Tales of the Southwest: Yes, Arizona, You Were Once Part of New Mexico

            Historical fact:  New Mexico was once a huge hunk of real estate.  Portions of the original New Mexico Territory went to Nevada and Colorado.

            And…

The whole state of Arizona was once part of the New Mexico Territory.

            I have recently discovered in this age of talk radio, hyper-partisanship, situational reality and just plain ignorance that this fact has been apparently lost on some people.  I discovered this on a visit to Tombstone in the Grand Canyon State.

            The Lady of the House and I pulled into our motel.   It was evening and the proprietor of the place was hanging out with a few guests.

            The proprietor and I went inside so I could get registered and get a room key.

            As I came out a fellow struck up a conversation.

            “I heard you say you’re from the east side of New Mexico,” he said.  He had obviously overheard my transaction.

            “Yup, right up against Texas,” I said.  “You from Texas?”

            “Yes sir!” He said, “Born and raised in Dublin.”

“Dr. Pepper,” I said, referring to the town being the home of the Dr. Pepper made with pure cane sugar.  They’re not there anymore.

“New Mexico used to belong to Texas,” he said.

            “Yep, yep,” I said.  Did I sense this fellow was spoilin’ for some kind of fight?

            “Texas claimed everything to the Rio Grande.  Hell, there’s Texans still in Ruidoso who haven’t heard that yet, didn’t get the news, place is full of ‘em” I said with a smile.  “And the whole state of Arizona was part of the New Mexico Territory.”

            When I said this, conversations going on on the side stopped and all eyes were on me.

            “Naww,” said The Texan, “New Mexico was part of the Arizona Territory, Arizona didn’t want it.”

            I stood there and thought about the situation. 

Years ago when I had more vinegar and testosterone running through my veins I might’ve stood there and argued with this slightly inebriated fellow from The Lone Star State who didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.  The Lady of the House has said she’s glad she didn’t know me back then.

            “We’ll just have to agree to disagree, brother,” I smiled.

            “Well you’re wrong,” The Texan said, raising his voice a bit.

            “Y’all have a nice night,” I said smiling, touching my hand to my forehead in a slight salute.

            The next day on the way back from the motel office I encountered a fellow sitting in the sun and enjoying a refreshing brewski at about 9:30 in the morning.

            “You’re that guy who thinks Arizona was once part of New Mexico,” he said.  “It warn’t.  New Mexico was carved out of the Arizona Territory.”

            I stood there and thought about the situation.

            “Well, brother, The Lady of the House is waiting on me back in our room to make her a nice hot cup of tea, so I don’t have time to quibble.  But there are maps, there are history books full of facts.”

“Revisionist liberal horse sh*t, I’d bet,” he said.

“I’ll bet you like talk radio,” I said with a smile.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just a passing thought,” I said. “Who’re your favorite talkers?”

“Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh,” he said.  “I kinda like that Alex Jones too.”

“Simple fact…when the U.S. clobbered Mexico in the Mexican-American War in the 1840’s we grabbed about 3/5ths of Mexico…what would be California, Nevada, Utah, Texas, Colorado and the New Mexico Territory.  The New Mexico Territory was so huge that chunks of it went to Nevada and Colorado.  Then they carved out the Arizona Territory from it.”

  “Here’s something else,” I said, “In 1853 Santa Anna sold off a chunk of Mexico we called the Gadsden Purchase ‘cos he needed cash.  If that hadn’t happened we’d be standing in Mexico now.”

            “Sheesh,” he said.  “That’s bullsh*t.  Santa Anna was kilt at The Alamo.”

            “How do you know this?”

            “Saw it in the Alamo movie with John Wayne,” he said.

            “Are you sure?” I asked.

            “That’s what I remember,” said the fellow.

            “Santa Anna lived long after The Alamo,” I said.  “He didn’t die until 1876.  As a matter of fact he lived in New York City in exile from Mexico from 1869 to 1874.”

            “Well,” said the guy as he had another swig of his cerveza.  “Now that's a load of sh*t.”

