I heard that phrase in the dialog of a movie with Natalie Portman called Planetarium. She and her sister were clairvoyants in Paris. But at some point early in the movie, her sister spoke that phrase, and it rang in my ears. It was like a light went on. You never know you were living before a war.
I realized that could be perceived in two different ways and both profound. When war comes unexpectedly, your life is suddenly changed. You didn’t expect to be under attack, without work, shelter, food, power. You didn’t know that was coming. You didn’t know you were living before this! Then, it could also mean, you don’t realize how good you have it, until you are confronted by something like war. You never know you are really living before you are thrown into a conflict you never wanted or asked for. Suddenly what is really important is your only concern.
I feel like this phrase is so applicable to what America is going through right now. We all heard the predictions. We all said, this can’t happen. We believe in the strength of our systems and the belief in The Constitution. We trusted the courts and believed in the checks and balances of our system of laws. Now America is in deep trouble. Too many ignored the signs, thought their vote wouldn’t change much. Too many turn a blind eye when another red line is crossed. There is deception happening in every department of our government that is not aimed at helping the American people, but in covering up for a system of corruption, greed, and abuse of power. The Supreme Court has been compromised, military leaders with great knowledge and understanding have been unceremoniously sent packing because they support the Constitution over a tyrant and an incompetent TV celebrity.
We, as a country, are weaker, more vulnerable, and are disrespected across the globe now. We have betrayed friendships built by presidents of both parties. We have abandoned allies and made heroes out of dictators and strongmen. The White House has been tuned into a casino styled brothel to appease the opulent tastes of a baby while he sells all manner of disgusting trashy cheap merchandise to bilk the sycophants who come to pay their tribute. He has soiled the integrity and respect of our nation with his crude behavior and hateful rhetoric.
I am afraid for our country and the cancer that grows from making people fearful of their neighbors and their police. From the lies and disinformation that are spread by hateful people bent on creating hostility. By the selfishness of those who have come to believe that everyone is out to take what is theirs. By the greed of corporations and the lack of respect for those who work to produce what America actually needs. I am afraid for America because of the growing desire among middle-aged men to create war in this country, who take pleasure in power and intimidation over others and are frothing at the bit to unleash their AR-15s and play American patriot. I am afraid for America with every small loss of some part of our freedom and personal rights as human beings. They can be lost one at a time, small things, seemingly not affecting you personally, until one does, then you realize you and people you know and love, have already lost more than you ever realized, and you can’t fix it. How quick we are to ignore the lessons of our past histories.
I applaud those who stand up to confront corruption, who stand up for the rule of law, of fairness, of due process. I applaud those who speak freely against tyranny and fascism. Who still believe in integrity and truth and responsibility. I applaud any person serving the public who refuses to bow to unlawful acts or unconstitutional demands. I thank you for your courage. I thank you for your voice. And I thank you for your belief in America and the Constitution.
I hope we all survive this war. I never expected we would be in one here on our own soil in my lifetime.
Looking back over time, I tend to see my life in stages based on where I lived. I’m not sure why that is.
My first memories are not of my first home. I left Cedartown, Georgia, when I was only two years old. So, the house I grew up in on Bucher Drive in Decatur, Georgia, was the “first” place I lived.
The house was small. Two bedrooms built in the 30’s or 40’s I imagine. There were six of us and a dog and a cat living there most of the time. My sisters shared the front bedroom. My brother and I the back. My parents slept on a pull-out sofa in the living room. Most distinctly, I remember the floor furnace in the little central hallway that we would stand around on cold days. It would stink if you stood on the grate in the floor with your sneakers for too long. There was a large patch in the drywall alongside the furnace, where my brother and stepfather broke through it while having a family disagreement. My brother was about 6’ 1” and 180 as teenager and had reached a point where he was not enjoying being at home any longer. We had a huge ceiling fan in the attic above the hallway that sucked the hot air through the house in summer. Can almost hear it squeaking. I think they finally put in a window air conditioner in the kitchen when I was about 12. I slept in an iron bunk bed with my brother on the top bunk. Among my favorite things were the ice cream guy that would come down the road in summer ringing his cowbell, and the Bakery Man who would come to the door with his fresh bread and treats, and the laundry man who delivered my stepfather’s shirts and always had a stick of gum. It was a hard time most of the time, to say the least. I was ready to leave that house. We all left eventually.
I then lived in a similar small house in Chamblee, Georgia, with my wife and new baby. It was horrible little house with bad floors, a yard that was little more than a steep dirt hillside. It belonged to my wife’s uncle as a rental. We simply paid the $65 per month mortgage and utilities. I painted the place inside with terrible colors. What did I know? The place was burglarized twice by a kid down the street. When I left that house six years later, I left pretty much everything behind to start over.
Briefly then I lived in an apartment, by myself, just off Piedmont Park, in Atlanta. It was a small apartment building, built back off the street. Very quiet, peaceful, in a beautiful part of the city. After living in two cramped small houses with other people, I was finally in a space all by myself. The feeling here was solitude, freedom, relief. No other voices. No conflict. No need to escape. I had never experienced that before. My stay here was short, but impactful.
Next anchor point was on Brunswick Street in Rochester, New York. This was a ground floor apartment in an old, converted home. The top floor was divided into two additional apartments. Typical of areas around universities. Our apartment ended up being a U-shape wrapping around the front hall and stairs. I remember that apartment as funky, comfortable with big windows, great light, and a nice fireplace. It was a great neighborhood with cafes and shops in walking distance. I didn’t have a car at this point and rode my bike most places. My job at the medical supply company was only just around the corner about two blocks away. It was a place I grew a lot in a couple of years, inside. A new city, a new part of the country, a new job, new love, new outlook, new artistry, new ambitions, new discoveries. I was here only two years.
Then came the move to Lexington, Massachusetts. We were working to establish ourselves as photographers and about to produce our first book. So we wanted Boston as a business hub. I had married into a wealthy (at the time) family and our wedding gift was an amazing house a half mile up from the Lexington Green, four houses from John Hancock’s house, and what a house. My social security wouldn’t even pay the property tax on that house today. A three-story Queen Anne Victorian with a turret on one corner, golden oak entry and hall with stained glass windows on the stair landing and in the living room. Parquet floors, a huge kitchen with pantry, screened back porch, four bedrooms on the second floor, and three more rooms on the third.
