A Long View

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

At a dinner party Pat and Franz were having, the conversation revolved around how the area has changed with increasing population and ensuing development. It turned out our hosts were the longest time residents in the group. Someone asked Franz, “What do you miss about the Santa Fe of fifty years ago?”

Franz considered the question for a moment. “Air quality.” He said. Everyone was a little surprised with the answer, after all most any day visibility is around sixty miles. Franz went on. “The days we have when it’s so crystal clear you can see the trees on the ridgelines in the Jemez?” We all knew what he was talking about. Those days happen every once in a while and are stellar. The mountains, the sky, the sunshine ring like a bell. “That used to be every day,” he concluded. For a moment we were all pretty quiet.

Since 1960, world population has more than doubled.

Each of us who is old enough to remember back forty or fifty years can probably think of something like this. Personally, I miss long stretches of undisturbed shoreline around the lakes of New Hampshire. And of course there are many other very real changes, not especially for the better – loss of population and diversity of wildlife, loss of a dark night sky, greater car and air traffic, less peace and quiet.

And yet we continue with more and more and more… of us. We turn to technology to bail us out, but it hasn’t and there’s no real indication it will. What is it about us, that we think we can go on this way?

Gordon Bunker

Remembering Irises

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

Over dinner with Uncle Lewi we often get talking about art and the other night I remembered a particular experience with a painting.

No one else was in the room and except for the receptionist, no one else was in the building. I sat in a comfortable chair and looked at Irises, painted in 1889 by Vincent van Gogh. How much time slipped by I do not remember.

It was the summer of 1981. I lived in Lakeport, New Hampshire and frequently visited friends in Kennebunkport, Maine. Those were some times, putting around with a gang of rowdies in an old life boat in the middle of the night, giving the U.S. Coast Guard at anchor around the president’s house something to do. There might have been the consumption of rum involved. At any rate, my drive to the coast took me through Westbrook, Maine and there was a little art gallery on the campus of Westbrook College I’d heard about with a gem of a collection.

The Joan Whitney Payson Gallery of Art was in a small but very contemporary building. It was a cube of concrete and stood out among the otherwise staid New England architecture. There were indeed a number of gems in that collection, on loan to the college by Joan’s son John Whitney Payson. But it was the van Gogh, glowing and dancing that stopped me in my tracks and set me in a chair for a while.

Is it the Divine, the eye and the hand of God which speaks to us through such paintings? We have life before and after experiencing them, but what we have during those moments transcends it all… and forever changes who we are and how we see. I would go back and sit down and look at Irises two or three more times.

Mr. Payson sold the painting in the fall of 1987 at auction for $53.9 million. Part of the proceeds made for generous gifts to a number of arts organizations. The painting now belongs to The Getty Museum. The painting no doubt benefits many more people in its new home, but it saddens me a bit this happened. There is no replacing the richness of the experience of wandering into a little gallery well off the beaten path and sit down and have all to yourself in the quiet for as long as you want, van Gogh’s Irises.

Gordon Bunker

Image courtesy of The Getty Museum.

A Road And A Neighborhood

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

Walking the road is a good way to meet the neighbors. The road is something we have in common, it brings us together.

What I’m calling the road out here is really a dirt track across the desert, more or less passable depending on the soil type in any particular spot and moisture content. I have a love hate relationship with it. One look at this washed out rutted mess and there has to be a real need to take it. So it keeps the neighborhood relatively quiet and safe. But anything over five miles an hour and you’re hammering your car, and when wet it deteriorates into a slicker than… well let’s just say it’s very slick, trough of gumbo at times making passage with four wheel drive an iffy proposition.

My first winter here we had a lot of snow and a lot of mud. Coming back from town one afternoon I could see a vehicle stuck in the worst of it, so parked my truck well out of the gooiness, grabbed my bags of groceries and started walking. Approaching the bright blue sub-compact, I met Tzolt and Carle. Tzolt was the driver of the car and Carle had been out for a walk-slither and found him stranded. Tzolt was a wiry guy from Czechoslovakia, with a huge blonde afro. Fortunately he spoke English better than I do Czech. Carle is of small build and traction available to push wasn’t any better than what was there for the car. This however didn’t prevent her from giving it her all. She was covered with mud. When I walked up she stuck out a slathered hand. “Hi! I’m Carle!” I looked at her. She looked at herself, and we both just laughed.

