Luck of the Mesa Hoodlum
Boring Tales of Love and Greed
SOMETIMES THE WORLD CRACKS RIGHT OPEN for you. What if that’s always how it is though and we wuz robbed?
I’ve been walking again. It’s about damn time. My knees were talking to me and it wasn’t fit for company. A favorite place to go is Traders Trail at Taos Valley Overlook because it’s relatively straight with a gradual descent. I’m almost always utterly alone. The vistas are staggering and the air is mostly clear and clean. Do I really live 12 minutes up the road from the trailhead? Why yes I do. Sometimes I wish I didn’t.1 Since there’s no chance I’ll get up early to exercise, I end up racing with the disappearing sun and losing. Yesterday I tried to walk to the one-mile marker I created with the artful placement of a single rock. You have to hide it, see.2 It was relatively new but accurate. I’d only hiked to it once before and then there was a pause and now I wasn’t sure. Exhausted, I went much farther past where I thought it was and quit: That’s it, I’m turning around. My knees are sore it’s cold and turning dark… and then I saw my marker 10 feet farther on. The body knows.
The same trailhead offers other choices. In the past I often chose a segment of the Rift Valley Trail and did four miles round-trip. (If I can get back to that we’ll have a party.) That route has a couple decent hill climbs, arroyos to scramble in and out of, and wrings me out a little more but I have distances and landmarks memorized from long experience. One time several years ago Kathy got ahead of me and I lost sight of her before the last of those arroyos. When I caught up to her she was sitting on the ground, beat-up and bleeding. “Where were you?” she cried out. Her legs were cut from falling onto sharp stones. I cleaned the wounds with water from my bottle.
“I’m so sorry! But what happened to you?”
“The trees closed in on me…”
I assured her that they hadn’t as I died a little more but somehow knew to drop it. Helpless in denial and awareness, I played my role and so did she. We did our time and never walked that way again. Whenever I take that trail now I remember, though. It’s like a test for living in the present. Sometimes my steps are strong and certain and I’m walking for myself. Other times we do a little dance or I just have to deal.
The other day I decided to answer the phone because I saw it was from my late cousin’s lawyer. Maybe he never got the papers I had to sign and mail right back? As it turned out, he’d called me by mistake but took the time to tell me I was listed as a beneficiary on Joyce’s IRA and brokerage accounts and that I should get in touch with so-and-so. A few days later 16 heirs had a little less to worry about. I paid off all my credit cards in shock. The interest over way too many years had long eclipsed whatever debts I owed but I was used to that.3 The inverse status was so ingrained, euthanizing the beast was almost sad. For half an hour I wondered if I should.
This buys a little time but only if I have no soul. The Project will continue.
To redeem myself, I bought a parka and two pairs of gloves. I also went out in the cold and rain to haul a pickup load of cardboard to the lone transfer station in all of Taos County’s 2,203 square miles that takes recycling. In the process I learned that most of the storage unit boxes I thought were empty are actually full and also rediscovered Helen’s ashes. (Yes, that’s where they are.) Speaking of redemption, my mother died in 2012 and I’m still supposed to bury her beside St. John of the Vodka4 (hi Dad!) in the Chestertown cemetery on the Eastern Shore. Lapsed executor duties, I’m afraid, from reluctance to revisit primal ground—might be tricky too, you know. Just last night I thought of Kathy and a bolt of grief shot out of hell so hard I thought my heart would stop—as if the choice were there, in other words, which scared me good.
And then this happened. I wanted a effects device for my new guitar, the red Epiphone SG. Way back in April I ordered the Marshall Bluesbreaker pedal from Sweetwater but as of late October it still hadn’t shipped here from the U.K. In the meantime I discovered Heather Brown Electronicals [sic] at GodsMom.com. She builds all her guitar pedals by hand and every model is remarkable. I’d always envied Norman Greenbaum’s sound on “Spirit in the Sky,” achieved with a specially-modified guitar, yet here was someone I’d never heard of selling a pedal of the same name that promised that and more. She’d made 100 in the latest batch and they were all sold out. I watched reviews and searched in vain.
A short time ago, however, I checked in at Reverb.com5 and couldn’t believe my eyes: a Heather Brown “Spirit in the Sky Optical Tremolo/Fuzz” in mint condition, priced like new ($300)! The seller was reputable, the ad was only three hours old. I pounced. A week later it arrived. The sounds are indescribable and awesome. I’ve always played but rarely used a pedal, only overdrove (?) the amp. Never made the joyful noise unto Lord that this thing does. Too cheap and stupid really, but now I’m good. The distortion and sustain cover my “mistakes” and sound like there are three of me. Once again I’m shocked because it’s just so tasty and I wanted it and here it is.
Heading for another solstice now at 7,000 feet. I don’t know how we do it.
It happened though, right? Twenty-four years of life and death, the old adobe, Taos, stunning mountains, brutal cold and mud… Sometimes I think I won’t be free until I’m out of here. I’ve also felt the same in every place I’ve ever lived—curse of the Air Force brat I guess. How old and silly all that seems. When the terror went away and I found myself alone this time, something in me said: Clean slate! Another chance! Most days I feel encouragement that backs me up, like when I’m washing dishes and suddenly want to sing but have no song. So write one then.
Survival’s not the point. It probably never was.
Terrible beauty is a thing, you know. Google, chilluns.
‘Cause eco-zealots tear down cairns.
Get it almost paid off and I’d need a tooth or ball joints. Round and round, ye gods.
From my first book. Came up with that moniker after she took issue with my dropping the “Jr.” from my public name after Dad died: “Is that who you think you are?” The hagiography was bonkers and she used it like a club. Different story while he lived.
Reverb.com is a well-known website for private and commercial sales of new and used instruments and gear. Whatever you need, a fun site to explore.
Very powerful. Something has shifted.
Soulful reflections by John Hamilton Farr. I could feel the ice cold air and the steady clarity of emotion while reading this piece. Much appreciation to you for writing this tale!