Master bath had a huge claw foot tub and a toilet with a tank high on the wall and a pull chain. There was an old barn and 400 foot-deep lot and an old apple tree that we eventually cut down. I built a darkroom in the basement. What a house!
I got stopped by the Lexington Police one afternoon. Said I rolled through a stop sign. I pulled into the driveway which was only about 100 yards from the stop sign I had evidently ignored. And the officer, who had pulled in behind me, asked me for my ID which I produced. I was in my mid-twenties at this point. He said, “you live in this house?” I said yes. He said, “in all of it?” with a surprised tone. I said yes. He looked puzzled and gave me back my license. I never felt like I really belonged in that house. It was beautiful. An amazing investment that I wish I had today, but it never felt like it was mine or that I deserved it. I loved Boston. But after four years, my wife wanted to return to New York. To Ithaca, New York. And so, we did.
The proceeds of the big house in Lexington were then reinvested into a house in Ithaca on Cayuga Heights Road. Cayuga Heights is the community next to Ithaca and Cornell University that is considered the old upscale part of town. Cayuga Heights Rd is sort of the professors’ row. A lot of faculty here, a couple of the fraternities have big houses on this road. The university president’s residence is also here. So again, a neighborhood that I did not feel like I belonged in. I am not a doctor or astronomer (Carl Sagan’s house was around the corner). I don’t even have a college degree. What am I doing in this neighborhood? Ithaca is a town of students and a lot of hippy style back to nature crowd. Farmers, artists, musicians. So, when people in town would ask me where I live, I would never say Cayuga Heights Road. I would say on the east side of town. That way it would seem like Dryden or Varna. Otherwise, I would expect the same reaction as I got from the Lexington cop.
My next transition was six years later when my wife decided she was willing to throw away ten years of marriage to see what she could have with another man. I left the day she said that and took a room for about two weeks at Wonderland Lodge on the south side while I looked for a place to stay. An ad in the classifieds brought me to Margie Rumsey who owned the Buttermilk Falls Bed and Breakfast. She called me and said, I think I have what you need. A huge old white house directly in front of the state park entrance. She offered me a small efficiency apartment on the third floor of the house on a month-to-month. I jumped at it. It was the most therapeutic thing I have ever done. I was struggling with the dissolution of my second marriage and operating a stained-glass business in Ithaca. Emotionally I was a train wreck. But I had my first computer, a chunky Kaypro with a tiny screen with green text and two floppy drives (this was the early ‘80’s).
The house was at the base of Sandbank Road, a steep winding climb up the hill to get to the upper end of the park. I would climb this hill every night and run out to the end of the road and back for exercise and to relieve the stress, then come home to the tiny apartment and sit with a Harvey’s Bristol Crème and write in my journal that I called “The Barf Bag”. I got back down to a 30 inch waist and 135 lbs. Margie Rumsey was into foot reflexology and gave me a foot rub one night. She was one of those incredibly interesting people that you cross paths with in life, ever so briefly, who does something that changes you. She gave me a refuge that saved me in a bad time but brought me back to earth. My time there was only a matter of a few months but was a time of incredible change.
I left Buttermilk Falls to move to a third-floor apartment on Main Street in Trumansburg, New York, which became one of the most satisfying places I have ever lived. The building was originally the Odd Fellows Hall and the top floor was their meeting hall. I still had my stained-glass business but was closing my storefront to work only on commissioned work. The building was owned by a fellow named Jim Furman who I knew well as he was also a stained-glass artist with a small studio in the back of the ground floor. The top floor apartment went the full length and width of the building with high pressed tin ceilings and hardwood floors. The walls were covered with wainscoting that had alternating strips of wood that were dark then light and the windows and doors were all surrounded by wide moldings. There was a room in the back that became my bedroom with a large window looking out on a gravel parking area and Trumansburg Creek flowing through town. There was a tiny trap door at the entrance door where members would give the password and there was a small stage built in the back dining/kitchen area. Jim had added another bedroom and a bathroom in the middle of the huge hall breaking it up into nice spaces, even large enough to move my glass business into and work at home.
Just down the street was The Rongovian Embassy, a fabulous bar and restaurant that, in it’s hey day, was one of the hottest spots for music in the whole area. The Rongo was run by Brooksy. Known in town for probably dealing drugs on the side, but had an incredible bar with great Mexican food and the best musical talent that came through town always played there. There is still a stained glass window in the wall of that building that I built for Brooksy. I loved that apartment. I would watch the annual parades go through town from the front windows. There was a diner next door and a laundromat next to that. I stayed in that apartment for a few years and have to say it was one of my favorite places to live. Today, the two long flights of wide, creaky stairs would be a challenge everyday.
Sally had come to live with me and we moved to the home of her best friend’s father-in-law. He was a minister and currently assigned to a church in the Adirondack mountains.
But he had a property on Coddington Road south of Ithaca that needed a tenant/manager. There was a ranch style house with a basement apartment (rented) and another small cottage on the property (also rented). There was also another large house on the adjacent lot that belonged to his brother who lived in Florida and was rented to three women. There was about 5 acres of land with a large pond and a view into the valley. I rented and managed all the property. I loved riding the John Deere to cut the grass. My glass business was in the basement. Sally was working. I had adopted a beautiful Weimaraner named Cocoa.
While out walking her one day at dusk under a foggy drizzle I looked toward town and saw the oddest arrangement of lights in the sky, just above the treetops to the north. I watched the lights for a matter of minutes while the dog did her business and the night came on, and the lights seemed to hover in one area while making a complete rotation horizontally like a series of square windows illuminated from inside passing by your view. Not lights like beams or headlights. There was no sound, no motor noise. Just quiet. I brought the dog in and called for Sally and said, come see this, you’re not gonna believe it. She came out and we watched as the lights drifted slowly down the valley in front of us and disappeared behind the trees to the south. The next day the news was alight with all the UFO reports. Sally eventually decided to move out and I lived in the house a while longer. But the years here felt slightly off balance. I was better with the high ceilings of Main Street.