I set my groceries off to the side and started pushing. We got Tzolt on his way. Carle and I have now been friends for eighteen years and though we don’t see each other all that often, we’ve been there for each other.

A summer or two later, I met Karen and Brooks. When it gets hot out here it gets quiet. Such was the afternoon I heard chainsaws break into a whining duet. I decided to see what the commotion was about and so had Karen and Brooks. To make a long story bearable, some new folks had taken it upon themselves to clear a swath wide enough to move in their manufactured home. They hadn’t thought to maybe first say hello to their neighbors. Nor had they taken into consideration they were on private property. Oh, but they were determined to make way. Quite a few of us neighbors got to know each other in an effort to protect the wild nature of the road. We did curb the enthusiasms of the chainsaw folks but our greatest success was in the friendships we formed and have today. The folks moved in their house. No one’s heard much from them, but we do hear from their half dozen dogs. Dogs that bark for hours on end are usually the ones that are chained, cooped up and otherwise neurotic as hell. I feel for them, and wonder why people have dogs and treat them this way.

In the years that have gone by what have we done? We’ve gone to the dump together, drunk wine and shared great meals, Thanksgivings and Christmas’. We’ve laughed and cried and argued, we’ve aged together. We’ve shared ideas, stacked firewood, poured cement, cat sat and opened our doors in the middle of the night. We’ve shared some life and are glad for each other being here.

It’s now July and it’s hot. Before sunrise the temperature is a lovely seventy degrees. By nine AM it’s eighty-five and by eleven it’s in the nineties. A couple of mornings back at about eight-thirty I was headed into town. I had the A/C going as soon as I started the car.

Off in the distance was a familiar little pickup truck pulled to the side and a figure walking back and forth across the road. It was Deb. I pulled up, stopped and called, “Hi Deb!” She walked up. Sweat was streaming down her face, she had a shovel in her hands. She had been out there filling a few of the God-awful-deep potholes with soil from the bank.

“Um, Deb. Don’t you think it’s a little hot out here to be shoveling dirt?” I asked.

She grinned. Deb is very soft spoken. “Well, yes it is. But I hit these potholes every time…”

“You’ve just had enough.” I said.

“Yes. And this is a neighborhood.” She said.

“Yes, it is. Thank you Deb,” I said. We wished each a good day and I continued on into town.

Gordon Bunker

The Rancher

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

The edge of summer’s heat cut into me. This particular Sunday everything was plain to see in the intense sunlight in the Wyoming town. I don’t remember what town it was, but it was little more than a crossroads and out in the middle of rangeland with grasses robust at the height of their season. It was grass as far as the eye could see in every direction. There was a modest restaurant with lot’s of vehicles in the dirt parking lot and it was about noon. I was hungry and pulled in, I was riding the BMW.

The dining room was bustling with activity. Ranching families, all dressed and buffed up were out for Sunday dinner after church. These people are big and strong, the products of hard outdoor work and life. They are conservative in their manner and thinking. The hostess lead me to a table. My outfit – a tight fitting black leather suit – and long red hair tied back in a pony tail got attention. People were curious and here they were more than a little wary. I minded my manners as did they. I had the Sunday special, a small steak with French fried potatoes and house salad. The salad came in a small pressed wood bowl, the iceberg lettuce a little limp, with a pebble of a cherry tomato on top. There was a cellophane packet of two saltines on the side. I had ranch dressing. The steak was delicious and so were the potatoes.

Men and women were giving me cautious glances. Children, mostly boys who were getting fidgety swooped by giving me a good looking over. They smiled. One boy said, “cool helmet,” but kept moving. I ate my lunch, put a tip on the table, paid my bill and left. It was good to get outside again.

Standing by the motorcycle I was studying the map. A Chevy Impala rolled onto the lot from behind with some authority and pulled up next to me. I’m guessing it was a late 60’s model, four door with two tone paint. It was turquoise and white and was in beautiful original condition. The passenger, a man, got out of the car. He was elderly and also in beautiful original condition. He towered over me, handsome and genuine. He wore a light grey Stetson and grey flannel suit with western details, brown leather trim around the pockets. He had on a white shirt with bolo tie, and sensible brown cowboy boots.

He had recognized the bright yellow and red plate on the BMW. In a slow friendly manner he asked, “You come all the way from New Mexico on that?”

“Yes sir.” I said.

“Well, that’s a B-M-W… sure is a beauty.” He said as he eyed over the bike.

