The Dry Spell by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 3
Black and white, water in a dirty brown glass.
Empirical Evidence 2:
The following levels of precipitation were recorded by Nora. The measuring glass was maintained in an open area of her backyard in Corrales, approximately three miles south of Romero Road.
Inches
Inches Inches
Inches
Month
2008
Month
2009
2010
2011
June
0
January
0
0
0
July
.25
February
0
0
0
August
.125
March
0
.125
0
September
0
April
.25
0
0
October
0
May
0
.125
0
November
0
June
0
0
0
December
0
July
.25
.25
0
August
.25
.25
September
0
0
October
0
0
November
0
0
December
.125
0
Anecdotal Evidence - 3
July 10, 1998. Light northern winds. Sunny, hot, dry afternoon. Cars coming and going from a gravel driveway to a paved road. Nervous chatter. Dollars. Brown dirt. Worries about 500 sq. ft. grassy area. Misunderstandings and voluminous explanation causing further misunderstanding. A typical business day.
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My wife, Diane and I drove to meet the realtor at the small Southwestern styled adobe on Camino De Lucia in Corrales. She was already there when we arrived, chatting with one of the homeowners, the husband, who had just come back from a walk, papoose on his back, carrying his baby.
The front yard was landscaped with ten six foot pine trees and rocks laid out in a curve, seeming to be attempting to simulate a stream of grayish white water. We knocked at the door and were let in by the chirpy realtor, who appeared as if her blonde hair had just been perfected at the beauty parlor and her pastel outfit was recently on Mervyns’ racks. She took a seat in the main room, replete with two floor to ceiling windows on two sides and a kiva in one corner. We tried to up our cheery chatter level to hers, but found it unnecessary, as a few minutes indicated that she was content to chirp a programmed song solo. We smiled and laughed at the appropriate moments, occasionally trying to interject a question, which apparently annoyed her, as it interrupted her routine. We really didn’t care, as Diane had seen this house a year ago and determined that it was the right size, price and location for us, the last time it changed hands. We were living in Clovis at the time and Diane was in the process of attempting to transfer to Albuquerque and would travel there many weekends to look at houses. The homeowner entered the room and announced that he
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had just returned from the Bosque. The selling realtor seized the moment to announce that if we bought the diamond in the rough that we would be blessed with Bosque access.
I brightly asked her, “What’s a Bosque?” and don’t remember her answer, other than some commentary about what a good thing it was. My wife and I felt fortunate to be able to afford such a special house. As we perused it we asked the advocates more about this special feature. The myriad of evasive answers we received had one piece of consistency; it had something to do with the nearby Rio Grande River.
Diane and I lived most of our adult lives in New Jersey, awash with rivers, streams, reservoirs and even an ocean, so we were aesthetically nonplussed, but gleaned that it had financial value. Since “Bosque access” was such a desirable thing and we had already, sort of, found out what a Bosque is, we focused on the second word; “access” and endeavored to determine where that might be. We were given several confusing answers by the realtor and the homeowner, who at times engaged in discussions limited to the two knowledgeable ones, during which they contradicted each other, cheerfully laughing at their own witticisms and fine points. Through headache inducing persistence we were able to determine that if we walked four tenths of a mile, crossed the barb wired open lot with the “No Trespassing” signs and made a left at the house with the vicious loose Doberman
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pinschers, we’d be very close to it. We were told not to worry as this was a “friendly” area and there was no reason to worry about signs, barbed wire, or dogs.
I wrote off the status of having Bosque access and spent the next few years learning where I could get access to other things; like cleaning materials, stucco patch, parts for the watering system and with the most difficulty, people capable of repairing well pumps, stucco, parapets, plumbing, swamp coolers and other things that thirteen years of pleasant memories have erased. I never took my dachshund, Willy, to the Bosque, partly because I didn’t know how to get there safely and partly because he always insisted on walking someplace that was partially paved. I don't know why. He never told me. So we contented ourselves taking early morning walks in the parking lots of places that didn’t open until noon.
Of course, invariably within a month or two the night watchman, or whatever exalted name taken today, would be waiting there to greet us and ask a million stupid questions. Give some people a little authority, right? So as not to be compelled to provide entertainment for the watchman, we’d transfer to another facility, or one of the two parks in Paradise Hills, Albuquerque. After going to the parks a few months a cop in a car was interested in what on earth I was doing. I was tempted to tell him that we were robbing the non-existent bank on the
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property, but was afraid he’d believe me. So, I animatedly said; “What the **** does it look like?”
He said; “You’re very excited today, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m just thrilled to be followed around by ********
when I’m trying to walk my dog.”
“You need to calm down.”
“There isn’t a ******* thing I NEED to do. And if I did, you’d be the last one to know what it was.”
The conversation deteriorated from there, but I didn’t get arrested.
I have never lived in a small town, prior to Corrales and I suppose it’s my obligation to try to fit in, or at least learn to comply with the rules, written or not. I was just curious which of the covenants covered walking your dog, or if the cop needed someone to act like a big man with. I grew up in a small city of 70-80,000 people packed into one square mile and people knew less about my business there than they THINK they know here. Not being privy to what is said about me and not really caring, I can surmise that it’s something good enough for the local gawking bores to break away from their computer screens for an hour, as I’ve heard the stories circulating about a few of my neighbors. When I first engaged people to do lawn work, the first thing they did was ask me if it was true that three of my neighbors did some outrageous things regularly, as my house
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provided me with the ability to observe. The stories circulating were so ridiculous, so false and so vicious, that, at first, I couldn’t believe anyone would say or believe them.
