Dump Day

Leaving the Taos Landfill 

Water heaters, refrigerators and metal objects of all kinds, 2020

Tres Montañas, 2010

When we moved to tony Wellesley, Massachusetts in 1973 I got hooked on the taking our trash to the town dump or the Recycling and Disposal Facility as it’s called in polite company. From our rental house on Mayo Road I’d join the tightly coiffed and pearl draped matrons in white gloves exiting their Mercedes sedans. The dump was, after all, the place to be seen and New Englanders are proud to show they’re not above delivering their own rubbish. It’s a badge of honor like the hubby’s leather elbowed Harris tweed from his undergraduate days at Harvard in 1949.

The Wellesley dump was a scene. As befitting a bastion of good citizenship, recycling was de rigueur as was donating your hand-me-downs, your out of date Encyclopedia Britannica or lightly used Harman Kardon stereo to your lessers. I can attest to the efficacy of the Wellesley dump's wealth redistribution model. We both gave and took from the little shed that was brimming with the perfectly good used items. On one occasion our early 1960s World Book Encyclopedia was gone before we had recycled our bin of Mateus bottles.

And so began my adult lifetime of taking the trash myself. While the bourgeoisie delegate the job to dark-skinned essential workers from Waste Management I demonstrate the self-reliance and frugality I learned in New England. I’m wicked proud.

In 2002 we rented an earth ship in the Upper Los Colonias neighborhood of Taos. The little cave of a house was tucked into a hillside and built of used tires and hay bales. It was in that tiny two room dwelling that we fell in love with Taos. We fell so hard we bought a vacation house in Taos the next year. And the year after that we had moved here permanently. The first time I took the trash to the dump from the rental in Los Colonias they weighed my trash filled Ford Explorer when I entered the facility and again after I had emptied the containers. The clerk said, “That’ll be 35 cents.” I paid in cash.

When I got back to the earth ship, I was giggling when I told Peggy how much I’d just paid for the pleasure of taking our refuse to the dump. “I love this place!"

And going to the dump isn’t it’s just about enjoying the mundane. Sometimes it’s who you see there. Friday we were fifth in line to exit and right in front of us was the back of a burly Native American gent with his gray hair in a ponytail and a blue bandanna around his head. I said to Peggy, “I think that’s Marcus.” She looked perplexed. I explained, “Marcus Eagleheart.” She replied, “You’re right. It is.”

She promptly opened her door, got out and yelled, “Marcus.”

The one and only Marcus Eagleheart

He smiled broadly and walked back to the Pilot. He was not sporting a mask but kept himself well away from our vehicle. I’m pretty sure Marcus doesn’t remember our names. At least he’s never used them. Not that it matters. We first met him, quite naturally, through Lindsey Enderby who is the best friend of everybody in the known world. Much has been written about that magnetic character.

A portrait carved from the shot above. The rare crop you'll see from me.

The man and the camera

Marcus Eagleheart is a two-stepping marvel who’s a habitue of the bar at the Sagebrush Inn on Ladies Night. Imagine a Stetson on his handsome self and you’ll know why he is or was a big time chick magnet. Fact is I never saw Marcus without a blonde on his arm. I exaggerate ever so slightly to make my point.

He told us he was helping his buddy Keith move after 20 years in the same apartment. Keith, a fine western jeweler who had a stroke a couple of years back, was riding shotgun in Marcus’s pick-up as we spoke. Peggy asked how Keith was doing and Marcus said, “Just okay. He's really nervous about the move.” Keith is a gentle soul.

I saw Marcus framed by the driver’s side window and asked him if I could take his picture. He laughed, “My favorite subject. Me.”

Divine Light

Verticality, San José de Gracia, Trampas, NM

Elegy, San José de Gracia, Trampas, NM

To live in northern New Mexico is to be cloaked in the presence of the Catholic Church. Brought by the Conquistadors to New Mexico the Church became the center of the rural life in communities strewn across the desert and mountains of El Norte.  Nothing is more emblematic of this profound Catholic influence than the churches and moradas that dot our stark landscape. A person could spend a lifetime exploring and photographing the ones within 100 miles of my home in Taos. To capture the most iconic of them, the ones painted by Georgia O’Keefe and photographed by Ansel Adams and Paul Strand, is a fraught task. Getting a unique shot of buildings that have been photographed millions of times is a noble challenge. The soft shouldered adobe structures for which New Mexico is known are so compelling that you have to try. Some like San Francisco de Asis Francis Church in Ranchos de Taos or Santuario de Chimayo are among the most photographed in the North America. Less well known and just as worthy are San José de Gracia in Las Trampas and La Morada de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe that abuts Taos Pueblo. 