After finally connecting with a woman (who would become my third wife) that I had known for some time but we were both otherwise committed, I moved to Frontenac Road in Trumansburg. It was her house. She had bought it with another guy, then he left. She married someone else, then they divorced, and now, I was here. It was nature’s paradise. The house was an 1829 Greek Revival farmhouse.
It had been, should we say, altered somewhat by previous owners and she had spent money doing some renovations. But as a house it was what you would expect from 1829. A mass of maintenance, and upkeep, and inconvenience, while still charming. But the setting was stunning. On a gorge’s edge with a spectacular waterfall view. We lived there together for twenty years. Raised a daughter. Then she asked me to leave. The house she said she would never sell went immediately on the market. I felt very attached to that house after rebuilding the steps and railings, cleaning the gutters, building the new woodshed and all those years stacking, hauling, burning the wood and cleaning the ashes and the chimney and trying to prevent the house from burning down. And walking behind that mower all summer was such a joy. And especially all those wonderful winters shoveling the driveway and cleaning off her car so she would be able to just get up and go to work without the effort or mess. Yes, I miss that house. But I’m so happy I have the daughter.
So off to Lansing, New York. Essentially the other side of the lake. Where I happen to find the most amazing house which oddly has an old connection. I manage to rent an old gothic style farmhouse that has been added to a time or two over the years.
It had once belonged to a woman who was a painter and had been friends with my second wife. Then it was bought by a lawyer/real estate family for their daughter to live in while she went to Cornell. The house sits at a corner of two busy thoroughfares and is shielded on one side by a row of large evergreens. The house to the other side is even older. A huge walnut tree dominates the front yard. What was once the back yard is now about 80 storage units. Oddly enough, I loved this place. It was usually very private. The traffic in the storage units was never really a problem and I liked having the night time security lights. The neighbors were distant, I could play my music loud and not bother anyone. The rooms were large, three bedrooms and a bath up, living, dining, kitchen, laundry (once the old kitchen), and a room I called the library (double parlors were typical in these houses) and another full bath downstairs. It was a castle.
The bedroom upstairs was large enough for a small photo studio. The smaller bedroom I used for art storage. The house had large windows and great light. I used the entire house as a set for photographs and portraits. The basement frequently flooded and I had a constant battle with red squirrels. But otherwise, I loved this house.
I stayed in Lansing until I retired from my job and moved to where I am now. Albuquerque, New Mexico. When I began planning this move, I had a picture in mind of where I wanted to be. I had long wanted to move to the desert southwest, since I was young. I had hoped to end up in a small casita with a workshop space or find an old unused store front that could be like a loft space in or around Santa Fe. I wished for something with desert views and lots of sky, a place for a dog. I told myself I didn’t want to end up in some apartment complex. I looked for two years. I ran ads for months asking for the right situation. No luck. I moved in late May of 2023 and ended up in an apartment complex. Financially the only affordable space I could find that wasn’t a dingy basement or was far too small to allow some workspace. So I settled for a two bedroom on a busy main street on the northeast side of Albuquerque. I have made it home. It feels like me and has its positive aspects but was not my vision. Last year was brutal financially and the move was far more taxing than I expected. Finding new friends has been slow but has improved over time.
In retrospect, I have been happier in my life when I have lived alone.
So will this be the last stop? Time is creeping up and sailing by. I’d like to think I’ll eventually find that little casita space with mountain views and a place for a dog. I’m always looking. But for now, this is home. We’ll make the best of it one day at a time! Life’s an adventure.
You know how they say, when you’re dying, your life passes before your eyes. I believe this is true, but it doesn’t happen at that moment. It happens for years as your end of life approaches and your mind has time to recall those moments that were somehow milestones in your life. But what I have discovered is it’s not the most outstanding milestones that come back to you. The birth of a child, the birthdays or weddings. It’s those private moments, those times when your soul was most open to living, that come back to you.
For example, I was sitting in my living room a couple of nights ago. I opened the sliding door to the balcony to let in some fresh air. As I was sitting in my chair, I could hear the traffic noise from the street and a cool breeze blew in through the doorway. And between the sounds of the street and the feeling of the breeze, I was immediately transported to a night in the late 60’s when I was visiting my best friend from high school, Jim Leonard. Jim was living in a small basement apartment in downtown Atlanta. It was underneath a commercial building and was entered from the parking area behind the building. I had brought with me a reel-to-reel tape deck that I had purchased through Columbia Record Club. We were sitting outside smoking cigarettes and listening to the music with the apartment door open. The air was cool and breezy. At some point we noticed the music was no longer playing and went back inside. The tape deck was smoking, the air smelling of burnt electronics, and the tape was spilling onto the floor. I can’t remember the last time I had recalled that night, but I could see it in my mind as if it was yesterday. It’s amazing to me how a breeze and the sound of street traffic could bring it back so vividly.
A few weeks earlier I happened to take notice of an illustration of a dragon done in a Chinese style as is seen in many works of art from China. And a memory came to me of a tiny vase with a dragon raised on the surface that I purchased in China Town in New York City. I was in 7th grade and on a trip with the school safety patrol that was an annual school sponsored trip to Washington, D.C. and New York City. We traveled from Atlanta by train. The memory formed in my mind in an instant, triggered by the image of the dragon. And I could see clearly the small gray vase with the tiny colorful dragon raised on the surface. I have no idea what happened to that souvenir, but I have not thought of it since those early years.
It takes only the smell of burning leaves by the side of the road in the south to transport me back to my childhood, sitting at the edge of our dirt street while the oak leaves raked from our front yard smoldered at the road’s edge. That childhood feeling of transition from summer to fall. Going back to school after months off. That feeling of quiet anticipation. That smell of the changing seasons wrapped in the smokey air as I sat in the grass by the road.
Picking up a paper bag of groceries takes me back to helping my stepfather load and unload the groceries for our family from the trunk of his car.
A smell, a sound, a song can trigger those moments in our mind without warning. They are usually moments that touched something inside, something unknowable, something vital in our sense of self, sense of happiness, sense of life. Little moments that meant something even if we didn’t know it at the time. There’s a verse in a song from Jeffrey Foucault that says,
It’s just flashes that we own
Little snapshots
Made of breath and of bone
And out on the darkling plain alone
They light up the sky
Perhaps as we grow older, we simply have more space to allow these memories to surface by turning off the everyday noise, the daily business of living, and to rest and to give room for the dusty files to reopen. I like to think so.
