Home for the holidays

Snow on the Sandia Mountains

This time of year makes me think of Albuquerque, of the road trip from Phoenix through Flagstaff, Arizona and Gallup, New Mexico  to this mountain town dominated by its peaks in the east, tinged an unusual shade of pink at sunset (hence their name, meaning watermelon in Spanish).

It reminds me of struggling to find presents for nieces and parents-in-law; of sewing felt ornaments in the form of stockings with stitched names during the car ride, scissors, glitter thread, and scraps of felt scattered at my feet; of favorite road trip music (country stations, Allison Krauss and Union Station, Gordon Lightfoot, Bryan Adams, Bruce Springsteen, Neil Diamond, Journey and more) and holiday tunes by Jewel, Michael Buble and Nat King Cole; of a crowded, packed car and fast food lunches; of taking the same route through town to my in-laws house each time we came.

But here we are.  In Albuquerque.  Now.

No Christmas road trip necessary.  We can see family easily, scant preparation and only a few minutes of travel required.

I like road trips.  I'll miss taking the one between these southwestern sister states.

But, if pressed, I must confess that I like living here more than driving hours to be here.

It is a very good sign, I think - an indication of openness and happiness - when you move to a place that reminds you of every other place you've held dear.  While walking or driving around in Albuquerque, I have been reminded of the expansive park near my grandparents home in Idaho and of the many small towns in that state where my relatives yet reside.  I have recalled Tennessee, because I finished the first book about my childhood here, and I am again in an environment where the leaves on broad, beautiful trees hail the seasons. Of course, Arizona is present in my thoughts: the culture, history and landscape of both states are similar in several regards, and Arizona and all the loved ones there are just a reverse trip across state borders.

So this is Advent, and here we are already, in what could be characterized as our Christmas town.  The first snow has already come; snowmen were promptly built by my snow-starved children.

Gifts for relatives this year will be delivered on Christmas Day with smiles after traveling but a few miles from our own home, taking a fresh and already oft-traveled route.  Over the hills if not through the woods, to my in-laws house we'll go.

Gratitude is ne'er too late: holiday tables and runners (of the road)

On a small brick wall beside me was this guy:

I was walking my dog while my children played on the park equipment nearby, and I noticed something move and looked up.  Like a member of the paparazzi, I followed him around, snapping photos.  Though he seemed nervous, he couldn’t help but pose and show me his tail feathers.

His kind I have seen before, you know; I live in New Mexico, and they are the state bird for a reason.

Have you seen one run?  It’s charming.  Two were sprinting across the dusty expanse near the glass recycling bin one day when I was pitching my myriad fragile receptacles in.  Watching those roadrunners fly (not literally) across the dirt - as if they were in a race and had left competitors in the dust, out of sight, far behind - made my day.  Maybe they were being chased by Wile E. Coyote.

Thanksgiving has come and gone, but I wanted to share that I’m thankful to live in the land of the roadrunner.

I’m also grateful that my father-in-law helped my husband and me build a grand table for our larger home that has room for the company of plenty of family and friends.  The new table in this friendly house is an entertaining dream come true. 

It’s pub height, so loved ones can stand or sit around it comfortably.

Of course, I wanted it pub height – taller than the original plans pulled from Ana White's website. 

Then I despised it for being so tall, as if it had chosen to be so against my will.  Without stools, it felt like a giant in my kitchen, devouring space while crowding the wall.  I argued with my husband on and off for weeks, practically demanding that he help me chop of its legs or at least bring me the ax.  He insisted that we would do nothing until we found stools for it; then, we would see!

It wasn’t until Halloween night when family came over for trick-or-treating, and all the adults stood around the behemoth with their sodas and pizza, gabbing, that I realized I had known all along what I was doing, and it was perfect.  The next day the extra-tall stools for it were delivered, and my table and I have had amicable interactions ever since.  It no longer sulks, pushed against the wall, out of place and under-purposed.  I no longer glare at it, wishing it were different.  My children sit at it every afternoon and evening, twisting on the swivel stools that look as if they were designed for it.

There are greater things to be grateful for post-Thanksgiving, beyond state birds and tall tables.

For one thing, I have the courage to keep writing even when it seems I may never be successful or have not worked hard enough yet or don't have the "right" ideas or the best methods of executing them.  And I am amazed by the support that my husband has and continues to give to me in my endeavors.  