            I smiled and walked back to my room.

            Sometimes there’s just no point in arguing.

                                                -30-

Appalachian Tales: The Radio Wedding

  Word came from back in the hills the other day, Bobby “Big Deal” Thompson passed away three weeks ago.  He was 74.  Man, had it been that long since I’d last seen him?  Almost 40 years ago when he was in his 30’s?

  Actually word didn’t come from the hills, I just like saying that because it reminds me of the old days when you’d get a letter with a line in it like “Son, did you hear?  ’Big Deal’ passed away on December 1st.”  No, I was mindlessly surfing the Internet and typed his name in to see what he was up to.

  Well, he was dead.

  Bobby was the cousin of Tommy Thompson who had the big new car dealership in the little town tucked back in the hills and hollows of southwest Virginia’s coal country.

  Bobby was what some might call a “character.”  He was loud, he was boisterous, he was funny.  Bobby made money in the mobile home business.  His ship came in with the big flood of 1976 when a bunch of folks lost their little ol’ shacks by the rivers and needed homes.  He wasn’t profiteering, he was just in the right business at the right time.

  So after many years of being a “sportin’ man” (that means having many a girlfriend) he settled down with his beloved Barbie.  Yes, her name was Barbie.

  I was a morning disc jockey and newsman at the li’l ol’ AM station back there in coal country.  My boss was Grumpy Dave.  That wasn’t his name, but I called him that.  He was a grumpy man.

  Grumpy Dave came in the studio one day.

  “’Big Deal’ wants to have a radio wedding,” said Grumpy Dave.

  “So we’re doing a remote from a church?” I asked.  I envisioned having to work on a Saturday and broadcasting from some church.

  “No,” said Grumpy Dave, “It’s here tomorrow afternoon right after the news at 1.  Bobby bought a half-hour of radio time and he wants the whole town to know he’s getting married.”

  I leaned back in my chair and laughed.

  “Well that sure is different,” I said. “What am I supposed to do boss?”

  “Just go with it,” said Grumpy Dave.

  The next morning I talked up Big Deal’s wedding on the morning radio show.

  “Heeeey, join us at 105 this afternoon for quite possibly southwest Virginia’s very first radio wedding,” I’d say.  “If anything, Bossman Dave says there’s gonna be a lot of Elvis music.”

  The appointed time approached.  People began to trickle in to the radio station lobby around 1230.

  Then just before 1 Big Deal burst through the studio door with a stack of Elvis records.  Big Deal was a big strappin’ fellow well over 6 feet tall.  He had coal black hair combed back like Elvis or Conway Twitty, whoever you thought had hair like that.  Big Deal was just one of those fellows who’s presence in a room got your attention.

  “Hey,” he said, “It’s my radio pal.”  Big Deal had a big smile.  He stuck out his hand.  We shook.

  “After the vows are said I want you to play ‘The Wonder of You’ by Elvis, that’s me and Barbie’s song.  Then just play Elvis for the rest of the time I bought.  You know I’m Elvis’ long lost brother,” he smiled and winked.

You know, Big Deal DID kinda look like Elvis with his jet black hair combed back, his white tuxedo and white shoes.

  So Big Deal and Barbie went into studio B with the big old fashioned boom microphone along with the preacher and a few friends and family.

  The preacher conducted the ceremony, Big Deal and Barbie kissed at the end.  When they finished kissing Big Deal flung out his arms, reared his head back and yelled, “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO BABY!”

  That was when I played Elvis’ “The Wonder of You.”

  You know, that was the first time I’d ever heard that song.

  And now when I hear it I always remember Big Deal’s Radio Wedding.

  Rest in peace, my friend.

