Haiku Moo

Haiku Moo

Mooligent Roo, Rooligent Moo

Mooligent, Rooligent

Mooligent Roo!

Tomasito, 2008

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The Place of the USA

The Place of the USA Today

What is the place of the USA in today's world?

I asked a sensitive Russian friend this question and she made this reply:

"The main problem with the USA today is an arrogance of power that can lead that nation into abrupt and aggressive actions without taking time to reach carefully thought out and planned decisions. This unbalanced use of power can lead to extreme situations and dangers-not only for Americans, but for the world.

"There is presently a great likelihood of extreme changes in America, with national policies meeting with great obstacles in internal and external relations.

"The greatest strength and advantage of America at present is the strong unity between it's borders; a unity of it's peoples which have been gathered from every part of the world to become a single nation. This subconscious harmony is it's greatest strength.

"For generations, America has attracted to its shores the best and the hardest working people from all over the world and this has contributed greatly to its history of wealth, creative genius and success in every field. The Americans still believe in "The American Dream" and hope that its past traditions of harmony and happily fulfilled life-potentiality will prevail.

"Now is an important time for Americans to pause, study and make careful decisions which will determine their future and the world's long term good.

"Unfortunately, I sense a certain blindness on the part of Americans, because of the arrogance of power, which will probably lead to continuous quarrels in the future.

"If the USA does not limit its present aggressive and quarrelsome stance, it's influence in the world will decline and perhaps even ignominiously end. America may be its own worst enemy because of self-satisfaction and the arrogant use of power.

"The world presently sees the United States as the most powerful leader. People outside and even inside America do not yet see its tragic flaw and this illusory appearance of power is to the USA's great advantage at this time

"America can retain much of its authority through diligent hard work, attention to details and careful craftsmanship in all fields--politics, economics and even personal relationships.

"It is therefore important that Americans pause for rest and contemplation--to make no moves without adequate thought and planning.

"America's unquestioned world leadership is gradually waning. This may be inevitable because of the world's evolution into a global political unity. This loss of national power will probably be slow and will not necessarily be terrible--especially if Americans adjust calmly and accept the changes as natural. This is the time for Americans to stop, plan, think and attempt to develop peace, harmony and a rich inner life.

"Americans should continue to develop humility, spirituality and deep friendly love (Not just institutionalised charity). This is a difficult path for a young warrior nation, but necessary-and it is time to begin."

August 1999

Tomasito, 2008

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Happy Thanksgiving

!Happy Thanksgiving!

May your day be filled with peace and joy!

Tomasito. 2008

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Shasta State Historic Park

Shasta State Historic Park

There is nothing much left now of what was once a prosperous and thriving town, Shasta, California.

The historic district which has been partially preserved as a state park is located six miles west of Redding CA on highway 299--but you can drive through it in less time than it takes to read this sentence.

This nice little park in not a “must-see”—it is not Disneyland-- but if you happen to be in the area, it makes for a very interesting hour or two snoop. And there is very nice, quiet grassy area with some shady picnic tables, running water and clean restrooms.

Gold—that magical mineral “that makes white men crazy” was discovered in nearby Clear Creek in 1848 and by 1849 a boom-town of tents and shacks called “Reading Springs” mushroomed. This instant town became the commercial and cultural center of northern California. Next year the fast growing settlement was renamed Shasta and before two more years had passed two and a half million dollars (1850 do9llars!) in gold had passed through the town—though not much stayed!

In 1852 most of the new town was destroyed by fire—it was enthusiastically rebuilt and six months later was destroyed again—all 70 businesses on Main Street disappeared in a cloud of smoke. A few of the most successful businesses rebuilt with brick walls and iron doors. In ten years the gold mining was finished—the new Central Pacific Railroad bypassed the town for another town on a bend of the Sacramento River—Redding—and the little town of Shasta more or less dried up and blew away.

An early resident, Mae Helene Bacon Boggs, who was raised in Shasta by her uncle, led an effort to save some of the historic town for future generations and she donated land, buildings and a fine art collection to a Shasta Historical Society and the Native Sons of the Golden West.

The California State Parks took over in the 1930s and the Courthouse Museum opened in 1950.

The Museum and Visitor’s Center is very nicely restored to its 1860 appearance and it shelters a good collection of early memorabilia. The Jail in the basement has some spooky surprises for the unwary visitor too!

