

The Dry Spell:

# A Tribute to DFW

by Edward Drobinski

Copyright © 2011 Edward Drobinski

All rights reserved
"Let me out of heeeere" \--

# John Zacherle

# "No one here gets out alive" --

# Jim Morrison

# "From the fool's gold mouthpiece the hollow horn plays wasted words,

# Proves to warn that he not busy being born, is busy dying." --

# Bob Dylan

### Chapter 1

The select few who have read excerpts from my previous six books have made varying comments about them; but the one common refrain from all has been; "Did you ever consider taking a course in writing?" My initial response was a simple "No", convinced that the question was merely displaying a lack of understanding of the exquisitely unique mixes of ideas contained in the works, but as time passed I did, indeed, endeavor to consider, resulting in the thought that just maybe, I had overlooked something fundamental and integral to the literary art or non-art.

So, I signed up for an elective given right here in Corrales, New Mexico taught by Leopold Pubnonski, Ph.D. and the project that follows is the result of my 24 hours and five hundred bucks. Leo was effervescent enough, no doubt finding inspiration in counting the filthy lucre accumulated from the sixteen would-be writers in attendance. I heard and re-heard variations of "Write what you know," interspersed with "amusing" tangents to areas of Leo's vast personal experience and regular reference to some guy who wrote a cook book and made a fortune. My culinary skills limited to heating up TV dinners, made me focus on what I know. I suppose what we all know best is the truth of our own lives, but if I stuck with that my only potential market would be in competition with the firmly established presence of Nyquil.

Anyway, I enjoyed sitting on the white metal folding chairs in the un-air conditioned gymnasium, with thirty foot ceilings and no windows to shed any light on the matter. The four netted basketball rims provided pleasant daydreams in the lulls, so, Nyquil, prepare your best defense, as I'm coming right at you.

Black and white cold stillness.

Credentials and Subject:

The writer is a 61 year old man, a white of Polish descent, who was born and grew up in a crowded working class section of a small city seven miles from Manhattan. That bordering a poor black section, he often utilizes phrases not adequately defined; e.g., "What it is." Academically he has obtained a B.S. in accounting and an M.B.A. in finance, the basic tenets of each suggesting that any intended participation in the literary world would likely be more lucrative if he had chosen criticism, editing, or typing. Anyone successfully completing the first grade can write and a certain naïve simplicity may be essential, as recent best sellers have included the daily travails of a woman wandering the Everglades and her fascination with alligators; the story of six young women disgusted with life in the everyday world escaping to another place inhabited by nonhuman forms, being supplied with Gatling guns and shooting them, while popping out of bikinis; and, Leo was right; a number of cook books. Any unintentional biases detected may be attributed to the reader's imported point of view. The point is debatable, but the writer will leave it to another expositor interested in the subject matter. His concerns are merely: 1) the definition of "Bosque" and 2) the regional meaning commonly held in the Village of Corrales, New Mexico.

Hypothesis:

The purpose of this thesis is to point out inadequacies in the " _Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary_ Eleventh Edition's" definition of "Bosque" as a "small wooded area" and postulate a new one, taking into account "what it is" and regional considerations. Consider the first word -- "small". We are not enlightened by Merriam's posted meaning of "having comparatively little size or slight dimension." So we have small, little and slight nuanced by "comparatively." The writer would contend that the complete disregard for precision is more than a tad troubling. A small national forest dwarfs a large park. Meaningless words? Comparatively? Compared to what? Itself? Other national parks? Perhaps. But, even in this case regional considerations are ignored. A small national park in the west humbles a large one in the east. The obvious conclusion is to dismiss "small" as having inadequate descriptive value, as currently defined. The writer should note that he is making reference only to the first of seven meanings, the one which seems the most relevant to "Bosque".

Merriam-Webster says "wooded" is "covered with growing trees." Complete nonsense. No piece of land is fully covered with anything, unless the ground crew rolls out the tarp. Further, if an area contains mature trees that have already reached their maximum height, or is a host to dead trees, must it be disqualified? Apparently Merriam believes so, however this is patently absurd. The conclusion is that "wooded" is too discriminating to be of any use. I will stand corrected if anyone can document a "wooded" area, in which all trees are "growing."

"Area" has six meanings supplied by Merriam, the first relevant to the subject of this thesis being "a level piece of ground." Though the writer was tempted to dismiss this definition out of hand, as it systematically omits hills, slopes and mountains, he pursued further. Merriam has nine possibilities, the most relevant here, 4b, says "a practically horizontal surface or area (as of land)." This is dismissed as being simply wrong. The Bosque I know and love has contour as the norm and Merriam should not use the word to be defined in the definition.

So, to marginally paraphrase, Merriam believes that the Bosque is a non-existent, flat piece of land of indeterminate size. The Bosque is about nothing on this planet, but may apply to nirvana, small "n", not bearing any relationship to Kurt Cobain.

Therefore this paper will endeavor to find a new, correct definition of the word, with special regard given to regional considerations, as they exist in the Village of Corrales, New Mexico.

Anecdotal Evidence - 1

July 31, 2011. Tan, sandy dirt, sparse green plants up to four feet, dark brown water, a light blue cloudless sky, a gentle, warm, southern breeze, a yellow-white angry sun, oppressive heat in waves, bringing the scent of death.

I park my car and walk Daisy down Romero Road to the Corrales Bosque. My eight year old willful Dalmatian probable cross is now eighty pounds, has leg problems, but still has her puppy energy level for short spells, completely disregarding the wishes of that which is on the opposite end of the chain leash. The trainer gave up and I guess I didn't care to try another, as Daisy is appropriately named. She's a flower child. I first met her when she was six months old and 29 pounds. At the time everyone, including vets, thought she was pure Dalmatian, but it was obvious that she had the temperament of an easygoing Lab, but the energy level of a crazy Dally. As she filled out her body became more Lab-like, but retained the beautiful Dally black and white markings. She unknowingly had the benefit of being unencumbered by the restraints of being only one thing. She got the best of both worlds and never knew of her parent's failings.

We are greeted by seven warning signs; one informs us that the fire danger is "extreme", the second says "Road Closed", the third thinks that the Bosque, itself, is "closed", the fourth, fifth and sixth say some derivation of "No Parking" and the seventh exhibits a long message in English and Spanish and faces the wrong way, so I haven't had the pleasure. There has been no form of precipitation since October 2010.

She leads me around the locked green metal gate indented fifty feet from the road, with customary ease and I have to hold her back as I attempt to traverse the log maze at the left side of the gate post. She'll have none of that. There is only one thing on her mind; get in the water quickly. She pulls me a few hundred feet, despite my protestations of "Slow, slow" until she gets to her favorite spot for entry to the ditch, currently at high tide. The slightly graduated slope affords easy entry to the dark brown water. The exit attempt fails, as she is unable to come straight up, falling back in a few times. Then she recalls something she has known for years, but seems to have to re-invent each time needed. She rejects trying the "shortest distance between two points is a straight line" approach and zigzags her way up the ten feet, paws muddy and looking at me as if to say, "I didn't think I was going to make it." As she shakes off some of the brown water which has temporarily dyed her white fur, I pat her head and tell her for the millionth time; "You can do anything you want. You just don't know it."

My soaked sweetheart and I continue a few hundred more feet of Romero Road, private property with a broken chain link fence to our left guarding the fifteen foot elm trees. Across the ditch to our right are a number of small unique houses, probably built and rented by the owner who lives on the same property in his preferred trailer. His fencing has been well maintained and restrains two medium sized barking dogs Daisy can live without. We come to another locked green metal gate with three signs; one incorrectly tells us how to behave around coyotes, one says "No Parking", not specifying whose butt that refers to, as cars are stopped by the prior gate; and the third says that the Bosque is closed. There are also pink ribbons tied in key spots to further hinder entrance. I formerly associated this gate with the official start of the Bosque, but now I'm not sure, as the ribbon people have also decorated Romero's metal bridge, now 50 feet behind us, which at a 90º angle leads only to another ditch path.

I have nothing to fear from the authorities. I have obtained a badge identifying me, F-116, an official of the "Corrales Bosque Preserve BOSQUE Watch" club. For those unable to see this credential, I have also been provided with a unique orange fishnet jacket. Daisy is stark naked and seemingly comfortable displaying her curvy body to the world. I have refused to inform her that there is a dress code.

We duck under the ribbons to the left of the gate un-molested, climb the levee and stand on the path a moment surveying the area. We don't see any smoke or fire today, so we proceed down the other side of the levee and are now surrounded by cottonwoods, 40-100 feet tall and wide, allowing us to escape the angry sun. People universally say that they love the crazy branching monsters, but no one has a specimen on their own property and local law prohibits their planting. They need lots of water and have one nasty habit. Three times a year they disburse their cottony seeds, gumming up any nearby machinery, in apparent revenge. "For what?" you correctly ask. I haven't the slightest idea. Maybe it's for the graffiti painted on their trunks, a youthful artistic statement; or maybe it's a more practical matter; an objection to the local custom of stringing swings from their lowest branches until brittle arms give way; or, perhaps they're angry that something they loved was not able to love them back in the manner desired.

We continue down the path to the water, where Daisy always requires another dousing, this time in the Rio Grande. It got that name a long time ago. She looks back to see if I'm going to follow her in, which the case was the last few years. I'm concerned because I have only a Bosque pass, not one for the river. My thinking is that if Daisy gets arrested I'll be there to bail her out, but if I do, she doesn't have any money. Over the last few years I've been getting the inkling that I'm not the most popular person in Corrales. I really don't know why, but I have a weak guess; I talk to the people I find interesting and ignore the others. You correctly say; "We all do that." Not in Corrales, where a statute somewhere requires one to treat all the same. I've wondered if that was due to a local penchant for communism, a preponderance of poor eyesight, or attempted coerced egalitarianism. No matter; I have not yet been arrested. I came close once, but that is another story, not quite as interesting as this one.

She registers disappointment and gives me a second refused chance before exiting and shaking off her excess on me. She decides to go south and leads me down the path bordering what remains of the river, stopping here and there to try to figure out what particularly smelly animal was recently there. Soon we're in an open area, with no sizable trees a few hundred feet in each direction.

We see the few remains of our old friend, King Cottonwood, lying on the sand next to the river. I miss his absurd, amusing and insightful commentaries. He used to be 150 feet tall and 100 feet wide, no doubt getting plenty of water in his chosen place. When he fell the bulk of his body went in the water, leaving only a few recalcitrant branches on the ground. In life he had the grandest unobstructed view of the valley in all directions, no doubt blocking many others, but also opening new ground for those who heard his creaks and moans in the wind. I'd like to have known him when he was about 120 feet and just started to realize that his view would exceed all the rest.

Daisy pulls me along as she has picked up the death aroma that fascinates her. There's little dead that she wouldn't like to eat, including the things the coyotes won't touch. She drags me through some tall reeds that make footing difficult and slap my face. We find a sandy area with some small rocks that didn't exist three years ago, where I used to meet Nora. Today we find twenty-two dead fish, all recent corpses and Daisy has to sample every one. Fortunately, fish is probably the only thing Daisy doesn't crave. As usual she nibbles on them, sometimes ingesting a head, but no more. I was to later be told that the fish demise was the result of a huge fire 50 miles north. Either the soot or fire retardant clogged their gills. But why did they choose this burial ground? I dismissed the red tide seen a few years back with Nora, as a chance event, but now the probability has increased.

As Daisy slowly checked and rechecked every carcass, the mountain across the river became my visual interest and I remembered a recent dream.

I was alone, walking down a city street. As I approached an old four story brick apartment building, she exited the front door. I think she saw me coming and tried to quickly walk away. I never expected to see her long graying hair and that bouncing gait again. In a normal tone of voice I said; "Nora." For a fraction of a second I think she intended to keep going, but for some reason chose to stop, turn around and look at me, saying; "Why are you following me around?"

I said; "I'm not. I didn't even know that you lived here."

I walked over to her and instinctively tried to put my arms around her. I expected to be pushed away, but was allowed a short cuddle.

Breaking away, she surprised me again, saying; "Let's go get a drink."

I said; "I don't have any money."

She said; "I'll pay."

She led me to the saloon two doors away. Its darkness and large crowd contrasted the sunny, empty sidewalk. We walked to the packed bar and stood there. I wasn't sure what she ordered and not being much of a drinker, I said; "I'll have the same."

It looked like a heavy beer. I sipped mine, as everyone there said "Hi" to her. I didn't know any of them and she didn't introduce me.

After the salutations, she wolfed down the glass without ever taking it away from her lips and then walked to the door. I took a sip or two, but had to leave the bulk of it on the bar to keep up with her.

When we got back outside she wordlessly stopped and I again briefly held her. She moved away and briskly walked down the street, as if she were late for an appointment. I stood still and watched. Patti Smith sang "Wing."

"Oh, Daisy. No, no, no, no, no." She was back in the river, to get a drink and a soaking and seemed insistent that I follow her to a spot where the water was deeper. I was a stubborn landlubber and she strolled in the cool wetness. She's probably wondering why I'm not following her to a spot where we used to go.

I guess she thinks that I'd rather go somewhere else, because she prances to the opening in the bordering woods, climbs it and stops in the shade, looking at me. I don't have a preference. If we go left we'll have a long walk and if we go right it will be a short one. She goes right on an inland path and we head back toward the gate. When the path cuts toward the levee, I see Margie with her little dog, Murphy Brown, walking back on the highest ground. We've chatted before, about the usual stuff like the sanctity of marriage and the effects of different hallucinogenics.

I knew that she was in here somewhere as when we parked I saw her car. I don't know one car from another and could care less about the subject. However, I know hers because of its parking regimen. It's the only one that always has the left front and left rear wheels on the firm flat ground and the other two right ones elevated on a two foot berm at the side of the road. It manages to be both high and low at the same time. When I again gaze at it from the front the left-right situation reverses. I recall that at other times she parks on the other side of the road, causing the right wheels to be grounded and the left ones to be in the air from a rear view and the opposite from the front. I wonder what would be the result of a side view. Which side? What angle? Oh, I'd better forget trying to describe. I'm confused and starting to feel dizzy. The possibilities are probably infinite. I wonder if her unique positioning gets anyone else's attention and admiration. I suspect so.

When we're within earshot, I call out; "Margie, did you see all the dead fish?"

"No, where?"

I point back south and say; "You know that spot near what used to be an island that is quickly becoming a peninsula?"

"Oh, yeah, I didn't go that way today."

Daisy and I climb the levee at a steep spot. I probably couldn't make it myself, but Daisy pulls me up, wanting to say "Hi" to her tiny canine friend. Murphy tolerates Daisy's nose and goes into somewhat of a trance, standing still, apparently oblivious to the rude imposition of the world. Now fourteen years old and under Margie's gentle care for ten years, he still remembers the abuse of the first four, both from the hands of people and from other dogs. As we walk Murphy secretly eyes Daisy and chooses to keep Margie between his tiny, long haired body and her.

I told her what I knew about the fire and consequent soot and retardant, specifying that I wasn't referring to anyone local. She kind of shrugged. "How terrible," but really could care less. I'm surprised, as the vast majority of the time Margie seems to care about everyone's problems and tries to help.

I say; "Albuquerque is now drinking that crap."

Same response. I guess it's one of those days when at 9AM, three people have already laid all their "crap" on her. And here I come with mine.

I guess, today, I don't really care, either. I was always under the impression that it looked compassionate and made you be seen as a nice person, when you register concern. I feel comfortable with Margie as we can skip this façade, when we're in a "Hate thy neighbor" state of mind. I don't trust the people who never act that way, because I know that they're merely competent actors, not the real thing. She likes Daisy and stoops slightly to pet her. In a somewhat childish voice, she says; "Have you been in the water?" presumably speaking to Daisy.

I answer for her; "Whenever it's over forty degrees."

"She always goes in over there," she says, pointing back toward Romero Road.

"That's the first stop. She's been in the river, too."

Margie again sounds a bit child-like, looks at Daisy and says; "She goes in the river?"

I don't know if this is cutesy conversation directed at Daisy, or if she thinks it a dangerous stunt, softly chastising me for allowing it. I give Daisy a few seconds to come up with some response. I think; "Come on girl. Come to my defense." She fails to. I don't want to appear overly defensive, so I make no reply. Instead, I get on my knees to try to say hello to her dog. He again rebuffs me. Margie has told me that now she is the only person he trusts.

I get back up and ask; "Have you been doing any writing lately?"

Her body movements indicate yes and no. She says; "I'm still keeping my journal."

"Could you expand it and make them into essays?"

"I've been thinking about that. I usually just write what happens, but if I added color and scenery....."

"What would be the story line?"

"Nothing, tell a story without telling a story. Be humorous when writing about seriousness and be serious with humor. Neither here nor there."

I'm impressed as it seems to me that you can't do better than that. She has read a lot of David Foster Wallace, Jonathan Franzen and D.H. Lawrence. Her dog is now about fifty feet ahead of us and moving quickly, so we have to do likewise. As we walk I say a few innocuous things about my trifling annoyances since I saw her last and she laughs at each.

She says; "Oh, yeah, have you seen the dead raccoon over there?" pointing back south on the levee path, probably remembering that I told her Daisy eats everything she can get to, often resulting in worms or diarrhea.

"No, where is it?"

She says nothing, but again points.

As she walks away, I want the conversation to continue, so I say; "Can you tell if there's some kind of higher message behind all this stuff?"

"No," she says without breaking stride. She's a lawyer.

Black, white and varying shades of gray. A cool, mild, northern wind.

Empirical Evidence – 1

For the purposes of this paper, I have broken down the five mile long Corrales Bosque into eight roughly equal sectors. Number 1 starts at the northern portion bordered by Rio Rancho and number 8 is south, meeting Albuquerque. Vegetation is that which dominates the area, not all. Contour is subjective.

The preceding chart indicates the variability contained in the five mile strip of land called the "Corrales Bosque." Tree heights and placements vary widely and evince no relationship to the types present, the contour of the land, other vegetation, or the amount of destructive human traffic.

Two items of consistency are; 1) the similarity in size of the tallest trees, which in each case is a cottonwood and 2) the frequency of dead trees in each sector. Coupled with the distances between the trees, this testifies negatively to any notion of "growing" or covered."

The subjectively defined contour indicates another random variability, but more importantly, even if one takes exception with the classification assigned, one cannot actually survey the Bosque and call it "flat." The writer contends that more than enough information to dismiss the Merriam definition of Bosque as a "small wooded area" has been provided and the remainder of this paper will be devoted to attempting to suggest a correct, meaningful one.

### Chapter 2

Anecdotal Evidence – 2

August 4, 2009. Black top, suburban development in varying shades of brown, well packed dirt paths, barking dogs, half clouded blue sky not threatening rain, hot southern wind, fast, fast, cottonwoods in full bloom and lavender refuge.

Daisy and I exit the garage for our daily walk, not knowing what today's adventure will be. Three doors away I see Ben on all fours with a tarp, hand pulling the weeds from his outstanding lawn of about two-thirds of an acre with no bushes or trees. It seems to be Ben's passion as Daisy and I often see him in his prone position. He must be especially annoyed today seeing us out another morning starting our three to four hour walks while he has to "work." He calls out; "How much time do you spend with that dog?" with a vocal intonation of disapproval.

"About as much time as you spend kissing that stupid lawn." I get no response and another pleasant day in Corrales has officially started.

We successfully work our way about a mile through the development, with me only having to growl at two loose dogs barking and threatening nefarious notions at my angel. That's not a bad day. I didn't even have to get hoarse. Temporary safety. We enter a small wooded area, populated by elms and apple trees. It's about five acres and probably was left as nature would have it by the builder of the twelve nearby houses when the market died. Despite the trees being tiny, densely packed and growing on flat terrain, no local refers to this area as a Bosque.

We negotiate the winding path we have made over the past few years and now have to watch out for serious danger -- densely packed cars, some tiny and pickup trucks.

We dart our way across busy Corrales Road and are now on Academy Road, home of the Seventh Day Adventist church, school, bookstore, warehouse, various other rented retail properties and soon to come affordable senior citizen condos for "nice" religious people. Their tax-free status enables them to run a mini-conglomerate, while filling the "rural" roads with traffic and making regular use of the police department, probably in response to "problems" experienced with their many local detractors.

Daisy thinks that every person and car came out to play with her, so she tries to approach every vehicle on the road, with increased gusto if they slow down. We again successfully negotiate the obstacle course and I can finally relax somewhat when we turn onto the ditch path which begins shortly after the school ends. When we make the right turn we say hello to the sign that we have seen daily for years; "Property of MRGCD. No trespassing. No cars." Not to worry as we were correctly told on our first trip here, the Middle Rio Grande Conservation District doesn't really mean it. They are one of five governmental entities which have some jurisdiction over the five mile "Corrales Bosque." I've always wondered if it wouldn't be more efficient to assign each of them their own mile. At the very least it would enable users to pinpoint responsibility, but perhaps that is precisely what is not wanted. The "finger pointing" act will be discussed later when we encounter the first Bosque "closing" in our experience, when I had some company in displaying some finger pointing of my own, utilizing the longest one, hoping to maximize visibility. Though the intended meaning is different in my East Coast home of 45 years, I have been advised that in the Southwest it means "hello" in Eskimo.

The path is easy to traverse today as we've learned to take the unmaintained side, only seeing one car on the left, using it as a shortcut to the Seventh Day Adventist enterprise. The usual band of residents, living in the bordering houses, just happen to come out to the ditch path to retrieve their morning papers as we pass. I'm again crestfallen as the "friendly" group neglects saying an ebullient "Morning" and merely stare. This part of town is populated by the still mobile members of the founding Gawk family, who feel as though they have eminent domain over the public ditch path. Daisy is unfazed after years of experience and doesn't expect the walking dead to be capable of playing with anything other than themselves. She pays attention to the ground, watching for thorny growths and no doubt hoping that the wire fenced barking dogs don't find an escape hole.

Elation. We get back to Corrales Road, cross it and enter Romero Road. The gate is open and only one sign exists informing us that the fire risk is "extreme" today. I wondered where there was no fire risk in a hot desert, especially one dotted with ancient dead tree limbs. Experience has shown me that when the MRGCD is compelled to lower the conflagration possibility, they clear out live wood and won't touch the dry.

The guy who lives in the first house is not visible, but we know he's around because we can smell his cigarette smoke. His wife lives in the second house and he's been denied access for more than a decade. I've never seen her and she may possibly be existing as a mummy in the Bates Hotel, or she's merely embarrassed. Nicky is perpetually drunk, at times angry and tough, at other times crying over the mess he's made of his life. The one thing consistent is his mouth moving. He hasn't shaved in years, his long, unkempt gray beard somewhat reminiscent of a hobo Santa Claus. He once told me that kids like him and enjoy the toys splattered over his yard; broken pieces of plastic he finds discarded at the Bosque. I took special note of the three foot orange plastic female doll, sans one arm and one leg, with an open circular mouth with a diameter of approximately two inches. Before I told him to "get lost", he told me at different times of his being an important Mafia man, a super-skilled baseball pitcher, a cab driver, an old hippie who believes in peace, love and non-violence, a street fighter and a member of a European royal family. I tolerated him a few months until he had one of his crying jags, during which he put his arms around my shoulders, sobbing into my chest, resurrecting my misanthropic feelings. Nicky is the first candidate discussed in this paper who frequents the Bosque and is either currently, in the past, or who should be under intensive psychiatric care. No wonder I feel more at home here than any other part of Corrales.

Daisy has already been in the ditch water two or three times, but she pulls me to her favorite spot on the Romero ditch and almost pulls me in. After she's satisfied, she looks up at me surprised that I haven't joined her. She dawdles to give me another chance, eventually shrugging as if to say, "You don't know what you're missing," and works her way back up.

We near the road's end and see one car in the parking area, its owner near it, holding two leashed dogs in one hand and binoculars to her eyes in the other. It's Nora. Nora is as crazy, original, educated, well read, complicated and as pretty as they come. She always has something interesting and unexpected to say, so being in a relatively good mood, not yet having been attacked by any mad dogs or people; I decide to beat her to the punch. One of my pet peeves here is that it's something between a crime and a major faux pas to say anything even remotely critical of Corrales. I like the place, but am not yet approaching the perfection end of the spectrum. In her youth Nora lived all over the United States and a few other countries, being in thirteen different schools to get through her first twelve years of schooling. But, she has lived in Corrales about thirty years. As free spoken as she is, I'd like to hear her take on the ideal village, so I start today's conversation by saying; "Nora, why have you stayed in Corrales so long?"