                                                -30-

Tales of the Southwest: An American Refugee on the Road to Patagonia

A view near Patagonia, Arizona...Santa Cruz County...right on the border with Mexico

 By Grant McGee
  It was about a week ago, the 16 year anniversary of the attack on our homeland that we call "Nine-Eleven."
  I don't like to call it that.
  It deserves pause, more than a snappy moniker the popular media slapped on it like "Nine-Eleven."     I call it "The September 11th Attacks."
  I was editor at the weekly paper in Tombstone, Arizona at the time.
  That morning before work I had been out walking the dogs when I came back in to the house to the news that a plane had slammed into the World Trade Center.  Then minutes later the second plane hit.
  I can remember walking through the day at the office like I was plodding through waist deep molasses:  Someone had attacked our homeland, like the country singer Toby Keith described it, "A sucker punch."  No one expected anyone to use loaded American passenger jets as missiles.
  No, the world did not stop, the world kept going and the days passed.
  That night I went home and found some black fabric.  I made it into an armband and wore it to work.  I wore that for a couple of weeks.
  No one told me to.
  In my book of life it was to be done:  Our homeland had been attacked and I was expressing my feelings in reaction to that.
  I went over to one of the many souvenir shops that are in Tombstone and bought an American flag.     I pulled it off its little stick and hung it from the visor on the passenger side of my car.  Our homeland had been attacked and I was expressing my feelings.
  It would be days later that the media mavens and pundits of morning network television would say that such displays of the flag were improper.
  "I don't give a shit," I said to the teevee screen.  I talk to the teevee, a habit I come by honestly... picked it up from The Old Man.  Anyway, I went on talking to the teevee about the flag, "It's my flag, I'll display it the way I want to.  I'm an Eagle Scout, I know the rules."
  The OK Corral/Wyatt Earp/Doc Holliday aficionados started putting up artwork, that classic scene from the movie "Tombstone" where The Earps and Doc Holliday were walking down the street headed for the OK Corral...behind them an American flag, a bald eagle and the smoldering twin towers with the caption "Tell them we're comin', and tell them we're bringing hell with us."  The prints sold like hotcakes, I was told.
  And the world went on.
  Weeks passed.  Months.
  One January day I was taking stacks of papers to all the stores around Tombstone where they were sold.
  On the west side of Tombstone I dropped a bundle off at a convenience store then stepped outside and paused to take in a deep breath of the cool air and feel the sunshine.
  "So you live around here?" It was a woman's voice coming from the side.
  I turned and there was a young woman, maybe 30 years old, sitting on a bench in front of the store having a soda.
  "I work here in Tombstone but I live in Bisbee," I said.  I sat down on the bench across from her on the other side of the door.
  "Yeah, I saw Bisbee, it has possibilities," she said.
  "Possibilities?  You going to start a business?"
  "I'm thinking about moving out here," she said.
  "'Out here'?" I asked.  "Where you from, Tucson?"
  "No," she said.  "New York City."
  "Wow, that would be a radical change."
  "Yeah," she said, taking a sip from her bottle and looking out over the Cochise County desertscape.
  "Whaddya want to move way out here for?"
  She turned and looked me in the eye, she furrowed her brow and scrunched her face like she didn't understand.
  "September 11th," she said.
  It took a few moments for what she was saying to sink in.
  "Ohhh," I said.
  She had another sip from her bottle and looked back out over the land.
  "I breathed that dust from the collapse of the towers," she said.  "I was that close."
  I wasn't going to touch her nerves by prodding her about her running from New York.
  "That's still a big move," I said.
  "I don't want to hang around and see if they do it again," she said.
  "So what do you do?"
  "I'm a teacher.  I can find a job just about anywhere."
  I stood up.
  "Well," I said, "If I had my druthers I'd live in Patagonia."
  "I've heard of that," she said.
  "It's about 30 or 40 miles off that way," I said, pointing southwestward.  "Small town, remote."
  I stuck my hand out, she reached and we shook hands.
  "Good fortune to you in your search," I said.
  She smiled.
  I pondered that American refugee sitting on the front porch of a store in Tombstone.
  I thought about her getting the hell out of New York after our homeland was attacked there.
  I wondered if I would do the same thing.
  Who was I to judge?
  I wasn't walking in her shoes.