Eaves, Santuario de Chimayo, Chimayo, NM

Rock of Ages, Santuario de Chimayo, Chimayo, NM

The first Europeans to visit Taos were the soldiers of Vasquez de Coronado’s expedition who were searching for the mythic Seven Cities of Gold. It was in September of 1540 that a small detachment of Coronado’s army reached Taos. As was common practice the forward party was accompanied by a Catholic chaplain. Converting the faithless was an integral part of the plan. In 1598 Don Juan de Oñate, the Spanish governor of what would become New Spain, asked representatives of the Indian pueblos to pledge allegiance to the crown in return for military protection and the spiritual guidance of the Catholic missionaries. It was a pattern repeated through the Americas. Documents were drawn to affect this pledge and they were signed by each Chief. Father Alonzo Martinez asked the chiefs if they wanted to be saved. With reservations the Chiefs signed the agreement. Fray Martinez directed a Franciscan missionary to travel with each band as it returned to its pueblo and to begin converting the tribe to Catholicism. Fray Francisco de Zamora was deployed to Taos and the first mission church, San Geronimo on Taos Pueblo, was consecrated around 1617.

Oñate was a brutal overseer who subjugated the indigenous population with the complicity of the Catholic Church. In one episode he had the right foot of 24 Acoma braves amputated when his nephew was killed. Deep resentments festered over the Church’s harsh attempts to quash native religious beliefs. Stemming from the 1598 pact the Indians were indentured to Spanish landholders in a practice called Encomienda wherein the Patron was responsible for their protection and spiritual nourishment and in return he would own all of the work performed and crops produced on the land. In other words, slavery. The Catholic Church in fact owned slaves. In 1680 the Pueblos commanded by Popé, a member of San Juan now Okay Owingeh Pueblo, revolted. In Taos where Popé had been hiding 70 settlers including the priests were massacred. The Spanish were driven out of New Mexico until 1692 when Don Diego de Vargas completed the Re-Conquista and Taos Pueblo surrendered.

Buttress, San Francisco de Asis Ranchos de Taos, NM

Steeple and Crosses, San Francisco de Asis, Ranchos de Taos, NM

The most prominent churches on the High Road from Santa Fe to Taos and those near the town were built around 1800. Famed San Francisco de Asis in Ranchos de Taos was constructed between 1772 and 1816 when New Mexico was part of the Vice Royalty of New Spain. Hence the term Viceroy. Saint Francis, as it’s called, is the best known of the Spanish mission churches in the state. San José de Gracia in Las Trampas was built between 1760 and 1776 by twelve families that had grown to 63 by the time of the church’s consecration. Owing to its remote location San José is considered the most original of the mission churches. San José along and San Francis were declared National Historic Landmarks in 1970.

Cruz Negro, La Morada de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe,Taos, NM

Cruz Blanca, La Morada de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. Taos, NM

In 1798 Taos Pueblo granted Los Hermanos Penitentes land for morada, or lay chapel, adjacent to the pueblo. It was completed in 1834. Led by Father Antonio José Martinez it was the center for the practice of severe religious devotionals brought from Spain. These demonstrations of faith and guilt included self-flagellation and all too real reenactments of the crucifixion. According to an agreement with the Catholic Church the Morada grounds have been open to public since 2013 when the property was sold to the Santa Fe Diocese by the Taos Historic Museums. But the conservative and insular penitente brothers have posted a sign asking that no photographs videos or other depictions of the chapel be made. Hermanos have been known to challenge visitors who ignore their request. I rehearse my response to the challenge every time I visit the glorious site. Do you stand your ground knowing you have the right to photograph or paint the morada or do you respect the Hermanos’ wishes?

It occurs to me that one way to photograph an iconic subject to capture its details so that image is not instantly identifiable as Saint Francis Church or Santuario de Chimayo. The details of these famous churches are rich, textured and organic as befits the hand applied earth, straw and water porridge that covers their sensuous lines. Their rounded shapes and inside corners are extraordinary foils for the play of light and shadow and for the volume they suggest.

This is a lightly edited version of my article Telling Stories:Divine Light in the July-August issue of Shadow and Light Magazine. Right click on the web address www.shadowandlightmagazine.com to order your online or print copy.

