Paths

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Had the early snow falling on northern Arizona come a couple of days later, had I bowed to pressure from my professors regarding upcoming mid-terms, had it not been elk season, life today would most certainly be very different.

Friday 21 October 1977, well before dawn I got out of bed, dressed quietly and gathered my boots and pack. My roommate might or might not have woken and said goodbye. Under buzzing sodium-vapor lamps in the parking lot I threw my gear in the back of the car and headed for Santa Fe, New Mexico, 520 miles away.

I was twenty years old and a student at Arizona State University in Tempe. My friend Mark lived in Dallas, Texas at the time. We decided to converge in Santa Fe to backpack into the Pecos Wilderness over the long Veteran’s Day weekend. Northern New Mexico, and the southern tail of the Rocky Mountains were full of mystery and attraction. The weekend would be pivotal, as a number of experiences would set the dream in my mind that some day I would return to the region to live.

Mark and I met at a motel. Over the many years I’ve now lived in Santa Fe of the remaining older motels in town, I think it was the Cottonwood Court. An image of Mark’s car parked beside mine in the small lot sticks in my mind. There’s something about the place which fits the picture.

Late Friday afternoon we explored Santa Fe. The silver autumnal light tarnished into dusk, the crystal clear sky slipped from blue to green to dusky orange, and the temperature fell like a stone. Heavy adobe structures lined the streets, the spicy smoke from piñon fires seeped over high parapets, and around corners. We found the plaza, where Native Americans sat under the portal of The Palace of The Governors selling their wares as they do today. Seeing them, and the sights and sounds and smells, this white skinned red haired boy from New Hampshire felt like he was on another planet. We stopped at Base Camp, a store specializing in hiking and backpacking gear to purchase topo maps. The fellow we spoke with steered us away from the Pecos – it was elk hunting season – and to Bandelier National Monument where hunting was not allowed.

As Mark and I left the store, there may have been a young woman across the street, with her friends going into Morningbird, a chic woman’s clothing and shoe shop. She would have been sixteen, raven haired and petite. We may have taken extra notice, paused for just a second… and then were back to our explorations.

The next evening, Mark and I were at Bandelier, having hiked Frijoles Canyon to the Rio Grande, and established our first camp site on a grassy flood plain by the river. Around ten o’clock I got out of the tent to pee. And there were the stars like I had never seen them before, the dense blaze of the Milky Way and beyond. It took my breath away. I stood and shivered, awestruck. Back on the trail the next day, high on a mesa top I experienced total silence for the first time in my life. The beating of my heart filled the void. It rattled me. We hiked and camped in the backcountry for three days. New Mexico had set itself into me. I would come back, and come back to stay.

R. and I were having breakfast recently and talking about this. She grew up in Santa Fe, and all those years ago our paths came very close, a matter of a mile or two or maybe a few feet. In the ensuing thirty three years much has happened, we’ve taken many turns along the way. We cross paths with a lot of people in the course of our lives and of them, a few play significant parts. Life’s circumstances lead up to these meetings, others slip away and here we are; it is all very mysterious.

Gordon Bunker

Photo: Jennie@WedgwoodTulsa

A Foundation For Peace

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

This is like making a pie crust - something so simple many of us find it difficult. With pie crusts I do pretty well, but with this essay I’ve been working on it for a week and still…

That this character Jesus, whose birthday many of us are about to celebrate is known as “The Prince of Peace,” has me thinking about why something so desirable as peace eludes us. We preach and make speeches for peace, we hope and pray for it, we display stickers and flags about it. These actions are all very glamorous and inspiring. But what we apparently are missing, the key, to building a solid foundation for peace and hence having it is accomplished by doing it.

It starts with forgiveness and acceptance of ourselves and then, others. This can be a surprisingly tall order, but once there we can make thoughtful choices to be peaceful, even in the face of conflict and hostility. The journey toward living this way is filled with twists and turns, but with care and diligence, with recognizing successes however small, and forgiving failures however large peacefulness comes naturally… or at least for me, it does most of the time. It is a long road well worth taking.

Each of us is equipped with love and fear and hence the capacity to act in peace or hostility. We have the power to choose the way we act, and the world we create depends on our choices. Simply, quietly and moment by moment.

You and I can be a Prince or Princess of Peace. Everything we need is within us.

Gordon Bunker

Just Like Kids

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

The three of us, E., R. and myself, stood at the counter with our steaming cups of spiked hot chocolate. We furtively glanced at each other and giggled.

On our hike earlier in the day, to combat the cold and wind and snow we got talking about warm things. “Chicken soup!” “A fire in the fire place and a glass of red wine!” “Pumpkin pie with brandy in it! …forget the pie and just go for the brandy!” “Hot chocolate!” The shared good humor helped as we climbed the mesa high over the Chama River.

Driving home, O. was at the helm, I was riding shotgun and E. and R. were huddled in the back seat. It was getting dark, we were tired and hungry and chilled. The Subaru’s heat roasted us in the front but left those in the back wanting. As the general store in Abiquiu approached we decided to make a pit stop and get something hot to drink. The store is the genuine article with frying pans, fishing tackle, winter hats, bird seed, groceries, nuts and bolts and snacks and beverages. Behind the cashier’s counter a selection of small bottles of hard liquor glimmers in the hard light.

We made use of the rather grim facilities. E. found her way to the hot chocolate maker. R. and I followed suit. In short order we had the little machine running for all it’s worth. Place the cup like so and push and hold the green button. With a reassuring whir from deep within, foamy hot chocolate shot from the spout. We turned to the adjacent counter to get tops for the cups and E. produced a little paper bag. It had a golden bottle top protruding from it, and with a grin she said, “I got some rum… think it’ll be good in the hot chocolate?” There was a general consensus this was worth a try, so R. and I each gave her a couple dollars.

E. asked, “Think we ought to do this in the car or…?”

I looked around and shrugged my shoulders. We were out of the cashier’s view and it was otherwise quiet. “I don’t think it will be a problem,” I said. So we cracked the bottle and each of us poured a shot into our hot chocolates; the bottle got away from R. and whether she intended to or not, she splashed a most generous dollop into her cup. I handed out wooden stirring sticks. “Keep these in case we get stranded, we can make a fire.” And so we partners in crime sipped our hot chocolates and knew we were being naughty. The rum was a tasty addition.

