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Karen Fayeth

Man, this is why I love New Mexico so much….

Because of things like this article which made its way into the somewhat respectable ABQjournal.

Titled “Courthouse Camera Catches Curious Image”, there is speculation that an errant image seen on security tapes might be a ghost. Furthermore, they think they know who the ghost might be.

And to the good folks of New Mexico it’s *totally plausible*….AND it made the newspaper!

I love that! I’m totally bought in! I’m the girl who thinks I could see a woodbending Jesus at Loretto. The one who has deeply inspected the chairs and the dark corners of the Double Eagle in Mesilla and who goes into the store (also in Mesilla) that once was the courthouse and tries to squint to see the ghosts of criminals who swung from the trees in the plaza.

I’m in! And now that I’ve seen the video, I’m even MORE bought in! Weird!!!!

(heck, this story even made the San Francisco Chronicle!)

Video here:

Ruminations

Going to borrow a page from Natalie over at Petroglyph Paradox and mull over the implications of Father’s Day a little bit. Though I’m a day late (and a dollar short), as the old saying goes.

My dad was an odd fellow. Odd in all sorts of ways. My sister who is mother to a couple boys with as yet undiagnosed problems has been forced to read up on the markers for autism. My sister has said that had my father been born in a different time, he probably would have been tapped as a high functioning autistic.

He was smart as hell and obsessive about numbers. He worked hard but had a nasty temper. I chalk up the temper to being of fiery Irish and German descendentcy. His full-blooded Irish mother is the only person I ever knew who could yell at HIM. And boy did she.

He was bitterly type A. He put in a hell of a career at Sandia Labs, was an engineer to the core, and probably was a better man that I ever gave him credit for.

I could talk a lot about all the bad things he did to me personally, or the bad things I saw him do to my siblings and mother. But at the end of the day, there wasn’t any sort of physical abuse, no. I don’t want to mislead. He never laid a hand on us. He just had a cruel mind and would say hateful things in a fit of fury. And words can hurt too.

So I won’t talk about the fact that he was a bitterly mean and insecure man who lashed out at his family because he could.

I also won’t raise him up as the model of a father, then join hands and sing the praises of dad.

What’s it’s taken me most of my life to learn is that he was an incredibly imperfect person. Fraught with fears about boogeymen around every corner and demands for us to be better, he actually did try very hard to run his family.

Out of three kids, we all turned out with our fair share of “issues”, but we also turned out to be three decent people, all contributing members of society. In the case of both of my siblings, marriages and kids of their own. So I guess to raise three more or less well adjusted kids, he must have done a few things right, in the end.

And so I’ll give him credit for that.

On this Father’s Day, some two years after his passing, I didn’t exactly miss him. He never liked celebrations of holidays and such. I was sort of relieved that I didn’t have to find some meaningless gift and card to send. It’s nice to be “off the hook”. Instead of mourning my Dad, I spent the day with my partner’s Dad who is chock full of his own set of insecurities and missteps, but is a hell of a good man.

And it doesn’t pass my notice that he reminds me in many ways of my own father.

But the one thing that the father of my love remembered to do that my own forgot was to love his child unconditionally.

I’ll take that as the lesson for Father’s Day…and Mother’s Day…and every day.

Cah-reee-pyyyyy

Baked into my childhood is a certain deep-seated fear. It’s a fear baked into every young kid in most parts of New Mexico, parts of Texas and Arizona, and plenty of Mexico. Any kid raised in the Hispanic culture.

The deep fear was brought to me by my APS teachers, of all people. Every fall, around Halloween time, actually, they would darken the classroom, crack open a book, and regale us with the tale of….

La Llorona.

Ack!

Scares the you know what out of me every time.

It seems that some folks have been trying to portray the weeping woman in a better light lately. There was that commercial seen only in California that had her weeping over an empty milk container. Every time it came on, I either turned my head away or turned the channel. : shudder :

And whatever creepy feelings I have, for some people, it’s even way worse. The mother of my ex was born and raised in Mexico. She was a traditionalist and you couldn’t say “La Llorona” around her or she would start praying and crossing herself and yelling at you for saying that out loud. She thought saying her name brought her near.

There is a restaurant in San Francisco’s East Bay that serves all manner of margaritas, one of them called, you guessed it, La Llorona. Now why would I take a nice activity like drinking a marg and use it to scare the crap out of myself? Huh? : shudder :

For a while in the early 90’s, in a bid to increase awareness about safety around arroyos, the City had a campaign featuring the “Ditch Witch”, ostensibly to scare us back.

And boy, did La Llorona scare me off of rivers and streams and such. Tho not enough that I didn’t ride my bike and skateboard through the dry concrete arroyos near my childhood home. I did always keep an eye on the sky, especially over the mountains, and if it got one bit ominous, I was OUTTA there.

