Some business out there draws me to New Mexico once again. Instead of my usual route across the Great Plains, I head south from Kansas City through eastern Kansas and Oklahoma. This is a chance to visit my daughter stationed at Fort Hood, Texas. As a teenaged enlisted Marine, I would have dismissed as nuts anyone suggesting that one day I would have a daughter become an Army Captain.
I listen to National Public Radio when I'm on the road. In Oklahoma, once the station at the University of Tulsa fades out, the FM radio dial is dominated by "family-oriented" stations with a strong religious bent. These "family oriented" radio hosts all take a dim view of government having anything to do with helping families gain access to health care. They universally dismiss European plans as "failed social experiments."
It's cloudy, dreary and starts to drizzle. The critics turn to the president's nominee for Supreme Court - "a radical racist, unfit for the high court." These unrebutted negative tirades are as depressing as the weather.
These talk show hosts and evangelical preachers worry that this Hispanic woman's real life experiences might affect her judgment. How terrible is that? I can think of some professional career politicians who would benefit from some real life experiences.
The criticism by elected Republicans is more muted than that of the radio evangelists. But we can expect them to put on a show - performing a high-wire dance between grilling tough enough to placate hardliners while not appearing overly mean-spirited. We can easily see through the whole charade, but the show must go on.
The weather continues, drizzly and dreary. The tirades on the airwaves turn to foreign policy. The president's American critics accuse him of "groveling before the rest of the world." At the same time, Osama bin Laden accuses the president of "spreading hatred in the world." Both charges are preposterous. But, then, what else can we expect in this insane world? Of the world's 6.5 billion people, there aren't more than a mere handful who could speak to Muslims, Christians and Jews, make sense, and create hope for peace and prosperity in this world. Fortunately, one of this handful of people is president of the United States.
The depressing rhetoric, the dismal weather, incessant road construction, and the Hobson's choice of either going through or around Dallas put me in ill humor as I cross the Red River from Oklahoma to Texas.
I stop at the Texas Welcome Center, a palatial edifice - Texas size, of course.
Inside, it is spotless - spit shined and impressive. The attendant greets me with a cheerful "Sir, would you like a map?" I reply that indeed I would. As I explain that I'm on my way to Fort Hood to visit my daughter, she hands me a map and a Texas size travel catalogue. She tells me that she was once stationed at Fort Hood, and traces the exact route on another map. As I already have the map she gave me, she doesn't have to mark up another one. But she cheerfully insists that I take the second map, as well.
Texans tend to be friendly, and her cheerful demeanor lightens my mood. I note that the sun has even started shining. I'm sure she's responsible for it.
I climb back into my GMC and eventually get through Dallas and to Fort Hood. It's a warm, pleasant evening, and Kara and I have dinner at a nice Japanese Restaurant. Pride in my kid, sashimi, steak teriyaki and a large mug of Japanese Kirin beer - Kara does the driving - are a welcome end to a weird day.
As I leave Fort Hood the next morning, I opt for the lonesome highway 190 across the Texas Hill country. Last November those hills looked barren and colorless. But now the hills are green, and dotted with herds of cattle. Those green hills against the bright blue sky with scattered fluffy clouds and the occasional circling hawk make for a tranquil scene. General Motors may be in the tank, but my trusty GMC carries me along for hours on that lonesome road.
I reach I-10 near Fort Stockton, on through El Paso, and arrive in Las Cruces before midnight. The next day, I run some errands and check out my adobe in romantic Old Mesilla. My apricot trees are bearing fruit - my tenants will be the beneficiaries. I stop at one of NMSU's experimental plots. It's onion harvest time. The chief agronomist recognizes me from my NMSU days and invites me to pick up a sack of huge "New Mexico Sweet" onions.
A highlight of my junket is dinner with old pal, Doc, and his girl friend, Bellia. We drive south of Old Mesilla through Pecan groves and Chile fields to Chopes Restaurant in La Mesa. Chopes is a sixth-generation establishment in which nothing has changed. There is no highly polished saltillo tile or glossy anything. No concrete walks - only dirt paths. A warm, dry breeze blows gently through the Pecan trees.
The bar is a few steps away - a rundown building furnished with seats that are coming apart at the seams and the stuffing coming out. A combination of locals, bikers and assorted characters are drinking quarts of beer. Gringos have long ago discovered the place, and there are a few of us among the crowd. We order a quart of Carta Blanca, and wait for a table.
The formula is simple and basic. It's a combination of authentic ambience and the best Mexican food around. Whether it's Chopes in La Mesa or Baumgartner's Tavern in Monroe, some things should remain constant and never change - islands of sanity in an insane world.