She says; "I think I just got tired of moving." She got me again. She made a perfectly reasonable answer without violating the local taboo. She hands me her binoculars and tells me to look at a bird in a tree about 100 feet away. I can't find him. After looking for about 30 seconds, I pick up a flying bird and follow it. I say; "Got him."

She says; "No, not that one. He's still in the tree."

I look again for another 15 seconds to no avail and hand the binoculars back to her, saying; "I've always had good vision, 20-10 as a kid, but, there's some kind of weird imperfection I discovered early on playing sports. I see things in one place, when actually they are a few feet away. Like when I pitched, my target wasn't the plate. I actually was aiming at a right handed batter to hit the plate.

She looked at me curiously and then doubled over laughing uncontrollably. I was surprised and proud at the same time. I usually could never make girls laugh. I said; "What?"

She continued doubled over and waved her binocular hand at me, saying; "I... can't... explain... it," still laughing.

I laughed too, not knowing at what, but no doubt something silly about me. This has been a regular occurrence. When she was through watching the bird I never saw, we went around the closed gate and walked to the river. It had risen some from the previous day and consequently resembled coffee with some milk. We went south and soon came upon the remains of the once great cottonwood. Three or four large branches and parts of the trunk lay on the ground in the now sunny area. No other trees were growing in a 210 foot radius. She said; "Do you remember when it was alive?" pointing at the wood still on land at the edge of the river.

"Yeah. It doesn't seem that long ago. I think it was the biggest one around. The last time I remember seeing it alive, two young girls were sitting on two of the lowest branches looking about and at the river."

Nora was precise, saying; "It went over September 12, 2008. I'll never forget it because that's my birthday. At the time I was always walking this route and it seemed fine the previous day. It was a warm day and I was looking forward to getting into its shade. The sun kept coming relentlessly and I knew something was wrong."

"I probably last saw it around the same time, because I remember that the girls who were sitting on its branches were wearing shorts."

"I wonder what happened. It was the end of a very dry summer, but its roots fed right out of the river."

"I don't remember it being so dry."

"It was very dry in Corrales. Often there's a downpour in Albuquerque and nothing here. So, I keep my own measuring cup outside. While the 'official' records say Albuquerque has been getting its normal 8 to 10 inches per year, my cups say that between June, 2008 and today we've only gotten two inches."

"Interesting, but as you said, it should have been feeding directly from the river."

She shrugged and again started walking. "I miss the grand one. He must have been 150 feet tall and 100 feet wide. On hot days I could stay in the shade, get a great view and the dogs had plenty of room to romp in its protection. In a sense, he paved a new way. Too bad he didn't hang around for the last two feet."

"I really miss him, too. Sometimes I ask the remaining logs what happened, but I haven't gotten an answer."

She looked at me as if I were poking some type of fun at her. I wasn't and didn't want her to think that, so I added; "No, I'm not joking. Often when I'm alone out here with Daisy I talk to many of the bushes and trees."

"Do they talk back?"

"No yet...... Not in words anyway."

She gave me another strange look, so I added; "For instance, I've communicated with that Apache Plume, over there. I say something and a wind comes out of nowhere and it nods yes or no back."

"I know a really good psychiatrist in town."

"I don't need a psychiatrist."

She gave me that look again, but this time I remained quiet. She was compelled to add; "Even I go to him."

I had two thoughts. First, here's another psychiatric case who frequents the Corrales Bosque and second; "Even I"? That's borderline insulting. I decided not to pursue either line of thought, but rather I attempted to push the direction of the conversation into a more generalistic area. I said; "Sometime when I was in my twenties there was a bestselling book titled ' _Fuck it: Everything You Need To Know About Psychiatry_.' I agreed with that book."

Somewhat annoyed, she said; "Well, what did it say?"

I hoped for that question and smartly answered; "I didn't read it. The title said fuck it was all I needed to know and I already knew that from the cover."

She didn't know what to say and just gave up, giving me one of her "Oooh, you." looks. In a way I think she grudgingly respected my thoughts, though she didn't fully agree with them. From prior conversations she knew that I don't believe in "expert" opinions, though she tends to. She took a different tactic, focusing on when I said that "often I was alone out here with Daisy." She said; "This is 2009. Any notion you have of privacy is archaic with Google Earth and everyone carrying cell phones capable of photography and motion pictures. You have to assume that anything you do will be on public display."

I couldn't disagree, but added; "An exhibitionist and voyeuristic paradise. Only after we leave here, the voyeurs sit all day watching seemingly idiotic people on their computer screens, while eating fast food, getting fat and diabetic. I guess their early deaths will make the people who worry about Social Security's soundness happy, anyway. A Republican victory."

I think that we both had our fill of the conversation and we proceeded quietly. She led the way down the narrow path and I kept my eye on Daisy and Nora's ass. I recalled the first time I had seen her in 2004 or 2005. She was walking up on a levee path and I was down in the woods, getting a good view of a wide hipped girl wearing blue jeans that couldn't possibly be any tighter, confidently swinging her arms. I thought to myself; "Look at that little rich girl. I'll bet she's accustomed to getting just everything she wants." I still don't know if I was right.

We eventually reversed direction and walked back to Romero Road's parking area. On the way she gushed and put an arm to her chest, saying; "Did you see that?"

"No."

"It's a red tanager."

I gleaned that this must be quite an event, but not knowing birds at all, had no idea of the proportion.

She said; "It's the first one I've seen all year."

I got a glimpse of the bright red winged beauty flying away and said; "Are they usually alone?"

Her eyes looked as if they were somewhere else and she said; "A lot of times."

She got into her car and we parted. When I got Daisy back home I just had to hear Patti Smith sing "Gone Pie" and "Summer Cannibals".

### Chapter 3

Black and white, water in a dirty brown glass.

Empirical Evidence 2:

The following levels of precipitation were recorded by Nora. The measuring glass was maintained in an open area of her backyard in Corrales, approximately three miles south of Romero Road.

Anecdotal Evidence - 3

July 10, 1998. Light northern winds. Sunny, hot, dry afternoon. Cars coming and going from a gravel driveway to a paved road. Nervous chatter. Dollars. Brown dirt. Worries about 500 sq. ft. grassy area. Misunderstandings and voluminous explanation causing further misunderstanding. A typical business day.

My wife, Diane and I drove to meet the realtor at the small Southwestern styled adobe on Camino De Lucia in Corrales. She was already there when we arrived, chatting with one of the homeowners, the husband, who had just come back from a walk, papoose on his back, carrying his baby.

The front yard was landscaped with ten six foot pine trees and rocks laid out in a curve, seeming to be attempting to simulate a stream of grayish white water. We knocked at the door and were let in by the chirpy realtor, who appeared as if her blonde hair had just been perfected at the beauty parlor and her pastel outfit was recently on Mervyns' racks. She took a seat in the main room, replete with two floor to ceiling windows on two sides and a kiva in one corner. We tried to up our cheery chatter level to hers, but found it unnecessary, as a few minutes indicated that she was content to chirp a programmed song solo. We smiled and laughed at the appropriate moments, occasionally trying to interject a question, which apparently annoyed her, as it interrupted her routine. We really didn't care, as Diane had seen this house a year ago and determined that it was the right size, price and location for us, the last time it changed hands. We were living in Clovis at the time and Diane was in the process of attempting to transfer to Albuquerque and would travel there many weekends to look at houses. The homeowner entered the room and announced that he had just returned from the Bosque. The selling realtor seized the moment to announce that if we bought the diamond in the rough that we would be blessed with Bosque access.

I brightly asked her, "What's a Bosque?" and don't remember her answer, other than some commentary about what a good thing it was. My wife and I felt fortunate to be able to afford such a special house. As we perused it we asked the advocates more about this special feature. The myriad of evasive answers we received had one piece of consistency; it had something to do with the nearby Rio Grande River.

Diane and I lived most of our adult lives in New Jersey, awash with rivers, streams, reservoirs and even an ocean, so we were aesthetically nonplussed, but gleaned that it had financial value. Since "Bosque access" was such a desirable thing and we had already, sort of, found out what a Bosque is, we focused on the second word; "access" and endeavored to determine where that might be. We were given several confusing answers by the realtor and the homeowner, who at times engaged in discussions limited to the two knowledgeable ones, during which they contradicted each other, cheerfully laughing at their own witticisms and fine points. Through headache inducing persistence we were able to determine that if we walked four tenths of a mile, crossed the barb wired open lot with the "No Trespassing" signs and made a left at the house with the vicious loose Doberman pinschers, we'd be very close to it. We were told not to worry as this was a "friendly" area and there was no reason to worry about signs, barbed wire, or dogs.

I wrote off the status of having Bosque access and spent the next few years learning where I could get access to other things; like cleaning materials, stucco patch, parts for the watering system and with the most difficulty, people capable of repairing well pumps, stucco, parapets, plumbing, swamp coolers and other things that thirteen years of pleasant memories have erased. I never took my dachshund, Willy, to the Bosque, partly because I didn't know how to get there safely and partly because he always insisted on walking someplace that was partially paved. I don't know why. He never told me. So we contented ourselves taking early morning walks in the parking lots of places that didn't open until noon.

Of course, invariably within a month or two the night watchman, or whatever exalted name taken today, would be waiting there to greet us and ask a million stupid questions. Give some people a little authority, right? So as not to be compelled to provide entertainment for the watchman, we'd transfer to another facility, or one of the two parks in Paradise Hills, Albuquerque. After going to the parks a few months a cop in a car was interested in what on earth I was doing. I was tempted to tell him that we were robbing the non-existent bank on the property, but was afraid he'd believe me. So, I animatedly said; "What the **** does it look like?"

He said; "You're very excited today, aren't you?"

"No, I'm just thrilled to be followed around by ******** when I'm trying to walk my dog."

"You need to calm down."

"There isn't a ******* thing I NEED to do. And if I did, you'd be the last one to know what it was."

The conversation deteriorated from there, but I didn't get arrested.

I have never lived in a small town, prior to Corrales and I suppose it's my obligation to try to fit in, or at least learn to comply with the rules, written or not. I was just curious which of the covenants covered walking your dog, or if the cop needed someone to act like a big man with. I grew up in a small city of 70-80,000 people packed into one square mile and people knew less about my business there than they THINK they know here. Not being privy to what is said about me and not really caring, I can surmise that it's something good enough for the local gawking bores to break away from their computer screens for an hour, as I've heard the stories circulating about a few of my neighbors. When I first engaged people to do lawn work, the first thing they did was ask me if it was true that three of my neighbors did some outrageous things regularly, as my house provided me with the ability to observe. The stories circulating were so ridiculous, so false and so vicious, that, at first, I couldn't believe anyone would say or believe them. As I pointed out, I never previously lived in a small, friendly town.

I wondered if the people I meet at the Bosque know and care when I haven't mowed my lawn for two weeks. Or if I need my stucco patched. Or if I dress appropriately when I visit my backyard. Or how often and what type of sex my wife and I enjoy. Sure, we close the blinds, but after hearing the type of inference and innuendo that must have been utilized to result in the type of things considered "common knowledge" about my three neighbors, anything is possible.

On one of their visits one of my gardeners made the following comment out of the blue; "You know, you wonder what some people are all about, then you find out and you didn't want to know that," making a yucky face over the last seven words. My true thoughts were that I never wonder what people are "all about," and could care less, unless they're in my constant proximity. Something my gardener friend communicated very clearly indicated some feelings about her moral and/or cleanliness notions, though too unspeakable to define. For some reason I wanted to side step the conversation on the horizon and said something I thought she could relate well to; "Well, I guess the most important thing is whether or not they pay you on time."

She kind of agreed, or at least didn't voice any objection to the profound statement. I am somewhat adapting to small town life.

The first time I noticed the great cottonwood was somewhere around 2005. I don't know how I could have missed it previously, unless I was fully concentrating on Daisy's movements, trying to anticipate her, necessary for me remaining on my feet. It stood alone near the well-travelled dirt path bordering the river, the wind blowing through its leaves making quite a ruckus in the morning stillness. The enormous giant had something important to say, unfortunately indecipherable to me, its haphazard shape regular in its irregularity. Its home, three feet from the water, gave it a steady supply of water, probably what enabled it to reach its majestic proportions. At its peak it could view the entire river and valley, unobstructed by any competitors and no doubt saw things hidden to the others.

Anchored in the ground in small town Corrales, I wonder if it saw suicide as the only means of escape. What did the local gardeners, otherwise known as the MRGCD, have to say about the big beauty? Perhaps they say that your solitary existence has caused you to masturbate on public land, probably having a few witnesses to strange irregular movements of your braches. Or maybe they say that the amount of cotton you throw off is obscene and should be curtailed, especially after the MRGCD police had their heads covered in the sticky white substance. Or maybe they say you have an unfair advantage over everyone else, right on the river and are taking too much of the precious water supply. Or maybe they say that your massive trunk should not be allowed to stand there naked and unadorned, suggesting that the people, who enjoy you, pay for a gigantic pair of pants to be made by the flunky of an MRGCD official. Do they say that your advanced age requires you to settle into the monotony of playing checkers, maintaining your lawn and shedding some footage? Maybe you should consider getting your hair done and acquire a pastel outfit from Mervyns'. Did they want you to be just like everybody else? Or maybe millions of other comments unimaginable to big city me. If you were anything less than perfection they would have found some "reason" to destroy you themselves. How it must have frustrated them to study your every word, only to find them unarguably superior and inventive, the likes of which have never been seen. I suspect that you really don't care, as you've chosen to say nothing and write nothing for years now, the only hint of your thoughts being your former defiant stance with the implied "**** you." And history says that the kids left small towns to go to the cities during the industrial revolution to work in the factories. Might I suggest that there could be other reasons?

When I started meeting my new neighbors my curiosity led me to ask them about the "right of way" access to the Bosque that once existed. An easement was supposedly established by the first builder. No one claimed to know anything, which could be true, but to say something negative about Corrales, or worse, our own neighborhood is a crime punishable by hanging. After listening to them babble and watch them point in various directions, I found that the exercise was preferable to allowing them the time to ask neighborly questions about me, like, "How much money do you have? I assemble real estate partnerships that make a lot." For some reason the affluence of this chubby elderly gentleman wearing Wal-Mart's finest who said this did not impress me. I was to subsequently learn that he collapsed the roof of his ancient adobe from the constant humidity, a few years back, caused by a prior get rich quick scheme of raising shrimp indoors. I didn't say it, but I wondered why this successful fellow was still chasing after the likes of me at age 68. A hobby he enjoys as much as shrimp? Anyway, after experiencing sales pitches, pushy questions and no knowledge of easements from my friendly neighbors, I decided to limit my dis-ease, as it reminded me of going to work without compensation. I found out the answer to my question without asking it, when while walking Willy, I met a man who lived nearby, but not in the development. The easement existed on a piece of land purchased by some foreigner who owns a local jewelry store. He built an eight foot wall around the property. I said; "If I lived here at the time I would have sued", thinking of New Jersey law. He said; "And you would have lost." It seems that in New Mexico, there is no such thing as an easement through private property. I guess it could well be said that in New Mexico there is no such thing as an easement. I found this to be true, but also found it ironic that the state with the lowest income (except Mississippi, depending on the year) was also the strongest supporter of property rights, while New Jersey, the highest income state is the opposite. Whoever coined the phrase; "the pen is mightier than the sword", must have been an unrecognized writer on a bad day, trying to feel of significance.

### Chapter 4

April 25, 2004; Sunny, warm spring day. Greening non-native plants and trees. Lightly clouded skies, resulting in an irregular shallow blue.

After walking exclusively in our neighborhood for four months, I decide to be adventurous and take Daisy elsewhere. She had been attacked seven times and bitten four of them by loose dogs belonging to the friendly denizens of Camino De Lucia and I guessed that things couldn't be any worse elsewhere in proper Corrales. This was the first warm morning of the year, a good day to see new sights and a good day to depart old ones. Over the past few years I learned how to get to the Bosque, making a U-shaped journey through public land. I have to admit that I was nervous about it for a few reasons including; 1) What if either of us get hurt far from home? I will not wear a bell, like a cat, otherwise known as a cell phone. 2) What if we get lost in a wild area? 3) What if coyotes attack? and 4) What if Daisy merely decides that she is tired of Camino De Lucia and will not go back? Retrospect makes the questions silly, but on that day I felt like Davy Crockett and Daisy must have thought that she was a non-violent tigress.

We carefully worked our way out of the friendly development. When we got to Academy Road we saw the old church on the Seventh Day Adventist property and the overgrown, unevenly contoured and unused baseball field behind it occupied by surveyors attempting to find each other peering through their equipment. Instead they found Daisy and yelled out their jovial witticisms, like "Where's the fire?" the meaning of which completely escaped me at the time and "Where are the other hundred?" which took even longer to decipher. A group of Spanish guys walked over to us and the leader of the pack, who resembled an unshaven Wallace Beery playing Pancho Villa said; "She got good hips." When he leaned over to pat her roughly on the side, I was somewhat concerned that he might be sexually attracted. I can honestly say that in all the time I've known her I never evaluated her hips, though she is a big strong girl overall. He continued to pat her, saying some things to his amigos, unclear to me. He looked at me and said; "Big hips. Make a lot of babies." I said; "She's been fixed." He looked a little bewildered and said; "You mean....," making some kind of motions with his hands around his own belly. I wasn't really sure of what he meant, but nodded "Yes." He disappointedly said; "Oh" and led his friends back wherever they came from.

As we weren't yet regulars we made the rest of the circuitous trip un-accosted. The ditches were not yet devoid of vegetation, the five foot tan and green plants lining the edges, as after a century's existence the powers that be had not yet discovered that the tan and green plants were ignitable. Their existence afforded me the privilege of having numerous somewhat hidden spots to stop when nature called, increasing my appreciation of the wild ones. Romero Road had not yet been improved with an entry gate and signs, so we walked right down it, me wondering if we had come the right way. At the end of the road was an indented area replete with tire tracks, that I would soon discover was used by the visitors as a parking area, in later years to be forbidden, probably because some local official decided that it was wrong to give away any convenience for free. Today no cars are in attendance.

An excited Daisy led me around the unsigned gate and we saw more ditches which ran in both directions. She investigated them a bit and then went up the graduated approach to the levee, quickly reaching the top. We remained there a half minute admiring the quiet beauty and in her case, considering which of many routes to take. My first view of the Rio Grande River made me think it was a reflection of the sky, currently very lightly clouded, producing an amorphous gentle azure. The green of early blooming plants and trees decorated the unevenly sloping and pitted ground that would lead the next two hundred feet down where it met the flowing water. On the descent she was attracted to something on the ground. It was a thin five inch long silver case bearing Indian designs and red and green round mounted pieces of plastic, with a leather strap. As she sniffed at it I thought that we must have been the first visitors in some time, as an object this valuable could not have been ignored by much traffic. When Daisy tired of it, I picked it up to discover that the case held a small dull knife. Another Davy Crockett must have been here a long time ago. Now in the wild and poor at directions I had to quickly find an easy approach to being able to get back to this spot. Daisy made a right at the river, so I tried to remember "river on the left, levee on the right." I quickly concluded, however, that if we were trying to get back it would be "river on the right, levee on the left". This was pretty confusing and I kept saying the phrases over and over to myself, but they became meaningless when I kept forgetting whether I was coming or going. I also considered what to do if we arrived in a spot so densely wooded that I wouldn't be able to see the river or the levee. My old dog, Willy, was excellent at directions and I would just mindlessly follow him through national forests, confident that he would get me back, but Daisy has logistical instincts more impaired than mine.

I was busy keeping an eye on her as she excitedly pulled me through her new playground. I'd get small breaks when she'd find smelly things worthy of close scrutiny and that day learned that she would eat anything she could get to. Alive or dead, small furry creatures were her French restaurant. At this point I let her enjoy the new cuisine, primarily because I had no chance of getting them away from the soon to be one year old mistress of energy and willfulness, but I also had no desire to deny her pleasure. She was fortunate the first few years that she gorged herself, but after that it was evident that pursuing her culinary delights resulted in tape worms or diarrhea about half her engagements, at which point I started to make partially successful attempts at getting the bushy creatures away from her.

We followed the river, not taking any special note of the giant cottonwood and soon cut inland. There was tall vegetation at the sides of the winding road, resulting in an inability to see more than fifty feet ahead in most places, so that at every turn there was a surprise. I don't think they would excite anyone other than we two, but we were very interested to see that one turn put us in a heavily treed area, the next mixed eight foot tall bushes with the trees, the next resulted in a five hundred foot sandy area populated only by ankle high clusters of tan weeds, etc. etc. Every few hundred feet warranted a new description and I wondered which type of topography was preferred by the coyotes. We hadn't yet seen any and I was feeling more relaxed, as we had covered more than a mile, without being joined by the predatory opportunists. I prefer vultures over killers, thinking that they should have found some other way to make a living, like going back to school.

The well-worn obvious thin brown path soon became too mundane to be tolerated by our exotic tastes, so we got off it and attempted to navigate the lumpy fields and thickets. Daisy had no trouble whatsoever, but I had particular problems trying to pass through the woody areas with low branches, broken limbs on the ground and thorny immature Russian olives, Daisy not fazed by my "command" of "slow, slow." Time would tell that these were words she must have considered obscene, as she never included them in her vocabulary. Years later, after being pulled over for the twenty-eighth time I got an idea. I would stop her, put my foot on her chain and make her sit through my lecture of; "This is New Mexico. Nothing here moves. It will be there when you get there. We've got all ******* day." At least that's what I believed at the time, but not sharing my opinion, as soon as my foot would release the chain, Daisy would continue at her frantic pace.

Eventually, her foray turned more inland and utilizing the opportunity afforded by her going, in effect, sideways I convinced her to move in the direction of Romero Road, this time taking the trail in sight of the levee, away from the river, through ground never before touched by human feet, though we did find some McDonald's and Wal-Mart bags, junk wood, cinder blocks, broken ceramics, a television set and barbed wire. When we were again within sight of Romero Road, we circled a cluster of eight foot Apache Plumes heavy with one inch white roses and were startled by him.

He was probably about forty years old, nondescript to a fault and was standing motionlessly there with a brown poodle on his or her haunches. His most notable features were his perpetual maniacal grin and his beaming moist eyes, perhaps thinking; "Kill and eat. Kill and eat."

Considering it a rude gesture to be hiding in the bushes, I sarcastically said; "Hi," bringing Daisy to a full stop ten feet away from him.

He said nothing and continued the grin and stare, possibly indicating high rank in the Gawk family.

She wanted to meet his poodle, yet something told me that we didn't want to get closer. As I struggled with Daisy, I angrily said; "What do you want?"

He stared, the unchanging grin apparently tattooed on his face. Thoughts of the Joker came to mind, but at least this one was not wearing lipstick.

With difficulty I pulled Daisy around him, wanting to get back on the way to Romero. He turned toward us as we passed, changing nothing but his foot position. I was both angry and scared, so when I got Daisy moving again and we were twenty feet away, I said; "What the **** is wrong with you?"

He stared and grinned. I should have already known his repertoire of possible responses.

With the small caveat that this person may be deaf and dumb, I would contend that this appears to be someone who has or should be frequenting a psychiatrist's office, though I'm not sure which side of the desk he should occupy.

Our first Corrales Bosque acquaintance would continue to haunt us in precisely the same manner for about a year. Maybe he escaped to here from an intolerable confinement elsewhere. We would have the experience of seeing his wordless plastic grin and perfectly still poodle once a week and they were to become the poetic symbols of my home town. In retrospect I wish that I had determined if the unmoving poodle was among the living, but at the time feared a possible surprise swift attack.

Exhausted, hungry and exhilarated at surviving the wild, Davy and the tigress made their way home, to the safety of development dogs; vicious, loose, grinning and staring. I couldn't wait to leave again tomorrow morning.

### Chapter 5

May 21, 2006; Windy, cool late spring, fire in the gray sky, full with quickly moving rainless clouds. A measured response.

Daisy and I enter the still un-gated and un-protected Romero Road to see flames fifty feet above the tallest trees. It looks like half the world is on fire. Not in imminent danger we continue our usual routine to eventually find police cars and fire trucks parked near the open gate at the end. I still can't determine if the flames are on this side of the river or the other. A cop standing by his car tells me; "You can't go in today."

