Larry Blevins, owner of Larry’s Mobile RV and Marine Repair, wails on the sax with the 24/7 Blues Band.
Talk about serendipity. Storm clouds with silver linings. When we pulled into Las Cruces, New Mexico, a few stops ago, every single electrical outlet in the motorhome suddenly went on the fritz.
We were not, as the expression goes, happy campers. For that matter, we are not exactly campers. Without our Mr. Coffee, phone chargers, and hair dryer, we felt a little frantic and a lot bereft. Continue reading →
Drive 60 miles west of Albuquerque on Interstate 40. Turn onto a dusty two-lane road that leads 16 miles into the tribal territory of the Acoma Pueblo. Pass abandoned and inhabited adobe dwellings; overgrazed, arid land; and fortress-like natural walls formed of sandstone blocks.
Speculate on towering monoliths sculpted by water and stranded by centuries of winds that every afternoon gust up to 25 or 30 miles per hour. Sacred places? Idols? Homes to gods? Hard to tell. A sign jabbed into the ground simply reads “Off Limits.”
Sculpted by Water and Wind
Keep driving. Arrive at last at a modernistic building plunked in the middle of this beautiful nowhere: Sky City Cultural Center. But you’re not really there yet.
Sky City Cultural Center
Peer hard at the top of the mesa behind the Cultural Center and barely make out a complex of adobe and sandstone block buildings. This is Old Acoma: Sky City.
A few months ago, I was making one of my periodic attempts to get a handle on the mess I had jammed into our basement when Mother went into assisted living. I stumbled across a black and white photograph of my father, young, wildly bearded, blue eyes blazing from a sun crisped face, standing in a vast white landscape. He looked like a Wild West prospector and that might have been close. Daddy was a physicist–a rocket scientist, in truth–and the notation on the back of photo said “White Sands, Summer 1952.”
The picture was taken just weeks before I was born in October and I finally put together some pieces of family lore that previously had not made sense. Why my grandmother had come to stay with my mother in Chapel Hill, NC, during Mother’s pregnancy, but not after. Why my mother once told me a tale about lying prone on an Atlantic beach with a hole scooped out in the sand to cradle me in her belly. She was there with her brother and his wife but never mentioned my father. Why my mother’s boss taught her to drive that summer, even though Mother could barely fit herself under the wheel and stretch her legs to reach the pedals.
Aha. Daddy was off in New Mexico, getting suntanned for the only time in his life, and doing science with the great minds of the Atomic Age. Continue reading →