Patty Patten Tiffany

Trois Bon-bons

 

 

Adios Santa Fe

 

          When you say goodbye to Santa Fe, there’s a twist in your heart. You want to meander among its adobe buildings forever, on a mission to see more art than anyone’s ever seen, to enter the Guinness Book of Records for looking at the most intricate turquoise jewelry and the most expensive cowboy boots in the world.  

          You say goodbye to Hatch green chilies roasting and their sweet, smoky smell that makes you hungry for tamales.  You will long for that flavor in the days ahead and the magic of the Indian, Hispanic, and Gringo cultures swirling around the plaza like dust devils.

          You say goodbye to western dancing, the sounds of the Silver Bullets at La Fonda and the maze of twisting, twirling, backwards-walking dancers, dazzling in western finery—studded belts, lacey shirts, tight jeans or long skirts, and of course, cowboy boots for all. Men wear their hats inside here, and they are large, making even tall men taller. The dancers sweat and spin, concentrating and captivated by the complicated rhythms. I join them like a toddler in a footrace and do my best one-two, one-two-three.

          You say goodbye to the thousands of art works along Canyon Road, as it winds gently up the hill.  A larger-than-life bronze bull gleams in a courtyard; complex wind spinners flash green and blue on a patio in the perfect light of afternoon; tawny marble cougars mark the path to one of the many low adobe dwellings. Your eyes strain to follow all the lines and colors.

          As if the magic of the art were not enough, flowers in a profusion of red, purple, and gold punctuate every wall, each porch’s corner, and hang in pots by wires along the sidewalk. Flowers love Santa Fe, as long as a human friend takes time to provide the water that nature doesn’t. It reminds us of the fragile interdependence of beauty, art and nature, as we move through these things, balanced so often on our good will.

          You say goodbye to the sunset over the Sangre de Cristo peaks pointing to the sky while the New Mexico sun blazes through wispy clouds that change every minute along with the light. You shade your eyes but you can’t look away. You feel the cool wind on your shoulders as the sun tucks behind a mountain, and you know the desert is taking over. Time to find a jacket and mourn the loss of light. Until tomorrow.

          It’s farewell now, and your car takes over as you point it toward Texas for one last run through the high desert…seven thousand feet with the tan of sandy soil and rolling hills dotted with juniper, prickly pear, and cholla cactus bushes, all used by native peoples for thousands of years as medicine, clothing, tools, and teas.     

          The last of the sunflowers bob in the strong wind, up and down, saying goodbye.  You’re lucky that it’s rained often this summer, so there is still a rolling ocean of green to see. Your eyes dote on the last strands of red rock woven like fine tapestry into the stone of the mountains. You imagine an ancient pictograph etched there that might bid you farewell and safe passage to the land beyond the light.

          You feel yourself falling and your ears pop. The intense sparkle of the sun dims, and the deep greens and reds of the stark hills are in the rearview mirror now.  Echoes of lost people and their dreams fade as you speed on.

          Then you see the long dry plain of North Texas ahead and pass the state line.

 

 

North Texas is Boarded Up

         

          Drive north from Dallas, past the mad traffic, the glassy skyscrapers, and take your chances on the edge of desolate. It gets dry and hotter all the way to Wichita Falls, where the towns and people begin to disappear.

 

          Dairy Queens, Bar-be-cue Jack’s, storefronts from an old Western, all empty, dark, leering back as you cruise down the road between ghost towns.

 

          Where did they go? Did they lose hope on the long dry stretches of plains? Did they walk off in the cool of early dawn, finding a last comfort in the morning mist? Were they taken hostage by the modern age and Wal-Mart?

 

          Finally, a sighting. A man beside a big pickup, the cab higher than his head. He leans against it, worn boot on the tire. He is smoking.

 

          You must slow down, or so the sign says, even in this tiny boarded up village.

 

          Then you get a good look, and he looks back. First he is a profile, browner than the dust, lines drawn deeply under a sweat-stained cowboy hat. You stare and so does he.

 

          You have a picnic in the backseat, sandwiches, sweet cherries, and cold drinks. He has a cigarette and a face you will never forget.

 

          There’s a storm on the horizon and the hope of rain. You look back, but the cowboy is gone.

 

 

No Boundaries

 

          We cross the Continental Divide again,

          back and forth,

          weaving through mountain ranges.                  

          Absarokas,

          Tetons,

          San Juan,

          Jemez.

          Past monuments to tribes long vanished,

          cliff dwellers who thrived on harsh rocks and thin air.

          Past peaks, a patchwork of green and red rock jutting into the sky,

          standing like sentinels to protect the vastness.

          Past trading posts and abandoned ranches,

          reminding us of hope and retreat from the edges.

 

          We can travel the old trails,

          but we can never go back,

          only forward with new hope and reverence,

          giddy at seven thousand feet,

          grateful for silence

          and the hot wind

          lifting our hair,

          then us,

          upward, to be part of the past

          and its mystery.

 

 

 

Patricia Patten Tiffany was born in Appalachia, descendant of the infamous McCoy clan. Reading allowed her to travel the world as a child, while her first real travel came through college study abroad in Austria. A passion for language and a master’s in German turned out to be a great fit for the Sturm und Drang of admissions, and as dean she wrote volumes about the wonders of her schools. Now she is a member of three writer’s groups in Key West, writing only creatively, and reads her work often among the many public venues there.