dream ranch

Home from Houston to sunflowers and the mountain.

Home to lizards in the sky.

Home to a classy birthday card from Hope.

Home to Cooper, who is exhausted from five days at the Canine Country Club.

Home to the land where we wring our hands over Google moving 35 jobs out of Moriarty to a bigger place. Home from Houston, a city of as many people as all of New Mexico and second only to New York in Fortune 500s.

Home to news of a state representative’s 18-year-old  son arrested in connection with the fatal drive-by shooting of a high school senior — my heart aching for the families of both.

Home to news of a rescued pit bull escaping from his yard and killing a neighbor’s dog — my heart aching for the owners of both.

Home to a smoky horizon that almost — because I know it is temporary — spoiled my $10-day habit of always parking on the top floor of the airport parking garage so that I can see the mountains and sky sooner upon arrival.

Home to craving chile — either color, although I usually think red when I’m driving up Fourth Street  — steaming tortillas and melted cheese. (But, yes, closer to home, I will wrench myself away from the Range in Bernalillo and try Matt DiGregory’s new place up the camino).

Home to a place where I can still drive 55 up old Route 66, along the railroad tracks and past the alfalfa fields of Sandia Pueblo, instead of joining the crowd on the interstate.

Home to good neighbors. And home to good people like former state Rep. Ed Sandoval, who  really do think about others, write me nice notes and remind me that the world is not all about Trump.

Home to a place where we probably should do a better job of agreeing on what we are — We are not Houston — and go from there.

Home to turn 66, stop on the road to take pictures and write a few words.

Home to start again.