Being the designated driver, O. abstained. Thank you O. As she chauffeured us back to Santa Fe we three slipped into a happy mellow buzz. It was all more fun than I’ve had in a long time.

Gordon Bunker

A Few Words With Dave

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

“Look at me,” I said in a soft tone. The woman slowly turned her face and our eyes met. I’d overheard her speaking earlier to another member of the group, that she was afraid of heights. From her body language and expression it was plain to see this was true.

Looking into her eyes, I smiled and said, “you’re doing fine.” She smiled back and her shoulders relaxed just a little bit. “Now face the rock, ease into your steps… piece of cake!” I said. She skirted around the overhang and onto the slope where I was standing and hopped down to where others were waiting.

We had made it to the top of the mesa, high over the Chama River and were negotiating our way down the steep rock escarpment. Wind howled and the leading edge of a snow squall was bearing down on us. The hikers, nineteen of us, were of mixed experience and abilities. For some the hike and especially being on steep rock in mixed winter conditions was pushing their envelope. Dave, the hike leader, had identified a few of us who were comfortable with it all and asked us to help those less so with getting down. I was one of those people.

There’s something very special about helping others approach and expand on their limits and it’s wonderful to see the change it brings. Uncertainty and fear turn into confidence and joy. Dave and I were the last two to leave the rock and I spoke to him about this.

He smiled and said, “this group is based on loving and helping one another. Anyone can say yes or no, anyone can stop at any time and it’s ok. Everyone knows this. It’s very powerful and works because of love.”

Gordon Bunker

The Old Crow

Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

On my regular hikes to the mailbox I am constantly on the lookout for various flotsam and jetsam, the shinier the better. It’s also a karmic thing. For a while nails and screws were frequently getting in the tires of my car so I figure if I’m picking up these nasty puncturing bits, a) there will be fewer around for anyone including me to get into trouble with, and b) if there is one in the way, somehow it and my tires will avoid each other. I hope.

The shiny things call out but silently. If they could only tell their stories. The lonely spark plug, a platinum type with dual electrodes, made in Germany and still functional. What car did it come from and how many sparks did it spark to what destinations? Maybe it helped take a family to Carlsbad Caverns, or a mom to the store for milk and a jar of peanut butter. And it’s a part not likely to pop out of an engine on it’s own, so how and why did it end up on the road?

Three lug nuts. Not one, or five, but three. The lever tool with the notched cam shaped end, for the life of me I can’t figure out what it’s used for.

My prize is a set of measuring spoons. It was a crisp and sunny winter day and I had walked a good mile beyond the mail boxes for the exercise. Returning, the roadside embankment with a southern exposure was free of snow. Some highly reflective thing, an intense little glint peeping out from the weeds caught my attention. I circled around. The cool white color of stainless steel said “high quality” to the old crow. I stopped and peered in, and there was a measuring spoon. I hopped over the ditch and picked it up, and scattered around was another, and another… and the little snap ring, opened, to hold them together.

It’s just not every day a set of high quality measuring spoons finds it’s way to the side of the road. Very odd. Maybe someone set them on the roof of the car on the way to cooking class?... or they were part of a drug dealer’s tool kit and got jettisoned in the heat of a chase by the law?

Scraping off most of the dirt and feeling quite pleased with my booty, I slipped them into my pocket. Back at the house, I gave them a good washing and put them into service. Every time I look at them I wonder.

Gordon Bunker

The Greatest Invention Of All Time

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We have the wheel, the airfoil, penicillin and the binder clip. Uncle Lewi made a case for the movable type printing press, however that seems to be fading into the murk right next to the stylus and clay tablet. From my perspective, the top of the heap is dominated by domestic hot water. Everything else withers in comparison.

This morning at sun rise it was calm and the outside temperature hovered around 12 degrees Fahrenheit. I keep the heat in the bedroom and bathroom turned down as I’ve always liked sleeping in a cold room with lots of blankets on the bed, and disliked paying for big volumes of propane. However, the business of getting in and out of bed or the shower becomes an intense aerobic workout. Morning sunshine pours into the bedroom and bathroom, which helps a lot. I leap out of bed and dash into the bathroom and turn on the water. I stand naked in the sunlight. This is one of the advantages to living in the boonies. When the water gets hot I get in the shower and wow, does that ever feel good!

Oooo… Hot water! Ahh… Steam! I stretch and creak and groan and let it beat on my back. The heat soaks in. Without question, the greatest invention of all time.

Gordon Bunker

Sounds

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Every morning I head out to the bird bath to top it off with a kettle full of water, and a bird will sing out from one particular juniper to the south. It’s the same song every time, a clear lilting call streaming out over the landscape. I wonder if this bird is the town crier, “Hear ye, hear ye, drink and bathe!” For me, the song is as much a part of my coming back to life in the morning as that first sip of hot tea.

In northern New Mexico, before getting into high alpine country we have great stands of ponderosa pine. These trees, tall straight boles are crowned with branches bearing long shiny needles. Water being scarce, the forest floor is open and the trees grow far enough apart so sunlight shines through. Hiking in one of these stands on a windy day there is the sound of air wrapping itself around all those needles as through a sieve. It is different than the sound through piñon, spruce or fir. I stand and close my eyes and wonder what spirits are this wind, this sound.

Sitting in the bleachers at a race track with motorcycles flying past, again, I have my eyes closed. To be a spectator, must one watch? So I don’t know what I am, but I do know the sounds of some motorcycles, just the sounds, are a thrill to hear. Tingles go up and down my spine. Anything with a Ducati nameplate will do this for me. I once owned a Ducati. Oh yeah, the sounds that motorcycle made.

I live alone out in the boonies and it is quiet. Sometimes it is more quiet than what’s good for me. I was at R.’s house loitering in the living room while she was going around getting her boots and pack together. We were going for a hike. There was great comfort listening to the sounds she made in the house.

Gordon Bunker

Ink

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

There’s nothing like ink on paper.

The big news is my first literary essay to be published in print “Bluebird Feathers,” will appear in the winter 2010 issue of Pilgrimage, a literary quarterly from Pueblo, Colorado.

