This past school year has been interesting to say the least. After speaking with a few of the veteran experts, I have come to find out that it is actually quite normal. That is, what occurred and my reaction to it. Oddly enough, it coincided with my discovery actually it was my rediscovery of some of my old albums from my teen age years. But, before too much explanation can occur, the scene must be set…
Coming off of a pretty spectacular year that marked my return to public education after a hiatus in Catholic schools…much needed by the way, the sophomore venture did not bode as well. While I literally got to hand pick my schedule…to some extent…It seemed as if the stars were not in alignment or something. Regardless of the reason, it was a horrible year. It was bad enough, that I seriously contemplating r-entering military service. Yes, mustering back into the Army with a full fledged war raging the Middle East. Yep…That’s just how good of a year it was. My principal didn’t help much either.
Anyway, combing through my lost ‘80s albums and blowing dust off of the likes of Bruce Springsteen and Lynrd Skynrd, a little ray of light broke through the clouds. Of course, none of this would have been possible without the technical expertise of my friend and co-worker who just so happened to be the school’s orchestra director. Are you sensing what the next “aha” will be, dear reader? It is indeed true…The possession of a turntable in his classroom added to the adolescent giddiness of listening to these albums. However, undertaking an adventure such as this must be done with the utmost safety. A rigorous schedule was debated upon, set in place, and strictly adhered to during our daily lunch together.
Throughout his years as an orchestra director, my friend had purchased numerous classical albums to share with his students. It makes sense. I, while holding a liberal arts degree from my undergraduate days, was woefully undereducated in a musical sense. Since I like to incorporate as much of the arts into my history classes, my friend agreed to tutor me during our lunches. Of course, the details were left to the sides and most tutorials were in the form of informal conversations over warmed up leftovers while listening to a particular classical masterpiece. Suited me just fine.
Yet, classical was not to be the weekly mainstay for long. Music has always served as some sort of metaphysical balm for me. It just has. Whether it defies explanation for not, I don’t know and really do not care to know. I think too much analysis just might spoil some of the mystery and in the end most of the enjoyment. I was pleased to find out that my friend was a jazz fan. It came about rather serendipitously as he was burning copies of practice discs for the students. He had some Dixie Land and rag time jazz lounging under one of the many piles leaning on his desks.
Soon, Hayden and Bach made way for the Dukes of Dixie Land, Jelly Roll Morton and Scott Joplin. I found, rather bluntly, that tastes in jazz run about as circuitous and random as those in most other musical genres. Imagine my surprise when my friend went on a tirade about Miles Davis and John Coltrane as we were discussing our appreciation of jazz. This brought the discussion to an interesting halt as my next remark was to offer to bring some of my Coltrane and Davis to listen to the next day during lunch. Luckily, my mind caught my mouth, truly a miracle in my experience, and I did not make the offer. Therefore, it did not have to be embarrassingly withdrawn.
Needless to say, our classical consumption varied from week to week and even day to day, especially after Spring Break and the TAKS test. Ugh! Where does the ‘80s southern rock group fit into the picture I am sure you are asking. The answer is simple and direct…Fridays. No, not the chain restaurant rather the day of the week. Fridays were our ‘80s rock days. Of course, we did have a few refugees from the late ‘70s, but there really didn’t need to be a strict entrance policy as far as we were concerned. The only qualifications were round, vinyl and playable. The rest was up to pure chance as to whether the album would be played in its entirety or quickly shuffled off and deftly replaced by another. I suppose it was something akin to our own version of the “Gong Show.”
The Friday that I place the .38 Special album “Tour De Force” and set the needle to it, everything stopped. My blood pressure dropped and I think I smiled at work for the first time in months. It was sheer bliss. Of course the music was, and will always be awesome, but to add the pops and light scratches in the background that it the trademark of all albums was pure rapture. Of course, my friend loved the music as well. Being younger, it was a band that he was not quite as familiar with. It was now my turn to educate him. Ah, yes…the wonders of Southern rock in all of its manifestations. I can almost smell the magnolias with the moss hanging from their boughs. Well…enough of that, for now.
