Travel in New Mexico

For my holiday mailing several years ago, I intended to do lyrics based on the Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond (Ye’ll tak’ the high road and I’ll tak’ the low road/And I’ll be in Taos afore ye …, which would actually have some relevance, because there is a High Road to Taos, and I’ve been lost on it. On the low road, too.    

For Thanksgiving that year, a friend and I were driving up to her stepson and stepdaughter-in-law’s new home in Truchas, New Mexico. Truchas is an old town in the mountains about half-way between Santa Fé and Taos, so it’s about 90 miles from Albuquerque. We hadn’t been off the beaten track much in north central New Mexico, and one tends to forget that not everything is right off the freeway, as it would be in the I-5 corridor. 

Our host had emailed directions, which seemed straightforward. Take exit such-and-such, and when you pass Chimayó, turn onto Highway and-so-forth. Except he omitted to mention that you have to take the turn-off TO Chimayó and pass the actual town, rather than passing the turn-off, though he did remember to warn us of the possible presence of loose dogs and horses in Truchas. So we drove on through some beautiful scenery and the road became less and less a main road.

Eventually we came to a town called Cundiyo, the pavement ended and the road became more of a lane. Old adobe houses sat at odd angles to it: here the side of a house, there the corner. Not a person was stirring. It was like the first five minutes of a horror film, right before the zombies show up. 

We drove on, and pavement resumed. We drove through a town with no name a few miles on. No open business in sight, no human presence detectable. By then I was expecting to see plague victims stretched lifeless by the side of the road. Or black helicopters. Having moved to New Mexico from the I-5 corridor, I’m not used to seeing towns with no sign of life either human or mercantile.

Finally we came to a crossroad with the state route number we were looking for. After that, it was easy to find Truchas, although we overshot the turn-off to our friends’ house and made an unintended detour that took us onto a narrow, muddy road (it had begun to rain and then snow). We seemed to be heading into more mountains. Fortunately, while we were turning around (the truck has 4-wheel drive, which my friend actually got to use), an old pickup truck coming from the other direction stopped to see if we needed help. The driver and passenger were able to tell us where we’d gone wrong, and we made it to our destination.

Perhaps I should also mention one oddity about New Mexico. The highway or road name on the sign is not necessarily the same that’s shown on your map, or on the online directions. Sometimes the signage will give both. Sometimes not. That’s why we missed the correct turn. Intuition is important when driving in this state, and mine was not working that day.

The Magic of New Mexico, Part I

Over the 4^th of July weekend in 2009 I took a University of New Mexico Continuing Education excursion to the Mescalero Apache ceremonial near Ruidoso for the girls’ puberty ceremony. The whole thing takes 12 days to perform and years for the girls’ families to prepare for, but four days of it were scheduled to coincide with the annual ceremonial at which the Mountain Gods dance.

            There was a midway, of course, with “fair”-type food to buy and souvenirs, umbrellas (for the sun), jewelry and art, and an open space where traditional dances and songs were performed all day, with bleachers and room to set up folding camp chairs around the edge.  Apaches and Native Americans had come from all over. People camped in tents set up outside the meeting grounds. The families of the girls going through the ritual prepared mammoth amounts of food to feed anyone who showed up at meal time. Fry bread, always. Other stuff, sometimes traditional, sometimes not. What appeared to be green beans cooked in some kind of broth, salad, meat cooked in sauce (which was excellent).

            When we arrived on the 4^th, there didn’t seem to be a lot of people in attendance, though more drifted in throughout the afternoon. Since it’s up in the mountains, it wasn’t as blazingly hot as it might have been, and even so, when the wind died down, it must have been nearly 90^o. Evening came on and they built the bonfire around which the four Mountain Gods would dance. Night fell, and the Gods began to dance: several different sets of Mountain Gods, doing a succession of dances which relate an important Apache myth. There are four sets of Gods because there are sixteen dances, and each group does four, so the groups have time to recuperate before they’re on again. The dancing continues until 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning. 

           The moon, almost full, came up, and on the other side of the mountain range, which seemed to rise right on the other side of the highway, flashes of light began. We initially thought it was fireworks. Instead it was lightning beyond the range, far enough away that we didn’t hear thunder.  While the Mountain Gods danced, the four girls were in a teepee at the edge of the dancing ground, its opening facing east. The girls were carrying on their own ceremonies, dancing and singing under the supervision of medicine men.  When we left at about 10:00 p.m., I think we were all surprised to find that suddenly there were two or three times as many spectators as there had been earlier. They must have drifted in like fog, to fill the bleachers and set up their own chairs around the field.