By the way, in case you don’t know the legend of La Llorona, here it is, in a nutshell (or at least the way it was told to me….other versions vary widely):

“Many of the legends portray a woman who is abandoned by her husband or lover and who then drowns her young children in despair, because she cannot support them, or for revenge…she is stricken with deep remorse, doomed to eternally wander near the Rio Grande or other bodies of water, looking for her lost children.” The story I heard went further. Not only was she looking for her lost children, she would abduct and in some cases drown any OTHER little children she found wandering on the ditch banks. : shudder:

I cut and paste that story from an article in today’s Las Cruces Sun News titled La Llorona’s stories to be told at Saturday festival

In regards to attending such a festival, I just have this to say: Oh hell no.

Actually, it sounds like a fun festival and I love the folklore of passing down stories from one generation to the next. But I think the “Honk if you’ve seen La Llorona” bumper stickers are going a *bit* too far.

: shudder :

Thoughts from the "Active Senior" community

So this is day four of round two of being “care giver” to my mom. I’m happy to report she’s doing a lot better. We got good reports from the doctor yesterday and she seems strong enough now to care for herself with a little help from my aunt and uncle. So yay. I get to go home tomorrow.

This has left me, once again, thoughtful. My mom will be back up on her feet and taking her water aerobic class and walking the indoor track and going to lunch and being a very “active senior” in no time. But I know that the time where she’ll be “down” for good is coming. I’ve not wanted to think about it a whole lot, really. Probably burying my head in the sand.

It made all of my siblings and I happy when she moved to this community. It gave her freedom, independence, but some security she didn’t have living in rural New Mexico. She was doing so great until she took ill. This has sure been a bad bout. She’s still fairly young, just 72, health is great and strong despite my dad’s passing two years ago.

But I know time is the big enemy. You can’t stop it. Can’t fight it, it just…happens.

Meanwhile, I think living here among the viejos for a couple weeks has had an effect on my own mind. It sure is a different way of life here. Obviously there are old folks with some money to be able to live here. My mom lucked out, was able to sell the house in New Mexico and roll that into a small condo apartment. But there are these huge fabulous houses on the golf course. Active seniors whipping up and down the road in golf carts. Slow moving Caddy’s up and down the parking lots. People talking about their other home in Michigan or Minnesota or wherever it’s cold and then their third home over by their kids. My little mom has her one home, this small but nicely made place.

And everyone knows what everyone is doing. It is like a damn college dorm here. Hell, even *I* know that X lady recently died, suddenly, and Y gentleman sold his small home for a big one because he moved in with his lady friend, but they broke up now he wants to buy his old house back but the market is soft right now, and oh by the way he paid < insert dollar amount to the dollar > for that place on the golf course, and so on.

Gotta give it up to these folks. The dating scene is rampant. Word to the gentlemen reading this: Take good care of yourself. Single older men are a *hot* property around here. You’ll be up to your eyeballs in lady attention if you can just manage to stay alive. I’d say the men to woman ratio is at least 2 to 1 if not higher.

There is a different in the pace of life here. All the active seniors look in askance at me as I spend my days on my computer…working. That was the deal I struck with my boss. I could have the time but I had to stay connected. They keep going “why don’t you come over here and talk with us”. For these folks, the biggest thing they have to do today is get some lunch. Then maybe a trip to the pool. Late afternoon happy hour then some dinner.

Hell, they’ve earned it. More power to them that they can make it work. Including my modest little mom.

Today I pretty much hate my job. But maybe this is my penance so one day I, too, can live in a modern community and plan my days around the Scrabble competitions, the Mah Jong classes, and meeting friends to walk on the indoor track to catch up on the latest gossip.

Maybe if I’m smart, and a bit of a spendthrift, I might one day live the “active senior” lifestyle.

But that is a LOT of years, a lot of work emails, a lot of conference calls via a crappy cell phone, and a lot of reports to my boss away.

For today, back to it. I am an “active thirtysomething” which means I still gotta pull a paycheck.

*grumble*

Travesty!

Oh sure, sure, it’s all “retro” and everything…but it’s not what I recall from MY childhood. Banana flavor seems….wrong….

Twinkies come in banana flavor

“NEW YORK — Twinkie lovers, get ready to go bananas.

Hostess – owned by Kansas City, Mo., company Interstate Bakeries Corp. – began selling the banana-creme snack cakes last week at retail stores nationwide, returning to its 70-year-old roots. From 1930, when the Twinkie was first invented, to the 1940s, Twinkies were filled solely with banana creme. But a banana shortage during WWII forced Hostess to replace it with the vanilla flavor.”

And by the way, may I just say “ew!” Artificial banana flavored ANYTHING makes me gag, and : shudder :