Desert Contrasts - Gardens, Flowers, Sand, Stone and Water.

Desert Contrasts - Gardens, Flowers, Sand, Stone and Water: A photo montage. 

Click photos to enlarge.

Albuquerque has a beautiful Botanical Garden as part of its BioPark which includes a zoo and aquarium. I especially like the Japanese Garden which has a very New England feel, with trees, pond, and shrubbery that is found more often in Connecticut than in most of New Mexico.

#1 Spring display with pansies and poppies.

#2 Peonies 

#3 Koi Pond

#4 Pink Peony

#5 Sitting Duck

#6 Quack

#7 Koi in Foreground

#8 Walk Bridge

#9 Ornamental Garden

#10 Poppies

#11 Pretty (but I don't know what they are).

#12 Some Kind of Blue

#13 Alligator Juniper

#14 Columbine

#15 Pansies and Poppies

Leaving the environment of cultivated and irrigated flora brings us into the natural environment of the high desert where wild flowers were/are abundant this year. Here are some pretty ones:

#16 tetraneuris scaposa - Four-Nerve Daisy
Cochiti Lake, NM

#17 sphaeralcea ambigua - Desert Globemallow
Cochiti Lake, NM

#18 tetraneuris scaposa - Four-Nerve Daisy
Cochiti Lake, NM

#19 Loco Weed? Cochiti Lake, NM

#20 Un-identified Purple Flowers
Santa Fe, NM

#21 Cholla, Las Cruces, NM

#22 Cholla, Las Cruces, NM

#23 Opuntia - Prickly Pear
Las Cruces, NM

#24 Purple Cholla, Las Cruces, NM

#25 Ocotillo and Apache Plume
Organ Mt, NM

#26 Ocotillo, Blue Sky and the Outcropping
Organ Mountains, NM

On our current trip to southern New Mexico one of our stops was at White Sands National Monument. We'd been there eons ago, before we were likely to frequent Cape Cod. As we were driving in I couldn't help but be reminded of the dunes in Provincetown...and I immediately got into a funk.

So like Provincetown I half expected to see the ocean at Race Point beyond the highest dune, but, instead of an ocean (there was one here a million years ago) all there was was more white sand. So we saw white sand and more white sand and the more sand we was, the more depressed I got.

Besides it was hot. I don't seem to be able to tolerate heat (or cold) like I used to. Not to mention that hiking seems to take a lot more effort, even though I walk quite a bit every day. The heat just saps the energy out of me.

Enough of white sand, we headed up to Cloudcroft.

#27 Reminds me of the Dunes at the Cape

#28 Leon of Arabia and the Dog, Benni

#29 Blue Sky, Sand and Yucca

#30 Blue and White

In such stark contrast to the endless sand was the mountain country near Cloudcroft where evergreen trees - pine and fir - dominate the landscape. And where Benni was able to have a good, off-leash run, sniff new smells and chase sticks. 

We went from 90 degree+ baking heat at White Sands to wet, rainy and 50 degree cold in Cloudcroft. I had to buy a sweatshirt; I was shivering. Small town that survives on skiing and people from the hot regions going there to cool off. 

Flashback to Vermont. The cold rain ended and the sun came through to warm us up a bit.

#31 Leon and Benni in Cloudcroft

#32 Grassy Meadow with Aspen

#33 The Cool Green of the Aspen Trees

Went back to camp and heat in Las Cruces.

We were amazed at the agriculture in Las Cruces. Miles of pecan trees in neat rows were delightful to see. Many of the orchards were flooded - purposely - to irrigate the trees. Other crops were also being grown and the system of acequias or canals is vital to the farmers here and throughout New Mexico. Imported palm trees are common in landscaped yards.

#34 Rows of Pecans, Orchard in Las Cruces

From Las Cruces, we headed to Carlsbad. Later that day at camp, a pretty bad hail storm hit. New Mexico: heat, wind, lightening, hail. But it beats a large part of the US that is under water.