                                                           -30-

Tales From the Edge of the Earth: Time to Pack Up the Computer

Groovy scene at Johnson Beach, Gulf Islands National Seashore, Perdido Key, Florida

               The Lady of the House and I are moving back to Clovis, New Mexico.

                While I’ve been wrapping up my work at my radio job she’s been busy packing up the place here in Pensacola, Florida.

                There's a room filled with boxes and the house is getting emptier and emptier.
                It's about time to box up the computer too.

                I’ll write about my Pensacola experience someday, but not now.  I don’t have the words.

                I started another work this morning called “If You Stop Learnin’ You’ll Start Dyin’” but I stopped because the words wouldn’t come after a while.  I wanted it to be funny and it started not being funny.

                Because I really didn’t have a damn good time while living in Pensacola for the past two years.

                I ain’t gonna blame anyone.  It just happened.

                But it was a good learning experience…seriously.

                The Lady of the House learned that mosquitoes love her, most of the year.  Swarms of them.

                We both learned we really are small town folks.

                I learned that my roots and my heart really isn’t Southern, it’s Southern Mountain.  There is a difference.

                But I also learned that the folks of the Southern Appalachians (that’s pronounced “apple-at-chan”, you folks who want to pronounce it fancy…well….)…are much like the folks of eastern New Mexico and west Texas.  Don’t ask me how that works, it’s just so.  I think my first book will be titled “Cowboys and Hillbillies.”

                I learned that if I really have a bad experience in life I go quiet about it…I tend to bury it.  I really didn’t know that about myself.  So when I return to The Golden West you won’t find me saying much about the past two years.

                I’ll tell you this…I’ll tell you what I’ll miss about The Florida Panhandle…

                I’ll miss our house…a sweet little bungalow built in 1932 out of wood.  It has wooden floors.  It has a vintage kitchen that reminds me of my grandmother’s with a swinging kitchen door whose springs squeak as it opens and closes.  I will miss this house.

                I will miss Perdido Key.  I won’t miss Pensacola Beach with its ungodly traffic jams and throngs of people.  It is a mess.  They don’t want that dirty little secret revealed, those chamber of commerce types, but the traffic is horrific.  I don’t care how they try to whitewash it, if you put lipstick on a cow it’s still a cow.

                I know the original saying is “If you put lipstick on a pig, etc…” but I like pigs.  Cows ain’t the brightest bulb in the pack, they’re sweet, but….

                Back to Perdido Key.  I like it because it’s a lot quieter compared to Pensacola Beach or the Alabama beaches to the west of it.  If people ask me where to go in the Florida Panhandle I’ll always tell them Perdido Key.

                I’ll miss Giorgio, the dude who ran a little food trailer in Perdido Key where he sold what The Lady of the House and I considered to be the best gyros on the planet.  Giorgio is selling his food trailer, he may be closed now…after 8 years of bothering no one he suddenly got caught in the crosshairs of county regulations.

                The Lady of the House says she’ll miss the produce...the variety, the freshness.

                She says she won’t miss how avocados seem to go bad so quickly in this area.

                And she’ll miss Joe Patti’s Seafood Market where throngs of people come for fresh fish and stuff.

                We’ll both miss Joe Patti’s Seafood Restaurant.

                We won’t miss the traffic…so many traffic accidents, so many traffic jams, so many people running red lights, so many people speeding.

                And we won’t miss the rude people who seemed to have come from someplace else and sullied genteel Southern culture.

                I’m remembering now, and I’ll like to forget in the future, an encounter that pretty much summed up many people I encountered in Pensacola:  Driven, overly-ambitious, but most of all rude.

                The Lady of the House and I were called to an attorney’s office to wrap up the sale of our home.

                To make a long story short there needed to be a change made to the title work so the little lady attorney said, “Well I’ll just have to call the buyer.”

                We were directed back to the office lobby to wait for the matter to be resolved when the buyer walked into the office.

                We exchanged pleasantries and she asked why we weren’t working on signing the paperwork.  We told her of the change being made.