After my last divorce, I began to consider moving from upstate New York to the Southwest where I had thought for many years that I would spend my retirement. The Southwest had always attracted me since I was very young. My neighbor gave me back issues of Arizona Highways and I began collecting rocks and minerals thinking I would become a geologist.
About five years after separating, I finally decided to start a five-year plan to prepare as an artist and finally move to New Mexico. I picked New Mexico because it is less populated, not as much of a high-end market, except for Santa Fe area, and is more compatible politically. The art market would certainly be better than Ithaca, NY, and it’s not as hot as Arizona. I made several trips out looking at possible places to settle. My dream was to find a place and spend my time traveling around the state taking photos and selling my artwork.
What I didn’t realize is, I’m getting older every day. After five years of planning and waiting and finally moving, which nearly killed me this time, I realize that I should have moved as soon as the divorce was final. Or even sooner. Once out here I realize I am vulnerable and less capable than I was ten years ago. My arthritis in my hips, after many years of working on my feet and carrying heavy camera gear, tells me all too quickly that hiking in three miles and then three miles back is not a good idea anymore. I waited too long to make my dream happen.
I usually talk every week with my best friend who lives in Florida. He’s been slowly working his way toward retirement and cutting back little by little. We talk about his retirement a lot. I know he’s anxious for it. He and I have both lost many family members in the last several years. I have lost most of mine, so I depend on him and his wife for a great deal of support and friendship. Especially since moving. Some weeks back my best friend started getting ill and it seemed like it was getting gradually worse every time we spoke. Doctors weren’t being very helpful in diagnosing whatever was causing his illness. Finally, after many weeks and multiple ER visits, someone paid attention. They discovered that he had an infection in his blood. It had damaged his aortic valve in his heart and caused a tear. So, he was feverish from the infection, weak and low blood pressure because of the heart issue, his lungs were filling with fluid while his body was not eliminating it. And his oxygen levels were sinking. Today they did surgery to repair his heart and now he’s lying in ICU on a ventilator until he can breathe normally again. This is a guy who I always felt was far healthier than I. And for a while today, his heart was stopped on the operating table.
This again brings home to me how important it is not to wait. Because thinking you will be capable of doing all those things you dream of when you finally stop punching the clock is just another dream unless you are lucky. The reality is you age every day. And as hard as you try to stay healthy and plan and prepare yourself, your body or circumstances or accidents can stop your plans in their tracks.
I worked with a young model in the last several years who was a lab researcher in Entomology. There was a traumatic event in her life. And she decided to quit her job and travel and climb rocks, which was her passion. She has traveled with friends and family and climbed and hiked all over taking simple jobs when necessary and living a simple satisfying existence and experiencing wonders I can only guess. And to her I say, bravo for your passion and courage. You didn’t wait.
Life is so unpredictable. And we take a risk every day. Don’t wait too long. Don’t put off your dream, because it may pass right by you on the highway and it’s too late to catch up. Do it now. Find a way. Don’t wait!
At the end of April, I finally left on a short trip I had been planning for weeks. It involved a stop to see my friends, Paul and Shino who have a ranch about 30 miles south of Gallup, NM. I met Paul at a class and we connected. His ranch is his paradise. They have 5 dogs, 5 mustang horses, and wonderful plans to create a small community.
I struck out early at about 6:30 and only got about 35 miles out of Albuquerque when I began to see numerous trucks parked alongside the highway and at exits. Then within a couple more miles I hit a dead stop wall of trucks, both lanes, as far as I could see. I got on my phone and tried to research what the traffic jam was, finding it stemmed from a train derailment outside Gallup with a large fire and possible additional tanks of fuel that could explode, so I-40 going west was closed for almost a hundred miles. I drove across the median and headed back home to Albuquerque, totally disappointed. Once home I called Paul and said, I don’t think I’m going to make it today. He responded with “rest a minute then why not come by the southern route?” This would mean adding about another 80-100 miles to the trip, but I decided that I had planned this trip for so long, perhaps I should just go. And I did. Maybe I should have paid attention to the omen.
I finally arrived at the ranch after a back and forth on the highway trying to locate their road, marked with a very small, weathered sign and some advising from Paul over the phone. We visited for a few hours. I met all the critters and road with Paul around the property in the 4-wheeler to get the overview.
My intention was to get to Gallup with some time to look around the town and maybe get some pictures, but with the additional delays over getting there, I simply chose to get a room and get some dinner. The first place I visited was full unless I wanted the King Suite at $265 a night. Seems all the EPA guys in town for the derailed train were camped there. I went next door and got a room. Pizza at Pizza Hut and called it an evening.
I rose early the next morning and hit the road to Ship Rock up near the Four Corners area. A gorgeous ancient volcanic formation that the Navajos consider a sacred place. I wanted to be there for the morning light.
After Ship Rock, my plan was to travel to Aztec, NM and visit the Aztec Ruins there. Again had a bit of trouble finding the entrance to the park, but eventually made it there. The ruins there are not as massive and sprawling as some others, but are quite beautiful in their setting and a large kiva has been rebuilt to look as it must have looked when originally built between 830 and 1120. One could feel the spirituality of the space.
From Aztec I drove south to Angel Peak Overlook. This park with its incredible expansive views, has a few campsites and picnic areas. My intention was to stay here for the night, and the following day drive to Chaco Canyon about 50 miles further south.
However, I arrived fairly early in the day and at the location of the campsite there was already one other camper there parked next to the restrooms in an older Ford Econoline camper van. I parked and walked to the edge of the fencing, looking at the view. Unfortunately, the serenity of the place was interrupted by the generator the other camper was running to provide him with electricity. Not wishing to spend the afternoon and evening listening to the incessant rattling of a generator in this remote setting, I decided to press on and get the afternoon light at Chaco Canyon and get back a day early.
I found the entrance on Highway 550 with a large sign.