A couple of years ago my writing was about things automotive and getting published regularly in Drive and Roundel magazines. Then Drive, my big customer, went belly up. While it was great writing for the magazine, it’s demise pushed me out of familiar territory; I kicked and screamed about it for a while until I figured out it was a good thing. Sorry Jay and Satch (my editors), but cars I discovered just aren’t that interesting.

Ok, the V12 BMW 850 CSi was interesting. At full song I admit, it was very interesting.

Nonetheless I encourage you to visit Pilgrimage Press’s web site at www.pilgrimagepress.org and subscribe. It’s a great magazine, one of the few I read cover to cover. Many thanks.

Gordon Bunker

Mono's, Di's & Poly's?

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

“Eat a piece of fruit!” my mother would squawk from the other end of the house.

My mother was a smart woman. We all liked cookies and she would bake cookies. But they were for special treats and not to be consumed by the hands full by gangs of ravenous pre-pubescent boys like my friends and me. So, they were cleverly kept in a cookie jar with a lid which no matter how carefully removed would clink and clatter. My mother had the keenest sense of hearing of anyone I’ve known. Try as we might to sneak into the cookie jar, even if she was outside puttering in her garden, there was no getting away with it.

Well, actually there was. After much trial and error my dad and I figured out if the two of us worked on it together and very, very carefully we could remove the lid without making a sound. For extra fun, after we’d taken as many cookies as we wanted we’d deliberately replace the lid with a loud crash. “Eat a piece of fruit!” would fly from some unknown port of call. We’d stand there and grin wildly at each other, stifling our laughs with mouths full of tollhouse or oatmeal raisin cookies. The sweetness of victory!

So today as I consider an afternoon snack and reach for the cookies most times (but not all) my hand in mid air comes to an agonizing, shaking halt. I put it in reverse, close the cupboard and get an apple. Ok… I’ll have a boring old apple. But I’m also glad knowing it’s a healthier thing to eat.

Lately I’ve been thinking about food, cooking, nutrition and that I’d sacrifice a lot to eat well. In Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, nutrition comes right after breathing. What we stuff and pour down our gullets is that important.

On one end of the spectrum, to know just what it is we’re eating we need to raise it ourselves. On the other end is the freezer isle at Walmart. This is where what they claim is food is designed by chemists and engineers to enhance manufacturing processes, shelf life and curb appeal and hence fill it with things with six and seven syllables and lot’s of mono’s, di’s and poly’s. Sugar salt and fat constitute the natural ingredients, three substances which we are instinctually attracted to. We are told these products are “convenient.” But how convenient are gastro-intestinal disorders, high blood pressure, obesity, diabetes, cancer and high cholesterol? The last time I took a prescription medication was in 1982 and that was Tagamet to halt the collision course I was on with a stomach ulcer. And this was a time when I regularly ate “fast” and “convenient” foods.

Mother Nature has been working on us and the fruits and vegetables and grains and beasts we eat as part of an ecosystem for a long, long time. I don’t want to be a farmer, so I ante up at the mostly organic grocery store in town for fresh raw ingredients. Then I go home and roll up my sleeves and sharpen my knife and cook. Ok, it can be a chore and it takes time, but cooking it turns out is one of the finest things to do for yourself and the people you care about. Good food and the cooking and sharing of it is love.

Gordon Bunker

Thanksgiving

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

This Thanksgiving Day I have much to be thankful for.

For family and friends, the love we share, the times, the laughter, the great dinners and hikes, conversations, the sharing of ideas and hopes and dreams and fears; the tears, the being there through thick and thin.

For good health of body and mind, this vessel for the doing of life.

For clean air and water, seeing the mountains ninety miles away from my house, for sunshine; for the sound of wind rushing through the trees, the sound of rain sweeping across the desert, the sound of bird song.

For good food and a snug home, for the joy of cooking, for the joy of sharing, for the simple pleasure of eating an apple, the simple pleasures of life.

For experiences bringing life to a clear sharp point; hunkering down alone in snow and ice and wind on high alpine peaks, surfing a sea kayak on towering waves, riding a motorcycle across the country.

For hope; despite the trials it is always there.

For great literature, art and music, for the creative spirit in each of us.

For work I love and the opportunity to do it, to take a gift, my words, and touch people with them.

For my readers around the world, you are the spark to my flame.

Gordon Bunker

Our World

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There was a time a lot of people believed the world was flat. Now a lot of people believe the world is round. Apparently we were wrong and now we’re right. Apparently.

Shadows dance on stone and grasses flutter in a breeze. Every once in a while I am utterly transfixed by these little visual excitements. They touch something deep inside of me. Usually it is a delightful moment or two, wondering about the nature of things. However, at times the potential of what I do not know, the mysteriousness of the world rattles me. It’s both an exciting and sobering experience.

We’ve been told over and over how things are, what wind is and how it works and what grass is… and rocks and shadow.

Allowing our selves to not know, to not be so sure about what’s going on can present an opportunity for new understanding to open up. By giving ourselves this freedom in our minds we may find the world is… Naw! It couldn’t be flat. But it might not be so much like we think it is.

Gordon Bunker

Special Thanks

To my new readers in Moscow, thank you. I am so very pleased to start reaching the people of Russia!

Gordon Bunker

Cake As Plumage

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

The hiking group I’m part of recently had it’s 500^th gathering and to celebrate, it was a pot luck dinner. Avid hikers it turns out, are also avid eaters and partiers. Although as of late I haven’t done much hiking with the group I decided to go. It’s a wonderful bunch of people and you don’t turn 500 every day. That the list of attendees was looking like 2:1 women to men was a plus. I decided to bring a dessert.

After the horrible crash and burn of a very significant relationship a few years ago I have taken my licks and learned a few things – about the world and myself. They have been hard lessons. But I’ve come back to life and have been dating with mixed to poor results. The mate selection thing has always been a mystery, but I’ve been getting out there and asking women I find attractive for dates. A number have said yes, but all in all it hasn’t worked. So I’m now giving Darwin’s assertion, “male plumage, female choice,” a try. I’m putting what little is left of my feathers on display and if it’s like the movies a captivating woman will see me from across the room, make her intentions quite clear, we’ll fall in complete and everlasting love, live in a well lit upscale home with designer furniture have great jobs and drive Porsches. And the music will always be in the key of C with a perky upbeat beat.