                “And she said she would be calling you,” I said of the little lady attorney.

                “I haven’t heard from her,” said the buyer.

                So I went up to the receptionist to tell her that the person the little lady attorney was trying to reach was in the lobby.

                “She’s in a meeting,” said the receptionist.

                “We are supposed to be in that meeting,” I told her.

                So the receptionist leaves.

                Moments later a door bursts open and the little lady attorney strode out.

                “What do YOU think is so important that YOU thought I needed to be interrupted,” she said.

                Pause.

                Enjoy that sentence for a moment, one transmitted from an attorney to a seller in a real estate deal.

                “YOU said you needed to get in touch with the buyer, she has not heard from you, she is here in YOUR lobby,” I said.

                “The matter is taken care of,” and she disappeared back into the bowels of her building.

                Minutes later as we all rearranged ourselves into our diplomatic best, during a moment of pause in the busy-ness of the signing I asked the little lady attorney where she was from feeling CERTAIN the answer would be New York City, Chicago or some cold northern city.

                “Pensacola, born and raised,” she said.

                I sat back in my chair and smiled.

                Yes, to be sure there are a few things I will miss about my time in Pensacola.

                Driven, overly-ambitious, rude people are not on that list.

                                                                                -30-

The Hotel Child: A Kid's View of Death

                When you’re a kid, when you’re new in the world, you have a different view of things compared to when you’re a grown-up.

                Take death for instance.

                There were sports that, as a kid, I thought were quite deadly.

                Not surfing, not rock climbing, not even spear fishing in shark infested waters.

                The deadly sports?  Handball and golf.

                Oh, and department store dress racks were deadly things too.

                I’ll explain…

                When I was a kid my dad took a job managing a hotel in Hawai’I and we lived there in the early 60’s.

                Among the tunes my dad would play on his hi-fi stereo would be those by Alfred Apaka, the great Hawai’ian singer.

                “Who is this?” I asked my dad.  “You play him a lot.”

                “That’s Alfred Apaka,” said Dad. “The greatest Hawai’ian singer.  He died not too long ago.”

                “What happened?” I asked.

                “He had a heart attack after playing handball.”

                “What’s handball?”

                “It’s kind of like tennis but you don’t use a racquet,” he said.  “A couple of players go into a room and knock a ball around with their hands.”

                That didn’t sound like much fun.  And why would you play it if it could give you a heart attack?

                I could relate to dying of a heart attack.  My Dad had one of those a few years earlier and it gave the family quite a scare.  I may have been a kid but I knew heart attacks could kill you. 

                So if Alfred Apaka died from a heart attack after playing handball, well, handball surely must be deadly, right?

                And golf.

                Every now and then when I was a kid my dad would come back home looking kinda sad.

                “Fred dropped dead at the Jefferson Club,” he told my mom one time.  “He just finished 18 holes and he was at the 19^th hole, had a heart attack and died right there.”

                Golf was a mystery to me.  All I knew about it was it looked kind of boring.  I knew this because my dad watched an awful lot of it on TV.   Bunch of people standing around on a golf course watching Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and a bunch of other guys knock a bunch of little white balls around then the people would politely clap.  Boring.

                And apparently deadly.

                Over time I heard my dad mention other fellows he knew dropping dead on the golf course from heart attacks.

                And often at that 19^th hole.

                Which I would later find out wasn’t a hole on the golf course at all.  Oh I reckon it was a hole of sorts, a watering hole.

                It wouldn’t be til I was grown that I realized these dudes were probably out of shape or had undiagnosed high cholesterol or whatever and over-exerted themselves.  But that was as an adult…when you’re a grown up a lot of the mystery of life vaporizes like so much morning fog in the sunlight of the day.

                And about those department store dress racks…

                When I was a kid I had 3 grandparents:  My dad’s mom and dad and my mom’s father.

                “Where’s your mommy?” I asked my mom one day when I was real little.

                “Oh she died when you were just a baby,” she said.

                “Why did she die?”