The unusual collection of 98 paintings by 71 artists donated by Ms Boggs is probably the most important feature of the museum. See it if you have the chance! The rest of the little town—the Masonic Hall, the ruined brick buildings and the two cemeteries (Catholic and Protestant) give one pause to reflect how quickly things pass!

Tomasito, 2008


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My First Beating

I Receive My First Beating

This happened a long time ago.

When I was a very little boy my family: mom, dad and brother Joe and sometime soon baby Bro Jack lived in a cottage tract called Hillside Village—one of the instant communities which sprang up during the Second World War to house the thousands of people swarming into Los Angeles--people who were employed in the “war industries” making the things needed to whip the axis as we used to say in those “good old days”.

Pop (my father) got a job in an essential war industry making screw drivers at the Plumb Tool Company—this was very good for him and for us and the for US Army.

Good for him because though he was young and healthy he was classified “3-S” (Hardship--Sole support of family with young children.) which kept him from putting on the uniform and going away to fight for freedom somewhere. (Thanks Brother Jack!)

Good for us because that meant he was home evenings and week-ends and could take us to places like Long Beach and buy us triple-decker ice cream cones at Lyons and help me learn to ride a bicycle.

And especially good for the US Army because he was about the most peaceful and non-combative man I have ever known.

We lived near El Sereno which was in trolly striking distance of downtown LA so Pop could commute—and Bro Joe and I could ride our bikes to Farmdale Elementary School (Farmdale ! ? Oh really-- these hopelessly picturesque and misleading California Realty names for humble places!) over the path across Dinosaur Mountain (our name for it) to school every day.

There was a big grassy sports field before we got to school and on the hill above this field was a park featuring the community swimming pool—called “The Plunge” in which we kids indulged during the summer months.

This grassy field was the scene of my first—and I think last—beating.

I was in the first grade and small for my age as they say. There was some kind of evening do at the park. My family was there. These was a softball game and picnic lunches and all of us were having a real good time.

Me especially!

I had somehow learned to make my voice go from a high pitched hoot through a glottal break into a lower pitched hoot (four notes down)and was running around doing it. It was dark and shadowy at the edges of the field and there were the usual trees and bushes—I would guess eucalyptus and oleander and maybe a shabby palm or two—I was enjoying myself immensely in the shadows of the trees when suddenly and without warning I was attacked by a small group of older boys. They knocked me down, jumped on top of me and held me down while one sat on my chest and shoulders and slapped and pounded my face.

It must have been good fun for him because he did it for several minutes—then the young gangsters piled off of me and disappeared into the shadows.

I was not cut or bruised—just kind of deeply hurt, humiliated and most of all surprised. In spite of the no-holds-barred adult war going on at the time, I literally did not realize that such malicious wickedness existed in the real world.

I found my family again but felt so ashamed of myself for being “beat up” that I didn't say anything to anyone.

The next few days at school during recess I sat on the ground by myself in the schoolyard thinking it over.

I remember watching water slowly fill one of the rings of dirt that they surrounded young trees with to give them a start in life.

...

This happened a long time ago—but I can still easily remember the astonishment and the hurt and the disappointment in human nature I felt—and still sometimes feel.

Tomasito. 2008

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American Green

Tomasito (Tanya photo)

$ American Green $

I sing the American Dollar,
The Long American Green;
It won't buy health or happiness
But it does have certain sheen!

When I decided to travel,
When I was only a teen;
By luck I carried a pocketful
Of good old American Green.

At the border the guard got angry
When searching my bags he's been,
But he waved me thru with a happy smile
When I gave him American Green.

The maitre-d’ was offended
By my tee-shirt and patchy blue jean;
But he shows me the best seat in the house
When I show him American Green.

The country I cross is starving.
There's nothing to eat-not a bean!
But I dine on steak and caviar
With a little American Green.

The people here are struggling
With a dictator that's mean;
But I ride thru so easy and cool
On a cloud of American Green.

Oh, I love the Way Contemplative,
And nightlife too's my scene;
So I swing like a king or a hermit
With some help from American Green.

Some say the euro's The Answer,
On yen or pounds they're keen;
But from Hollywood to Timbuktu
They love my American Green.

So, if you want to travel far
With a mind relaxed and serene;
Just carry a backpack stuffed to the brim
With good old American Green!