His wife got out of the car and had walked around to the front of it. She was large and plump and wore a cotton dress in a modest floral print. Her silver hair was permed in small tight curls. She was smiling and there was no judgment, no rush.

“Thank you.” I said. “Gosh, and your Chevy. It’s in great condition.”

The old man’s face lit up. “This is my wife’s car. Had it since new.” He paused, choosing his words deliberately. “She takes good care of the both of us.”

Gordon Bunker

Friendship

Franz called Friday afternoon. “Pat would like to hike at the ski basin tomorrow.” He said. “There should be wild flowers, would you be able to join us?”

I said, “I’d be delighted!” Pat and Franz are long time friends and we always have a great time together. We mostly hike but there have also been some great dinners and urban adventures.

Pat and Franz are in their eighties. Fifteen years ago when we met, we would hike ten, sometimes up to sixteen miles in a day. Franz and I have hiked all of northern New Mexico’s big peaks together, and all of those have been amazing experiences. The three of us have backpacked into the Pecos Wilderness, and there was the famous watermelon hike, but that’s another story. These days our hikes are a bit toned down, and I am not complaining.

Our wildflower hike Saturday started at 10,000 feet elevation and climbed – steeply – to about 11,000 feet. The pace was relaxed, partly in response to the exertion, partly to look at the flowers. Let me try to recall those we saw: shooting star, king’s crown, corn lily, red and purple penstemon, paint brush, marsh marigold, iris, columbine, gentian, blue bells, various members of the pea and mustard families, geranium, jasmine, strawberry, raspberry, and (I know this is a run-on sentence)… some we didn’t know the names of and some I am forgetting. It was quite a show and the columbine took it.

Pat and I stopped at nearly every variety to look and discuss details such as why certain flower buds droop, but then swing up as flowers; how we’ve never seen displays of corn lily blooming like this. I asked Franz what he likes so much about downhill skiing, funny in that all these years I’ve known he’s a fiend for it but never knew why. To paraphrase his response, “… to ski in deep powder and not be able to see my skis…” and a little sheepishly, “…to show off!” At lunch we talked about marmots, mountain biking and getting to know the workings of Mac OSX. We shared some cherries and a bar of chocolate for dessert.

It’s more the time together than the hike or the flowers. Beyond the easy fit of our friendship, Pat and Franz remind me curiosity and wonder and joy can endure the trials we face in life. These qualities of the human spirit are timeless, and every so often it is so good to see. And then, there just aren’t too many people in their eighties climbing the dunes at the beach, let alone alpine slopes above ten thousand feet.

We closed the day at Ecco, a neat little café on Marcy St. Pat had a latte and Franz and I had gelatos, their treat.

Gordon Bunker

Mutt & Jeff

From my childhood, the terms developer and garden apartment stick in my mind, right up there with cough syrup, dress shoe and report card.

My family lived in a modest Cape style house on a reasonably quiet avenue in Concord, New Hampshire. Better than half the surrounding landscape was in the rough natural state called woods. I could cross the street and be in the woods, once in a hundred feet any indication houses being nearby was lost, and taking off over the hill it was a half mile before the next neighborhood appeared. The woods were great.

My mother Elna was a small feisty person of 100% Swedish stock. She drove big cars she could only barely see over the dashboards of, and one of her nicknames was “Ol’ Lead Foot.” Her best friend Noel lived on the next street over and is of German heritage. She towered over my mom and had a sweeter disposition. But then, she wasn’t my mom. Among what the two of them had in common was grit, and a love of the woods. They called themselves Mutt & Jeff. Who was which I don’t remember, but I’m guessing my mom was Mutt.

Life was good. Until The Developers showed up with their shifty sights set on a tract of woods diagonally across the street from our house. Everything about them was big and bad. They were big guys who looked like gangsters. They drove big sedans that were black and had Massachusetts license plates. They had big ideas about squeezing as many garden apartments on that land as they could. And they had big money to do it with. How about a few single family houses? Nope. Booo and hisss!

Mutt & Jeff immediately went to the next city council meeting, where they minded their manners. From then on however they rolled up their sleeves and clenched their fists. They were not pleased with how their elected officials pandered to The Developers, obviously without regard for the woods and what they added to the quality of life in the neighborhood. The dining room in our house became mission control, the top of the table for a year did not see the light of day from under layers of plats, meeting minutes, newspaper clippings and letters. Seeing to it those woods stayed woods, damn it, became Mutt & Jeff’s full time job.