                “We all die,” said my mom with a smile.  “But she was in a department store in Toledo and a clerk wasn’t looking while she was pushing a dress rack through the store and it hit your grandmother and she died later.”

                That’s all my mom thought I needed to know, I reckon.

                I had a vision of my poor old mom of my mother minding her own business, shopping at a big-city department store and along comes this dress rack and just rolls over her like some poor ol’ critter on the highway.

                It would be many years later that I came to realize that the dress rack encounter probably caused a blood clot that resulted in deep vein thrombosis and it was that that killed her.

                But for years whenever I was in a big store as a kid I would watch out for those rolling clothes racks.

                One killed my grandma.

                I didn’t want one rolling over me and squishing me like a bug.

                                                                                                -30-

Tales From the Edge of the Earth: Racists I Have Known

                                                       Pondering at the Gates of Dawn

By Grant McGee

               Where did this new wave of Neo-Nazis come from?  They seem so out of place here in the future, the 21^st century…to me anyway.

                I suppose I may have seen them coming when I heard-tell of a family out west that devoted their time, worry and resources to digging man-traps on their property in anticipation of the collapse of the United States under President Barack Obama.  But they were survivalists, not Neo-Nazis. 

                Or were they?

                I don’t know, I’m not the one who had the close encounter with them.

                I’m searching my memory and the first racists that pop up in my head are Dead Kevin and his father Dead Mr. Stimpson.

                Dead Kevin was a racist because quite simply, most of us know the old saying, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

                Dead Mr. Stimpson was angry at the world.  Even as a kid I recognized this.  As an adult I look back at Mr. Stimpson realizing he had not attained that “enlightenment” (for lack of a better term) that comes with age in that one realizes that one is where one is because of choices made.  He blamed others for his problems, particularly black people.  The source of his anger was his days spent as a cook in the military.

                I remember the 1968 election and the Stimpsons.

                “My father,” said Dead Kevin (but he wasn’t dead then, that would come in 14 years), “Is voting for George Wallace.  My father says if Humphrey wins then we’re going to have to let a [The “N” word was used here] family live in every white family’s home.”

                “What?” I asked.  I was just a kid but with what I did know about the world this bit of crap from the Stimpson clan made no sense.

                “Have to clear a room and let them move right in,” said Dead Kevin.

                If I had been a little older I would have asked who the hell said such a thing and prove it.

                As it was I went home and asked my mother about what Dead Kevin said.

                She threw her head back and laughed.

                “You’ve been hanging around that Stimpson boy again haven’t you?” and she went back to fixing dinner.

Awww….

You know what Dear Reader?

                I’m gonna just stop right here about the Stimpsons…there’s a lot more.

                Just writing about their dumbassed racism just gets my blood sugar up and fills my head with anger wishing I’d acted differently around these idiots when I first encountered them.

                There’s no damn good reason to engage in racism, prejudice, bigotry, discrimination, period.

                It’s just another tool used by one group to beat another group into submission, to try and control others…the way some people use money, ancestry, religion and such to try and make themselves superior.

                Hell, did you know that back in the 1700’s…by about 30 days after the first prisoners were dumped at the penal colony that would become Australia the people formed into classes…there were those who had done what could be termed “white collar crimes” like embezzlement and such lording over those who had done other crimes like robbery, burglary and such.

                So I really wish that back in 1977 I’d said something snarkier to the debutante from Richmond, Virginia who was in the same dorm suite as a girl I was going out with at the time. 

                For some reason the debutante said, “My ancestors are probably rolling in their graves because I’m sharing a dorm suite with a [The “N” word was used here].”

                I just stared in disbelief at her.  The girl who she was talking about was in the next room.

                “There’s a problem with that?” I asked.

                “What do YOU know?” she said with the wave of a hand, “You’re from Roanoke, oh my God.”

                Or I wish I’d had the wherewithal to rebuke the idiot construction worker on my crew in south Florida back in 1989.  He jumped into a chat I was having with another construction dude about having multiple wives.

