Mountain Time

Drove up to Roswell from Austin to visit my Uncle John last weekend. I took my Mom and my brother with me too. We spent four days up there with him. John is sick and I hadn't seen him in a long time. He's one of those geezers you see down on Main Street with the blue baseball cap that says "World War II Veteran" in gold writing. And he is one, too. 17th Airborne Corps, 82nd and 101st airborne divisions. Jumped in to France on D-Day. Battle of Ardennes Forest. Those guys are dying at the rate of 1500 a day. I've always wanted to ask him about it but, as a vet myself, I know its sometimes better not to be asked about it. The telling is never complete. Better to keep things sometimes.

I saw the sights in Roswell. All of 'em. The museum and research institute on Main. The proposed development north of town with the new curbs and framed schmancy houses just going up. Yellow D8s growling around in the dust, wheeling and spinning enfilade left. The James Mustang Ranch where my cousin works. Hard. Some other stuff. I had a beer at a joint on Main in the afternoon. There was a GI there sitting at a table by himself and I told the waitress he was flirting with to put his stuff on my tab. He thanked me for it but I'll never be able to do enough for those guys.

New Mexico is different than Texas. Its got more of an edge to it. You can feel it when you cross the Texas line north of Pecos on the way to Loving. The wind is sharper. People look at you. Everybody smokes. There are plenty of hard stories with corners on them that bump your shin and hurt when you walk into them.

Folks are folks though. Everybody helps if they can. I met John's neighbor Bobby in the front yard. He runs Search and Rescue in Roswell. They're busy in the mountains in the winter. Lots of tourists think they'd like to get off the trail and do some cross country skiing. He'd been out all night trying to organize local resources to find for two kids lost in Colorado. They were found about dawn so he didn't have to mobilize. He was shaking his head about a call he'd received from a woman who wanted him to search for her husband. She said he was last seen at The Boot Scooter about 2 in the morning before they had a fight and he'd left. Bobby said no.

Who's The Rube?

I received my monthly missive from the New York Tripe yesterday. They are searching further afield for that ever more elusive potential subscriber. I don't know. I probably won't subscribe again this time. This is the same "newspaper" that featured 146 front page articles about the humiliation suffered by prisoners at Abu Ghraib and not a single article about the humiliation suffered by my 8 year old nephew who was blindfolded, spun in circles and made to beat a paper donkey with a stick until candy fell out while his little friends laughted hysterically at him. Twenty nine front page articles about the United States Marine accused of murder in Haditha by John Murtha. When the charges were dropped for lack of evidence, it was reported by the NYT in a single paragraph on page 31.

They don't know very much about us hillbillys down here. We know everything about New York. So who's the rube?

As I always do, I opened the envelope and removed the postage-paid envelope from it. Then I stuffed their letter, their envelope and my latest golf scorecard into the postage paid envelope and put it back in the mailbox. They'll get it in a few days, courtesy of the efficient postal system we pay for. I wish more people would do what I do and return their unsolicited mail to the NYT. It is helpful and good for society on so many levels.

It keeps mailmen employed and out of trouble. Idle hands, you know.

It brings revenue in to Uncle Sam thru the Postal Service.

It contributes to the national recycling effort.

It helps keep Texas clean.

On the personal level it provides a sense of smugness you will find in no other beer at any cost.