They went to every city council and planning board meeting. They taped the meetings to make sure the minutes were accurate. They analyzed every aspect of the proposed development, The Developer’s shady track record and the tract of land in question. They questioned the city’s ability to provide police protection. They questioned whether there would be sufficient water pressure (being on a hill) for fire protection. They wrote letters to anyone remotely interested in the situation. They called, they harangued. They were on top of it at all times. They had their act together and they were totally committed. It was very cool to see, and to be a small part of. To think back on it, I’m very proud of them.

There were times the prospect looked grim. Mutt & Jeff would come home from meetings, sit at the kitchen table for a cup of coffee and lick their wounds. They would look discouraged and exhausted as city officials made one more decision in favor of The Developers. They would sputter and scoff. They would throw ideas around… anything… what?… to stop the development.

And then a detail came to light. Few of us outside of the civil engineer’s office spend much time thinking about the sewer, that is until it doesn’t work. But what about the sewer? The entire neighborhood is up on a hill with steep grades in all directions. Mutt & Jeff got in touch with the city’s civil engineer who had otherwise been quietly staying out of trouble and talked about the impact on the system of this proposed big increase in sewage. Lo and behold it was determined the increased flow combined with steep grades would wear out the pipes at a rate unacceptable to building code.

And that was the end of the development.

It’s been years since I’ve been back to the neighborhood, but the last time I was there, so were the woods. As beautiful as they ever were.

Good work, Mutt & Jeff.

Gordon Bunker

From Consumer To Citizen

Like many other Americans, Sunday night I went to a fireworks display. It was a small scale event in White Rock, New Mexico. The fireworks elicited ooo’s and ahhh’s, but observing the nature of crowd as we were leaving I got wondering what it was all about – we show up, we watch the display, we go home. I didn’t see anyone particularly moved by the experience. More so, we were like movie-goers. Simply good, obedient consumers. What about the signing of The Declaration of Independence? What about those who fought a seven year war to make it stick?

I would have liked Thomas Jefferson and his band. Trouble makers, all of them, and certainly King George III thought so. Most importantly however, these characters (in all, fifty-six delegates signed the document) stood up for what they believed in and had the commitment to take the heat for calling the King of a world super-power to task and telling him ‘see ya later.’

But here we are, embarking on our 235^th year as a nation, most of us just doing business as usual. Encouragement to consume comes at us from every angle. Encouragement to rock the boat does not. The underlying message is be quiet and accept that life is as good as it gets. The economy and the tremendous wealth being generated by it for the very small number of people who actually hold the reins is dependent on this. However there is something greater in life than groceries, laundry detergent, automobiles and insurance to “protect” it all.

It’s called citizenship; caring enough about what’s going on to do something about it. The move from consumer to citizen takes gumption, foresight and resilience; it also takes a shift in consciousness. The building of a better society, a better world has to be more important than the consumption of stuff.

In case you’re thinking you can’t make a difference, in an upcoming post I’ll tell the story of how my mother and her best friend – they called themselves “Mutt & Jeff” – took on City Hall and won.

Gordon Bunker

A Chance, Please

Hiking up a dark wet creek bed into the Pecos one afternoon, my friend Sallie said to me, “Who’s to say the earth might not end up inhabited by molds, and that wouldn’t be such a bad thing?” The question has resonated with me for years, and comes when I reach my limit for being upset by the course we humans are on, and the realization I’m powerless to do anything significant about it.

This morning at Counter Culture three women sit together and have breakfast, they are of similar age, about sixty. One of them, of smaller build than her companions takes over the conversation. This is wrong and that is a travesty and this is what I will tell you; emphatic about all of it, she does not let up. Recognizing a couple of other patrons wandering into the dining room the woman raises her voice yet another level, dragging them by the ear over to her table. She introduces them, the proud arbiter reciting glowing provenance of pieces in her collection. They look mildly embarrassed, but give her the attention she demands. More than once I wish she would be quiet and please, give the world a chance to be whatever it all is.

The next morning.

A heavy rain fell last night. Waking in grey stillness I hear frogs trilling. I go out on the portal in the cool dampness and listen. There are hundreds if not thousands of voices calling, responding. I can still hear them. We are six or eight miles from any stream. It is an odd and stirring sound and one of the few times I’ve heard it in the desert. But for the frogs I am alone. The solitude of my kind, a small sharp knife turning. Pushing a little deeper at times like this, times like this witnessing but not sharing such a beautiful occurrence of nature. Reminded of unanswered callings.

Gordon Bunker