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

The 2014 Santa Fe Concorso

The forms, while static, give the impression of being in motion. Multiple, flowing lines sweep past me in complex curves, some converge, some drift apart as they recede into space. Sunlight glints off hand polished surfaces, gentle shifts from light to shadow give volume to intersecting planes, while views of the distant landscape delineate negative spaces around, and thus define the whole. I am moved, not physically, but in spirit, by the fruit of a great creative effort.

I could be talking about Umberto Boccioni’s 1913 Futurist bronze, “Unique Forms of Continuity in Space,” or the Ferrari Spyder featured on The 2014 Santa Fe Concorso program cover. The language of inspired design and craftsmanship, and the feelings we experience witnessing it, are universal.

Being a guy, I enjoy a natural affinity for curvy forms, and being at least partly a product of my culture I’m a car enthusiast, so, The Concorso coming up this weekend is a natural go to. If however you find yourself thinking, “I’m not into cars,” this is ok, but think again. That this is a car show is only the beginning of what it’s all about.

Enthusiasm is one of my favorite words, and has its roots in the Greek entheos (I’ll let you look that one up). It’s a great feeling when we have it, and when we see it in another, it’s infectious. This is the magic of going to The Concorso. As in great works of art, this quality, the touch of the enthused hand, the inspiration, is right before us and impossible to miss.

.    .    .

I’m into paint. It started when I was fresh out of college and landed a job in a boatbuilding shop (which also gave me an eye for line and form). Early on I got handed a tack cloth and a brush and was given the task of varnishing mahogany brightwork. Up to ten coats of spar varnish would be applied to decks and hulls, with hours, sometimes days, of hand sanding in between. From this I developed a deep appreciation for the tender loving care put into any glossy, visually deep finish. Many of the cars at The Concorso have coats of paint so rich they look like they’ve been dipped in cream, then polished to a mirror finish. Literally, one can make out blades of grass or grain of pavement in the reflections.

The underlying body work… often in aluminum, sometimes in steel, or carbon fiber composite, is typically hand made. In the forms, and oh, those delightful curves… not an awkward line can be found. Breaks between panels are perfectly consistent, surfaces flow without interruption.

The details… edges with ever-changing and flawless radii, flowing tapered trim pieces, chromed and polished, all are beautifully fair curves. Relish hand stitched and deeply tanned leather upholstery, varnished wood burl or engine turned aluminum dashboards, and lead crystal headlamp lenses.

The hood ornaments… the Rolls Royce Spirit of Ecstasy, AC’s Greyhound of The Road, Hispano Suiza’s Georges Guynemer inspired flying stork, all symbolic of grace and motion.

The engines… the mechanical hearts of the beasts, many are technological marvels of their days. Machine work as lovely as jewelry, and not limited to what we can see on the outside. Disassemble one of these engines and you’ll find the same care and attention has been applied to the internal parts. Labors of love.

And the sounds… the clatter and gear whine of an early Porsche air-cooled flat 6, or the wild rasp of a Jaguar straight 6 at full song, the uneven syncopation of a flat plane crank Ferrari V12 firing up… Bella musica! When I have the opportunity to listen to these machines running I close my eyes to fully pay attention, tears often come.

You see, this is a feast for the senses and the spirit. This is about the risks inherent to innovation and the greatness of human endeavor. Whether a world-class sculpture garden or the grounds of The Concorso, what we partake in and come away with are the same: feelings of deep appreciation, inspiration and awe.

One hundred eleven cars from 1904 to 2015, eight motorcycles, and fourteen bicycles will be on display. I’ll be there.

Gordon Bunker

For more information, click here: The Santa Fe Concorso

Cover Photo: Winston Goodfellow

Graphic Design: Inkway

The Savory Spice Shop

“A stranger is just a friend I haven’t met yet.”

Will Rogers

For those of us who like to cook and more importantly, eat, there’s a gem on Galisteo Street.

Good fortune visited one day by my simply being downwind of The Savory Spice Shop. The aroma greeted me well before I made it to door. Complex, rich, pungent, aromatic, it was all there, a world of smells. What is this? My sensory horizon shifted in an intriguing way. Stepping inside, I saw row upon row, jars of spices of all description. Owner Kate Wheeler greeted me in her friendly Scot manner, with a gleam suggesting she’s always on the verge of some kind of mischief.