                “For instance,” I said, “In a number of African countries there’s no problem with folks…”

                “Skewz me,” said the interloper.  This was a new guy from Alabama.  “Africans?  You mean to say [The plural “N” word was used here].”

                I was dumbfounded, caught off guard.

                “No,” I said slowly, “I was talking about Africans, folks who live in Africa.”

                “Well in Alabama they’s called [The plural “N” word was used here].”

                He and I stared at each other.

                The vibe was if I’d a-pushed it there would’ve been a fight and I would’ve got my glasses broken.

                “Gotta get back to work,” I said.

                I turned to go.  Behind me I heard Mr. Alabama snickering behind me.

                And it was at that point I resolved I wouldn’t be visiting Alabama, Mississippi or most of Louisiana in the future.  As I grew I decided I would travel in those states, I’d just be wary.

                I’ve seen perfectly good candidates for jobs passed over because of their skin color, the business owners afraid of what other business people in town might think if a minority person was out and about as a company rep.  All handled quietly with no words to make it seem as if the candidate simply didn’t qualify for the job, much in the same way I experienced age discrimination recently.

                I’ve experienced reverse discrimination…it was about a truck driving job for a western janitorial supply company.  And when I realized what had happened as I walked away from the business I chuckled to myself and thought, “So this is what it’s like.”

                It wasn’t a good feeling at all.

                Or the woman I took an interest in once upon a time long before I met The Lady of the House.

                “It’s no use,” she said while we were casually chatting one day.

                “What’s that?” I said while I was mooning over her.

                “Your interest in me,” she said.

                Suddenly I was wide awake.

                “What?” I said.

                “My parents would raise holy hell because you’re white.”

                “I don’t understand.”

                “They only want me dating guys who are ‘our’ people.”

                I was stunned.

                I reckon I could write, “WHY CAN’T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG.”

                But every time I do people think I’m an idiot, an uber-liberal, a hippie or someone who ain’t right in the head.

                And when I ask, “Why is that so stupid?” I pretty much get the same answer, “Because it is.  We’re not meant to all get along.”

                But I know this.

                Racism, bigotry, prejudice, discrimination is stupid crap practiced by stupid people.  Now I know some in that group don’t THINK they’re stupid but they are.

                And how this whole thing raised its ugly, buck-toothed, pointed head here in the 21^st century in the “Land of the Free and Home of the Brave” amazes me.

                So knock it off.

                We’re all passengers on this organic spaceship zipping around The Cosmos.

                Love one another.

                The world’s first proto-hippie uttered those words.

                                                                                                -30-

Tales of the Southwest: Shot Himself in the Dangly Bits, He Did...

Actual factual photo of my buddy Ken from a country ramble he and I took to the Guadalupe Mountains of far southeastern New Mexico 1998.

By Grant McGee

                I miss my ol’ pal Ken*, Bard of the Pecos.

                You probably know someone like Ken…more blood kin to you than your own brother or sister.

                Ken caught “The Cansuh” and died.  I remember the last thing I said to him because I had a hunch it was the last time I’d talk to him:  “You’re a great man, Ken.  You get well!”

                Well, he didn’t get well…I knew he wouldn’t. 

                He died in the spring a couple of years ago.

                One other thing I wanted to say to him but didn’t because I knew it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t do it:  “WRITE YOUR DAMN STORIES, DUDE!”

                Ken told the best stories…stories about his life.  I never understood why he never wrote a book full of his tales.  His stories, his sayings, his philosophical thoughts…that’s why I called him “Bard of the Pecos.”

                Ken was a colorful fellow, he grew up on the windswept grassy plains of eastern New Mexico in the Pecos River Valley. 

                I met Ken when I worked at a country radio station in Roswell, New Mexico.  I was the morning guy and he was the newsman.

                We became fast friends. 

                Ken was in the Navy during the Vietnam years.  Ken wrapped up his gig with Uncle Sam and came back to eastern New Mexico to get his G.I. Bill degree from the local university.   He worked for the local paper, he worked in radio news.

