotel boasted a large indoor swimming pool and a hot tub which was only a little hall away from our rooms.  I was talked out of renting the extra room.  The rooms were fair sized, though still cramped once all the suitcases were inside.  I gave in to the ‘togetherness’ argument.

It’s about an hour and a half from Pagosa Springs to the Chaco Culture National Monument.  This had, from the beginning, been one of our planned destinations.  But many of us were tired of driving and we’d already seen many ruins.  Originally, my husband and I were excited about the prospect of being able to look through the large telescope housed there, but the group, being what it was, that was an unlikely event.  Our leader was sure everyone would enjoy Chaco.  I personally dreaded the three hours round trip.

After securing our rooms and moving in our luggage, all but ‘two’ of our number loaded into a van and went in search of food and sanity, hoping we could find both somewhere.  For a couple of days, the “two” had been pulling away from the group, complaining frequently about the money we were spending, the amount of road time, the places we stopped to eat.  When we got to the Hotel, there was a small altercation of sorts, but most of us tried to ignore it.  We should have seen the split coming, but once we were in the vehicles, food – inexpensive, sit down, food was all we thought of.  The “two” had seen a Taco Bell on the way into town and said they’d catch a bite there.

The other two vehicles went searching.  Not realizing how far we were from the old part of Pagosa Springs, we decided we had passed up town in the dark and turned around.  We had spied a small interesting place earlier, so we drove back to check it out.  As we approached, we noticed the place was almost empty so we sent a scout in to see if they were still open.  The management offered to stay open for us.  We piled out and piled into a positively delightful little place.  The food was ample, inexpensive and served with a good humor that lifted us all.  We stayed long, drank deep, asked questions.  They joked, filled, answered.  We tipped them very well.  They gave us complimentary cookies: the big chewy fresh baked kind.

Finally, our leader asked a question that would ultimately alter the rest of the trip.  “If there is anything that we just can’t miss while we’re in Pagosa Springs, what would it be?”

All of the employees – now visiting and concentrating solely on the visitors from Arkansas – agreed.  We had to see the springs and we should see Wolf Creek Pass and Treasure Falls.  My heart leaped.  I have always liked Treasure Falls and the thought of driving up into the mountains made me ache.  We laughed and thanked and shook hands like we were leaving a family reunion, piled into our vehicles and headed back to our hotel and the hot tub.

I had swam, soaked, mellowed and jammied when the discussion in the hall began.  Maybe we wouldn’t go to Chaco, maybe we’d go to Treasure Falls and drive up Wolf Creek Pass and just hang around Pagosa Springs.  I had already voiced my opinion and hoped.  One of the ‘two’ was irritated.  I was surprised.  Before supper, he seemed interested in the Pass and Falls.  Now he was insisting it was an hour hike up to the falls: a mile straight up.  I disputed his word as the others discussed.  It was maybe a 10 minute easy walk up a good trail.  But he’d looked it up on the internet and it was a mile of rough terrain.  He went into his room while we all decided to give Chaco up this trip for a day of relaxation and attitude adjustment.  He returned with his laptop.  “See, here it is.  I looked it up.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d done this type of thing.  I turned to Louis.  “It’s not that far up to the falls, is it?”  Louis affirmed that you could see the falls from the highway and it was a short easy trail.  The guy had the audacity to shove his computer into my husbands face after shoving it into one of the other men’s face.  There was a mild explosion in the hall!

The altercation ended with the ‘two’ parting company with the rest of us after a long emotionally wrenching scene.  Apologies unaccepted, we all isolated our hearts and went to bed.  Unknown to most of us, it was inevitable.  It had been growing, borne of small shattered fragments which had festered into a nasty disagreement.

The hotel had a very good breakfast and we lazied around the next morning.  Finally everyone dressed and we headed out – minus two.  We descended on a small shop in the old part of Pagosa Springs.  The proprietor was happy to see us.  She said she would give us a group discount since we were all together and very ‘shoppy’.  We thanked her and everyone bought something, though not what she had envisioned, I’m sure.  Louis and I looked at rings and found some we really liked that fit well.  I’m not sure why we didn’t just go ahead and buy them, but that story has already been told.