Starship (Ages Ago)

...

Tomasito, 2008

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Three Keys

Three Keys

In Lebanon I met a Sufi sheikh who told me: "There are three keys to growth in the spiritual life: Patience, Persistence, and Good Heart."

Patience: the first;

It may take years--

Even lifetimes of waiting

Before your way clears

The next is Persistence

Keep trying, you know.

When everything's dark

And the going is slow.

Last is Good Heart.

You know what that means--

Smile, be happy

And avoid those bad scenes.

October 15, 1999

Tomasito, 2008

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Foundation

T&T

Foundation

Built on the rock--

Like the Old People say,

Built on the rock--

To last more than a day.

When the floods come down

Or the earthquakes shock,

That house will stand

If it's built on the rock.

Tomasito, 2008

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Just One

There is only "One"

There is only “one” And we and all else are IT, the endless creation of cosmic vibration--not exactly "evolving", since that suggests "improvement", but simply changing --forever.

Tomasito, 2008


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Brian Callahan Memory

The Poem Floating on the Ocean

It was one of those bright, fall afternoons on the Sonoma County coast of northern California.

Brian and I were talking again on the stone steps of the Little Boy’s Bunk House. He was standing a step above me (as usual) but behind me—on the other side of the pasture-- the deep blue Pacific Ocean.

Brian remarked casually: “Look, Tom. There’s a poem floating on the ocean.”

I turned—and really saw the stunning seascape spread out before me.

After a few moments, when I turned back to thank him for the “poem”, he had disappeared.

A month later, flying his hang-glider, he disappeared again.

Brian Callahan: “Gone but not Forgotten”.

...

Cooking Lesson

Cooking Lesson

I was with Brian, a young man that was soon to die in a hang-glider accident.

We were in a wilder part of the north coast of California among the redwoods but within hearing distance of the Pacific. It was a warm summer night. He was cooking some steaks over a small campfire and had invited me to join he and his dog for a barbecue.

I was new to the scene and I had not often cooked meat outdoors myself.

When the fire had died to the red-hot charcoals, he put his steak on the iron grill and tended it carefully until it seemed to satisfy him and then handed me a piece of meat so I could do the same.

I put the meat on the grill and watched it as I had seen him do--then I asked him when it would be ready to eat.

“You’re the one that’s going to eat it.” He said.

(SOUND OF A GONG!)

Now I always cook everything the way I like it so at least one person is satisfied.

Tomasito, 2008

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Guardian Angel?

Guardian Angel?

In the old Age of Faith all the pilgrimage trails to Santiago de Campostella converged at Puente Reina, a stone bridge in northern Spain-- but from Puente Reina, only one “official” path continued following the southern foothills of the mountains. This one grand route was called “The Starry Way to Santiago de Campostella”.

In some religious traditions, making a pilgrimage to a holy place gains some sort of spiritual merit and I was making this pilgrimage for a German lady friend who thought she was too old and weak to do it herself. She believed that having a proxy make the pilgrimage for her would gain spiritual merit and so I hoped to find and follow this ancient Starry Way and be a twentieth century pilgrim on her behalf.