The top of the world at the end of the road

At the top of a dusty track in Lama, New Mexico is a cluster of ramshackle dwellings that mix abject poverty and sublime physical beauty. On a two-hour photo safari we drove north on NM Hwy 522 as if we were heading to Colorado. We live just 40 miles south of the Colorado state line. But on this occasion our destination was a wandering path through San Cristobal and to the end of a dirt road in Lama. It was not our first foray into these sparsely populated and very mixed communities. For every sprawling rancho there are ten double-wides and hippy-built shacks.  The contrast speaks to the vast disparity between the haves and have nots in the Land of Enchantment. New Mexico with 19.7% of its population below the poverty line ties Mississippi for that sad statistic. And Taos County leads New Mexico at 21%. These are not proud numbers.

Still the countryside where the high desert meets the mountains is undeniably spectacular and the reasons that northern New Mexico has been an artist's mecca for 120 years reveal themselves at every turn.

The hodgepodge of decaying adobe and stick built buildings give off a vibe that says you are not welcome. Some places exude danger. I feel it rarely but feel it every time we reach the back of beyond in Lama. But the setting on the sloping shoulder of the Sangre de Cristos brings us back again and again. There’s mystery to the spot, a heady menace in the vast nowhere.

The falling sun cast a glow on the buildings and bathed the hillside in gold. In these images the forest is flecked with light that seems like a dusting of snow. From our perch above Lama the walking rain spread across the Taos Plateau to our west.

I'll always have 2010

Found Art , Rinconada, NM, March 29, 2005. Still Life as Subject, Photoplace Gallery, Middlebury, VT. The Arrangement, Vermont Photo Place, Essex Junction, VT.  It's Still Life, Rayko Gallery, San Francisco. Point of View, Edgecliff  Press. Single Image Issue, Black and White Magazine.

I peaked too soon. 2010 was the apex of my sleepy photographic career, if not qualitatively certainly quantitatively. Since I need to add past events to my new website, I've just reviewed my roster of shows over the years. The difference between 2010 and the years since is stark. 2010 is the year when my photographs were in galleries all over the country. That and $4.00 will buy you a latte. It was the year in which I lost $10,000 pursuing the glories of fine art photography, whatever fine art means. My businessman's sensibility was destroyed. So, in 2011 I trimmed my sails. I stopped advertising and entering juried exhibitions. Each show was several hundred dollars in submission fees, framing and shipping costs. It adds up. Not to mention I've had nary a sale from a juried show. The predictable result of reducing costs was that sales cratered. But at least I cut my losses to a couple of grand a year. $2,000, I figured, that was tolerable for what had become a hobby. I have yet to speak the word hobby in polite company, but I’m self-aware enough to recognize that reality.

Salt Marsh, Moody Beach, ME, September 27 2007. The Masters Cup, the International Award for Color Photography

Book of Solemnity, Ranchos de Taos, NM, March 18, 2005. The Humble Masterpiece. Taos Center for the Arts.

Lines of Defence, US 64, NM. March 19, 2008. Open Shutter Gallery, Durango, CO.

As I looked back at the plenitude of 2010 I found myself looking at critically the work I submitted that year, work that was shown in galleries and museums in Vermont (2), Texas (2), Colorado (2), Ohio, California (2) New Mexico (2), and London. During one period in 2010 my work was in five concurrent shows. There was so much action that I don't remember the images in some of the shows.

Bridge to Nowhere, San Francisco, August 8, 2009. National Juried Exhibition, Museum of the Southwest, Midland, TX.

Until this review If you’d asked me what have been my most successful images of my digital age that started in 2002 I’d have said Good Luck, Vanishing Point and Lines of Defence, the ‘c’ is intentional, I would have been very wrong. Based the on the ultra-active 2010 Found Art wins by a landslide. It tallied three shows and two books, something Good Luck, Vanishing Point and Lines of Defence never accomplished.

The review raised the musical question, how does your newer work stack up to the pearls of the past?

I'll get back to you on that.

San José de Gracia

San José de Gracia, Las Trampas, NM

For two weeks I’ve done nothing but whine about my broken hip. But now something different.  Photographs. A week ago Saturday Peggy drug my aching butt to Santa Fe to trade a couple of paintings and to pick up BBQ from our beloved Whole Hog on Guadalupe Street. We ordered ahead and picked up $56 of smoky goodness which we figured was just enough for two hungry elders. It was our first take-out meal in three months if you don’t count a couple of supermarket chickens and a loaf of bread from Flour in Durango.