I ask; "Is the fire on this side?"

"Yes." He points at the ditch path parallel to the Bosque and ads; "You can walk over there."

"Is it under control?"

"I don't know."

We cross the small iron bridge and go where he indicated. The path borders houses, open lots and a tree farm. The dreary day makes the flat land look even more mundane and abandoned than usual. Despite being blocked from a view of the Bosque trees, being on the wrong side of the levee, we can still see what seems like a sizeable flame, the only real illumination in evidence.

We walk slowly; as Daisy is hoping that I'll change my mind, make a U-turn and go into the interesting part she loves. We soon see smiling Nora with her two dogs, coming our way, walking the path on the opposite side of the ditch water. I have seen her ten or twenty times in the past, never making contact. It looks like today is my unavoidable lucky day. When Daisy sees the potential playmates she pulls me forward and to the edge of the water, wagging her tail and looking excitedly at the trio. A bit reticent to talk, I mumble "Hi."

She brushes back her long gray hair and says, "Hi. Did you see the fire?"

"Sure, I couldn't miss it if I wanted to."

Trying to sound cool, blasé, or something only her mind could imagine she says dismissively; "Probably started by some kids."

I would soon learn that this was only the first of her many opening lines I would find incomprehensible or silly, so I pause a few seconds, trying to think of a response, finally coming up with; "I don't really care if it was kids or the geriatric set. Fire scares the hell out of me. It's my biggest fear and I think they ought to burn the one who set it ablaze."

She was probably taken aback, expecting the usual meaningless suburban chit-chat and paused a few seconds, then chose to say; "My mother was a burn nurse."

"That's the part that frightens me the most. If the fire killed me that would be bad enough, but I wouldn't want to sit through months of painful bandage changing."

"Yeah, she used to tell me about it sometimes. She did it during World War Two." This was when she told me that her father was career military and when she was little they moved around all the time. She asked; "Why do you think people move so much?"

I thought for a while considering many answers and suspecting that the issue was one of her particular concerns, finally answering with; "The best one I can come up with is Bob Dylan; 'Paupers exchange possessions, each one wishing for what the other has got', but, for some reason, I don't think this applies to you." I don't know why, but I'm beginning to like her. Despite her smiling appearance there seems to be something melancholy about her, maybe a member of my "club." She sounds like she's searching for something. I suppose we all are, but this seems somehow different.

Having obtained the quick uncalculated answer she probably sought from everyone, she changed the tone and asked; "Do you like Bob Dylan?"

"He's one of my favorites."

"Isn't he a little harsh?"

"Maybe, I'm not sure. He's an observer who offers no solutions. I share his perceptions. He fortified many thoughts I had, that I didn't want to say, thinking that I was the only one who had them. There was one time in my teenage years that I was very depressed, thinking 'Why do all the bad things happen to me?' When I heard him say; 'You shouldn't take it so personal. You just happened to be there, that's all.' I was finally relieved."

Her expression told me that she was no Bob Dylan fan, but she said; "I saw a movie about his life a few years ago."

"I didn't even know they made one."

"Yeah. It covered a long time period, so they had three different people playing the role. One was female. Do you have any idea why?"

I was surprised and eventually thought that most likely she looked like him, but said; "No", thinking that her question had some deeper significance to her, but not knowing what. I was intrigued.

We heard a commotion at the gate and saw that the cops and firemen were leaving. I was later told that the fire was actually extinguished by the police, the first on the scene. A bit later I'd find that the fire that I thought gigantic was, in reality, only burning one ten foot dead cottonwood log lying on the ground, enhanced by an accelerant.

We started to walk back to the gate, apparently both of us desirous of entering the more interesting and wild location. I was pleasantly surprised at the conversation I initially expected to be pitiful. I also realized that Nora was doing the questioning and I was now curious to ask a few of my own, so I remembered what I thought was her nonchalance toward Dylan and asked; "Who did you like back then?"

"Laura Nyro."

Now I was absolutely shocked. Laura Nyro was also one of my favorites and I didn't think that she was very well known. If I had previously thought about it, I would have guessed that no one else in New Mexico had ever heard of her. I excitedly said; "I love Laura Nyro and have all of her albums."

Nora has a very expressive face. Her previous mellow, blasé, relaxed look unmistakably changed to one of concern. She said; "Well, I only know a couple of her songs."

I picked one that was not the least bit commercial, that I liked a lot, curious to further pursue her stated interest and said; "How about 'Poverty Train'?"

"Don't know that one."

Strange, I thought, for Nora's first choice of a favorite, so I decided to pick a big hit commercial song and said; "How about 'Wedding Bell Blues'?"

"Don't know that one, either."

Impossible, I thought. Most likely, this girl didn't expect that I would know of Laura Nyro and when she found out I did, considered it too self-revealing to relate to her distinctive, bluesy and romantic music. She must have not planned her answer, perhaps not expecting a guy to ask about her, as most are quite content to go on forever about themselves, like writers. In subsequent conversations, I would again bring up Laura Nyro, but Nora would always stick to what she had already said; finally one day, saying; "The only song I know by her is 'Eli's Coming.'"

I considered it absurd to have picked a favorite artist and then say "I only know one song." I liked 'Incense and Peppermints' a lot, but would never name the one-hit Strawberry Alarm Clock as one of my favorite groups. So, I concluded that for some reason this girl wanted me to talk about myself, but didn't feel comfortable reciprocating. I was further intrigued by this mysteriously direct and at the same time evasive woman and the tight pants covering very full hips on an otherwise thin girl. I didn't want to lie to her, maybe due to some moral consideration my Catholic background instilled, or maybe because I found lies too difficult and migraine evoking to keep track of. I couldn't be certain what prompted her to do this, but thought that I'd ask a few more questions and see where they went. Maybe she was just used to a lifetime of stupid guys babbling on about themselves, when a girl showed the least bit of curiosity. But, why bother sitting through a lot of exaggerated boring stories? Didn't she have a television set or access to movies?

I asked; "Do you live near here?"

"Not too close. And you?"

"Not too close. Do you come here a lot?"

Her expression again changed to something between imploring, exasperation and anger. She looked right in my eyes and said; "Every day for eleven years. Where have you been?"

I didn't know what to say. It seemed that she was strongly implying, or perhaps almost directly saying, that I was remiss in not finding her sooner.

The conversation died and we parted at the gate, she picking up speed and directing her dogs away from the scene of the fire. Daisy, though a "rescue" dog, was thought to be a full blooded Dalmatian at that time and maybe it was that aspect which made her seek out the smoke and fire. She ignored all the possible paths and pulled me through the moderately wooded land near the levee, where the ground held countless dead tree limbs, until we had covered about half a mile. She found the site of the extinguished conflagration and we saw the one blackened ten foot cottonwood log. She tried to conduct a paws-on inspection, but I considered it prudent to keep her a few feet away. I looked up at the live cottonwoods still standing nearby and saw no damage to any braches, even though a few must have overhung the sky reaching flame. I wondered how they avoided being injured, seemingly in the path of destruction.

As I struggled with Daisy, using a few choice words, the only ones I have any chance of her responding to, we were near the levee path and I saw a girl running along it in our direction. "Oh, my god", I thought, "She can't be in New Mexico." From a few hundred feet it looked like a girl I knew in New York ten years prior and I had mixed feelings about being reacquainted with her, mostly negative. But it looked like I had little choice in the matter, so I temporarily and stupidly joined the Gawk family and said to Daisy, "That looks just like Barbara." As the short black haired jogger got closer, I was glad to see that it wasn't her, breathed a sigh of relief and looked the other way. Unfortunately, for me, the jogger stopped and, too, temporarily was adopted by the Gawk family.

I turned back in her direction, now afraid that it was indeed Barbara, which I could have mistaken, not being cognizant of what the last decade had done to her. I saw an angry, contorted face that looked like it wanted to kill somebody and quickly realized that there weren't any other targets around. When she continued the New Mexico custom of staring and not speaking, I thought that I'd lend some mannered sociability to the situation and said; "What the **** do you want?" I should have known the answer to that before I asked and soon found out that I had made one of the worst mistakes of my mistake-full life. When she continued with her New Mexico mores, I pulled Daisy in the other direction and after a minute or so, was out of sight. I saw the effect of mistakenly trying "to do what the Romans do in Rome," and adding some New Jersey brilliance.

When I described the incident to a neighborhood associate, I was informed that I had just made an enemy of the current Billy the Kid of Corrales. I was told that this woman is avoided, when possible, by everyone, as she has a violent history, particularly against men. I shouldn't attempt to be humorous about the matter. I have it on the usual good authority of the Corrales grapevine that my nemesis is super strong. Whatever the case, the next time I saw her running on the ditch path she rammed into me, attempting to knock Daisy and me into the water and then said; "I know you love me. There is help for you." Before I could inquire as to the nature of the help I could get, eyeing her shorts and the strong straight legs beneath, garrulous people just happened to converge on the scene and my helpful friend was compelled to start moving her white legs, telling the audience; "Keep away from this man. He belongs in a loony bin." The audience laughed, having had their previous thoughts confirmed.

Quite a day it was, as I had met two, or three, if I include myself, Bosque devotees, who were candidates for serious psychiatric help. This is indeed my home. Nora was right. Time would tell that she always was, with one exception and maybe someday I'll see that differently. I should have gotten here eleven years ago.

### Chapter 6

July 7, 2005; Slippin' and a slidin', sneaking' and a hidin', turd river, threats of incarceration, victorious freedom under the red, white and blue.

The fear of fire overwhelmed Corrales just prior to the July Fourth weekend. Indeed, it had been very dry, but so had it been every other summer. Doesn't anybody remember that this is a desert? Duh. Anyway, the intrepid brigade of local officials concerned about my safety; "Thank you so much.", closed the Bosque for the first time in my experience and someone wrapped yellow police ribbons and posted a sign on the metal gate at the end of Romero Road, stating that "Violators of the dictate will be subject to a fine of $500 and/or 90 days in jail." To make matters more curious and annoying it had been drizzling the last two days.

Daisy and I decided that we were unable to read English and that if stopped I would say that "I thought the ribbons were a juvenile attempt at humor. It's been raining!" I have no idea if it would have worked, but it was the best shot I could think of. We had an advantage in those days. We would leave early, sometimes before sunrise, before the audience woke up, or at least before they could gaze out of their floor to ceiling surveillance equipment.

So, it worked fine for a few days, as I quickly led Daisy through the open area, to where we would be better hidden from the levee path by trees in full bloom. When we get to the King Cottonwood, I start to relax, as its branches provided invisibility. I decide to hold Daisy there and take a good look at my temporary protector. His trunk is massive, covered by perfect gray bark and the black lines drawn make islands and streams of the gray. The three inch shiny green leaves weigh down the younger of the lower branches, so they end at my head level and I have to be careful walking there. I stood still as long as Daisy would allow and quite frankly, the thickness of the branches and trees precluded me from the ability to analyze, or even see any more of him above 10 feet. I'd have to be content to observe from a distance, losing all hope for precision, at best settling for an impressionistic study.

For now the only other things I can see are the two rope swings someone attached to the lowest large limbs. The yellow ropes support a small seat and people use them to swing into the water, far enough from shore, to reach at least three foot deep water. I wondered if that hurt. I've seen branches eventually broken by this practice on other cottonwoods. For some reason I think you'd be willing to tolerate some pain, if as a consequence, your friends had a good time. I said; "Was it okay with you?" In the cloudy still morning I couldn't even hear a leaf rustle.

I decide to continue the journey, so I stop holding back Daisy and allow her to pull me further on. When we get another 150 feet under the protection of dense smaller trees, I again stop a disgruntled girl who looks at me as if to say; "What now?" I hold up my right index finger, which she knows means something like; "Bear with me a minute." I look back hoping for a more thorough examination, but now I'm too far away to pick up any nuance and all I can see is by far the largest cottonwood expressing its irregularity by displaying an enormous crown. I don't have any scientific measuring devices with me and probably don't know of any capable of making the type of measurement I want. I would say that the top quarter of him contained more mass than the lower three quarters. As a result the majority of him has an unobstructed view of everything. I don't know of any other land based products of nature capable of claiming that. I guess birds might be an almost answer, as they technically have the ability to remain on the ground and sometimes do, but prefer the sky and tree branches. I can't notice anything at the moment, but wouldn't it be logical that the birds would prefer to make a home in his top. They'd have the best of both worlds; while at rest they could retain their view of the sky. They must have energy retaining considerations. Just lay back and enjoy the beauty that comes your way. I realize that I'm getting so serious that I'm probably making my leafed friend uncomfortable attested to by the continued silence. I call out; "Hey, is your big head looking out for semi-human intruders?" The answer that pops into my mind is; "I don't desire to just look."

Daisy's patience level is being tested and as I've already noted, I'm not getting any particular insight by looking back. It's hard enough to see clearly from this distance, so again I let my black and white furry little girl lead the way. We can either cut through the soft six foot tall green reeds and go to the river, or remain on the inland sand which has a small amount of bushy vegetation, more brittle and capable of inflicting injury, but nonetheless, it's an easy walk, without any obstacles on the ground. The injuries most likely to be received, if any, are really pretty minor scratches and are unintentional on the part of the bushes, anyway. The only worry is the minor chance of getting a stick in the eye at full speed.

Daisy decides to take the sandy route, probably sensing coyotes, who seasonally reside in the area. She thinks they want to play with her and sometimes they do, but that's another story. She sniffs around and has picked up something, but no coyote playmates are in sight, so I follow her from bush to brittle bush, trying to keep abreast of her circular pattern. She digs a little bit at the base of one of them, making me consider the possibility of a rabbit, or worse, a dead one. She has always been fascinated by the scent of death, apparently equating it to a lunch call. No early lunch was delivered, as she resumes her search, frantically looking for something I can only guess at. She is moving closer to the levee and as we leave the sandy ground we enter a mature forest of cottonwoods, beautiful, but containing areas open to the observation of anyone so inclined. Damn! It's Nora with her two dogs on the levee path, wearing her customary skin tight blue jeans and a simple white button up blouse, topped by an orange fishnet light covering. I haven't met her yet and have two thoughts; isn't she old enough to have realized that fishnets, if any, belong on the lower half of a woman's body, even in garish bright orange? and that this is a signal of some kind of officialdom and I hope she doesn't use her cell phone to inform the police that an unauthorized trespasser is creeping around in the moist bottom land on fire prevention day. I see her for a few brief seconds, but she keeps her eyes straight ahead, very obviously choosing not to notice us. Maybe she's waiting until she gets to a spot not visible to me to make the call. In the future she would tell me that she did see us on a few occasions, but chose not to say anything about it. When I asked her why the procedure, her eyes would flutter and she would shake her head almost imperceptibly, as if to say; "Stupid question." I obviously didn't feel like it." The danger past, I let Daisy continue her search in the light woods, until she decides that all of her efforts have been in vain and leads me home where she knows lunch is waiting.

The next day we had the same itinerary, getting to the Bosque early enough to not have a visible welcoming committee and go straight down the path to river's edge, as has become customary, this spot becoming one of Daisy's preferred swimming and drinking spots. But today she balks at jumping in because the river is high, moving fast and most importantly is brown with wall to wall turds. Her look says; "What the hell happened? I can't go in there." We both stand still and stare at the giant toilet flush and watch its strength start to break up some of the old islands. This put a damper on her desire to walk and investigate, as she lost her water source. We poked around a bit, but went back home, possibly unnoticed. In the coming week I told a number of people what we had seen, but was looked at askance, possibly due to a perplexing lack of local credibility and possibly because things like that don't ever get mentioned in the paradise known as Corrales. How gauche.

A few weeks later, the obviously out of step "Corrales Comment" reported the incident, with attendant-color pictures taken by another trespasser with a cell phone camera. Rio Rancho then admitted that its waste treatment plant had another of its "accidents" and apologized in their well-practiced manner.

Of course we again returned the following morning and though the river was now as absent of floating feces as it has ever been, Daisy decided to let a few months pass before again venturing into yesterday's streaming cesspool. We had a bigger problem. After completing our short walk we walked up the mildly graded levee at Romero Road and when my eyes got over the hump I saw a Police Car resting in the parking area. I said; "Uh oh," which Daisy understands very well to mean trouble and she followed me quickly back down the slope and we scooted to the giant cottonwood and stopped, at least me being out of breath. We were no longer visible from the levee and my mind momentarily considered the great one's predicament, stuck there right next to foul water. The river level was lower today and I hoped that yesterday's high tide didn't have the audacity to pay a visit to the big beauty, trying to ignore the wet ground surrounding his base. I got some of my breath back and we slid through the mud a few hundred feet and then turned toward the levee. We climbed and went down a steep spot, hoping that no one was in the vicinity. We didn't see any and that may have been the case, so we crossed the "clear ditch," went through twenty feet of brush and met the ditch path that was legally walkable, the excruciating sun of the day completely drying me, by the time we got back to Romero and the patiently waiting cop. He remained in his car and seemed not to even look our way, so we just kept walking, fully confident of our law abiding current status.

I'm paranoid about being considered paranoid, but as there was no apparent danger present, my mind wandered to what might have been a possible reason for the last few days' events. Why close the Bosque when we were the beneficiaries of a light drizzle? Because, the powers that be didn't want anybody to see something? Was that something the conversion of the Rio Grande River to a temporary sludge farm? Did Nora alert the police about Daisy and me surreptitiously? Why else would they be waiting for our exit the following day? As Nora always carries a camera, why couldn't she, with full view of the river get a picture of the brown event? Did her orange fishnet covering confirm her status of one in on the "official" take?

Not to worry. It's now July tenth and the garden spot of Corrales is again legally open to the public. I'm relieved and very relaxed bringing Daisy to our favorite hangout, the hot dryness of the last few days doing its work on the muddy dirt path by the river and I no longer have to slide through. I say I, because Daisy has no trouble going through mud, simply due to her having four legs. In coming years she would come to see my problems and give me a break when I would say; "Mud, mud. Very bad mud." She probably doesn't fully understand, but kindly regards it as a disability of my species, or of a clumsy me. Today the sun is so strong that its color, viewable only in furtive glances, appears red and its demeanor punishing. The brightness is potent and manages to make the river appear completely blue and tranquil. The few friendly white cumulous clouds seem prepared to hide from the flaming orb imminently, but for the time being are intrepidly holding their ground.

Feeling so free, Daisy makes her customary stop at the river, looks at it, then looks at me shaking her head slightly, still not ready to take a swim. Instead of her usual southern predilection, she must feel adventurous today and turns left toward the north and the culprit Rio Rancho.

It takes all of a minute to engage the undesired but inevitable happening, when we hear a male voice call out; "I've seen you walking all over Corrales hundreds of times. Why do you take that roundabout route to get here?"

As I'm deaf in one ear and therefore can't tell what direction a sound is coming from. I watch Daisy to see which way she looks. Following her eyes I see a guy I've never seen before. He looks fairly ordinary, about fifty, shaven, combed short black hair, black chinos and a light brown short sleeved shirt.

I say; "We live near the river, but there's no legal access there. Daisy is deathly afraid of the car, so we circle around the ditch paths to get here. I don't think I've ever seen you before, though."

"I've been in the woods lots of times when you've been here, picking mushrooms that grow in the shade." He pointed in the northern direction of the drain field and continued; "I live just a few houses west of the channel."

I wondered why he had never made contact in the past, but chose to today. I told him that we often walk there and successfully tried to pinpoint which house, by determining that his was the one which backs up to the spot on the clear ditch where a single log traverses it.

The surreptitious mushroom man continued; "I saw some eagles today," pointing toward the river.

"I don't think I've ever seen any, except a dead one out there," pointing south toward Albuquerque. He seemed somewhat disturbed, so I added; "Every once in a while we find plenty of dead birds."

"I think the Rio Rancho sewage treatment plant 'accidentally' emits their product into the river every night around 2 AM. If they get caught the fine is less than it would cost them to properly process it."

I surmised that this had something to do with dead birds, but didn't know exactly what, so I was silent.

He animatedly said; "The next time you start finding a lot of dead birds, you come and tell me. You know where I live."

"Okay."

He started to walk somewhere, but turned and added; "I'm serious."

Again I said; "Okay."

He was soon out of sight and I pondered whether I had met yet another Bosque psychiatric case. I decided "Borderline, more information necessary." He must be a secret member of the Gawk family, adept at hiding. Yet he seemed normal, at least by New Mexico standards, so far only displaying a predilection for conspiracy theories and an inordinate agitation over a few dead birds. In the near future we never encountered more than four or five fowl carcasses on any given day and I didn't consider that to be anything more than a small coincidence, so I never visited his house. A few years later, I did meet a couple who had an interest in hallucinogenic mushrooms and told them about him. They were very interested in meeting him and coincidentally rented a house two doors away from where the mushroom man said he lived. They told me that they've been looking for him for months to no avail.

Daisy and I continue her intended journey, passing through a generally wooded area, with the bulk of the wood dead, lying on the ground. There are many salt cedars near the water, which seem to be a magnet for cobwebs. Both of us have to stop regularly to get them off. We don't have a lot of options in our route, as in some places the dead limbs are not passable on foot. Clusters of thorny Russian Olives effectively guard their own privacy. Construction garbage and pieces of barbed wire fencing round out the seen impediments. This has got to be the ugliest, most barriered part of the Bosque we have yet encountered. What are they hiding here? Daisy safely stays on the winding dirt path and after a mile or so, we come to an opening. In front of us is a twenty acre field with two foot shrubs, giving the impression that it is occasionally mowed. There is no clear path through it, but there are tire tracks going from one side to the other. However, before we follow the tracks Daisy make a right to the river, where we find a lagoon of almost stagnant water, an almost undisturbed long peninsula on the side and a concrete pipe protruding from the elevated shoreline emitting warm water. We would later learn that this was the exit for Rio Rancho's supposedly treated wastewater and a location favored by local fishermen, perhaps capitalizing on the groggy, lethargic marine animals. After a cursory inspection, Daisy backs out of the murky area and we follow the tire tracks across the flat dry field. We later find out that the field is periodically under water, either when too many in Rio Rancho flush at once or the controlled river is allowed to rise. What looks like a series of concrete handball courts to our left is actually the channel, which is said to divert water accumulated in the field. The first time it was needed during our travels, its job was stolen by five neighboring backyards, probably including the mushroom man's, assuming any of what he told me had any credibility. I'm sorry. My jealousy is showing. Wouldn't it be an improvement to be on a perpetual acid trip? Imagine the hilarity and absurdity. Infinite amusement at the human condition, especially my own. No wonder they're looking for the mushroom man and he in turn, has to stay hidden to avoid the onslaught.

Unfortified, Daisy and I move into spaces unknown. There is little indication of human traffic. We have a number of choices available into and around the wooded section. Today she chooses to be as hidden as possible and she leads me down an overgrown dirt path in the center, replete with piles of broken logs we are able to painstakingly surmount. Visibility is so limited on the winding thin path, that I'm constantly afraid that something will plow into us, from the opposite direction. In actuality the only people I would ever see was a group of twenty laughing very senior citizens amused that they might not be able to get all the way back to Romero Road. I think they found the mushroom man's stash. After a mile or two the land opens up a bit and we find that if we duck under a group of salt cedars we can enter a "tunnel" created by pine evergreens, which sun never hits, leading to a beautiful clearing with well-spaced cottonwood trees growing out of the foot long grass land bordering the river. There was no evidence of human traffic, garbage, or many broken limbs. This would come to be my favorite area due to the beauty and Daisy's favorite due to the abundance of small furry animals she hoped to eat. In a few years the area will be completely destroyed by the MRGCD, citing it as a fire hazard.

Good, good day. When Daisy and I get near Romero Road, I think I see someone I have not seen in ages; Rick, the lawyer who would much rather have been Rick the basketball player. He's got an anger problem, prompting him to have engaged a psychiatrist from time to time, stemming from the fact that he would like to kill his old high school coach, who changed his shot in his senior year, carrying the badge of a very successful basketball mind, having gone to the final game of the state championship each of the last three years, ignoring the other facts; that he just happened to have had the first player from New Mexico to make it to the NBA in those same years, as well as two others who went on to play division I college. The weight of his expert opinion coupled with Rick's inability to transfer to another school, resulted in him acquiescing.

