Six degrees of memory

It’s said that we know everyone in the world within six degrees. As a generalization, I believe that might be true; maybe it takes seven or ten to get from one side of the world to another, but even that’s pretty amazing. But what I’m beginning to learn is that writing these stories of mine about our transition to and discovery about our new home and environment is triggering memories and stories for others already in my life, and bringing new friends into my life.

I related a story that wasn’t even mine, but shared with me by our friends – riding a motorcycle into winds so strong that the rider couldn’t go faster than 40 miles per hour at full throttle. That struck a memory for another close friend of a windy day some years ago on Long Island Sound where they spent a full day sailing into a head-wind, but making no head-way and finding themselves at the end of the day right where they started. And her story reminded me of one of my favorite author’s stories of a boat in high winds and water: John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charlie which I had locate the chapter and read again – which will probably motivate me to read the entire book again, if I can find it in the house.

When I wrote of the fires here in town, and the small burned circle on the street below us, I was gifted with another memory from our nephew, who spent his early years in New Mexico: "Your email reminds me of the time when I lived in Santa Fe and I almost started a prairie fire! The mother of my friend saw these little kids (including me) running in and out of the house with coffee cups full of water! :) Finally, she figured something must be wrong and sure enough the fire was starting to get out of control. Luckily, one of the neighbors thought very quickly and brought his garden hose over to put out the fire, which by that point was a good 5x10 foot. " Thanks, David for permission to include your memory here.

And my musings have brought two new friends into my life. One I met because of her involvement with WILL (the Western Institute for Lifelong Learning) when she called to get feedback on the classes Nick and I attended. She didn’t know – but now does – you never ask a trainer for feedback on training and trainers unless you want an honest answer. And to be fair, the people who deliver the courses, everything from Birding for Beginners to Enjoying the Wilderness (the survival-skills course) to Four from Hillerman are dedicated volunteers who propose and deliver these classes out of their own interest and willingness. So it was easy to give a good evaluation and in the process, start a conversation that still continues. When we met, I had just created my public blog to share stories, so I got up the gumption to mention it to her. She liked them and passed my address on to a friend of hers, whom I am also now getting to know. Thus is a sense of community built, becoming an important foundation in a new place.

Maybe this is the way story-telling is supposed to work, but I’m still honored that I’m part of six degrees of memory!

It’s Easter Sunday, and a wild weekend, weather-wise. Yesterday, the sky was black – and then sunny – and then black again. The winds howled – and then they didn’t – and then they did again. It snowed. It rained. It little-white-pelleted. I don’t know what those last were, but they stung when they hit! I walked Nutmeg during a sun-break about 4 pm, and then had to hurry home because I could see another mountain of black, dense and dropping clouds heading my way. I fully intended to get home, grab my camera and head up to a high point because the clouds were so diverse in shape, altitude, density, color and illumination I just felt I had to capture it on film. Well, not film; everything’s digital now, so on pixels. But by the time I got back here, unhooked Nutmeg and got my camera out, the sky was flat, grey and snowing again. Today didn’t exactly dawn; let’s say it ‘opened’ darkly. The amazing thing is that the clouds would appear to move in one direction, while down at street level, the winds were blowing in a totally different direction. Now, looking out the window in my office, I see high, white puffs – the kind that take form, shape and life.

I think, though, that it’s only us two-legged that have problems and complaints about the wind. It doesn’t seem to bother the ravens, which are soaring, dancing, and as a friend observed the other day, surfing the currents. It doesn’t seem to bother the smaller migrants which are moving through in greater numbers. It isn’t stopping the deer; this morning, there was a snuffling, huffing sound coming from below the hill just behind the house and Nutmeg was on point. In a burst, I heard then saw a large buck dash around the bottom of the hill, with Nutmeg racing it along the top. She stopped when it pushed through the bushes and on down into the arroyo. And the wind is definitely not stopping the skunk that lives in the culvert under the driveway of a house we pass every day when we walk. I thought skunks don’t spray unless unsettled; I’ve even known people who had natural, as opposed to de-fragranced, skunks as pets and they swore they never got sprayed because they learned the warning signs. But this neighborhood skunk must be unsettled much of the time because at least 2 or 3 times a week when we walk around that block, his presence is obvious. I wonder what stresses a skunk out!