Mailboxes on SR 113A in Nambé, NM

We had already planned to return to Taos on the High Road through Chimayo, Truchas and Peñasco. It was my first outing since my infernal crash. We intended to photograph along the way. We took a side road in Nambé, one we’d never tried. We discovered a remarkably upscale neighborhood replete with ranchos on wooded acreage. A total surprise to both of us. There was a cluster of mailboxes and a stately church, Sagrado Corazon, at the top of the hill. All new to our eyes and all reaffirming that you need to take the random path to who knows where whenever you have the chance.

San José de Gracia

Detail of San José de Gracia with white cross against the diagonal shadow bottom center

The real jewel of our meander however and to some extent our goal was San José de Gracia, the Catholic mission church built in the village of Las Trampas (the traps) between 1761 and 1776. When Las Trampas was established by 12 Spanish families in 1751 northern New Mexico was not settled. Juan de Arguello who was 74 at the time led the founding families from Santa Fe to build a community in this unlikely location in the shadow of the Sangre de Cristo mountains for reasons that are lost in history. Remote villages like Trampas struggled with arid conditions, savage winters and the threat of raids by the Apache, Ute and Comanche. Yet by 1776 when San José was consecrated the community had grown to 63 families and a population of 279.

I have often proclaimed San José as a better example of Spanish Mission design and construction than the better-known San Francisco de Asis in Ranchos de Taos which was built between 1772 and 1816. And, for what it's worth, I find it more imposing and fortress like. In research for my July-August article in Shadow and Light Magazine I learned that the church is thought to be the most original and best-preserved example of Spanish Colonial church architecture in New Mexico. The operating theory is that it has stayed “original” because of its remote location at 8,000 feet on the High Road to Taos and because its traditional Hispano community has been little influenced by the outside world. Certainly, the sleepy village of Las Trampas feels like you’ve taken a time machine back to the mid-1800s. May it remain so.

Urgent Caring

Yesterday at the kitchen sink. Excuse the face in shadow.

It has been eleven days since the accident when I fell of my bicycle and broke my hip. I would not choose to suffer the injury but the support I have received has been extraordinary. It reminds me that most people are genuinely caring and want to help. That realization started in the Emergency Room of Holy Cross Hospital on Wednesday and Thursday, June 10 and 11.  And it was reinforced on Sunday, June 14 when I went to ER with a swollen lower leg and foot. Every doctor, nurse and technician I met at Holy Cross was empathetic and committed to diagnosing my condition and prescribing the best procedures for my recovery. I remember most every one of them by name, know a little about them and recall parts of our conversations. Everybody has a story and each one is worth telling.

Friday post X-ray in court appointed bloomers. 

Let me write that down. So, you said I have to use that stupid walker for 12 weeks.

At 3:00PM Wednesday I was greeted by Camille, a nurse from Virginia near Washington, D.C. Camille and her husband had been in Taos for only two months. I asked how she learned about the town and she told me she had done a three-month assignment here last year. In Latin it is called locum tenens. She liked it so much that she and her husband decided to move here. And since he is in financial industry he can work from home. She was glad to be here. I told her I was very glad she had chosen Taos.

X-rays were taken and came back negative for fractures in the hip, pelvis, femur, knee and elbow. I harbored hope that nothing was broken. Then Dr. Peter Neff, the orthopedist on call came by. He was young, hirsute and buff. His easy manner inspired confidence. He said that the while the X-rays didn’t show any fractures I was in such discomfort that they’d have to do a CT scan to be sure. Like the X-rays the scan was done right there in the room and it showed a fracture near the top of the femur called the greater trochanter. He described the break as unusual as if that would be a surprise. I wouldn't have an injury that wasn’t special. Because the fracture was not completely through the femur, that it was diffuse, it could be dealt with by six weeks without downward pressure on my right leg, in short a walker, and with physical therapy which should begin as soon as possible. I was disheartened by the six weeks but glad I didn’t need surgery. The efficacy of this non-intrusive course of action was to be confirmed by an X-ray and a follow-up appointment on Friday, June 19. I whined about my stupid decision to ride with osteoporosis after foregoing it for five years. What was I thinking? I described how the accident happened when my foot came out of my pedal and declared that was my last bike ride. Ever. Neff, an avid cyclist, told me “Don’t jump to conclusions so soon. Get platform pedals that don’t have a locking mechanism. They won’t be quite as fast but you won’t have your feet stuck on the pedals.”

