We do Santa Fe . . . kinda

Who doesn't love a "most", "longest", "smallest"; people and places vie for designations that make them stand out from the crowd.  In the case of Santa Fe, New Mexico, it's no contest: the oldest state capitol in these United States, and also the highest in elevation.  Founded astoundingly in 1610, it is perched at 7,199 feet elevation.  In addition, it is surely one of the most artsy cities around.

I challenge a parking meter . . .

After the señor & I completed what we could of cleaning out rodent infestations (the pack rat damage is a whole different - and pricey - ballgame which will be dealt with at home.), we ventured into Santa Fe's historic district.  Good luck finding a place to park!  Wandering up, down and all around on those tiny narrow streets, we finally spied someone preparing to pull out of one of those treasured spots.  We zipped right in behind her, and then began the fun with the parking meter.

Hmmm, we were not prepared with coins, so we attempted to use a credit card (this country girl had no idea parking meters accepted plastic!) to no avail.  It didn't like the first one - we could tell because nothing on its countenance lit up - so we offered it an alternative.  No dice there either.

We certainly weren't giving up on that hard-won parking place; I can play with the big dogs, so I pulled out my smart phone to utilize a parking app (there's an app for everything, you know) and commenced to punching in names, numbers, places - everything that app requested, I supplied.  Eventually, it managed to extract $4.30 from my account.  Success! or so I crowed, right up until my wet blanket pard informed me that the meter had not changed its mode from red to green.  Argh!  It won: it took my dough and left me in danger of being ticketed or towed if I dared walk away.

Numerous tries to retrieve something from that blasted app yielded nothing, but then I saw a meter maid of sorts trawling for violators, and encouraged Chris to beg their assistance.  In the end, it turns out the meter was busted and it was all for naught, but some app somewhere is $4.30 richer.  Great work if you can get it.

Between the rodents and the parking meter, we had only a half day to peruse the Santa Fe plaza, and we did a lot of perusing in that time.

The Plaza . . .

Designated as a National Historic Landmark, Santa Fe's Plaza was the terminus of the Camino Real, the road from Mexico City, and the 1821 western end of the Santa Fe Trail from Missouri.  Originally a military presidio, the need for defensive walls gave way to development in the city center - residences and commercial enterprises took their place.  The Plaza now is shaded by tall trees (sound familiar, Prescottonians?), a lovely promenade before and after wandering through the myriad shops, galleries and restaurants that are arrayed out in every direction from the heart of the city.

 

Adobe buildings are the name of the game here: they are impressive multi-story and squatty long low structures.  Many invite the visitor into interior mall-like atmospheres, and some like The Shed (where we had a super lunch) offer dining in dim interiors or in shaded courtyards. . .

 

 

 . . . and where the 100-year-old trumpet vines are gargantuan.

 It's a marvelous colorful maze with many Native American sellers displaying their wares on the sidewalks along the Palace of the Governors, Mexican arts & crafts being offered from serape-draped stalls, trinkets and curios for sale alongside valuable jewelry and artwork.

 

One store, while having nothing whatsoever to do with southwestern anything, was stunning and irresistible with its polychromatic display of lighting fixtures.

Every step around the downtown revealed additional serenes of beauty, intriguing passageways, unique architecture, and art of every ilk.

These columns were painted by acclaimed artist Yatika Starr Fields.

A college mate . . .

The funniest thing that happened to us was when we were inquiring about a set of vintage Indian jewelry.  We talked to a helpful young woman who could not answer our questions; however, she referred us to someone she was certain would be knowledgeable in the field.  Two doors down, she said, "there is an old man with white hair", and he knows everything about it.  Down we went, right into the shop of Mark Bahti, with whom Chris attended Prescott College!  Guess we're getting to that age . . .

A musician and his dog . . .

Street music is common on The Plaza, and some of it quite good.

For us, the history of the place permeates everything, although nowadays, Santa Fe is renowned for its art scene.  I couldn't even think about entering a gallery; they are so numerous as to be overwhelming.  And our short wander after being defeated by a parking meter did not allow time to visit museums nor for any of the historic churches.  Unlike normal folks, our original intent had been to explore the countryside of the region, with Santa Fe as an aside.  The time between jobs and gigs is insufficient for either, so a return is high on my priorities.