After a small lunch at a local coffee shop, we headed up the highway to the pass.  The aspens were glorious, and the air invigorating.  “Ooh”s and “Look there”s dotted our conversation.  Then the others got their first glimpse of Treasure Falls.  A wet autumn, early snows and bright sunlight enhanced the ‘always’ beauty of the falls.  Doors opened and artists, hungry for color, cameras in hand, scattered out and up the trails.  Eventually, most of them convened at the bridge below the falls.  We were children, freed from sitting in busses, mesmerized with the air, the water, the sky, the trees.  After a lengthy stay, our leader had difficulty getting us back into the vehicles again.  “Like herding cats!” 

He feared that the Token Old Ladies who decided against a thin air walk up the trail might be offended by the amount of time we’d spent getting our clothing soaked and then dry again while we took many pictures of the enveloping beauty before us.  They assured us that the quiet rest while they drew, crocheted, etc., was refreshing and welcomed.


Eventually, we began the winding ascent of the pass once again.  Each turn brought new beauty.  The falls were seen from several elevations and angles.  The snow increased as we gained altitude.  Finally we reached the fresh, cold, snowy summit.  Again the Arkansas travelers sprung from their vehicles, cameras in hand.  Those who had jackets and gloves donned them.  Those who didn’t, really didn’t care.  It took only a short time before our leader was pelted with a snowball from one of the Token Old Ladies.  Within minutes, an out and out snow war was waged.  We in Arkansas seldom see snow that deep, that dry, that inviting.  We pushed each other into banks and ganged up on the fallen friend only to be pushed and pelted in turn.  Eventually we wandered back to our vehicles exhausted: aggressions satisfied, animosities healed, tensions relieved.  That night, we would rest well.  The next day we would travel on, sad for the loss of two of our number, yet whole.

I stood on my mountain, gazed on a sapphire sky, breathed the thin air and was renewed.

Cheap camera and healing vistas

I've finally been able to upload pictures.  Today, everything was finally working, yeah!  The new Album is de Chelly to Pagosa Springs.  Hope you'll be able to view it.  This picture was taken on our way back up to Mesa Verde.  It had snowed on the higher elevations overnight.

One of the reasons we went on our trip during the first part of October was to see the phenomenal color the aspens display in the fall.  We checked out the projected color peak and found it would coincide with the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta and our plans were off and running.

Except for the wet start, our Balloon Fiesta was all we had hoped for.  With a couple of minor setbacks, we had ventured on through Laguna, Hubble Trading Post and landed in the Canyon de Chelly National Monument.  There the trees were protected and still mostly green, though every now and then the stark contrast of a tamarisk or early cottonwood against the heavy green foliage would take our breath and set our mouths talking about the aspens to come.

The others in the group wanted color – aspens particularly.  I wanted mountains and I knew aspens and mountains are both abundant in southern Colorado.  Cortez, Colorado was our first real color.  We stopped for an hour or so at a rock shop/mineral dealer just north of town.  Most of us were enthusiastic about the place.  I bought 8 small beautiful thin rocks for the waterfall I’m building in my sunroom.  Louis found several rocks he wanted including a couple of nice chunks of petrified wood.  Next Stop, Mesa Verde.

On the way into Mesa Verde, we stopped to pay the car fee and found that if we had one elderly person with a parks pass in each car, we’d get in free.  The cost per car was $10.  The cost for a golden age parks pass was $10.  The guy was trying to help us out here.  So we did a little senior Chinese fire drill, paid for the passes and that was that.  Our plan included Chaco Culture and it would save us $30.  And, the only disadvantage was that we had to have a “Token Old Lady” in each vehicle.

We didn’t really go to look that evening, but were heading to the Far View Lodge and Restaurant for a classy supper.  We didn’t look like a classy group.  The matre’d and the waiters were not impressed.  I had brought along a very nice outfit, but alas it was packed away, as was everyone else’s.  So, there we stood: not only looking like straggling hikers, but demanding the best seats in the house.  Somehow, Louis and I ended up sitting alone.