I allowed that was probably valid but. “I can’t imagine any circumstance that would move me to ride again.” And I still can’t.

The night nurse, Falko, was from Germany. I asked what part and he told me he was from the East, 100 miles south of Berlin. He was extremely fit. I told him he looked like an athlete and asked what sports he participated in. He told me he had been a swimmer. He said he was also a martial artist. Behind a face mask judging his age was difficult. I found myself wondering if he was old enough to have been part if the East German sports machine, the drug fueled state system of winning at all costs. I’d like to know more about him.

“Do you always work the night shift?”  He answered, “Always. I prefer it.” Falko was sincerely concerned about my well-being and I was moved by his attention and kindness. I felt like I’d met a kindred spirit.

As dawn broke and I hadn’t slept, Cipry Jaramillo the hospitalist in on duty, visited my space. When I asked what the next steps would be and made it apparent that I counting on going home Dr. Jaramillo of Belen, NM cautioned that, “You shouldn’t count on getting out today. In fact, you’ll probably be staying another night and maybe have to go into a rehab facility.”

I was apoplectic. There was no way I was staying another night. There was zero chance of rehab stint at the Taos Living Center. That’s where people go to die as far as I’m concerned. I was rehearsing my refusal speech when Jaramillo told me, “It’s all up to physical therapy’s recommendation. They’re going to set you up with a walker and we’ll see how it goes. Personally, I think you should stay at least one more night.”

“When will I see a therapist?”

“By 9:30 I’d guess.

A few minutes later the therapist Spencer Bushnell appeared with a DRIVE walker, “the only one you may use” he stressed. He had me get off the bed, no mean task in my condition, and walk out to the hallway using the walker. I scuffed along in my johnny for maybe 30 feet passing Dr. Neff is the process. When I got back to my cell Spencer told me, “You’re good to go.” Lord, I was giddy. 

The next day when I scheduled my first PT I asked for Spencer or for Katherine Kulp who’d led me through the rotator cuff minefield in January and February. I told the scheduler that I’d like Spencer, Katherine or someone who was a hip specialist. Since Spencer was away the following week, I had my first PT session with Katherine on Wednesday. The first visit was largely diagnostic though she manipulated my right leg and gave me three exercises for my right quadricep, knee and ankle. Being a compliant patient, I have done them faithfully ever since. I am scheduled for two visits this week and hope that she’ll assign cardio and strengthening exercises soon. I’m anxious to maintain as much fitness as possible.

On Friday Dr. Marvel, real name, reviewed the new pics and proclaimed that everything looked good. I could continue with the therapy. The decision to mend without surgery was the right call. I finally bought in.

Then he dropped the bomb. I’d be using a walker for 12 weeks not six as I wanted to believe. 12 weeks wasn’t part of any conversation. I thought six weeks was the gold standard for good as new. Uh, no.

I’m will be batshit crazy by September.

Don't cry for me, Argentina

The man I used to be. National Triathlon Championships, Hilton Head, South Carolina, 1987.

Once in a while something happens that forces you to reassess your priorities, to analyze the things that make you tick and that really matter. That happened to me last Wednesday when I crashed my Trek Madone racing bike on West Rim Road near the Rio Grande Gorge.  I broke my hip. That’s significant enough but is made more so since my osteoporosis doctor warned me not to fall when he diagnosed the condition five years ago. I gave up skiing and bicycling the moment I got the news back in 2015. I reckoned that If you ski you will absolutely fall. And if you ride enough you will probably take tumble. But two weeks ago, the urge to mount my carbon fiber steed and ride fast through the high desert west of Taos was too great to ignore. My calculus was that I had crashed only twice in 35 years and many thousands of miles of riding. At that delusional moment, the risk seemed slight. After all crash one was caused by a broken front wheel during a triathlon in Lewiston, Maine. That was a fluke. And the other occurred when I had to lay my bike on the pavement when a driver cut me off. Neither resulted in an injury though I had to drop out of the race in Maine. Two weeks ago, I rode two times, the first was 20 miles on my favorite out and back route. The second was 24 miles on the same route toward Carson, a speck in the road with a post office and little else. God, I loved it. I was completely pumped. It was so much more rewarding than riding a stationary trainer or even running outdoors. Riding made me feel like the athlete I was 30 years ago.