            The moon, lightning, fire and social dancing (with a great ring of spectators dancing around the edge, circling the Mountain Gods) will stick in my mind for a long time. But the best memory is of a young Apache woman in fatigues, first watching in a dignified manner, then dancing in place while chatting with a friend, and finally, as darkness came down, joining the dance line when someone lent her a dance shawl.  The Apaches have a high regard for their warriors; at the entrance to the grounds, military flags flew with the U.S. flag. In the Apaches’ casino, Inn of the Mountain Gods, a few miles away, a plaque (a big one) lists all the Apache veterans who have died while serving, from U.S. Cavalry Indian scouts to losses in Iraq.

            When we got out to the highway about half a mile from the ceremonial grounds, we found it had poured.  But not on the ceremonial. Not a drop.

Some days I think I'd rather trim a quill pen

Anyone who knows me knows I am not a computer geek. However, I am generally on civil terms with my computer. It lets me type fiction and the occasional letter, email, blog post or book review, and enables me to buy stuff: old spinning wheel parts, books, medieval-style buttons, clothing, imitation musk flavoring for 16^th century biscotti.

My printer and I do not have a cordial relationship. I’m on my third in ten years.

Admittedly, the first was bought, along with the computer, when I moved to Albuquerque. My Seattle computer was pretty old, as was the printer, and it didn’t make sense to bring it with me. The Pod I rented was full. I had no room in the car (the PT Cruiser was filled with clothing, things I’d been using until I actually walked out the door, and a 40 inch by 19 inch stained glass panel, among other things).

The second was purchased when the first died after about four years—needless to say, right before I needed to print some handouts with color pictures of 16^th century clothing. I will say for it that it had printed one book-length manuscript, and very nicely, too.

I liked that second printer. Granted, it was big and heavy, but it printed well, and it was multi-function. It produced a couple of book-length manuscripts. It also scanned, faxed and printed photographs, and it offered to give me a massage and a permanent wave, but I declined. Which may be why several months ago it began to spray ink in a random manner. I messed around with it, following directions I found online and on YouTube, and it sort of stopped. That is, it would fling ink around only intermittently.

Then it stopped printing black ink.  No, it wasn’t because that cartridge was empty; this printer would refuse to print at all, in any color, if one cartridge was empty. But that was all right. Some people may have wondered why I was printing letters and address labels in red or green. That’s why. 

Finally, one day as the paper began to feed I heard what sounded like SNAP! CRACKLE! POP! And it stopped feeding. Clearing the jam did no good. Neither did turning it off. Restarting the computer—because sometimes that seems to have magical properties—did not make it stop claiming to be jammed. As I had researched fixing the ink problem online, I already knew that sending it for repair would cost more than a new printer.

Enter Printer #3.  It was inexpensive, got as good reviews as any other printer sold on Amazon, and was favorably rated on a site that rates printers.

I liked it … for the first couple of months. Specifically, until the first time it jammed. The manual was no help, as the illustrations were so lacking in detail it was impossible to figure out what you were supposed to do. YouTube showed the jam-clearing procedure clearly but only for a jam where the sheet was easily accessible, either from the top or from the bottom, with the paper tray removed. My sheet had vanished into the printer’s bowels and was not visible anywhere. Forty minutes later, it was unjammed. Something I did caused the paper to move enough that I was finally able to get hold of it.

Since then, I’ve also cleared a paper jam by pulling a sheet out from the bottom. What the instructions don’t tell you is that you will probably not be able to do it without tilting the printer’s front end up, holding it up with your head, and pulling the paper out with both hands. Good thing it’s lightweight.

I’m not optimistic about this printer’s life expectancy.  Thank goodness manuscripts are now submitted by email.

My English Love Affair

No, sorry, not an actual love affair in England or with an Englishman, but as I write historical romances set in England (with forays into Scotland), you have to expect a romance-style title.

I visited England in the 1970s—twice. Everything I knew about England came from reading English novels—and 99% of it was true. The only thing that had changed was that it was no longer possible to stash one’s baggage in the Left Luggage office at the train station. Because of bombs, you know.