More than anything I feel I am extraordinarily blessed to be surrounded by my family, so insanely, incalculably grateful to God for Matthew and our four children, Berto, Ana, Ella, and Daniel.  We are happy together in our new home.

And this year we spent Thanksgiving with extended family for the first time in many years, and in addition to our appreciation of the company of those loved ones, I'm thankful that I didn't have to make the turkey! (Mine always seems dry.)

Thanksgiving has passed.  This is my belated letter of gratitude.  I have done my duty. 

Come now, Advent.  Come Christmas.  My candles are lit.  I'm ready. 

A Post in Pictures: Why Albuquerque?

Nearly every afternoon during summer, storm clouds crouched on the Sandia Mountains, and then sprang upon the valley in the evening, hurling lightning bolts and sometimes hail. 

This autumn rain we've experienced this week, though, is just a persistent drench with no drama, like a sourpuss who stands around looking gloomy, bringing everyone down without saying a word.

Yet, the fall colors on the trees are heightened by this moisture, and that brings me again to a realization I had soon after we moved here:

I love Albuquerque.

Ironically, I believe I'm happier to be here than my husband is - and he was raised here!

It was a surprise to me how quickly I embraced this region, how easily charmed I was by the novelties and the enchantments that drew me in and helped me feel at home.

When I first had an inkling we would be moving to Albuquerque, I began to question it almost immediately with some anxiety. I wondered why God might want us here.  I couldn't think of a soul who needed us - whereas there were other places in which we could be useful. 

Why did I assume it had to be about necessity?  Though it isn't deserved, perhaps it's about Providence and these blessings:

My husband really likes his new job in town, and there are far more opportunities in his current company to grow than there ever were in his last place of employment.

My children see their grandparents almost every weekend, and their aunts, uncles, and cousins often (something that was missing for the first many years of their lives).  They have all made new friends and gotten involved in their schools.

As for me?  I am just plain happy.  Sure, I worried when we first arrived - about good friends for my children, about finances, about how I could best serve my family and the larger community.

But even if someday we roam again, searching out a new place to call home, I will forever be grateful to Albuquerque for one beautiful thing: here I finished my book, a story based on a childhood Christmas.  In Albuquerque I accomplished a long-held dream; I was successful.  

What are the other reasons I love it here?  Why is it "The Land of Enchantment" (New Mexico's state nickname) for me?

The Summer

We moved from Phoenix, so you can only imagine my awe and wonder when I was able to sit outside all morning until lunchtime quite comfortably, reading or jotting down ideas in my writer's notebook.  It felt miraculous not to be chased inside at 8 am by terrible, rapidly rising heat.

The Balloon Fiesta

There are few things that can enthrall and make one recapture childhood joy as swiftly as a hot air balloon gently riding a wind current.  Early each October here in Albuquerque, the city hosts its annual Balloon Fiesta, and people come from all over the world to pilot these lighter-than-aircraft or to watch their colorful shapes fill the expansive southwestern skies in the early morning.  I stood outside in the street and gawked unabashedly.

The Autumn Colors

It has been a very long time since I lived in a place where I noticed the change of seasons, because Nature alerted me so dramatically to their passage.

In Phoenix I strained and searched to find one tree that hailed the fall, and if I spied even the slightest change, I applauded it.  But Albuquerque trees put on a parade of hues as the weather cools: plum, red-gold, burgundy, orange, and even florescent yellow.  It thrills the soul.  I had forgotten the splendor of autumn.

The Sandia Mountains

I've seen these mountains before while visiting my in-laws for Christmas and never really cared about their majesty.  But things have changed, and they are there before me every day as I walk my Yorkie friend Taz, and I'm in love.  I've come to stay, and they will always be there.

I'm home.

Best PLace to...

Every Saturday I get the Explore Arizona section of my newspaper. Talks about great places to hike (no can do; my man won't hike, and hiking in nature with children is considered a special kind of misery), neat places to stay in state for a weekend (no can do; husband won't pay for accommodations within a seven-hour radius of home) and road trips within this region that are well worth the time invested (invested in practising patience with his offspring and his sights-relishing wife, Matthew might say).