Alas, life is not the movies, so I called my sister Vic. She might have some pointers, and I knew we’d have some laughs and that always helps. “I’m just a guy going to this event to enjoy myself. They’re enjoyable people. But it’s also 2:1…” I gave her the story.

“What are you going to wear?” She asked.

“Oh, jeans and my white button down shirt. I’ll vacuum the dust off my shoes.”

“Um… no. Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Something soft… something with drape. Something that says, “touch me.””

“Ok, I can do soft,” I said, “but I can’t do drape.” So I decided to wear my best sweater. My wardrobe, to be frank, is dull. Anything beyond a plaid flannel shirt and I start feeling like Elton John. So the sweater is lamb’s wool and a classy piece of merchandise and I feel comfortable in it. Even though it’s grey it would have to do.

“What are you going to bring for the pot luck?”

“A dessert. I thought I’d bake a pie.”

Vic reminded me of the story about friends Sally and Jonathan in New Hampshire. It is a love story and it starts with chocolate. And now twenty years later it continues very nicely with chocolate. “C’mon,” she said, “we’re talkin’ plumage. It has to be chocolate and for a dinner dessert it really ought to be cake.” I knew she was right. “For added effect,” she offered, “you might rub some chocolate behind your ears.”

“Oh very funny, Vic. I’ll leave the pheromones to ol’ Dr. Cutler and the back pages of car magazines if you don’t mind.”

While I like to bake, pies are my forte. The last time I did anything with chocolate was to dip some strawberries in it, which came out well, and the last time I made a cake was a thousand years ago, a carrot cake, and it came out ok. But a chocolate cake? One with plumage factor? I’ve learned when I’m out of my league to realize it quickly and draw upon my resources. Vic and I had a few more yuks, I’d try to not trip over things and otherwise not screw up like Woody Allen and so on. Then I called Lewis.

If there’s anyone on the planet who knows how to bake a chocolate cake it’s my friend and neighbor Lewis, a.k.a. Uncle Lewi.

“Uncle Lewi?”

“Yes…” True to his North Carolina roots.

“Would you teach me how to bake a cake?” Knowing “cake” in the world of Lewis can be something very complex I quickly added, “simple would be good.”

“Sure, G.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and we arrived at making a chocolate cake with chocolate ganache butter cream frosting. I went over to his place to get a copy of the recipe. It was two pages long. But the ingredients – for the cake and frosting - had lots of all the right stuff… one pound baker’s chocolate, three sticks of butter, three cups of sugar, two cups of heavy cream, three eggs. And a few other minor ingredients. Like flour.

“Listen. You get the ingredients together and come over here Sunday morning and I’ll show you how to do it. It’s simple.” Said Lewis. Oh yeah, simple.

But this was a very generous offer on Lewis’ part and I took him up on it. His kitchen is better equipped than mine, and the tutelage of a master doesn’t come along every day. I suggested this might also be an opportunity, while things were cooling, etc. to help Lewis get his lovely MGB out of mothballs and fire it up. I have greater skills with things mechanical so it seemed an equitable trade.

With tote bag full of the aforementioned ingredients, and some wrenches and sockets thrown in for good measure I headed over to Uncle Lewi’s and we had at it. And it was a lot of fun. Lewis sat facing the kitchen from the dining room side of the bar. “I don’t think I’ve ever sat here before,” he said, which was probably accurate. The kitchen is usually Lewis’ domain. So he sat and gave directions and clearly enjoyed being the boss.

Step by step and piece by piece the cake came together. We did also monkey around with the B, but as those projects can go, we uncovered more problems than we solved and didn’t get it running. But we did cross a few off the list.

Driving to the pot luck, I had huge cake anxiety. It was nestled in a carrier in the back of the car, but every bump of the way – and there are more than enough on my mile of dirt road – I could picture the cake, the beautifully sculpted cylinder of chocolate butter cream becoming a jumbled heap. And then there were traffic lights that turned yellow and red and even though it’s a New Mexico tradition to push that limit as far as physically, never mind legally possible, for one of them I had to get on the brakes and could picture the whole thing sliding and crushing forward. It would have been smart to hire one of those outfits that transports donated spleens and things, but it was too late.

Nope, this is definitely not the movies. By the time I got there I wished I had brought my speed stick. Oh, wait a minute, I don’t have a speed stick. Note to self: get one for just these kinds of circumstances. I opened the hatch and found the cake was fine.

So in I went, cake in hand and had a lovely time. The food and the people and the conversation were great. We all pitched in and gave Dave, one of the hike leaders, and the leader of more than half of the previous 499 gatherings a card stuffed with cash for an outing to REI or wherever he liked. It was as sweet as it gets. And I did meet and talk with a number of interesting women.

But my plumage was sitting over there on the dessert counter… not even remotely attached to me. I hadn’t considered this flaw in my plan. But the cake was disappearing fast and I’m sure people were enjoying it so this was good.

The evening was coming to a close and the crowd thinned out. I went over to the dessert counter to gather up the cake tray and there was R., very pretty and bright and with a mischievous smile. I met R. at a gathering a long time ago, but this evening we hadn’t yet spoken.

“Did you bring that cake?” She asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you make it?”

“Un-huh.” I smiled. “I like to bake.”

“From scratch?”

“Yes.”

She turned to her friend. “He made it from scratch!”

R. pointed out she made the cake beside mine, also chocolate also from scratch, which I sampled and found it had the most delightful hint of cinnamon. And the glaze was just right. We compared notes.

Almost conspiratorial, R. leaned toward me and put her hand on my arm. “What’s in your cake?”

I gave her the run down and we laughed and when I got to the cream she looked at me. “In the frosting.” I said.

“How much?”

I giggled. “Two cups.”

“There’s TWO cups of cream in the frosting!” She said to the woman who was helping herself to a slice.