Rick is the best shooter I have ever seen and I'd include people I've only seen on television. He can stand on the pro three point line and make it as often as pros make free throws. When we played one on one a few years ago, he would let me win 20% of the time, just to keep it somewhat interesting.

When we got to talking about shooting in general, he told me about the coach and I was incredulous at the time, prompting many questions. Rick currently shoots the jumper with both hands over his head as "Mr. Success" advised on the premise that it would be easier to get off than Rick's former shot off the chest.

Partially because I'm not capable of blocking his shot anyway, after a while, when we played he started using the off the chest version again and in a matter of weeks could sink an uncontested NBA three point shot 90% of the time. I tried not to compliment him too much, because that served to remind him of the old coach, but it slipped in because I had never seen anything like this. Pure precision. He would hold the ball in his left hand over the middle of his chest and gently push it out with his right. The minimum of movement minimizes the things that can go wrong and you cannot get any more minimal than Rick.

When Rick sees me with unmistakable Daisy, the only Dalmatian in Corrales, he stops staring at the river and with Rusty in tow, an Irish Setter, another unusual dog for the environs and walks toward me.

We laugh and do our Michael Jordan punch handshake both saying; "Hey, man" solemnly. Since he's twenty some odd years younger than me, I ask; "Have you been playing any ball lately?"

"Hardly anything. I tapered off a lot after you quit."

I felt very complemented and embarrassed and didn't know what to say, so he added; "And I'm beginning to hate the damn game anyway."

I thought back to some of the players we used to talk and laugh about recalling one 6'8" overweight black guy who was supposed to have played some college ball. If you could get him the ball down low, he'd just turn and jump right into the defender and if the guy didn't get out of his way, he called "foul", so he'd either score or his team would get the ball back. I had forgotten his name, so I said; "Getting more guys like that chubby big black one who jumps right into you?"

"Worse than that. All the old farts try to show how good they were, in their now idealized memories and everybody goes one on one. If you pass the ball there's no chance of getting it back." Daisy was wildly sniffing Rusty, as we spoke and Rusty seemed somewhat surprised and reserved, but also liked the attention.

A lull took over as we slowly walked in the direction of the parking area. He said; "So what do you do with yourself all day now?"

"Walk Daisy, clean and fix the house and argue with my wife. Typical bourgeois, I guess. Pretty boring, right?"

This time Rick didn't have any direct response and kept his head and eyes toward Rusty. Remembering that Rick once took a sojourn from his lawyering job, to make a private investigation of the pharmaceutical industry as a salesman, I said; "Are you working as a lawyer now?"

"Yeah, six days a week and church on Sunday." As he got Rusty into his SUV, I said; "See 'ya, man." He said; "See 'ya." As we parted, I remembered that I may not see him for some time, maybe never again, who knows? So I was again compelled to say what is honest truth to me. I said; "Hey Rick." He looked up from his crouching ready to sit in the driver's seat position and I said; "You were the best."

He smiled; said "**** you" and drove off.

### Chapter 7

December 10, 2007; bitter cold, frozen hands, gray skies, gusting north winds, tanks for the memories, orange hardhats, nature producing metal grinding sounds and exhaust.

Daisy and I take our usual daily trip, only this time of year I lead her a little more than usual. Her coat makes her seemingly impervious to the cold, but my five layers have less an effect. When she encounters something smelly, approximately every ten feet, she stops to investigate. I give her a gentle tug on the collar and say; "Let's keep moving a little bit." She complies a few times, but on the next try I am stopped cold by an immovable object. I look back and see her sitting on her haunches, with a look on her face that says; "Don't you dare pull me." When I stop, she slowly proceeds to the next smelly spot and the game starts over. I should say that I'm really not sure what it is that gets her interest, as I can't pick up the scent, but I think it's rabbit activity.

No longer having any sensation in my gloved fingers we enter un-gated Romero Road and spend the next ten minutes dodging loud trucks and construction vehicles which have an urgent important need for the same path. The gate at the other end is wide open to accommodate the people whose name includes the word "conservation", as well as local "Bill's Landscaping Service."

We survive the half mile walk, stop and wait and enter the Bosque, aware that we are witnessing another "improvement project." At the river Daisy goes north, quickly covering the obstacle strewn ground. She wants to cross the drain field and get to the pretty, private spot replete with potential snacks. But, when we get to the field we find that pink orange strips of plastic have been tied across the barrier trees, indicating that we will have no access today as trucks and other destruction equipment have filled the area, a few actually in motion. I have to hold her back and we hear and see more rumbling down the levee path above us. They no doubt want to give the impression that they are improving the contour of the field, but something more nefarious is going on. We backtrack through the broken woods and continue our hike on the uneven land we have covered so often.

I stop her temporarily near the great cottonwood and get a good look at its skeleton, having now shed all its summer foliage. What is he thinking in his freezing state? Probably, he would say; "Who the **** stole my clothes? It's difficult to come up with anything new when you're frozen out." Being able to see its entirety in its uncomfortable current state affords little pleasure and no further insight during the brief frigid visit. The biting northern wind is strongest at the river's edge and it carries the sound of the metal destructors. I am able to steer her more inland, now somewhat protected from the arctic blast by the trees and the weak sun decides to peek out, blessing us with another small help. We amble around for another half hour and start back home.

We see a few people we are accustomed to seeing at the Bosque on the ditch paths and I ask each of them if they know what is going on in the drain field environs. I should know better by now than to ask so stupid a question. In each case I get an answer somewhere between "I don't know and I don't care" and "Some garbage with the drain field", in any case displaying a cool nonchalant attitude, perhaps a personae adopted over the years designed to make light, or even show pride, in their lack of knowledge about current events. Wasn't that formerly a high school subject? Maybe that's what caused the aversion. Understandable.

Daisy and I have the same experience for a few days, but when we get to the drain field on Sunday, there are only a few parked trucks and no one "working", so we cross over, noting the small amount of sand that has been pushed from one spot to another and enter our favorite natural wooded domain.

Horrors. We find that there are more destruction vehicles parked in there and they have been clearing out all the live wood they can reach without being seen. Plastic ribbons tied to still standing trees indicate that the improvements are not yet complete. We try to find our hidden passage through the pines and can't because the once shaded area is now in full sun with all the top coverings bulldozed or chain sawed, fed to the chipper and carted out by Bill's Landscape Service, who now, no doubt, has obtained a free lifetime supply of wood chips. Daisy stops and looks up at me as if to say; "What the ****?"

"More ********," I tell her in anger, not masking my sadness and disgust. She decides to leave the once beautiful area and I look at the dead wood that was on the ground before the project started still undisturbed, keeping company with the squashed and sliced raccoons, rabbits, skunks and chipmunks lying next to them. No doubt that when this improvement project becomes common knowledge, it's purpose will have something to do with fire prevention. I suppose dead wood laying on the ground for decades isn't flammable, however, not being an "expert" with credentials on the subject, I would need an education from some local consultant or fire department official before being allowed to make so brash a statement. Has there ever been a fire in the area? No. But I suppose the way to enhance that record would be to eliminate all the living material and leave the dead, what seem to be a typical approach endemic to Zombie-Land in general.

As we walked back home we encountered the then usual friendly, interesting people and told them what we had seen. Again the blasé reaction was encountered, with a slight deference to the possibility of us making a mountain out of a molehill over a minor path clearing or a look suggesting that I was some kind of nut.

The people either have no memory or are beyond embarrassment as when the warm weather finally arrived in May they each informed me that they were shocked at what happened to the Bosque, told me what was done and its location and asked me if I knew anything about the atrocity.

I really don't remember what replies I made, as I had long before written off any talk as being futile and boring. I normally minimize talk with people who don't listen or are too thick to understand. My prerogative. They can return the favor with no hard feelings expressed.

The bottom line to me is that it is obvious that the powers that be here can do anything they want and don't even have to bother concocting a good cover story and I really don't care. I was forced to leave rural New Jersey, an area replete with eighteenth and nineteenth century homes, five acre zoning and a governing authority that wanted to require any new building to be "in keeping" as far as the law allowed, because I once chose to be married. I didn't really reasonably expect to elevate my standard of living and with each year that passes, it's another year too late to try to fix anything and I'm one closer to Nirvana. It seems to me the only winners in the forest clearing improvement project were Bill's Landscape Service and the Gawk family, who can now view more land and try to put a damper on anything interesting going on.

I realize that I really don't have that much to complain about. I'm 62 years old and was fortunate to live the bulk of my life elsewhere. I sympathize with the teenagers here and wouldn't want to change places with them, willing to forgo the chance of being young again. I tend to think that teenagers sometimes rightfully require privacy and I wonder where they find any in this friendly fishbowl. No wonder rap music continues to be cutting edge after thirty years of monotony. The white kids from areas like this love it, because for three minutes they can pretend that they're bad ass and black, living somewhere the Gawk family has not yet infected.

Postscript to the Bosque destruction story. When the irate citizens voiced their outrage to the powers that be they were rewarded by Bill spreading some of his free wood chips on the defoliated land. The people reversed field again and now express their approval of the project, as they can now walk there as easily as they can in their backyards.

July 4, 1968; The customary scalding New Mexico summer was mild this year, with mid-day temperatures below 92 degrees. Frequent small showers further tempered the hot air and enabled the growing of many colorful flowering plants never previously seen; reds, purples, yellows, oranges and whites. Not being trimmed, they grew straight up to four feet, blowing gently in the warm breezes.

At 11 AM, a 1962, two door, deep purple Thunderbird convertible, the top open, rolled slowly down quiet Corrales Road, passing the open lots and old houses in varying states of disrepair, none severe. Today feels like it is going to break the season's trend and heat up significantly, as an unobstructed sun rained down waves visible above the asphalt. The few small white cumulous clouds held up by the uniform light blue sky, didn't dare threaten anything, fearful that someone in costume would shoot them down with a bazooka.

The open convertible made a right onto Romero Road blocked from a view of the ditch water by the tall multi-colored plants at the edges. Not blocking its path was the absence of gates and instructional signs at both ends, but the rolling purple wagon didn't seem to require any advice and it parked headfirst in a small alcove at the end of the road by itself.

The engine shut down, doors opened and closed and the two teenagers hit the firm ground. She was tiny with long straight black hair, parted in the middle, down to her puffy butt, held somewhat in place by a flowing blue bandana with white curving designs for decoration. He was 8 or 9 inches taller, had shoulder length light brown hair parted a bit to the left side over his eye, with bangs very susceptible to any wind, as nothing held it in place.

He said; "Hit you yet?"

She made a small smile and whispered; "Yeah."

He smiled back, saying; "Me, too." His left hand took her right as they walked up the sloping levee with some difficulty balancing as his right hand held a plastic tape player and her left supported a wicker picnic basket topped by a folded yellow blanket. When he looked in her eyes, the small wire rimmed spectacles reflected back a kaleidoscope of wild brush flower colors, which he might be seeing differently through his own round wire rimmed rose colored ones. He attempted to sing, butchering "that grow so incredibly high."

She looked at him, displaying a small furrow in her brow, shook her head slightly, but made a small laugh, saying nothing. He again saw that his career would have to entail something other than singing. They triumphantly got to the levee top, pausing a few minutes to enjoy the view of the river and the lightly treed valley. The gentle downhill trip proved much easier, the black fringe on her blushing red bellbottoms, sweeping the brown dirt clean, as her black and white flip-flops protected her teeny-weeny bare feet from any large stones.

They quickly came upon a yellow ping-pong sized styrofoam ball and he picked it up. One side was embossed with two words; "Prevent" and "Wildfires", which surrounded Smokey the Bear's serious face and wide eyed stare. The other side contained a triangle which said; "US Department of the Interior" on top, had trees and a much smaller triangular teepee in the middle and "Bureau of Indian Affairs-Forestry" at the bottom. Despite that this was Corrales' fire department of the time, he liked it and put it in one of the pockets of his blue, short sleeved "work" shirt.

Her white peasant blouse rippled in the breeze encountered as they approached the water, as did his button up lavender bells, a pleasant feeling as the day's heat was becoming hard to bear in the stillness.

They had been side by side, hand in hand through the wide path, but as they turned south along the river, the path became narrow and they hesitated, quickly deciding to maintain their comfortable positions and walk through the tall grass and flowers.

After a few hundred feet, for some reason, all four of their eyes riveted on a six year old, twenty-five foot cottonwood growing at the very edge of the Rio Grande. They both admired it and then looked at each other. Each knew that there was something important about it, but didn't say anything, as their current state of mind made most words silly and unimportant. They stopped and remembered their first meeting at a Quicksilver Messenger Service concert in San Francisco, while the group was doing its extended version of "Who Do You Love?" That's probably the best possible explanation of their mutual fascination.

They walked another mile to where she knew a very wide and private section of the Bosque, where she stopped in the wooded part and spread her yellow blanket, he for the first time seeing the luscious edibles now uncovered. They both sat and she spread cheese on some of the crackers, handing them to him, as she kicked off her flip-flops.

He said; "Do you plan on staying around here long?"

She nodded her head and said; "I think so."

"I'm currently studying Accounting, planning to cash in on it back east. I guess I'll have to change my plans and get a Masters in Roofing. That's the only good work available here."

She smiled and said; "You can't get a Masters in Roofing."

"Okay, I'll get a Masters in Architecture and a PhD in Roofing. I'll be able to keep my 2-S deferment longer."

She laughed, touched his arm, pointed at the crackers and cheese and said; "Eat."

He simultaneously pushed a button on his tape player and they heard Oliver singing "Jean."

I felt a hard bump against my chest and heard; "Woof, woof." Daisy wants me to wake up and take her outside quickly. I do the best I can and it looks like she just made it. After she's again settled, I make coffee, as usual, before our walk, only this time while drinking it I listen to Patti Smith sing "Fireflies." The calendar pages have been turned 518 times as September, 2011 has ridiculously shown its pitiful head and is showing a photograph of a fall wooded scene, with two people in toxicity repellant, yellow, irradiant outfits, sitting on the fallen leaves.

### Chapter 8

August 15, 2007; 98 degrees, 12% humidity, wind out of the south at 5-10 mph, cerulean skies, alabaster clouds covering 12.7% of skies, clear water running at a rate of 5.8 miles per hour, thermometers, liquimometers, tape measures, precision, definition, scientism and scientists.

We get a late start for our morning walk and are suffering the heat, especially the one with the black and white winter coat, so she jumped into the ditches every 200 feet of the trip. I wonder if she really doesn't enjoy the trip even more in the severe heat, having constant access to a cooling agent. She shows no signs of complaining, but it's possible that she's making the Corrales best of things because she thinks I want to do it. I wish I could clear things up and tell her that I'd really rather be sitting under the swamp cooler.

The fried ants motionless on the rocky part of Romero Road are testimony to what Daisy's paws must feel. I see the fiftyish Chinese couple, who seem to have a knack for finding the path whenever we do, coming at us from the other direction. We have not conversed past the "'Moaning" level, his pronunciation of the USA's "'Morning" standard. Maybe they don't speak English or maybe I'm someone they'd rather not know, at least not in so open a spot. I consider telling them of the availability of the fried ants, but decide not to, because I'm really not sure that the squishy little black beauties really are a Chinese delicacy. One does not endeavor to be offensive in Corrales, unless you are talking to me, as some people manage to find outrage in things I don't care to understand. It's a shame, as most of the ants available are those big black smooth ones, with sizable hair-like legs. Too bad, this is America. You missed out. In the east I worked with many people for whom English was a second or third language and I'd amuse myself by saying things like; "Have you been in this country a long distance?" Invariably, they either wouldn't be able to detect the error of the last word or weren't sure enough to make an issue of it. A typical response was "Dew munth."

Sometimes I think that I actually have more friends here than the typical overtly friend-full resident. It just doesn't appear that way, as my "friends" dismiss themselves quickly in public, preferring the clandestine. One of my most unsettling days was when I met a friend at an Albuquerque restaurant, our booth affording a panoramic view of the parking lot and a Comcast truck ten feet away. They were doing something on the roof and my friend proceeded to quickly become nervous and fidgety, constantly switching her head from her window view to me.

In an agitated voice, she said; "What do you think they're doing?"

I was surprised at the question as to me the answer on one level is "Who cares?" and on another is "I don't know." Well, I found out "Who cares?" when my fumbling hand over mouth non-answer led to another cry of dis-ease; "What have they got on top of the truck?"

"Another ladder?"

"No, not that; those small plastic boxes."

I was tempted to say "Small plastic boxes", but didn't want to risk her getting mad at me, in her already agitated state. I considered; "Smile, you're on Candid Camera" but dismissed it for the same reason. So I said; "I don't know anything about that kind of stuff."

One of the workers descended the ladder to ground level, about three feet away from our picture window and she said; "Did you see what he was carrying?"

The defeatist in me took over and I concluded that this was not going to be one of our fun days.

A quick lunch continued in this fashion, probably because she knows quite a bit about surveillance equipment herself and freaked out when she saw other people capable of doing the same thing to her, a topic well covered in " _The Conversation_ ," a not very well known movie starring Gene Hackman. I think it came out in the early '70s. Tired of watching the workman put his dirty hands into his greasy back pockets, I attempted to redirect the conversation somewhat, but staying on the apparent main topic. Since we had always regularly spoken about movies, I said; "Did you ever see " _The Conversation_?"

Her eyes widened with an accompanying non-response. I think that what she thought was; "Of course I've seen it, idiot. However, I'm surprised that YOU have." I wished that she would have spoken and given me the opportunity to make her more comfortable by saying that I really didn't understand it.

We left the Comcast people at the restaurant in what must have felt like five hours to her. As she drove I noticed that she used the rearview mirror much more than usual, trying to pick up a tail. I turned and looked back a few times and at least, didn't see a Comcast truck.

When we got to the Bosque, we sat in the shade of a ten by ten Cliff rose bush. Its deep blue green leaves and musky white flower didn't give us shelter today, as we thought that we were alone and then heard a loud male voice. When he passed, he didn't look our way, but kept shouting. I tried to make a joke of it by saying; "Wow. People think I'm bad. At least I've got a dog to talk to."

The intended humor escaped her entirely as the restaurant fidget returned. She watched the guy continue walking with annoyance and said; "He's got a cell phone." This proved to be our last "public" appearance.

Back at the hot Bosque with my furry companion, she hears noises south along the shoreline and chooses to investigate. As we approach the king cottonwood we see he already has company, that he probably didn't invite, two men of approximately forty and a similarly aged female apparently interested in determining something as they picked around his trunk and leaves, squinting their spectacled eyes. When I saw their expressions I hoped that they had not seen some problem. I would later learn two huge things. They could find no semblance, even of a minor variety, of any imperfection; and that this was essential, as if the experts could have found anything to deride, they would have killed him long before the rest of us had the opportunity to bask in his brilliance and scope. They could only find fearless, flawless and daring incandescent invention. I would have loved to ask him why, in "Yet Another Example of the Porousness of Certain Borders XXIV," he didn't open the "kitchen window gone opaque." It seems a better option than the mirror.

The two men were perspiring in the shade under their identical mixed maroon, green, brown and yellow sports coats. She was slightly more comfortable in blue jeans and a light blue "work" shirt that didn't appear to have experienced any. I saw green leaves on the ground accompanying small pieces of gray bark. The three were busy with various things when I approached and pretended not to notice Daisy and me, only possible if one is deaf, dumb and blind. Maybe those were their names, but my attitude changed to one of concern that their attempt at dismissing me was due to not wanting to advertise a secret objectionable activity.

When we got close my usual problem with Daisy's attempts to meet everyone she sees was nonexistent. Rather I had to stop her from trying to scoot through and away from the group.

I said; "Excuse me," and one of the guys, with long neat brown hair parted at the side, looked up from his notepad and wrinkled his brow at me. I continued; "Are you aware that destruction of public property is a crime here?"

He made a small friendly laugh and said; "We're not DESTROYING anything. Our interests are purely scientific."

I said; "What type of science are you performing today?"

He pointed to his male associate and said; "Bruce and I have PhD's in biology." He pointed to the female, who was now looking in our direction and said; "And Prudence is currently working on her dissertation."

I looked at her and said; "Best wishes," then turned back to Bruce and continued; "I think you'll understand my concern as one who regularly walks the area. It looks to the uninitiated as though you're trying to stab my big friend to death." I pointed at the metal devices attached to his trunk.

The balding man half kept his eyes looking at some instrument he was trying to calibrate, half looked at me over his wire glasses and said; "And you are?"

I said "Ed," pointed at her and continued; "And this is Daisy. And you are?"

He glanced at his companions, who politely smiled at my ignorance, not aware that he was "Roger Cain, head of Biology at UNM."

I said; "Then I can assume that you are in charge of this operation?"

Roger effacingly nodded and his eyes gestured briefly to his two friends.

I added; "Then I'll direct my questions to you. First, why are you stabbing the tree?"

Roger laughed; "We're not stabbing it. What you see is measuring devices."

I said; "They are inserted into the trunk, correct?"

Roger said; "Well, yes."

I said; "It could merely be a matter of parlance, but I'd call that a stab."

Roger just glared at me, so I said; "Never mind the terminology. What are you trying to do?"

Prudence answered for him saying; "We're trying to determine why this tree is a giant."

I said; "I'd imagine it has something to do with being right on a continual source of water," waving my left hand at the river.

Roger condescendingly said; "Of course that's one factor. There are others. I've seen many trees right on the river, but not this size."

I said; "Cottonwoods?"

Roger was again a bit disgruntled and said; "Yes, cottonwoods."

I said; "Here?"

I got no response from anyone, so I followed with; "I'd really like to know where. I'd like to see it, assuming it has not yet been stabbed to death."

Roger effectively dismissed me saying; "I can't recall offhand. You can get a full copy of this report, when completed, from the University of New Mexico."

I asked; "Do you have a target date for completion?"

Roger tersely said; "Six months."

As we walked away, I saw my old friend, Nicky, stumbling down the path and I heard him call out; "What the hell are you trying to do to that tree?"

We walk on, our job done. If anyone can get them out of here, it's Nicky. I look back and can't refrain from laughing out loud as I see him picking up and inspecting the instruments laying on the ground and attached to the tree as the UNM people nervously follow him around, in an effort to keep him from breaking anything. As soon as they get one away from him he finds another. He's not trying to be destructive. He's probably telling them about his academic background, while turning all the knobs to see what the instrument is capable of doing. I hear cries of "No!" and "Wait!"

Daisy keeps near the river and turns left at the intersection, going through fifteen feet of Johnson grass and weeds and enters a beach where few people go, as most don't know it exits. The last time it was running high the river pushed sand to the spot and now that it's back to a "normal" level, it left a beach.

It's sandy and rocky with little growth, but is completely hidden from the mainland because of the turn of the Rio Grande and the indentation of the land. I usually meet Rosalita here as it's an excellent spot for bird watching, one of her passions and today is no exception. She and her two dogs enter the enclave from the other side, passing through a small opening in densely wooded land where there are no paths. She acts as if she doesn't see me, her binoculars to her eyes, looking at the island across twenty feet of water, where birds fly around undisturbed by human contamination. When Daisy sees who it is, she attempts to run over at full speed, as Rosalita is her favorite person, hopefully excluding me and one of her small dogs was her first love. I really do have the worst voice ever created, but as I make my breathless approach, I try to sing a few bars of "Rosalita," begging her to come out tonight. She hears me and kindly laughs, looking in my direction for a second and then turns back to her binoculars.

I usually try not to disturb her by saying anything negative. I usually "entertain" her by playing games, like giving her a line or two from an old song, requiring her to supply the group and title, or naming a book and she supplies the author. Though she'd get a passing grade on the first, she is impeccable at the second game, only missing a few obscure European titles. But today I am disturbed by the morning's preceding events, so I say; "Did you see what they're doing to the gigantic cottonwood?"

She keeps her eyes glued to the binoculars, but derisively says; "Yeah."

She's never been a voluminous orator, so I have to prompt her and continue with a question that I hope cannot be answered yes or no. "What do you think they're doing?"

"They're being scientists. I don't know why people can't just enjoy things without having to measure, clock and analyze them."

Well, I got a few words, but as usual they got right to the point and I agree with them, so I'm again experiencing difficulty in keeping the conversation moving and I say, hoping to be humorous; "Have you been doing any talking with God recently?"

Instead she's annoyed and says; "I've already told you that I'm spiritually challenged."

