Further Tales of New Mexico

Kay and I left the Bay Area nine years ago to the day. Precisely on September 1st, 2009 we took a rented U-Haul, loaded to the gills with all our worldly possessions, and commenced on a 1300 mile drive. Our destination was Cordova, New Mexico, 24 miles north of Santa Fe. I had originally wanted us to take up residence in Tucson, AZ. But, since Kay is bigger than I and can beat me up, I acquiesced, deferring instead to her preference.

Our Home in Beautiful Cordova

We had made prior exploratory trips all around northern NM until we found our dream house on a mountaintop 6500 feet above sea level. Took me six months to adjust to it but, the dizzy spells finally subsided. The little town in which we settled is in a valley, banked on either side by two forested mountain ridges. Our place was on the edge of the ridge farthest from Highway 76, the only way in.

Our stable, corral & tack-room in beautiful downtown Cordova

Upon our arrival, the first thing we learned was how to pronounce our new home, lest we sound like idiots. In the tiny burg, populated by some 500 inhabitants, they say Cor’-do-va. Most everywhere else it’s Cor-do’-va. It is just one of the many obstinate insistences by the caballeros of the realm and their ladies.

The primary language is Spanish but, everyone is bi-lingual. That is, everyone but us. For eight years, the friends I made had no qualms about conversing amongst each other with me standing there not comprehending a thing they were saying. I felt like a complete doofus. I think they found that a mild form of amusement. Like a let’s frustrate the gringo kinda deal! Very funny.

Early on, we made friends with our two next door neighbors. Ramon was born the same year as myself. So was Andreas or, Andy. Both of them had eight siblings. That seems to be the standard number of offspring folks in the area spawn. Also, it is not uncommon to find four generations of a family sharing the same house… the elders, their kids, their kids’ kids and, their kids’ kids’ kids! Thus, you have toddlers coming up around their ninety-year-old great grandparents all the time.

People often survive to a ripe old age, staying quite physically active throughout the process. When we moved in, one of first old-timers we met was Ramon’s dad, Alfredo. Back then, he was 87 and could outdistance me hiking up a steep mountainside ten to one, despite being 25 years my senior! After eight seasons, Alfredo was still taking super-human strolls up 40° grades at 95.

Sophie, half thoroughbred-half Quarter Horse 7-year-old bay mare.

One of my ultimate dreams always was to own a horse. Kay, too (although, to a somewhat lesser extent). Nevertheless, we took a bunch of Kay’s retirement account money and blew it on a pair of Quarter horse mares we found upstate in Farmington. As it happened, Alfredo, who had acres of land on his property that we hadn’t, used to have his own stable of ponies back in the day. He’d even built a fenced-in corral and stable to keep them. Currently in dis-use, the dear man let us keep our own, newly acquired equines there, free of charge. We immediately set to refurbishing the operation, while our two spirited man-killers were being trained by professionals on a nearby ranch.

Kay’s own Quarter Horse, Sunny, a roan(kinda reddish) mare

After acquiring saddles, bridles, halters and other miscellaneous “tack” accessories, we were ready to ride our steeds on the many miles of roads and trails in our immediate vicinity. As always, my younger Kay-darling had found herself employment, this time in relatively close by Santa Fe. That left retired old me to go riding solo up the mountain a few times a week.

I was quickly discovering there’s a big difference between simply riding horses–even a lot–in your past and, having your own, including all the soup-to-nuts responsibilities. One of my weaker areas was in saddling my precious four-legged thousand-pounder. I was never quite sure how tight to cinch up. In the 1970s, when I lived in Hollywood, there was a stable where folks could rent horses and ride on the trails above Los Angeles. It was fantastic but, that’s another story.

However, one time at the “Sunset Ranch”, located up in the hills, behind the Hollywood sign, I took out my favorite rented stallion, Butterball. Man, that horse could fly. With nothing up those mountains but trails and spectacular views. Butterball, with me atop him, would gallop for miles… especially after I blew a little grass, which I always brought along, up his huge horsey nostrils. He didn’t seem to mind.

We had been out for a couple of hours and were galloping our way home. There were lots of hair-pin turns on the trail. We were zipping around one of them when, suddenly, the saddle starts turning around Butterball’s belly beneath me. I’ve got maybe three seconds to decide how I’m going to handle the situation. Either go with the saddle under Butterball and for sure be trampled by his hard and mighty hooves… or jump ship to the side. At around 20 MPH I decide to jump ship, landing on my side and fracturing my elbow in the process. Butterball freaks and runs home, with the saddle dangling under his stomach. Adding insult to injury, I had to walk 2 miles back to the corral, both looking and feeling like a complete moron. I must’ve been a sad sight, even though everyone knew old Butterball was not an easy ride. Long story short, that experience left me forever gun-shy around cinching my saddles.

Go ahead, kill me… wise-assed bitch!

Meanwhile, fast-forward back to Cordova. My beautiful bay mare, Sophie, and I are heading up the hill for our usual jaunt about the Santa Fe Forest. We stop to greet Alfredo, sitting on his patio enjoying the day when, all of a sudden, Sophie starts bucking insanely. I’m instantly transported to the bronco ride at the local rodeo. She bucks up her back with such force, it heaves me three feet in the air above her back. Including Sophie’s own sixteen hands, it’s tantamount to my being dropped around eight feet onto my ass. Those mountains up there are essentially huge boulders, with a sprinkling of dirt on top. I landed on solid rock that had to fracture my hip. I staved off going to hospital and eventually healed. I couldn’t ride for about six weeks.

I later learned, upon inquiring with my horse trainer that, despite evidence to the contrary, Sophie had not gone crazy on me. Rather, Dum-Dum (that’s me) had cinched her saddle too tightly and the poor horse was unable to breathe right. I was further advised that when horses cannot properly breathe… they buck. Profusely. I know there’s a moral somewhere in this tale.

The End
craig rory lombardi, bronx born

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NYC incarnate. Snake hips chicken lips and other flights of fanciful whimsy. Musician, Renaissance Mo-Fo, Beatnik, Philosopher, Feminist. Purist of the impure!

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