My German friend had given me an old bicycle for the trip and introduced me to some of her old friends who helped me with traveling directions to the old pilgrimage way to Santiago. I started from her old home in Bavaria.

~~~

As I pedalled slowly up into the Pyrenees Mountains out of France I silently repeated the traditional pilgrimage “Jesus prayer” in Greek: “Kyrie Jesu Christe, eleson mas” so I would feel more like a real pilgrim and not just another tourist.

.The modern highway I was following out of France got narrower and narrower as it climbed into the mountains and the motor traffic was extremely heavy. For sure, there were no other bicyclists on the highway-- but swarms of cars and an occasional bus or truck rumbled by, literally brushing my sleeve as they passed--though I rode as far to the right edge of the pavement as I could get. This mortal danger made my prayer more purposeful and focused since I wasn’t sure if I would be alive to pedal and repeat it many more times.

Then I heard a different kind of noise coming up behind me and was soon overtaken by a man on a motor scooter. I had been passed by many other kinds of vehicle that morning, but this was the first motor scooter I had seen on the highway.

I noticed as he passed that he had a long white beard and long white hair blowing around the edges of his motorcycle helmet. He went on ahead of me for a minute but then pulled over to the side of the highway and waved for me to stop.

I was towing a little yellow plastic cart with my bedding and a box of tools behind my bike and I had decided to help anyone I could since I had been helped so often myself on the road—so, though I didn’t much care to stop with all that dangerous traffic whizzing past, I pulled up behind him and dismounted.

The scooter-man appeared to be ancient, but fit and happy—and when he took off his helmet, lots of beautiful, white hair waved in the breeze from the passing traffic.

He greeted me cheerfully. He didn’t need my help. He wanted to help me! I don’t remember what language he was speaking, but I had no problem in understanding him. He said that I was riding on a very dangerous stretch of highway for a bicyclist and that I should go no further on it––but if I would turn back I would soon find a little country road leading off from the main highway. The destination of this country lane was also the top of the mountain-- the same pass the highway reached—but was completely removed from all the hazardous traffic.

I thanked him for his advice and immediately turned back. He also turned around and, waving to me merrily, scooted back the way he had come.

Directly I found the quiet country lane he had mentioned and followed it--- first down into the valley, then beside a pretty little stream and so on up the mountain, by farms and fields, until the path joined the main highway near the summit pass where the highway widened for the border crossing into Spain.

After my anxious morning ride, this detour was delightful—peaceful and refreshing.

Later I got to thinking that the happy, helpful old geezer on the scooter probably saved my life.

Was it just so I could finish the pilgrimage for my German friend? Could he have been my guardian angel—or maybe hers? Or was he just some old guy trying to help a fellow human being in trouble?

Tomasito, 2008

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Janielle: A Memory

Janielle: A Memory

I recently heard that this bright light of my youth has been transformed by the change called death.

It has been many, many years since I last saw her, but she is preserved in my memory as a small, dynamic girl–always cheerful and always a good influence on a pre-teen and teenage boy like me..

We were in the same confirmation class at Saint Paul’s Lutheran Church in Albuquerque, New Mexico so we must have been about the same age–about twelve at that time. I remember a photograph of that class– all of we children robed in white with a sprig of fern and a carnation pinned to our chest– Janielle with short blonde hair, snubbed nose and a serious expression which must have been difficult for her since she was usually bubbling with laughter and friendly talk.

(Other faces haunt my memory from that photo: Todd, who went blind and died young, my best friend Eric, who fell in love with the same girl I did and became my bitterest enemy, Elaine, who had a nervous breakdown, Bill, who became a Lutheran Pastor and died about the same time Janielle did, Roland, Neil, the two other Toms and the long, glowing, solemn face of Pastor Soker.–all long gone but not quite forgotten.)

When we were about fifteen, Janielle did something at a summer church camp which I have never forgotten.

The camp was held in the Colorado mountains at a place called “Shadybrook”, and it was a paradise for us.

Young people were there from the entire “Rocky Mountain Synod”– from El Paso, Texas to Cheyenne, Wyoming– never many, of course, since Lutherans were scattered rather thinly across the landscape in those days, but maybe 50 kids.

We played volleyball, went on hikes and had “Bible study” classes; we ate together, slept together (boys and girls in separate cabins, of course) and performed hilarious (to us) songs and skits in the mess hall every evening and we elected officers for the synod Luther League’s coming year in a grand convention.