  

Then disaster struck. My left foot came out of my Speedplay pedal. That’s never happened before. The pressure of my right foot on my right pedal sent me flying onto my right side and sliding across on the gravel littered asphalt. I found myself sprawled on the tarmac, in tremendous pain and unsure if I could get up at all. After a couple of minutes, I was able to get on my hands and knees and stand up. As I was standing up a car passing in the opposite direction made a U-turn and pulled in behind me. The couple in the vehicle approached me and asked if they could take me and bike somewhere. “Do you have somebody you can call?” the gray-haired gentleman asked. I said.” I can call my wife.”

“Where can we take you? We can take you into town.”

I said I was parked at the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge Visitors center a couple of miles away. “That’s I where always park to ride to Carson or Tres Piedras.”

Though it was almost impossible to walk I declined the couple’s offer to drive me home or to the hospital. I hoped I could move my right leg enough to accelerate and brake. When we got to the parking lot, I called Peggy and she said she’d come to get me immediately. I said I really wanted to drive home so I could shower before going to the emergency room. I hadn’t bathed before my ride thinking that I’d clean up after. And now I was bleeding like a stuck pig from my right elbow and knee. I was picking gravel out of the road rash on my right knee until Friday.

I was in the hospital for 24 hours. I'd never been in one overnight. We checked in at 2PM Wednesday. I was assigned a ER room around 3. Then at midnight I was moved to a hospital bay next to a guy recovering from shoulder surgery. He snored continuously and ta buzzer went off every seven seconds throughout the night. I yelled or cleared my throat every time the snoring became unbearable. I did not sleep.

The point of all of this is that I’ve spent 44 years with fitness as my number one commitment in life after family and career. It’s how I identify myself. The broken hip calls that commitment, some would say obsession, into question. Almost certainly I will never ride a bike again. Dr. Neff, the orthopedist and an avid cyclist who diagnosed my fracture, told me not to jump that conclusion yet and went so far as to recommend a platform pedal that would prevent me from being locked into my pedals. I’m am unconvinced. Now I’m too afraid to ride.

As to running Dr. Neff says he thinks I will be able to run once the fracture heals in six weeks or so. That’s important to me but not as much as I would have thought. The injury has made me review my priorities and to wonder how important exercising ten hours a week should be to someone staring at 79. I realize that part of this introspection is girding myself for the likelihood that my physical fitness life cannot be what it was. I’m preparing to be old. Somehow, I thought I’d be spared that indignity.

The last four days on my back, taking an array of pain pills and managing a walker have been the longest four days of my life. I tell myself that I’ll have all this time to write the great American novel. But I couldn’t care less. I have 41 days left in my sentence. How long is that? 10.25 times longer than the interminable last four days.

Yesterday Peggy noticed that my right foot and lower leg were swollen. She gave both extremities the feather tickle test and the sense of touch on my right foot and leg was 75% of my good leg. Our first thought was blood clot. It’s one of the things you look at when you’ve had a fracture. This was 10:00AM on a Sunday. I called Taos Orthopaedic as instructed if I had any problems. The answering service told me that the doctor on call was Dr. Franklin, but he was in surgery. She told me she would have Franklin call when he got out of surgery at around noon. At 1:00PM he called. I explained my symptoms. When he asked if I had a tingling sensation in my right leg I answered. “Yes. That’s how I’d describe it.” His tone changed. He said, “I don’t ordinarily advise this, but you should get an ultrasound. The only place in Taos where you can get one on a Sunday is Holy Cross Hospital. I’ll call ahead to request the procedure.”

By 2:00:PM we were at ER for the ultrasound only to learn they don’t do them on weekends. I argued that Dr. Franklin said they would. The registration human was unmoved but signed me in so I could to let me fight the ultrasound battle with the doctors and nurses. Nurse Camille took my vitals. I recognized her immediately. She was my nurse when I checked into ER Wednesday. I explained my symptoms to her and told her that if I couldn’t get the ultrasound right then Peggy would insist on driving me to Albuquerque or Denver if that is what it took to find out if I have blood clot.