We need some of that to preserve our own sanity.
- John Waelti is a native of Monroe Township. He is Professor Emeritus of New Mexico State University. He can be reached at jjwaelti@charter.net.
I listen to National Public Radio when I'm on the road. In Oklahoma, once the station at the University of Tulsa fades out, the FM radio dial is dominated by "family-oriented" stations with a strong religious bent. These "family oriented" radio hosts all take a dim view of government having anything to do with helping families gain access to health care. They universally dismiss European plans as "failed social experiments."
It's cloudy, dreary and starts to drizzle. The critics turn to the president's nominee for Supreme Court - "a radical racist, unfit for the high court." These unrebutted negative tirades are as depressing as the weather.
These talk show hosts and evangelical preachers worry that this Hispanic woman's real life experiences might affect her judgment. How terrible is that? I can think of some professional career politicians who would benefit from some real life experiences.
The criticism by elected Republicans is more muted than that of the radio evangelists. But we can expect them to put on a show - performing a high-wire dance between grilling tough enough to placate hardliners while not appearing overly mean-spirited. We can easily see through the whole charade, but the show must go on.
The weather continues, drizzly and dreary. The tirades on the airwaves turn to foreign policy. The president's American critics accuse him of "groveling before the rest of the world." At the same time, Osama bin Laden accuses the president of "spreading hatred in the world." Both charges are preposterous. But, then, what else can we expect in this insane world? Of the world's 6.5 billion people, there aren't more than a mere handful who could speak to Muslims, Christians and Jews, make sense, and create hope for peace and prosperity in this world. Fortunately, one of this handful of people is president of the United States.
The depressing rhetoric, the dismal weather, incessant road construction, and the Hobson's choice of either going through or around Dallas put me in ill humor as I cross the Red River from Oklahoma to Texas.
I stop at the Texas Welcome Center, a palatial edifice - Texas size, of course.
Inside, it is spotless - spit shined and impressive. The attendant greets me with a cheerful "Sir, would you like a map?" I reply that indeed I would. As I explain that I'm on my way to Fort Hood to visit my daughter, she hands me a map and a Texas size travel catalogue. She tells me that she was once stationed at Fort Hood, and traces the exact route on another map. As I already have the map she gave me, she doesn't have to mark up another one. But she cheerfully insists that I take the second map, as well.
Texans tend to be friendly, and her cheerful demeanor lightens my mood. I note that the sun has even started shining. I'm sure she's responsible for it.
I climb back into my GMC and eventually get through Dallas and to Fort Hood. It's a warm, pleasant evening, and Kara and I have dinner at a nice Japanese Restaurant. Pride in my kid, sashimi, steak teriyaki and a large mug of Japanese Kirin beer - Kara does the driving - are a welcome end to a weird day.
As I leave Fort Hood the next morning, I opt for the lonesome highway 190 across the Texas Hill country. Last November those hills looked barren and colorless. But now the hills are green, and dotted with herds of cattle. Those green hills against the bright blue sky with scattered fluffy clouds and the occasional circling hawk make for a tranquil scene. General Motors may be in the tank, but my trusty GMC carries me along for hours on that lonesome road.
I reach I-10 near Fort Stockton, on through El Paso, and arrive in Las Cruces before midnight. The next day, I run some errands and check out my adobe in romantic Old Mesilla. My apricot trees are bearing fruit - my tenants will be the beneficiaries. I stop at one of NMSU's experimental plots. It's onion harvest time. The chief agronomist recognizes me from my NMSU days and invites me to pick up a sack of huge "New Mexico Sweet" onions.
A highlight of my junket is dinner with old pal, Doc, and his girl friend, Bellia. We drive south of Old Mesilla through Pecan groves and Chile fields to Chopes Restaurant in La Mesa. Chopes is a sixth-generation establishment in which nothing has changed. There is no highly polished saltillo tile or glossy anything. No concrete walks - only dirt paths. A warm, dry breeze blows gently through the Pecan trees.
The bar is a few steps away - a rundown building furnished with seats that are coming apart at the seams and the stuffing coming out. A combination of locals, bikers and assorted characters are drinking quarts of beer. Gringos have long ago discovered the place, and there are a few of us among the crowd. We order a quart of Carta Blanca, and wait for a table.
The formula is simple and basic. It's a combination of authentic ambience and the best Mexican food around. Whether it's Chopes in La Mesa or Baumgartner's Tavern in Monroe, some things should remain constant and never change - islands of sanity in an insane world.
We need some of that to preserve our own sanity.
- John Waelti is a native of Monroe Township. He is Professor Emeritus of New Mexico State University. He can be reached at jjwaelti@charter.net.