The first mile or so was paved, then became a gravel road, but was fairly well maintained. This, however lasted only another couple of miles. Then the road became angry. The rest of the way into the park, about 20+ miles of it, was some of the worst dirt road I have ever traveled, rutted from tracks when the roads were wet and soft, now dry and hard, and washboard surfaces that jar your teeth loose. The whole way in I kept patting the dashboard and saying “you’re doing great baby.”
The place is beautiful, remote, and somewhat overwhelming. A beautiful park with a paved 9 mile loop through several sites of ancient ruins.
Then came the trip home. I didn’t realize when I exited the paved road of the park, that I was actually leaving by the alternate route into the park. And here, as if the road could not have gotten any worse, it did instantly. I drove about three miles out, feeling very apprehensive over the abuse my poor little van was taking. Then I heard a horrifying pop-hiss and immediately the dashboard signaled “low tire pressure”. Oh crap!. Left Front!
Now let me step back in time a bit.
About a year and a half before I moved, my lease ran out on my mini-van and it was the worst time in the world to lease or buy anything. I settled on purchasing a Ram Promaster City Wagon (Used). Funky little vehicle that gives me hauling capability and can also seat 4. My desire was for a vehicle I could sleep in while riding the backroads of the southwest. It didn’t come with the owner’s manual, so I simply found it online and used that when I had questions. It had new tires and was very clean. Never thought much about a flat tire since I had AAA and when I moved to New Mexico, knowing the distances between services, I got AAA+ that gives me 100 miles towing coverage. I had also recently purchased an auto air pump for those times when the temperature changes and you get those low tire pressure warnings. I hate using those pay-for pumps at the gas station, such a pain. The car has a spare tire under the back like many SUVs that cranks down should you need it. The problem now is, besides the owner’s manual, I didn’t receive the original package of tools for a tire change, which on this vehicle includes a jack, a lug wrench, and a handle for cranking down the spare tire.
I check my phone, no service. I am, after all, in a wilderness canyon a long way from anything. Fortunately, I have water and some food. I have my sleeping gear if I end up stuck here overnight. There were many people at the park, so I feel sure I will see some traffic eventually. The road where I was stopped was leading up a hill. I walked up to the top to see if I could get any cell service, but still nothing.
After about an hour, when one car had already passed without even looking over, a large pick up truck approached and I flagged him down to see if he, perhaps, had a jack and lug wrench. I explained my plight and Roland, a large Hispanic Park Service employee, climbed out to assist. This kind man worked for over an hour trying to help me find a way to get the spare tire out from under the car. But without the correct tools, there was simply no way. Finally we agreed that a tow was the only way out. His phone was able to get service at the top of the hill and he knew who to call. He told me even if I had been able to call AAA, they probably wouldn’t come that far out to my location. I gave Roland the $60 cash I had for all his hard work and he left.
I waited another two hours or so seeing no one and finally a car pulled up alongside and the driver asked, “are you waiting for a tow truck?” I said yes and he said’ “he’s right behind us”. So relief. But it took about another twenty minutes for him to arrive since he had to drive so slowly on the rough roads. Jim was a champ. His truck was a big flat bed and he drove the van onto the platform and secured it.
We then drove ever so slowly the 20+ miles of horrible road back out to the highway and down to the city of Grants, where he was able to drop my van at a tire shop which was walking distance to an old Rte. 66 motel. It was already about 9:30. I spent the night with no dinner and was at the tire shop when they opened at 7. A new tire. A 78 mile tow bill (which hopefully AAA will reimburse). And back home.
First order of business once I returned was finding a set of tools with a jack for my van.
I am so grateful to Roland and Jim. They were my saviors. You’re never as prepared as you think you are. Life’s an adventure.
I moved to New Mexico in late May of 2023. I just renewed my lease here at the complex where I settled in Albuquerque. To say it was a smooth transition would be putting lipstick on a pig. I’ve moved numerous times in my life and it’s never easy. The best part is, I survived it with some bit of sanity left. Some parts were hard. Finding a new doctor, finding a decent barber, adapting to a smaller space and a much tighter budget. The most frustrating has been trying to move my LLC photography business from New York to New Mexico. The application has been repeatedly rejected for filling out the wrong line, checking the wrong box, expired document, or just plain meanness. As soon as this one document from New York arrives again (for the fifth time) that is only valid for 30 days, it will be submitted once again with the multi-corrected application to sit on someone’s desk for five weeks before it’s even looked at. Not to mention, the New York State Tax department decided to audit my return from three years ago and wanted some more of my information. So I answered their questionnaire and sent them the receipts they wanted to see. They then said, pay us $2100. So I contacted H&R Block in Jacksonville, NY and reported to them that I needed their help with an audit, and I had purchased their “Peace of Mind” insurance where supposedly “they had my back” and would handle everything directly. I provided the agent with a POA. Told New York that I disputed their request and gave them H&R’s number. And they took over. About a month in I asked for an update but was told, we haven’t heard anything yet. Then a week later I get another bill from New York. I contacted the H&R agent twice with no response. Finally on April 14th I wrote apologizing for the message at her busiest time, but I need to know my next step regarding the Peace of Mind coverage of this tax bill (supposedly covered up to $6000). She wrote back to say she could no longer help me. That because I had actually responded to New York the first time and did not immediately give the issue to them within 60 days of the receipt of the first letter. They consider that to be “attempting to solve the issue on my own”, so they were no longer bound by Peace of Mind. Of course, no one had ever explained this technicality to me, it was not documented in any of the documents supplied when I received that tax return from H&R. So unless I was clairvoyant or knew to go online and search through pages of FAQs to find the terms and read them before answering NY State, how the hell am I to know that by complying I was screwing myself. If you use H&R, beware of this deceitful practice.
On the other hand, as my friend Mark says, I’m “livin’ the dream”.
New Mexico is huge. Albuquerque is sprawling, but manageable. Traffic here moves along, really along sometimes. But I drive far less than I ever have. Most necessities are not far away. I walk my neighborhood for exercise and there are great hiking trails at the foot of the Sandia Mountains on the east end of my street. Biggest drawback is the traffic noise. But that’s living in the city.
The clouds and skies can be amazing. The roads are long with services few and distant, so you watch your gas gauge and carry water if you’re going a long way. The landscape is so varied and changes in an instant. It’s a land of canyons and mesas and uplifts and lava beds, desert plains and forested mountains. And it’s all BIG.