The album would be a mainstay of our Friday repertoire. Perhaps it was the following incident that made this group and their wonderful album suspect with our principal. After first introducing my friend to this newfound wonder from the ‘80s, only getting to listen to one side completely, the bell that ended lunch rang. Entering the crowded hallway amongst the students and teachers, my friend remarked at how he liked the album and wanted me to bring it back next week. I let out a laugh and remarked that sometimes all you need is a .38 Special. Little did I know that the principal was in ear-shot. I quickly assured her that no actual firearms were used during lunch. In fact, I was glad I had the album in hand to prove my innocence. However, this did not squelch the playing of .38 Special or any other ‘80s music during lunch. By the time the school year was winding down, our lunches were mainly filled with Dixie Land jazz and album rock. Oh, well…so much for education in the classical sense. Oddly enough, we did hit a few of the state standards in music education for those students who were lucky enough to be in the room during lunch with our albums spinning. I doubt seriously, however, any DJ gigs will be coming our way. It better…most parties go past my bedtime anyway.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Friday, August 01, 2008
Santa Fe Sojourn
Three days I have been here in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Three days in the land of enchantment, according to the state issued license plates. Three mornings filled with crisp air hikes surrounded by high desert majesty. Three evenings painted by thunder, lightening and glorious rain. For a Texan, this is truly a blessing in mid-July. However, today has been a little different.
This afternoon, the planned expedition was to Santa Fe, the capitol since the 1600s of this wonderful place. I was anxious and excited all during the bus ride. I tried to fool myself with reading a book about Kit Carson and his hand in making New Mexico and the region what it is today. Yet, before these unfounded and unnamable apprehensions could seriously take hold of me, we arrived right off of the old town plaza. The bus pulled in across the street from St. Francis Cathedral and we were all admonished about the seven o’clock departure time with stories of people left behind and the expensive cab fare to return to Montezuma.
The big blue desert sky and streets lined with adobe walls made me as giddy as a kid a Christmas. I suppose in an off-hand sort of way, it was. And the present…and entire afternoon free. Free to roam. Free to photograph. Free to mingle. And to some extent, free to spend. I have always believes, since my first visit to the desert that it is something akin to a spiritual home for me. Luckily, my wife feels the same way. Only the exact latitude differs in our experience.
This last part proved to be something of a sticking point throughout my afternoon sojourn. Caught up in the waves of tourism and commercialism that keeps this town viable, an impending sense of frustration lurked in the cob-webbed corners of my mind. An acidic surge of resentment for a cheapened experience was percolating in the pit of my stomach. How dare something this awesome be degraded for a few bucks. The thoughts fumed exponentially with the growing numbers of other tourists I had to contend with. It was reminiscent of my trip to Disney World. Ugh! Thankfully, with a few deep breaths and some divine redirection, the churning subsided.
Collecting my thoughts at the twilight of this little adventure I couldn’t help but to laugh at myself. This is often the case. Upon further reflection it seems as for the better part of the afternoon my imagination readily outpaced my actual strides through the city. This, however, is not at all uncommon. I am positive that this is some sort of terminal condition. But, I digress.
As I walked through the city streets…isn’t that a line for a song?...of Santa Fe, taking in all of its culture and commerce, my mind ran away with the situation. I began to imagine myself as one of those trendy, haute travel show hosts on cable television. Even more far-fetched, I almost had myself convinced. Luckily I stopped before I launched into a full-fledged monologue. I fooled myself, however, in that I had succeeded in going local. Hah! One look at some of the pictures and I had “tourist” stamped boldly across my forehead. One glance at my reflection in one of numerous shop windows or the shadow I cast upon the sidewalk quickly dispelled that foggy myth. There was no way of getting around the stone cold fact. I might as well embrace it.
But when did this moment of clarity, this mountain top enlightenment, this radical paradigm shift actually occur? Not that precise or otherwise moment in time is vital or necessary. For the sake of discussion, let’s place it at dinner. I enjoyed it immensely. Choosing to dine early out of an ad hoc mixture of cheap tourist boredom and a desire to beat the regular dinner rush, I found the restaurant recommended by one of my classmates…Thank you, Pete! During the course of consuming a monster bowl of fresh green chile stew with fresh tortillas and some local beer, my perspective an attitude seemed to shift…slightly. I can assure you the well-crafted beer had little to do with it due to the 5.5% state law in New Mexico. However, it did complement the stew wonderfully. I am sure, however, that it had more to do with the excellent cooking and the friendly waitress who was a Texas refugee herself. Without too much sappy embarrassment, I was able to lick my homesick wound and move on.
Of course, the actual time could have possibly begun even before dinner. Weaving my way through the throngs of fellow tourists in the labyrinth of shops, and painfully noticeable lack of public restrooms, I made my way serendipitously to a hidden gem. It was a neatly tucked away bookstore. I am a bookman. You finish the equation. However, I was pleased to find out in conversation with the proprietor that I was in the midst of the largest Spanish-language bookstore in North America. Noting some suspicion, he quickly explained what used to be the largest in New York City had to close due to high overhead. To answer the next question…Yes, he also stocked a seemingly commiserate amount of English language titles as well. I walked out with what I considered a local treasure for a title. I like to equate it with the lovely silver a turquoise jewelry I purchased from local artisans. It was due, of course, wholly to the knowledgeable proprietor who matched my desires with his stock. This is the side of retail that is rarely seen and always enjoyed.
