Category: gratitude

These boots are made for…

Been going through some stuff in storage, pulling out the keepers, tossing the others.

But then, there are some items where it’s hard to choose, stay or go.

I just unearthed a box full of my old boots. This is tough.

I don’t wear most of these anymore. But I just can’t bear to part with these dear friends either.

I just look at the worn leather…and I remember.

Like, my first pair of ropers.

I’d worn pointy style boots, but when I got to NMSU, all the folks there were wearing ropers. So of course, I needed some too.

I was about a sophomore in college, I think, when I went down to the Tony Lama outlet in El Paso to procure these babies. They are gray goat skin, soft and forgiving. I wore these a lot, as evidenced by the worn down heel.

These were my main everyday boots. I wore them dancing on the boards at Corbett Center. I wore them for my horseback riding classes. Covered in manure, I’d wear them up the hill to attend the business college.

The toes are scuffed all to hell. The pretty gray color job didn’t hold up much under the dainty hooves of the insane mare I was assigned for a while in my riding class. She liked to step on feet. A lot.

Thankfully my gray boots were made for working.

When my grays were starting to show some wear, I saved up and decided to get a new pair of boots. I wanted to try Justins this time and I wanted lace ups. I also wanted pretty. My gray boots were utility. I wanted flirty.

So I bought these very impractical pearl white beauties.

Man, I loved these boots. I started wearing these to dances and leaving the beat up gray boots at home. I almost never wore the pearls riding, except once, for the horse show I participated in (and won).

I got these pretties on the cheap, as you can see, they are marked “imperfect.”

I’ll admit the heel wasn’t balanced quite right on the right boot, but I didn’t care. They were roper perfection to me. These boots were made for flirting with cute cowboys.

Ya wanna know the best part about the fact that I still have these boots?

Look at the circle engraved into the leather sole. You know how you get a groove like that on your boot? By dancing, that’s how.

The leather is cracked and the boots are worn out, but they are still utterly gorgeous to me.

And then, after college, and on to work. That’s when I went back to Justin and bought these guys:

I wore these to work a lot. The soft rubber and not-leather sole was easier on my feet, especially the time spent on the shipping and receiving docks. That concrete is hard on the legs, but these babies are comfy and they look good.

And the leather…oh, the leather just ages so beautifully.

These boots were made for my first real job out of college. They helped me make the transition.

I might actually pull these back out and find another chance to wear them. They are delicious.

And finally…we have these.

This is what I’m wearing now, my beautiful Ariat Fat Babies. These boots went to see the Merle Haggard show recently. These boots get a lot of compliments every time I wear them.

Right now, these boots are packed tightly in my suitcase that, by the time you read this, will be tucked in the cargo hold of an eastbound airplane.

If I’m lucky, I might get these boots out on a dance floor in Southern New Mexico on Saturday night.

Cuz these pretty pink rhinestone boots? These are made for dancing.

¡Baila Me!

When the Gipsy Kings command you to dance, you dance.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t think you can dance. You dance anyway. You shake the maracas the Good Lord gave ya, and you have a good time doing it.

After many years of yearning to see the Gipsy Kings live, last weekend, I finally got my chance.

I got tickets back in April. I jumped on line the very second they went on sale and my diligence paid off. I scored two tickets second row center.

I knew it was going to be a good show. I had no idea it was going to be one of the most amazing shows I’ve ever seen.

The music of the Gipsy Kings is beautiful, traditional gitano music, played by brothers. The men, from two different families, were born in France, children of gitanos who fled during the Spanish Civil War of the 1930’s.

What I mean to say is…they are the real deal.

Their music moves me in ways I can’t understand.

Best not to even try to understand.

Three songs into the night, Patchai Reyes commanded us to dance.

And the people in the venue rose to their feet, and we danced.

Even The Good Man who doesn’t dance got up and danced. It was useless to resist.

At the beginning of the show, six men walked out with matching nylon strung acoustic guitars (four of them played upside down by left handers), hit a couple tune up notes and they were off to the races. I was struck by the blinding fast guitar work.

As the venue allowed photography, I tried to capture even a tiny bit of what we experienced that night. I found I was too enchanted by the music and didn’t actually take a lot of photos.

But here is a photo of Andre Reyes that gives you a small idea. I used as long an exposure as I dared to capture the movement of his hands. (Click to see a larger size)

My mother tells me that somewhere in the murky waters of my genetic past, we are what she calls “French gipsy”.

I understand that to be a true Gitano, you must be Gitano on all four sides…meaning, all four of your grandparents must be full-blooded Gitano. I’m not fully Gitano on any sides, but the rhythm resides somewhere in my strands of DNA.

On warm summer Saturday night in an outdoor mountain venue, the Gipsy Kings plucked the strings to my soul.

And I danced.

Oh, did I dance…

Someone’s Feeling a Little Bit Tidy

I suppose in this world, we all have our own ways to be a little bit uptight.

You know, that one thing we get clamped down about? One might call it, dare I say, anal? (in that Freud sort of way)

Yeah. I might have a few of these uh, quirks.

It was clear to me that The Good Man was my destiny when, early in our relationship, I saw the label making machine in his office at work.

Oh yes. It was the granddaddy version to the same one I had in my own office.

A man who understood the need for a label maker! Oh swoon!

There is something sooo right about having a stack of paperwork neatly placed into manila files (of various colors) with clean, readable labels.

Yes! Oh sweet sphincteritis of the gods!