Gordon Bunker

Photo: Paul Carson, Ruffed Grouse Society

Crossings

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

It’s about 8:45 AM and I’m driving into town to do errands. The experiences we have, moment by moment, are formed by a seemingly endless web of little causes and effects building on one another, and… Near the intersection of Routes 14 and 599 I notice an old pickup truck going the other way, stacked with firewood and with the cable which usually holds the spare tire up under the frame dangling below. I think to myself they’re taking a chance carrying that load with no spare.

Further up the road a faded red Toyota Four Runner with mismatched tail lights catches my attention. The taillight on the driver’s side is a clear aftermarket type, the one on the passenger side is stock. My friend Mario had a Four Runner just like this one and put clear tail lights on it. Then he sold it. I wonder if this used to be his vehicle.

I’m having a coffee at Counter Culture and notice a woman, she is petite, attractive, and wears a green leotard top with a very low cut back.

I then go to the gas station and fill the tank, then to the grocery store. In the grocery store I notice a woman I saw at yoga class a few weeks ago. Then I see the woman in the leotard top. On my way out of town I see the red Four Runner with the mismatched tail lights and when I’m not far from home I see the old pickup with the dangling cable.

The thinkers at the Santa Fe Institute pay attention to complexity theories. When presented with stories ending, “and what are the chances of that happening???” one reply is: “You’re driving along some particular section of highway and see a particular car going the other way with a particular license plate… what are the chances of that happening?” The implication is the chance of anything happening is quite small and it’s only the significance we place upon certain occurrences which make some seem particularly so.

But four second crossings of paths? In one morning? Maybe it’s just a small town, but it leaves me wondering what’s going on.

Gordon Bunker

November

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The last time I went to the health clinic in Cerrillos the nurse practitioner quickly went through a health questionnaire…

“Weight gain or loss?”

“Nope.”

“Trouble sleeping?”

“Nope.”

“Depression?”

“Just the usual,” I said, and wondered “could this be the sequel to Super Size Me?” She nodded her head and grinned ever so slightly and kept right on going with the questions. What would have happened if I had said, “yes.”

It is the 7^th of November as I write this. It is a warm and sunny day here in New Mexico. The sky is an endless depth of blue. I turned all my clocks back this morning, and in so doing felt depressed more than “the usual.” The season of cold and dark is upon us. The weather forecast is for winds to shift from west to north and temperatures to plummet. Having been on the go most of last week I decided to spend the day at home. No internal combustion engines today. It took extra effort to get motivated but I knew what I wanted to do: wash the windows and remove the screens.

There are about a thousand things on my list before house cleaning and I’ve never met a vacuum cleaner I liked. But I do pretty well for a lone wolf. Anticipation of the results, both physical and psychological is enough for me to dive in and get the job done. So, after breakfast, a hot shower and getting dressed in work clothes I put together my window washing kit.

All the windows are casement style, so swing out like doors. By first opening them, washing both inside and out the water and ammonia drains off onto the ground. So I cranked them all out and had at it. This is a simple pleasures are the best kind of thing. I worked my way around the house: sponge on water and ammonia, squeegee off. Touch up with a towel. Next window. They were pretty dirty but this method of cleaning goes fast. I adjusted and snugged up weather stripping that had come loose in it’s tracks as I went along. Going back inside I closed the windows and latched them. The time has come to batten down the hatches. Then I removed the screens.

There’s nothing like clean windows to improve one’s outlook. I am reminded of friend Morgan’s comment, “It’s like getting a whole new car!” after replacing the badly pitted and cracked windshield in his Toyota with 500 thousand miles on it. Without the screens the house is noticeably brighter, a lot brighter. So blessed with tangible positive results, a sense of accomplishment and a brighter house… I feel better. So much so I dragged the vac from the store room and gave the place a good sucking out.

This afternoon I am treating myself to a bar of chocolate (maybe not all of it, we’ll see), and a pot of tea and writing. The sun has come around front and pours in the house.

Gordon Bunker

Old Betsy Didn't Make It

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

After loading all the trash in the back, Brooks started Old Betsy, drove about thirty feet and then she quit; blocking the driveway. Brooks and Karen and I have been friends for a long time. We go to the dump together. This is always a much anticipated occasion, not only in terms of getting rid of our crap, but also to go out for a spin in the old truck and catch up on what’s been happening. It’s a highlight of my month.

Brooks called to let me know the bad news. She was turning over fine, but otherwise, nope, nada, for get it. We discussed the possibilities and I decided to walk over. To make an engine run you need air, fuel and spark coming together in there at the same time. When it won’t run, it has to be one of those three. Simple, right? Old Betsy used to be my truck. I bought her new in 1989 and had all sorts of adventures with her in ten years of ownership. She’s a basic half ton two wheel drive Chevy, with a V6 and five speed manual transmission. Crank windows, no A/C, no cruise control, but she has a radio… with factory cassette player, uh-huh! Having done the service and repairs on her myself all those years ago, I’m familiar with her inner workings, and maybe I could help get her going.

First we took apart the air cleaner. While doubtful this was the cause of our trouble, removing it would give us a view of the fuel injectors. It was full of pack rat midden. OK, for all of you with endless compassion for all sentient beings reading this: I’m warning you what I’m about to say may cause you distress, but here it comes. I hate, yes, I hate rodents! OK? There it is. Hate is a big powerful and negative word, but it’s the plain truth of how I feel about rodents and pack rats in particular. The damage they’ve done under the hoods of my and other’s cars is awful! So I said a few terrible words and we cleared the mess out the air cleaner.

And then I asked, “Um Brooks, does Old Betsy have gas in her?”

“Well… the gauge says she does but half of them don’t work so…” he shrugged his shoulders. “I have a siphon in the Trooper.”

So we put the siphon together but couldn’t get the hose pushed far enough down the filler pipe of the Trooper and were getting nowhere. “There’s gas in my motorbike,” I suggested. “And you open the tank and it’s right there.” But Betsy was blocking the driveway. So we got a chain and towed her out of the way with the Trooper and proceeded to my place.

The Trooper, by the way is a totally cool 4WD geary jouncey rugged little goat of a vehicle. Pretty much every time I ride in it with Brooks I offer to buy it from him. But he’s not selling. Ever hopeful, maybe some day he’ll just want me to stop haranguing him and it will be mine. But on this occasion giving it a rest was the thing to do. We managed to get a gallon of gas out of the motorcycle and mostly into the gas can without poisoning ourselves or blowing anything up.