Also as a camp tradition, several times during the week some of the adult men and leading boys would get together in the kitchen after the evening meal and then march into the dining hall carrying toasting forks or pitch forks or such forkish tools and singing to the tune of “I’m a Rambling Wreck from Georgia Tech”:

We are, we are, we are, we are
The Order of the Forks!
We are, we are, we are, we are
The Order of the Forks!
And every single one of us
Is hungrier than the rest of us!
We are, we are, we are, we are
The Order of the Forks!

They would then announce the names of several leading boys or visiting male dignitaries as initiates to the Order. These males would be tapped and led to the front of the room and then they would get to choose their initiation food: “The Fruit of the Vine” (a raw onion), or “The Fruit of the Fowl” (a raw egg). The initiates would swallow their choice morsel while the crowd roared, stomped and clapped. We all thought this was good fun.

But after one meal near the end of camp something different happened. There was a noise from the kitchen and a small group of women and girls, lead by Janielle marched into the room singing to a new tune:

We are, we are
The Order of the Knives, the Knives!
We are, we are
The Order of the Knives!

Janielle and her female cohorts then went about the room selecting the few most popular female leaders who were led to the front and initiated by eating some awful food which I don’t remember. Then they all left, singing together.

I hadn’t realized until this event how chauvinistic The Order of the Forks was. In those long-ago pre-women’s lib days, it seemed quite “normal” to select only males for any honor–even such a mock honor as The Order of the Forks.

Dear Janielle was brave enough and self confident enough to organize her own sex into an “Order”.

I don’t think I ever congratulated her for this wonder, but I have never forgotten it either.

Tomasito, 2008

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I Become an Ex-Vegetarian

I Become an Ex-Vegetarian

I was walking a pilgrimage--my first pilgrimage, as a matter of fact--and I was walking in Britain. I wanted to follow the "lay lines"; those mysterious "straight tracks" which crisscross The British Isles. At that time these ancient pathways seemed to be important for me personally for some unknown reason-- though I had only read about them-- so I was walking them for a little first-hand experience and maybe some inspiration or revelation.

The pilgrimage was also for "spiritual growth" since, as usual, I had plenty of time (the rest of my life), no responsibilities, nothing else in particular to do and a crying need for spiritual growth. I was making the pilgrimage in the old-fashioned, traditional way: on foot, with a few extra clothes and a sleeping bag in a backpack, a tin pot for tea or stew, a spoon and like that.

Though I had done plenty of hiking and traveling, I had never made a pilgrimage before and to make sure it was really a pilgrimage and not just a sightseeing tour, I carried no camera and said the "Jesus prayer" as I walked. That old traditional pilgrim's prayer is: "Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on us"*. (I had such a mental block against religious practices, which by that time of my life I thought of as 99% hypocrisy, that I couldn't even say the prayer in my own tongue so I used the original old Greek: "Kyrie Jesu Christe eleison mas". Don't knock it if you haven't tried it.)

I did hedge a little bit, however. I arranged with a newspaper editor in California to publish my pilgrimage adventures as I had them. I would send periodic reports by mail to a friend and she would type them and send them to the editor who would pay me for the words. But when I started walking and sending reports, my friend wrote that the editor said that my words were too religious for his travel page and not religious enough for his church page so the deal was off.

So I was on the loose in Britain with no visible signs of support, as they say; though it seems I had plenty of invisible signs of support.

Anyway, I soon ran out of money but kept walking just out of mule stubbornness. Besides, I was a pilgrim, even if I was an amateur and wasn't God supposed to take care of pilgrims?

When my last coin was spent I started to get hungry. I was too proud to beg and besides God was supposed to take care of pilgrims!

I walked from sunrise to sunset saying the prayer. I could get water from streams and gas stations or I could ask people for water--that seemed OK, but I didn't want to ask for food, so I just got hungrier and hungrier and soon began to pray harder and harder.

Two days and three nights without food and I was up, walking (and praying!!!) early in the morning.

Passing through a village, I see a bun! Someone has put a bun on a wheelbarrow and left the wheelbarrow right next to the sidewalk. Is this God's way of offering me a bun for breakfast?!

Stealing is strictly forbidden to pilgrims, of course; but the bun seemed to be for me, so I picked it up and started to eat it.

"Hey you!" shouts a voice!

Oh, no. I've been caught stealing a bun, which must have been intended for a dog's breakfast. I have disgraced pilgrimage.

I turn around. The shouter is a small boy about ten years old. He soon catches up with me. He is walking to school--I've seen other kids up, dressed and walking with book-bags and lunches.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"Yeah. I haven't eaten in a while."

"Don't be hungry." he says, "Take my sandwich." His mother has packed him a lunch.