The sun is so warm and incredibly bright. I am at about a mile high in elevation here and the air is thinner, drier, windier than New York was. I came here from the land where clouds go to die. Ithaca is such a gray place for so much of the year. I’ve been watching the weather and it seems that since I left, there has been a continuous string of snow and rain week after week. I don’t miss cleaning that slop of my car all winter long. Though a good downpour of rain is always welcome here in New Mexico.
Though sales have not blossomed yet, doors are opening in the Santa Fe art market. I just hope I have what this market wants. Friends are coming slowly, but as more social events take place, familiar faces are emerging. I am thankful for meeting Daniel Boardman, owner of Triana restaurant in Albuquerque. A wonderfully welcoming man with great taste, humor, and personality. Triana is a Spanish Tapas restaurant (Daniel is a Tango dancer) with a great chef, great menu, great wine, great atmosphere, …oh hell, it’s GREAT, so go there if you’re ever in town. And my friend, Paul DeSouza, a ranch owner near Gallup. I met Paul at a gun safety class, getting our CCW training. He lives out in the wild west and protection takes a long time to arrive when you call 911 out there. Paul is from India and his wife from Japan. Now he’s tending a few wild horses in his “paradise”.
So my lease renewal deadline is here. I ran my ad for a few months looking for the ideal casita with attached studio that is pictured in the painting “George finds his Paradise”. Had a few nibbles, but no jackpot. So bit the bullet, even with a $100 a month rent increase. But there’s light. There’s cracks in the wall. The barriers come down slowly, sometimes painfully so. But in a desert landscape worn by millions of years of erosion and eruption, we are reminded of patient chipping away at barriers. They all eventually wash away with the rain.
I also want to take this time to mention my daughter, who is graduating with honors with a PhD in Anthropology from Ohio State. She set out years ago to build a sanctuary for primates. And she has done it through shear determination and dedication to her goal. Doctor, you are truly awesome!
I have kept procrastinating about writing this blog. Every time I think I have the subject, another takes precedence. Since moving to New Mexico, I have been struck over and again by how ineffective our systems are that we count on daily. Let me elaborate.
I began back in July the process of moving my LLC (my art business) from New York to New Mexico. This requires a filing of papers with NM Secretary of State which must include a document called a Certificate of Status (COS) from New York saying this company is in good standing essentially. This document, once issued is good for only 30 days from date of issue. It takes a $25 fee and about three to four weeks to get this. So I waited patiently and when the COS arrived, sent it with my $100 and the additional paperwork, to NM.
I waited about 6 weeks for some reply and finally contacted the Secretary of State’s office to inquire about the status of my application. Their reply was, “Oh, we sent you a rejection notice weeks ago.” My reply was, “No you didn’t.” Then the next day, I get the rejection notice. Seems I put something in box B instead of box A. Of course, by this time, my COS from New York has expired, so to refile, I need another COS. So, send another $25 and request to New York and wait another 4 weeks.
I have informed delivery from the post office so they send me a photo by email of mail that I should expect to see in my mailbox. So, after waiting the weeks for the new COS I finally see a message from USPS that it is to be delivered. But three days later still no mail. I go to the local post office. They say we’ll look for it but otherwise, duh! It never shows up. It takes me a week to find out that for some unknown reason, USPS has sent several pieces of my mail, including the COS and two bank statements, back to the sender. WHAT?
Another $25 to try and get COS number 3. Wait another 4 weeks and what shows up but the COS that was returned (now expired) and a day later, the new COS. Finally, I am able to send in the corrected paperwork and the replacement COS to New Mexico. Wait another 4 weeks and get another rejection notice, still something filled out incorrectly. Again, they could not possibly notify me until after the new COS was past 30 days in age. I have requested COS #4, another $25, another 4 week wait. Ready to tear my hair out, what’s left of it. Still am not registered in New Mexico over 7 months later.
To add insult to injury, I get a notice from NY State, my 2021 business return is being audited. So, I sent in over 150 pages of documents and receipts for all my claimed deductions. A few weeks later NY State replies, “You owe us $2700.” I contact my tax preparer and enlist their help. But I must let NY know that I am disputing their claim. In order to let them know, they say the best way is to do so online through your tax account. I open my tax account with NY, and it shows nothing about the audit. I click on the link they sent me, and it takes me to a page that says “log in”. I’m already logged in. But once on this page, evidently not. So I log in again, go back to the same page. And again it says “log in”.
As I investigate the page they have sent me to, designed to allow you to respond to numerous types of letters from the tax department, I see it has two buttons on the page. One says “respond to form #642-E” or something to that effect. The other button says, “respond to another letter”. I click on that button. My form that I received is a form 650-E. I scroll down the list to the reference my number and it says for “unemployment benefits”. Wait! I don’t understand!
I call the help number at the tax department. Of course, it has an automated system saying, “if you are calling about X, press one.” And so on for about eight or nine departments. You must listen to at least six or seven of these before you can determine, oh, I should have chosen number two! Number two, of course, takes me to someone who says, “This is not the department that can help you, I will transfer you to someone who can.” She then transfers me to a woman who, when I explain that I am confused because the website says responding to a form 960-E is about unemployment benefits, but my form 960-E is about business income tax, she says, “well, I think you should respond to it anyway even though it says ‘unemployment benefits’.” I tell her I am worried that if I do so, that it will end up unrecorded in the correct place and I will end up with greater penalties and interest. She says, she doesn’t know and I should do as she is telling me. So, I mailed in my response by certified mail, return receipt, and gave up on the online system, where it should be the easiest path. NOT!
This is what we face every day. People in help positions that do not know the answers, online pages that should be there to help you, but instead only confuse. Your call is transferred, you wait on hold for 15 minutes, then you get disconnected. You call back and have to go through eight levels before you get to a real person again, and they don’t have the answers. Or, you’re talking to a service in Mumbai and cannot even understand your fast talking agent. Customer service rarely exists anywhere anymore. The customer has been abandoned for the sake of profits or reduced budget. And anyone who thinks government or business support websites are “convenient” lives in a wonderland. We all know better.