We put the gas in Old Betsy and turned the key. She cranked but didn’t start, didn’t even sputter. We let her crank over a little extra. Nothing. The fuel injectors in her throttle body were spraying fuel. So we turned our attention to ignition. The more we looked, the more pack rat damage we found. There were chewed wires all over the place, some only slightly damaged, some chewed clear through. Of these, most had nothing to do with ignition, but a few might and without a wiring diagram… We did some head scratching and poking around and got nowhere.

“Brooks, we got two problems.”

“What would those be?” Ever a scientist, Brooks rarely makes assumptions.

“Old Betsy has quit. That’s one. And she’s filled with trash. That’s two. How about we take the Trooper to the dump?”

“Oh you don’t know… it has it’s own pile of junk in it.” But as they say in the airplane business, we were running out of altitude, airspeed and ideas, all at once. We started unloading the Trooper.

I know people who have made fortunes in reverse logistics. Literally. The movement of things has a flow and a direction and we like to keep this all happening the way we want. To stop this flow is bad enough, but to then put it in reverse? Oh… we do not like reverse. Which may have to do with our eyes being on the front of our heads. Grumbling, we dragged all the crap out of Old Betsy and jammed it into the Trooper and then we went back to my place and got my trash and squeezed it in. Off we went to the dump, actually a transfer station, which is about three miles down the road.

As we neared the gate I said, “you know Brooks, I’ve completely lost track of time… I hope the dump isn’t closed.” The dump closes at noon for an hour.

“Oh… that wouldn’t be good.” Brooks drooped. The thought of going back? No. The thought of hanging out at the gate for an hour? Oh please, no.

The gate was open. “Yes!”

We dumped our dump. Bags and boxes and bottles and cans went flying in all directions.

“Well Señor,” I said, “it’s been a hell of a way to spend the day. But things are lookin’ up,”

There’s a certain lightness of being after going to the dump, not unlike the extra little spring a dog has in it’s step after doing #2. Thus satisfied we geared and jounced our way home.

Gordon Bunker

Tools

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

It’s nice to at least once in a while have a tangible positive result.

The Roll-on/Roll-off was pulled to the side of the road with it’s hazard flashers going and the driver standing outside it. The way he waved suggested he might need help so I stopped and inquired.

“Yeah, could I use your phone?” He shouted. The wind had picked up, thick grey clouds rolled by and it was about to rain. I parked my car got out and handed him my phone. He was wearing heavy boots, jeans, a faded plaid flannel shirt, mirrored wrap around sun glasses and a beanie.

“This wind… I stopped to bungee the cover and locked myself out… my keys, my phone are in the cab!” Oddly enough my phone worked and he gave his dispatcher the scoop. “Thanks,” he said as he handed me my phone, “they’re sending someone… from Pojoaque.” He shook his head. Pojoaque is at least fifty miles away. “If I only had some tools I know I could get into the truck, the lock, pretty much anything will open it.”

The conditions weren’t much for hanging out so I wished him luck and got back into my car. “Hey, wait a minute,” I thought. I grabbed the multi-tool I almost always carry with me and headed back to the truck. “I got this thing,” I said, opening the tool. It has a bunch of screwdrivers and other little goodies folded into it. The driver looked it over and selected a small flat blade.

We were getting pelted with the first fat drops of rain. “I’ve driven this old truck for years. I know this will do it.” The big diesel clattered under the hood, waiting patiently. He slowly turned the lock cylinder with the blade and pulled the handle. The door opened.

“All Right!” I said.

“Man, I appreciate it.” We shook hands.

As I jogged back to my car I felt good to have been able to help this guy, and then thought, “… or maybe I just helped him steal it!” Oh well, either way it felt good to help him.

Gordon Bunker

A Friend, Lost

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Tuesday was a hard day. Wrapped in my own dark cloud, that morning I would tell a friend, “there’s been too much disappointment.” And I meant it. I would later learn Tuesday was also the day my friend Mark killed himself.

Mark and I used to be co-workers. Mark was in his twenties, married and the father of two children. We were never all that close, but I loved the guy. He was a dear person. The crew we were a part of pulled off some great work together, and sure did have some fun doing it. I had little glimpses that at some point in his life he might have been treated harshly, but he was an admirable and skilled guy, putting in a good honest effort, facing the challenges and doing pretty well.

But so much of and perhaps the most intense of our suffering is private. I have been told those who are serious about and actually commit suicide typically do not talk about their troubles, or their suicidal tendencies. So the tragedy is compounded in that the people who love them and would give anything to help are not in the know.

I feel so for Mark. Something in his life was unbearable, something or some awful accumulation drove him beyond his ability to cope. There’s now an empty place in this world, so many of us wish with all our hearts was still filled with Mark. I feel for his family. What has happened is a great loss.

Gordon Bunker

The Quietude Of Ice

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

The friends I had dinner with last night have a standing joke with me. Sooner or later the conversation will revolve around current events or “news” and I sit and listen and nod my head. We all know I usually have no idea who or what they are talking about but still get a laugh when I ask a question along the lines of, “Who is this John Ashcroft, anyway?” This is the result of slicing 99% of the media out of my life. My mind has gone elsewhere. Last night the conversation and dynamics were not out of the usual and I realized we have very active minds which to a large degree are filled with agitation. Myself included, but I’m glad my agitation is mostly concerned with things I might be able to do something about.

This morning I’m thinking of E.V. Moody, an old man from my childhood who from all appearances had a peaceful mind. In the early 1960’s my family would stop by his business, Moody’s Ice House on the shore of Lake Wentworth in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire. We would be camping in a tent for the summer on the other side of the lake, and buy blocks of ice from him for our cooler. In the barn, hidden in great mounds of damp sawdust were hundreds of blocks of ice in various sizes. It was cool and smelled of pine, and it was quiet. There were no compressors or fans we associate with refrigeration. No radio or phone. Just the quietude of ice, slowly slowly melting and finding its way back to the lake.