"Awww...I can't take your lunch!"

"Yes, please do." He says. "I've got more and the kids at school always have enough food to share besides. Where are you going?"

So I tell him about the pilgrimage. He's very interested and after a few minutes runs off to school.

I don't really know what a "pilgrim's blessing" is, but it's something I've read about somewhere, so I mentally wish him a pilgrim's blessing if there is such a thing and open the waxed paper wrapping the kid's mother put around his sandwich.

Oh my god, it's a ham sandwich!

And "spiritual seeker" that I consider myself to be; I am naturally too pure to eat meat! For four years I've been a strict vegetarian...still, the ham sandwich looks mighty good...it smells mighty good...and besides, it's from the Hand of God (via the kid and his mom)...

I have never eaten a better breakfast!

Tomasito. 2008

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Tanya Journey to the East in Santa Fe

Tanya in Santa Fe, New Mexico "Journey to the East" 2007.

Encouraging advice

“Tadyata; gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate bodhi javaha.”

Sanscrit

“It is thus: proceed, proceed, proceed beyond, be founded in enlightenment.”

English translation

Tomasito, 2008

Memory of Racism

Tomasito, Archbishop Lamy statue in Santa Fe, New Mexico, 2007.

My Early Contacts with Racism

I was born in a racially divided land: New Mexico, USA.

As a small child I had no concept of racism, and, sheltered by my family and friends, I had no experience with racism until I entered school, where I encountered instant hatred directed against me by my little peers. I was a “white”, a detested “gringo”, and since I was the only gringo in my elementary class for a while, I discovered that I was a true alien.

In the classroom I could count on the teachers (all white women) for protection, but on the playground I became the target of verbal abuse and was constantly threatened with physical violence. My first Spanish words were “Quiere combate?” (Do you want to fight?) These words, frequently shouted at me by older children, I didn’t need to have translated.

I learned very young to run from enemy “Mexicans”, and, if caught, to use every gift of diplomacy I could invent. I hated fighting and have never learned the art.

Oddly, I never complained to my parents or teachers about this curious state of affairs. Like most children, I accepted life as I found it: my environment seemed absolutely normal to me. I had no idea that the juvenile terrorism and intimidation as practiced by my classmates and the older kids at the school was an aberration.

Besides, I was raised in a devout Christian family and believed, as a matter of course, that I should “turn the other cheek” and to “do good to those who spitefully abuse you and persecute you...”

I can’t say I was noble enough to always practice these qualities--I was far too frightened of physical pain for that kind of courage and I wasn’t drawn to martyrdom. Instead I learned to avoid the “pachukos” or “fighting Mexicans” which made my life so interesting.

I have seen a large and growing number of books, stories and articles about young people growing up intimidated by white people (Gringos, Haoles, etc.) and I am truly story about that--but for the record--some white kids in America were abused by other majority (in their own neighborhoods) races.

Tomasito, 2008


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New Mexico

Tanya with Mayor of Santa Fe, David Coss, Santa Fe, New Mexico 2007

A short Historical Perspective of New Mexico

The State of New Mexico was historically a part of Mexico, which in turn had been a part of New Spain a few generations ago.

The present states of Texas, Arizona and California had also been a part of this older country until the United States seized or purchased them from the neighbor to the south as a part of the young North American nation’s imperialistic expansion program.

The earliest human inhabitants of New Mexico were probably Mongolian travelers on their generations-long migrations from the steppes of Asia.

The present remnant of these folk are probably the “Indians” who still thinly populate the area, mingled, as humans always will, with sojourners from many other races and times.

By my generation, the original “Indian” inhabitants of New Mexico were practically a vanished mythic tale, though boys from the Government Indian School in Albuquerque came to dance their exotic “Hoop Dance” for we gringo Boy Scouts occasionally at our meeting place in the basement of Saint Paul’s Lutheran Church, also in Albuquerque.

The half acre “ranch” that my father was always buying in Albuquerque--making monthly payments for years and years--had a deed going back to a Spanish land grant two hundred years ago.

The Rio Grande, The “Great River”--“too thick to drink and too thin to plow”, as they say, was a highway of commerce for time out of mind.

“Mexica” traders from pre-conquest Mexico City (Tenochtitlan) had exchanged manufactured goods and feather-craft for the silver and turquoise mined in this area.

Traces of a trade route path have been found leading all the way from Mexico City (and points south) to the ancient Indian village of Taos (and perhaps points north).

In my generation, Taos is famous for the “high rise adobe apartments” of old Taos Pueblo, the thriving art colony of new Taos and the condos and good skiing at very new Taos Ski Valley.