Soon the hospitalist, Dr. Bouvier, came to the examination room. I retold my symptoms and made my pitch for the ultrasound here and now. She explained that the hospital doesn’t do them on weekends. Instead they administer a battery of blood pressure tests on both arms and ankles and to do a D-Dimer blood test that shows if there are elevated levels of fibrin degradation that would indicate the possibility of a blood clot. My BP numbers were all fine. But I had elevated fibrin degradation. I went from bliss to worry though Dr. Bouvier had cautioned me that elevated numbers don’t necessarily mean you have a blood clot. I’d need an ultrasound to know for sure. Uh yeah, I know that. When she came into the room, she said that she had been able to reach an ultrasound technician who was willing to come in on a Sunday to administer the procedure. I have no doubt that Dr. Bouvier went the extra step and made that happen. Knowing whether I had a blood or didn't would be a relief. Knowing matters and next steps can be taken in real time.

The ultrasound came back negative. No clots.

Wednesday I start physical therapy. What a guy can do when he can’t use one of his legs is a mystery to me. Some upper body work while sitting I’m sure. Maybe a recumbent style bike with enough cushioning to protect my aching ass. To quote the immortal James Hindman, “More will be revealed.”

Is that a camera in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Today’s post is of photographs made over the last couple of weeks. I could have followed-up on last week’s dark prognostication of massive restaurant closings. I'm being inundated with obituaries of storied eating and drinking establishments that have closed for good thanks to COVID-19. One opened in 1945. The owners have used up their cash reserves and a half assed (50% of capacity is half isn't it?) opening as mandated would plunge them deeper into the tank. “No thanks.” They’re saying. “I’m not taking a second mortgage on my house to sustain the agony.” It’s not that a tempered reopening is wrong. It’s the right thing to do but isn't fiscally responsible for many operators. Still hope springs eternal and I'm guessing more than 75% of these optimists will roll the dice. Man, I hope it works.

I’ve been a casual photographer at best over the last three months. The unifying theme of work has been the sky or more specifically the clouds in the sky, something we have aplenty in the arid 7,000-foot desert of northern New Mexico. New Mexico skies could keep a guy engaged for another 78 years. Our epic skies and a little foreground interest are all I’ve got to show for my social isolation.

All of these, by the way, were shot with the iphone in my front pocket and processed with Snapseed. Don't judge me for being expedient. Or is it lazy?

Say good night, Gracie.

Charlie and Holly's 39 year old place in Cambridge.

About sixty percent of job losses during this pandemic have been in the food service industry which we think of as restaurants and bars but also includes corporate and institutional operations. All have been decimated by the virus. The magnitude of the losses and the economic toll for owners, operators, employees and suppliers cannot be overstated. Some observers of the debacle estimate that at least 25% of closed restaurants will not be able to reopen. Others say 50%. Either is a monumental number, one so large it seems unreal. It's like saying 102,000 people in the United States have died from COVID-19. That’s a just a number but if the toll were seen as a single cherished life lost 102,000 times it would be unbearable. Is unbearable.

More of the same.

On May 21 I read an article in the Boston Globe. The title was “Here are the Boston area restaurants that have permanently closed amid the coronavirus pandemic.” It listed seven well-regarded establishments that had been unable to weather their closures. The subheading of the article continued, “Cuchi Cuchi, Stella, and The Automatic are just a few of the restaurants that made the difficult decision to shutter for good.” In the text Coda, Restaurant Danté, Artú and Marano Gelato were also memorialized. Artú was 25 years old. Coda 13 years. Cuchi Cuchi 19 years. Danté 15 years. Stella 15 years. A relative newcomer The Automatic was opened in 2006 by Dave Cagle and iconic Cambridge chef and entrepreneur Chris Schlesinger. Chris is one of my food heroes. His East Coast Grill that opened in Cambridge’s Inman Square in 1985 and closed in 2016 may be my favorite restaurant of all time.

My sense is that we think that our favorite restaurants, cafés and watering holes will magically reappear, good as new. I don’t want to burst bubbles, but that isn’t happening and even if it does the new rules of engagement will make the already fraught business proposition of operating a restaurant impossible or close to it. The precarious nature of the restaurant business has been overstated. An efficient high-volume restaurant can print money. But most restaurants are neither high volume nor are they particularly well run. Their margin for error is thin and they haven’t socked money away for desperate times like these.

And, frankly, the idea that a restaurant can operated at 50% of capacity, the realistic effect of social distancing, is laughable. A full-service restaurant paying market rent in an urban setting, needs about 80 seats to break even. So, take that 80-seater and allow it 40 seats and you have a prescription for failure. The fixed costs and labor will eat it alive. Game, set, match.

The basement joint we owned for thirteen years. Still kicking after 31 years we hope.

