dreamranch

I have run across more evidence of long-simmering Texas-New Mexico tensions, once again involving Billy the Kid — and this time Roy Rogers, too.

After a photo of Billy allegedly playing croquet emerged in 2015 — or a photo of someone wearing a cockeyed hat like The Kid — the Fort Worth-Star Telegram sniffed in an editorial: “Billy the Croquet Kid? Not much of an outlaw.”

Expanded portion of photo handled by Kagin’s and featured in National Geographic TV special.

My own view is that the murderous Kid is highly overrated as a New Mexico legend. But he keeps cropping up. I keep writing about him too, but mostly because of the croquet scandal.

My most recent thoughts, though, involve a pre-croquet example of Kid fascination and a talking horse. I am never sure how unidentified flying thoughts actually enter my air space, but I think these might have occurred after I caught a glimpse of the 1938 Roy Rogers flick, “Billy the Kid Returns.”

The title is tricky title because The Kid has already been shot dead by Pat Garrett and the plot really revolves around — it almost hurts me to say — good guy Roy being mistaken for bad guy Billy.

At any rate, I managed to scribble down this conversation between Roy Rogers and his talented palomino mount, Trigger. The snide implication is clear: Texas is always bigger and badder.

“What do you think of these New Mexico bad men, Trigger?” Roy asks.

Trigger shakes his head and neighs.

“You’re right,” Roy says. “They wouldn’t make common chicken thieves back in Texas.”

After being reminded of yet another Texas-related New Mexico put-down, make note of this: Both Trigger and the movie hail from California.

I now look forward to finding the 1940 film “Billy the Kid in Texas,” wherein, according to Wikipedia, “Billy the Kid runs into his old friend Fuzzy in a wide-open Texas town” and the Texans end up electing Billy sheriff.

Happy trails, New Mexico.

Father, son, sister

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June 16, 2019

I have been thinking about this photo, too, on this Father’s Day, a family photo from the 1930s. It’s my father, Bob Robertson, and his father, Homer W. Robertson, helping my father’s older sister, Marcella Jean, who suffered from cerebral palsy. Marcella couldn’t walk on her own and had trouble speaking, but her mind and eyes remained sharp through her 65 years, and she maintained just enough coordination to read the newspaper, laid open on the floor, by swiping the pages with her toes. She lived her whole life at home. She loved her family. She also loved Elvis.

Aces

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June 16, 2019

Two sharp guys making the Sunday New York Times crossword look easy: My brother, Pat, and our late father, Bob Robertson, Stinson Beach, California, April 1991. (Although Dad appears to be getting a little help off-camera from another NYT crossword whiz, his wife and our stepmother, also Pat Robertson).

Spirals

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June 10, 2019

The last thing I read last night, sitting up late, waiting out the wind, was Larry Calloway’s account of his trip with a daughter to Mississippi. He called it “A Tale of Two Stairways.”

The superficial reason for the title was his discussion of two circular staircases. But Larry usually climbs higher. The staircases both make two complete turns, each a double helix. One staircase is in the Natchez mansion of a one-time slave owner, built before the Civil War. The other is the “Miraculous Staircase,” built after the Civil War, for the Sisters of Loretto at their chapel in Santa Fe.

My own mental wanderings this morning — a little more complicated than usual — included god, destiny and DNA. I stumbled across a double helix in an illustration of the DNA molecule. It resembles, of course, a spiral staircase.

Larry linked the two wooden staircases in a piece that seems mostly about slavery and maybe the spirals of history. I enjoyed it, as I do anything he writes. I have to note I appreciate things in an unlearned way, with no more mental discipline than my easily distracted blue heeler, Cowboy. But Larry usually sends me up another spiral staircase or two, anyway.

But go wind your way up the stairs yourself. Larry is always fun to read. You can start at http://larrycalloway.com/.

Poor New Mexico: So close to Texas and Colorado

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June 2, 2019

Tormenting me Sunday with that maddening New Mexico question: Texas Antelope Squirrel or Colorado Chipmunk?