 Went to Carlsbad Caverns. We could have sworn we were here years ago but nothing we saw seemed to correspond to a memory. And Leon has a memory, whereas I have a forgettory. It was a long hike down into the cave where we saw all kinds of interesting stalactites and stalagmites and lots of rock. Almost as fascinating as the rock formations was the engineering feat that paved the walkway, built stone barriers and fashioned steel railings that followed a serpentine pathway. We emerged three hours later through the wonder of the speedy elevator.

Photos of the cavern are not spectacular as everything is monochromatic and theatrically lit.

#35 In the Cavern

Later that day we decided to drive out to Sitting Bull Falls. It is about a 36 mile drive off the main road through scrub desert terrain. The thirty-six miles seemed more like ninety-six. (Getting nervous as we had not filled the thirsty diesel truck). The only thing to see besides dirt and rocks and weeds was the occasional herd of cattle, some of the creatures actually crossing the road at their leisure. Out there somewhere is the promise of an oasis, a natural spring fed waterfall. We kept driving...

#36 Scrub Desert As Far as the Eye Can See
Near Carlsbad, NM

Yes, there, after the Lincoln National Forest sign (day use pay area - National Parks Senior Pass accepted) one comes to a very neatly kept parking lot, a number of picnic shelters surrounded by grassy lawns, a comfort station and info kiosk. Just beyond the picnic area are the falls. This is not a very crowded spot. There were maybe six other people there during our visit.

Interestingly, the falls, while surrounded by desert and desert flora had a very different micro climate and eco system. Willows, grape vines, ferns and mosses flourish there. In some ways I found this oasis to be more fascinating than the caverns of Carlsbad.

#37 Sitting Bull Falls

#38 Grape Vines

#38 Maidenhair Fern

#39 A Cool Pool

#40 Frank, Benni and Leon

A few more pics from a little restaurant in Mesilla (Josefina's Old Gate Cafe) where we had a late breakfast one morning this past week.

# 41 Leon, Benni Lounging

#42 Interesting Wooden Portal

#43 Old Gate at Josefina's

Spent the day tooling around Carlsbad. Impressions: Oil, gas, drilling, fracking, industrial, trucks, lots of very clean, fairly new, WHITE pick-up trucks (seems like some kind of status symbol), nice river front park, nice homes along and near the Pecos river, not so nice away from town, white and Mexican, lots of Texans, some wealth, some poverty, lots of machinery being lugged around, macho, family, religion, no ice cream shops we could find. Bought a tub of Butter Pecan and a tub of strawberry frozen yogurt at the market.

Heading home tomorrow - Sunday, May 19.

Recently On Netflix

We have been watching two new Netflix Original series: Special and Bonding.

Both have gay male characters who are "mentored" by strong, independent women but in totally different contexts. Both series are well-written, kind of sexy, and full of little surprises.

Both series are following what must be a new kind of format where episodes are no more than 15 minutes or so long. We ended up watching the entire series of Bonding and Special in one evening each.

Special follows a 20-something gay man with a "mild" case of cerebral palsy as he seeks independence from an overprotective mother and finds support in a no-nonsense female co-worker who pushes him into new territory.

Bonding brings together a female grad student who is a dominatrix in her spare time and a young, awkward gay guy who she hires as her "assistant" and insurance against would-be nefarious clients.

The short, 15 minute episodes are just enough to make the viewer want to see more. Light, sometimes outrageous, sometimes funny, these shows may be just what you need after watching the Evening News.

Promise Broken

I promised myself I would stay out of political commentary as it has gotten both uncivil and frustrating. But when I saw this, I just couldn't resist. Maybe because he is soooo cute.

Book Report: "Christ Stopped at Eboli - The Story of a Year" by Carlo Levi

Book Report: Christ Stopped at Eboli - The Story of a Year by Carlo Levi

This book was recommended to me by my cousin Elaine who said if I was interested in learning more about the historic Southern Italy this book by Carlo Levi would offer great insights.

Levi wrote the book in 1945. Levi details his sojourn in Gagliano (pronounced ga-liano) that took place in1935 when he was exiled as an anti-fascist political prisoner to a small mountain village in Southern Italy. It was thought that sending and confining dissidents to one of these villages was worse than prison.