To begin, our waitress was completely rude.  Not only were we ill dressed for such a place and in the prime seating, but we were stating that we weren’t really that hungry.  She handed us a wine list; we ordered coffee and water with lemon.  She handed us an appetizer list; we ordered a soup and salad and told her we would have no entrée. 

Yet somewhere between the 2^nd and 3^rd cup of coffee, she decided to be nice in hopes that we’d make up for the lack of order with a hefty tip.  She turned out to be an awesome waitress and a likeable person.  The food was delicious.  We ordered desert.  Our tab was $40. and included a drafty window with a wide view of a barren hillside and beyond.  Mesa Verde was part of the huge wildfire that engulfed southern Colorado a few years back: no color here.  We tipped her well.

After supper, we drove into Durango for the night.  A freebie breakfast and computer access made up for the cramped rooms on the second floor and the lack of parking.  Housing seven women and all their stuff is a lot to ask of even a large room at the Days Inn.  It was only for one night.  I’d get an extra room next time, I decided.  Since my digital camera had stopped working and I didn’t bring a film camera, I decided to go to WalMart and see if I could find something to get me by for the rest of the trip.  We found a little no frills digi with a flash and internal only memory.  It didn’t cost much so I got it.  Book in hand, I sat a little while in the van with the new acquisition and my husband’s lap top.  By the time I wandered back to the little room on the second floor, I was accepting the challenge of making the camera purchase a ‘good thing’.

The next day, the park was only slightly warmer than it had been the night before.  We saw some wonderful vistas on the way up that included mountains totally white from an overnight snowfall.  Three vehicles with travelers from Arkansas, ill prepared for the weather, stopped and took group pictures at the entrance sign where we reapportioned our “Token Old Ladies” and drove into the park.  There was of course no color, not even much green on the mountain itself, though there were isolated spots that the fire missed and small signs that nature was healing itself could be seen if you looked closely. 

We didn’t do much walking, though we did stop at a couple of close at hand overlooks and got a few pictures of the ruins.  We ate lunch together at a small café by the visitors center on the main loop.  A few of our number hiked down the only self-guided ruins trail open this time of year while others shopped and visited the museum.  I sent Louis off and stayed with the “Token Old Ladies.”  The museum was hosting a native American art exhibit which I thoroughly enjoyed and I bought some nice rocks and a jigsaw puzzle picturing one of the popular ruins.  

I also watched a Navaho couple decorating pottery.  My only disappointment was that the pottery was poured not hand built.  But the process was intriguing and gave me some inspiration for future works. 

I tried taking a few pictures with my little camera, but found curiously that I could not control what was in focus.  “Oh, well, it was cheap!”  Only after we returned home did my husband play with it and discover some of the really cool aspects of it.  He discovered that it had no internal stabilizer and that was why the focus was so off.  Add a tripod, attach it to the computer, and we’ve got a nifty little thing that takes great stills or endless video.

Good Stones

The trip was almost over when I stumbled into a small Navaho jewelry store on the square in Santa Fe.  I thought I’d check for rings, but what I really hoped to find was a natural turquoise necklace that wasn’t too extravagant that I could take apart to use the stones in my art studio.  I saw a clearance sign and headed back there.  The necklace I picked up was marked $270. and the shop owner quickly came to my side.  “The least I can let that go for is $90.” he said.

I smiled, “I just wanted something I could take apart.”  His eyes opened rather largely and his smile said “fruitcake.”

He held up a necklace with small cut stones from the clearance rack.  “I would let you have this for $29.” he offered.  I smiled and shook my head.  He nodded and went back to his seat behind the counter. 

On my way out I spied a necklace.  It was also rough stones, but they were quite nice and similar in size, texture and color to one of the pieces in my friend’s find.  The tag said $498. 

The man behind the counter commented amiably,  “You have an eye for good stones.”  I smiled and took my hand from the necklace I knew I wouldn’t buy, thinking I learn quickly and I’ve learned from the best. 