The centennial of Arizona's statehood is approaching in February 2012, so there are also articles about its territorial history, the unusual people who shaped its future and other interesting tidbits which I, of course, find very engrossing. Mainly because, much to Matthew's chagrin, I am determined to see every location of historical significance within the state (and I don't mean just moseying down to Tombstone to watch a re-enactment of the shootout at the O.K. Corral), as well as all the oddball towns located along the Mother Road, Historic Route 66.

Lately, the Explore Arizona section has also been rattling off the "best ofs" in this state and its sister states of New Mexico, Colorado, Utah and Nevada. I scanned through them and found myself completely disinterested in subjects along the line of : Best Place to Get a Massage on a Slab of Red Rock (Sedona, of course). But one little blurb did indeed catch my eye, and when I found it, I started to laugh it up. Ah, the memories!

The title for the piece was: Best Place to Throw Out Your Car's Suspension

What was that place? Chaco Canyon in New Mexico. Why was I laughing? Because after just barely meeting my in-laws on my first trip to New Mexico, I requested that they drive me out to see the amazing ruins at Chaco Canyon. It was a wild ride on a very bad road, but I had no clue at the time that I was asking them to put their Jeep's suspension on the line for their soon-to-be daughter-in-law.

The story of my first and only adventure in Chaco Canyon is told here. The pictures, sadly, do not do it justice. If we risk our minivan and Matthew's sanity to view the ruins again this summer, I'll be sure to post more pictures. Enjoy.

Vacancy in the Basement: But Not for Me, I Hope (Gulp)

One thing Matthew kept reminding me of as we journeyed home from Albuquerque, New Mexico, and I kept saying, "this stinks" or "that stinks" or "that other thing plus another thing stinks" was that the trip as a whole had been successful, just the journey home was abysmal.

While we were in Albuquerque, Berto and Ana went fishing with their grandpa and papa and caught their first fish.

And Berto had his first birthday party with his cousin (their birthdays are only a week apart). The cakes I made were edible, and they didn't collapse, get smooshed, catch on fire or cause anyone to be ill. Plus, once Matthew decorated them, "Hello Gorgeous!"

The other bonus was, of course, that I did not destroy one single piece of furniture or square of carpet while I was at my in-laws. I didn't even break something valuable and irreplaceable. To those relatives in the know about my tendencies to destroy major appliances and break all things glass this comes as a shock, but I swear it's true.

There was a time not long ago, though, when my father-in-law jokingly suggested that I stay in the basement the next time I visited. Chances were good that the suggestion would cease to be a joke if I committed one more act of destruction in their beautiful home.

Let me state my defense. They have white carpet - beautiful plush carpet that human toes love to curl around, that a grown person could fall asleep on in a matter of minutes. Still, it's white, and we all know that the human race is split into two camps: those who embrace the white fabric of the world and are experts at maintaining its purity and those who are deathly afraid of it and cannot help but destroy it by some terrible means.

One Christmas, Matthew polished my old knee-high, square-toed boots for me. My dad had bought those boots for me in my senior year, I believe. They were looking a little worn, but I loved them still. So I had brought them on the trip to visit my in-laws in their new home at Christmas.

They looked not bad after he applied the polish, so I yanked them on, glad to be reunited with their supple leather. A few minutes later I sat cross-legged on the floor in the guest room, playing with my daughter. Then I crawled around the carpet, chasing her.

Matthew came into the room.

"What's all over the carpet?" he cried.

I looked around, bewildered by the long black smudges that had seemed to appear by some strange voo-doo magic on the white flooring.

"What is that?" I wondered aloud, but even as the words left my lips, my little leprechaun was tapping my brain with his walking stick. "Uh, Hello!" he was saying.

 "Oh, no!" I cried. "The boots!"

Matthew looked at me bewildered a moment, and then the knowledge flooded his eyes all of a sudden, and his head hit his hand.

That was not the worst thing I ever did, however. There are greater enemies to carpet than plain black shoe polish.

It was the evening of my brother-in-law's rehearsal dinner. I was almost ready to go out and mingle. I had changed into a nice pair of slacks and a brown shirt. My make-up was done. My hair looked fine. There was only one thing I hadn't been able to do before we left home: paint my toenails.

It was summer; I was wearing open-toed heels. They had to be painted, you see. But I took precautions. I laid out the baby changing mat over the white carpet to protect it. I had thought about doing them in the bathroom, but it would be cramped. As long as I was very careful....

