It was another tough day at the office for Cooper, with John moving room to room with his books and computers and that much younger short-haired pointer Sara visiting all afternoon. I caught my usually watchful dreamranch pal resting his eyes after an early dinner tonight.
Previously on dreamranch: The no-so-bookish club.
She gave us life and love, one and all.
I was down in the dumps for a while but then realized I was reading only about Trump, Custer and the newspaper business.
My spirits are lifting now. I know there is no saving of the newspaper business as I knew it, but I remain hopeful about journalism and journalists.
I foresee Trump following in the footsteps of Custer, in terms of over-confidence and miscalculation. I am not happy about a summer of heat, sweat and blood, but I have also learned that it rained in southeastern Montana on the night of June 25, 1876 — described as “cold and miserable” rain by Nathaniel Philbrick in The Last Stand but, I have to think, cleansing and hopeful, in other ways, during a hot, dry month.
Fortunately, I ran across Washington Post editor Martin Baron’s commencement address at Temple University, and appreciated his diagnosis of the times as well as his call to younger journalists: “Now you will be called upon to do remarkable things.”
Meanwhile, I have decided to have more fun.
I will continue to pursue my interest in the breaches of the Treaty of Laramie of 1868 as a key to understanding the transformation of a continent and the end of a way of life. But I also will continue trying to photograph green hummingbirds in cherry sage through my dining room window, with the efforts so far looking like this:
Why, I have asked, hide my beautiful old Trucker skis in the garage, even if I haven’t used them in years and never used them very well?
Maybe I’ll get them on the snow next year.
My Custer reading continues to lead me down new trails. I’m a little embarrassed that I have only now gotten to James Welch, but am glad that I am there.
So, these notes are not just about losers,
but blue skies, too.
Front coming in and tonight’s walk looked like an Ingmar Bergman film, even with the inartfully named Fendler bladderpods coloring the way, but I refuse to be gloomy.
Coop and I got in a little exercise in and around our meditative rest stops. Cooper sniffs the air. I take pictures. At least we stretched our legs.
Had to go Bernalillo today for an eye checkup and (successful) book search at Under Charlie’s Covers and drove down to the Range for pie and coffee after. The place seemed busy for 2 in the afternoon. Monica, the counter person, guessed it was probably people passing through for the Gathering of the Nations pow-wow — over 700 tribes and several thousand dancers — this weekend at the Pit in Albuquerque. She said her Jicarilla Apache aunties danced at the pow-wows into their 80s. It is a big deal. A lot of people come.
And just when I get grouchy about having to go to town, I am reminded how much I like New Mexico’s diversity and small-townishness.
At the Vision Store, I ran into a lady whose family has lived along Las Huertas Creek for hundreds of years. I have lived nearby for 24 years and still feel like a guest. We recalled meeting at a Christmas party at the home of another neighbor, now gone. At that same party in Placitas, I discovered that I lived down the road from the hosts as a teenager, way out Tano Road, north of Santa Fe. The husband had been a Manhattan Project engineer at Los Alamos and they lived and raised their kids outside of Santa Fe before retirement along the banks of Las Huertas Creek, 70 or so miles to the south.
Meanwhile, I noticed on the way into the Range that someone has removed the kokopelli figures from the tile mural outside the front door.
Typical New Mexico, I think: land grant heirs, nuclear engineers and sacrosanctity of Native American religion.
Meanwhile, I try to stay objective on my walks, even when it’s gray. But I gotta admit that a cheery text message from sister Hope in Montana as Cooper and I set out helped lift my spirits.
I’m still trying to figure out how to shoot in low light with my little pocket camera. This is what it looked like — minus the graininess — by the time we got home.
I am counting on my Albuquerque Journal photographer friends to take good pictures at the pow-wow, as they always do. I have never gone. The thought of all that drumming in a sunken basketball arena packed with 17,000 people scares me away. It might be only slightly less noisy than a Lobo basketball game, but I haven’t been to one of those since 1982 (Georgetown — Patrick Ewing).
Still, I remind myself that it’s probably short-sighted to take in the Gathering of the Nations from the counter of the Range.
Old Cabezon suggests a new canvas every night. I wish it also would reveal a plot or two.
Hard to get any reading done when you are under friendly but constant scrutiny. Cooper is delighted to have Sara for company today, but the three of us are having trouble getting on the same page. I guess I will fall back on the little dog wisdom I have: When in doubt, go for a walk. Which probably was their plan all along.
April morning, after the storm.
Birds here.
Cooper, Sara and some of Lori. Back on the trail after a rainy day. And, yes, retirement is good.
Head kept getting lost in the clouds.
One big photo op.
dreamranch 