It's not a good idea to ask Rosie the same question twice, even if you phrase it differently. I get quiet and she forgets her momentary annoyance, hands me her binoculars, points toward the island and says; "Here, take a closer look at all the swallows."

I'm happy to do as told and particularly enjoy holding one of her things to my face. Now, she can't leave until I make a lengthy investigation of the plentiful swallows. She's my prisoner. Unable to speak, I think, "Rosie, you're the one."

The morning was only modestly overcast and I was glad to see Rick and his friendly Irish Setter, Rusty, at the river when Daisy and I were leaving.

"Hi, 'morning," I said.

"'Morning. Great day, isn't it?"

"It's an improvement, only known to the swallows."

Rick laughed; "You know, that's the thing I like about you. I can say the same sentence to a hundred different people around here and I'll get precisely the same response from every one of them and you'll say something different."

My face must have revealed that I was too proudly basking in my imagined glory, as Rick was compelled to add; "I didn't say 'right,' I said 'different.'"

I stuck out my tongue, then said; "At least it keeps people awake."

Thinking that I was mildly insulted, Rick then added; "No, no. I'm not being critical. There's something else, too. Like when you used to make the guys in the game laugh. They'd laugh because you'd say what everyone was thinking and somehow believe that they're not supposed to say."

I used to really get a kick out of that, because normally I can't make anyone laugh, despite trying. When I tell a joke, people stare and when they see that no more words are coming say something like; "You can't be serious." But, I always had a good effect with athletes. One time I played on a basketball team with a guy who absolutely blew the championship game. The only sound you could hear in the locker room was metal doors opening and closing and the creaking of the old wooden benches. Mr. Blewit was dressing, not making eye contact with anyone and others were doing likewise. I really didn't care that we lost; bigger games were yet to come; so I said; "Really ****** that one up, didn't 'ya?" thinking that there was a possibility that he might decide to hit me. Instead, everyone started laughing, including Mr. Blewit, who said; "I don't know what the **** I was doing." Air cleared, every one pals again.

"Rick, it has indeed already been a great day today and I'm looking forward to many more."

As he got into his SUV, I said; "Hey, Rick," and he looked my way and cocked his head to the side as if to say; "You're not going to say it again, are you?"

I said; "You should have played baseball."

He knew what I meant, smiled and drove away.

We got to the backyard and Daisy saw it jump; a luscious grasshopper was complacent and chose to proudly demonstrate its talents for its new audience and as a result was soon under a front paw, being nibbled on. It got away for a second, but now missing a few legs was unable to put much distance between itself and my perennially hungry canine companion. Daisy again trapped it, sticking her nose into its body, but it was unable to spring again, ending the prelude to a snack game. Daisy looked at me, questioningly and I said; "You may as well put it out of its misery now." I'm not certain that she understood, as her next ploy was to push it with her nose a few times, before chomping the crackling, juice spraying morsel in one of her favorite positions; head to the ground on bent front paws, back legs erect and spread, her tail doing its best imitation of a helicopter.

Six months later on 2/15/2008, I take a drive to the University of New Mexico campus in Albuquerque. As I drive out of winter "rural" Corrales, it's a good day to be in the car, as it's the warmest place I've been all day. The flat dead land does not impress, especially under the PM gray clouds, doing their usual best to provide drear without the benefit of precipitation. The radio endeavors to convert the gloom to a dream; a bad one. As I listen to the "oldies" station, I'm reminded of how late in the game it is, when everything sounds like I first heard it yesterday. "San Francisco", "Incense and Peppermints", "I Feel Free", "Somebody to Love" and "Brown Eyed Girl" are such revelations, that I feel I have to tell somebody something. I can't listen to it any more, preferring to suffer the gloom unenhanced and in silence. The garish commercial establishments prove to be the highlight, showing weak signs of life, totally absent from the private dwellings. Leaving town I spend a small time on a typical highway temporarily forgetting whether I'm in New Mexico or New Jersey and turn onto South Rio Grande Blvd., home to some of the area's most prominent citizens. The single lane two-way road has a twenty-five mile per hour speed limit, warning electric signs, stop signs and speed bumps, in an effort to protect the section's bicycle riders from speed demons. None want to sample today's thirty-three degree temperature and I wonder what substitute they have found for their warm weather activities and get no clues. Maybe they're looking out the windows of their large houses, set well back from the road, watching the cars go by.

Retail stores poke their heads out of the ground, as I approach my Central Avenue destination. When I make my left I'm in "Olde Towne", appropriately named and perhaps the oldest part of Albuquerque and home to brown, Southwestern, adobe houses huddled together, in their decrepitude, apparently still suitable for commerce. I only see a few "shoppers" moving quickly in their hoods and heavy balloon coats, either late for an appointment or frozen. The thought occurs to me that maybe the "real" shoppers are inside the stores, doing precisely what they came here for, simultaneously noting that the parking lots are not overwhelmed.

When I arrive at the University of New Mexico, I look for a place to park, traversing the irregularly hilly land, now only decorated by well-spaced ornamental trees, currently devoid of any ornamentation. I park in the densely packed student lot and walk to the 15,000 sq. ft., two story, brick Georgian building nearest me. I don't know the right place to go, so my non-plan is to ask the first person I see and make the appropriate adjustments afterwards, with the second person I see. I am greeted by a series of closed brown doors. As I slowly walk the corridor I look into the windows of each and see animated teachers unable to remain still behind their podiums and classes of thirty seated students staring at the ceiling, tapping their feet, staring at the nearest crotch and sucking their pens. It's strange. I'd like to join them now, but at the same time I recall how I once couldn't wait to leave the confines of academia and experience the "real" world, perhaps a testimony to my malcontented nature. At the end of the hall a sign saying "Office" protruded from the white wallboard above the open brown door. There are three forty-ish women sitting behind glass partitions. I wondered if they were bulletproof. Two were assisting young men, who were stooped over to lean their arms on the six inch counter and talk through the oblong hole.

"May I help you?" I heard the unoccupied woman say. I slowly walked to her hole, as she looked at me as if I should be moving faster. When I belatedly got here, I didn't remember what I wanted, having gotten a bit lost in the memories of university life, dead for forty years. I realized what I had to do, collected my thoughts, put my face in the hole of the black haired woman who sat on a wheeled chair, her skirt above mid-thigh and tried to see her face. She again must have thought me too slow and repeated her opening line, this time sounding caring rather than efficient. I brightly said "Hi" and paused. My name is Edward Drobinski and I'm trying to get a report."

"What kind of report?"

I didn't know what to say as I didn't know what type of report it was. I said; "Maybe I should have used the word 'study'."

She grimaced as she scrutinized my face and affected a bored posture, saying; "A study report?"

The situation was deteriorating quickly, so in an attempt to salvage something I started to babble out the whole story. "Six months ago three professors....... Three people, at least two of which were professors....... Three people, at least one surely a professor....... Three people, one a department head and probably a professor......."

She cut me off just when I think I got it right saying; "I really don't need to hear all that. Just tell me what you want?" She crossed her legs, putting a damper on one possible answer, so I blurted out; "Last summer three people from UNM did a study at the 'Corrales Bosque' and they told me I could get a copy now."

She uncrossed her legs, gave me a stern look and said; "I'm proud of you, boy. Now we can get somewhere. If they were at the 'Corrales Bosque' they were probably with the Biology department. What were their names?"

"I don't remember. Wait a minute. Let me think. Two only said their first names which I can't recall. I think the other one gave his full name......."

"Roger Cain?"

I got excited; "That sounds good."

She got up from her chair; "Head of biology. Let's see what we have in Biology's drawers from last summer."

She rolled out a sliding eggshell colored one and said; "I think I've got it."

She slowly walked back to me, skimming through the papers in her hands. She said; "Study of Corrales Bosque Cottonwoods Conducted August, 2007."

I was elated and raised my voice saying; "That's it! Oh, thank you so much."

She looked at me cruelly and said; "It's twenty-five cents a page, one hundred twenty pages. That'll be thirty bucks."

"I hope you take credit cards." She gave me her first smile of our brief encounter.

When I got the report home, I found a lot of it absolutely useless to me. Detailed descriptions of the perpetrators' credentials with footnotes, instruments used, specifying the brand, date, model and year, purpose of the report and its relationship to other reports on similar subjects produced at UNM and elsewhere with footnotes and locations and credentials of the laboratories used took 116 of the 120 pages. I wished that the black haired lady in the short dress had told me that. She could have saved me $29. But maybe that wasn't her primary interest, as alluded to, by her distracting uniform. Still, I was elated to have the report, even at thirty times the appropriate price.

I perused the four relevant pages and below, submit certain extractions.
Empirical Evidence – 3

Key to Trees:

1A - Corrales, New Mexico

2B - Phoenix, Arizona

3C - Chino, California

4D - Edgewater, Utah

5E - Springs, Nevada

Notes:

1) Trees within five feet of a river, lake, reservoir, stream, bay, inlet or any other body of water providing a constant supply is stated at the maximum absorption capability of the root system rather than the volume available.

2) As reported by the National Weather Service in the nearest town covered by them.

3) Though winter temperatures are stated using the traditional winter dates, it could be argued that winter in Corrales, New Mexico (#1A) in actuality runs from November 1 to April 30. If those dates are used, Tree #1A's average would drop 3 degrees.

4) Does not correspond to insects harmful to trees in general, which may be gleaned in "Your Southwestern Garden", third edition, by Ambrose Huxley, 2006, Bantam Press, but only to insects harmful to cottonwoods, as defined in "Desert Trees", fourth edition, by Samuel Fowlkes, 2005, Gotham Publications.

%) Percentage, as calculated using the square feet of bark existent as the numerator and the square feet of the tree in its entirety as the denominator.

### Chapter 9

Anecdotal Evidence - 4; August 1, 2011. Harmonic display overwhelms any consideration of weather other than the extreme heat, demanding constant attention.

Daisy and I drive to the Bosque as usual and park on the ditch path. As we walk Romero Road we feel as if we were in an oven with the merciless sun reflecting back at us from the already well done ground. Her proximity to it must make things even worse for her and she attempts to cover as much territory in the shade as is possible, which proves less than satisfactory as someone has cut down the few trees that previously existed. They would say it was in consideration of fire prevention, containing a degree of truth, but it also happens to make observation of the road very easy and the residents can now sit in the "comfort" of their houses, stay cool and watch visitors walk the unexciting road, now having to park their cars outside of it. I wish that they would be capable of taking a hike as they might be fortunate enough to locate the discarded television set. Imagine, twenty-four hours of moving things to watch, including "reality" shows. Ask Marshall McLuhan about that one. Or don't ask him. He probably doesn't want to be bothered anyway, as he'd prefer to remain under his swamp cooler listening to it hum.

Taking her habitual swim in the ditch, Daisy now probably feels a whole lot better than sweaty me. The best thing about this weather is that you are relieved of one tedious chore; washing clothes, as if you did, within five minutes of being outside they'd be back where they started. Africans have come up with a perfect solution for the same problem; wearing almost nothing. But for some reason that has not been adopted here; perhaps because Africans have better bodies or perhaps because we still have our Judeo-Christian hang ups. Actually, one person, whose name I never learned was a free spirit. In prior summers this fifty year old white male, walked his beagle, wearing only sneakers and the briefest of trunks, choosing to be well exhibited, by confining his walks to the levee path. I concluded that he really loved to pose for Nora, as he disappeared when her visits became infrequent, or maybe they just found a more suitable location. I know that she was well aware of his attributes, as she'd often ask me if I saw his cute beagle and I would tell her; "No, my contact was at eye level."

Daisy and I duck under the locked gate and are on our way to paradise; shade trees! Now somewhat comfortable, she dawdles down the path to the river, investigating all the presents left by four legged visitors over the last twenty-four hours. One was especially fragrant and when she lingered, I asked her; "Who was there?", but she just looked at me, her expression indicating; "Don't you know?" I told her that I really didn't, but that I hoped he or she was on a leash.

After another swim, or wade in the slow, shallow river, Daisy turns right, south toward Albuquerque, her favorite hot weather path, as it is either shaded by trees or tall grass and weeds, not yet mowed for fire prevention. She doesn't seem to know or care that her fully protected status, leaves the upper half of my body exposed to unbowed irradiance. My discomfort is forgotten when I see one of my favorite people, Margie, walking at us from the other direction. She's smiling at my soaked dog and gets a kick out of her doggie paddling. Better yet, she's wearing a white tube top that seems to have slipped a bit and she bends down to pet Daisy's wet head.

She says; "I really miss the shade of that huge tree." Murphy appears as if, despite his long hair, he is more concerned with the presence of two potential marauders than he is with the weather.

I say; "Me, too. And Daisy! I think she still walks in this direction expecting to find him again."

"What do you think happened to him?"

"I've had a lot of thoughts, but none of them seem likely for more than a few minutes. I wish I had a picture of him to refresh my memory. It's been a while."

Her eyes lit up and she smiled, saying; "I know where there is one."

"Where?"

"At the Albuquerque Museum of Art. Well, it's not a picture, it's a painting. Some woman," she paused, "whose name escapes me at the moment painted him at least five times in the early 90's." She blinked her eyes and looked at the sky a second, which allowed me a furtive ogle of her legs and short, tight pants, then continued; "Mary Kravath. She was from West Texas and became famous. Four of the paintings are in private hands, but one's right next door. Did you ever hear of her?"

"No. Is she still alive?"

"I think so. She's got her own space on Amazon, selling many things including a clothing line." She giggled a bit at that.

So did I, but I also knew that indicated that Mary Kravath was a big deal. I said; "I might take a drive there this afternoon. Their air conditioning is a lot better than my swamp cooler."

She smiled and started to walk away. I said; "They usually sell prints of their stuff, don't they?"

She kept walking; "I'm not sure. Sorry to cut you short, but I really have to go."

I said; "Billable hours?"

One of her eyes looked at the sky and her lips made an open-mouthed smile and she kept moving. It's a shame. All the interesting people are busy and the bores have all day. I guess I know what that makes me, but I'm going to improve myself today, with a museum trip.

Daisy continues her route and stops at the few logs remaining of the great one. She again looks back at me as if to say; "Still?" I nod my head yes and say; "Never again," knowing that she doesn't have these words in her vocabulary. I can't be sure, but it looks as if the logs have been moved around. It's a nice seat by the water with long views in both directions. I'd have to think that the rearranging sitters come here after sundown. It annoys me that my old friend is still being forced to conform to some human's needs almost three years after his death. Is there no peace under any conditions? Damn grave robbers! Do those bent on rearrangement have the slightest idea how great he was from the three logs left in this particular spot? I don't think that's possible. When he was alive he had the ability to size them up in a way that would have hung a humorous name on them for life, but he would have been kind in his silence. He always was. Silly anthropomorphism? Maybe, but, it is no doubt less silly than professors believing that they can know something about him "scientifically" and certainly no different at the core, than those who espouse monotheism.

Back in the material world an again disappointed Daisy trots on with her own undistributed thoughts on the matter. She's very fast, but at least she stays on the path, giving me a fighting chance of keeping up without holding her back. I hear wooosh, wooosh and see why speed is paramount today. People in a balloon are very near and seem to be coming down right over our heads. They're not the least bit anthropomorphic or well mannered, as the three people I can't make out very well with the sun behind them, don't care that they are scaring the hell out of Daisy, or maybe that's their big kick in life. They hover thirty feet over our heads, no doubt looking and sounding like a fire breathing dragon to her. I wonder why the Gawk family has chosen to sacrifice a loftier perch and find the answer too obvious to merit further consideration. With great difficulty and lots of yelling I manage to lead Daisy to a section populated by a number of eighty foot cottonwoods and we wait there to assess the balloonists' next course of action, hoping they're stupid enough to directly follow us into the trees. It's a standoff, but I'm secure in the knowledge that we will shortly prevail, as the pretty sky machine will run out of gas. Daisy and I have all day. I recall a conversation with a Corrales rancher who told me; "The only good balloon is a dead balloon." Daisy is feeling somewhat better. After surviving the close encounter, the hundred foot distance from the dragon is somewhat comforting, but her eyes are still wide open watching it. The persistent, plastic, perverse, polluting, power plant quits, elevates and goes cross river to Rio Rancho, where it seems someone has been operating a balloon ride business. I'm grateful that we're in the Bosque and thereby don't have to worry about dodging the balloon chasing drunken maniacs.

Mentally exhausted Daisy decides to call it a short day and leads me back to the safety of our car, tripping on the ground, as she watches the sky in fear of further attack. She relaxes in the safety of our armored tank and sighs; "What a day." Back home she forgoes her customary anxiousness for her main meal, goes to her bed and says; "I need a nap."

I need one, too, so I have a quick lunch and join her. I wake up at 12 PM, have a small lunch and prepare for a museum trip, loading up with plenty of cash. I give myself one last taste of fortification and listen to Patti Smith's live version of "Dead City."

In the car's air conditioning Corrales looks well. It usually takes a view of Albuquerque for me to appreciate it, but not today. The clear bright sky illuminates everything in detail without breaking the surface. As I traverse the development, the multi-colored, stucco surfaced Southwestern style houses proudly bask in the heat, feeling impervious to the fever. Most have had any trees that may have been close removed. They are not creations of the shadows. Some have thick green lawns, most very tended and others have surfaces covered by whatever feels like growing there. The variety is probably infinite as the different weeds seem to have propagated with other species, producing clusters of mixtures. The deciduous and evergreen trees seem healthy, fed regularly by automatic irrigation systems. No natives are in evidence, likely spending the heat under their swamp coolers or pretending to shop at the nearby mall, which offers everything you've ever wanted from A to G. Like me they are generally of the geriatric set, but confine their outdoor activities to the twilight of dawn and dusk. The last house I pass is of average size, its most distinguishing feature being its extremely light brown color which in certain lights appears to have passed over to a dirty yellow, perhaps making a statement about the inhabitant's "golden years." She must be about eighty years old and is not very ambulatory on a good day, being fully dependent on house-keepers and gardeners. Her husband is long gone and her children live in other parts of the country and visit every two or three years. Some other resident I can't recall once told me that; "She got it cheap, because the property was once a toxic waste site." Another told me that the area was once a sizable cattle ranch. They're probably both wrong; a relatively safe guess in Corrales. She keeps things as simple as possible, fencing about 1/3 of it with medium brown adobe capped by the same color used on the house and having posts and wire covering the other 2/3. Most of the acre property is covered only by reasonably maintained grass and other green things with some browned out patches where the watering system struggles with the constant summer direct sunlight. The house is about eight years old and the specimen plantings of only a few trees and bushes appear younger. Let the sun shine in, but stay out of the light, especially when near a mirror.

As I turn onto Corrales Road I recall a conversation I had with a guy I hired to refinish the brick floors when I first moved here. Like the one on the corner my house had few sparse plantings and I was mentioning that I was going to plant a lot more, because I like trees and bushes and also like the privacy they provide, properly placed. He preferred it "as is" and said that at his house the views are preferable to the limitations imposed by blockages. I quickly saw that this line of conversation was not going to be a pleasant one, if we each stuck to our guns and I tried various diversions, to little avail, as he kept returning to his idea of the desirability of openness, even citing some kind of tie in to being a good religious person, with biblical references and a further testimony that he never shuts the blinds. "Let the sun shine in," and the like ancient crap that sounds dated and stupid to anyone under forty was his constant, un-divertible refrain. He had previously told me that in addition to his flooring endeavors, he also worked as a marriage counselor and offered his services. I suppose he was filling in the experience part of his resume, when he informed me that he was now married for the fifth time. I was getting very tired of what sounded to me like some type of preaching and/or sales pitch, obtainable free from the nearby Seventh Day Adventist Enterprises, Inc. operation, so I said; "I guess you enjoy it when your neighbors watch you and your wife have sex and the first four weren't into it." I don't think we spoke again until we settled up the bill.

Subsequent consideration of my agitated comment revealed a number of possibilities irrelevant in the heat of the moment; 1) He does, indeed enjoy having his neighbors watch him and his wife have sex; 2) His wife has the same predilection; 3) They both do; 4) They never have sex; 5) He never before realized that anyone would want to watch; 6) No one would ever watch; 7) He is considering ways to introduce fees or tithes for the privilege. I've never considered myself particularly voyeuristic, but I'll have to admit that if one of the heterosexual couples living in view of my windows, were "doing it" I'd watch for a while, at least until "The Price is Right" came on.

"Corrales Road looks pretty today" I thought, as I passed the mixture of old adobes, new renovations, commercial buildings, schools, new houses and shacks. I see a smattering of people leisurely coming and/or going to the antique shops, quilt stores, hairdressing places and the like. I noticed, entering a residential area that a man was walking down the road in front of one of the houses. This wouldn't be unusual in and of itself, but the last five or six times I had driven here a man was walking in the same spot. I'm sure that it wasn't the same guy each time as one was particularly tall. What kind of coincidence caused someone to be in front of this particular house, whenever I drove by, while no other people were ever seen in front of the other houses? Might it be the residence of my brick floor refinisher? I couldn't see. Maybe the "fee basis" perusal was successfully implemented.

Central Avenue in downtown Albuquerque always gets my rapt attention for a few reasons. I have to watch the road and the other tanks on it intently, as Albuquerque has the worst drivers in the continental United States. Worse, many of them are not insured. The other reason is that when I'm away from other cars and can take a good look at the area, it may be described as haphazard, eclectic, irregular, diverse, or unique. I can never really get a handle on it and simply gaze, as it is not unusual to see many consecutive structures, each of which bear no apparent relationship to the others.

I can see a small Southwestern adobe brown house next to a two story white warehouse with gray metal closed doors, next to a glass fronted barber shop, next to a renovated Southwestern styled house, now light blue, in which "boutique" clothing and small New Mexican styled household items are sold, next to an abandoned nondescript old adobe, next to a former brick schoolhouse, now with a sign advertising "Loft Space Available", next to a three story wooden building with cream aluminum siding, the first level currently utilized as a retail gun shop, with a brown skinned young man pacing in front of it, embellished with a front and back placard, both sides containing the almost identical hand painted words; "Fake ID's For Sale", ostensibly the quality of which exceeds that of the placard.

After a few more blocks I see a quarter full parking lot opposite a three story building that attempts to mix traditional Southwestern light brown stucco, modernistic reflecting metal and Indian or Art Deco geometric forms, succeeding in looking like discarded items which inhabit the "Corrales Bosque." I park as far from the other cars as possible, in the hope of finding it when I leave. I walk the blacktop, which crackles in the heat and climb twenty elongated concrete steps that have been treated with gray silicon. I see a person! She exits the shiny entrance, but moves quickly and enters a simple brown door marked "Exit."

When I near the entrance, I see that the front's first floor is 80% glass held in place by flat aluminum columns, with the only means of entry a single revolving door. I note two gold signs attached to one of the columns, one saying, "Built in 1989" and the other proudly informing me that the structure was designed by Levi Paulson. I wondered what other things Levi had done.

I easily pushed my way through the revolver and noted that when inside this cold spinning marvel also served as the "Exit." The lobby is the width of the structure, has plain white walls sitting on a pink-orange tiled floor and houses a gift shop at the north end. I see a ten foot curved silver desk below a "Tickets" sign occupied by a 25 year old thin Native American female, wearing a light blue, non-native, Christian Dior dress, lots of silver jewelry and a smattering of pale makeup. She is looking at something on the desk, so I take the opportunity to view the little furniture in the barren area, finding two benches, similar in their incorporation of traditional Spanish and Indian patterns with hard edged modernism, resulting in a lightly brown stained Mission look. At least they're constructed of wood. Closer inspection reveals that they also contain small golden signs indicating that they, too owe their existence to the design talents of Mr. Paulson and are attached to the wall with black chains.

The lady standing at the desk looks my way and says "Good afternoon, may I help you?"

I briskly walk over to her and say; "Good afternoon, yes, I'd like to see the museum," smiling a bit, feeling silly at stating the obvious.

Her fiercely chiseled elegant face does not move, but her hands do, reaching under the desktop to retrieve a well-used 8 x 10 card covered in yellowing plastic. She puts it where I can read it. It says;

"Oh boy," I thought as I perused the card. "This is not going to be easy." I was looking forward to a relaxing mindless afternoon in the relieving air conditioning, looking at pretty pictures.

### Chapter 10

"I'll have to ask a few questions. Is this the Albuquerque Museum of Art?"

"Yes."

"Okay, where are the three other museums?"