Mr. Moody knew my mom from when she was a kid growing up in Wolfeboro. He was always pleasant but didn’t have a lot to say. A big barrel of a man, he would methodically scrape away the sawdust revealing the luminous blocks and with his tongs pick one up and sling it over his shoulder onto the leather smock covering his back. He’d carry the block and set it in a dish pan we had on the floor in the back of the car. A maze of tiny air bubbles and their curvy trails filled the ice. I’d sit there and slide my bare feet on the cold glistening surface and wonder about the mysterious bubbles, air from the previous winter trapped, waiting to get out. We’d pay him fifty cents and be on our way.

The part of Mr. Moody’s work I never saw was the winter harvesting. He and a helper would go out on the ice with a team of horses pulling a heavy wooden sled. With hand saws they would cut the blocks, then load them on the sled and haul them in. Every day they were out in the open, this was their work, heavy and simple. I have spent some time on the frozen lakes and except for the wind and the occasional cracking of the ice, it is quiet. Working on the ice, day in and day out, two men, two horses, there must have been plenty of space for thinking. I wonder what filled Mr. Moody’s thoughts. I wonder what he said when he talked with friends.

Gordon Bunker

Popular Folly

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

I asked my friend S., “do you think we will ever have a primary value system based on something other than the dollar?”

“I don’t know.” Her answer came with a sigh which by my guess meant, “probably not.” S. was born into a family with plenty of money and the pleasures and sorrows which come with it.

"Men (and women, GB), it has been well said, think in herds; it will be seen that they go mad in herds, while they only recover their senses slowly, and one by one." This is from the treatise on popular folly, Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, by Charles Mackay, first published in 1841.

We are puzzling creatures, especially when it comes to our shifts in values. As individuals we will go to great expense by many measures to provide care to a suffering loved one. We will put ourselves at great risk of harm to rescue another from a dangerous situation. Small personal items left by a predecessor have great intrinsic value while the heirlooms sit in boxes in closets.

When we herd up these principles and ethics in all their personal depth indeed go flying out the window. We provide or deny one another medical care based solely on the dollar. In the name of “development” we alter the landscape in long term ways for short term gain. The same goes for the environment, preferably of course when it’s someone else’s back yard. Cloaked in the abstractions of states and policies, on grand scales we murder one another and destroy property to get the resources we want.

While as individuals we commonly abhor the madness of our herd behavior, we seem to keep right on doing it. We evolve physically in response to our environment and without much choice in the matter. But can we evolve socially, changing human nature toward living sensibly? I hope so.

Gordon Bunker

Putting It Together

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Yesterday I was talking on the phone with my sister Vic, catching up on various topics including the presentation she’s giving next week, “Seeing Through Time.” October is “Archeology Month” in New Hampshire and my sister is an archeologist. We have a propensity for putting things off until the last moment. I mentioned sometimes the best results come with the intensity of working this way. We got laughing about just how far this could be pushed – for example, could she do Powerpoint while driving to the event?

One spring semester in college I was taking a studio course in hand building clay. Class met once a week on Wednesday evenings from six to nine. Typically it would start with a critique of the previous week’s assignment followed with a demonstration by the professor, and some hands on work time thrown in for good measure. Assignments were to be worked on during the week when the studio was not otherwise occupied by other classes.

My usual method was to put things off all week, show up at the studio a couple hours before class and get the work done. One particular Wednesday dawned a beautiful day, warm and breezy, the sap was on the rise. Too beautiful to do anything but go canoeing with my girlfriend. First thing in the morning we hefted the little boat onto the roof of the car, strapped it down and took off. Where we ended up I don’t remember, but there were lots of remote spots to choose from. It was a great day, out on the water, lots of sunshine. We got naked, which might have had something to do with why we went canoeing in the first place. Time slipped by. And then I realized I had clay class that evening which I didn’t want to miss.

At about 5:15, in a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and flip-flops; sunburned, full of fresh air and life and pleasantly whooped I more or less stormed the gates. Now what was the assignment again? Oh yeah, mold clay into a found object, make a series of three. I looked at the clock. 5:24. Ok, focus and work. The other students were showing up and carefully taking their pieces off the shelves. They’d been in there off and on all week, working, fussing, and for some of them, squeezing every last particle of life out of the clay and the ideas.

Ma ha! A dust pan. Like a madman I wedged up some clay and rolled out slabs and started molding pieces into the body of the pan. I trimmed the edges and created cylinders which got attached as handles. One, two, three. Hey maybe I’m on to something… brilliant! I’ll call it… the industrial… revo… oh, wait a minute, that’s already been done. The clay was raw and fresh, the handles drooped, so three little balls of clay to support them did the trick. My fellow students were all sitting around, some chatting, some scowling but all sitting like broody hens close and protective of their pieces. I gabbed a stool and plopped myself down. Done! 5:55.

The professor walked in carrying his clipboard and ratty tote bag and said hello. We all sat at attention. He scanned our work on the tables. He stopped.

“Whoa! Who did the dustpans!?!?” He zoomed over. “Those are so cool!”

“…me.” I put my hand up half way.

For a moment it looked like things were going to get ugly.

Gordon Bunker

Two Women's Lives

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

I’ll call them Claire and Laura. These are not their actual names. The dealership where I’m bringing my motorcycle to have a safety recall taken care of also works on cars and has a shuttle service. Claire is driving the shuttle, a jazzy SUV and Laura is another customer needing a lift. I’m already in the front passenger seat and Laura gets in behind me. We three are contemporaries, all in our fifties. Laura has had her car in before and she and Claire are already acquainted. Laura is in a rush to get to her office and launches into discussion about her work anxieties. She works for an insurance agency and specializes in health insurance. Apparently since President Obama’s health insurance bill of this past May, “my job has been hell,” she says. For the first time she “has no solutions” for some of her clients. “Lowering coverage and raising deductibles no longer works,” she says.