I’d been tweaking a recipe for gingerbread cake and was looking for powdered and candied ginger with some kick. The woman helping me asked, “what will you be making with the ginger?”

“Gingerbread cake,” I said.

“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, “you better bring some for us!”

“I might just do that,” I said.

This little tease was all I needed. A few hours later I reappeared with two big chunks of the cake, still warm, with the zest I was looking for. The expressions on everyone’s faces were priceless, and I’ve practically been family ever since. Tremendous fun! Since then I’ve had a chance to get to know Kate and the Spicettes a little bit.

Kate has a Culinary Arts degree from Johnson & Wales University, has cheffed for a number of restaurants, and one of her sidekicks, Lydia, is a chocolatier. Of particular note, for seven months Kate did the cooking at McMurdo Station in Antarctica, “In the summer,” she says, “yeah, not crazy. A little crazy, not a lot crazy.” With an average low in the mid-twenties, below zero, winter in Antarctica has to be a lot crazy.

About ten years ago, “I stumbled onto Savory on a first date with my now husband Drew,” says Kate. “I fell in love with both and a week later had the job and had the man.” Kate became employee #3 at store #1 in Denver as a Grinder and Blender which is another way of saying she started at the ground level (no pun intended), and has worked her way up. A little over a year ago, says Kate, “it was time to start my own dream.” They moved to Santa Fe and opened the current location.

Since my initial foray into gingerbread I’ve moved on to other savory treats, and found cinnamon, poppy seeds, cayenne and sage, cardamom and I can’t remember how many others, more aromatic, more flavorful, and more interesting than anything from the shelf at the grocery store. Now I’m on to making my own garam masala and curry from scratch. Like, wake up those taste buds!

Kate and crew also teach cooking classes for up to fourteen students, everything from Spice 101 to Sauce Class to Sephardic Moroccan. “It’s a demonstration class,” says Kate, “so I cook for them and feed them, because that’s one of my favorite things to do.” With Kate at the helm these classes have to be a lot of fun; one of these days I have to take one. Heck, I just want to eat.

Gordon Bunker

The Dictionary and The Pawnshop

The world is filled with things we don’t yet know we’re interested in, which for those of us with explorer mentalities is the fuel for the fire. The dictionary in my computer gives me one word at a time, and out of convenience I use it almost every day. But a printed version, of which I have a few, gives me a hundred or so words at a pop, and this why I love them.

Is a potato a tuber? I’m editing a document claiming it is, but for some reason I have rhizome stuck in my brain. I need to know which it is, but I’m out for a coffee and my phone is not a “smart” one. Not particularly dumb, but not smart. Writing in “rhizome?” will have to suffice. When I get home my curiosity has me, the laptop is shut down, so I go to the shelf and pull out my copy of The American Heritage Dictionary, blow the dust off the top and open it. The binding cracks, it’s been a while.

Looking up potato seems like a good place to start and the thumb cut for “OP” gets me pretty close. I open to the pages for “Pathan” through “pay.” As I write this, Word’s spellcheck doesn’t know what a Pathan is and gives it a red underline. Huh. Must get a note to Bill about this oversight. Fully aware I won’t find a potato here, I scan the pages anyway, thinking, “Wow, look at all these cool words!” Patisserie, patriclinous, patroon, patulous, pavid and pawnshop, to name a few. A patroon, by the way is “A landholder in New York and New Jersey who was granted certain proprietary and manorial powers under Dutch colonial rule.” Just sayin’… after all, you never know when this one might come up.

In the far right margin are black and white photos of a pawl and a pawnshop. I get out a magnifying glass for a closer look. The pawnshop is Uncle Ned’s Money To Loan. Oh, this is too good, I want to know about this place so turn on the laptop. Uncle Ned’s used to be on Washington St. in Boston. An interesting coincidence, Houghton Mifflin Company published the dictionary, and they’re a Boston institution if there ever was one…

I can see Carole, the picture editor, right up against the deadline and Jeff walks by her door. Jeff, a sweet Midwest kid, is a summer intern from Cranbrook. Pawnshop is clearly on the photo list for the dictionary, all the others are checked off, but not that one. How did this happen? “Damn it,” Carole hisses under her breath. No time now to get one from a stock agency. “Jeffery!” she shouts. Jeff does an abrupt about face. “In my office, please.” Carole is already digging through her bottom desk drawer for the camera, she beckons Jeff into the teetering stacks of contact sheets, prints and manila envelopes otherwise known as her office with a vague wave of her hand. She spies the camera underneath her lunch and yanks it out of the drawer by the neck strap, forgetting there’s a ripe peach in the paper sack along with her standby peanut butter and pickle sandwich. The sack falls to the bottom with a moist “plop.” Jeff’s standing there gawking at her, wondering if he’s in trouble.