Today Wealthy Americans from the east who retire to New Mexico to enjoy its novel cultural ambiance and its healthy climate own the high priced homes near Taos.

Some Taos land is still owned by “Mexican-Americans” who can trace their genealogy back to the conquistadors and the Taos Indian Tribe owns the largest tract of land communally.

Land “ownership”, in New Mexico as elsewhere, has always been a function of racial features (such as skin color and so forth) and cultural characteristics (language, political system, etc.), with the temporarily strongest or most numerous race owning the land and ruling the rest of the humans. This program has not changed. The dominant race presently appears to be the “white European race” and the land ownership is changing to reflect this reality.

Tomasito, 2008

...

The Most Beautiful Place

The Most Beautiful Place on Earth

My mother, Lorene (Clayton) Wold, who had traveled widely in her life, left her body in a little adobe casita in Taos, New Mexico just a few miles from the old village of Las Vegas, New Mexico where she had lived as a child. She was born not so far away in Artesia, New Mexico.

A week before her spirit left the body, I drove her north out of Taos to our favorite roadside Mexican food stand where we bought our preferred picnic lunch: chili beans and tacos “to go”. Than I drove off the main highway down the little road that follows the stream flowing out of Taos Ski Valley toward the gorge through which the Rio Grande flows in that part of it’s journey to the Gulf of Mexico.

Mom always loved to be riding but that day, for the first time, was too weak to look at the passing scenery with her usual alert interest.

I parked at a wide spot in the road just where the Taos Ski Valley stream descends into the Rio Grande Gorge,. We got out and I threw down a blanket beside the stream where we could sit to eat our lunch. After the meal, Mom rested on the blanket while I explored the stream bank. The little stream was running clear and cold from snow melt in the mountains. On the other side of the road from the stream was a small irrigation ditch. Wild cress waved in its transparent water. Dilapidated barbwire fences bordered the dry alfalfa fields on both sides of the road– fields that would be bright green in the summer but which were brown and dead now. Westward, toward the Rio Grande gorge, an outcropping of black basalt formed a typical low mesa decorated at the top with a couple of adobe shacks. Eastward, in the distance, loomed the pale blue Taos Mountains.

Returning from my walk, I watched beside my sleeping mother for a while. The gentle wind stirred her short gray hair. After a few minutes she sat up, looked around and said, “This is the most beautiful place on earth.”

A few days later, I scattered her ashes there.

Tomasito, 2008

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Mom's Christmas Deer

Mom's Christmas Deer

When Mom was eighty-four, she and the family cat and I traveled together from her nice hillside house near Ventura, California to Taos, New Mexico where we rented an adobe casita for the winter.

Taos is an old village near the Rio Grande River Gorge on the western slope of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

Mom had been born about 70 miles away in Las Vegas, New Mexico, on the sunrise side of the same mountains.

I landed a winter job at Taos Ski Valley. I like working at ski lifts ‘cause you get paid and you get to ski free.

Mom dearly loved New Mexico. She had worked in the Albuquerque Chamber of Commerce at the time the State had been officially named: “The Land of Enchantment”, and she had put the state’s sun symbol (Zia) in red tiles on her garden goldfish pond on “Laughing Mountain” near Ventura.

Mom loved the outdoor life. She loved a campfire and roughing it. I think she was a good mother for my two brothers and myself because she really did like to do “boy” things--not organized sport so much as just “outdoor” things--which was natural for her since my grandfather had been a real cowboy when he was young and he had loved to hunt and fish and camp out. And she thought her father was wonderful.

Grandpa was not only a hunter, but he liked to draw and paint a little too. I remember a painting he did of a buck deer that I liked as a boy. He had made the picture in blue; silver and black house paint and hung it on the outside of his house trailer in Sunland California so we always saw it when we visited he and Grandma.

Mom had had several small strokes and was getting very frail, but she still had a lot of spunk. We had towed her almost-new white Toyota behind my very old Ford camper to Taos and we would drive in one or the other of the vehicles up into the mountains almost every day--usually taking her car since the gas mileage was so much better--but sometimes using my camper so we could cook a meal “in the wild”.

Christmas was coming and we thought it would be good fun to go up into the Kit Carson National Forest and find our own Christmas tree like we had done when I was a kid, so we got a five-dollar Forest Service “cutting permit” and one bright, sunny afternoon, drove up into the mountains. About ten miles out of town I parked the car and we went through a barbed wire fence into a stand of trees. We soon found a perfect one-about five feet high and with a nice shape-growing out of a little snow bank. I cut it with the saw I had brought and in high spirits we walked back to the car.