Because of the great antiquity hereabouts, most original structures have given way to the weight of time or the changing whims of the populace.  One plaque conveys that well; it tells us that we are on the site of Santa Fe's first chapel.  It was so ancient that by 1714, it already been demolished, after having also been utilized as a defensive tower during the 1600s.

 

A river walk . . .

The Santa Fe River appropriately flows through the city, more of a stream than its name implies.  I wanted to walk along its course; however, there were sections that did not feel particularly safe to me.  I am surprised and appalled at the huge amount of gang tagging I see throughout the town, and there were groups of folks along the river who sent my alarm bells to jangling.

Not to be deterred, though, we found other sections that were lovely, and enjoyed an interesting and delightful walk - surprisingly birdless.  There were a number of seemingly homeless folks along the way, most of whom I greeted and exchanged "g'days".  I heard one laughing after we passed as he said something about someone who actually talks to me.  Not his usual experience, evidently.

We picked up tidbits of history from signage as we went.  One, pictured below, especially caught my attention.  It tells about four women of the religious group, Sisters of Loretto, arriving in this area after traveling from Kentucky in 1852, a time that would have presented incredible difficulties and dangers for them.  They established the first school for young women in New Mexico Territory - brave women!

On its way to empty into the Rio Grande, the Santa Fe's flow is being used in innovative ways through the city, as with the Alameda stormwater rain garden that we read about.

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Prior to 1813, there were only two bridges over the river; all other crossings were fords.  One of the early bridges was Brother's Lane.  It and the Defouri Bridge were constructed specifically for the passage of religious processions.  I intend to return to follow the path in the photo below.

 

The riverwalk park is no exception to Santa Fe's love of art: many sculptures adorn its banks.

When I saw this stunningly-hued plant, I had to help myself to a start.  Hope it's not invasive.

Birds . . .

Not to be forgotten are the numerous birds in our woodsy home away from home.  We have hung up a seed feeder and a nectar feeder.  At them and in the surrounding brush, we've identified juniper titmouse, canyon towhee, green-tailed towhee, American robin, chipping sparrow, American crow, raven, broad-tailed hummingbird, house sparrow, and I'm pretty sure I saw a mountain chickadee.

Cookin' with gas - not!

"Into each life some rain must fall," so wrote Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.  Indeed, this morning as I sit in the sun tippy-tapping away, the señor has his head stuck into a low kitchen cupboard of the Wolf Pup employing the hand vac to clear out mouse messes.

That constituted our evening last upon arrival at a wooded RV park outside Santa Fe, New Mexico, and our morning today instead of exploring the countryside, as we had naively and hopefully anticipated.

A mousey invasion of the trailer is quite bad enough (they must not have been in here very long or the damage would have been far worse); however, the real kick in the derriére was discovering that pack rats had eaten (yes, eaten!) our propane lines in addition to various and sundry other electrical wires.  

The discovery was made upon arriving in our driveway to pack up for ten days out.  Desperation calls, leaving pathetic messages, waiting for call-backs to every mobile and stationary RV service firm I could locate resulted in two visits from hopeful worker gentlemen, neither of whom could help in the allotted time.

That leads us to our New Mexico early morning rising to remove everything from the cupboards, wash it all, scrub cupboards, dispose of rodents (hopefully) and get ourselves resituated.  The gas lines are a shambles and some sensor wire were evidently quite tasty also, but the good news is that the trailer lights and brakes are in working order.  We will not have a furnace nor a stove for the duration, but we can survive it.  It's kinda awful having the cost and/or time involved in the repairs when we return, but for now, we will continue as planned, although with a bit less time for playing and a bit more time for cleaning - none of it world-ending.

Two of the very-much-in-demand over-booked repair dudes heeded my cries for a miracle, albeit without a solution.

 

 I crawled under the trailer for a quick shot of the gas line remains . . .

. . . and an enthusiastic but in the end non-helpful repair dude spent some time communing with the señor on the underside of the trailer . . .

 

My tribe

Various things are written of late about identifying one’s tribe, as in like-minded folks, people who share your values and/or your interests.  It’s a common theme of memes, and possibly indicates a sense of a dearth of inter-personal connections.  After all, as a species, we have a need to belong - somewhere/anywhere.