On another note, as long as I am pointing out my disillusion with humanity, I have noticed on my Facebook Page, in some of these stupid Instagram and Tick Tok videos that I get hooked into watching (they are addictive and highly ridiculous in many cases) that people are on the streets of America asking the simplest questions of young Americans, and they can’t answer stuff they should have learned in elementary school. How did these people even get out of school in the first place? Our education system is in deep trouble. Kids today have their faces too glued to their phone and live in a world of electronic ignorance. They can’t even name the countries that border our country, or the capital of the USA. They can’t do basic math. When asked, “if you were born 10 years ago, how old would you be today?” They stutter and stammer and say, well, I’m 22, so I guess I’d be 12. When asked, what state is Utah in, they don’t even realize it’s a trick question. It makes me very worried about what is coming for our country when people are so incredibly ignorant, can’t add and subtract, don’t know basic geography or history. With Ai taking the place of logical human thought and experience, and the overwhelming dependence on social media and algorithms that shape our lives, where will the new generations take this world, or will tech run rampant and eliminate logical thought all together. It is no surprise that our country’s political system is in chaos, and technology, social media, and unchecked misinformation are to blame for becoming the educator of the ignorant. What have we done to ourselves?
Put down your phone. Turn off the TV. Read a book. Study nature. Talk to people and teach them. Please!
As I watch the news daily and see the wars and constant coverage the resulting whiplash effect across the world, I am somewhat amazed at the reactions. We have all been aware of the plight of the Palestinian people for years. They have battled with Israel for decades. And there were times of peaceful negotiations that benefited the people and looked like a way out. But outside forces bent on Israel’s destruction find the Palestinians as easy targets for proxies in their war. No one wants this kind of war. War is brutal and cruel and benefits only the powerful and the weapons industry. People who have little are those hurt most, because they are forgotten not only by the world in general, but by their own governing party. Hamas knew full well what their brutality would be met with. I don’t believe anyone thought that an attack so horrific would not be met with brute force at an exponential level. We are shocked by what we see. But the same has been going on for many months in Ukraine, and the same and worse is happening all over the globe. But we ignore it until it is shoved in our faces. And with the immediacy of news coverage, cell phones, on the spot pictures of the actual brutality that war is, we scream STOP! But we are all such hypocrites. We vote for huge military budgets, we fuel the weapons industry, we elect hawks as leaders, people who have much to gain from war, and then ignore the brutality and inhumanity that occurs daily in remote unreported wars. How do we even look in the mirror. We are all to blame. This is what war looks like. Think about your part.
Peace is only possible when we teach our children not to hate.
Today was Saturday at the Indian Market in Santa Fe. This is an annual event that brings in hundreds of Native Artists to display and sell their incredible art. The entire plaza downtown as well as streets extending off the plaza for blocks were lined with tents and booths filled with jewelry and silver and turquoise, paintings and prints, clothing, weaving, photography, pottery, sculpture, and on and on.
I left early to get there in time to find parking that wasn’t a mile away. I settled for a quarter mile. People were streaming in from all directions on foot. At nine o’clock the place was already swarming with people. It was so amazing to be in a crowd this large with thousands of people passing in random streams and groups, people stopping and chatting, that no one seemed angry, fearful, rude. The news every day and the social media is filled with so much hate and discord, and angry rhetoric. Videos of robbery and fighting and shootings. People being assaulted on the subway. And here were thousands of people passing and talking and chatting in very tight places sometimes, and people were courteous, and friendly, and laughing. So much of what America is in most cases, and yet we are shown such a different picture in what we see in the media. I walked for two hours, saw about half, then my hips started saying, remember the walk back.
The kids here are already back in school. Here’s a sign of my age. We got three months off. When I was a kid, we usually got out around June 2nd or 3rd. And you didn’t go back until after Labor Day. I would think the teachers appreciated that as much as we did. It was a time when kids with means went off to camp. Those whose parents worked two or three jobs usually got sent to Chattanooga to spend a week here and a week there with relatives. The Boys to the Great Aunt and Uncle and the Girls off to Granny and Grandaddy. Then trade at the end of the week. I always hated that drive to Chattanooga. It was a lot of two-lane highway then and my mother was high anxiety. She was usually a nervous wreck by the time we arrived.
Someone on Facebook recently posted the question, “what was your favorite thing about childhood?” I had to think hard. It was a long time ago. I eventually wrote, “The freedom of riding my bike”. And I realized that I don’t look back on my childhood as a very happy time in my life. I do remember receiving my bike. I was probably nine. Christmas. Big surprise and unexpected. It was a red and white Columbia with chrome fenders. No gears. Coaster brake. This was before 10-speeds. If you had an expensive bicycle it was likely a Raleigh (English with a 3-speed hub). I’m sure my Columbia was straight out of Sears. But it was freedom. It was the ability to be gone all weekend and cover a lot of ground around town. For years I had gone back and forth to downtown Decatur on foot. To friends houses on foot. Now I had wings. Sometimes we attached playing cards to the frame with clothes pins so the spokes would make a motor like sound. And my neighborhood was ideal for bike riding with little traffic and some good hills. I was mobile. I was free. I was ecstatic. That bike took me everywhere and was my lifeline. I also still have vivid memories of the first major crash as I sped around the curve on our dirt street. The pebble that caused the front wheel to go out from under me as I leaned into the curve peddling hard. The gravel and dirt that was embedded in my bloody palms and knee where I hit the hard dirt street. Lessons learned.
Kids today ride electric scooters and skate boards. My first skate board was a 2×4 piece of lumber with an old, disassembled roller skate nailed to the bottom. Metal wheels. Try ridding that one, kid! Ten year-olds today have $500 cell phones. I remember the thrill of my first transistor radio. It was AM only and I believe had all of 10 transistors. Prior to that I had a crystal radio. No battery required, single ear phone. You attached an alligator clip to a metal object to use as an antenna. I used my iron bunk bed at night. Then you twisted a small shaft up and down to tune it. Also AM signals, but they travel so far, particularly at night. From my bed in Georgia I could listen to WAPE in Jacksonville (the Big Ape) or stations in Chicago. Today kids can see their friends while they talk on the phone and listen to any piece of music ever recorded at the touch of an app. Wireless earbuds.