The title of the book, Christ Stopped at Eboli, signifies how the peasants felt about the godforsaken land of Southern Italy where they lived.

Eboli is a town about 60 miles south of Naples. The people in the southern provinces of Basilicata and Calabria would often say that they were forgotten by the State, by the Church, by their conquerors, by their landlords and by Christ himself. They were certain that Christ himself, had he been to Italy, would never have set foot south of Eboli because it was such a wasteland. They were even reluctant to call themselves Christians, a word that was equated with being human - they were merely animals, not human beings, south of Eboli.

Levi, (and certainly his translator as well), is both eloquent and down-to-earth in his descriptions of the people and events that took place during his year in Gagliano when he was embraced by the townsfolk as the new doctor. Levi had some medical background and his knowledge of medicine was a godsend to the people of Gagliano which, like the entire region was devastated by malaria. All the peasants had at their disposal to treat illness or injury were spells and magic and potions.

Levi repeatedly describes the poverty that is so ubiquitous a presence that it is an entity of itself and his story would make no sense otherwise. But he is not sentimental or sensational or detached in his recounting of the events of the people of Gagliano. He does so with a great deal of respect and even admiration for the peasants whose lives are a continual struggle against the powers that be and their own existential predicament.

The territory of Southern Italy had been conquered repeatedly by foreigners from the ancient Greeks and Romans to the Spaniards and the Bourbons. Given the perpetual state of poverty and of being the conquered, the peoples of Southern Italy devised many survival strategies which included a certain temperament of the people - a kind of balance between rebellion and despair, ancient superstitions and belief in magic and spells, unquestioned customs and rites.

My interest in the book stems from the fact that my paternal grandparents both came from a mountain town in Calabria. Although they came to America in 1910, before Levi’s year in exile, they came out of the same poverty and environment. I was able to relate my visit to the town of my ancestors in Calabria in 1968 with much of what Levi described. I can’t help but wonder which, if any, of my character traits or psyche are rooted in that ancient Calabrian consciousness.

This book may not hold the interest of most of my readers but is certainly and eye-opener for anyone whose ancestors came from Southern Italy. Most Americans of Italian descent have no idea. And today, when some Americans are so afraid of immigrants and ready to build walls, the stories of yesterday's immigrants have lessons for us.

 If interested, you can read some excerpts at Amazon.

Also recommended is the PBS Documentary Series, The Italian Americans

ADDENDUM - EXCERPT FROM MY MEMOIR:  1968 trip from school in Rome to Spadola

My fascination with Italy, my desire to learn the language, and my plan to visit Grandma’s village were all part of an unarticulated scheme to consolidate my fragile identity as an Italian and establish my right to belong, if not in Italy, then in my own family. After all, it was Grandma who once told me: “You are not-a like-a the other grandchil’ren.” Perhaps I would fit in better if I were more Italian.

During the Thanksgiving break I went to visit my father’s aunt and uncle in a small village in Calabria, in Southern Italy. Spadola was the town where my paternal grandparents lived before sailing to Ellis Island on their way to Hartford, Connecticut’s Italian neighborhood. Without much of a plan, I hitched a ride to Naples with a fellow student who had a car, and from there I was able to hop a train to Vibo Valencia, the closest station to Spadola.

In a forlorn trattoria near the train station, I ordered a plate of spaghetti and, having no idea how I would complete my journey, I asked the waiter how to get to Spadola. My inquiry was soon relayed to a group of men who interrupted their wine drinking and loud talk to huddle like members of a soccer team deliberating a strategy. One of them emerged, having been appointed by the team: a middle-aged man with several days’ growth of beard, a scruffy v-neck sweater and an English style cap. A cigarette hung precariously from the corner of his mouth sending smoke into his right eye. 

He took the cigarette with his thumb and index finger and, exhaling a lungful of smoke, he said in a mix of English and Italian, “I take-a you a Spadola, dieci milla lire, va bene?” For about sixteen dollars American, he would drive me the forty-five or fifty kilometers to Spadola.