Similarly, I repeated the experience in another bookstore well off the tourists’ trodden path. A few blocks down from the bustling square, I literally stumbled into a rare and used bookstore that was nothing more than a partially converted house. Partially, because in the kitchen not only could you find art and architecture books but a small stove, sink and refrigerator to boot. It was another veritable treasure trove igniting such greed that I honestly began questioning the purchase of some beautifully hand-crafted turquoise earrings I bought for my wife…I would never admit it, though… My elation was elevated by the larges selection of regional titles. Added to this was a little soothing balm when in this section the proprietor included books about Texas as well. Broke, I was unable to walk away with any purchases, even though I was assured that all major credit cards were happily accepted. But, I am happy to say that I did not leave empty handed. I did procure a business card and shipping is done for a nominal fee. As you read this, I am already compiling a list of necessary titles.
But it wasn’t just books that left a great impression on me in Santa Fe. Sure, all of the wonderful architecture and artistry were there as well. Hell, even seeing the place where Oppenheimer picked up his mail at 109 Palace East vetted well into my consciousness as much as the cathedral and the two older churches of Loreto and San Miguel. But it was absent-mindedly strolling in to a “fine gentleman’s clothing” shop that also proved prescient. While perusing the offerings, which I can add I could not begin to afford, I struck up a conversation with the salesman. Low key and relaxed, I liked him immediately. We spoke of a myriad of subjects from gangster movies to beer and the Van Morrison song playing on the stereo in the store. It was a pleasant interlude. As I made my way out of the store’s courtyard, the salesman had to unlock the gate. I apologized for keeping him late and not purchasing anything. The relaxed attitude, I found, was genuine to the core. He shook my hand and thanked me for sharing a good watering hole for the next time he visited his cousin in Austin. It may have been retail pretense, but I doubt it.
Afterwards, I settled on the drying park bench comfortable and content. It was then that I came to realize something that was profound…at least for a Wednesday evening. In the dueling strains between the teen-aged mariachi band behind me and the Latin jazz quartet facing me from the other side of the square, I came to realize that I had not really gone local. Rather, the locals, in their own unassuming ways allowed me to respectfully be who I am…a Texan. I felt a little ashamed that I stuck out as much as I did. However, reflecting upon this further during the hour long bus trip back to Montezuma, I came to understand that Santa Fe and its inhabitants have not changed much since its earliest inception with the conquistadors and missionaries. It was a major hub on the Santa Fe trail…duh…but more importantly, it was a major trading post. People from Mexico, the United States and many other territories rolled through this place. I was just a member of the latest band to come through.
This afternoon, the planned expedition was to Santa Fe, the capitol since the 1600s of this wonderful place. I was anxious and excited all during the bus ride. I tried to fool myself with reading a book about Kit Carson and his hand in making New Mexico and the region what it is today. Yet, before these unfounded and unnamable apprehensions could seriously take hold of me, we arrived right off of the old town plaza. The bus pulled in across the street from St. Francis Cathedral and we were all admonished about the seven o’clock departure time with stories of people left behind and the expensive cab fare to return to Montezuma.
The big blue desert sky and streets lined with adobe walls made me as giddy as a kid a Christmas. I suppose in an off-hand sort of way, it was. And the present…and entire afternoon free. Free to roam. Free to photograph. Free to mingle. And to some extent, free to spend. I have always believes, since my first visit to the desert that it is something akin to a spiritual home for me. Luckily, my wife feels the same way. Only the exact latitude differs in our experience.
This last part proved to be something of a sticking point throughout my afternoon sojourn. Caught up in the waves of tourism and commercialism that keeps this town viable, an impending sense of frustration lurked in the cob-webbed corners of my mind. An acidic surge of resentment for a cheapened experience was percolating in the pit of my stomach. How dare something this awesome be degraded for a few bucks. The thoughts fumed exponentially with the growing numbers of other tourists I had to contend with. It was reminiscent of my trip to Disney World. Ugh! Thankfully, with a few deep breaths and some divine redirection, the churning subsided.
Collecting my thoughts at the twilight of this little adventure I couldn’t help but to laugh at myself. This is often the case. Upon further reflection it seems as for the better part of the afternoon my imagination readily outpaced my actual strides through the city. This, however, is not at all uncommon. I am positive that this is some sort of terminal condition. But, I digress.