“Jeffery, we need a picture of a pawnshop. As of yesterday.” This is before digital and she’s sweating it. She thrusts the camera in Jeff’s general direction. “And get the film to the lab before they raise the drawbridge!”

It’s 11 a.m. Everyone knows the in-house lab closes at 3, and those guys understand the meaning of punctual. (“The door locks at 3 p.m., got that?” the lab manager made quite clear to Jeffery when Carole was introducing him around on his first day.)

“Yes, Ma’am,” says Jeff, smiling, albeit meekly. “Any particular pawnshop?”

“No,” says Carole. It feels like yesterday she was an intern at HMCo., and now this one’s calling her “Ma’am.” She peers at him over her spectacles and purses her lips into a smirk. The kid’s looking a little bewildered. “Now go!” Jeff skidaddles, and she calls, “thank you…” as he vanishes down the hallway.

On his way by the copier, Jeff stashes the paperwork he was taking over to Pronunciations in his mail tray. He runs out the door with the old Pentax swinging around his neck. “This could be my lucky break,” he thinks. He stops short on the sidewalk, amid the crush of people, most in smart business attire, and the traffic. Downtown Boston traffic. “But where am I going to find a pawnshop?” he asks no one in particular. A man in a three-piece suit walking by turns and says, “Southie,” without skipping a beat. Jeff’s a smart kid and has started learning his way around, so he heads for Tufts to catch the Orange Line for the South End.

The wheels of the hard worn Pullman howl on the track, the car pitches from side to side. Lurching along, Jeff pops the cap off the camera lens. It is filthy. He pulls out one of his shirt-tails. This is not how they taught him in school, but this is no time to stand on ceremony. He blows on the lens, then breathes on it and then gently wipes it with his shirt tail. It’s an improvement. He checks the light meter and it works, then advances the film thinking he’ll take a test shot. The thumb lever cranks around too easily. He studies the camera for a minute before it dawns on him, “Oh crap! Is there film in this thing?” he says. The grizzled old-timer hunched across from him with a tattered Macy’s shopping bag between his legs looks up. Jeff cranks the rewind knob and there’s no tension. “Crap!” he repeats and stamps his foot. Now he’s on the train to Roxbury, on his first big assignment with a camera but no film. Somewhere, somewhere there has to be a place to buy film in Roxbury.

But Jeff doesn’t make it to Roxbury. From the elevated track he can see the South End is not what he’s used to. Forlorn people, seemingly without purpose walk the streets. Junk cars, places of unsavory business. As the train presses on, rather than seeing any indication things are getting better, by the minute they’re looking worse. The train stops at Northampton. This neighborhood is downright rough. Other passengers get on the train and sit down, some blankly stare at him. Jeff looks at himself. Nice button down shirt, khakis, and his favorite Top-Siders, and no, he’d tucked his shirt back in. He looks around at the people and smiles, but they do not smile back. Although one young woman is grinning, a thread of friendliness, he hopes. When Jeff makes eye contact with her he blushes. She snickers, he waves and slowly she turns to look out the window, shaking her head. “I’d like to get out of here,” Jeff thinks.

The train remains stopped for what feels like forever. He studies the storefronts, Skippy White’s Records is the one cheery place all painted up. But CD’s are in and LP’s are out; Skippy, poor guy, must be headed down the drain. Just as the train starts to move he sees next to Skippy’s, Uncle Ned’s Money… He strains his neck but the view is lost. Could that have been a pawnshop? Rolling along, Jeff feels hot and antsy, it might just be worth taking the chance. He gets off the train at Dudley Station, he’ll walk back, it’s no more than four blocks. With some luck he’ll find a place that sells film and Uncle Ned’s will save the day.