I am not unique as I seek connections with folks who “get” me.  Those with whom I have a bond know only one aspect of me.  Perhaps we share a particular history of involvement as neighbors, school chums, professional links, work pals or hobbyists; still we know only a limited aspect of each other.  With some, we have an extensive, perhaps lifelong history; even then, we see others through the lens of our own experience.

What brings on this bit of introspection?  A short but long awaited visit to Heber-Overgaard, a burgeoning community on the Mogollon Rim, not for the place, but for the opportunity to be with Patty & Johnny.  

John has been in my consciousness since before I was even aware of it.  He is the brother of my Aunt Margaret, and so much more.  Our family connection precedes my existence - going back to my mother’s childhood in Prescott.  Our families were friends in those long-ago days of the area’s small-townishness.

John’s mother (Mrs. Williams she forever was to us) helped to care for my bed-ridden great grandmother Molly Catron, so I was told.  Margaret Williams and Mom (Mary Louise) were schoolmates and friends.  I wasn’t around, but I know from Aunt Margaret that she loved my uncle, Lewis Kelley, from a young age, and eventually, they married, making her Mom’s sister-in-law.  The two couples enjoyed countless adventures together on the ranch and traveling.

My link with John’s (he was Johnny Frank to us to distinguish him from Johnny Herbert, his nephew) family strengthened significantly by my kinship/friendship with Johnny Herbert, who is a mere one month younger than me.  What mischief we two conjured!  It seems that we often had free rein to run wild, and run wild we did.  I will leave the specifics of our escapades for another writing; suffice it to say that we were two of a kind.  What one didn’t think of getting up to, the other did.

My penchant for delving into family history has fleshed out the particulars of the Williams clan and their parallels with mine from their Texas sojourn to their migration to Arizona.  It has also revealed that Johnny Herbert and I share an ancestor.  You see, he is not biologically my first cousin, only in spirit, because his father was Thomas Herbert Miller, grandson of one of the earliest folks to settle in our region - Daniel Leroy Miller.  The Millers, father and two sons, arrived hereabouts in 1863 with the Walker Party in their search for gold.  His father died when Johnny was just one month of age, leaving Margaret to later marry her girlhood crush, Uncle Lewis.

How surprised I was to learn much later that Johnny and I both descend from Elizabeth Miller and George Hoppes, who married in 1778.

See how that works: I’m writing about my tribe and my kinship for two people, and the next thing you know, my fingers have been tippy tapping without my knowledge or permission.  So back to Johnny Frank and Patty.

The pair invited us (or did we invite ourselves?) to bunk in a fifth-wheel trailer next to their charming cabin in the woods.  Because visits with them have been few and far between, we quickly made plans and were on our way for a quick two-day stopover.

As we approached our destination, I noted a number of highway signs admonishing travelers to "Watch for horses".  I was curious that there would be so many wild cayuses to make the warnings necessary, so our hosts took us for a late-afternoon run through the outback as demonstration.  Sure enough, we spotted herd after herd, most down to waterholes for an evening drink.

Without a telephoto lens along, many were too distant to photograph well, but at one spot, I disembarked and walked a ways closer.  Still, I kept some distance because I didn't want to spook them away from the water.

Despite that I was standing completely in the open (or because of it?), they commenced to proceed directly toward me while continuing to graze as if I were not present.  It was slightly surreal; it felt as if they were going to walk right up to me without the slightest hesitation . . .

. . . right up until the lead mare declared that enough was enough, and she would brook no more of her herd's interactions with that crazy human clicking away.

 

She laid back her ears, bared her teeth, and tore into them ferociously and noisily . . .

. . . and they whirled as one and ran, which is exactly what I would have done - she was scary as all get out!

The truck and the countryside . . .

The big project at the Williams homestead is John's ongoing restoration of a 1959 GMC stepside half-ton pickup.

He's making steady progress . . . inside the cab, on the body that requires more hours sanding than Carter has little liver pills, and under the hood . . .

 

 

. . . just look at that impressive bed: painstakingly constructed of oak and painted metal.

Tearing ourselves away from the casa and garage, we enjoyed a drive into the countryside along the Little Colorado River, Big Lake and points in between, with time out for fruit cobbler in Greer.

That's Patty at the base of the tallest skinniest tree I've ever seen.

What an awesome two days with an awesome two people!