Desperation, or at least a lack of options, made it easier for me to trust this guy. We got in his Fiat Cinquecento and we drove off together into the hills. As soon as we reached the top of the first big hill in the middle of nowhere (there is, apparently, a “middle of nowhere” not too far from everywhere else on the planet), we came to a slow roll as Guido took his foot off the accelerator. As we passed the crest of the hill and, with obvious deliberation, he then turned the key off, killing the car’s engine. He turned to me and smiled. This made me more than just a little nervous.

I asked him what was going on, “Che succede?”

“Non preoccuparti,” he replied for me not to worry.

Then he rattled off something in an Italian dialect that I did not understand as he simultaneously lit a cigarette and let the car roll down the hill. I learned that there were plenty of mountains between Vibo Valencia and Spadola but no petrol stations. Guido was determined to save gas however he could.

We eventually arrived in Spadola with fuel to spare and my driver was able to locate my relatives by asking a villager. My father’s aunt, Zi’Giuseppina and uncle, Zi’Francesco, were unprepared for my arrival, as I had never given them a definite day or time to expect me. But they and other relatives in the village were more than welcoming and accommodating.

My father’s cousin Vito, whom Dad never met, owned a small general store and he secured a piece of beefsteak for dinner on my first night there. This was a gesture of respect and honor for a relative from America—a kindness I didn’t feel I deserved. On the contrary, I was embarrassed to be the only one at the table with meat on his plate. Such gestures made me aware that I was an outsider, no matter what my bloodline. There were very few young people in the old village, most having left to find jobs in large cities. 

One middle-aged Spadolese, perhaps slightly embarrassed by the poverty of his town and with a sharp flavor of resentment in his voice, told me, in fairly good English: “You come-a here ehn you see how-a we are live. Then you-a go back-a your big villa in Ah-mee-rica and tell everybody how poor we ah’ here. You will-a never come-a back. You too good-a for us, no?”

The short time I spent in Spadola gave me a first-hand perspective on Grandma’s stories and my roots as well as three-dimensional memories to try to fit into my new identity: my great aunt and great uncle’s home with a fire pit in the kitchen and the pot of espresso brewing in the embers; the sound of zampogne—ancient Roman bagpipes—playing pastoral hymns at dawn in honor of the novena to Saint Nicholas; the hunt for wild mushrooms with cousin Vito and his two kids; the town’s ancient fountain; the church my grandmother helped to build. 

But all of these images, rather than bring me closer to my identity, only made me more keenly aware of the fact that I was very different and did not belong. Having grown up in a small New England city where we were the “Italians” among the “Irish” and the “Polish” and the “French,” I never thought of myself as“American” until some Italian university students, pointing to a group of us from the U.S. and gesturing wildly, referred to us as quegli americani—those Americans. 

I never expected my quest for an identity to entail my being an American. I would never be an Italian, nor did I feel like I would ever really fit into the Italian-American culture of big weddings, baby-making, baptisms, and huge family gatherings.

Apologies to My Readers

To my readers, (all 10 or so of you),

I just discovered at least 20 comments from readers that never got published. The comments were sitting in the "awaiting moderation" section of the dashboard.

Usually all comments are channeled through my email and I hit "publish" from the email message. I don't have a clue as to why these particular comments didn't pass through my email...and I'm afraid that those who made the comments might think I purposely deleted their comments. That was not the case.

But the posts in question are from some time ago and my posts are probably mostly irrelevant by now.

Anyhow, my apologies to all those whose comments got temporarily "lost" in the blogosphere.

- Frank

Not What We Bargained For

Another snow storm yesterday and it is 1º F this morning! It's warmer back in Connecticut! Spent a few hours digging out ourselves and our neighbors yesterday.

We're expecting to remain below freezing until Friday and perhaps more snow Monday and Tuesday.

Leon used to brag that the snow here would melt by the time he finished a cup of coffee...he's going  to be drinking lots of coffee, so we had better start brewing...

This Morning - 12-29-18

Icicles, Popsicles,