Ana came in while I was painting them. Toddlers are exorbitantly fascinated by fingernail polish; in their little hearts they know this stuff, with the exception of possibly mustard, is the most permanently staining substance that can be handled by mere mortals.

"No, Ana," I said. "You don't get to touch this."

She tried anyway, and I jerked the bottle away from her. The bottle tipped, and the bright maroon polish slid off the changing mat and onto the gloriously plush, impossibly creamy white carpet.

My life flashed before my eyes.

Matthew was already out with his family in the main rooms. I had even heard some of the guests arrive.

I began frantically blotting it up with tissue paper, washcloths, cotton balls - anything. Some had come off, but it had sunk into the pile, a bright maroon circle where no furniture could hide it.

"Ana, go get Papa!" I ordered.

Then I did the only thing I could do. I called the one person who had cleaned up a similar mess I'd made a few years before: my brother-in-law. That color was a pleasant pink, if I remember right, and I was applying it while staying with my bro-in-law and sister in preparation for a date night with Matthew (I called Matthew after that spillage, begging him to come early so he could be there before my brother-in-law got home).

"Hello! Hello, are you there?!" I screeched into their answering machine. "I just-oh, s--t!" I finished, abandoning all manners as I gazed in panic at the stain that would never, never go away.

Suddenly, a voice. "Hillary?" said my bro-in-law. "What's...."

"Hey!" I interrupted. "How did you get the fingernail polish out that I spilled at the apartment?"

"I didn't," he said. "We lost our deposit. Why?"

"Because I just spilled some bright red polish on my in-laws white carpet!"

I waited for the laughter at the other end to subside before saying, "I don't know what to do. Last Christmas I got shoe polish on it - they're going to hate me!"

After another good chuckle at my expense, he said, "Alright, calm down. Let me look up something online."

I was calming down, feeling better. I had help! Then Matthew walked in.

"What is it?" he asked. I pointed. "What the hell did you do?" he demanded.

"I put the baby mat down and everything," I moaned. "I was trying to keep it away from Ana."

"That's white carpet!"

"I know, I know!"

"Hillary?" said Bro-in-law, still on the cellphone.

"Yeah?"

"Most of them say to use fingernail polish remover, but it has to be the acetone kind. Some recommend alcohol or GooGone, but be careful; you can mess up the pile or make a hole with that stuff. And keep the stain wet - add water to it."

"Thanks."

 "Good luck!" he said, laughter returning.

"Ask your Mom for some acetone fingernail polish remover," I said to Matthew.

"They have guests," he answered, his face pale with anger.

"I have to get it out now," I answered desperately. "Please. And GooGone if they have it."

He left. I could have told them myself, I suppose, but I was too coward to face them. Meanwhile, I kept squishing tissues over the stains and dribbling water, getting up small blots of color.

"Matthew came back, grim faced.

"What'd they say?" I whispered.

"My mom's too busy. When I told Dad I was sorry, he just said, 'These things happen, son'."

But only with your wife, I added in my head, feeling more dejected as he handed me a bottle of fingernail polish remover and the GooGone.

The remover did almost nothing except fading the color to a paler red. The GooGone finally gave me a glimmer of hope that my fatal mistake would not leave a lasting impression on my in-law's carpet or their minds. I was pouring it on like mad until I came to the point where I knew no more could be done.

Needless to say the rehearsal dinner was full of anxiety for me. I slunk around, avoiding my parents-in-law and watching for Matthew's brothers to come in a pack and pitch me from the house - banished FOR-EV-ER!

I offered for Matthew and I to pay for a carpet cleaning when we left a couple days later. Then I apologized for ruining their carpet. Again.

"That's okay," said my father-in-law as he held the front door wide open for me. Then chuckling, he added, "Maybe you should stay in the basement next time."

After that, I often begged Matthew to let us stay in a hotel when we went to Albuquerque. If you ruin something in a hotel, sure you'll pay for it, but you're not going to destroy any personal relationships. Matthew insists his parents want us to stay with them, and, thankfully, I've noticed there are still no guest accommodations in their basement, not even a single rickety cot. Probably because I've done no damage since. But, shhhh...I'd better not jinx myself.