I started the engine and Mom said: “Wait a minute--there’s a deer!”

I looked back over my shoulder and, sure enough, there was a magnificent buck with a big rack watching us from the forest side of the wire fence. I hadn’t seen a deer like that for a long time and neither had she. The deer took a good, long look at us and then slowly began to move away, picking up speed and finally gracefully bounding up a steep hillside and into the trees.

When I put the tree up in our cozy little living room and we had decorated it with lights it was just splendid. “And just to think,” Mom said, “our tree and that deer lived right together in the forest.”

Tomasito, 2008

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Halloween Story

I Become the Return of Christ

A Halloween Story

A few years ago I was living in a tiny mountain town in Northern California. I was working as a laborer sometimes but had plenty of time on my hands for walking in the forest and other pleasures.

There was a little general store in this town with a bar and three tables where you could eat pancakes and bacon and eggs in the mornings and chili and hamburgers the rest of the day. You could buy beer at the bar and watch football on TV with the rest of the townsfolk in the evenings.

The owner of the store was also the bartender and he was a friend of mine. I did occasional work for him like painting and repairing the cottages he rented out to weekenders.

This was high in the Sierra Nevada’s where winter comes early and stays late.

I kept time by being aware of sunrise and sunset and the change of the seasons but otherwise I had only the haziest idea of such details as the days of the week or the coming and going of holidays. A good life and I recommend it to everyone for a while.

It was getting on into winter when I stopped by the store one morning.

“Tom”, the store man said, “We’re having a Halloween party here the Saturday before Halloween and you’re invited. One free beer if you wear a costume.”

He had a couple of little kids and there wouldn’t be anything “Halloweeny” for them in the almost empty village (all the summer people had gone and the skiers hadn’t come yet) if he didn’t have a party.

I told him I’d be glad to come and thought about a costume.

I had a gray wool blanket I’d cut a hole in to make it a “poncho” and I thought with a “crown” of evergreen branches and a tallish walking stick I could go as “a druid” since I already had long hair and a full beard. Good idea.

A couple of days later I asked one of the neighbors what day it was since I didn’t want to miss the party and he said “It’s Saturday.”

So I went into the forest and got some branches and made a crown and I was ready for the party.

I thought it would start about dark since the little kids couldn’t stay up very late, so just as it was getting dark I started for the store. It was dusting snow so I wore my snowmobile boots but other than that I thought I made a pretty convincing druid!

The narrow country lane between the huge pines was already dark, but the new snow made it easy to follow.

As I approached the store an automobile pulled out onto the pavement and moved slowly toward me. The road was so narrow, I walked as far on the shoulder as I could get—even so the car would have to pass very near me.

The car got closer and moved slower and slower until it almost stopped. Then, skidding a little, it sped up rapidly, passed me and vanished around the curve in the trees. “Crazy driver!” I thought, and went on to the store. First thing I noticed when I walked in was that there was nobody else there.

The little girl of the family started yelling that she wanted to put her costume on too!

And she went upstairs where the family lived to do it.

“I suppose you want a free beer.” The owner said.

“Sure”, I answered, “I’m in costume.”

“Yeah, you are”, he agreed, “But the party ain’t ‘til next Saturday!”

So I felt foolish (a little) but drank the free beer and played a while with the kids. The little girl was dressed as “a ballerina”, and very cute ballerina too. Her little brother was “a bear” in his pajamas and a mask.

The next day I was walking past the store and the owner was out in front getting firewood.

“Tom”, he says, “Thanks to you I’ve lost one of my best out-of-town customers.”

“How’s that?” I said.

“Well this guy always came up from the valley to have a few beers here in the quiet,” he says,” but he just phoned that he saw Jesus Christ on the road near here and that was a sign to him that he should stop drinking and fooling around—he says he won’t come up any more!”

Tomasito, 2008

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Greek Word

The Greek's Word For It

The other evening I discovered that the price of having a tooth pulled by a dentist in Sacramento is now $2,000, this amount is nearly my entire salary for about four weeks of hard work.

That information reminded me of a conversation I had a few years ago when I was in Thessalonica, Greece, staying in the apartment of my friend Kalogiros.

Kalogiros asked me if we had a special word in English for a person who had the training and the means to help a sick person but would not do so unless he was very well paid.

I thought of all the words I could to describe such a villain but finally told him I didn’t think one such precise word existed in the English language.

“In Greek we have such a word.” he said, “‘Doctor’”.

Tomasito, 2008
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