I turned and saw a man’s bracelet in the display case.  I thought, “If it’s not too expensive, it might make a good Christmas present.”  It was an old piece with one very large natural stone flanked by two small stones in a chunky silver setting.  The price tag was turned downward.

The man handed it to me.  It felt awesome in my hand but knew as soon as I spied the price that it would wipe out my bank account.  I handed it back and said it was beautiful and that I loved the one beside it as well.  No it was not necessary to take it out.  Another man had come in from the back: a younger man who stopped and looked at my choices.  “She knows good stones,” he observed. 

“Yes, she does,” offered the other.

Yes, I do, I thought.  Now why didn’t I look at jewelry in the canyon?

A Rock and A new Album

   I am an odd sort.  Always was; probably always will be.  I get along okay in crowds.  When I’m asked to be a speaker or feel lead to do so, it goes well.  Otherwise, I talk too much, find things interesting that no one else does and see value in a completely different, sometimes socially unacceptable way.

I’ve accepted myself, but I usually feel out of place and a little disconnected.  Louis says all artists probably do.  If so, we’re all good at faking it.  Perhaps it’s artistic thinking and not egotism that makes us so enthralled with our own ideas and discoveries.

On the recent trip, several of our group decided to take a day long ride into the bottom of Canyon De Chelly.  During our time in the canyon, little children would come out and the tour busses would stop to let us peruse the wares the children carried.  Some of them were better than others at sales, but they were all wide eyes sweethearts that were being exploited –in my opinion. 

I kept that reasoning for much of the ride and cringed as the children ran toward the huge lumbering tires of the vehicles.  Others would buy their wares: a “hand made” bracelet, necklace or ruglet.  And we’d jostle on our way again until another group of “vendors” was spotted.  Sometime after lunch, we stopped by a cliff dwelling that had restrooms, trashcans, and a multitude of vendors.  As I walked toward the women’s room, I saw a young boy, somewhere in the age group of the home schooled students I teach.  He was sitting beside a display of painted sandstone slabs.  I smiled blindly and walked on, yet I knew.

After meeting up with a friend who hiked down the only public trail in the very controlled canyon, I began to make my way back to the truck/bus.  As I passed the young boy again, I looked directly into his eyes, knowing I would buy a painted rock.  Determined, he spoke  “Would you like me to explain the symbols on my rock paintings?”

“Sure” I answered, squatting down to the level where he sat.

Carefully he pointed out each symbol on a nearby rock and explained its significance in relationship to the Navaho culture.  I had noticed one particular rock and it was the one I would buy.

“So, explain the difference between a pictograph and a petroglyph,”  I said, slipping mindlessly into my teacher mode.

The boy’s face lit up.  He reached down to the rock I had mentally chosen.  “This is a petroglyph,” he announced.  “See it’s painted in layers and then the top layer is scratched away and the symbol is carved into the rock’s surface.  These others are pictographs.  The paint is only applied to the top layer and it’s not carved.”

“That’s a nice one,” I said smiling into the boys enlivened eyes.  “I’ll buy it.”

“It’s my favorite.  I did them all, but I like it best.” he announced.

Perhaps I gave him a questioning look, for he smiled broadly.  “I’m glad your buying it.”

I gave him the money and he wrapped my rock in newspaper carefully.  As I started to leave, a thought occurred to me.  “I’m an art teacher and when I get back to Arkansas I will show your rock to my students and tell them about you.”

He gave me a distracted smile as his eyes scanned the milling crowd.  Then a look of surprised recognition came to his face.  He gave me a big smile “Thanks!” he said with proud excitement and I felt him watch me go.

In my seat, a member of the group saw my newspaper wrapped package.  “What did you get?”  she asked expectantly.

I loosed the paper carefully and revealed my treasure.  “I bought a rock.”

Her wan smile and averted eyes were predictable.  Among the jewelry, pottery and weavings, I found a rock.  A simple piece of sandstone painted by a young Navaho boy. 

There is a new installment in my photo albums from the Southwest: Canyon d Chelly