Anyway, the winds are a big part of Spring, even if not my favorite part, and a topic of frequent complaint here. Maybe we two-leggeds are just more prone to getting blown over!

Bernoulli's Principle at work in Silver City

The Spring winds are really blowing and I’m beginning to get the feeling that these breezes hang around for awhile at this time of year. I’ve experienced brief periods of high winds in the past; after all, we had 50-75 foot trees blow down in our yard in Clarksburg. But I’ve never lived in an environment where the winds are sustained as they have been here. How windy is it, you may ask?

The wind has been blowing so consistently across my ears when I’m walking Nutmeg on the streets in the neighborhood that I don’t hear the cars coming. Scary on streets that rise and fall across ridges and bend around curves. Sounds carry a great distance here normally and I rely on the sound of approaching cars and trucks to drag Nutmeg off the street and onto the edge. She seems to think the middle of the street is the perfect place to plop down and scratch. The calls haven’t been too close so far, but let’s not push my luck, ya ol’ blowhard!
And speaking of ears, the wind is blowing so that Nutmeg’s laborabor-ear flaps lift straight out! Dumbo had to flap his ears in order to fly but he wasn’t headed into a 45 mph headwind. I’m expecting lift-off if we get 5 more mph up on that one high ridge we cross every morning. Thus the reference to Bernoulli’s principle of flight as illustrated by this wonderful little YouTube demo.
Our friend and his motorcycle gang, er, group, were riding home from a weekend trip – they came home early because of the high winds – with throttles wide open and barely moving. He rides a cycle that would do over 100 mph at comparable throttle on a still day. All because they were riding directly into the gale.
A local amateur weather station registered 70 mph one day last week. Granted that was on a high ridge to the south-east of town where there is little to break the winds between there and Mexico. But still.

Last Saturday was the first weekend of April and as such, was planned to offer up a number of outdoor activities. For example, the first-of-the-season outdoor Art Mart. But it was so blow-y that only one booth was set up; she was selling pottery, so maybe she figured she had the weight to stick close to the ground. Then, there was a shoot-out at Yankee and Texas Streets in the heart of the Art Gallery district. No, do not think shoot-out at the OK Corral—Tombstone is in Arizona, after all. The action was billed as hysterical, not historical, family fun. A bunch of buckaroos – grown-up ones, to be sure – dressed up in black dusters, cowboy boots, black hats (not a good white-hatted one amongst ‘em) and fired blanks at each other across the disputed intersection. Finally they exhausted the hail of virtual bullets and called for good guys over here, and bad guys over there, and any and all kids to pick a side. Then they brought out buckets of water balloons and had at it! Don’t believe for a minute that they did this to attract tourists…nope, entirely personal exhibitionism disguised as neighborly entertainment! This thrilling street theatre was repeated on the hour from noon to 2, and then the street musicians set up for the rest of the afternoon. I saw one shoot-out, which lasted about 10 minutes, long enough to entertain those who expected the disruption and frustrate a couple of vehicles that got caught between rounds of bullets and balloons. I didn’t hang around for the musicians or the evening’s street dance. There were too many competing activities. I already had tickets for the Saturday evening performance of Fiddler on the Roof.

Fiddler proved to be another small-town delight. Tevya was terrific—our own Topol. Maybe not quite ready for Broadway or Hollywood, but can’t imagine finding a better Rich Man (check it out – not what you’d think!) The rest of the cast was spotty in talent, but definitely full-out in performance enthusiasm. I enjoyed every minute – still humming the tunes.

Highlight of the day—
Had to stop twice today just coming up Cottonwood from the store. The first time: a roadrunner crossing the road (no bad jokes, please). The second time, a parade of Gambell quail with their little topknots leading their way. One after the other -- some hustling and some shy, standing on the edge while the car idled as non-threateningly as a big grey Volvo can idle, then finally getting up the courage to race across after their braver brothers. Five, there were.

