Wednesday, December 3, 2014

a sharpie




The sharpie with retractable point my sister gave me finally dies.

I kinda liked that sharpie.
I go to Office Max to get a new sharpie.
I study the entirety of the "writing instruments" display. Twice. No sharpies.
Then I notice they're in their own kiosk in the middle of the isle.
A sales woman cruises by and asks if I have any questions.
Yeah, I think, I got questions, like, "Why is life the way it is?" But instead I say, "No, thanks, I found what I’m looking for."
She disappears.
But there is not "a" sharpie in the display.
The closest thing is a four-pack for $6.79.
I check the display again.
Nope, only the four-pack.
I am nearly resigned to take the four-pack.
The sales woman cruises by again. She gives me a glance.
I ask, "Is it possible to get just one sharpie?”
"Yes," she says, "we moved that display up front."
I go up front.
There they are. Individual sharpies.
They are 2 for $1.00.
I take one to the checkout.
The woman scans it.
"$1.83," she says.
"The sign says 2 for $1.00," I say.
She looks puzzled.
She walks around to the display.
She reads the sign to me, "2 for $1.00, or…" she squints at the fine print, "1 for $1.67."
I take another sharpie.
She scans them and says, "That'll be $1.08."
Do the math. Everything makes perfect sense.


Gordon Bunker

Monday, October 13, 2014

Day of Rain


Not a breath of air moves, a soaking rain has been falling since dawn. Colors have intensified, the mature greens, rich yellows and reds of fall. The smell of leaf mold permeates the air, reminding me of so many rainy autumn days and times spent in forests I love. I’ve made a cup of tea, and now at my desk sip the hot tangy liquor. Tendrils of steam rise in the chill house.

Water collects on seed pods of white lacy vine just outside the living room door. The vine has had a good time this summer, engulfing the coyote fence around the patio. Droplets form, swell and hang, each a tiny brilliant lens on the world. When surface tension can no longer hold them together they fall. They’ll find their way through the timber deck, to the roof and out the canale, hang briefly on the lip of the metal flashing and fall again. Onward in their march to the sea.

I walk into the village to check in with goings on and have some lunch. My jacket is made for rain, and just about anything else Mother Nature can throw at it. Remarkable, how snug and secure a few thin layers of fabric can be. Rain drops hit puddles, tiny waves spread out in concentric rings, intersect with one another and dissipate. Border plantings of marigolds along the flagstone walkway to the State Law Library are yielding to fall, the blossoms are tired, yet today in the wet, their orange and red vibrate with one last hurrah against the lush deep green of clipped grass lawn.

Heading south on Don Gaspar between Water and West San Francisco Streets I encounter a couple walking north, both are thoroughly engrossed in their respective phones, both of which seem to be chattering at them. One of the phones says with triangulated authority, “In twenty feet, go right.” It scares me, the sense of context, the potential connection to our surroundings and one another the greater we who glue our noses to these things are missing out on. But on the other hand, statistics on world population show only 34% of us have internet access. So I guess there’s hope.

The French Pastry Shop at La Fonda is a beehive of activity. Everyone’s thinking the same thing. We want hot coffee and good things to eat; today in the wet and chill we exhibit no shyness regarding butterfat. I quickly take a small table beside the window, one of my favorite places to sit, and order the aforementioned coffee and a piece of spinach quiche. I pull a pen and sheet of paper out of my pocket. Having already done more than my share of staring at a screen today, the simple blank page before me, ready to absorb my thoughts, is a relief.

The quiche arrives, steaming hot, oh pastry crust, butter and eggs, cream, oh the delicate and savory browned cheese on top. Oh spinach. Each bite is a gift. I write and watch passersby, people seem to be moving quicker than usual. I had no idea so many umbrellas even existed in Santa Fe. Most are basic black (suitable for formal occasions), a few are fashionable colors, moss green, eggplant, periwinkle blue, and yet others are full on design statements, brilliant multicolor stripes, or polka dots.

Rain comes down harder, the sidewalk puddles fill, each surface a riot of ringlet waves. The water finds the breach; there are an infinite number of ways it gets in, and only one way out.

Gordon Bunker

Sunday, October 5, 2014

A Taos Day


After last night’s downpour, Bob suggested it might be too slick to get to the house on the bike. Although a little disappointing, with a few muddy roads in my past, it was a clear pick to take the car. Driving in, I notice plenty of dry dirt between gaping mud craters, enough that I could have navigated the road on two wheels. Darn. But fully across the two track to Vic and Bob’s house, a soupy mud wallow about twenty feet long lays in wait, one which could have easily tipped me over and sucked me in, never to be seen again. I will save The High Road on das motorrad for another day.

It’s beautiful, clear weather. The sky shimmers fathomless, the same heartbreaking blue as alpine forget-me-nots. To the east, aspen in the mountains are turning, brilliant patches of yellow spot nearly black slopes of spruce and fir. From last night’s storm, peaks are capped pure white. The first snow has come. I am reminded of climbing Wheeler in the snow just about a year ago. (Click here for a full account.) This majestic landscape, this time of year, the waning light and colder temperatures bring out so much. Once free of the car I stand and look and breathe deep.
.    .    .

Bob and I go to the Bent Street Café for lunch. We take a table on the outdoor patio in the shade, we wish for sweaters. The chicken tamales with red are so good I consider licking the plate. What is more important: respecting my fellow diners with at least a few shreds of good manners, or getting that last micro layer of chili? It’s a tough call. I split the difference and do my best to gather what’s there with the edge of my fork. Someday, somewhere, in a restaurant I’m going to actually lick my plate, if for no other reason than just to see if anyone objects.