"Here, too. Art on the first floor, Natural History on the second and Native American and Spanish on the third."

"Oh good, that's convenient."

She appeared tired and disinterested, cutting off expected chit-chat which wasn't on the way and said; "What do you want to see?"

"Art."

Looking for a bigger ticket, she informed me; "The Native American and Spanish museums have art, too."

"I'm not interested in Native American or Spanish art." Realizing that I may have unintentionally taken a mild swipe at her heritage, I added; "Today."

She must have thought that she had me on the defensive and said; "The package deals can be utilized any time up to a year from date of purchase."

I waved my hand and said; "No, that's all right. If I come back, I'll just get another ticket."

"Is there any particular artist you're interested in?"

Very pushy, I thought, but for some stupid reason I answered honestly and said; "Mary Kravath."

"Sounds like a white name, but it could be her husband's."

"So, what if it is?"

She clucked at my stupidity and then said, as if it were too terribly obvious; "If she was born Spanish or Native American, her work would be in the Spanish or Native American Museum."

"Why?"

"That's just the way things are done. Haven't you noticed?"

I was beginning to get annoyed. What gall I had in not knowing the details of her petty job. So I said; "I don't go out much. I usually wind up in some headache inducing, retarded conversation when I do." She was wordless and actually did a good facial act of being hurt. I wasn't really broken hearted about her pains or pleasures, but wanted to cut the talk as soon as possible, so I added; "Okay, give me the combination ticket for Art, Native American and Spanish." I reached into my pocket and retrieved my wallet and held it impatiently as she stared at the yellowing plasticized fee card.

I said, "Is there another issue?"

She looked right in my eyes and proudly said; "That's not a valid option."

"Okay, I'll settle for an invalid option."

"I can't do that. She turned the plastic information card toward me and said; "You've asked for , and , but as you can see, it's not on the list."

I perused the card and saw, indeed that my requested preference was not there. So, I said; "It's obvious that, if it were on the card the price would be $50."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I'm not sure, I'm being logical."

"Whatever you think, I have no way of processing your request."

"This wasn't even my original request. If you recall, I was willing to settle for a simple Number  and you talked me out of it."

"That isn't my exact recollection and more importantly there's no point in bringing up ancient history."

"Pardon me. I thought that was precisely what this place is for." She just looked at me blankly and I realized that the comment was irrelevant to her, so I decided to somehow combine two or more of the available options which would result in , and . I couldn't do the math in my head, so I asked her for a pencil and paper and I was surprised to see that she obliged me, without some story about not being able to provide both in the same package and at no charge. I wrote down:

It seemed strange to me that buying the total package was the best financial option, but it irked me that I'd be forced to purchase something I didn't want, so I said; "I'd like to get 1, 2, 3 and 4 for $55 and simultaneously sell 2 back to you for its stated price of $25."

"Are you a wise guy or some kind of nut?"

"$20?"

"No."

$10?"

"No."

"Don't you ever give refunds?"

"No." I could see the red veins in her eyes, as she said; "I'm going to get the manager." Anticipating going through this conversation a second time with two opponents and not having all the time in the world, I said; "Please, please wait." She stopped after two steps and turned back to me. I continued; "I'm sorry, I was trying to make a very poor joke. Can I just have 1, 2, 3 and 4 for $55?"

"Yes, I'll be glad to help you with that." She walked back to the register and said; "Cash?"

"No, credit card."

She fortunately found no problem with that, but asked to see identification. I retrieved my driver's license from my wallet and handed it to her. She looked at it, then me and proceeded to push the appropriate buttons on her machine. After extensive thrusting she handed the two cards back to me and said; "The purchase of the complete package allows you to be a member of the 'Museum Club'."

I don't want to be a member of any club that would accept me, certainly not one so easy and also didn't want to be on its mailing list, but rather than go through any possible harangue I decided to play the game. When she handed me a pen and information card, I silently filled out an incorrect name and address; that of one of my least favorite neighbors, hoping that the clerk wouldn't recognize the discrepancy from the credit card and license. She didn't even look at the card and placed it under the desktop and handed me a simple white card with the numbers 1, 2, 3 and 4 on it separated by perforations.

Confident that I didn't need her kind assistance anymore, I attempted to make a smart goodbye, already having been accused of being a wise guy. As I walked away, I said; "Thanks, Winchinchala." Her steely dispassionate eyes burned into me as she said; "I'm whiter than you are." That struck me as perversely humorous and I smiled and waved goodbye, making my way through the empty vestibule to a closed faux classical Italian metal door painted dark green, beneath a simple white metal sign containing black letters stating "Museum of Art." With some difficulty I opened the pneumatic door and took a few steps when I heard; "Hey, I'll need a ticket."

I turned to my left to see a short Spanish man of about 25, his two day growth of black peach fuzz, apparently adding something to his shaven bald head's clear status. I considered telling him that he could obtain tickets at the desk in the vestibule, but decided that I had already had enough communication, so I took my perforated 1, 2, 3 and 4 from my pocket and handed it to him, deferring to his snappy brown khaki uniform.

He said; "I'll only need number one," and looked at me.

I said; "Should I have torn the perforation for you?"

He dejectedly shrugged, but said; "No, that's all right," and with grimacing difficulty performed the operation himself. He handed 2, 3 and 4 back to me, saying; "Enjoy the day."

I nodded, said "Thank you, sir," and went my way, Patti Smith singing "Whirlaway" in my head. A large open door was in my view and I could see some paintings on the wall and glass enclosed tables, of lightly finished oak, in the center of the room. But, before I got there I viewed another artistic statement, in a simple black frame, hung above the open door. The artist chose to leave the background in its natural canvas off white state. However, on it he painted perfectly, entirely in black "no food or beverages allowed beyond this point." Hmm, what is the unsigned illustrator trying to tell me? I really wasn't even considering eating or drinking at this establishment; it would seem obliquely unnatural and I had nothing to consume. For a second I thought that the lady at the front desk might be able to help, but quickly decided against asking her, imagining the difficulty of that conversation. The best logical thought I could come up with was that the dead don't require any sort of sustenance, perfect in their frigid state and with no stretch of the imagination this was a place of the dead. So, somebody who wanted to enhance their importance wrote a rule that everyone already obeyed, having no choice in the matter. I thought about it a minute staring at the perfect letters. Maybe if I read them backward or rearranged them somewhat I'll get the real message, as the one I came up with was too trite to be any good. When no hidden message was discerned, I walked away thinking; "No wonder he didn't sign it."

As I entered the room I saw that it was my lucky day as a handwritten placard standing on the swirling white and blue tile floor indicated that only this week, ten paintings by the renowned Alan Camelittle were on display, on loan from Louise Benson of Santa Fe. Quickly scanning the ten, I wondered if Louise got any money out of this. The works are ideal for one desiring repetition. Each "human" figure, with their thimble-like shape, is standing on a line reading a newspaper, which Camelittle chose to represent by an actual cutting from a newspaper, rather than paint. The backgrounds include transportation centers, grocery stores, filling stations and banks, painted neither realistically, impressionistically or minimally, giving the appearance of a woefully done attempt at realism. It's a good thing this guy found Louise. I tried reading the tiny newspapers the characters held in front of their faces, in an attempt to find out what I was missing. I got no further enlightenment as each tiny paper had a small section of a newspaper article about God knows what. The entirety of one said; "to begin the consideration. The participants were left." I had to keep in mind that the letters were gigantic to a two or three inch thimble. So, perhaps the little deformed people are studying oversized messages devoid of meaning. A precursor of the internet? Fellini's grotesques in word form? Whatever, it fascinates the little ones more than their poorly painted surroundings. Cute,.... once.

There was a closed gray door on the other side of the room and above it hung another unsigned painting by Mr. Embarrassed, this time the black letters saying; "employees only". Was he now displaying a communistic political affiliation? I really didn't have the interest or time to ponder that one, so I picked up my gait in an attempt to quickly find the room where they kept the pretty pictures, nature scenes, desiring to see the signature of Mary Kravath.

The next open door afforded entry to strange paintings of people who weren't really people. The tall thin backgrounds were generally black or light blue and contained somewhat realistic paintings of women, but they all were missing at least one part, such as a stomach or legs. In one case the standing thin woman did not have a neck or chest, the black background having successfully bled to the surface. Incomplete people and all of the female variety, depicted physically, patiently waiting for someone to further define their existence. It's amazing how many painters had the same idea. I didn't dawdle and when I got through the next open door I was rewarded with pretty pictures. Where are you, Mary? I took two steps and there she was, right in front of my eager face. A four by five painting, simply framed in an unstained natural wood, titled "Spirit of the Bosque", was signed in violet by Mary Kravath. My huge lost cottonwood friend covered 70% of the canvas and assuming the proportions were correct, he was about 120 feet tall at the time, just at the point he had to have been first realizing that he had a greater view than any of his brothers and sisters. I'd loved to have seen his excitement then. His summer leaves were thick, in some places to the complete exclusion of the sun. The formation of the mature oversized crown was already in evidence, as he precisely surveyed everything in sight. The day was bright, with some small friendly white clouds and the ground was as today, sand and brown dirt. I was not very surprised to see that today's nearby clear path was not yet in evidence and required impeccable definition. In front of him was only tall green grass, immersed in the giant's cotton and behind was the wild, high flowing blue river water. Mary had to have been near, but chose not to be seen. I sat on a nearby concrete bench, looking upward to get what might be my last long look.

I didn't want to leave and started glancing at other natural scenes hung haphazardly on the plain white wall. While they were all attractive and elegant, I couldn't help wondering if just beyond the boundary of their frames there was a slaughterhouse or cement plant lurking.

The windows near the ceiling indicated the proximity of sunset and I realized it was getting late in the day as the fluorescents bravely tried to imitate the glow of the day. I took one last thirty second look at the "Spirit of the Bosque", my eyes excluding all others and left.

When I got back to the lobby I saw that the gift shop was still open and decided to see if an overpriced print was available. Taking little or no notice of the rest of the store, I went to the racks and bins holding the prints and didn't find the one I wanted. I went to the chic, well made up white, Native American or Spanish lady behind the counter and said; "Excuse me. I'm looking for a print of a particular painting titled "Spirit of the Bosque" and can't find it over there," pointing back to the section I had just departed.

She said; "I'm sorry, that's all we have." I started to leave when she said; "Wait a second. Let me check something." She retrieved a loose leaf book from under the counter. "Spirit of the Bosque, you say?"

"Yes." I walked back to the counter, as she perused the book saying; "We may be able to order it for you." As she continued flipping pages, I looked through the postcards housed near the cash register.

She said; "No, sorry, I can't find that print available."

But I found a postcard with the mammoth tree on it and said; "That's unfortunate. Thanks for trying. But I did find this."

She took it from me and said; "That tree really fills out the picture, doesn't it?"

I laughed, as she pushed the buttons on the register and said; "Cash or charge, $3.00."

"I think I can handle that in cash," giving her three singles.

She put it in a small bag, handed it to me and said; "Thank you. Please come again."

I said; "Thank you very much. Had you not looked through your book, I wouldn't have found it." She smiled and I left passing by the confessed white woman at the front desk, who kept her head down, occupied by some end of the day wrap up details under the counter. I happily drove back home, still having the benefit of a declining sun in front of me, for the middle part of the trip.

### Chapter 11

April 7, 2008: Anxiously waiting for spring, teased by afternoon solar displays. Gray, below freezing mornings with patchy light gray and white sky. Gusting wind propelling dead brown grass, tumbleweed, newspapers, empty "Good and Plenty" boxes and restrictions.

I think I'm an optimist and consequently wind up disappointed. This morning is another good example of that. Last night, as every night for the last month, I went to bed expecting to wake up to the season's first warm morning and when tomorrow came I brought the garbage out to the garage and smoked a cigarette. Before taking Daisy on our excursion, I could see and feel that I again, would have to wait for another tomorrow.

When I woke her, my puppy's happy face always cheers me up. I clear out her eyes, as she rolls on her back getting her belly rubbed. I think she'd rather stay here and do this than go out and get accosted by pests, but she in turn, thinks that I want to go. I pet her about five minutes, telling her that "I love my little Daisy," and grab her front paws, as she play bites my fingers. When I feign hurt, she licks my face, to say "I'm sorry." I settle into rubbing her belly again until she's ready. We struggle our way out of the development past the "friendly" loose dogs and the "friendly" interesting people who just happen to be doing something important on the road in front of one-third of the houses at 7:00 AM on an ugly morning, perhaps, their presence contributing to the assessment. Despite five years of experience Daisy still thinks that there is some benefit in greeting them and attempts to pull me over to each. When she is able to they invariably proceed to ignore her, say a terse "'morning," turn away and start their busy day by picking up the garbage blown into their driveways and go back into their mansions, taking a window seat, to watch for the next excitement in their fully booked day. I'm thankful that at least I don't have to hear a rendition of the problems they're having with their begonias and be expected to act as if I care. As we leave the development I tell Daisy that we have again performed the miracle of waking the dead.

As we navigate Academy Road and the Seventh Day Adventist Enterprises, Inc. facilities we are too early to enjoy the harried women driving their kids to the school, but as usual the stylish matron adorned in Wal-Mart's finest, fearful of any type of excrement on business property, comes out to raise Old Glory, an operation requiring ten minutes despite all her practice. She doesn't look directly our way, but she establishes a presence on the hallowed ground of her employer, thankful for the remuneration that allows her to be so finely attired, probably ignorant of the fact that the property was once a sludge farm.

The ditch path is annoying to my baby as the intermittent breeze kicks up some of the dry dirt into her face and eyes, but she bravely continues on, looking forward to getting to her favorite place, the Bosque. She moves quickly, paying no heed to the usual Gawks out for their morning driveway constitutional. They move so slowly displaying frozen faces, Daisy may not recognize them as living things, as she makes no attempt to meet them, depriving me of more potential "'Mornings."

Trying to hide my crushed status, I follow Daisy to the end of the road, cross Corrales Road to Romero to find a new potential obstacle and Daisy slows down to a crawl as she sees a 5'6", 300 pound gentleman, bent over low with redneck cleavage advertised, putting the finishing touches on a green metal gate fifty feet from the road. Today it is in the open position and Daisy moves on curious to see the obscene bottomless teases. I don't know what this is for, except instinctively surmising that it's nothing for anybody's good. As she tries to go over to put a dollar in the appropriate crack I hold her back saying a forceful "No, no, no, no, no." The half bald, half three day growth head and face, stands up and turns toward us. I can't tell a person's age when they look like that. It could be anywhere between an unfortunate thirty and seventy. He gruffly says; "You got a problem?"

I'm not sure if that's a declarative or questioning statement. No doubt I have a few, but telling this geek about it won't do me any good. So, I choose to answer the commentary assuming it was of the declarative variety, the same way I always do when I want, need and desire to cut off a stupid conversation, saying, "**** you" using one hand's long finger to say "hello" in Eskimo. The mixed message must have confused him, as he said nothing and curiously watched us walk down the road. I was to later learn that this was the crack volunteer fireman, who deemed it appropriate to gate the only public access road to the Bosque in Corrales, in the interest of fire prevention. I wondered who supplied the $10,000 poorly painted green obstacle.

The day got more glorious when we finally entered the Bosque, going around the closed gate and moving downhill to the river. Often, today being no exception, the trees and lower land afford protection from the blustering wind. As the sun continues to choose to refrain from participation, the morning has not been conducive to warmth and at least a temporary reprieve from the wind is a Godsend.

We do our usual picking around in the bushes and tall weeds, Daisy frantically sniffing for something. She's quite a tracker. I can see over the inflated pasture and find her source of excitement. It's a small coyote who often plays hide and seek with her, backtracking, circling, getting behind and confusing my puppy. Daisy's usual pattern is to walk out on one path or non-path and come back on another to relieve the boredom, but today after walking about a mile she stops on a dime and heads back the same way she came. In about ten seconds, we see, walking straight at us, the little coyote with its head to the ground looking contented and playful.

It must have heard us and looked up when it was about twenty feet away. Its eyes bugged out and it got a look on its face that said; "Oh, ****," and it took off running like hell through the brush. Daisy tries to follow, but I can't keep up and we quickly lose sight of our playmate.

We're already on our way home and when we again near Romero Road, we see Hilda, who we've seen off and on for years. She's walking her friendly black dog, Chief and says; "Hi, what are they doing at the end of the road?" Whenever she talks to me she looks directly at my crotch. She's never done or said anything the slightest bit suggestive, so I've concluded that she is either cross eyed in the wrong direction or just likes to look, so when I talk to her I focus on her crotch. I say; "Somebody just put up a gate."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask him. He got cranky with me." I laughed.

She said, again with her eyes below belt level; "They keep doing all these stupid projects around here lately. I wish they'd let everything alone. The place has managed very well over the years without their help."

As I was trying to determine if she was wearing any underwear I said; "I couldn't agree more. Don't fool with Mother Nature."

She nodded and turned to continue her walk away from us and I continued my view from the rear, wishing her pants were tighter. Could I be mistaken, or is the sun trying to protrude from the clouds.

As we walked back home Daisy still suffered the blowing dirt and wanted to go fast. I did my honest best, but I couldn't keep up with a Dalmatian, even were it forty years prior. We got back home in the absence of company, the "friendly" fossils, apparently having had their quota of excitement earlier in the day.

After lunch and a nap I decided to fill the rest of the dismal day with phone calls. I didn't expect any straight forward answer about the gate, but had now lived here long enough to know how to play the game of acting nice, innocent and stupid, at the same time annoying someone. In an attempt to perfect the mood I wanted I listened to Patti Smith sing "Cartwheels."

I knew that the Bosque had to be considered "wetlands," putting it under the jurisdiction of the federal government, but it seemed obvious to me that they were not responsible for the gate, as their concern was floods, not helped greatly by obstructed entrances. I know; logic and government don't go together. But, the only other choice is to get bogged down in contradictory interminable details. The Bosque is actually an odd shaped skinny State Park and I'm told that they are the only ones with real authority to close it and since it was still open elsewhere in New Mexico I dismissed them. The Middle Rio Grande Conservation District, an agency of the state government entered my mind. As the agency is filled with relatives of minor political hacks who can't get a job elsewhere, I didn't think they would want to rock the boat.

I called the Corrales municipal government and was told that they didn't know anything about the gate, referring me to the Corrales Bosque Advisory Commission, distributors of the orange and green fishnet jackets, who also claimed no involvement. The guy on the phone was personable and chatty, no doubt happy to have someone to advise. I asked polite questions about their areas of concern, hoping that I might hear something leading me in another direction, as I was at a dead end. After pretending rapt interest in their vague modus operandi, I was rewarded by the advice that; "If I were you I'd call the fire department."

So I tried the sixth government agency claiming authority over the five mile strip of land.

A lady sounding as if she graduated high school with ease answered the phone, saying; "Good afternoon, Fire Department."

"Hello, my name is Edward Drobinski and I'm interested in obtaining information about the gate."

"What gate?"

"The one put up today on Romero Road."

"Oh, yes. It's open, isn't it?"

"Yes, but I'd suspect that one day it will be closed, unless the Fire Department spent taxpayer money to establish a perennially open gate."

"Let me transfer the call."

I heard an officious female voice say; "This is Gale Dempsey, spokesperson for the Fire Department."

"Hi, this is Ed Drobinski, spokesperson for no one. Ha, ha. I'm curious about the intent of putting the gate on Romero Road. I gather that the Fire Department is responsible??

"Yes, we are responsible. Its purpose is to prevent parked cars from blocking the road when the fire danger is extreme, to ensure access by our fire trucks."

"I have been walking there virtually every day for four years and have never seen the road blocked in any way. The fact that the gate was put up fifty feet back from Corrales Road means that parked cars would still be able to block access from the other side. And, other unblocked private roads could be used for access."

She politely listened and addressed by observations in order saying; "I suppose that you have not seen the road 24 hours a day. We will be installing 'No Parking' signs in the fifty foot area. And the gates on the private roads are often closed."

While two of the answers were not particularly satisfying, I thought I had a stronger, simpler argument concerning the middle one and said; "Well, if you think 'No Parking' signs will do the job on the first fifty feet, why not forget that gate and put signs on the rest of the road?"

She became obtuse, I believe purposely and said; 'As I've already said, the gate was established to ensure fire truck access."

I could see that this line of conversation had reached a practical end, so I tried; "Is the fire chief an elected position?"

"No."

"Who is he appointed by?"

"The mayor."

"For what interval?"

"Not specified."

I said; "Thank you, very much," and hung up, hoping that they would now be concerned with a possible call from the mayor, probably the biggest annoyance I could achieve. I visualized the day of a fire, when the volunteers come screaming down Corrales Road and the front truck stops at the gate. One guy says; "Okay, open the gate," and he's answered with; "I thought you had the key," at which point the first guy checks his crack.

### Chapter 12

February 25, 2009: Cold light through leafless braches provides excellent ground level views. Will anything rise again? Calendars say Easter is coming, but for who?

I don't know how people can live in Greenland. It must be cheap and serve as one last try before suicide. The long New Mexico winter has taken its toll and will still be moving forward for the foreseeable future, whatever that means.

Daisy and I make our regular trip to the Bosque. She's impervious to the cold and doesn't mind in the least, until she's surprised by the closed gate on Romero Road, marking the first demonstration of winter fire fear in the desert. She finds that she can navigate it as easily as the other and her concern ends. As we near the next gate, I see Nora on the southern ditch path which parallels the Bosque without the cachet. It's the first time I've seen her there and consider it an omen. It was, as when I walk over to meet her I can see that she is upset and may have been crying. I insightfully say; "Hi, what's wrong?"

"Cody died this morning." I knew that he had been sick and had not wanted to walk for more than a month. So, she had time to prepare, but the finality must have been devastating. I went through the same thing with my dachshund, Willy.

"I'm so sorry. He was a special dog."

She repeats, with emphasis on the second word; "He was a special dog." It looks as if she is ready to again burst into tears, something she refuses to do in public. I put my hand on her shoulder and she violently pulls away. I hoped that she didn't think I was being sarcastic, especially considering the subject matter. I don't know what to say. I'd like to know what others respond to "My dog died," after they say "I'm sorry." But, I'd like her to know that I wasn't making light of the matter. Later in the day I decided to get her a sympathy card and write a lot of nice things on it and sign it "Daisy." I just walk quietly with her the half mile to her car and say "Goodbye."

I may have inadvertently confused Daisy, as we now were walking in the direction of home and she does me a real favor continuing on, rather than doubling back to the Bosque, as I feel drained.

Today I notice the plethora of American flags extending from the flat roofed Southwestern houses we pass. I say "thank you" to each, as otherwise I might have thought I was in Afghanistan. When I see decals saying; "Support our troops," I wonder if this is intended to also mean; "Support our war," as I can easily make a distinction between troops and war, but think that many people don't hear the precise words. Personally, I'd support our troops by having them come home, neither dismembered nor dead.

I recall the 1962 Cuban missile crisis and one of its tenets that "the communists were coming to get us." I believed it. Of course, I was 12 or 13, but they were close enough to cause alarm. Then a bit later Vietnam because a place where we had to go get the communists because it's better that we fight them over there than over here. I don't really care what any official document or testimony says, as it's clear to me that we lost that war, but I don't recall many communists subsequently invading our shores. So now we're fighting terrorists over there before we have to fight them here, yet officials say that they have already been here, some radicals would say with our co-operation. Do I incorrectly perceive some similarity? I recall one 1960's slogan; "Sure, it's a dirty little war, but it's the only one we've got."

If we really want to fight the terrorists and communists, I understand that there are a few of the latter in China, but in this case, we prefer to do business with them. Using the seemingly same approach why not do business with the "terrorists"? They have some oil for sale and need the money. My overly simplistic approach could be countered some way by career politicians, military men, intelligence agencies and right wing radio pundits, but I really don't care to hear the confusion they create so adeptly.

Let them bankrupt the country with perennial military overspending and arms purchases. I'm not young and therefore don't have long to live in the economic mess which happened under the Monarchy of Bush II, a "reservist" with a cloudy attendance record. It was a military man and Republican named Eisenhower who said; "Beware the military industrial complex."

I hope I'm not getting political in my decrepitude, as "business as usual" is done on both sides of the aisle, at least until they fully believe that the people are going to do something about it. That doesn't seem likely in the foreseeable future, whatever that means.