It shouldn’t make me that happy. And yet…it does.

So imagine my utter joy when The Good Man was cleaning out some boxes and getting rid of supplies, and asked me if I wanted this:

It’s one of those old fashioned style embossing label makers…the kind where you turn the letter to the arrows and squeeze?

“Why yes please!” I said quickly, excited to have the power of making the labels right there in the palm of my hand.

It’s so…I don’t know, engaging to spell out each word letter by letter, turning the disk, squeezing the handle. Thinking ahead to how I want it to look….

Much like the Solo red cups, I have an unnatural appreciation for this little manual point and shoot label maker.

I’d like to teach the world to organize.

In perfect harmony.

I’d like to file the clutter and crap.

And keep it alphabetically.

(can you name that jingle?)

I know, I know. It’s so wrong…I need help……

What Does This Image Mean to You?

Take a gander. I’ll bet this image elicits an immediate visceral reaction:

It sure does for me. If you were in college or attended any sort of raucous party in the last several decades, then you too have an instant recognition and reaction to….

The ubiquitous Solo Red Cup.

Truly an American icon.

When a keg is purchased, what must come along with it? A nice big stack of Solo Red Cups.

Having a picnic? Well then what is a certain necessity? The Solo Red Cup.

Up for a game of beer pong? Gonna need several of these bad boys.

Sometimes it comes in blue, but red is the most recognizable and widely available color.

I have a deep appreciation and a love for the Solo Red Cup that borders on something inappropriate (but not quite objectophilia).

Summertime makes me think of my old friend Solo Red Cup. Warm days, beer with a head that is way too foamy because the knucklehead tapped the keg wrong, and flip flops.

In my memory, days seem a lot simpler when I have a Solo Red Cup in my hand.

May we all have a Solo Red Cup kind of a day….

Cheers!

Flash Fiction & Fables Finale – New Mexico Folklore

And so it is that we’ve come to the last day of this fun and different sort of week on the blog.

What a ride it’s been!

My goal was to shake up my brain a little bit so I could get some fresh blog posts out of the ol’ noodle.

Well, it worked. I already have a list of about ten fresh topics that will start coming your way next week.

For today, I have what I consider to be the grand prize for coming along with me on this ride.

Today is the Fables part of the week.

After scouring both books and the internet, I’ve selected an item from a book called Cuentos de Cuanto Hay. The subtitle is “Tales from Spanish New Mexico.”

This story collection is published by University of New Mexico Press, and was edited and translated by Joe Hayes.

The stories were originally collected by J. Manuel Espinosa in the 1930’s. He traveled around Northern New Mexico collecting verbal tales from the Spanish speaking residents, then transcribed and published them. That first published book was called Spanish Folk Tales from New Mexico.

Joe Hayes found a copy of the book and had loved it through the years, so in 1998 he worked with Dr. Espinosa to clean up many of the stories, added in a few more, and republished the collection.

It is charming, odd, and packed full of deep rooted stories from the Hispanic culture.

Just like New Mexico itself, many of the stories are a bit quirky.

Even the title of the book reflects the beautiful slow moving, “Land of Mañana” charm. Joe Hayes translates the phrase Cuentos de Cuanto Hay as “tales of olden times.” Literally translated, it means “stories of whatever it is.”

Which seems sort of New Mexico to me. “Eh, tales of whatever!” with a dismissive wave of the hand.

The story I’ve selected, “Juan Pelotero” also brings a lot of that New Mexico mischievous sense of humor. There is a line in the story where two characters agree to meet at “such and such a place.” Details, feh, who needs ’em!

The name, Pelotero, is also symbolic. In today’s vernacular, a pelotero is a ball player, usually baseball, but pelotero can also refer to futbol. The first line of the story gives you the clue to the more archaic use of the word: “Juanito Pelotero was a gambler.” Pelotero back then meant a player, a rogue, a roustabout.

You’ll also find the story tends to move fast in some parts, skipping over details. At just a few pages long, it packs a lot of story in there.

Since these tales were originally an oral legacy passed down from family member to family member, I’m going to bring “Juan Pelotero” (and maybe others) back to the verbal tradition.

Today, I’ve made a recording of the story and it’s posted below for your listening pleasure. I suggest putting the story on in the background while you go about your work checking email or what have you.

As I converted the file to MP3 format, feel free to download the audio file and put it on your iTunes or iPod to listen later if you would like.

I recorded this using a podcast microphone and Garageband software.

Do not expect recording studio quality, please. The quality reflects my gear and my room. I’ve done my best to keep the sounds of The Feline and my iPhone out of the recording, but I live in a creaky house and it’s windy today. You get the idea.

If listening to a story isn’t your thing, but you’d still like to read it, I’ve posted a .pdf. Click here for that. (remember, this edition of the story is copyright the University of New Mexico Press, so don’t run off doing anything naughty with it, you hear?)

______________________

The story of “Juan Pelotero” was told to Dr. Espinosa by Bonifacio Mestas of Chamita, NM.

Run time is just over nine minutes. File is just over 4MB, so it may take a few moments to load. Player opens in a new window.

Enjoy!

Karen Fayeth reading “Juan Pelotero”

Footnotes:

1. Sorry about the high-pitched whine behind the audio. I think it’s from the internet router on my desk.

2. In case you are wondering what a sacristan is, click here. I had to look it up too.

3. Yes, I think the part about the talking spit is weird.

4. The dove sounds I’m making are read as written in the story. Cucurucú is how it’s written. I did my best….:)