Getting to Laura’s office takes fifteen minutes. Both Claire and Laura’s Blackberries ring. Not very long ago if you said to someone, “my Blackberry has Bluetooth,” you would have gotten a blank look. Claire fidgets with hers but does not answer it. There’s a no hand held device law in Santa Fe. Laura answers hers. The conversation is thus interrupted two or three times. I keep quiet. I am ignorant about health insurance. I haven’t had any for – I’ve lost track - maybe fifteen years, I know the delivery of health care in this country is criminally poor and insurance companies are wildly profitable. Choosing my battles with care, this is one I stay out of. I find Laura’s comment that she has no solutions for her clients telling. Perhaps a little light will come on that for-profit insurance companies controlling the delivery of health care is not the solution. Nonetheless, I feel for Laura. She seems genuinely concerned about her clients, has put in her time with a career and is stressed over the top. We leave her at her office and Claire and I are off for my “office,” my home which is out in the sticks. We’ll see if this SUV can handle my road.

Claire has a lot of things on her mind. Relaxed is not how I would describe her, but her Blackberry quiets down and we start trading stories. She and her husband have recently moved to Santa Fe. They’re buying a house here which is out in the country compared to their previous urban life. We talk about restaurants in their new neighborhood, catching rainwater run-off, the particulars of wells and septic systems. They’re about to close on the place and Claire expresses all the usual concerns. We talk about work; the challenges of making a living as a writer in my case and the car business in hers. We talk about how laid back and small town Santa Fe feels after the big city rush-rush. Claire and her husband have two kids, both in college and have had their ups and downs in business. The past couple of years have included big changes for them. They’ve sold a big fancy home and if they’re like everyone else probably didn’t see the money they’d hoped for. I presume they pay tuitions for their kids. From her story I sense as a couple they have weathered the storms and hung in there together. This is something I love to see.

Looking forward to the new house, Claire tells me about it. It’s smaller, and lower key. The living room however is relatively large and open, full of possibilities. There’s a subtle but significant shift. The pitch of Claire’s voice drops and ditto her shoulders. She glances at me. “You know, life is getting… simpler.”

“And that is a good thing,” I respond.

“Yeah. It is.” she says.

Gordon Bunker

Eating A Fruit

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

What is success? Money, possessions, notoriety? Love? One day an answer came to me: to have the presence of mind to enjoy eating a good piece of fruit. The rest of it I find all too illusive.

Being a New Hampshire boy, I have a special place in my heart for apples. Walking into the shade of a barn filled with apples on a clear fall day, the air is permeated with their fragrance, this is heaven. Take an apple in your hand and consider it. The heft of it is all the juice contained in that skin. It is smooth and cool, rap on it with your knuckle, it has a hollow knock. Winter is coming. Study the skin, the blush and range of colors, the little spots and flecks. There may be a scar from where a bird pecked it. Polish it on your pant leg, twist and pull out the stem. And then bite into it. Things happen for all the senses. The crisp fruit crushes between your teeth, the juice spreads around in your mouth.

Stand there and eat the apple and pay attention to what you’re doing, and what the apple is all about. All of the business of growing and harvesting apples has come together for this. If you don’t have a barn full of apples or any other fruit, just one is sufficient. If you’re in the kitchen, look out the window. If you do this I hope like me, you will feel lucky to be alive and for those few moments at least, feel successful. When you are through eating the apple maybe throw the core off in a spot where some critter might find and eat it. Hold on to this experience as best you can as all the other definitions beg for attention.

Gordon Bunker

Yoga With Ronna

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Before heading for yoga class I have a light lunch. Two eggs scrambled with green pepper and scallion, a couple of raw carrots and a slice of toast. After chopping the scallions I notice one or more of the slender tubes had dirt in it. Frustrated, I search though the slices on the cutting board and pull out the worst of them. The remainder look clean enough and I put them along with the pepper in the skillet. They sizzle in the hot olive oil, the toast is toasting, I pour the eggs into the skillet and in a few moments I am eating lunch. I look at the food and think about my agitation but also about what has come together here and feel gratitude.

There’s a lot of dirt in the eggs. I crunch and grind my way along and have a hissy-fit. I am not a happy camper but decide, “eat it anyway.” Mutter, fume, expletive deleted. My anger is not really about the dirt in the eggs, but a reflection of everything that’s wrong in life, both micro and macro, the details of which are probably not unique. Ellen DeGeneres and her “… back to a place of inner peace…” routine floats through my mind and I laugh.

There’s Ronna at the yoga studio. She is drinking a rather tall coffee. We’ve been friends for about a year and a half and while we don’t spend that much time together, Ronna is a great friend. I’m talking great in the sense that she is a solid character, smart, honest, and a person I know I can count on. She’s of small build with a huge heart, has high energy and I told her once, “you project well,” and she looked at me and said, “I’m loud.”

Of the fifteen or so students showing up, this week I am the only guy. One of the women notices a tag sticking out from the back of Ronna’s top and tucks it in with a pat. We bustle around the cramped entry area, getting our shoes and socks off and into one of the little cubbyholes on the wall. We wander into the main room get our mats and get situated. I’m glad to be here. It turns out I’m smack dab in the middle of the room.

I’m new enough where at times I get lost, but this ok. Ronna demonstrates and describes the postures and breathing and keeps the sequence going. She has a great sense of humor and encourages us not to worry about how we look. This helps a lot. As we go along the postures become more difficult. We are groaning and grunting and sweating and shaking. The heat in my body goes up. The heat in the room goes up. There we are, each of us balancing on opposing hands and feet with our butts up in the air, with the other arms and legs stretched out straight, sort of, and Ronna says, “now gimme three push ups!” and laughs and guffaws circulate the room.

And we relax. Taking a break any time is encouraged, but then as a group we all just lay there on our mats. With eyes closed I might be the only person in the room, it is that calm. The ceiling fan is going, the soft oscillating whir becomes my world for a moment.

Class is open to people with all levels of experience. Around the room, some clearly know yoga. Ronna tells us even if we can’t do it or screw up, we’re still doing yoga. I watch her closely as she demonstrates. I always knew she did yoga, but to see her do it… no bone, just cartilage, maybe that’s her secret. Or maybe it’s that she has been doing this for twenty years. The flexibility and strength she has, I never would have guessed. It’s amazing. Ronna shares wisdom too, saying, “We spend so much of our lives in our minds and much of that has to do with the past or the future. We replay the same movie over and over. The body is in the present. Yoga is about getting into your body and listening to what it has to say.”

After class we mingle a bit and wish each other well. I feel wiped out, a little overwhelmed and totally alive in my body. It feels good.

Gordon Bunker