The taxis were still the old, black ones you see in movies from the 1940s.

London’s tube stations had wonderful posters on the walls, and one of the tube stations we used had escalators with sides and treads of varnished wood—and they were fast! Like something out of a Harry Potter book. The last one was replaced several years ago.

Fish and chips were not generic: they came in different varieties: plaice and chips, sole and chips, haddock and chips, etc., and all of them delicious.

Using an English pay phone required manual dexterity and split-second timing.

The medieval kitchen at Arundel Castle gave me  new insight into what it meant to prepare a medieval meal.

In the British Museum cafeteria, the tea was hot and strong and the cups were lined up, all of them with milk in them, before the tea was poured. 

Ladies like Miss Marple actually existed (presumably minus the crime-solving) aboard the Flying Scotsman, where we shared a compartment (just like in the old movies) with three white-haired Scots ladies in tweed suits who were going home after a shopping trip. They were amused to see us gaping at the old towers that seem to be sprinkled all over the Borders.

The cheese sandwiches on Brit Rail were identical to American cheese sandwiches, but it was possible to buy shortbread, which made up for it.   

And I loved every minute of all of it … well, no, not the severe head cold I suffered toward the end of the trip. Though it did reveal that if you asked for cough syrup at the apothecary, what you got was a brown liquid that tasted like mare sweat. I couldn’t drink it but it worked anyway. It scared my body into cutting back on both coughing and phlegm, lest I attempt another dose.

I’m sure much has changed, some of it for the better (the phones, maybe?).  But I’m glad I experienced England while it still resembled the England of Dorothy Sayers, Marjory Allingham, Agatha Christie, John Dickson Carr, Manning Coles and others; it gave me an even greater appreciation of the English mystery novel.

N.N. Light's Book Heaven

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Most Secret: a romance of the Jacobite Rebellion

Most Secret

My second historical romance, Most Secret, will be released on May 28, 2018. It’s set in late summer of 1745, when the Young Pretender is gathering his army in Scotland. 

I’ve visited Scotland. I liked it and the people, though I am dubious about haggis. I visited Culloden. I sympathize with the Jacobites for a whole menu of reasons. The choice of George I, approximately number 50 in line for the British throne on Queen Anne’s death, was not popular even with all the English. There are many novels out there told from the Jacobite point of view, with Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series (which I love) at the head of the list.

I thought it was time someone reported from the other side. But Most Secret is not a serious study of England’s preparation for the Scottish invasion. In fact, it’s more humorous than not.

Excerpt below:

“Forgive me for accosting you in the street, but there were reasons I could not call upon you at your home. Quite apart from the impropriety of a strange man visiting an unmarried lady,” he added.

“Are you a strange man?” The question popped out before she could stop it; something about him made her want to smile.

“So I’m told. May I carry your basket so I appear to have a legitimate reason to walk with you?”

“You can’t simply go up to a respectable female and…and…” Words failed her.

“Yes, I can. Besides, we were introduced by Lady Montfort.”

“Were we? I don’t recall it.” She would have. This outrageous creature was quite unlike the punctilious men she was accustomed to meet.

He smiled. “Alex Gordon, at your service. I am not surprised you have forgotten my presence as well as my name, considering the crush of guests at that affair—and so ill-assorted, too—”

“Were you one of them?” She failed to suppress a smile, for the Montforts’ invitations tended to be rather indiscriminate, and Lady Montfort did have some very odd relatives.

Most Secret  is available from Amazon:   https://www.amazon.com/Most-Secret-Kathleen-Buckley-ebook/dp/B07CKTJ5T4/ref=sr_1_11?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1527168217&sr=1-11&keywords=Most+Secret

http://www.theromancereviews.com

HELP ME CELEBRATE!

My first historical romance novel, An Unsuitable Duchess, has been nominated for InD’tale Magazine’s  2018 RONE Award in the 17^th century to Regency historical category. Voting takes place May 14 to 20, 2018; you must be registered on www.indtale.com in order to vote. Once you register, you must click the verification link sent to you via email. 

Help me celebrate! Enter for a chance to win a copy of An Unsuitable Duchess on Amazon (https://giveaway.amazon.com/p/df54b8969abf28c5 for the Kindle version). There will be a chance to win a copy of the paperback version which I’ll post as soon as that contest goes live.