With the usual bounce in his step he runs down the stairs from the elevated platform, he’s on a mission. But now he’s on the street, and in the scene. Watching it flash by from the train was one thing; this is another. It’s dirty, there are bad smells. Trash blows around and pigeons skitter. Listless panhandlers sitting in doorways call to him for money. “Bud, spare some change… my car’s broken down and…” He shakes his head and keeps moving. A man is curled up on the sidewalk, in full sun with a newspaper draped over his head and he does not move. A stream of dark yellow urine trickles across the pavement into the gutter. Jeff’s heart is pounding, gripped in fear and pain he’s on the verge of tears. An inbound train crashes by overhead, he wishes he was on it.

He hurries on his way, scanning the storefronts for a place to buy film, and spots a sign down a side street with big red letters: CVS. Making a beeline for it, he ducks in, it’s air conditioned and a lot of people are milling about, they’ve brought their sweet and sour smells in with them. People are lined up waiting to have prescriptions filled, the pharmacists work behind steel bars and thick safety-wired glass windows. There’s a bullet hole in one of them. Red-faced men and women with their bottles wait patiently at the liquor checkout. A sign says, “WE CARD.” Jeff doesn’t see a photo section, so nervously walks up a clerk who’s stocking magazines.

The clerk gives him an gauging look. “Hey man,” he says in a voice as graveled and deep as his face is lined. A cigarette dangles from his lips.

“Excuse me, do you sell film?” asks Jeff.

“Used to.” The man mashes a dozen copies of Tiger Beat into the rack. Jeff starts to turn. “Wait a minute,” says the man, “we might have some leftovers out back.” Rubbing his hands together in a cunning way, he says, “follow me.” Jeff tags along with him to the back of the store. The man presses a sequence of numbers into a lock on the storeroom door and pulls it open. “Wait here.”

Jeff looks around. Racks of asthma inhalers, pain relievers, sleeping pills… humidifiers, bottles of bright green mouth wash, condoms, diapers, light bulbs, hair color, laundry detergent, motor oil, rows of nail polish, every color of the rainbow.

Another clerk comes out of the storeroom, a sweaty plump woman with long wavy black hair. She looks Jeff up and down, sucks her teeth, says nothing, and saunters away. The man comes back with a dusty cardboard box. “This’s what we got,” he says, holding it out for Jeff to dig through. Jeff sees a spot of green among the little yellow boxes. He grabs it, a roll of Tri-X, exactly what he’s looking for. He studies it, the film is out of date but he knows it will work.

“I’ll take this,” he says, smiling broadly, holding up the box. But a wave of apprehension fires through him. “What do I owe you?” he asks, knowing the man might gouge him.

The man looks at him, narrows his eyes but then smiles. “Take it,” he says. An ash falls off his cigarette into the box. “Put it in your pocket and get outta here.”

Jeff’s hand shakes as he stuffs the film in his pocket. “Thank you, Sir!” But as soon as he’s spoken he knows this alone has made too big a deal of it.

The man doesn’t look at him. He nods his heavy head once and starts unlocking the door again. “Kid. Just get outta here.” And he disappears.

Back on the street Jeff finds a doorway to sit in for a moment and loads the film in the Pentax. He clicks the back of the camera shut, advances a few frames and with this feels much, much better. He jumps up and is again on his way. In the midst of all this hardship and suffering he found a friendly and generous person. He has a block to go, and there is Uncle Ned’s… Money To Loan. It is a pawnshop.

A big LTD coupe is parked in the shade of the elevated. It’s gold metallic, it has lots of chrome and it is polished and dazzling. Three gold balls hang from the inside mirror, it must be Uncle Ned’s car. An outbound train grinds to a stop overhead. Jeff picks his best spot to shoot the picture. A man loiters by the door, studying the window display. Ned is inside, feather dusting the jewelry chest with mother of pearl inlay, the off-brand boom box and the prize Fender bass on display in the window. He looks out and sees a kid on the street, too clean-cut to be from here, with a camera. Slowly the kid raises it to his eye, he’s taking a picture of the store. Too young to be IRS.

Without thinking about it, Ned straightens his tie. He has class.

.   .   .

Uncle Ned’s is no longer, Skippy White’s is still in business at a new location and a potato is a tuber. I’m still thinking about rhizomes and remember visiting the Wentworth-Coolidge mansion on the New Hampshire seacoast. In a heavy morning fog stood the first lilac to come to North America, gnarled but alive and well, dripping, resplendent in the fragrance of deep amethyst bloom. At least I think lilacs have rhizomes.

And lest we forget, the Pathan: “An Afghan, especially one of Indo-Iranian stock and Moslem religion.”

Gordon Bunker