Nick comes home Sunday. Gone too long. Will I recognize him? Not a doubt…

Even dogs do it! and other phenomena

Nutmeg is making her own transition to her new environment. She isn’t a homebody like she was in Maryland where, I’m embarrassed to say, she didn’t leave the yard unless she was going to the Vet. How sheltered was she? The first time I took her to the park – on the way home from the Vet’s, of course – she wouldn’t go on the grass. I don’t mean, she wouldn’t go to the bathroom on the grass, I mean she wouldn’t step onto the grass. She would only walk on the pavement. The first and only time I took her to the lake, she wouldn’t go into the water above the knees: her knees, not mine. And then only when I threw a most appealing stick into the water just beyond her reach. Remember, we’re talking about a Labrador Retriever here. Before you report us, also remember she had an acre to roam, race across and hang out on so she wasn’t exactly deprived.

So, ok, how do I know she’s making her own transition? Well, there’s this:

• We have to walk her now, as I’ve related in past stories. Not only is she following smells back and forth across streets and edges and ditches but she is marking those olfactory trails. That’s more than leaving a calling card – that is an act of establishing dominance. And it doubles our walk-time because she has to sniff until she finds just the right target; this happens 3 or 4 times per walk.
• We don’t take her to our friend’s house now because she has decided she needs to make her place in the pecking order that exists among our friend’s 3 dogs. And that ain’t at the bottom! She and Beau (the youngest, a male, and current holder of last-place) co-exist peacefully for minutes at a time, until one looks at the other askance, and they’re off – barking, snarling and standing stiff-legged. The real problem will present if Nutmeg challenges the ruler of that roost, a Doberman female about Nutmeg’s age, who’s used to obeisance. So no risks – Nutmeg doesn’t go visiting there now.
• She has discovered “going for a ride.” She’s a good traveler until a car pulls up next to us that she deems threatening. And what she deems threatening is: a loud radio; a loud muffler; a loud person on a cell phone; I’m beginning to think she finds a loud color worth a growl or two.
• Last, and don’t ask me what started this, she deems drive-up ATM machines as suspect. No sooner do I pull up to the Bank of America ATM, she starts to bark. And bark. Until I turn around and snap the equivalent of, “Don’t make me come back there!”
  

And speaking of olfactory stimulation, I have been so taken with the scents that tease; it’s almost like a cartoon where you would see the good smell wafting through the air in visible form, as though it was edible fog.

• I know I’ve described that, in the winter, when I stepped out before dawn in the cold weather, the juniper next to our deck gave off a piney-turpentine odor. Now, I find myself grabbing a branch as I walk by and bringing that odor to my face.
• Then Spring began to change the blend and I didn’t have a name for it, but was so aware of it. Rudolfo Anaya, a native New Mexican author, wrote the phrase, “…spermy and spongy with the smell of thawing earth…” and I knew that’s what I was smelling. Different than the scent-change of a Maryland spring.
• Getting off of the neighborhood’s human-disturbed ground and into the forest or onto the grasslands, there is the fragrance of sun-warmed earth mixed with natural herbs that wrap around me like a flannel sheet, making me want to burrow in.
• And I think that the earth has a genetic memory. If not, then odors travel a very long way. More than once this month, I’ve gone out, especially in the stillness at first light, and smelled a salt-laden ocean breeze. Genetic memory because the deserts in this region were once sea-beds and still carry the marks of the oceans that covered them. Or travel a distance, because the weather patterns often come from the south-west, in which direction lies the Gulf of California and what’s left of the Colorado River delta flowing into that gulf. But no mistaking the impression of soft, wet, salty smell of tidal flats.
• When the winds came up this last week, gone was the wet smell of the tides and back the hyper-clean air of the high desert and mountains, but tinged with smoke. And something else. Observing Nutmeg yesterday afternoon in winds about 40 mph, she had her nose stretched as far up as she could, standing almost on toe-nails to stretch just a little farther. I couldn’t get her to come with me, no matter how hard I yanked on the leash. She was facing into the wind, like a treed flock of birds, and studying its scent-freight with her fullest attention.
  
  Hope that gentle Spring breezes are warming the air for you…ss