I grew up in the south. With segregation and fear of atomic war. Fallout shelters were the rage. It was a time of gas wars, when competing oil companies battled for your dollar. I remember gas at 25 cents a gallon. A carton of Winston cigarettes was $2.50. Hersey bars were 5 cents. My stepfather drank moonshine whiskey, clear alcohol in gallon Mason jars that he purchased from a chicken farmer in Stone Mountain, GA. We drove past the mountain in those days on a two lane road. There was no park, no lake and carillon and train ride, cable car. It was a big rock with an unfinished carving and a quarry in the back where convicts cut granite curb stones.
I grew up in the days of propeller driven passenger airplanes and two lane highways before the interstate system. My family spent a vacation camping on the road cut for the Blue Ridge Parkway in the Smokey Mountains. The road wasn’t a road yet. Bulldozers were cutting it through the forest and my stepfather proceeded to drive this path into the woods until the car became stuck on a large boulder that got jammed under the rear-end of our car. It took my stepfather hours to dig that boulder out. My mother swore that a bear came into our camp while there and stole one of our blankets.
I spent much of my meager allowance as a child (which grew from 25¢ a week to $1.25, then I had to start earning my own money at around 9 or 10) at the Army Surplus Store. Cool bags and pouches, patches and insignias, and machetes and bayonets. Just what a young boy needs to play war in the woods. My friend, Scott and I used to play around an abandoned commercial greenhouse that had all the windows broken out. The heating plant used to be a coal fired boiler, but all that stood was the huge brick chimney. We used to climb inside that chimney. The floor of the green house was littered with broken glass and sharp coal cinders. And we used to swing over this on old flexible electrical conduit. It’s a wonder I am still alive.
As a photographer, I tend to be keenly aware of change. One week a tree is on the corner that you pass occasionally, then suddenly one day, it’s gone. And you don’t recognize right away but something feels wrong. Then your memory reminds you there was a tree there, and now it’s gone. You notice it because now the sun is in your eyes as you approach. You’ve lost your shade. I watched the places I have lived change. Sometimes pleasantly, and sometimes, sadly, in a way that feels like loss. Life is a circle of gains and losses. Hopefully maintaining some sort of balance, a fairness, a give and take. Joy and grief, ease and struggle, thrift and abundance. Hopefully some sort of balance.
Hind sight is 20/20, it just takes bifocals to see it. And a good flash light.
I set out five years ago to make a major change in my life. Saturn was coming around in my chart again so it’s time. Since I was twelve years old, living in Decatur, Georgia, working for Lilian Strufee who lived two houses down, I have wanted to live in the southwest. She used to give me her old issues of Arizona Highways magazine. I would look at those images of the cactus and red cliffs and huge blue sky and picture myself prospecting or riding horseback or sitting next to a campfire under the stars.
So I began planning to retire from my day job of 13 years, and finally pursue my art and play my guitars and take some time for me in the desert southwest. At 73, I think I’m due.
I chose New Mexico as destination. Santa Fe was too expensive and very hard to find accommodations that suited my needs as an artist. So I settled in Albuquerque. Of all the states in the southwest, New Mexico is a state with a population of just over 2 million spread out over a lot of square miles. It’s a blue state surrounded by a lot of red. The people are incredibly friendly. The population heavily native and Hispanic. The elevation here helps to keep the temperatures pretty tolerable. The low humidity helps keep the heat from feeling too oppressive, but forces me to keep my guitars in their cases unfortunately. I noticed one day when looking at the weather forecast that the humidity that day was 5%. That’s dry!!
As I prepared to leave my job and say good-bye to my friends in New York, everyone kept asking if I had family in New Mexico, or if I knew people there. My response was always, no. I don’t know anyone and I have no family there. And they would usually say, “Wow, that’s brave of you.” I guess I never really thought too much about that since I have always felt better living alone. And I have always told my daughter, “life is an adventure, so make it a good one.” It does feel somewhat vulnerable not to have a back up system of some sort. But time will bring acquaintances and new friends and the back up system will develop. My family and best friends are spread all over anyway, so it doesn’t really seem so different in that respect.
The move was way more stressful and exhausting than I had ever anticipated. I packed all the boxes myself in advance. And there were a lot of boxes. I disposed of a lot of furniture and household items. Got a good sunburn at my moving sale. I used ABF Freight with their U-Pack system for the major move. They were great. But having to arrange for help with movers, people to do the actual heavy lifting and packing of the truck, was another story. Be wary of Craig’s List movers. They may say professional, but they are anything but. If I had not been directing these clowns on how to shift and carry and load some of the furniture, heaven only knows what the result may have been. They all arrived late, at both load and unload. Some things were damaged, some broken, but all in all, nothing irreplaceable lost. I had to split the delivery between an apartment and a storage facility as my place here would not accommodate all my artwork or studio gear. Hopefully this will change next year. I’m happy I got through it without a stroke.
A month into being a resident, I am still waiting on a key for my mailbox and the post office just doesn’t seem to know why it’s taking so long. I am having to pick up mail at the post office, which has also not gone well. I need documents from NY to move my LLC to New Mexico, and New York just can’t seem to respond. It took three trips to the DMV to obtain my license and plates. Bureaucracy is a bitch! These people talk fast, treat you like a three year-old, and don’t want to waste time listening to you.
But I am here, alive, settled in, have my books and artwork on the walls, and have staked out a shaded parking place in the complex parking lot. It is taking some adjusting getting used to the loss of privacy compared to my place in NY, and the city noise. But it soon becomes unnoticed background.
The biggest adjustment is actually retiring. It’s a bit hard to keep track of what day of the week it is. I find myself asking “what do we do today?” I have miraculously already landed a gig to place a selection of my artwork in a new restaurant here. A door opening to start building that network and make those friends for my support system. And I have mounted a map of the state on the wall where I am plotting out my travel plans and explorations. Nothing like new territory and unseen places to spark the creativity.
I am becoming a New Mexican. Eating green chili burgers and learning how to pronounce some new vocabulary. I am excited to watch the change of seasons, to find those favorite camping spots and vistas and overlooks. I am anxious to learn more of the history, culture, and flavor of this part of our country. It is new, and different, and beautiful in so many ways.
We are too often afraid of change, but you have to change to live.
ImageGuy 