[This post written yesterday (Saturday) morning.]
My little town is atwitter today with people deciding to go or not to go to the march at the state capitol, a few blocks from my house. It’s going to hit ninety today so some will certainly choose that as a reason not to go. I don’t think there’s any good reason not to go and will head over there in a few minutes, wearing sunscreen of course and my favorite summer hat with a snakeskin from the ranch around the crown. This snakeskin is a memorial to an enormous female rattler which a ranch hand mistakenly killed—and she was full of eggs! Well, at least he ate her.
The snake’s kind persists in this high, hot desert and gives me reason to hope. There are many other reasons as well, like the abundant produce at the Farmer’s Market where I went a little while ago to do my weekly marketing. Now it’s all there—beets, cauliflower, lettuces, carrots, bok choy, three kinds of kale (I’ve finally learned how to cook it) and many flowers and many plants, as well as my old friend who sells garlic-infused olive oil. There were a lot of people but since this is the way our farmers make as much as half of their yearly income, the crowds are welcome.
Another reason to hope: the presence of music. I haven’t made much progress on my most recent attempt—probably the ninth or tenth—to learn how to play the piano, but there is a lot to listen to this summer: the Desert Chorale (Kate, one of their singers, will be staying in my guesthouse) and even closer to my heart, the amateur musicians who perform every Saturday under the Farmer’s Market big water tower, a reminder of its use as a rail yard and station for the Santa Fe Railroad.
This morning it was a family band, three siblings and their mother—the thinnest people I’ve ever seen, certainly vegans—in their pressed jeans and boots. The lead singer was a tall, gangling young man, supported by a brother and a sister (maybe) on guitar. Their mother presided with her violin, which she didn’t play, and I can imagine the amount of discipline she has to exert to get these three young ones to practice. The group is called High Lonesome Highway and you can find them at highlonesomehighwayband.com. I don’t know if they write their own music, probably not, but the wailing heart-broken sounds of old mountain melodies brought Kentucky here to the high desert.
My well has run dry—the city has overused its limited water for decades—and we are in the midst of a political disaster but still there are the vegetables at the Farmers’ Market and music to hear, if we can open our ears.
Morning Glories: A few seeds collected from a vine at my lodging in your little town of Santa Fe twenty three years ago continue to self-seed at my home. They are blooming now that captivating deep blue with a touch of mystery. Another reason to hope.