The bar the neon margarita built. And the first place to serve Corona beer in New England.

Which leads us back to the May 21 article. The first thing I thought of when I read the piece was, “What are Charlie and Holly are doing with their restaurants and clubs in Cambridge?” The second was, “I wonder if Zuma Tex-Mex Grill, our old restaurant in Boston, will re-open?” I immediately fired off an email with the Globe article to my dear friend Charlie saying, “Don’t know if you saw this. I hope you’re hanging tough.” Then I did a search on Zuma and found that it has changed its name to Mezcala Tex-Mex but has been closed since March 19 due to the virus. Fingers crossed for Cody, Steve and the crew. 

In response to my email Charlie answered with this. Our messages have been edited for clarity, brevity and to protect the innocent.

Stevie!

I hope you, Peggy, and everybody you care about are well and able to stay safe.

Holly and I have been hunkered down at home since March 16, after we furloughed 100+ employees (some of whom have been with us for close to 40 years). Rather heart breaking to not be able to help our other “family”.

So, we are hanging tough, but by our fingernails. We might just have to hang it up. (See what I did there?) As you can tell, we are whiny and wallowing in self- pity, but thankful that we are healthy and have a home to be hanging out in.

Hope to chat sometime soonish.

Love and big virtual hugs, C

To which I replied:

Charlie or as Holly says Chuckles,

Yes, we are safe, healthy and not stir crazy. Yet. Other than not eating out very other meal it's been better than fine. Mostly we miss wood-fired pizza and a frosty pint of Take a Knee IPA at the Taos Tap Room.

I'm sad to hear that you had to furlough all those folks. It had to be wrenching for the most caring employers on the planet. It would be the wrong ending for your story to end this way, that you aren’t able to continue what you've built over 40 years and that you both love so much. Hanging tough, hanging by your fingernails or hanging ten don't be hang dog.  Make the puns stop! I know you'll prevail.  You always do. 

Always up for a chat.

I better hang up. See what I did?

Love back atcha,

Steve

As to the so-called stimulus payments to small businesses, the ones intended to keep workers employed, they don’t really work for tipped employees and do little to keep establishments afloat when there’s no income. It’s the fixed costs that bury a restaurant especially one operating in a high rent urban setting. Imagine a $4,000,000 a year NYC restaurant and bar where the rent, common area maintenance fees, utilities and insurance are 12% of last year’s sales. And there have been exactly no sales for three months. So, you’ve got a $40,000 a month nut and no dollars to cover it. How many months can you survive? And even if you do, you’ll have to operate at half capacity for the foreseeable future. “It’s homely,” as Charlie describes dire situations.

Then, of course, is the question of how we’re going to respond to these partial re-openings. Will we be drunken lemmings cheek by bikini by the pool in Lake of the Ozarks on Memorial Day weekend or like us, be afraid to get back on the horse? We haven’t eaten out or been in a social setting in ten weeks. We haven’t even ordered take out and don’t plan to. And we are richer for it. Thousands of dollars richer.

The Road to Hondo

That's a title for a western if I've ever heard one.

We headed north to catch the last rays of the sun on the great plateau that stretches from the junction of US 64 and NM 150 to the village of Arroyo Hondo. With Peggy at the wheel literally and figuratively she’d get fodder for paintings and I’d photograph whatever came my way. When we do a pre-dinner tour the Hondo-Seco loop is always an option. On this occasion we passed the junction known as the OBL or Old Blinking Light so named for a blinking traffic light that pre-dates our arrival in Taos. If we had turned right on NM 150, Ski Valley Road, we'd have begun the counter clockwise Hondo-Seco loop.

When we'd driven a mile or so north on NM 522 two subjects came to mind. Five miles north of the OBL is an industrial strength corral on Taos Pueblo land. I told Peggy that the corral had possibilities and that we should to keep an eye out for it. Before we got to the corral, I saw a fence that I mistook for the corral. Then another. My bumper sticker says, "This vehicle stops for fences." We stopped for two before we reached the corral. It's a good thing too since the glow of the sunset falling behind Tres Piedras illuminated the fences, the sage and prairie grass. It cast long shadows on the parched earth. The reflective stock tank beyond the corral proved more worthy than the corral itself and the shadows of the fence as they crossed the rutted path were brooding and dramatic. It and made for a quintessentially northern New Mexico scene.

At the junction of Hondo-Seco Road was a richly tagged old gas station that I'd passed a hundred times. The western light was perfect.