As I pointed out, I never previously lived in a small, friendly town.
I wondered if the people I meet at the Bosque know and care when I haven’t mowed my lawn for two weeks. Or if I need my stucco patched. Or if I dress appropriately when I visit my backyard. Or how often and what type of sex my wife and I enjoy. Sure, we close the blinds, but after hearing the type of inference and innuendo that must have been utilized to result in the type of things considered “common knowledge” about my three neighbors, anything is possible.
On one of their visits one of my gardeners made the following comment out of the blue; “You know, you wonder what some people are all about, then you find out and you didn’t want to know that,” making a yucky face over the last seven words.
My true thoughts were that I never wonder what people are “all about,” and could care less, unless they’re in my constant proximity. Something my gardener friend communicated very clearly indicated some feelings about her moral and/or cleanliness notions, though too unspeakable to define. For some reason I wanted to side step the conversation on the horizon and said something I thought she could relate well to; “Well, I
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guess the most important thing is whether or not they pay you on time.”
She kind of agreed, or at least didn’t voice any objection to the profound statement. I am somewhat adapting to small town life.
The first time I noticed the great cottonwood was somewhere around 2005. I don't know how I could have missed it previously, unless I was fully concentrating on Daisy’s movements, trying to anticipate her, necessary for me remaining on my feet.
It stood alone near the well-travelled dirt path bordering the river, the wind blowing through its leaves making quite a ruckus in the morning stillness. The enormous giant had something important to say, unfortunately indecipherable to me, its haphazard shape regular in its irregularity. Its home, three feet from the water, gave it a steady supply of water, probably what enabled it to reach its majestic proportions. At its peak it could view the entire river and valley, unobstructed by any competitors and no doubt saw things hidden to the others.
Anchored in the ground in small town Corrales, I wonder if it saw suicide as the only means of escape. What did the local gardeners, otherwise known as the MRGCD, have to say about the big beauty? Perhaps they say that your solitary existence has caused you to masturbate on public land, probably having a few
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witnesses to strange irregular movements of your braches. Or maybe they say that the amount of cotton you throw off is obscene and should be curtailed, especially after the MRGCD
police had their heads covered in the sticky white substance.
Or maybe they say you have an unfair advantage over everyone else, right on the river and are taking too much of the precious water supply. Or maybe they say that your massive trunk should not be allowed to stand there naked and unadorned, suggesting that the people, who enjoy you, pay for a gigantic pair of pants to be made by the flunky of an MRGCD official. Do they say that your advanced age requires you to settle into the monotony of playing checkers, maintaining your lawn and shedding some footage? Maybe you should consider getting your hair done and acquire a pastel outfit from Mervyns’. Did they want you to be just like everybody else? Or maybe millions of other comments unimaginable to big city me. If you were anything less than perfection they would have found some “reason” to destroy you themselves. How it must have frustrated them to study your every word, only to find them unarguably superior and inventive, the likes of which have never been seen. I suspect that you really don’t care, as you’ve chosen to say nothing and write nothing for years now, the only hint of your thoughts being your former defiant stance with the implied “**** you.” And history says that the kids left small towns to go to the cities during
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the industrial revolution to work in the factories. Might I suggest that there could be other reasons?
When I started meeting my new neighbors my curiosity led me to ask them about the “right of way” access to the Bosque that once existed. An easement was supposedly established by the first builder. No one claimed to know anything, which could be true, but to say something negative about Corrales, or worse, our own neighborhood is a crime punishable by hanging. After listening to them babble and watch them point in various directions, I found that the exercise was preferable to allowing them the time to ask neighborly questions about me, like, “How much money do you have? I assemble real estate partnerships that make a lot.” For some reason the affluence of this chubby elderly gentleman wearing Wal-Mart’s finest who said this did not impress me. I was to subsequently learn that he collapsed the roof of his ancient adobe from the constant humidity, a few years back, caused by a prior get rich quick scheme of raising shrimp indoors. I didn’t say it, but I wondered why this successful fellow was still chasing after the likes of me at age 68. A hobby he enjoys as much as shrimp? Anyway, after experiencing sales pitches, pushy questions and no knowledge of easements from my friendly neighbors, I decided to limit my disease, as it reminded me of going to work without compensation.
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I found out the answer to my question without asking it, when while walking Willy, I met a man who lived nearby, but not in the development. The easement existed on a piece of land purchased by some foreigner who owns a local jewelry store. He built an eight foot wall around the property. I said; “If I lived here at the time I would have sued”, thinking of New Jersey law. He said; “And you would have lost.” It seems that in New Mexico, there is no such thing as an easement through private property. I guess it could well be said that in New Mexico there is no such thing as an easement. I found this to be true, but also found it ironic that the state with the lowest income (except Mississippi, depending on the year) was also the strongest supporter of property rights, while New Jersey, the highest income state is the opposite. Whoever coined the phrase; “the pen is mightier than the sword”, must have been an unrecognized writer on a bad day, trying to feel of significance.
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