                And boy could Ken tell some stories:  The story of his first, ahem, “experience” in one of the  “cat-houses” south of the tracks in the eastern New Mexico town of Clovis, or talk of his pet coyote that he ended up having to get rid of because it killed his momma’s best banty rooster and so many more.

                I suppose that may have been the glue that made Ken and I good friends:  We were both bullshitters and storytellers.

                So it came as a surprise to me one morning to learn of one of his stories, what I thought was a pretty good one, that he hadn’t told me.

                It was a typical disc jockey’s country morning show, I was playing the tunes and sitting behind the control board and Ken sat across from me, reading the local news at the top and bottom of the hour.

                I really liked working at that station.  50,000 watts on the AM band, we were blasting over a full quarter of the whole state of New Mexico, even reaching down into the Big Bend country of west Texas.

                The boss even had an “800” number where people from all over the region could call in with their requests or just to shoot the shit.  Calls came from folks like the Border Patrol agent in the  Rio Grande town of Presidio, Texas.  There was the crusty sounding ol’ rancher Floyd from Van Horn, Texas.  The office worker in Albuquerque who called in amazed that I had played a country-rock tune “Chestnut Mare” by The Byrds.

                And then came the call from the county seat of Lincoln County about 75 miles or so away from Roswell.

                “Hi,” said the woman, “I’m calling from Carrizozo.”

                “Yes ma’am?” I said.

                “I wanted to know if your newsman Ken is the Ken from Portales High School class of 1962 who shot himself in the scrotum.”

                I was dumbstruck.

                I gathered my thoughts.

                “Just one moment, ma’am,” I said.

                I put my hand over the phone and looked over at Ken.  He was busy perusing the morning paper, looking over the top of his glasses.

                “Did you shoot yourself in the nuts once upon a time?”

                “Yes I did,” he said, putting down his paper and holding out his hand, “Give me that phone.”

                It was someone Ken had known long ago and far away, an old classmate.  While I kept playing the tunes they went on and talked for about 5 minutes, had a good conversation and then it was over.

                And I just stared at Ken.

                “So?” I said.

                “So what?” said Ken.

                “You gonna tell me about shooting yourself in the scrotum?”

                Ken laughed.

                “Just me being a dumbass kid,” he said.  “School was out and me and three buddies went on a camp out up at Sumner Lake Dam.

                “So we go swimming, just having a good time, one guy brought a six-pack of beer, stuff like that.  We come on back to the campsite, build a campfire and I start horsing around with this little .22 peashooter revolver I have, you know, twirling it around on my finger like they did on all the westerns.

                “Well, while I’m twirling it around my thumb catches the hammer just enough to pull it back just enough so that when my thumb’s not on it anymore it snaps back and BANG.  Bullet went through my scrotum and there was this bullet hole in my leg too, through-and-through.

                “So my buddies carry me back to the pickup and they drive me all the way back to the hospital in Portales.  That’s where the doctor told me I was a damn lucky sumbitch.  ‘Boy,’ he says, ‘If that damn bullet was over just another quarter inch it would’ve hit your femoral artery and you would’a bled out before your friends would’a got you to the truck.’

                “So there I am laid up in the Portales hospital for a few days.  And my scrotum would fill up with fluid, thing swoll up to about the size of a small cantaloupe.  So every afternoon around 3 this nurse would come in with a big ol’ syringe with a big-assed long needle and THUNK stick it in my scrotum and drain off the fluid.

                “LAWD HAVE MERCY!” I yelled out laughing.

                “And that’s about the whole story,” said Ken.  “And I never had any problems from it later, I had a lot of fun later and two kids.”

                I laughed some more.

                “Are you happy now, you sumbitch?” said Ken as he whacked me across the top of the head with the newspaper and left the studio smiling.

                Did I mention that I miss my ol’ pal Ken?

                                                                                                -30-

*Name has been changed…My old buddy Dax (not his real name either) made me paranoid about using people’s real names.  But that Dax, he always was a buzzkill.