As luck has it, today is the San Geronimo Feast Day at the Taos Pueblo, and so we head in that direction. With the car parked in a field, we along with hundreds of other people start walking. A relatively new, but well-mudded pickup truck pulls up beside us and the man driving asks if we’d like a ride. Sure, we’re game. We clamber in, Bob’s a big guy, it’s a tight fit. The man is part of the pueblo, his face, beautifully ruined by the years, is set with sparkling jet eyes. His short-cropped hair is silver and black. He lives in the old part of the pueblo and tells us the younger members of the tribe have mostly succumbed to desire for the modern conveniences of new housing. “Older folks prefer the simple ways,” he says. Mostly. He is after all driving a new Toyota 4x4. We all make concessions to modernity, while a few of us, the romantics at least, never like admitting it.

At the pueblo we thank the man and hop out and make our way into the crowds. The rambling four story structure, of gold-brown adobe sits against a long piedmont of piñon forest leading to the steep slopes of Pueblo Peak and surrounding summits. The place has spirit. Looking through the crowd I squint my eyes against full sun, all the dots of color, it is as though we are in a Prendergast painting. The Koshare or Sacred Clowns, with bodies painted in broad stripes of black and white, faces smudged with soot, and heads dressed in straw, wander around causing trouble. They hoot and caw. They pick on people, they grab young children to throw in the creek, worried mothers run in tow. This is all in good humor, they do not actually throw children in the icy water, but they certainly put on a good act.

No one is safe and we know it. When the Koshare come around everyone shies away, casting furtive, curious glances. We don’t want to miss the action but at the same time attract too much attention. And so the clowns move through the crowds, hilarious trouble makers.

In the center of the plaza a pole is erected, perhaps forty or fifty feet tall. Strung on cross sticks at the top hang a slaughtered sheep, a net full of bread and squashes and brilliant fabric sacks stuffed with goodies. Long yellow, orange and red streamers shift against the sky. The clowns continue their antics, a few New Mexico State Police officers walk about, and the clowns hassle them. It’s funny to watch. The officers, usually so composed and self-assured, don’t know quite how to take a ribbing.

Things happen here in mysterious ways, and so we stand and wait for the climbing of the pole. More people congregate around the plaza, we stand and wait for at least an hour.

I feel a slight, warm pressure rest against one of my feet. Perhaps it is a child… no… I look and see a dog has decided to lay himself down and use my foot as a pillow. I’ve been chosen and feel honored. Even surrounded by the crowd, the dog is completely at ease. I look up and there’s Cat, surveying the scene, smiling. Not an animal of the cat type, but a woman of the Cat name. It will be later that we introduce ourselves, but I’d rather refer to her as Cat than “the woman.”

“Looks like you have a buddy,” she says.

I nod and smile. “Looks like I do.” The dog stays put and so do I. The little place of warmth against me feels good. I bend down and with my thumb give him a rub from the point of his brow to the furrow between his eyes. He stares blankly as animals do, into the sea of legs, as though lost in thought.

Bob decides to wander around a bit. Cat and I start up a conversation. We talk about how we happened to land here and share laughs over the clown’s antics. We talk about the Taos Pueblo’s generosity having us as guests, and I mention the Deer Dance will likely be performed this Christmas. I’ve attended this one a number of times over the years and every time, it gets right into me.

A clown saunters by and grabs a woman’s hat. “Rut-rho,” says Cat.

“Did you just say rut-rho?” I ask. I haven’t heard anyone else say this in years.

“Yes,” says Cat.

“I say that all the time!” I tell her, and go on about my neighbor, mystified by what I was saying asked me to explain. It was one of those funny wake-up calls, like I must be using this quirky expression regularly, all the while oblivious to the fact most people have no idea what I’m talking about. Having searched my memory, I can think of only one other person who says “rut-rho.” Might be time to start the Astro Club. Membership: 3. But I digress.

The clowns gather around the pole. With tiny toy bows they shoot tiny twig arrows at the booty high above. The arrows rise all of eight feet into the air, the parody is hilarious. Their first few blundering attempts climbing the pole are in vain, but finally, with the crowd cheering him on, one of the leaner ones succeeds. He straddles a cross stick, methodically pulls his knife from its sheath and cuts down the goodies. Working with ropes to those on the ground, first he lowers the squash and bread, then the sheep, then the sacks. Fooling around as they do, they manage to make laugh-out-loud fun of it all.

The clown up top then stands on the cross stick and calls out a lilting chant. People in the crowd continue to chatter and giggle, a woman turns around, I’m guessing she is part of the pueblo. Of imposing stature and face she glares and shushes them. What we have been witnessing has sacred meaning which is kept secret, and it is now serious. Typically, the clown climbs and stands on the very top of the pole. We wonder if he’s going to do it, he stands on the stick, hugging the pole for a long moment. Tension fills the air… but he does not. I later learn this was due to the wind. He shimmies down, the crowd erupts into hoots and applause.

Everyone begins to disperse and Bob reappears. Cat says, “Maybe I’ll see you at the Deer Dance.”

“That would be great,” I say, and we introduce ourselves.

After an ice cream at the Taos Cow in Arroyo Seco, Bob and I take narrow back roads to the mesa. Pitched roof adobe homes of modest scale, parcels of farm land between old fence lines, flowing acequias… timelessness lives here.

At the casa we each get a beer and head for the back portal. Ice cream with a beer chaser. We know how to live. Late afternoon sun floods the portal, the breeze has a chill to it, the soaking warmth feels good. We settle in and recount our adventures, we look out across a vast rolling plain of sagebrush to distant summits. Maybe a hundred miles away, the peaks float on the horizon, only slightly darker blue than the sky above. Iridescent pink and green sun dogs glow in high icy clouds.


Gordon Bunker

Illustration: Southwest Postcard, c.1950