A few snowflakes fall as we get back to the small wooded area bordering our development, in memory of Cody. The sky is still gray and threatening and I'm very cold and can't feel my fingertips or toes, so I'm glad we're close to home.

"Uh oh," I said. Daisy stopped and looked back at me fearfully, as she knows those words. "B.J." is out with her three small furry white dogs and when they catch up to us, each little one barks at Daisy, fangs drooling, scaring her while B.J. is openly and extremely amused by the entertainment. B.J. is about 250 pounds and 5'2", the size my father's generation referred to as five by fives. When she first introduced herself to me, she told me her name, did a pause and then said; "Do you know what word association you can use to remember it?" While her type of entrée normally stimulates enlightening male-female conversation I really didn't want to make any reply, considering her penchant for enjoying intimidation, but was afraid that in the absence of one from me, she might have a follow up. So, I said; "No, no. That's quite all right. I'm better with letters. Tell me, what are your dogs' names?" I couldn't help but stare at her mounds; one where her stomach should be, one at upper thigh and the third above the knee, closing in on her higher companion.

Mission accomplished. She of course told me and I have indeed forgotten their names other than Vicious, Vicious and Vicious. Whenever we cross paths, the three, maybe four, but I watch the dogs, all bark at Daisy showing their teeth, scaring her. B.J. gets a real charge out of this and when her dog walking coincides with mine, she'll make a 180 degree turn and catch up to us in order to let the three do their thing, as Daisy cowers and B.J. laughs as if she were watching a "reality" TV show. This got to be a regular event in my "friendly" neighborhood. I suppose after ten or more times of this ritual, Daisy started to think that they were frolicking as the leashed dogs never were allowed to attack or bite her, so she playfully put her paw on one of them, knocking him over, at which point B.J. yelled at me; "You keep your dog away from mine." I started to say that it wasn't me following her, but she cut me off yelling; "Keep her away" and did her best to move quickly away. I got a rear view of the rippling mounds. Too bad she's so mean.

I guess she's more bored or boring than usual today, as this is the first time we've seen the foursome in months. She stops 100 feet away and Daisy follows suit. Not wanting to feast my eyes on the sights I turn my back to the exciting neighborhood activity of the day. I heard her call out; "Which way are you going?" as if we were required to move in her honor.

I point out the obvious to some; "What does it look like?

"Well, I'm passing. Hold onto that dog."

I bowed and gestured graciously with my right hand.

As she shlumped past she said; "You know it's your dog that's the problem," in an assertive tone, to which I quickly and wittingly replied; "**** you, fat ***," the capping of another great morning in the "friendly" neighborhood. I wished Cody and Mr. Rogers were here.

Actually, Nora and Cody did live here when I first moved in, possibly taking that as a sign of deteriorating property values. We only overlapped six months. She told me that she was bitten three times, while walking here. I guess the dogs know something sweet when they get a whiff and on good days don't break the surface. When we got back in I had to hear my favorite artist sing "Waiting Underground."

### Chapter 13

August 26, 2009: The summer heat remains, tempered just a bit by a cool northern breeze and a few gray clouds moving elsewhere slowly. Some plants are showing their first signs of fading, strongly offset by late flowering pink tubes sitting on top of the two foot twigs of bush penstemon.

As soon as Daisy felt the breeze, I could see her brown eyes light up excited to go. It's quite a break from the dry relentless heat that has persisted since June. It's further enhanced by getting out early, with the shocked neighbors still occupying their window seats in underwear unable to offer a cheery "Morning." We only have one minor obstacle to consider. One of the newer houses with extensive solid surrounding walls is occupied by a gray haired gentleman I've only seen from a distance of 100 feet or more, his driveway presence visible only from a small spot on the road. Often he happens to retrieve his morning paper precisely when Daisy and I are on this spot, apparently getting a charge from exhibiting himself to a small audience wearing only adult diapers that seem bulbously used. However, when he turns his back to us and bends down, I never noted any brown on the white material. I guess we catch him early, or there's a leak. It continues a lucky day and we make it all the way to the double gated, decahedron signed Bosque. Nora's car is the only one there, parked on private property, bordering the tree farm.

She, too, is in excellent spirits, waiting for me in the empty legal parking area with a big smile and dancing movements. With the sun behind her, the lady's long gray hair seems to have a foot long circular glow around it.

"Hey, Ed," she calls out.

"Hey, Nora. How'd the birding go today?"

"Great, I've already got nineteen." She took a small black book from her pocket and held it to my face with her left hand, pointing at the names recorded with her right. She put the book back in her pocket and said; "I usually don't take notes but today has been so outstanding that I did." She put her right hand on her chest, sighed and exhaled extremely noticeably.

I wasn't able to read any of the names, but could see the volume produced by the black lines and curves. Before I could say anything she turned her head away and gasped; "A red tanager."

I saw it, not knowing the rarity, but gathered that it was on the high side. She said; "Did you see it?"

It had perched in a cottonwood fifty feet away and I got a good look at the bright red beauty, before its speedy flight took it quickly away. I excitedly said; "Yes, she's great."

Nora put her right hand to her chest, closed her eyes and sighed. She was beautiful and content, putting the glory of the tanager to shame. We remained there, perfectly still for countless moments, until she said; "Let's walk."

We did, at times side to side and at times me behind her lead. She stopped at the former place of the great cottonwood at river's edge, sighed again, looked at the water, then gazed into my eyes saying; "What happened?"

"I guess he just couldn't take it anymore."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe he lost something, thought he could retrieve it if he got big enough and found out that it didn't matter. It was lost forever."

She cocked her head to the side and squinted her eyes a bit and said; "That's so sad. Where do you come up with this stuff?"

I didn't want to put a damper on the great day and said; "I really don't know. I'm not young and I've heard a lot of stories. This wasn't one of the comedies."

"Sometimes you weird me out."

"I wish I could stop that, but on occasion it just seems to me that no matter the specifics, it's always the same tragic story."

"For you, too?"

"Oh, Nora, this is getting bad. Yes, for me, too and I think for you."

She didn't feel at ease with the comment, but didn't want to address it, directly. She said; "This has been a really great day," almost pleadingly.

I continued to be stupidly truthful, rather than say something she might want to hear and said; "It has been a great day, but that also makes me think of how many thousands of others there might have been." She looked at me as if the thought was not at all new to her, but didn't want to think it today. I tried to think of something cheerful without lying and was at a temporary loss. I finally came up with; "It doesn't matter, the past is gone and all we have is today and today is great." I reached to hold her, but apparently had succeeded in ruining her mood, as she moved away, pointed at the Great One's remains and said; "But, not for him. For some of us it's too late. Don't you hate it when a sick dog looks at you as if to say; 'Please, fix me. Please, fix me,' and you can't?"

Still attempting to divert the thought process back to where it was before I ruined it, making the most of the present, I said; "Maybe there's a way to go back in time." She just looked at me as if she wondered why she was bothering to talk at all. She also realized with certainty that I had the same dead ended thought process she occasionally entertained, not comfortable that I understood and felt the same thing, saying; "Why do we have to get old?"

"I don't understand. It always seemed cruel, but under the circumstances intolerable. A kind hearted God wouldn't want someone to have to live with this. I didn't mean that it was literally possible to go back to 1968. But maybe the giant cottonwood left something behind that will always keep him alive to us."

"Such as?"

"Such as ..... Maybe we can spend a few days looking. I'm sure that everything has a replacement part. You just have to know where to look."

"Let's spend the day looking downriver tomorrow."

"Great."

We started walking again, soon cutting further inland to the shade of the trees. Daisy wanted to get off the well- traveled path, as usual, but I held her back to stay with Nora and Vossy. After a few tugs she was content to stay on the curved and narrow. The intermittent breeze provided the first portents of the fall to come as we tramped the shade. I would have preferred to divert to a sunny path, but followed Nora's preference today, as she returned to watching the treetops for more birds, which might not yet have returned to the safety of their nests after a morning food hunt, as they didn't want the shade yet, either. We turned back after a mile switching to a more eclectic path, which combined sun, shade and degrees of partial shade. When we got back to her car, I said; "Tomorrow?"

She solemnly said; "Tomorrow," and drove away. As Daisy and I continued our butchered ditch path route, I recalled how well it looked prior to the cutting "work" of the MRGCD. Daisy kept taking dunks in the ditch to keep her hot body cool and as a result of the time consuming diversions, we soon saw a woman catching up to us from behind, presumably also just leaving the Bosque. When she got close I saw that it was a sixty year old woman who lives in the same development we do. I don't know her name, but we have said "Hi" a few prior days, but today she had some point to make as Daisy enjoyed her float and I was still. As she passed by I said "Hi" and she gave me an impertinent knowing look and said; "I'm looking for replacement parts," smiled and continued on. I had one of my old thoughts; "You can leave Camino De Lucia, but you can never escape."

As we continued, I saw a guy coming in our direction that I remembered from one afternoon spent standing on line at the Senior Citizen's Center. I was there to vote for Hillary Clinton in the Democratic primaries and something or other was wrong with the machines or the people who worked there. As we stood still with our arms folded, trying not to commit a Corrales sin by looking annoyed, a conversation broke out among the three people closest to me. All seemed to be relative newcomers to the village and we shared some of our experiences and what we expected when we moved here. This guy was mostly quiet, but attentive and waited for everyone to get talked out, each endeavoring to convey mild disappointment without being too negative. At the lull this guy said; "I came here for the waters."

No one responded. I was trying to think of what he might have meant. Corrales does border the Rio Grande River and has seasonal inland ditch water. He waited a few moments, then said; "You're supposed to say that there are no waters in Corrales." I was still not following and neither were the two women, one who was spending her ninth month in a trailer because the local builder "miscalculated" his finishing date and worse, without any warning. He said; "You've seen " _Casablanca_ ," right?" The rest of us nodded or grunted in some fashion and he continued; "When the Nazi commandant asks Rick why he came to Casablanca, Rick says; 'I came for the waters,' to which the commandant says; 'There are no waters in Casablanca.' Rick keeps his head down and deadpans; 'I was misinformed.'"

I thought it was an excellent commentary on things in general and laughed, thinking about whether I would try to top him with a convoluted story. I had previously gotten laughs with some of my observations, but decided not to for a number of reasons. I have told people that I was going to vote for Hillary and a few asked "Why?" My real reason is that I think national healthcare would not even be on the table today if not for her, making us the only economically "advanced" country deficient. But I've answered by saying; "I want to apply for Monica Lewinsky's old job."

As we crisscross, I make another attempt at humor and point at the full ditch, saying "There are the waters."

He either has forgotten the frame of reference or he is no longer amused, as he just says, "'Morning," in a disinterested way and doesn't break stride. When we get back home I smoke a cigarette in the backyard and am greeted by the buzz saw sounds of summer as another neighbor is compelled to announce his boring presence. After I get Daisy in I just have to hear the live versions of "Boy Cried Wolf" and "Birdland."

### Chapter 14

February 6, 2010; Wild, piercing, frigid winds seeming to come from all directions, carrying dust, dead plants and old garbage. The gray winter sky is not threatening, but rather seems calmly triumphant and doesn't have to show off. Tree skeletons swaying as best they can, but huge broken branches are already covering the ground at the trunks. The drought is well into its second year.

Daisy and I do the usual, though it's an unusual day as we make the trip without any petty annoyances. They must have decided to stay home a while longer. When we get to the elevation of the levee path I take my customary glance at the river. I can make out its flowing texture, but the Bosque and the Rio Grande don't have any color, unless you consider shades of gray an adequate substitute. Nora's is the only car in the parking area. She has a pattern of being out on the most miserable days, perhaps finding that the best chance of not being bothered. I see her about half a mile away on the levee path by the drain field. She sees me and walks in the other direction. Stupidly, I don't pay any attention to the obvious omen, body language and hint, as I'm over-anxious to see her. I lead Daisy in her direction, despite balking and protestations. Nora has her back to me and the binoculars to her eyes in the frigid wind. When I get next to her, she looks very annoyed that I'm there. She doesn't look well; pale, puffy face and skinny. I thought that we had such a good time a week prior that I'm shocked and worried. I say; "Are you okay?"

She tersely says; "I'm fine."

I should have found some reason, like Daisy's preference, to keep moving and do so myself, but I just had to say some spacey thing about the speed of time and its reverse gear. She said; "You know I don't feel the same way about you."

The words make me feel as if my insides dropped out, but I don't advertise it and say; "It's gone too far. Throw any kind of water on me you'd like. I'll just convert it to something else before it hits me."

She gives me one of her "Ooh, you" looks and then we proceed to chat about various nonsense like the liner notes on a 1960's CD collection, favorite songs and singers and our horrible childhoods, though she is much more evasive on the latter subject, today. When we get back to her car I say; "Nora, you're wilder than I am."

As she gets in the driver's seat and is closing the door she almost pleadingly says; "I just want to come here to watch the birds and be left alone."

She backs out of the parking space and drives uncharacteristically fast down bumpy Romero Road. I think she was crying. I watch her car kicking up dust until it's out of sight, not knowing that this would be the last time I'd see her. "China Bird" seems the appropriate song of the day.

July 15, 2006; Summer heat has set in, a typical year. White clouds dot the beautiful blue sky, developing gray edges as they get overhead. Rocks mirror the day orb's work, magnifying it. To be where the breeze blows free is salvation.

I'm going to have some fun today. My little ten year old friend Richard is visible to me, walking toward me on the levee path with his two dogs. He's the most miserable kid I've known since I was his age and I won't feel obliged to smile and nod approvingly at how wonderful Corrales and the weather are.

When we're ten feet away, I see that he still has his blonde hair in a crew cut and I say; "Richard, I've told you a million times that your hairstyle is only worn by old ladies out here."

He gives me his customary discerning look and says; "And yours hasn't been worn by anybody since about 1975."

"Don't tell me. Your parents are fighting again."

"You guessed it, Ace."

"Why do you care? At least their preoccupation prevents them from watching you like a hawk or a Gawk."

Richard turns serious and says; "I wish they would pay more attention to me." Realizing how direct a sad statement he has made, he changes tone and adds; "And the arguments can give you a headache. They both think they know everything, or have access to it on the internet."

"Try not listening."

"I'm cursed with a compulsion to and then I feel like playing referee. I don't think they play by the same rules or speak the same language."

"They're a male and female couple?"

"Of course, what kind of stupid question is that?"

"I'm sorry. I've found that nowadays you have to ask. Well, there's your simple answer, genius. You said it yourself."

"What?"

"Males and females don't speak the same language."

Richard sighed, knowing the degree of truth and falsehood in that statement.

"I said; "Are you still playing tennis?"

"Yeah, I'm getting good at it. I've been invited to play...."

I cut him off; "Sure, sure. Point is that you like to compete, right?"

"Everyone does."

"Right. Can you imagine a tennis match with no winner or loser?"

"No, nobody would want to play or watch it. They'd be bored to death."

"Right. That's exactly what your mother and father are doing. Each is trying to win a game to keep things exciting, except this game has no rules. Can you imagine a tennis game where each person is playing by different or no rules?"

Richard's youthful exuberance causes him to perk up and says; "So, the trick is to establish rules when each person speaks a different language."

"Yes. Don't you notice that with your girlfriends?"

"I won't care about girls until I reach puberty."

I laughed, but he didn't. I said; "Imagine having an argument with your wife. The issue of the day leads each to bring up things from the past and that always goes nowhere. So, you both establish a rule of 'No past stuff.' The problem is continued by the fact that you now have to define 'past.' Was two sentences ago the past? Was yesterday? Was last week? On and on."

"It's possible."

"That's only one word. There are millions of others."

Richard shrugged, thinking that there are indeed more, but probably not millions, but he took the discussion in another direction with; "Well, how about men? Don't they have the same problem with each other? Why do you specify male-female relationships?"

"A lot of men do have the same problem with each other, but up until recently they weren't raising kids together. Some guys get involved in sports. You play tennis, I used to play baseball."

"That wasn't invented until 1870 or so."

"I could say a few things to that, but my point is that many men play games where everyone is playing by the same rules administered by umpires or referees. They get this "competition thing" out of their system and leave it on the court, where it belongs."

Richard thought about that a bit, relating his own sports experience and softly said; "Are you sure you know what you're talking about?"

I said; "No," to which he made his first laugh of the day. I gave him a little slap in the side of the head and ran away, Richard in mock yelling pursuit.

When he caught up with me, I said; "I've got a problem you've got to figure out for me. Daisy will not fight back under any circumstances and got attacked and bitten eleven times when I first started walking her around in friendly Corrales. So, I felt I had to protect her by carrying a crowbar and acting like a bigger nut than I am. The attacks did stop, but after a few years of that I wanted to try acting as the wonderful person I truly am. Things were fine about a year and then the friendly people started letting their dogs loose around her again. She got bitten two days ago and we got chased yesterday. So, the conclusion I came to is that my desire to be perceived as a "nice guy" results in jeopardy for my flower child, Daisy. That doesn't seem fair to her. What should I do?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

I said; "Consider this. Move out of Corrales to a place not populated by slobs prone to predictable 'accidents'?"

He said; "Where's that?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

When I get home I play and re-play and re-play my all-time favorite song; "My Blakean Year" by, you guessed it, Patti Smith.

### Chapter 15

June 10, 2010; Cloudy, threatening darkness, but not precipitation. Dryness accumulates. Brown and tan two inch remnants of foliage accustomed to showing off this time of year. Double locked green gates solidly sitting next to signs excellent at repeating themselves. Brown stucco finished houses blend marvelously.

When we get to the Bosque smoke is in the air. Being at least part Dalmatian Daisy has an instinct to find the source. Sniffing the air for clues, she leads me to the river and instead of stopping for a swim, continues on south. When we get near the remains of the giant cottonwood, we see that it is on fire, with five foot flames rising from the logs. He can't even be left alone in death.

Pragmatism takes over and since I don't carry a cell phone, I lead Daisy back out of the Bosque to the parking area, where I hope to find somebody with one. Of course, the Corrales pattern continues, with people happening not to be around when they could be the least bit useful. I think it's a crime here, or at least a pungent social taboo to appear mildly helpful. In desperation I lead Daisy to the trailer on the other side of the ditch. The guy who normally is out doing nothing this time of morning must be hiding under a rock somewhere. Knocking on and rattling his loose metal door serves no purpose and I lead Daisy down Romero Road, looking for one of the plethora of friendly interesting people always in evidence. As we reach gate two I see a car parking across Corrales Road and approach it. A big, glum guy I don't know exits his recent vintage dirty yellow or tan Chrysler and looks like he doesn't want my company, but the Bosque has an emergency so I say; "Excuse me, do you carry a cell phone?"

The question is apparently a difficult one and after a few seconds of thought, he says; "Yes."

Excitedly I say; "Great, because I don't and there's a fire in the Bosque."

He looks toward it, seeing nothing but tall trees and no flames and either doesn't believe me or doesn't want to be bothered and says; "I don't see anything."

No truer words were probably ever spoken, but I try again, saying; "It's right next to the river and the flames are only five or ten feet now."

"Where?"

I pointed in its direction, saying; "You can't see it from here. The flames are below the trees."

He gave me a look that indicated disbelief, annoyance or both, but retrieved a cell phone from his pants, pushed a few buttons and said; "Hi, this is Al Litter. I'm at the Bosque and there's a guy here who tells me there's a fire." .... "No, I can't see it." ..... "All right." He puts the phone back in his pocket and gives me another of his bored discerning looks, saying; "They're on the way," and walks away from me toward the Bosque.

I say; "Thanks."

I want to stay around to see matters taken care of by the zealous fire department, so I lead Daisy slowly back down Romero Road, keeping a reasonable distance behind Mr. Helpful and I stop her on top of the levee path. About a minute later I see two cop cars enter Romero. I'm surprised there are not yet any diligent firemen present, but am happy to see the cops. I walk over to their cars and they both get out, one saying; "You're the guy who saw the fire?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

I point and again say; "You can't see it from here."

"Tell me where it is."

"If you go straight down the path to the river and make a right, it's a few hundred feet away, before the path turns back inland."

One says that he knows the spot, takes a shovel out of the trunk and takes a shortcut through the trees. Daisy and I take the path and when we arrive at the spot, we find him shoveling dirt on the few remaining flames. I say; "This must have just started before I got here. Maybe the culprit is still around."

He says; "No, this fire has been burning since last night."

"Last night?"

"Yeah, it takes a while for them to really get going."

I follow him back to the cars where his partner is waiting, who asks me; "Is it out?"

"Yes."

"Thanks for catching it." They both get back in their cars to leave, stopping at the gates to re-lock them. As Daisy and I walk slowly back down the road, I wonder where the firemen are and consider that they could be on an emergency excursion to the sign and/or gate maker's.

When I got home I couldn't help thinking about the demise of my giant friend. There were so many things I'd like to have known. I took out pen and paper and listed my questions.

1) Did you tire of the cold scrutiny, now being so near a well- traveled path?

2) Did you feel guilty having been placed in such an ideal location, while your smaller relatives huddled inland?

3) Did you tire of the rope swings tied to every reachable branch?

4) Would you have preferred the privacy off the beaten path?

5) Did you get some human disease from all their contact?

6) Were you a new breed of cottonwood, without the resistance to disease and insects, fundamental in your relatives? Or, were you so inbred you experienced the same problem?

7) Did your view allow you to see too much?

8) Did you find it impossible to relate to your peers on any level?

9) Did you want to stop the scrutiny of your every pronouncement, their hanging on your every sound?

10) Did you just want to laugh, like everyone else?

11) Did you have a special friend who stopped coming?

12) You came here when Corrales was a place to escape. Now that the population has gone up tenfold, was it too much?

13) Were you guilty that your enormous wingspan permanently put other plants in the shade?

14) Did you have to escape the turd water by any means necessary?

15) Did you want to leave of your own volition before the MRGCD or Fire Department made the decision for you?

16) When did the dream begin and end?

When Daisy and I got to the Bosque the next day, we went directly to the great one to see that the three charred logs had been chain sawed into fifteen, maybe by the hour late and dollar short fire department as a means of trying to display their competence. As we looked, I saw something I had previously missed. One of the tiny logs contained the carving of a heart, enclosing the letters "MK+", the bottom half burned away.

As I stood there lost in thought, a young woman with long black hair approached. When I heard her footsteps, I looked her way and for some reason she looked familiar, though I was sure I had never seen her before. She must have read my mind, as she softly said; "I was here the day the great one fell. It was early fall, not warm, not cold, with a tremendous northern wind. The enormous amount of still green leaves caught the full impact and it went over right into the river, shattering on impact and floating away." I looked out to the river, visualizing her description and when I turned back to her, she was gone.

I looked back at the chain sawed and burned parts. I thought; "I wish I could have seen you forty-five years ago, when you were fifteen feet tall and getting your first views of the expanses of the valley; when you first knew you could do anything you wanted and were stretching out your young limbs to meet the beautiful world. I'd give anything to have been here then. It wasn't for lack of trying, I just didn't know how. I feel privileged to have known you the last few years of your youth."

I went to the log with the burned heart, took out my list of sixteen questions and stuffed it in a split in the wood. The river was running high and I picked up each of the remaining logs and threw them in the water, the charred heart last. As I watched them float toward Texas, I hoped that at least one would find a new home in the muddy banks there and put down roots, preferably the one with the broken heart.

Daisy and I get home to the backyard and she pulled me anxiously wanting to get somewhere. I released her from her chain and watched as she ran to what had become her recent favorite spot, a thicket of locust and elm trees, mixed with evergreen bushes. Over the past week she has been finding a solitary big brown sparrow doing something in the dirt, which has had the foresight to fly away upon her arrival. But, today Daisy stuck her face in one of the bushes and pulled out what looked like the same bird, but it was now dead. She sampled it, but I guess she didn't find it palatable, as she picked around the edges and left the bulk, the feathery dry death much too sad.

I walked back to the house to fix her lunch and got stung on the hand by a hornet. The nerve of that little bastard! I wasn't bothering it and it went out of its way to get me. I pulled out the embedded stinger and found it was a painful one and I hoped the feeling wouldn't last eight hours, as two or three had previously.

Five minutes later as I was preparing Daisy's special diet, I noticed that the pain worsened and I hoped it wouldn't remain that way. I put my hand in cold water, then hot, without getting any relief. When I tried lukewarm, it got worse.