As I walked through the city streets…isn’t that a line for a song?...of Santa Fe, taking in all of its culture and commerce, my mind ran away with the situation. I began to imagine myself as one of those trendy, haute travel show hosts on cable television. Even more far-fetched, I almost had myself convinced. Luckily I stopped before I launched into a full-fledged monologue. I fooled myself, however, in that I had succeeded in going local. Hah! One look at some of the pictures and I had “tourist” stamped boldly across my forehead. One glance at my reflection in one of numerous shop windows or the shadow I cast upon the sidewalk quickly dispelled that foggy myth. There was no way of getting around the stone cold fact. I might as well embrace it.
But when did this moment of clarity, this mountain top enlightenment, this radical paradigm shift actually occur? Not that precise or otherwise moment in time is vital or necessary. For the sake of discussion, let’s place it at dinner. I enjoyed it immensely. Choosing to dine early out of an ad hoc mixture of cheap tourist boredom and a desire to beat the regular dinner rush, I found the restaurant recommended by one of my classmates…Thank you, Pete! During the course of consuming a monster bowl of fresh green chile stew with fresh tortillas and some local beer, my perspective an attitude seemed to shift…slightly. I can assure you the well-crafted beer had little to do with it due to the 5.5% state law in New Mexico. However, it did complement the stew wonderfully. I am sure, however, that it had more to do with the excellent cooking and the friendly waitress who was a Texas refugee herself. Without too much sappy embarrassment, I was able to lick my homesick wound and move on.
Of course, the actual time could have possibly begun even before dinner. Weaving my way through the throngs of fellow tourists in the labyrinth of shops, and painfully noticeable lack of public restrooms, I made my way serendipitously to a hidden gem. It was a neatly tucked away bookstore. I am a bookman. You finish the equation. However, I was pleased to find out in conversation with the proprietor that I was in the midst of the largest Spanish-language bookstore in North America. Noting some suspicion, he quickly explained what used to be the largest in New York City had to close due to high overhead. To answer the next question…Yes, he also stocked a seemingly commiserate amount of English language titles as well. I walked out with what I considered a local treasure for a title. I like to equate it with the lovely silver a turquoise jewelry I purchased from local artisans. It was due, of course, wholly to the knowledgeable proprietor who matched my desires with his stock. This is the side of retail that is rarely seen and always enjoyed.
Similarly, I repeated the experience in another bookstore well off the tourists’ trodden path. A few blocks down from the bustling square, I literally stumbled into a rare and used bookstore that was nothing more than a partially converted house. Partially, because in the kitchen not only could you find art and architecture books but a small stove, sink and refrigerator to boot. It was another veritable treasure trove igniting such greed that I honestly began questioning the purchase of some beautifully hand-crafted turquoise earrings I bought for my wife…I would never admit it, though… My elation was elevated by the larges selection of regional titles. Added to this was a little soothing balm when in this section the proprietor included books about Texas as well. Broke, I was unable to walk away with any purchases, even though I was assured that all major credit cards were happily accepted. But, I am happy to say that I did not leave empty handed. I did procure a business card and shipping is done for a nominal fee. As you read this, I am already compiling a list of necessary titles.
But it wasn’t just books that left a great impression on me in Santa Fe. Sure, all of the wonderful architecture and artistry were there as well. Hell, even seeing the place where Oppenheimer picked up his mail at 109 Palace East vetted well into my consciousness as much as the cathedral and the two older churches of Loreto and San Miguel. But it was absent-mindedly strolling in to a “fine gentleman’s clothing” shop that also proved prescient. While perusing the offerings, which I can add I could not begin to afford, I struck up a conversation with the salesman. Low key and relaxed, I liked him immediately. We spoke of a myriad of subjects from gangster movies to beer and the Van Morrison song playing on the stereo in the store. It was a pleasant interlude. As I made my way out of the store’s courtyard, the salesman had to unlock the gate. I apologized for keeping him late and not purchasing anything. The relaxed attitude, I found, was genuine to the core. He shook my hand and thanked me for sharing a good watering hole for the next time he visited his cousin in Austin. It may have been retail pretense, but I doubt it.
Afterwards, I settled on the drying park bench comfortable and content. It was then that I came to realize something that was profound…at least for a Wednesday evening. In the dueling strains between the teen-aged mariachi band behind me and the Latin jazz quartet facing me from the other side of the square, I came to realize that I had not really gone local. Rather, the locals, in their own unassuming ways allowed me to respectfully be who I am…a Texan. I felt a little ashamed that I stuck out as much as I did. However, reflecting upon this further during the hour long bus trip back to Montezuma, I came to understand that Santa Fe and its inhabitants have not changed much since its earliest inception with the conquistadors and missionaries. It was a major hub on the Santa Fe trail…duh…but more importantly, it was a major trading post. People from Mexico, the United States and many other territories rolled through this place. I was just a member of the latest band to come through.
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