Slightly scratchy

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June 2, 2019

My sisters use the word “scratchy” to refer to mild irritability. I often find myself scratchy in June and I blame it on the weather.

Here’s a note I wrote on the morning of June 1, grateful for coffee gifts, old and new, but grumpy about the atmosphere.

Saturday morning: Thank you, Hope and Susan. I am at the moment drinking my regular Whiting Coffee from Albuquerque (in the “Fresh Roasted” bag at rear) but your gifts are helping to keep my spirits up, after a glorious May, on this prototypical first day of June: Heat, smoke and gunfire echoing up the Las Huertas drainage from the Santa Ana Tribal Police shooting range. I am already covered in summer-onset bug bites but hoping for afternoon rain

Sunday morning update: Don’t judge the weather by the cloud cover: No rain yet; long sleeves and pants for bug deterrence on last night’s walk; face mask for gusty winds; 45 percent humidity, ugh. Whoever coined the “dry heat” wisecrack wasn’t around here in June. I will dance when the monsoons arrive. For the time being, I am, of course, blaming high pressure from Texas.

These are called mammatus clouds, photographed Sunday afternoon. They didn’t deliver. Typical pre-monsoon posing. All hat and no cattle. But is that a funnelito descending at right?

Placitas weather report

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May 29, 2019

Tantalizing but distant.

I am a little consoled by familiarity with high desert oddness. Placitas, New Mexico, gets an average of 11 inches of rain a year. A place I used to live, at the foot of Mt. Tom, north of Bishop, California, in the Owens Valley, gets about 5. Both places lie at the foot of big mountains and near big rivers.

Springing ahead

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May 16, 2019

A month to go, but I’m here to give you a spring report. The looks of things change fast.

The weather’s changing, too.

Critters are doing their thing.

It’s time for spring cleaning and maybe some home repair.

Certainly there will be more bird-watching, conditions permitting.

Maybe even a new selfie is due.

“Crazy”

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April 17, 2019

My favorite discovery so far this rainy day is that Willie Nelson wrote and originally recorded “Crazy” for his 1962 debut album, “Crazy,” the song soon made more famous by Patsy Cline.

Willie Nelson, 1962:

Patsy Cline, 1962:

I am a late learner, so please forgive me, those of you who have known this forever. I was still suffering through junior high school in Santa Fe in 1962, my only knowledge of love maybe a couple of lingering crushes from Acequia Madre Elementary School a year or two earlier. I don’t believe I acquired a transistor radio until later in the 60s.

I AM NOT GETTING SAPPY. It’s just that I like both versions of “Crazy” and was happy to discover the relationship of the recordings. And I don’t often listen to music anymore — too much CNN has has fried something upstairs or I’m still recovering from newsroom cacophonies, or both — so I don’t know how this happened.

But I also note this Willie Nelson quote from Wikipedia, saying that Patsy Clines’ version of “Crazy” carries “a lot of magic.”

Cowboy is three

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March 10, 2019

Happy birthday, Cowboy. March means you are three.

The start of Daylight Savings Time seems like a good day to call yours. You are easy to associate with a lost hour of sleep. But I’m glad you are on my case.

Your were a sick pup when you came. I’d say you’re plenty healthy now.

You are an active, always-alert blue heeler. I try to keep up. Our friend Dianne thinks I should have named you Hoppy for the spring in your step and silver and black, Hopalong Cassidy coat. I joke that I should call you VLA, for the Very Large Array.

You recognize the sound of my COPD inhaler as a sign we are about to walk. I know that taunting me with socks and hats is just encouragement.

You put up with with my slowpoke literary efforts. And I still believe you can be Rin Tin Tin.

I knew we were solid three summers ago when we watched your first rain. You were a foster care dude up until then. I don’t know if you remember the tick bite and long stay at the vet before you arrived.

Don’t worry, minor infractions have been forgiven. By the way, cucumbers are better with yogurt and dill.

And thanks to two-legged, neighborhood friends, Lori and Dianne and Allie, and four-legged friend, Sara, for being our pals and helping to keep you entertained.

Thank you, Cowboy, for keeping me amused and often on my feet.