After I got Daisy fed and settled inside, I went back out to remove the sparrow's carcass, using a shovel and pail. I saw that more hornets were at work on it ahead of me. I brushed them aside with the shovel and got the remaining parts in the pail and discarded them where nothing could ever hurt her again, thinking that we'd all have been better off if the sparrow had just kept playing on the ground and flying off when she sensed danger.

My hand still throbbed when it was time for bed.

September 27, 2011; Perfect day, few clouds, no wind, no rain, temperatures down 10-15 degrees from their peaks. Joyriders.

Daisy and I get to the car at sunrise and I say "Uh oh." We can both see mass ascension, or perhaps some would spell that with capital letters. Today must be the start of the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta, as at least thirty of them jump up from behind the trees in the distance, causing her to stare at the space invaders rather than getting right into the car, as she regards them as fire breathing monsters, while the chorus of dogs barking at them do little to make her eyes return to their normal size. I'm sure that she's trying to tell me that it's okay with her if we skip our hike today, especially after having gotten me up at 2AM to take care of her most important business of the day. An hour prior to that we experienced a blackout which made the house oddly quiet and dark, reminiscent of the way people lived prior to the twentieth century. Not being accustomed to it, I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. Not wanting to risk the mine field of dog and cat toys I just stayed on the mattress as Daisy barked at a skunk near our window.

We are now so accustomed to the artificial light, hum of the television and drum of the radio that the complete silence is unsettling, at times out and out eerie. I wonder what kind of stimuli the religion professionals promise their desperate constituents exists in heaven. We have become so used to the constancy of images and sound, could anyone now spend an eternity without them?

TV in heaven? God's channel would have to be very different from what one would associate with religious programming here, as it would no longer be necessary to preach the faith and ask for contributions. So what would He (or She, or Both) provide the good people with? Re-runs of "Ozzie and Harriet"? Western European art films? The Smothers Brothers? Bouncy women in bikinis firing Gatling guns? Straight out pornography? I can't even guess. On a particularly boring day a few years back I spent fifteen minutes talking to two very clean cut recruiters, wearing suits on a 95 degree day, sent out by the Seventh Day Adventists to expand their market share and when I asked them what their concept of the afterlife was, I was informed without the slightest degree of doubt, that it was whatever I wanted.

I guess this is good marketing; however, it can't possibly be true. What if after experiencing all the nice rewards, I got bored once day and wanted to torture everyone who did the slightest bad thing to me during my earth days? And what if they in turn wanted to do likewise to me? I suspect at least a few of us would not be getting whatever they wanted. I wondered why anyone even thinks about such things, as we're going to find out soon enough, anyway.

After some tugs and pulls I convince Daisy that it's a good idea to get in the car; she could successfully balk, but has over the years, come to generally trust my judgment. No other cars are on the road and we are the only one on open-gated Romero. How strange! Are the usual seven or eight morning trekkers at home pondering the silence? Did they acquiesce to their dogs' desire to stay in the bomb shelter? Did they injure a foot fumbling around in the dark? Are they attending an AM Balloon Fiesta party? Were they compelled to go to church? Are they exhausted from all the lascivious sex engaged in during the blackout? I remember that years ago when New York City had a blackout, the birth rate went up dramatically. Are they up, up and away in their beautiful balloons, or are they trying to remember the date and time?

We are allowed to park at the end of Romero Road today as we have had a few days of rain, one estimated at two whole inches, a minor desert miracle, which has provoked those concerned with the potential of fire to back off and allow cars access to the road, inviting the Federal government to visit, they worried about the possibility of a flood. I made a mental note that when I get back home I would try to find which branch of the government is in charge of pestilence, enabling me to predict who next will see fit to launch the next Bosque improvement project.

Her eyes on the sky and mine on her we take the southerly route adjacent to the Rio Grande, soon coming upon the former dwelling of the Great Cottonwood and stand there in the barren sandy soil watching the river continue on its centuries old journey, me wondering if parts of the giant are out there somewhere and she wondering if his absence made it easier for the balloonists to negotiate their infrequent dips a few feet above water level. No doubt his presence is still felt and no doubt his physical absence makes things easier for some. How dare he reject the pinnacle of stature and possessions the rest of us spend our lives striving and lusting for? Who does he think he is, not to play the game according to the unwritten, but yet well=established rules, that govern the lives of all mentally competent people? He should be lording it over all the less talented ones, so that they could hate him and say that he wasn't all that good, just lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. How dare he say; "Shove all your petty bourgeois dreams" and then leave before a competent rebuttal could be formulated? Those possible postulants did not realize that he had other places to go and didn't want to sit an eternity in his rooted spot. Only the young at heart have any chance of understanding.

Maybe because of her trepidation over the balloons getting closer and maybe because her legs aren't what they used to be and therefore not knowing when, if ever again she'll be able to make it to this spot, Daisy, un-customarily, sits gazing in all directions, but mostly upward, hearing the whoosh, whoosh of those who today own the sky. When one finally gets close enough to scare the hell out of the fish, she walks slowly back to Romero Road, taking the same route on which she entered. The parking area still only holds our car and she dawdles and circles, looking up at me as if to say; "Where are all my old friends?" I just slightly shake my head and softly say; "I don't know. I don't think I know anything." That's probably not a comforting thought for her as she's become accustomed to me knowing the answers, without realizing that some of the time I faked it with lucky guesses and other times any answer would have proven to be correct.

As she slowly meanders, not wanting to go home until at least one person pets and says "Hi" to her, we hear a car coming down the road. As we look I don't recognize it, but after it parks I see that it's Peter, with his two energetic Chihuahuas and that for some reason today he took his father's car. We've known the group for a few months now, the frisky little dogs reminding Daisy of her youth and Peter of mine, with interests including math, physics, engineering, metaphysics, psychology, religion, politics and probably a whole bunch of other things we've not yet had time to bring up. He seems to be scientifically looking for some consistent truth blending the different disciplines and I've never told him, but I wish him luck as the world needs something like that and he's got a better chance of doing it than I, as he's only thirty and well ahead of me at the equivalent age. The unlimited abundance of information available on the internet is devastating, if one can cast off the chaff. His approach is more scientific than mine, looking for "proof", while I always thought absolute proof would do away with the faith that I believe any higher power would want people to have and establish a quid pro quo system, perhaps screwing up the grand design. Having said that, I hope his results are better than mine.

We say "Hi" as he exits his car and the Chihuahuas run over to Daisy exciting her. I ask him; "Do you know why no one is on the road today?"

"Yeah, it's blocked off a bit north of here. They're removing a huge tree limb that came down, which may have been responsible for the blackout. It kept me up in the dark. When my computer shut off, I couldn't do the permutations I've been sitting up, working on. So, I waited and waited and am dead tired."

"A similar thing happened to me. The silence woke me up and then Daisy started barking at a skunk. I never got back to sleep, so I'll probably wind up sleeping all afternoon."

"I wish I could do that, but I've still got a lot of stuff to go through."

I tell him of another passage in "Infinite Jest" that I found hilarious and he smiles, but seems to know the way the conversational interchange will go before I say it, despite not having read the book. He turns from me and calls out "Reina," looking at one of his dogs who is now exploring private property. "She knows she's not supposed to do that, but does it whenever she senses that I'm not paying attention to her. I better get going. REINA!" and he walks toward the river.

Now somewhat contented at having made some human and canine contact, Daisy goes back to the car and we attempt to drive home. Cars are now out in force, including the meth-propelled balloon chasers, their pickup trucks identified by two blue plastic flags above the headlights, which apparently gives them the right to ignore all traffic laws, as they compete to be the first arrival at a balloon landing, collecting some fee for getting things wrapped up. Before we traverse the mile or so of Corrales Road, we have to come to a complete stop for a few minutes three times as people and officials congregate around vehicles that have gone off the road, plowing into fences. I am advised that some Corrales statute prohibits balloons from landing in the village, but after years of experience walking Daisy, I have surmised that this rule was another that they didn't really mean, probably keeping ranchers happy with a few strokes of the pen.

When we finally get back home, Daisy eyes the sky and, seeing that the attackers are not close, goes looking for the skunk.

### Chapter 16

Thesis Conclusion: You may recall, way back when, that the writer started this project with the idea that the word, "Bosque" was ill-defined by a Merriam dictionary. To re-iterate in brief, the definition of a "small wooded area" is easily dismissed as imprecise, wrong and wrong. So, the correct question is what would I suggest as an alternative and be positive about it. With the caveat that I reserve the right to alteration if and when I get back the sixteen questions given to the "Spirit of the Bosque," the best definition I can offer is "sizable, natural, unevenly contoured land, which cannot be defined as a hill or mountain."

The more interesting question to me and of complete disinterest to most others, is what the definition of the five mile strip of land, bordering the river in Corrales should be, in case someone puts out a New Mexico dictionary. It could be of colloquial interest to the rest of the country and it's a distinct possibility, as many people have already made books out of New Mexican this, that and the other thing. I really wouldn't expect someone to take the trouble to re-define every word, as this is the land of siesta and mañana, but maybe a "select" dictionary would be possible.

Anyway, whoever wants this can have it free and it's strongly suggested. "A sizable, statusy, unevenly contoured, predominately natural, over-regulated place bordering the Rio Grande River, with a mountain on the other side, actually attended by few people, disproportionately brilliant with mental problems and advanced degrees."

September 29, 2011; The somber end of something. All semblance of summer gone. Idiot wind propelling uncaring dark clouds. The last of the migratory birds escaping.

So, I've concluded another stupid paper required by a professor, who won't read it. Nor will anyone else. He'll gloss over it for two minutes and spend the next ten writing indecipherable bright red comments all over the words and numbers. The best thing that came of it is that the next time someone asks me if I've ever considered taking a course in writing, I can honestly reply; "Yes, have you ever considered taking one in reading?"

I'll probably get an opportunity someday soon as the lady who has had the nerve to ask me this question a few times lives nearby and is of the "New Age" variety. As most in her class, she got her calling sometime in the 1980's, having had little or no participation in the "hippy thing" of the 1960's and 1970's, after hindsight found it a "cool thing" to have done. History, again, repeated itself as a farce and reinvented "Hippy" as "New Age." I'd like to give her another challenge, this time an essay question, "Discuss and critique; Hippy was drugs, sex and rock and roll. New Age is no drugs, no sex and no rock and roll. Your evaluation may be given extra credit if light is shed on the "improvement."

I suppose we all have needs. The professor will give me a C+ and that's acceptable, as it's enough to get me through his course, ready to meet the next useless obstacles on my crummy path. Most other students in the same situation arrange a meeting with the learned one and spend an hour trying to ingratiate themselves to him, while recognizing the significance of the important red words, apologizing for not having had the insight themselves, at the same time attempting to address the commentary which has nothing to do with the point of the paper, the best orators successful at saying how the well taken point, if discernible, was really addressed in another part of the paper and if they can blend interest and some degree of competence with the requirement of one hour's sucking up, they are elevated to a B+ status.

I've considered trying it, but my weak stomach would no doubt gurgle and I'd puke on the stupid paper and the teacher's desk. No, I'm content with the C+ as it didn't take any effort. I made up all the numbers and words, knowing that the Mother Superior would never deign to do the work of checking.

The paper will be filed in some drawer for ten years, never be read by anyone else and eventually sent to the flames when space for new garbage becomes essential. I didn't save a copy.

Next, I'll be on to a new project of some sort, initially excited that this will be the one I love, soon to discover that what I do or say doesn't matter in the least and settle into a C+ scenario, avoiding painful and nauseating contact at all costs.

I remember my recent visit to UNM on its hill, observing the animated professors preaching to the disinterested students and for a moment I wished I could go back. It was only the stupid hope I sometimes feel, which 60 years of logic would ridicule. Someone once told me, "The first step to failure is trying." It disturbed me at the time, but I could never pinpoint any falsehood in the statement. The kids in the classes are right; stare out the window at the sky, pop gum on unsmiling lips and eyeball the nearest crotch. When the C+ comes, with all of its ten second significance, play it the way you know best, what you knew at the very outset.

Though Merriam's does not mention it, caring requires at least two parties. Any such attempt by one guarantees a need for psychiatric visits, as many of the "Corrales Bosque" denizens know. They have learned not to listen to any particulars and stare at the sky and your crotch, periodically espousing some elemental truth everyone has known since childhood, confused and temporarily forgotten through the reading of theses on the retarded "science" of psychology. Pop that gum and strut with your canine friends; they tell no lies. If God had had given Adam a Daisy, we would still be in Eden. He/she is either incompetent or sadistic, finding entertainment in the infinite jest created, amused by the "human" inability to find the golden skeleton key sitting right in front of their deceitful, uncaring faces.

Wow, in a few pages I have connected a C+ on a stupid paper to the grand design. No doubt some would say that I left out a few significant steps and I am ready to stand corrected, but I won't be, as the professor will gloss over this brilliance, mark it up in blood red and give me an uncontested C+. I want to hear Patti Smith's rendition of "Death Singing."

To the mathematicians who believe that 1+1=2, I say 1+1<1; witness the relationship of your choice. A better case could be made for 1+1+1=3. So fix on the expert scientific "fact" most suitable to your choice, thinking that it leaves you with an excuse for your inevitable demise and use your conforming sociability to find new friends; never admitting that you're aping a doomed recruitment process. Self-fascination has the redeeming kindness of not producing any new victims, perhaps an unwitting act of kindness.

I apologize to anyone I have neglected to insult, but I'm disposed to keep the boring, stupid story as short as possible. The sun will again shine, the rains will eventually come, the grass will grow, the trees and bushes will further stretch their limbs and the worker ants will do their jobs of mowing and clipping. The Sufis say that the best thing you can do in this life is to sit under a tree and write poetry, I suppose when no destructive instrument of "improvement" is present. I wondered if they care that no one will ever read it and concluded that their pleasure came in the writing, with no desire to suffer the commentaries.

When the scientists and engineers manage to produce a nuclear accident one hundred times more severe than 2011 Japan, maybe the crying life forms will be put out of their misery, but I understand that cockroaches are able to adapt to high levels of radiation. With the caveat and despite that this opinion was produced by those scientists responsible for the blast, it has a strong ring of truth as the cockroaches have obviously already inherited the earth, no matter the name given the form taken.

I take Daisy to the backyard in the P.M. for her now habitual ten minute walk and fifty minute sit. Why do we have to grow old? When we are seated, I notice that the apple tree didn't bear any fruit for the first time this year, at least not on my property. I picked a wild daisy and stared at the purple mountain.

Soon another summer will have passed, like so many others, without having seen you at all. I wish I found this place 45 years ago when all was young, in gentler hopeful times. I tried my best and it was just my worst failure. Any day now we'll feel the cold wind blowing the snow all over us and I will have to go as the river freezes in the dark. Sometimes, I hate you for cutting things shorter than it had to be, at the same time wondering if you felt, as I often do and just couldn't take it anymore. You never said.

Day and night dreams create false memories of a glorious past, hallucinatory or delusional, but better than nothing. Did you decide that all that was left was merely a poor shadow of what might have been? Didn't you know that this pale reflection was more radiant than Venus? Though I've tried to stop, I'll always think of you when I'm at the Bosque. Daisy always has to visit the spot where we used to meet, still remembering and hoping you'll be there. I'll always cherish the day when I asked you for the second or third time why you settled here and the "Spirit of the Corrales Bosque," who comes here every day, extended her limbs in the soft, warm spring breeze, smiled at me and said; "For this."

When I got Daisy back inside, I had to hear Patti Smith sing "Paths That Cross."

June 11, 2012; Loose brown dirt mimicking sand or snow. A possible half-way meeting. Age. Intermittent wind. Clarity in the water. High changeable sky. Heat, heat, heat.

Daisy is now nine years old and has been experiencing sporadic stomach problems, I think of a minor nature. I wish she would tell me how it feels, but in all the years that I've had her, I have never known her to be a complainer. I wish she would vent on occasion and then I could be more certain that she was okay the other times. She is now most interested in getting to the Bosque to see her old friends and immersing herself in the cool water. Most days she doesn't walk very much and that suits me as her decline parallels my own. Three years have changed things more than I would have believed had someone told me, what seems like, way back when. Neither of us is anywhere near ready to pack it in, but it's time to sit on the porch in the old rocking chair and watch the world go by.

She threw up on her bedding sometime early in the morning, but when I come to get her she shows no signs of being debilitated and is anxious to get going. We drive to the Bosque and I park on the outskirts, at the far end of Romero Road. The gates have again been closed. The sky is packed with dark clouds. It's still extremely hot, as over-night, the clouds must have prevented yesterday's heat from escaping. The Fire Department is adamant in its wish to keep the road clear in case they have to get a truck through it. It is extremely dry, as it hasn't rained in a month, the useless clouds providing no relief, idly sitting or standing there like a member of the Gawk family. The temperatures have been reaching the upper nineties for about a week. I now know some people who have chosen to break the Corrales taboo and have been complaining about the absurdity of closing the road and being inconvenienced, especially when they have to haul a boat the extra half mile to the water. But, maybe the town has met us half-way, as they have not yet closed the Bosque, despite the conditions being substantially drier than last year. This fits with their apparent penchant for being only vaguely declarative and expecting the residents to understand subtle hints. Either that or they just don't know what the hell they're trying to do.

Daisy and I walk down the hot road. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she pulls me, going as fast as she can carting a member of the geriatric set and I walk as fast as I can without breaking into a trot. No difference from eight years ago, except today the ground is so over-baked that parts are difficult to traverse at any kind of speed as it's like getting through snow or sand. That is true for me, anyway, as Daisy seems not to have any problem, other than finding shade, as a weak sun endeavors to make its presence felt, still invisible, but able to gently light up the persistent clouds, like a night-light. She follows the sporadic shadows to her favorite ditch entry spot and gets a refreshing dunk. We continue to the river where she gets another one. She exits, shakes off, seems to sigh and looks at me as if to say; "I don't know what happened, but, again, I'm ready to sit." I pat her head and say; "I love you Daisy. You're my magic puppy." She's very accustomed to hearing that, so I add; "Don't worry. I'm not up to 17 miles anymore, anyway."

I started calling her my magic puppy a long time ago. She had so much energy back then that she could pull me around for four hours and minutes later be nibbling on my fingers, telling me that she was ready to go again. Fat chance she had. The next day I would always wake up sore all over with calcified knees. I'd tell her that I didn't think we could go walking that day. Invariably, a few minutes later I'd tell her; "Okay, let's give it a try. We can always turn back." On every occasion my aches and pains would disappear shortly after getting her out. Daisy isn't afraid of much and thinks cars came out to play with her. She'll also eat almost anything she can get to, like dead worm infested animals. I have to watch for "Daisy hazards" intently. I'm really not sure, but I hypothesized that through focusing on her I forgot about myself and my pain, perhaps a form of self-hypnosis. After six months of this I had physically caught up to her and had no more morning aches. In a few years my doctor informed me that I had outstanding cardiovascular credentials, as opposed to the marginally poor ratings I had up until then.

I notice that the river is at a recent low point. It was high and consequently muddy brown a few weeks ago, but has been consistently dropping. Now it is devoid of dirt swept from the banks and if there was a fish down there we would see it.

We walk back up to the empty parking area where Daisy finds a well-covered spot and sits. I'm happy to join her. She cranes her head around at every sound, hoping that it's one of her old friends to say "Hi" to. Today all we hear are birds flying from branch to branch, lizards running over the sand, or unseen rabbits, squirrels and coyotes moving in the brush. We sit there about an hour, but no people or dogs come our way. She keeps looking at me, sweating in the heat, with her drooling mouth open, wanting me to tell her what went wrong. I know that she will not go back home until she greets at least one other canine friend.

I tell her; "I don't know what went wrong. They're not being purposely hurtful. Sometimes they can lay a gem on you, unintentionally. We unwittingly do the same to them. They're just different than we are as a result of a lifetime of being trained and treated in ways we haven't experienced. We have a lot in common, more than most people know, but we can never fully understand them. You just have to love and trust them."

I can tell by the look on Daisy's face that she is not convinced. I say; "Okay, let me put it another way. It is impossible to prove faith without simultaneously annihilating the concept. That's a loser's game and it's stupid to play it. It results in killing off the faithful and letting the bums inherit the earth. Jesus and all the other martyrs proved that the species is capable of absolute faith, so why keep repeating the same experiment? The only sacrifice still needed is a small one. When two lovers are together its fun for one to temporarily sacrifice their loving nature and allow themselves to be the loved. I know that's a tad spacey and Eastern, but, even on an unfeeling logical Western basis you reach the same conclusion, as when trust is broken and proof is required, it's the beginning of the end anyway. That's another guaranteed, stupid, inevitably losing game to be best avoided."

Daisy is looking at me, but surprisingly, her expression has changed from one of doubt to one of maybe. She doesn't voice any questions or commentary. She's a very smart dog capable of playing tricks on me. Perhaps she understands, helped by a limited intrusion of confusing words in her vocabulary.

Maybe its coincidence, maybe not, but, at that moment she gets up and leads me back through the closed gate to the river. A blast of warm southerly wind hits us, making me temporarily lose my balance. More importantly, it must be a high as well as low wind as all of the clouds have been blown away and we are in full sun, but it is far from excruciating, thanks to the breeze. She first stops for another soaking, which is customary. What isn't customary, however, is that, rather than heading back to the parking area's plushy seats, she excitedly takes me south along the river. She is acting as if she is about to find something new.

Now that she seems to be in better spirits, I am not able to control myself and I use the opportunity to put in my final bit of wisdom, saying; "If we all wish hard enough Tinker Bell will again fly."

Serious mistake. She stops moving, looks into my face and gives me one of her "Oooh you" looks. I'm not sure, but I think I detect a hint of her former lack of belief. I say; "Never mind. I was thinking about some old animated movie. Complete fantasy. Kid's stuff."

She still stands still and appears incredulous. The strong wind has decided to be a mild zephyr. I look up and see that it has blown in a cloud. However, this small white cumulous one is not the least bit ominous or eclipsing. Rather, it seems to take the shape of a long haired, bespectacled woman's head. My voice approaches a beleaguered sound when I say; "All right. Not complete fantasy. Of course it's not complete fantasy. Can we get moving now?" She gives me another look that seems to say; "You're confusing me. Shut the hell up. I trust you." She again picks up speed and I sweat to keep up with her. No doubt, at times, I hold her back from going as fast as she'd like, due only to a lack of my ability to keep up. She stops at the former home of the Great Cottonwood and sniffs all around. When the river was running high it must have worn away some of the soil in the area, as I can see his roots have emerged from their former earthly prison, now with some extending into the crystal clear, slowly moving water. Daisy animatedly sniffs all around the vicinity. I see that what she finds so interesting is something bobbing near the water's surface, at times above it, at times below. It makes a gushing sound as it stubbornly resists being washed away by the steady current. In the perfectly clear water I can unmistakably see, growing from the Great One's now visible roots, a greener than green, ten inch sprout, bravely reaching out for the sky.

My wildflower is satisfied that she and I have seen what we came to see. She avoids the path and leads me directly through the trees and brush, westward to the car. We are both hot and sweating from our long walk in the sun. We're pleasantly surprised that the friendly little white cumulous cloud has positioned itself to shield the car from the burning sun. She happily hops in the cool back seat, appreciative that it is not sweltering. I turn on the engine and drive back with the sun's brilliance back upon us, lighting the way. I look at her panting open mouth. She is smiling. I tell her; "I love you, Daisy. You're my magic puppy. We're on our way home."

## The End?

Suggested further viewing, reading and listening;

1) "Friends," especially the early episodes, before it got cutesy. A mild dose of petty, rebellious, absurdity.

2) "Seinfeld" - Clear as a tongue deficient bell.

3) "No Exit" by Jean Paul Sartre

4) "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again" by David Foster Wallace

5) "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace

6) "The Liars Club" by Mary Karr

7) "The Pale King," an unfinished work by David Foster Wallace. The central character is precise but unable to communicate. If he had the time to finish DFW would have probably found the precise precision of imprecisiveness.

8) "The Wind Cries Mary" by Jimi Hendrix

9) "Strawberry Fields" by the Beatles

10) "Lo and Beholden" by Patti Smith

11) "Birdland" by Patti Smith

12) "Wing" by Patti Smith

13) "Kentucky Avenue" by Tom Waits

14) "Frederick" by Patti Smith

15) "Dancing Barefoot" by Patti Smith

16) "Hello, Goodbye" by the Beatles
